Zapad-77
Sadakat Kadri
On Sunday afternoon, Vladimir Putin warned that aggressive statements by ‘top officials in Nato’s leading countries’ had obliged him to put Russia’s ‘deterrence forces’ on high alert. The Kremlin press secretary blamed ‘various representatives at various levels’ and didn’t want to name names, ‘although it was the British foreign minister’. Liz Truss has denied responsibility.
Putin loyalists seemed as baffled as everyone else. Even the defence minister and chief of staff, peering at their commander-in-chief from the far end of a long table, looked quizzical. I happened to be watching the Kremlin-owned TV channel formerly known as Russia Today at the time (it’s still viewable via Freeview, despite recent bans by the EU and many online platforms), and its live coverage abruptly ended when the on-air translator stumbled over the president’s words. Caught on the hop, the studio presenter looked ashen – as though realising for the first time that his job now involved justifying a war of aggression. The only explanation the official news agency TASS could put forward, rather hesitantly, was that Putin was introducing ‘what he described as a “special service regime”’.
Since then, explanations of the threat have tightened up. A video clip that RT posted on YouTube (no longer available) was given subtitles, presumably with the approval of someone important, which said that Russia’s ‘nuclear deterrent forces’ were being put ‘on highest alert’. TASS’s initial report has been updated to explain that the special service regime extends to ‘various types of weapons, including nuclear ones’, while the defence minister, Sergei Shoygu, assured Putin that an array of forces, offensive and atomic as well as defensive and conventional, have been ‘switched to enhanced combat alert’. That doesn’t clarify much, except perhaps that Putin wants the world to worry about his state of mind.
Last September, Russia and Belarus staged Zapad-21, a war game involving up to 200,000 troops. The show of strength had felt ominous even then – not least because I was in Lithuania at the time, and one of the places I visited was a former Soviet nuclear base with links to the Cuban Missile Crisis – but I’d assumed Putin and Lukashenko were just rattling sabres.
Zapad is a quadrennial exercise that dates back to the 1970s. The 1977 war game postulated a Western aggressor using supposedly routine military movements as the pretext for an invasion. Planners hypothesised that the attack would peter out, causing panicked Western forces to prepare for a nuclear strike. That obliged the Soviet camp to press home its advantage by pre-empting it. In a section headed ‘Exploitation of Success with the Use of Nuclear Weapons’, Marshal Nikolai Ogarkov reported that the ensuing exchange of one to two thousand warheads left behind ‘extensive zones of contamination, destruction and fires’ and 250,000 military fatalities on both sides, hypothetically. The likely number of civilian casualties wasn’t assessed.
I didn’t write about any of this last autumn because I reasoned that military doctrines and political structures in Russia had evolved considerably since Zapad-77. Even if the Putin-led oligarchy didn’t have all the checks and balances it should, it didn’t look then as if it might turn into a war machine on autopilot. Even when I learned that Russia had initiated another notional first nuclear strike during Zapad-99, and that Zapad-09 ended with atomic missiles fired at Poland, it seemed wrong to dwell on ideas about military deterrence and mutually assured destruction. I’d read a very well argued and informative analysis acknowledging the contention that Russia had lowered its threshold for the use of battlefield nuclear weapons, but it felt provocative and alarmist to wonder if Cold War fantasies of nuclear-enabled success might linger in Russian military circles. Perhaps it wasn’t.
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