tc.redstormrising-第6部分

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ist　Party；　not　the　Supreme　Soviet；　certainly　not　the　people　of　their　nation。　These　men　had　not　walked　on　the　streets　of　Moscow　for　years；　but　been　whisked　by　chauffeured；　handmade　cars　to　and　from　their　luxury　apartments　within　Moscow；　or　to　their　ceremonial　dachas　outside　the　city。　They　shopped；　if　at　all；　in　guarded　stores　restricted　to　the　elite；　were　served　by　doctors　in　clinics　established　only　for　the　elite。　Because　of　all　this；　these　men　regarded　themselves　as　masters　of　their　destiny。
It　was　only　now　beginning　to　strike　them　that　like　all　men；　they　too　were　subject　to　a　fate　which　their　immense　personal　power　merely　made　all　the　more　intractable。
Around　them　was　a　country　whose　citizens　were　poorly　fed　and　poorly　housed；　whose　only　abundant　modities　were　the　painted　signs　and　slogans　praising　Soviet　Progress　and　Solidarity。　Some　of　the　men　at　this　table　actually　believed　those　slogans；　Sergetov　knew。　Sometimes　he　still　did；　mainly　in　homage　to　his　idealistic　youth。　But　Soviet　Progress　had　not　fed　their　nation；　and　how　long　would　Soviet　Solidarity　endure　in　the　hearts　of　people　hungry；　cold；　in　the　dark？　Would　they　be　proud　of　the　missiles　in　the　Siberian　forests　then？　Of　the　thousands　of　tanks　and　guns　produced　every　year？　Would　they　then　look　to　the　sky　that　held　a　Salyut　space　station　and　feel　inspired…or　would　they　wonder　what　kind　of　food　was　being　eaten　by　that　elite？　Less　than　a　year　before；　Sergetov　had　been　a　regional　Party　chieftain；　and　in　Leningrad　he　had　been　careful　to　listen　to　his　own　staff　people's　description　of　the　jokes　and　grumblings　in　the　lines　which　people　endured　for　two　loaves　of　bread；　or　toothpaste；　or　shoes。　Detached　even　then　from　the　harsher　realities　of　life　in　the　Soviet　Union；　he　had　often　wondered　if　one　day　the　burden　of　the　ordinary　worker　would　bee　too　heavy　to　endure。　How　would　he　have　known　then？　How　would　he　know　now？　Would　the　older　men　here　ever　know？
Narod；　they　called　it；　a　masculine　noun　that　was　nonetheless　raped　in　every　sense：　the　masses；　the　faceless　collection　of　men　and　women　who　toiled　every　day　in　Moscow　and　throughout　the　nation　in　factories　and　on　collective　farms；　their　thoughts　hidden　behind　unsmiling　masks。　The　members　of　the　Politburo　told　themselves　that　these　workers　and　peasants　did　not　grudge　their　leaders　the　luxuries　that　acpanied　responsibility。　After　all；　life　in　the　country　had　improved　in　measurable　terms。　That　was　the　pact。　But　the　pact　was　about　to　be　broken。　What　might　happen　then？　Nicholas　II　had　not　known。　These　men　did。
The　Defense　Minister　broke　the　silence。　〃We　must　obtain　more　oil。　It　is　as　simple　as　that。　The　alternative　is　a　crippled　economy；　hungry　citizens；　and　reduced　defense　capacity。　The　consequences　of　which　are　not　acceptable。〃
〃We　cannot　purchase　oil；〃　a　candidate　member　pointed　out。
〃Then　we　must　take　it。〃

FORT　MEADE；　MARYLAND
Bob　Toland　frowned　at　his　spice　cake。　I　shouldn't　be　eating　dessert；　the　intelligence　analyst　reminded　himself。　But　the　National　Security　Agency　missary　served　this　only　once　a　week；　and　spice　cake　was　his　favorite；　and　it　was　only　about　two　hundred　calories。　That　was　all。　An　extra　five　minutes　on　the　exercise　bike　when　he　got　home。
〃What　did　you　think　of　that　article　in　the　paper；　Bob？〃　a　co…worker　asked。
〃The　oil…field　thing？〃　Toland　rechecked　the　man's　security　badge。　He　wasn't　cleared　for　satellite　intelligence。　〃Sounds　like　they　had　themselves　quite　a　fire。〃
〃You　didn't　see　anything　official　on　it？〃
〃Let's　just　say　that　the　leak　in　the　papers　came　from　a　higher　security　clearance　than　I　have。〃
〃Top　Secret…Press？〃　Both　men　laughed。
〃Something　like　that。　The　story　had　information　that　I　haven't　seen；〃　Toland　said；　speaking　the　truth；　mostly。　The　fire　was　out；　and　people　in　his　department　had　been　speculating　on　how　Ivan　had　put　it　out　so　fast。　〃Shouldn't　hurt　them　too　bad。　I　mean；　they　don't　have　millions　of　people　taking　to　the　road　on　summer　vacations；　do　they〃
〃Not　hardly。　How's　the　cake？〃
〃Not　bad。〃　Toland　smiled；　already　wondering　if　he　needed　the　extra　time　on　the　bike。

MOSCOW；　R。S。F。S。R。
The　Politburo　reconvened　at　nine…thirty　the　next　morning。　The　sky　outside　the　double…paned　windows　was　gray　and　curtained　with　the　heavy　snow　that　was　beginning　to　fall　again；　adding　to　the　half…meter　already　on　the　ground。　There　would　be　sledding　tonight　on　the　hills　of　Gorkiy　Park；　Sergetov　thought。　The　snow　would　be　cleared　off　the　two　frozen　lakes　for　skating　under　the　lights　to　the　music　of　Tschaikovskiy　and　Prokofiev。　Moscovites　would　laugh　and　drink　their　vodka　and　savor　the　cold；　blissfully　ignorant　of　what　was　about　to　be　said　here；　of　the　turns　that　all　of　their　lives　would　take。
The　main　body　of　the　Politburo　had　adjourned　at　four　the　previous　afternoon；　and　then　the　five　men　who　made　up　the　Defense　Council　had　met　alone。　Not　even　all　of　the　full　Politburo　members　were　privy　to　that　decision…making　body。
Overseeing　them　at　the　far　end　of　the　room　was　a　full…length　portrait　of　Vladimir　Ilych　Ulyanov…Lenin；　the　revolutionary　saint　of　Soviet　munism；　his　domed　forehead　thrown　back　as　though　in　a　fresh　breeze；　his　piercing　eyes　looking　off　toward　the　glorious　future　which　his　stern　face　confidently　proclaimed；　which　the　〃science〃　of　Marxism…Leninism　called　an　historic　inevitability。　A　glorious　future。　Which　future？　Sergetov　asked　himself。　What　has　bee　of　our　Revolution？　What　has　bee　of　our　Party？　Did　rade　Ilych　really　mean　it　to　be　like　this？
Sergetov　looked　at　the　General　Secretary；　the　〃young〃　man　supposed　by　the　West　to　be　fully　in　charge；　the　man　who　was　even　now　changing　things。　His　accession　to　the　highest　post　in　the　Party　had　been　a　surprise　to　some；　Sergetov　among　them。　The　West　still　looked　to　him　as　hopefully　as　we　once　had；　Sergetov　thought。　His　own　arrival　in　Moscow　had　changed　that　rapidly　enough。　Yet　another　broken　dream。　The　man　who　had　put　a　happy　face　on　years　of　agricultural　failure　now　applied　his　superficial　charm　to　a　larger　arena。　He　was　laboring　mightily…anyone　at　this　table　would　admit　that…but　his　task　was　an　impossible　one。　To　get　here　he　had　been　forced　to　make　too　many　promises；　too　many　deals　with　the　old　guard。　Even　the　〃young〃　men　of　fifty　and　sixty　he'd　added　to　the　Politburo　had　their　own　ties　to　former　regimes。　Nothing　had　really　changed。
The　West　never　seemed　to　absorb　the　idea。　Not　since　Khrushchev　had　one　man　held　sway。　One…man　rule　held　dangers　vividly　remembered　by　the　older　generation　of　the　Party。　The　younger　men　had　heard　the　tales　of　the　great　purges　under　Stalin　often　enough　to　take　the　lesson　to　heart；　and　the　Army　had　its　own　institutional　memory　of　what　Khrushchev　had　done　to　its　hierarchy。　In　the　Politburo；　as　in　the　jungle；　the　only　rule　was　survival；　and　for　all　collective　safety　lay　in　collective　rule。　Because　of　this　the　men　selected　for　the　titular　post　of　General　Secretary　were　not　elected　so　much　for　their　personal　dynamism　as　for　their　experience　in　the　Party　…an　organization　that　did　not　reward　people　for　standing　out　too　distinctly　from　the　crowd。　Like　Brezhnev；　and　Andropov；　and　Chemenko；　the　current　chief　of　the　Party　lacked　the　power　of　personality　to　dominate　this　room　with　his　will　alone。　He'd　had　to　promise　to　be　in　his　chair；　and　he　would　have　to　promise　to　remain　there。　The　real　power　blocs　were　amorphous　things；　relationships　among　men；　loyalties　that　changed　with　circumstance　and　knew　only　expediency。　The　real　power　lay　within　the　Party　itself。
The　Party　ruled　all；　but　the　Party　was　no　longer　the　expression　of　one　man。　It　had　bee　a　collection　of　interests　represented　here　by　twelve　other　men。　Defense　had　its　interest；　the　KGB；　and　Heavy　Industry；　and　even　Agriculture。　Each　interest　held　its　own　brand　of　power；　and　the　chief　of　each　allied　himself　with　others　in　order　to　secure　his　own　place。　The　General　Secretary　would　try　to　change　this；　would　gradually　appoint　men　loyal　to　himself　to　the　posts　that　death　made　vacant。　Would　he　then　learn；　as　his　predecessors　had；　that　loyalty　so　easily　died　around　this　table？　For　now；　he　still　carried　the　burden　of　his　own　promises。　With　his　own　men　not　yet　fully　in　place；　the　General　Secretary　was　only　the　foremost　member　of　a　group　that　could　unseat　him　as　easily　as　it　had　unseated　Khrushchev。　What　would　the　West　say　if　it　learned　that　the　〃dynamic〃　General　Secretary　mainly　served　as　executor　for　the　decisions　of　others？　Even　now；　he　did　not　speak　first。
〃rades；〃　began　the　Defense　Minister。　〃The　Soviet　Union　must　have　oil；　at　least　two　hundred　million　tons　more　than　we　can　produce。　Such　oil　exists；　only　a　few　hundred　kilometers　from　our　border　in　the　Persian　Gulf…more　oil　than　we　will　ever　need。　We　have　the　ability　to　take　it；　of　course。　Inside　of　two　weeks；　we　could　assemble　enough　aircraft　and　airborne　troops　to　swoop　down　on　those　oil　fields　and　gobble　them　up。
〃Unfortunately；　there　could　not　fail　to　be　a　violent　Western　response。　Those　same　oil　fields　supply　Western　Europe；　Japan；　and　to　a　lesser　extent；　America。　The　NATO　countries　do　not　have　the　ability　to　defend　those　fields　with　conventional　means。　The　Americans　have　their　Rapid　Deployment　Force；　a　hollow　shell　of　headquarters　and　a　few　light　troops。　Even　with　their　pre…positioned　equipment　at　Diego　Garcia；　they　could　not　hope　to　s