time.”
Aliyev shrugged. They came into the main terminal, where commandos were untying the hands of the defenders, while the ‘dead’ defenders were abandoning the pretence and assisting the commandos in freeing their allies. Like soldiers everywhere, there was plenty of bullshitting going on, but the lieutenants in command of the smaller detachments were trying to gather the early results. The referees would tell them just how well they had done, but damn it; Aliyev knew that they had done well! He was proud of his people; it was the ninth time they had played the exercise and they’d won almost all of them.
He glanced at Captain Alexander Vatutin, his second-in-command. “Causalities?”
“We lost twelve men in simulation and four serious injuries in reality,” Vatutin said. He sounded pleased with himself and he had reason to be; the expected loss rate for attacking a defended target with paratroopers was very high. In some of the more aggressive simulations, where the enemy had an entire armoured unit nearby, the loss rate had been total and the game had been lost. “Sergeant Ulya Kozlina is the worst; he broke both legs and several ribs.”
“Have a medic see to him and the others,” Aliyev ordered shortly. “Any news on why the exercise was discontinued so rapidly?”
“That would be me,” a voice said, from behind him. Aliyev almost jumped; he was a trained Spetsnaz commando, with an almost supernatural awareness of the area around him, and the voice’s owner had slipped up behind him. He turned sharply, taking in the uniform and the badges that marked a former Spetsnaz officer, and saluted sharply; it wouldn’t do to irritate the President’s most trusted officer.
“General Shalenko,” he said. The General returned his salute. Shalenko had been an officer in the Spetsnaz himself for a while, before transferring to the combined arms sections following an injury while taking part in a dangerous antiterrorist mission. “Welcome to Airport One.”
“Your men did well,” Shalenko said. “The referees are still counting beans, but I think that you will be declared the undisputed winner of the contest.”
Aliyev laughed at the dry tone in his voice. The Russians knew, better than the Americans, that it wasn’t body counts that were important, but victory. If Aliyev had lost half of his force and taken the airport, he would have won; if he had saved his force, but been driven away from the airport, he would have lost.
“Still, there are other matters at hand,” Shalenko continued. “If you would care to pass over command to your second and come with me…?”
Aliyev followed him outside, into the cold morning air. Airport One was a giant simulation of an airport, built to allow the interior to be continuously revised and allow the defending force considerable advantages. Aliyev was certain that he could have held the airport with his paratrooper force alone, assuming that he had had a few days to prepare the defences; a handful of mines alone would have made the task of the attack much harder. The Spetsnaz used it to prepare antiterrorist operations, or at least that was the official explanation; their recent operations suggested something else.
They were going to war.
“This room has been secured,” Shalenko informed him, as they passed a set of guards and entered a secure room. Paranoia didn’t just run in the FSB, it galloped; there was hardly anything in the room that could conceal an electronic surveillance device. It was almost like a prison; no television, no computers, no radios…nothing. The cold hard benches reminded Aliyev of his early days in the Russian Army. “We can talk freely.”
“I see,” Aliyev said carefully. If he were in trouble for something, Shalenko wouldn’t bother coming out from Moscow to scream at him in person; one of his minions could do that.
Aliyev shrugged. They came into the main terminal, where commandos were untying the hands of the defenders, while the ‘dead’ defenders were abandoning the pretence and assisting the commandos in freeing their allies. Like soldiers everywhere, there was plenty of bullshitting going on, but the lieutenants in command of the smaller detachments were trying to gather the early results. The referees would tell them just how well they had done, but damn it; Aliyev knew that they had done well! He was proud of his people; it was the ninth time they had played the exercise and they’d won almost all of them.
He glanced at Captain Alexander Vatutin, his second-in-command. “Causalities?”
“We lost twelve men in simulation and four serious injuries in reality,” Vatutin said. He sounded pleased with himself and he had reason to be; the expected loss rate for attacking a defended target with paratroopers was very high. In some of the more aggressive simulations, where the enemy had an entire armoured unit nearby, the loss rate had been total and the game had been lost. “Sergeant Ulya Kozlina is the worst; he broke both legs and several ribs.”
“Have a medic see to him and the others,” Aliyev ordered shortly. “Any news on why the exercise was discontinued so rapidly?”
“That would be me,” a voice said, from behind him. Aliyev almost jumped; he was a trained Spetsnaz commando, with an almost supernatural awareness of the area around him, and the voice’s owner had slipped up behind him. He turned sharply, taking in the uniform and the badges that marked a former Spetsnaz officer, and saluted sharply; it wouldn’t do to irritate the President’s most trusted officer.
“General Shalenko,” he said. The General returned his salute. Shalenko had been an officer in the Spetsnaz himself for a while, before transferring to the combined arms sections following an injury while taking part in a dangerous antiterrorist mission. “Welcome to Airport One.”
“Your men did well,” Shalenko said. “The referees are still counting beans, but I think that you will be declared the undisputed winner of the contest.”
Aliyev laughed at the dry tone in his voice. The Russians knew, better than the Americans, that it wasn’t body counts that were important, but victory. If Aliyev had lost half of his force and taken the airport, he would have won; if he had saved his force, but been driven away from the airport, he would have lost.
“Still, there are other matters at hand,” Shalenko continued. “If you would care to pass over command to your second and come with me…?”
Aliyev followed him outside, into the cold morning air. Airport One was a giant simulation of an airport, built to allow the interior to be continuously revised and allow the defending force considerable advantages. Aliyev was certain that he could have held the airport with his paratrooper force alone, assuming that he had had a few days to prepare the defences; a handful of mines alone would have made the task of the attack much harder. The Spetsnaz used it to prepare antiterrorist operations, or at least that was the official explanation; their recent operations suggested something else.
They were going to war.
“This room has been secured,” Shalenko informed him, as they passed a set of guards and entered a secure room. Paranoia didn’t just run in the FSB, it galloped; there was hardly anything in the room that could conceal an electronic surveillance device. It was almost like a prison; no television, no computers, no radios…nothing. The cold hard benches reminded Aliyev of his early days in the Russian Army. “We can talk freely.”
“I see,” Aliyev said carefully. If he were in trouble for something, Shalenko wouldn’t bother coming out from Moscow to scream at him in person; one of his minions could do that.
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