Russian Military Reform, 1992-2002 (Soviet (Russian) Military Experience)

CASS SERIES ON SOVIET (RUSSIAN) MILITARY INSTITUTIONS

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM 1992–2002

CASS SERIES ON SOVIET (RUSSIAN) MILITARY INSTITUTIONS Series Editor: David M.Glantz ISSN 1462–1835 This series examines the nature and evolution of Soviet and Russian military institutions in peace and war and the human dimension of the Soviet Army. 1. Aleksander A.Maslov, translated and edited by David M.Glantz, Fallen Soviet Generals: Soviet General Officers Killed in Battle, 1941–1945 (ISBN 0 7146 4790 X cloth, 0 7146 4346 7 paper). 2. Aleksander A.Maslov, translated and edited by David M.Glantz and Harold S.Orenstein, Captured Soviet Generals: The Fate of Soviet Generals Captured by the Germans, 1941–1945 (ISBN 0 7146 5124 9) 3. John Erickson, The Soviet High Command: A Military-Political History, 1918–1941 (ISBN 0 7146 51788) 4. Anne C.Aldis and Roger N.McDermott, editors, Russian Military Reform, 1992–2002 (ISBN 0 7146 5475 2 cloth). CASS SERIES ON SOVIET (RUSSIAN) STUDY OF WAR Series Editor: David M.Glantz ISSN 1462–0960 This series examines what Soviet military theorists and commanders have learned from the study of their own military operations. 1. Harold S.Orenstein, translator and editor, Soviet Documents on the Use of War Experience, Volume I, The Initial Period of War 1941, with an Introduction by David M.Glantz (ISBN 0 7146 3392 5 cloth) 2. Harold S.Orenstein, translator and editor, Soviet Documents on the Use of War Experience, Volume II, The Winter Campaign 1941–1942, with an Introduction by David M.Glantz (ISBN 0 7146 3393 3 cloth) 3. Joseph G.Welsh, translator, Red Armor Combat Orders: Combat Regulations for Tank and Mechanized Forces, 1944, edited and with an Introduction by Richard N.Armstrong (ISBN 0 7146 3401 8 cloth) 4. Harold S.Orenstein, translator and editor, Soviet Documents on the Use of War Experience, Volume III, Military Operations 1941 and 1942, with an Introduction by David M.Glantz (ISBN 0 7146 3402 6 cloth) 5. William A.Burhans, translator, The Nature of the Operations of Modern Armies by V.K. Triandafillov, edited by Jacob W.Kipp, with an Introduction by James J.Schneider (ISBN 0 7146 4501 X cloth, 0 7146 4118 9 paper)

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6. Harold S.Orenstein, translator, The Evolution of Soviet Operational Art, 1927–1991: The Documentary Basis, Volume I, Operational Art, 1927–1964, with an Introduction by David M. Glantz (ISBN 0 7146 4547 8 cloth, 0 7146 4228 2 paper) 7. Harold S.Orenstein, translator, The Evolution of Soviet Operational Art, 1927–1991: The Documentary Basis, Voilume II, Operational Art, 1965–1991, with an Introduction by David M. Glantz (ISBN 0 7146 4548 6 cloth, 0 7146 4229 0 paper) 8. Richard N.Armstrong and Joseph G.Welsh, Winter Warfare: Red Army Orders and Experiences (ISBN 0 7146 4699 7 cloth, 0 7146 4237 1 paper) 9. Lester W.Grau, The Bear Went Over the Mountain: Soviet Combat Tactics in Afghanistan (ISBN 0 7146 4874 4 cloth, 0 7146 4413 7 paper)

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM 1992–2002 Editors

ANNE C.ALDIS ROGER N.McDERMOTT

Conflict Studies Research Centre, UK Defence Academy

FRANK CASS LONDON • PORTLAND, OR

First published in 2003 in Great Britain by FRANK CASS PUBLISHERS Crown House, 47 Chase Side, Southgate London N14 5BP This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2005. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” and in the United States of America by FRANK CASS PUBLISHERS c/o ISBS, 920 NE 58th Avenue, Suite 300 Portland, Oregon, 97213–3786 Website: www.frankcass.com Copyright in collection © 2003 Frank Cass & Co. Ltd. Copyright in chapters © 2003 individual contributors British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Russian military reform 1992–2002.—(Cass series on Soviet (Russian) military institutions; 4) 1. Russia (Federation). Russkaia Armiia—Reorganization 2. National security—Russia (Federation) 3. Russia (Federation)—Armed forces—Reorganization 4. Russia (Federation)—Military policy I. Aldis, Anne, 1953– II. McDermott, Roger N. 355′ .033547′ 09049 ISBN 0-203-01105-8 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN 0-7146-5475-2 (cloth) ISSN 1462-1835 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Russian military reform, 1992–2002/editors, Anne C.Aldis, Roger N.McDermott. p. cm.—(Cass series on Soviet (Russian) military institutions; 4) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7146-5475-2 (cloth) 1. Russia (Federation). Russkaëì Armiëì—Reorganization. I. Aldis, Anne, 1953– II. McDermott, Roger N. US772.R84 2003 355′ 00947′ 09049–dc21 2003051515 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher of this book.

Contents

Notes on Contributors

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Series Editor’s Preface

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Acknowledgements

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List of Abbreviations

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Introduction

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PART I: POLICY, POLITICS AND SOCIETY 1.

The Development of Russia’s Security Policy, 1992– 2002 Marcel de Haas

2

2.

Outside Politics? Civil-Military Relations during a Period of Reform Jennifer G.Mathers

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3.

A New Day for the Russian Army? Reforming the Armed Forces under Yeltsin and Putin David J.Betz and Valeriy G.Volkov

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4.

Russian Soldiers in the Barracks: A Portrait of a Subculture Joris Van Bladel

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PART II: FORCE STRUCTURE 5.

Nuclear versus Conventional Forces: Implications for Russia’s Future Military Reform Frank Umbach

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6.

The Strategic Rocket Forces, 1991–2002 Steven J.Main

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7.

Reform and the Russian Ground Forces, 1992–2002 Michael Orr

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8.

The Reform of the Russian Air Force Stéphane Lefebvre

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9.

Rudderless in a Storm: The Russian Navy, 1992– 2002 Mikhail Tsypkin

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PART III: EXPERIENCE 10.

The Challenge of ‘Small Wars’ for the Russian Military Pavel K.Baev

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11.

Information Warfare in the Second (1999-) Chechen War: Motivator for Military Reform? Timothy L.Thomas

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12.

War Scare in the Caucasus: Redefining the Threat and the War on Terrorism Jacob W.Kipp

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PART IV: WHERE TO? 13.

Putin’s Military Priorities: The Modernisation of the Armed Forces Roger N.McDermott

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14.

An Economic Analysis of Russian Military Reform Proposals: Ambition and Reality Peter J.Sutcliffe and Chris Hill

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15.

Reshaping Russia’s Armed Forces: Security Requirements and Institutional Responses Christopher N.Donnelly

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Bibliography

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Index

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Notes on Contributors

Anne C.Aldis is Research Manager at the Conflict Studies Research Centre, where she has been an active analyst and facilitator of the processes of transformation taking place in the states of central and eastern Europe. For many years she has edited the Centre’s publications, as well as the Strategic and Combat Studies Institute’s The Second Chechen War and Central and Eastern Europe: Problems and Prospects. She has collaborated with Graeme P.Herd on Russian Regions and Regionalism: Strength through Weakness (2002). Pavel K.Baev is a Senior Researcher and the head of the Foreign and Security Policy programme at the International Peace Research Institute, Oslo (PRIO). After graduating from the Moscow State University (MA in Political Geography, 1979) he worked in a research institute in the USSR Defence Ministry and Institute of Europe, Moscow. During 1995–2001 he was co-editor of Security Dialogue. He held a NATO Democratic Institutions Fellowship for 1994–96. He is also author of several books, among them The Russian Army in a Time of Troubles (1996). David J.Betz is Lecturer in War Studies in the Department of War Studies, King’s College London. He is editor, with John Löwenhardt, of Army and State in Post-Communist Europe (2001). Joris Van Bladel is an officer in the Belgian armed forces. He is currently working as Assistant Professor in the Royal Military Academy in Brussels. He studied at the Royal Military Academy (1985– 89), studied Slavic Languages at the University of Ghent (1992–96) and finished his PhD at the University of Groningen (Netherlands) with the title, ‘The All-Volunteer Force in the Russian Mirror: Transformation without Change’. Christopher N.Donnelly has been Special Advisor to the NATO Secretary-General since 1989, serving four successive incumbents of that office. Prior to that he headed the Soviet Studies Research Centre at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. He was for 20 years a reserve officer in the UK Territorial Army.

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Marcel de Haas is an officer in the Royal Netherlands Air Force. Since 1996 he has been lecturer in International Relations at the Royal Netherlands Military Academy in Breda. He has published articles on Soviet, CIS and Russian security developments, such as the wars in Tajikistan and Chechnya, and is presently writing a PhD thesis on Russian security policy. Chris Hill was educated at Manchester University, completing his PhD in the mid-1970s. Since then, he has worked as a civil servant in a number of government departments. He is currently employed in an economic capacity by the Ministry of Defence. Jacob W.Kipp is a Senior Analyst with the Foreign Military Studies Office at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He received his PhD in Russian history from the Pennsylvania State University. He taught Russian history at Kansas State University from 1971 to 1985, when he joined the Soviet Army Studies Office. He holds the rank of Adjunct Professor of History with the University of Kansas. Stéphane Lefebvre is a former Strategic Analyst at the Canadian Department of National Defense and former Marcel Cadieux Policy Planning Fellow at the Canadian Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade. He has published several scholarly articles on European security issues and a book chapter on the revolution in military affairs. Steven J.Main currently works as a Senior Lecturer for the Conflict Studies Research Centre (CSRC). His main research areas for the unit are Kaliningrad oblast’; Russian-Belarussian relations; Russian military reform and Russia’s security concerns in the South and the Russian far east. Before joining CSRC in 1996, he worked at the universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh and has published a number of articles examining the history of the Red Army in the inter-war period (1918– 41). Jennifer G.Mathers is a lecturer in international politics at the University of Wales, Aberystwyth. She is the author of The Russian Nuclear Shield from Stalin to Yeltsin: The Cold War and Beyond (2000) and has published on several aspects of the Russian armed forces, including strategic thought, military reform and the conflict in Chechnya. Roger N.McDermott is a graduate of Oxford University and a Honorary Senior Research Fellow at the department of politics and international relations, University of Kent at Canterbury. He specialises in Russian and central Asian defence and security, and Conflict Studies Research Centre and Jane’s Group have published a number of his papers.

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Michael Orr joined the Department of War Studies at RMA Sandhurst in 1969. In 1984 he moved to the Soviet Studies Research Centre (now Conflict Studies Research Centre) where he is a Senior Lecturer, studying the modern Russian ground forces. He has written a number of articles on Russian peacekeeping and counter-insurgency operations. Peter J.Sutcliffe studied European Economics and International Political Economy at the Universities of North London and Mannheim and the LSE. He joined the UK Ministry of Defence as an Economics Research Officer in 1989 and has recently returned from a seven-year period as an Economics Analyst in the Political Affairs Division at NATO HQ in Brussels Timothy L.Thomas is an Analyst at the Foreign Military Studies Office (FMSO) at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. He retired from the US Army as a Lieutenant Colonel in 1993. He received a BS from West Point and an MA from the University of Southern California. He has done extensive research and publishing in the areas of peacekeeping, information war, the war in Chechnya and political-military affairs. Mikhail Tsypkin is an Associate Professor in the Department of National Security Affairs at the Naval Postgraduate School (Monterey). During 1985–87 he served as the Salvatori Fellow in Soviet Studies at the Heritage Foundation in Washington, DC. He joined the Naval Postgraduate School in 1987, two years after completing his PhD in Political Science at Harvard University, and has published numerous articles on Soviet and Russian military affairs. Frank Umbach is a Senior Research Fellow at the Research Institute of the German Council on Foreign Relations (DGAP) in Bonn/Berlin (since April 1996). From 1991–94 he was a Research Fellow at the Federal Institute of East European and International Studies (BIOst) in Cologne. He is a member of the IISS and the European Council of Security Cooperation in Asia-Pacific (ECSCAP) and author of more than 100 publications in 13 countries on foreign policy, security and defence issues in Europe (i.e. on NATO), the Asia-Pacific region and Russia/FSU. Valeriy G.Volkov is a veteran of the Soviet-Afghan War and recently retired from the Russian army with the rank of lieutenant-colonel. In 2001, he graduated with two MAs from the US Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California.

Series Editor’s Preface

History demonstrates that the efficacy of a modern nation-state’s national security policy, if not the survival of the state itself, depends directly upon its ability to develop and maintain military forces sufficient to suit the requirements of its military policy and military strategy. In an era of dizzying technological developments within the context of sharply changing geopolitical, social, and economic conditions, achieving sufficiency in terms of military forces requires states to contemplate and institute near-constant military reform. Key to this process is the ability to anticipate, plan, and implement those changes that guarantee the continued relevance and utility of the state’s armed forces. As with its illustrious predecessor, the Soviet Union, military reform in the Russian Federation has been a most elusive goal. Although wedded to the scientific approach to reform by its rigid adherence to the ideological tenets of Marxism-Leninism throughout the over 70 years of its existence, the Soviet Union’s attempts to master the chimera of military reform were plagued by practical realities. Inhibited by traditions and practices inherited from its Tsarist imperial past and the stifling political, economic, and social climate inherent in communist totalitarianism, military reform in the Soviet Union always proved farsighted in its intent but, in the end, enticingly incomplete, frequently with disastrous or near-disastrous consequences. The Soviet Union’s long experience with military reform began in the 1920s, as its new Bolshevik leadership struggled to shape and define the ideal military institutions suited to satisfy the unique ideological and political needs and aims of the new Socialist state. The ensuing reforms, which bore the imprimatur of M.V.Frunze, People’s Commissar for Military and Naval Affairs, ostensibly formed a modern Red Army uniquely socialist in its composition and, after further reforms in the 1930s, expandable in time of war. In the process and wake of these rootand-branch reforms, famous ‘great captains’ and eminent military theorists such as A.A.Svechin, V.K.Triandafillov, and M.N.

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Tukhachevsky inculcated advanced military theories into the Red Army’s arsenal of military thought and an imposing force structure to match. Tragically for the Soviet Union, during the late 1930s the Soviet system itself undermined and largely negated the positive effects of previous military reforms. The paranoid fears of an oriental-style despot, I.V.Stalin, resulting in a literal ‘permanent purge’ of key military leaders together with their advanced military thought, paralyzed military reform and prevented the Soviet Union from reacting effectively to international threats, however well it defined them. Despite the Soviet Union’s devious attempts to placate potential aggressors (the German—Soviet NonAggression Pact of 1939), the German Army’s spectacular victories in Poland and western Europe in 1939 and 1940, and the Red Army’s lackluster performance in the 1939–40 war against the Finns prompted Stalin to institute yet another wave of military reforms in 1940 and 1941, the so-called ‘Timoshenko reforms’. However, as indicated by Hitler’s 22 June 1941 invasion of the Soviet Union, the Timoshenko reforms proved ineffectual and too late. While exposing the hollow nature of Soviet pre-war military reforms, Hitler’s Barbarossa invasion shattered the Red Army, in the process almost bringing the Soviet state to its knees, and left Stalin and his senior military advisors with no choice but to reform the military on the field of battle if the Soviet Union was to survive. Impelled by stark survival instincts, reform became a reality, albeit in painfully slow fashion and at horrific human cost. Directed from above and informed by harrowing combat experience from below, these reforms produced a new Red Army by the summer of 1943, an army that matured into the victorious Red Army of 9 May 1945. However, while these wartime reforms solved the Red Army’s problems regarding force structure and combat employment, they did little to resolve long-standing human problems in the Red Army’s ranks. From the soldiers’ perspective, the wartime and postwar Red Army remained, like its Tsarist predecessor, a brutal organization, whose soldiers were motivated as much by fear as by pride in country or national goals. Despite the demise of repressive Stalinism in 1953 and the advent of a less harsh regime, during the postwar years reform of the Soviet Union was characterized by repeated attempts to adjust the army’s force structure and employment techniques to new geopolitical realities and accelerating waves of technological changes. Whether instituted by Ministers of Defense A.M.Vasilevsky in the early 1950s, G.K.Zhukov in the late 1950s, R.Ia. Malinovsky in the late 1960s, A.A.Grechko in the late 1970s, or D.T.Iazov in the late 1980s, military reforms sought to accommodate the Soviet Army to new realities, such as atomic weaponry and the nuclear

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age, and, more recently, the development and fielding of high-precision weaponry. Although these reforms produced a host of highly imaginative new military concepts, such as operational and tactical maneuver, reconnaissance-strike, and others, they occurred within the context of a system that was inherently unable to produce and sustain genuine reform. From a political perspective, ideology, if not residual paranoia, impelled the Soviet Union to involve itself in conflicts it was unable to understand and, hence, could not resolve. Economically, the socialist command economy could not sustain the immense expense involved in developing and maintaining military technology capable of providing what the state deemed as requisite defense. Socially, tensions inherent in the socialist system coupled with the state’s inability to rid the military of its brutality vis-à-vis relations among common soldiers undermined military morale and discipline. In short, these internal tensions undermined positive military reform and, in many ways, facilitated the unexpected and virtually simultaneous collapse in 1991 of the Soviet Army and its parent the Soviet Union. While the collapse of the Soviet Union removed some of the institutional impediments to reform in all spheres of national life, geopolitical changes external to the Russian Federation and new internal realities within the Federation have posed an imposing array of new challenges to its political and military leadership, many of which are no less imposing than those faced by the Soviet Union’s new Bolshevik leadership in the 1920s. Effecting real military reform is one of the most imposing of these new challenges. In short, if a failure to effect genuine military reform characterized the history of the Soviet Union, it has also shaped the relatively brief history of the Russian Federation and will continue to shape it in the future. More important still, like its Soviet predecessor, at least in part, the ultimate fate of the Russian Federation probably depends on its ability to do what its ancestral forbear failed to do—that is, institute real military reform. This series of essays by the world’s foremost students of the Russian military catalogues the imposing range of challenges faced by the Russian Federation’s political and military leaders and assesses, in ‘report card fashion’, how well they have reacted to these challenges. Most important, the essays contemplate the consequences should these and other future efforts to reform the Russian Federation’s military fail. DAVID M.GLANTZ Carlisle, PA

Acknowledgements

Any work involving the participation of several scholars in disparate parts of the world requires a great deal of support before it sees the light of day. The present volume is no exception, benefiting from the assistance offered by institutions and many individuals. First and foremost the bedrock of advice, assistance and editorial support came from the Conflict Studies Research Centre (CSRC) at the Defence Academy of the United Kingdom, where Pam Bendall made access to the CSRC library both profitable and a pleasure. Several other institutions facilitated the participation of key individuals. These include the Foreign Military Studies Office at Fort Leaven worth, KS; NATO Headquarters, Brussels; the Royal Military Academy, Belgium; the Royal Netherlands Military Academy; the International Peace Research Institute (PRIO), Oslo; and the German Council on Foreign Relations (DGAP). Almost all the contributors have done more than simply write chapters, offering useful advice and general help on numerous occasions. To all of them the editors acknowledge their debt. In particular, Dr Steven J.Main was instrumental in formulating the concept of the book and suggesting possible contributors; without his commitment and enthusiasm it would never have become a reality Gratitude must also be expressed to Christopher Donnelly at NATO, whose early involvement in the project helped secure a number of contributors. Moreover, the late Professor John Erickson commended the project in late 2001. Though he was unable to see the work in print, his encouragement to proceed with the book and his influence on many of the contributors—in so many ways—epitomise his superb scholarship. Marcel de Haas also wishes to thank Twan Hendricks, Lecturer in English at the Royal Netherlands Military Academy, for his support in translating his chapter into English.

List of Abbreviations

ABM ACT ALCM AS ASUV ASV ASW BIOst C3I C4ISR CFE CGS C-in-C CIS CSCE CSRC DA DGAP ECSCAP ELINT EU EW FAPSI FBIS FDI

anti-ballistic missile Arms Control Today air-launched cruise missile Armeyskiy Sbornik automated troop command and control system army aviation anti-submarine warfare Federal Institute of East European and International Studies command, control, communications and intelligence command, control, communications, computers, intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance Conventional Forces in Europe Chief of the General Staff commander-in-chief Commonwealth of Independent States Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe Conflict Studies Research Centre Long-Range Aviation German Council on Foreign Relations European Council of Security Cooperation in Asia-Pacific electronic intelligence European Union electronic warfare Federal Agency of Government Communi-cations and Information Foreign Broadcast Information Service foreign direct investment

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FMSO FPC FPS FSB fSU GDP GLONASS GNP GRU IFOR INF IR ISKAN RAS IW JDW JSMS KFOR KPRF KR KRO KZ MAD MAS MChS MD MILEX MIRV MK MoD MPS MRD NCO NG NSC NVO OMON unit

Foreign Military Studies Office Foreign Policy Concept Federal Border Guard Service Federal Security Service former Soviet Union gross domestic product Global Navigational Satellite System gross national product Main Military Intelligence Directorate International Force International Nuclear Forces infrared Institute for US and Canada Studies, Russian Academy of Sciences information war Jane’s Defence Weekly Journal of Slavic Military Studies NATO’s peace operation in Kosovo Communist Party of the Russian Federation Krylya Rodiny Congress of Russian Communities Krasnaya Zvezda Mutual Assured Destruction Mutual Assured Security Ministry of Emergency Situations Military District military expenditure Multiple Impact Re-entry Vehicle Moskovskiy Komsomolets Ministry of Defence morale and psychological support Motor Rifle Division non-commissioned officer Nezavisimaya Gazeta National Security Concept Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye special purpose unit

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OSCE PAK FA PGMs PRIO PSYOPs PVO R&D REB RF RG RITs RKO RMA RMA ROK ROO ROS RPV RUK RUS RV RVSN SF SFOR SIPRI SLBM SNF SOBR SORT SSBN SSS START SVR UAV UNPROFOR VDV VKS

Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe Frontal Aviation Advanced Aviation System precision-guided munitions International Peace Research Institute, Oslo psychological operations Air Defence Forces research and development radio-electronic combat Russian Federation Rossiyskaya Gazeta Russian Information Centre Troops of Missile Space Defence Revolution in Military Affairs Royal Military Academy reconnaissance-fire complex reconnaissance-fire operation reconnaissance-fire system remotely piloted vehicle reconnaissance-strike complex reconnaissance-strike system Rossiyskiye Vesti Strategic Rocket Forces strategic forces Stabilisation Force Stockholm International Peace Research Institute submarine-launched ballistic missile strategic nuclear forces Ministry of the Interior Strategic Offensive Reduction Treaty nuclear submarine Strategic Deterrence Forces Strategic Arms Control External Intelligence Service unmanned aerial vehicle UN Protection Force Airborne Forces Military Space Troops

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VTA VVS

Military Transport Aviation Russian Air Force

Introduction

This work examines the course of Russian military reform during the first decade following the independence of the Russian Federation and the passing of the Cold War. It does so, utilising the skills and experience of a team of contributors from several countries, in an attempt to inform a primarily international readership. The contributors hope that it will stimulate informed debate about the past, present and future of the Russian armed forces, as they, like many other military structures, adapt themselves to the new realities of the twenty-first century. Of course, Russian military reform is impossible to understand if it is analysed in seclusion from its historical context, subjected to Western bias or ‘boxed’ within the unrealistic bounds of an imposed time-scale. The Western reader must endeavour to understand the problems from a Russian perspective—one which possesses proud and distinctive military achievements and traditions. Nor must President Vladimir Putin be viewed as a two-dimensional figure, refracted through a Eurocentric perspective. The reader would be well advised to recollect that, historically, Russia has faced many severe tests of its armed forces. After the formation of the Red Army on 23 February 1918, it was immediately plunged into the Civil War and violent unrest lasting a decade or more. Yet the 1920s, while witnessing Russian withdrawal from the international arena, also saw significant advances in the development of its armed forces. By the mid-1930s, Russia’s armed forces were forward-thinking and militarily efficient. They survived the humiliating experience of the Soviet-Finnish War (1939–40), ravaged by Stalin’s purges, to heroically defend the Motherland during the Great Patriotic War and thus contribute significantly to Allied victory in World War II. Boris Shaposhnikov, later Chief of the General Staff, published his important work The Brain of the Army (Mozg Armii) during 1927–29. This work has remained on the curriculum of the General Staff Academy ever since.1 Shaposhnikov examined foreign military experience and

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principally focused on the Austro-Hungarian General Staff, which had disappeared at the end of World War I. There is a long tradition of the Russian armed forces studying the experience of foreign militaries. Would that other armed forces made such good use of the experience of Russian military thinkers. The Great Patriotic War is deeply embedded in the Russian national memory and especially so in the psyche of the armed forces. These memories, and the lingering perception of Western hostility, have predisposed the Russian armed forces to remain locked into the strategic thinking of the mass-mobilisation wars of the twentieth century. Sadly, as events have recently demonstrated, from the terrorist attacks in Moscow in 1999, to those against the USA on 11 September 2001, to the ongoing separatist crisis in Chechnya and the seizure of a Moscow theatre in October 2002, the threat of the mass-mobilisation war has given way to low-intensity conflict and the struggle against international terrorism. The times, it would appear, and bitter experiences during the first decade of the new Russian armed forces, demand military reform. Russian military theory has assimilated the changes in Western thinking and operational art during the past decade, from Operation Desert Storm in 1991 to Operation Enduring Freedom in 2001–2. Yet Russia’s armed forces have struggled to achieve systemic reform, and to maintain or restore order to several troubled regions on Russia’s periphery. The problems they have encountered over the past decade, and how they have been dealt with, are a rich seam of recent experience which provides much instructive material for students of military affairs and those grappling with similar issues. It would, however, be folly to write off the Russian armed forces or their capacity to regenerate themselves on the evidence of only this short period. This volume is certainly not intended to be presumptuous or prescriptive, nor does it seek to pre-empt the course of the debate within the Russian Federation itself. On the contrary, the editors considered it essential to engage the skills of the contributors primarily to analyse, explain and assess the problems of reform in a realistic manner, with a view to alerting others who face or have faced similar problems of readjustment to the peculiar difficulties of transition in a Russian military context. The book is written out of deep respect for Russia in general and its armed forces in particular. We regard it as axiomatic that this book is not in any way anti-Russian. The book itself is divided into four sections. In Part I, Marcel de Haas describes the development of Russian military doctrine between 1992 and 2002, providing an analysis of six key documents. Jennifer Mathers delineates the complex course of civil—military relations throughout the

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period. David Betz and Valeriy Volkov explore the differences in the relationship of Yeltsin and Putin, respectively, to the armed forces and their approaches toward its reform. Their analysis focuses on developments under Putin with a view to answering the question: has the long-awaited reform of the military actually begun and, if the answer is yes, by what means and to what end? In a chapter based on 100 interviews conducted with Russian soldiers, Joris Van Bladel deduces a Russian military culture characterised by five specific features. It is a culture that combines chaos and order, anarchy and stability and may explain why the Russian army, despite its many years of decay and contrary to frequent forecasts, has certainly not collapsed. The cultural argument he advances not only refutes the practicability of Russia imitating Western models, it also questions the motives of those who argue the necessity of exporting Western organisational models to Russia. In Part II, Frank Umbach and Steven Main assess the implications of the new directions of Russia’s defence policies for missile defence, international arms-control treaties and the Strategic Rocket Forces. The ground forces’ failings in the Chechen wars are generally seen as the most glaring evidence of the need for military reform and it is not too much to claim that there can be no military reform in Russia without reform of the ground forces. Michael Orr examines the Russian ground forces, arguably the epitome of all that the Russian military stands for, and highlights some characteristics of the reform process over the last decade through their experience. Stéphane Lefebvre analyses the evolution of Russia’s air forces. He addresses changes in doctrine, training, leadership, operations and equipment, and, as the Russian air forces themselves do, pays particular attention to events in Russia and abroad that have proved influential for air power theory, such as the Gulf War, Chechnya and NATO’s air campaign in the former Yugoslavia. Furthermore, Russia’s navy has been confronted with the realities of the post-Cold War security environment and the harsh problems stemming from underfinancing as well as those of maintaining a ‘blue-water’ fleet. Nothing illustrates the plight of the navy more starkly than the Kursk tragedy in 2000, which revealed the poor condition of the once-great Northern fleet. Mikhail Tsypkin addresses these issues, including the handling and aftermath of the Kursk accident. Western as well as Russian analysts have often overlooked the importance of Russia’s involvement in ‘small wars’. In Part III, Pavel Baev considers the resource constraints, turf wars and political and other expedients which have been the result of the Russian military’s involvement in the last decade of conflicts. The ‘War on Terrorism’

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creates new demands and requirements, which the Russian armed forces face many difficulties in meeting. Winning the information war is one area where Russian thinking is well advanced, but where technical capabilities are weaker. Timothy Thomas examines both of these aspects in detail. Jacob Kipp illustrates the changing use of the ‘threat’ factor in the context of Russia’s tense bilateral relations with neighbouring Georgia, culminating in the ‘war scare’ in the summer of 2002. This leads him to examine the struggle since the 1980s to define the threats to Russian security, a process which justifies military structures and provides direction for future reform. In the final section, Roger McDermott, Peter Sutcliffe, Chris Hill and Christopher Donnelly address the future of Russian military reform. Putin’s reinvention of the plan to professionalise the armed forces, the economic reality facing Russia which has so severely restricted its past reform plans, and the question of how to design and achieve appropriate armed forces are considered in turn. A critical question, one at the heart of Russian military reform, relates to force structure: ‘What kind of armed forces does Russia need?’ Christopher Donnelly reminds observers in the concluding chapter of the book that this is a very different question from ‘What kind of armed forces would the West like Russia to have?’ Russia itself must be the judge of what armed forces suit its own security needs in the twenty-first century. Perceptions in Russia and perceptions in the West have a bearing on the issue; as does the gap between the perceptions of society, the political leadership and of the military. This is a problem with which many others have struggled, in many different countries in many different periods of history, and all have found it difficult to reconcile their particular vision with the economic and political constraints imposed even in a prosperous, long-established democracy. What their experience does show, however, is that failing to reform and maintaining a false perception, especially of security threats, are equally disastrous in the long run. It is rarely a mistake to encourage greater discussion and awareness of alternative models of military and security structures and how appropriate they may be in meeting changing threats. As a contribution to this process, this work is offered to all those who have an interest in the future of the Russian armed forces. The views each chapter contains are those of its author, not those of his or her colleagues or any other body.

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NOTE 1. He may have borrowed the title from Spenser Wilkinson’s The Brain of an Army, (1890)—a standard manual for British and German officers in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

Part I: Policy, Politics and Society

1 The Development of Russia’s Security Policy, 1992–2002 Marcel de Haas

After the break-up of the Soviet Union in December 1991, the Russian Federation (RF) became its legal successor state. Initially the Russian military and political leadership was convinced that the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) would develop towards an organisation similar to that of the former Soviet Union, naturally under Russian supervision. However, it did not take long before a number of CIS states decided differently, and created their own armed forces and subsequently formed independent security policies. The effect of these developments was that Russia felt itself forced to do the same by forming its own armed forces and a Ministry of Defence, in spring 1992. With the abandonment of the Marxist-Leninist ideology the RF was now in need of basic documents for its security policy. In this chapter I will provide an overview of actors (both organisations and persons) that have been involved in the decision-making process of the RF security policy since then and of the security documents they generated. First, I explain the conceptual thinking of Russian security TABLE 1.1: CHRONOLOGY OF LEADING POLICY DOCUMENTS OF THE RF ON SECURITY ISSUES

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policy. Next, I deal with the development (both chronological and in contents) of the three leading security documents, i.e. the National Security Concept, the Foreign Policy Concept and the Military Doctrine. Between 1992 and 2002 the RF presented three National Security Concepts, two Foreign Policy Concepts and four Military Doctrines.1 Other security-related documents of less importance, such as the naval doctrine and military reform plans, will not be treated in this chapter. Finally, I provide conclusions and an outlook on the future development of Russian security policy. RUSSIAN MILITARY CONCEPTUAL THOUGHT Current Russian thinking on national security policy is that the state has military, diplomatic, legal (both national and international), information, economic and other means at its disposal for achieving its objectives. These means are joined in the National Security Concept (NSC), Russia’s grand strategy. From the NSC separate concepts and doctrines are derived to guarantee security in, among others, international, military, economic, social, environmental and information areas. Two of these doctrines are the Foreign Policy Concept and the Military Doctrine. The differences between Russian security, foreign and military policies are the following. The security policy (NSC) is pointed at safeguarding national interests against external and internal threats. The foreign policy (Foreign Policy Concept, or FPC) deals with maintaining relations with actors in the international arena, such as states and international organisations.2 The military policy consists of views and measures concerning war, conflicts, crises and their prevention and deterrence, and suppression of aggression, force generation and preparation of armed forces, population and economy in securing vital interests of the state.3 National Security Concept Russia’s security policy is defined as actions by organs of state power, (lower) government agencies, social and other organisations directed at safeguarding national interests against foreign and domestic threats. These actions consist of predicting and identifying threats; determining tasks to secure national interests; improving forces, means and the system of guaranteeing national security; and, finally, mobilising resources and determining the order of using them. As mentioned earlier, the national security policy of the RF is laid down in the NSC. The NSC is the basic document for formulating and accomplishing a clear-cut and

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FIGURE 1.1: MILITARY CONCEPTUAL FRAMEWORK OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION

comprehensive policy that determines and accordingly secures Russia’s national interests.4 Chronological Development of the National Security Concept Since the first edition of the Military Doctrine, in May 1992, the RF has constantly described the NSC as the highest security document, from which military doctrine is derived.5 Still it would take another five and a half years before the first NSC would be published. Initially, neither President Yeltsin nor his government had a clear view on the direction of Russia’s security policy Would the RF proceed as the unchallenged leader of the CIS or would it choose to take an independent course, with an exclusively Russian security policy and national armed forces? Probably because of this lack of clarity and the atmosphere of indecision, no effort was yet made to develop a Security Concept (at national nor at CIS level), although such a concept had already been mentioned in a draft military doctrine for the CIS of February 1992.6 The following month, however, on 5 March 1992, a decree ‘On National Security’ was issued, establishing the Security Council of the RF, an organ tasked to deal with problems of internal and external security.7 At the same time a strong appeal to form a national security policy was published by Sergei Rogov, Deputy Director of the Institute for US and Canada Studies of the Russian Academy of Sciences (ISKAN RAS). Rogov warned of possible conflicts with other former Soviet republics. Particularly with Ukraine, because of differences on nuclear arms, the Crimea and energy deliveries, relations were quite tense at that moment. Because of this threat,

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according to Rogov fundamental decisions on security could no longer be delayed. Apparently, there was an urgent need for establishing a mechanism on military-political decision-making. Therefore a national security council was to be formed in order to develop a security strategy.8 In May the choice for an independent Russian security policy was made more explicit: Yeltsin ratified a decree to the effect that Russia would have its own Ministry of Defence and RF armed forces.9 It did not take long for the military to enter the debate on security. In May 1992 Colonel-General Igor Rodionov, Head of the General Staff Academy, presented a conservative alternative for the official military doctrine that was published earlier that month. Rodionov regarded his document as the leading security document. His view on the national security documents, however, was not shared by all members of the military leadership. For instance, Marshal of Aviation Yevgeny Shaposhnikov, who had until recently served as Secretary of the Russian Security Council, spoke out after the publication of the Military Doctrine of November 1993 saying that this doctrine was premature. First an NSC should be developed, which would include national interests and threats against national security. Only then could other subordinated documents such as military and foreign-policy doctrines be drafted.10 Clearly, the military were divided on which course to take in security policy and the hierarchy of the different security documents. In 1992 Yury Skokov, Secretary of the Security Council, made a start in drafting the NSC. At its first session in the summer of 1992, the Security Council assigned a high priority to the accomplishment of the NSC.11 However, not until July 1994 did the Security Council install a commission to draft it.12 The purpose of the NSC was to fill the political vacuum which was the result of the demise of communist ideology. A fundamental political consensus was supposed to be raised, based upon national interests.13 These rather democratic principles sounded attractive, but disguised reality. In the constitution of 1993, the national security policy was the president’s responsibility. No longer did parliament have the power to approve documents on security policy, as it did under the previous constitution. Now the president could decide upon security policies without the consent of parliament: consensus was no longer necessary. Still it would be December 1997 before the president signed the first NSC. The most likely reasons for the long period (1992–97) before the NSC was drafted are as follows: • During the first few years after the RF had succeeded the Soviet Union, the Russian security elite debated heavily about which course to follow in foreign and security policies.

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• The security organs were engaged in a power struggle. For instance, in 1992 the General Staff Academy launched an unofficial military doctrine and, as I shall explain later, the Security Council put aside the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in presenting the first Foreign Policy Concept in 1993. • The period of 1992–97 was characterised by instability, both internal (for instance, the fight between the president and the legislative power in 1993; the first Chechen conflict, 1994–96) and external (for instance, civil wars in neighbouring CIS states such as Moldova, Georgia and Tajikistan; hotspots in the Balkans). The Russian executive power (president and government) was forced to pay a lot of attention to these internal and external incidents, which was an obstacle for further maturing of the RF security policy into an NSC. After the first half of 1999, when the Kosovo conflict had been overshadowing the international agenda, a radical change occurred in Russian security policy. Army General Makhmut Gareyev, President of the Academy of Military Sciences, outlined this turn in policy in an interview on geopolitics, national security and other security-related topics.14 Gareyev stated that NATO’s strategy, following the security policy of the USA, was no longer directed at defensive but at preemptive use of force, including the possibility of deploying outside the territory of the alliance’s treaty, the emphasis being more on the use of military force rather than diplomatic or other non-violent methods of implementing policy. The USA and other influential Western countries were aiming at a unipolar system of international relations at global level under their authority. According to Gareyev, the aggression of NATO against the former Yugoslavia was a clear example of its policy to ignore the UN and the standards of international law. Gareyev’s statements were an unambiguous example of the Russian feelings with regard to NATO’s new Strategic Concept of April 1999 and towards the military intervention of this alliance in Kosovo of March-July of that year.15 Western security policy was now considered to be a threat which resulted in statements in the Russian security policy expressing these anti-Western sentiments. Gareyev claimed that not only external developments but also internal threats, such as the conflict in Chechnya, demanded adjustments of current security concepts. The statement in the 1997 issue of the NSC, that direct threats against the RF no longer existed, was declared out of date. Most of the amendments of the security policy that Gareyev proposed were to be implemented in the new (draft) editions of the NSC and the Military Doctrine in autumn 1999. By

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ratifying the final draft of the new NSC on 10 January 2000, President Putin authorised the revised Russian security policy. Development of the Contents of the National Security Concept16 The major destabilising factors, pointed out in one or more of the different versions of the NSC, are the following: international dominance by Western states under US authority; weakening of Russia’s international position; ignoring Russian national interests; and the danger of (international) terrorism. In comparison with the 1997 edition, in the NSC of 1999 the destabilising factors have increased. This is probably due to the conflicts in the former Yugoslavia and in Chechnya and because of the enlarged influence of NATO on international politics. Russia’s national interests as stated in the NSC are a reflection of the internal and external developments of the 1990s. Internal developments, such as the (critical) social-economic situation and the conflict in Chechnya, manifest themselves in objectives on removing the causes for internal conflicts and on guaranteeing state power and sovereignty. External developments, such as NATO’s security policy in the Balkans, are reflected in objectives on strengthening the ties within the CIS and with other allies. However, internal national interests, such as security against terrorism, disasters and acts of war, are considered paramount. With respect to threats, the 1997 NSC expresses a generally positive view on international developments and perceives internal socialeconomic circumstances as the most important threat for Russia’s national security. Within two years this perspective changed radically. In the 1999 NSC a rise in military threats, both in number and in strength and related especially to NATO, is noted. The 1999/2000 editions of the NSC clearly illustrate a turning point in threat perception. Although, formally, internal threats are still seen as the most important, the extensive description of external threats points out that the latter now have priority. This inconsistency is possibly related to clashes between military and civil experts in drafting the NSC, in which the former consider external and the latter perceive internal threats to be the most significant. For the purpose of guaranteeing national security the following objectives are presented in the NSC. Externally, the RF has changed its objectives from stress on international cooperation at global level, as declared in the 1997 NSC, to emphasis on economic, political and military cooperation and integration within the CIS in 1999. This review in policy is probably the result of disappointment with the cooperation with the West but also of the new impetus for regaining Russia’s superpower

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status, which can best be achieved starting from the CIS. Internal political objectives are directed at strengthening (central) authority. With regard to military objectives, the two Chechen conflicts have produced the lessons that the RF armed forces (of the Defence Ministry, the MoD) now can also be deployed in internal conflicts, and that the cooperation between these forces and the troops of the other so-called power ministries must be improved. The chain of command of decisive organs of national security in the NSC unmistakably reveals that the president is the overall deciding factor in guaranteeing national security. FOREIGN POLICY According to the formal definition of foreign policy, in the RF the organs of state power as well as institutes and state structures dealing with international affairs carry out foreign policy by maintaining relations with states and regional and global international organisations.17 As a continuation of the Soviet tradition, the RF prime minister and the government are responsible for economic and internal affairs; these functionaries therefore have a subordinated position in foreign policy. Nowadays, the president of the RF possesses the overall responsibility for security policies, including foreign policy, that at the time of the USSR were in the hands of the Secretary-General of the Communist Party and the Politburo.18 Development of the Foreign Policy Concept Initially, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was the logical organ to draft the Foreign Policy Concept (FPC). In February 1992 this department tried to implement an FPC. However, the Supreme Soviet prevented this, claiming that the concept was too abstract. Yeltsin, who at the time was involved in a struggle for power with the legislature, in the course of 1992 adopted a more assertive foreign policy, almost certainly in an attempt to gain support. Remarkably, the final version of the FPC was not prepared under the auspices of the Minister of Foreign Affairs but under Yury Skokov, Secretary of the Russian Security Council.19 Skokov happened to be the chairman of the Security Council’s interdepartmental commission on foreign policy which was to draft the FPC. After approval of the FPC by the Security Council and confirmation by the president, on 29 April 1993 an apparently officially approved summary of the concept was published by Vladislav Chernov, deputy head of the Department on Strategic Security of the Security Council.20

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More than seven years later, on 28 June 2000, President Putin signed a revised version of the FPC, which replaced the edition of 1993. In the introduction of the new document it is stated that certain tendencies in international politics have compelled the RF to review its foreign and security policies. These negative tendencies were in contrast with the expectation, listed in the 1993 concept, that multilateral cooperation would further intensify. The 2000 edition of the FPC mentions the following basic principles of RF foreign policy: • the RF is a great power; • Russia’s influence in international politics should be strengthened; • political, military and economic cooperation and integration within the CIS has a high priority; • aversion to Western security policies. Russian foreign policy manifests two different approaches. On the one hand, maintaining Russia’s status as a great power results in striving for more influence within the CIS and emphasis on military and geopolitical aspects. On the other hand, the policy is characterised by accepting Russia’s post-Cold War decline in status, with emphasis on integration in the international system, which is dominated by the West. The danger of the first approach is confrontation with the West, which could lead to isolation and a diminished international position. The danger of the second approach is that this could result in a position dependent on the West.21 This dilemma of two sometimes contrasting directions leads to Russia’s foreign policy seeming somewhat ambiguous. Continuing on this duality in foreign policy, the following may be said about Putin’s policy until the terrorist attacks against the USA on 11 September 2001. Russia’s fixation on its influence within the CIS was prolonged. In order to stress Russia’s great-power status and the independent course of RF foreign policy, Putin followed an active line to intensify relations with a number of countries. He displayed interest in relations with so-called ‘pariah’ states such as North Korea and Cuba and has deepened political, economic and military ties with China, India and Iran,22 thus showing that his foreign policy was not dictated by the West. However, Putin realised quite well that these rapprochements with dubious states might cause resistance in the West and weaken Russia’s international position. With reference to the second approach in foreign policy, Putin has regularly admitted that nowadays influence in international politics is determined by economic rather than by military power. Taking into account the fact that internal and external policies are so closely

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connected, as is also stated in the FPC, Putin has given a high priority to economic cooperation and integration in the global economy. In view of Russia’s geographic position, this leads to the conclusion that closer ties with Europe are in the interest of the RF. Not surprisingly, Minister of Foreign Affairs Igor Ivanov has stated that Russia’s primary external interests lie in Europe. Therefore, the RF aims at structural and balanced relations with the European Union (EU). Trade relations between the RF and the EU are intensive: in 2000, 40 per cent of Russia’s trade was conducted with the EU.23 Former Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs and foreign-policy expert Anatoly Adamishin confirmed the importance of economic cooperation with Europe and the EU in particular. In his view within 10 to 20 years the entry of Russia into the EU could be realised.24 Hence, international economic cooperation, especially with the EU, must be considered a central point of Russian foreign policy. Foreign Policy After 11 September 2001 Since 11 September 2001, Russia’s international position has weakened, physically as well as psychologically: physically in the sense that the West has lodged itself in the traditionally Russian ‘backyard’ of the CIS. Already before 11 September the West had gradually strengthened its position in this region. NATO achieved this through its cooperation programme ‘Partnership for Peace’ and the USA conducting military exercises with some of the CIS states in central Asia. Since 11 September a remarkable turning point in positions has occurred. Many CIS states had previously been tied to the RF because of economic and/or military dependency. However, the growing Western presence in this area could very well end this dependency. The involvement of the West in the CIS is slowly appearing to be of the long-lasting kind. The USA has been investing hundreds of millions of dollars in airbases in Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan.25 It is not likely that these costly investments are made for stationing troops in that area for a limited period of time. Another aspect of these investments is that they lead to an economic impulse for the CIS states in question. It is said that the USA has to pay $7,000–7,500 for every air movement from and to Manas airbase in Kyrgyzstan. This Western, or better US, policy towards the CIS improves the economic as well as the security situation of a number of CIS states and subsequently diminishes their dependency on Moscow. This, then, leads to the conclusion that Russia has ‘physically’ lost ground in the CIS. In a psychological sense Putin has also suffered defeat, from a national as well as from a CIS point of view. Nationally after 11 September Putin dropped his resistance to Western initiatives such as the annulment of the

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anti-ballistic missile treaty, the development of the United States’ National Missile Defence and further enlargement of NATO. The Russian security and foreign affairs elite, including the two Ivanovs (Ministers of Defence, Sergei and Foreign Affairs, Igor) voiced a great deal of criticism of Putin for giving in to the West. Putin’s aspired status as a ‘strong leader’ might have been at stake, although his position does not seem to be threatened as yet. Putin has also been ‘psychologically’ damaged in the eyes of other CIS states, who have noticed that he was forced by the West to give way on a number of occasions. This has affected Russia’s status within the CIS. The fact is that 11 September was beneficial for the realisation of Russian objectives in domestic as well as in foreign affairs, even though a number of these benefits have already faded away. After 11 September the West recognised Russia’s use of force in Chechnya to be a legitimate instrument against terrorism. Yet in the spring of 2002 Western criticism of Russia’s actions in Chechnya revived, both from official circles and from media and public opinion. Western support in fighting international terrorism indeed helped defeat the Taliban regime in Afghanistan, whose destabilising capacity also threatened the RF. Nevertheless these Western anti-terrorist actions in Central Asia have resulted in a long-lasting presence of the West in Russia’s ‘backyard’. One last important effect of 11 September was the benefit of closer cooperation between Russia and NATO. Long negotiations after 11 September have led to an equal say for the RF on a limited number of matters such as the fight against terrorism, disarmament and nonproliferation of weapons of mass destruction. But Russia still has no direct say in NATO’s operational decision-making, nor will it receive a right of veto against unwelcome resolutions. With this meagre result, not unexpectedly, RF Chief of the General Staff General Kvashnin was convinced that NATO still considered Russia its opponent and Igor Ivanov continued to reject further enlargement of the alliance.26 The conclusion seems justified that the cooperation between NATO and Russia has improved only to a limited extent. Hence the overall result of 11 September has been mostly negative for Russia, in that it has weakened its position both within the CIS and internationally and has affected the earlier national consensus on security and foreign policy. MILITARY DOCTRINE Assessing RF security policy of the past decade, we see that the development of its military doctrine is paramount. Military doctrine forms a part of the national security policy and is a reflection of past and

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possible future policies. The doctrine provides guidelines in two directions. First, it deals with the needs of the armed forces in the fields of organisation, personnel and equipment. Second, the doctrine provides guidelines in the methods of warfare. Military doctrines can be divided into three categories. The most detailed are service doctrines of ground, air and naval forces. The second category concerns an armed forces doctrine, which includes all services. And finally a multinational or alliance doctrine can be formulated. Russia does have one service doctrine, the naval doctrine, which was adopted in July 2001. Since the alliance doctrine of the CIS never came into being, I will concentrate on the armed forces doctrines. They provide guidelines for the use of all (para)military forces, i.e. the armed forces of the Ministry of Defence, as well as the troops of the power ministries.27 Chronological Development of RF Military Doctrine The draft Military Doctrine of May 1992 seemed to be the start of a movement towards a more assertive, confrontational Russian security policy. For example, by adopting the mission of conflict resolution within the CIS, Russia claimed a leading role in this region and in the joint military effort. Russia granted itself the right to protect Russian minorities in other CIS states, making use of force, if necessary. Mobile forces, yet to be formed, could be used to carry out this objective. The war in the Gulf of 1991 had shown the weakness of a static (Iraqi) defence. The doctrine reflected this lesson by introducing the concept of a mobile defence with high-tech weapons in all azimuths. Apart from defensive, offensive use of force was reintroduced as an acceptable concept of operations. The deplorable economic situation made these costly aspirations quite unattainable. In March 1993, the draft doctrine of 1992 was submitted to the Supreme Soviet. After approval by parliament the doctrine was to be ratified by the president. At that time Yeltsin was involved in a struggle with the legislative power. As a result there was no parliamentary debate on the doctrine. The struggle for power culminated in the use of military force by Yeltsin to end the rebellious occupation by the Supreme Soviet of its ‘White House’ on 4 October 1993. With the legislative power eliminated, the Security Council approved a revised version of the doctrine on 2 November; Yeltsin signed it the same day.28 In December 1993 a new constitution was adopted, which formalised the exclusion of the legislative power from decision-making in security (and other fields of) policy and thus strengthened the position of the president. From now on only the president endorsed the Military Doctrine. Judging from the

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importance which is attached to the role of MoD forces in security matters, it is not unlikely that the military supported Yeltsin in his battle against the legislative power in exchange for strong influence by them on the contents of the doctrine. In this doctrine for the first time attention is given to internal conflicts, probably as a result of internal conflicts in some of the CIS states. Another new development was that MoD forces now could be deployed in internal conflicts, which until then had been the prerogative of the (paramilitary) Internal Troops. The aim of acquiring a dominant position within the CIS is further developed by an entry on the possibility of stationing RF troops outside its territory. In 1996 the Defence Council, a competing security organ of the Security Council, announced the need for a new doctrine.29 Since 1993 a number of negative military-political developments demanded its revision: • • • •

attempts to diminish Russia’s influence in the Caucasus; enlargement of NATO; new military threats and regional conflicts; the deteriorated socio-economic circumstances in the RF.

First Deputy Chief of the General Staff at the time, Colonel-General Valery Manilov, became the acting chairman of the working group on the new doctrine, which was supposed to be interdepartmental but which was dominated by the military. As former Deputy Secretary of the Security Council, Manilov had also played a decisive role in drafting the first NSC. On 29 September 1999 the highest organ of the MoD, the Collegium, approved the draft Military Doctrine. This doctrine was published before the revised NSC, thereby putting aside this theoretically leading security document as well as the Security Council, the highest state organ on security matters.30 The military domination of the working group, the publication of the draft doctrine before the revised NSC, the exclusion of the Security Council in the paragraph on the chain of command and the emphasis on the MoD forces in the draft doctrine are all indications that the military exploited the 1999 draft doctrine to strengthen their own position at the expense of other security organs and paramilitary troops. As with the drafting of the 1993 doctrine the military had again ‘used’ the now physically feeble Yeltsin to strengthen their own position. A new doctrinal development was the increased attention given to internal conflicts, irregular warfare and joint operations by MoD and other forces, coming from the experiences of the First Chechen War. Nuclear weapons became more important, because of the weakness of

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the conventional forces but also to reacquire the status of superpower. In the analysis of the military-political situation and the threat perception the draft clearly displayed a strong anti-Western view. NATO action in Kosovo apparently stirred up existing negative sentiments against Western security policy within the military. The draft made it unmistakably clear that both internal (the Chechens) and external ‘aggressors’ (the West) had to realise that Russia was not to be trifled with any more. The 2000 doctrine, signed by President Putin in April 2000, continued the standpoints of the 1999 draft but also introduced some new ones. Positions against the West and the consequences of the second Chechen conflict were worked out in more detail. New entries regarding the president and Belarus were included. Taking into account his policy of centralisation of power, it is not surprising that the position of the president in the chain of command was strengthened. As a result of the Union Treaty of December 1999, Russia and Belarus had intensified their cooperation. The military aspects of the deepened relations were now stated in the doctrine. The new positions were to a large extent the result of Putin’s personal ideas and are not yet to be seen as structural. Development of the Contents of RF Military Doctrine The development of the treatment of external threats in the various military doctrines over the decade reflects above all the deteriorating relationship with the West, shown by the entries on interference in internal Russian affairs; expansion of military blocs and alliances; attempts to ignore (or infringe on) RF interests in resolving international security problems. Apart from these matured threats, two other threats are consistently mentioned: the violation of the rights of Russian citizens abroad and the feeling of being surrounded by enemies. As a residue of Soviet thinking that threats only came from abroad, internal threats were not recognised at first; but they have been included since 1993. During the 1990s, the order of conflicts changed from global and nuclear wars to local and internal armed conflicts being listed as the most important conflicts. The threat of a global war had diminished. Russia was now confronted with armed conflicts within the CIS and in Chechnya. The Russian military-political leadership realised that the security apparatus would increasingly be faced with domestic and regional armed conflicts. This shift from external to internal conflicts was also reflected in the development of the perception of the use of military force. The emphasis changed from external large-scale warfare to

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operations within the CIS and joint operations of RF armed forces and other troops in internal conflicts. With regard to ensuring military security the consecutive doctrines show a growing assertive policy, both internally, in response to Chechen separatism, and externally, in response to Western security policy, especially with regard to the Balkans. This more assertive approach comes to the fore in entries such as: • the abandonment of the conventional and nuclear ‘no-first-use’ statements; • lowering of the nuclear threshold; • thinking again in terms of ‘opponents/enemies’; • (forward) deployment of RF armed forces and other troops outside Russian territory. The leadership of the security apparatus, as laid down in the command and control chain of the doctrine, has gradually been concentrated in the hands of the following institutions: the president, the Security Council, the Ministry of Defence and the General Staff of the RF armed forces. The Security Council, probably by instigation of the military, was left out of this chain in the doctrines of 1999/2000. However, in the course of 2000 Putin made it clear that he intended to strengthen the position of the Security Council at the expense of the Ministry of Defence and the General Staff.31 It is likely that the reinforced position of the Security Council will be expressed in future amendments to current security documents, such as the Military Doctrine. CONCLUSIONS In the first half of the 1990s, the development of Russian national security policy showed a realistic perception in considering the non-military, internal social-economic situation as the biggest threat. To improve these circumstances, Yeltsin’s foreign policy was mainly oriented to the West. Consequently, Russian foreign policy was primarily directed at international cooperation, and the non-military means of RF international policy had received priority. In the second half of the 1990s, owing to the armed conflicts in former Yugoslavia and the consequent enhanced role of NATO in international politics, Russian security policy changed drastically. Another development was the conflict in Chechnya. The consequences of the Russian intervention in Chechnya, such as bomb attacks in Russia, the high number of casualties on both sides, and (supposed) foreign support for the terrorists, led the Kremlin to believe

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that, once again, Russia was faced with internal as well as external military threats. This changed RF security policy to the extent that military means for conflict resolution and external threats now received the highest priority. A peaceful international advancement was no longer in prospect. Apart from this, a longing grew towards regaining the status of superpower held by the former Soviet Union, possibly as a way out of Russia’s internal and external difficulties. Lacking a sound economic base to support the status of superpower, military means, including nuclear arms, became the best instrument to achieve these political objectives. The aversion to the security policy followed by the West and on top of that the desire for superpower status led to focusing on the CIS politically, economically and militarily. Shortly after the publication of the NSC in January 2000, subordinate documents such as the Military Doctrine and the FPC were also revisited. The order of publication and the generally similar points of view of the different concepts gave proof of a well-coordinated and comprehensive approach to the foreign and security policies. Hence 2000 can be considered as the year of completion of the process towards an integrated and comprehensive security policy. However, this overall consensus on security policy did not exclude continuing clashes of opinion among the security organs, as had been the case throughout the last decade. In order to prevent any unilateral actions the president is forced consistently and strictly to supervise these organs. After the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001, President Putin took a pro-Western course. Was he forced or was this Putin’s long-term policy which had been conceived much earlier? The newly appeasing and indulgent Russian attitude towards the West might be related to the great value Putin attaches to improving the economy. In the long run Putin desires to strengthen Russia’s international position, not excluding military means to achieve this. However, Putin understands quite well, in contrast to many Soviet leaders, that nowadays influence on a global level is more than ever based on economic leverage. Taking this into account, his rapprochement with the West, and especially Europe, does not seem strange. Closer cooperation with the EU can serve more than one objective of Russian policy. First, economic cooperation with Europe will most likely bring about growth of the Russian economy. An increase in economic weight subsequently results in the strengthening of Russia’s international position. Second, closer ties with the EU might also weaken the relationship between Europe and the USA, even more so if Russia would be supporting, or participating in, the further development of an independent European security policy with its own military power, which is almost certainly in contrast with US interests. A weakening or

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even a split within the Western camp is of course beneficial for Russian influence in the international arena. This development would promote the Russian foreign policy principle of multi-polarity as the foundation of international politics and could reinforce Russia’s status as a great power. Russia’s present and future foreign and security policy is laid down in three documents: the NSC, the FPC and the Military Doctrine. Major points of view in these documents are an assertive attitude towards the West, strengthening Russia’s position both within the CIS and on a global level, and lastly an emphasis on military means as an instrument of security policy. The leading security documents have found their origin in the Russian security establishment, consisting of generals, politicians, diplomats and scientists. Judging from their criticism of Putin’s gestures towards the West, the state of mind of this elite has not changed as a result of 11 September 2001 or the 2002 Moscow theatre siege. For this reason it is not remarkable that, as yet, there are no signs that Putin intends to adjust these documents to exhibit a more positive stance towards the West, though he announced that they would be revised after the Moscow incident. His positive policy towards the West has only manifested itself in public statements and has not implied a structural change of Russian foreign and security policy. He has to balance the pressure of his security establishment with reinforcing Russia’s economic capacity. Consequently, the above-all pragmatic President Putin will continue to manoeuvre between the traditional Russian imperial thinking, in terms of power and influence, as well as recognising Russia’s new post-Cold War status, resulting in cooperation with the West. CURRENT EDITIONS OF SECURITY DOCUMENTS National Security Concept (January 2000): Russian: ‘Kontseptsiya Natsional’noy Bezopasnosti’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye, 1 (14 January 2000), p. 1. www.scrf.gov.ru/Documents/Decree/2000/24–l.html English: www.fas.org/nuke/guide/russia/doctrine/ gazeta012400.htm Military Doctrine (April 2000): Russian: ‘Voyennaya Doktrina Rossiyskoy Federatsii’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye, 15 (28 April 2000). www.scrf.gov.ru/Documents/Decree/2000/706–l.html English: www.freerepublic.com/forum/a394aa0466bfe.htm Foreign Policy Concept (June 2000): Russian: ‘Kontseptsiya Vneshney Politiki Rossiyskoy Federatsii’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye, 25 (14 July 2000), p. 4.

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English:

www.scrf.gov.ru/Documents/Decree/2000/07–10.html www.fas.org/nuke/guide/russia/doctrine/econcept.htm

NOTES 1. As a result of the hostage taking in Moscow in October 2002, there was a broad feeling among Russian military-political decision-makers concerning the necessity of altering these and other security documents. The National Security Concept (NSC) and the Military Doctrine were specifically mentioned. On 29 October 2002, President Putin affirmed this by ordering his security ministers and chiefs to draft a revision of the NSC. See S.Bogdanov, ‘Voyna Vne Zakona’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye (NVO), 38, 25 October 2002, p. 4; V.Solovyev, ‘I Vse-Taki My Pobedim’, NVO, 39, 1 November 2002, p. 1; RFE/RL Security and Terrorism Watch, 3, 39, 5 November 2002. 2. V.L.Manilov, Voyennaya Bezopasnost’ Rossii, Moscow: Probel, 2000, pp. 165 and 231–2. 3. V.D.Zabolotin, Slovar Voyennykh Terminov, Moscow: OOO NITs Kosmo, 2000, p. 161. 4. Manilov, Voyennaya Bezopasnost’ Rossii, pp. 232–3; p. 39; p. 310 and p. 165. 5. ‘Osnovy Voyennoy Doktriny Rossii (Proyekt)’, Voyennaya Mysl’, Spetsial’nyy Vypusk, 19 May 1992. 6. A.F.Klimenko, ‘O Role I Meste Voyennoy Doktriny v Sisteme Bezopasnosti Sodruzhestva Nezavisimykh Gosudarstv’, Voyennaya Mysl’, 2, February 1992, p. 16 of pp. 11–21. 7. www.scrf.gov.ru/Documents/2646-l .html 8. S.Rogov, ‘Nuzhna li Rossii Svoya Politika Natsional’noy Bezopasnosti?’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 6 March 1992, p. 2. 9. N.Malcolm, A.Pravda, R.Allison and M.Light, Internal Factors in Russian Foreign Policy, Royal Institute for International Affairs, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996, p. 50. 10. C.J.Dick, ‘The Military Doctrine of the Russian Federation’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, 7, 3, September 1994, p. 504. 11. A.Kassianova, ‘Russia: Still Open to the West? Evolution of the State Identity in the Foreign Policy and Security Discourse’, Europe-Asia Studies, 53, 6, 2001, p. 828. 12. Malcolm et al., Internal Factors, p. 114. 13. J.M.Godzimirski, ‘Russian National Security Concepts 1997 and 2000: A Comparative Analysis’, European Security, 9, 4, Winter 2000, p. 76. 14. G.Miranovich, ‘Geopolitika I Bezopasnost’ Rossii’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 30 and 31 July 1999. 15. The Russian security elite was especially disturbed about the responsibility that NATO grants itself in its Strategic Concept for the maintenance of security and stability within the Euro-Atlantic area. In this way NATO permits itself the use of military force, without consent of the UN Security Council, in a region of which the boundaries are not mentioned. See The

DEVELOPMENT OF RUSSIA’S SECURITY POLICY 19

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29. 30. 31.

Alliance’s Strategic Concept, Brussels: NATO Office of Information and Press, 1999, p. 14. In the Russian view with the experience of Kosovo, Chechnya could very well have been the next conflict for NATO to intervene in. Therefore Russia considered this Concept to be a threat for its national interests. I carried out extensive research on a thematical comparison of the three NSCs (1997, 1999, 2000). See ‘De ontwikkeling van Ruslands Grand Strategy, 1992–2000’, Atlantisch Perspectief, 25, 6, November 2001, pp. 19–24. Manilov, Voyennaya Bezopasnost’ Rossii, p. 231. Malcolm et al., Internal Factors, p. 107. Godzimirski, ‘Russian National Security Concepts 1997 and 2000’, pp. 75–6. V.Chernov, ‘Natsional’nyye Interesy Rossii I Ugrozy Dlya Yego Bezopasnosti, Boris Yel’tsin Utverdil Kontseptsiyu Vneshney Politiki RF’Z, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 29 April 1993, pp. 1, 3. A.C.Lynch, ‘The Realism of Russia’s Foreign Policy’, Europe-Asia Studies, 53, 1, 2001, p. 24 of pp. 7–31. M.A.Smith, Russia and the Far Abroad 2000, F72, Camberley: Conflict Studies Research Centre, December 2000, p. 27. Strategic Survey 2000–2001, International Institute for Strategic Studies, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000, p. 122. A.L.Adamishin, ‘Naskol’ko Bezopasna Nyneshnaya Yevropa?’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 2 November 2000, p. 3. M.Khodarenok, ‘“Starshego Brata” Sdali za Milliard Dollarov’, NVO, 8 February 2002, p. 3. RFE/RL Security and Terrorism Watch, 3, 9 and 14, 8 March and 23 April 2002. The power ministries are the departments, other than the Ministry of Defence, which also have troops at their disposal. These non-MoD forces consist primarily of Internal Troops, Border Guard Troops, Civil Defence Troops, Railroad Troops and, until 2003, FAPSI Troops. See Zabolotin, Slovar’ Voyennykh Terminov, p. 30. M.E.Glantz, ‘The Origins and Development of Soviet and Russian Military Doctrine’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, 7, 3, September 1994, p. 473. A.Pel’ts, ‘Nuzhna Novaya Voyennaya Doktrina’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 6 November 1996, p. 1. A.Korbut, ‘Rossiya Utochnyayet Voyennuyu Doktrinu’, NVO, 40, 15 October 1999, p. 1. Military Balance 2000–2001, International Institute for Strategic Studies, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000, p. 109.

2 Outside Politics? Civil-Military Relations during a Period of Reform Jennifer G.Mathers

The phrase ‘the military is outside politics’ is frequently invoked by Russian officers and suggests a reluctance on the part of the military to become involved in domestic politics. The state has acted to reinforce this reluctance through measures such as legislation which forbids serving members of the armed forces from joining political parties or holding elected office. Yet both the spirit and the letter of such legal barriers to the military’s involvement in politics are routinely violated with impunity. Every Russian parliamentary and presidential election campaign features explicit attempts to win the military vote, including the presence of officers as candidates on party lists. Throughout the 1990s, hundreds of officers—many at the urging of the Minister of Defence—stood for election as deputies in the Russian State Duma. Some won seats in parliament while others were elected to political office at the regional level. Senior officers have been closely associated with the creation of dozens of organisations aiming to support the armed forces and protect their interests, some of which have developed close ties with political parties. This is, of course, in addition to the fact that senior soldiers played key roles on both sides of the August 1991 coup attempt and the events of October 1993, when armed force was used to determine the outcome of a struggle for power between Russia’s president and its parliament. So while representatives of both civilian and military spheres pay lip service to the desirability of a sharp division between the armed forces and domestic politics, in practice this boundary is permeable. Politicians call upon the armed forces for their support at the ballot box and occasionally in the streets, while the military also make use of democratic political processes in their attempts to influence the state’s policies in their favour. This chapter will examine the ambiguity which characterises civil—military relations in Russia and raise questions about the significance of the manifest failure of the army and the state to keep the military ‘outside politics’. Although the involvement of serving and

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 21

recently retired officers in party politics appears to be a sinister harbinger of imminent military rule in Russia, closer examination of the context and consequences of this phenomenon suggests that it is a sign of the armed forces’ weakness rather than its strength. Far more worrying is the failure of civil society and successive political leaderships to establish and maintain strong institutions and practices of civilian, democratic control. CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS IN POST-SOVIET RUSSIA: FROM CLARITY TO CONFUSION During the Soviet period the military was enmeshed in a complex set of institutions and practices which defined its relationship with society and the country’s political leadership on the one hand, and ensured the maintenance of civilian control on the other. This arrangement combined Huntington’s notion1 of ‘subjective control’ in the shape of Communist Party penetration of the armed forces with ‘objective control’ involving an informal bargain between the political leadership and the military over the division of resources, prestige and responsibilities.2 Most officers joined the Party or the Young Communists in order to advance their careers, and all members of the armed forces were indoctrinated into the ruling ideology through the work of the political officers attached to each unit who were given instructions by the Main Political Administration (which was a department both of the Party’s Central Committee and of the Ministry of Defence). The Soviet armed forces were thus deeply involved in politics, but this politicisation was tightly controlled and channelled into support for the ruling (and only) party. The Soviet political leadership reinforced civilian control of the armed forces by providing the military with a significant degree of professional autonomy in the area of defence and national security. Thanks to the extreme secrecy surrounding matters of national security in the USSR, the military’s position as chief adviser to the Politburo on defence matters was unchallengeable. Throughout most of the Soviet period, the armed forces enjoyed high status in society and had access to a disproportionate share of the country’s human and material resources.3 Mikhail Gorbachev presided over the erosion of this finely balanced system of relations between state and army.4 The priorities of perestroika amounted to an attack on the military’s claims to the lion’s share of state resources and a rejection of the sorts of foreign policy positions which relied heavily on the threat or use of force. At the same time, glasnost exposed the most unpleasant aspects of military life to public view, casting doubt on the army’s right to the privileges and respect it had claimed for years and acting as the catalyst for a crisis of

22 CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS DURING REFORM

morale and recruitment within the armed forces. The policy of openness also threatened the military’s monopoly on defence-related information and on the provision of advice on security issues. The tools of ‘subjective’ control were also weakened by Gorbachev’s new approach to politics. As part of the wider move to reinvigorate politics, soldiers attending political education sessions in their units were permitted—and even encouraged—to debate real political issues rather than simply repeating the Party line. Divisions within the armed forces along political lines became increasingly apparent.5 Rather than entering the political fray as representatives of the military and as supporters of the regime, during the perestroika years officers began to participate in domestic politics as individuals expressing their own political views. If the Gorbachev period witnessed the gradual erosion of the Soviet system of civil—military relations, then events in the second half of 1991 dealt it a decisive blow. The plotters of the August 1991 coup attempt (including the Minister of Defence Dmitri Yazov) attempted to use the armed forces to support their bid for power. Although the vast majority of officers refused to take sides, August 1991 nevertheless marked a turning point in civil—military relations in Russia. Whereas on several occasions the leaders of the armed forces had tipped the balance in Politburo power struggles by supporting one faction or another, in August 1991 troops were called out onto the streets, effectively in order to depose the head of state. This was a qualitatively different kind of military involvement in politics that set a precedent for the use of force to resolve political disputes in Russia. The defeat of the coup attempt was swiftly followed by the collapse of Communist Party rule. Within days of the coup’s failure, Russian President Boris Yeltsin ordered that Communist Party cells in army units in Russia be disbanded. In the months that followed, the Main Political Administration was reconstituted as the Main Directorate for Educational Work and the army’s former political officers were reassigned to staffing duties.6 The Soviet Union itself disintegrated by the end of 1991 and in May 1992 the Russian government announced the formation of a separate military for the Russian Federation. By the middle of 1992, then, the old system of ‘subjective’ controls was completely gone. It was clearly vital to remove the Communist Party from its ruling position in the country and the armed forces in order to provide an opportunity for democratic forms of government to be developed. But at the same time as these ‘subjective’ methods of control were disappearing, the ‘objective’ controls were also being eroded. The damage done to the reputation of the armed forces by the revelations of glasnost was extensive and was compounded by an unrelenting series of

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 23

allegations of corruption and incompetence affecting every branch of the armed forces.7 In addition the military budget declined sharply, contributing to a dramatic deterioration in living and working conditions in the armed forces as well as in its ability to wage war.8 The framework regulating the relationship between civilian authority and military force in the new Russia is slender and insubstantial in comparison with its predecessor.9 The loyalty of the armed forces to the state is embodied in its subordination to the president as commander-inchief of the armed forces, as set out in the 1993 constitution and the 1996 law ‘On Defence’, but in practice this loyalty has been based on personal relations between the head of state and the head of the armed forces.10 During Yeltsin’s two terms as president, the only barometer of civilian control of the military was whether the Minister of Defence could be relied upon to support Yeltsin in a crisis. Although Vladimir Putin appointed a civilian (former Foreign Intelligence Service official Sergei Ivanov) to head the Defence Ministry in March 2001, there is no legal requirement for a civilian Defence Minister. Putin’s choice of Ivanov conforms to the pattern of personal loyalties as the paramount criteria for appointment—in this case the loyalty is founded upon a common background in the security services.11 Ivanov’s appointment therefore does not necessarily indicate a step in the direction of greater civilian control over the armed forces. Indeed, Putin has shown a considerable willingness to make use of military and security service officers in his campaign to strengthen Moscow’s control over Russia’s regions, with military men who have personal ties to the president actively encouraged to stand for office as regional governors and appointed to head two of the seven newly created federal districts.12 While the armed forces are answerable directly to the president as their commander-in-chief, the Russian parliament is formally responsible for overseeing the actions and especially the budget of the Ministry of Defence. Parliament’s ability to hold the Ministry to account, however, is severely limited by the tendency which has been evident since 1998 towards greater secrecy governing any information relevant to national security. Senior officials from the Defence and Finance Ministries tend to work out the details of the military budget among themselves, with almost no external scrutiny,13 and only those parliamentary deputies who themselves have military backgrounds have managed to satisfy the high levels of security clearance that are required in order to gain access to these details.14

24 CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS DURING REFORM

CIVILIAN CONTROL: VIEWS FROM THE ARMED FORCES During the 1990s a debate which is visible in the pages of Russian military newspapers and journals15 has developed among senior officers about the appropriate relationship between civilian and military authorities. One of its most striking themes is the repudiation of interference in domestic politics and civilian life by the armed forces. There is no hint in mainstream military publications of a consensus within the officer corps for a military takeover.16 This bears out the results of opinion polls carried out within the armed forces at various points since the early 1990s which showed strong opposition to the notion of military rule and indicated that the overwhelming majority of officers were apolitical.17 These debates also demonstrate strong support for civilian control of the armed forces.18 But while civilian control is regarded by officers as essential, it is also acknowledged that the rules governing civil-military relations in Russia are poorly defined and not well understood by either side. What is needed, several observers argue, is the clear delineation of authority and responsibility between the military, the state and society. Ambiguity and grey areas in this sphere at best are unhelpful and at worst could pose a danger to the development of democracy in Russia.19 In particular some officers express concern about the existence of party loyalties (or antipathies) within the armed forces. They call for the military to be ‘de-particised’ in order to ensure the neutrality of the institution in any party-political disputes.20 A clear message throughout these discussions is the need for a new form of civil-military compact in Russia based primarily on mutual respect between the two spheres. Few officers commenting on the state of civil—military relations in Russia miss the opportunity to urge the state and society to be aware of their responsibility to meet the legitimate needs of the armed forces. These needs are said to include not only sufficient resources but also a position of prestige in society which will make it easier to attract and retain able and intelligent citizens into military service. Military observers also warn that the army’s professional authority must be developed and respected.21 So far, so good. The Russian military express support for civilian control and a preference for ‘objective’ methods, which are viewed by Western experts in civil-military relations as the most stable and democratic.22 The consensus shown thus far in these discussions begins to break down, however, over the details of exactly how civilian control of the armed forces should be exercised in Russia. In particular, the greatest differences

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 25

emerge over the question of whether Russia’s existing system of civil— military relations will be able to meet the challenges of the post-Soviet period with only slight modifications or whether a more radical overhaul along the lines of Western practices will be required. Most officers participating in these published discussions accept that the current divisions of responsibility and authority between the state, society and the military require some amendment or, at least, clarification, but many consider the scope and means of civilian control in Russia to be adequate and see little danger of the armed forces interfering in domestic politics. Others, however, urge the adoption of Western-style norms and institutions of civil-military relations. Some officers who take this stance are concerned that civilian control over the armed forces in Russia relies too heavily upon the powers of the presidency and the personal relationship between the holder of that office and senior Defence Ministry officials.23 Others warn that parliament’s role in overseeing the work of the armed forces is restricted to its approval of the defence budget, and that even this form of oversight is severely limited due to the degree of secrecy which continues to surround the details of defence spending.24 Many of the voices in favour of strengthening civilian control of the armed forces argue that such control should be broadly based and should involve a significant role for the media and for civil society, as well as for institutions such as parliament.25 Western analysts devote considerable attention to discussing whether Russia should have a civilian Minister of Defence but their Russian military counterparts are not similarly preoccupied. Although some officers do argue that a civilian Defence Minister is essential to an effective system of civil-military relations,26 most see the question of the identity of the Defence Minister as belonging to a wider set of issues related to the preservation of a uniquely Russian method of dealing with defence and the armed forces. A possible shift to a civilian Minister of Defence is thus linked with the imposition of an alien (Western) way of doing things, which in turn is often presented as having a detrimental effect on Russian national security. In a forceful exposition of this position General Makhmut Gareyev, President of the Academy of Military Sciences, has argued that Russia should not blindly follow US practices on civil—military relations. He warns that adopting US norms in this area would amount to elevating civilian control of the armed forces to an end in itself rather than putting it in its proper place: subordinate to the requirements of defence.27 Gareyev’s suggestion that more intrusive civilian control would place Russia’s national security at risk reveals how strongly many senior officers resent any civilian infringement of their own sphere. In

26 CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS DURING REFORM

this same article, Gareyev expresses contempt for those ‘incompetent politicians and so-called experts who are far removed from the issues’ who dare to demand that the military’s activities be more transparent to Russia’s society and its elected representatives.28 This sort of hostility towards civilian oversight not only extends to the question of a civilian Defence Minister, but also leads some officers to ask questions about the competence of a civilian president to carry out the responsibilities of commander-in-chief of the armed forces in time of war.29 Although these officers invoke national security concerns as a justification for minimising civilian knowledge and involvement, their argument is a circular one: civilians are criticised for a lack of expertise in military matters which the armed forces do not permit them to acquire. The fact that a significant number of influential senior officers believe that civilians are not competent to hold views or make decisions about defence issues demonstrates a very narrow understanding of civilian control. It also poses serious problems for Russian civil-military relations. Allowing the military to remain closed to external scrutiny would prevent the development of genuine democratic, civilian control of the armed forces, which can only be based on shared understandings and expertise regarding defence issues. Moreover, continued military intransigence over access to information would also damage the armed forces’ case for more resources and prestige from the state and society. Russian society is deeply sceptical about the military’s competence and its honesty. If this scepticism is to be overcome and the military is to regain something approaching its former position in Russia, the Defence Ministry will have to be much more open about how it conducts its activities and especially how it spends citizens’ money. THE MILITARY, ELECTIONS AND PARTY POLITICS One of the recurrent news stories in Russia since 1992 has been the encroachment by the armed forces into electoral politics. The military’s participation in electoral politics has been evident in three areas: hundreds of officers have stood as candidates for political posts; officers have been involved in political parties and other kinds of political movements; and the military has increasingly been seen by politicians and political parties as an important electorate. It is also useful to consider the motivations for officers’ participation. Military coups in the Third World have often been sparked by officers’ perception that the armed forces are the only institution capable of saving the country from misguided political leadership. Thus, the military’s main motives in these instances have been to rescue the nation and

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 27

safeguard its future by placing it on the ‘correct’ political path.30 In the case of Russia this concept of saving the country appears to be much less significant as a motive for political participation. While individual officers have expressed disapproval for specific policy choices made by the Russian government, for the most part the military’s chief concerns appear to be much closer to home, namely with the loss of prestige and resources which the armed forces as an institution and its individual members have suffered since the late 1980s. This perspective was demonstrated in 1995, when then—Minister of Defence Pavel Grachev called upon hundreds of officers to stand in the December 1995 Duma elections in order to represent the armed forces and ensure that the military’s voice was heard and heeded in the corridors of power.31 There is little evidence to suggest that officers see themselves as the representatives of a strong institution capable of saving society from its ills. Instead the military is begging the state and society to provide it with what it needs in order to survive. As David Mendeloff has pointed out, the Russian military is fully aware that it is incapable of governing the country and it does not aspire to carry out that task.32 The phenomenon of the ‘soldier-politician’ has captured the greatest public attention. Serving and retired officers have stood in every parliamentary election since 1989, when the election of the Congress of People’s Deputies marked the reintroduction of multiple candidate elections in the Soviet Union after a gap of more than 70 years. But the Duma elections in December 1995 marked a high point in terms of the numbers of officers involved. Hundreds of officers responded to Defence Minister Grachev’s plea. In the end, 123 were chosen as official Ministry of Defence candidates33 and more than 40 others stood as candidates for political parties.34 With only 450 seats in total in the parliament’s lower house, officers would have comprised more than one-third of the Duma if all the military candidates had won. The Defence Ministry’s more realistic goal was to get at least 35 of their 123 candidates elected in order for the ‘military lobby’ in the Duma to be eligible to organise a caucus which in turn is a requirement for committee membership and other posts.35 The openness and scale of Grachev’s attempt to insert military representatives into the parliament in order to lobby on behalf of the armed forces surprised many analysts and generated a great deal of interest in the Russian and international press. The abysmal failure of the vast majority of those military candidates to gain seats has received much less media and scholarly attention, however. Of the 22 military men who were elected to the Duma in 1995,36 only ten were serving officers and only two of those were the Ministry’s own candidates.37 In other words,

28 CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS DURING REFORM

in spite of a massive effort on the part of the Defence Ministry, less than 5 per cent of Duma seats went to soldier-politicians in 1995. Grachev’s gamble has so far not been repeated. Only 29 officers stood in the 1999 Duma elections, and none of them was officially representing the armed forces.38 The experience of December 1995 suggests that a military takeover via the ballot box is an unlikely scenario for Russia. An officer obviously needs more than his uniform in order to appeal to the voters. Although the attempts made by most officers to turn themselves into elected representatives of the people have so far failed, a handful of highprofile generals have met with greater success. The most prominent of these are Aleksandr Rutskoy, Aleksandr Lebed, and Lev Rokhlin. Aleksandr Rutskoy was Boris Yeltsin’s running mate in the 1991 elections for the president of the Russian republic. Soon after the Soviet Union collapsed Rutskoy began to distance himself from Yeltsin’s policies, eventually giving his support to the parliament in its disputes with the president and declaring himself the lawful president of the country following Yeltsin’s decree disbanding the parliament in September 1993. Although the parliamentary faction in the White House was defeated and arrested, Rutskoy and its other leaders were granted amnesty by the Duma in February 1994, and in 1996 the general went on to be elected as the governor of Kursk region. But while Rutskoy has held positions of power and influence, he has done little to advance the cause of the armed forces in Kursk or in Russia as a whole. He has also failed to remain a major player in national politics. After being pardoned for his role in the events of 1993 and re-entering politics, Rutskoy had the potential to become a significant opposition leader and could perhaps have forced concessions from Yeltsin’s government. Once he was elected as governor, though, Rutskoy adopted a pragmatic and compliant approach in his dealings with Moscow in general and with Yeltsin in particular. Although his more cooperative stance enabled him to make some gains for the Kursk region, Rutskoy’s history of defiance meant that he never regained his former position in the president’s inner circle and thus was unable to exercise much influence at the level of national politics.39 Aleksandr Lebed was the soldier-politician with the greatest charisma and popular appeal. As commander of the 14th Army in Moldova, Lebed was adored by ethnic Russians in the Transdniestr region of the country for his defence of their separatist aspirations. He was famous for his public contributions to political debates even before he resigned from active service to pursue a political career in 1995. Lebed managed to win a seat in the Duma later that year, and then went on to win 14.5 per cent of the vote in the first round of the presidential elections in 1996. As a reward for supporting Yeltsin in the second round, Lebed was made

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 29

secretary of the Security Council, although he was seen by the president as too ambitious and dangerous a rival to last long in that post once Yeltsin’s re-election was secured.40 Of all the officers who have entered politics in Russia, Lebed came the closest to the stereotypical image of the soldier-politician, with his blunt, nononsense manner and his reputation as an honest and plain-speaking man. Lebed helped to raise the profile of the military’s desperate situation and generated some popular sympathy for it while also espousing political values seen as typically ‘military’, such as holding on to Russia’s traditions and regaining its status as a great power in the world.41 Lebed also undoubtedly made a significant impact on Russian politics, not least by helping Yeltsin secure a second term and by negotiating a temporary end to hostilities in Chechnya. However, following his election as governor of Krasnoyarsk region in Siberia in 1998, Lebed was understandably preoccupied with affairs in his own region. By the time of his death in April 2002 in a helicopter crash, Lebed was battling against persistent allegations of corruption and it looked as though he would struggle to make a strong showing against Vladimir Putin in the next presidential elections. Lev Rokhlin also had the potential to make a lasting impact on Russian politics at the national level. Whereas Rutskoy and Lebed are examples of ambitious men with a history of military service, Rokhlin was a singleissue politician, and that issue was the condition and the future of Russia’s armed forces. He was among those who answered Grachev’s call for officers to stand for election to the Duma in 1995, albeit reluctantly (he was quoted at the time as saying, ‘I don’t see what I can do as a deputy’) and was among the few who succeeded in gaining a seat.42 After brief associations with ‘Nash Dom Rossiya’ and the Communist Party of the Russian Federation (KPRF), Rokhlin turned his back on mainstream political parties and instead put his efforts first into his position as chairman of the Duma’s Defence Committee, and then into establishing the ‘Movement in Support of the Army, Defence Industry and Military Science’. Although Rokhlin played an important role in bringing greater public attention to the plight of the armed forces, his movement was at an early stage of development when he was murdered in July 1998.43 Since the early 1990s a considerable number of officers have had close links with political parties. This usually takes the form of standing for election as a party candidate, but it also includes founding or co-founding a political party. In addition there have been dozens of movements created by officers with the explicit aim of promoting the interests of the military. Many of these lobby groups also take a stance on wider policy issues and some of them openly associate themselves with political

30 CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS DURING REFORM

parties. But while the proliferation of these organisations may give the impression that the armed forces are heavily involved in party politics, a closer examination suggests that these bodies have been limited in their impact and in their appeal, both to the military electorate and to civilian society. As conditions within the armed forces worsened during the 1990s, there was a dramatic increase in the number of organisations created to support and defend soldiers’ interests. One of the first defence movements in the army was created in 1989 as the Union for the Social Protection of Servicemen and Reservists or Shchit (Shield), which took on an overtly political stance by offering support to Yeltsin in the aftermath of the August 1991 coup attempt.44 Since then a number of other defence organisations have sprung up. Many focus on the concerns of a subgroup within the armed forces, such as the Union of Servicemen of the Baltic States or the Naval Submariners’ Union, while others such as the Association of Internationalist Servicemen and the Officers for the Rebirth of Russia attempt to appeal to a wider constituency.45 The Tsaristera tradition of Russian officers meeting together to discuss issues of common concern has been resurrected in Officers’ Assemblies which are convened at intervals at the local, regional and national level. The Officers’ Assemblies, even at the All-Russia level, tend to reflect proestablishment positions and have been unwilling to engage in open politicking.46 The All-Army Officers’ Meeting and the Officers’ Union, although they have similar titles, are very different types of organisations. The Officers’ Meeting is vehemently reactionary and anti-establishment. Former Defence Minister Igor Rodionov has also formed a social organisation, the Professional Union of Russian Servicemen. Rodionov included in his speech to the founding congress in 1998 some sharp criticism of the government’s ability to ensure Russia’s national security and build a strong defence for the country.47 Most movements which have been established to promote the cause of the armed forces occupy a position towards the nationalist/ communist end of the political spectrum, although there are a few closer to the centre and also towards the liberal, reformist end of the range. Military for Democracy, for example, is an organisation which has been closely associated with the reformist party Russia’s Choice.48 Military for Democracy was established in 1990 by officers elected to the USSR and Russian Congresses of People’s Deputies. Its members view democratisation of the political process as the only way to save the Russian army. This is a movement which favours significant military reform and greater civilian control over the armed forces, including a civilian Defence Minister and close parliamentary scrutiny of the military

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 31

budget and operations, although the movement’s own leaders acknowledge that it has limited support within the armed forces due to its liberal stance on such issues.49 The military movement with the greatest potential to attract support from soldiers and make a significant impact on policy issues was the one created by Lev Rokhlin, which was founded in July 1997 with the twin aims of saving the army and removing Yeltsin and his government from office. By including the defence industry Rokhlin greatly increased the potential appeal of his movement and was able to take advantage of his many contacts in the defence sector as well as his reputation for integrity and high principles to create a core membership of professionals from the armed forces and the security services. At the movement’s founding congress in September 1997 it was affiliated with approximately 150 organisations from all over Russia, including some 30 officers’ associations and most of the nationalist and communist political parties.50 After Rokhlin was murdered in July 1998, however, the public profile of the movement quickly diminished under the leadership of Communist Duma deputies Viktor Ilyukhin and General Albert Makashov.51 The movement continues to enjoy some residual respect due to its association with Rokhlin, but few high-ranking officers openly support it.52 In the December 1999 elections to the State Duma it only won two seats53 and received 0.59 per cent of the vote.54 The sheer number of military organisations with a Russian nationalist and patriotic inclination favouring a strong defence and increased resources and prestige for the armed forces is an indication of the weakness of the military lobby. It suggests that the nationalist-patriotic wing of the armed forces in Russia (which represents the majority of officers) has so far been unable to unite around a common set of priorities and transform themselves into a political force capable of effecting change. With the exception of Rokhlin’s movement, none of these organisations has managed to provide a stable and attractive focus for large numbers of like-minded officers, and even the success of Rokhlin’s movement was short-lived. Even in the face of what many observers have regarded as dire necessity (that is, sharp declines in the prestige and resources enjoyed by the institution and its individual members), the Russian army has not been willing or able to organise itself as a political force. The military in Russia could make its greatest impact on electoral politics by acting as a voting bloc. Politicians and political parties in Russia certainly seem convinced that the armed forces represent a coherent constituency to which they can and should appeal. In the months preceding a parliamentary or presidential election, most parties and

32 CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS DURING REFORM

candidates adjust their programmes and their rhetoric to demonstrate concern for military issues such as the pay and conditions of soldiers and adopt more patriotic and nationalistic positions on defence.55 Another common method of attempting to woo the military vote is by placing one or more officers in prominent positions in a political party. Indeed, in 1993 only four of the 30 parties contesting the Duma elections did not have officers in their candidate lists.56 An example of a party engaging in this practice is the Congress of Russian Communities (KRO), which included Aleksandr Lebed among its leaders in the campaign for the Duma elections in 1995. Similarly, the organisers of Civic Union joined forces with Aleksandr Rutskoy in May 1992 in the hope of benefiting from the former general’s reputation with the armed forces.57 During the 1993 Duma election campaign Lev Rokhlin was high up in the list of Viktor Chernomyrdin’s party ‘Nash Dom Rossiya’.58 In 1999 the Communist Party’s list for the upcoming Duma elections included former Defence Minister Igor Rodionov.59 The potential size of a military electorate in Russia does make the parties’ and politicians’ efforts at wooing its vote seem worthwhile. If the military electorate is defined to include those currently and formerly employed by the armed forces, the defence industry and other ‘power’ ministries as well as their families, then the figures which result from such a calculation can reach approximately 80 million citizens or something like 40 per cent of Russia’s voters.60 So, in theory, the military represents a vast constituency for parties and politicians. In practice, however, we should remember that a substantial proportion of those who are or have been ‘employed’ by the armed forces were conscripted. Firsthand experience of conscription in the Russian armed forces tends to leave young men and their families with an enduring hatred and mistrust of the army, making them far more likely to oppose than to support a candidate or party which champions the military’s interests. While officers would see a clear link between their own futures and the fate of the army, the officer corps is far from a monolithic bloc in terms of political orientation. The wide range of political parties and movements with which soldier-politicians have been associated demonstrates the difficulty of viewing ‘the military’ as a coherent constituency, and attempts by political parties to appeal to the military electorate by associating themselves with military candidates have met with very limited success. To return to some of the examples cited above, Aleksandr Lebed was by far the strongest component of the KRO campaign in 1995, but his personal popularity was not enough to give the KRO the successes it was widely expected to achieve.61 Instead of finishing in second place behind the Communists as was frequently predicted, KRO only managed to win

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 33

five single-member seats.62 Similarly the Civic Union coalition involving Aleksandr Rutskoy failed to develop into a popular centrist movement.63 The impact of senior officers’ association with the larger political parties such as ‘Nash Dom Rossiya’ and the KPRF is more difficult to measure but it is unlikely to have been more than a peripheral factor to the electoral fortunes of parties enjoying the benefits of strong connections to the ruling regime (in the case of ‘Nash Dom Rossiya’) or well-established party networks and loyal voters (KPRF). More revealing, perhaps, is the way that parties and politicians change their stance on military issues after the election is finished. Once the campaigning is over and the votes are counted, the issue of the welfare of soldiers and the state of the armed forces tends to return to its former marginal position. The fact that few political parties in Russia have exhibited sustained interest in defence issues and the military between election campaigns suggests that military priorities have made little impact on mainstream politics in Russia. Furthermore, there has been a tendency during the 1990s for a reduction in the use of candidates with military connections from a high point in 1995. The 1999 Duma election campaign demonstrated a sharp decline in military candidates in favour of candidates with affiliations to other power ministries, especially the security services.64 This indicates that the politicians are becoming sceptical either about the existence of a military voting bloc or about their ability to appeal successfully to it. CONCLUSIONS The legal, constitutional and procedural frameworks regulating civilmilitary relations in Russia are fragile and incomplete, especially in comparison with the structures which ensured civilian control of the army during the Soviet period. While most officers accept the notion of civilian authority, there is far less agreement on what this means in practice. In particular there is a hard core in the military who resist very strongly any attempts to open the armed forces to greater scrutiny by civilian institutions. At the same time, those same civilian institutions have shown little interest in strengthening civilian oversight of the armed forces. Instead each party in this relationship focuses its attention on the short-term gains which it can obtain from influencing the other. Politicians view the military as a source of potential support while the military see in the political process a means of advancing the interests of the armed forces. The great danger for Russia in continuing along these lines is not that the military will seize political power by force. The Russian armed forces appear to lack both the desire and the ability to mount a coup. The less

34 CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS DURING REFORM

dramatic possibility of creeping military influence by the ballot box also seems unlikely. The extensive military involvement in successive election campaigns has not produced impressive results, which suggests that military candidates and indeed military issues hold little appeal for Russian voters. The danger instead lies in the gradual marginalisation and indeed disintegration of the armed forces in Russia, to the point where the military becomes completely incapable of ensuring security for the state and the society. Because they have seen military support as a great political prize, Russian politicians have thus far been reluctant to impose on the armed forces unpopular measures such as greater external scrutiny and accountability. This has suited many senior officers, who fear that a return to glasnost in the military would further damage the institution’s standing in society. However, if the armed forces in Russia are to become strong and respected once again, they will have to embrace greater civilian control and also greater civilian involvement in their activities. Public confidence in the military has been eroded not only by a decade of scandalous revelations, but also by citizens’ awareness of the sheer brutality and senselessness of much of army life. If the military want to regain society’s confidence and its respect then the Defence Ministry must be prepared to accept civilian norms for many of its activities and to demonstrate through increased transparency and accountability that things are changing for the better within the armed forces. NOTES 1. Samuel P.Huntington, The Soldier and the State: The Theory and Politics of Civil-Military Relations, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press, 1957, pp. 80–5. 2. For more extensive discussions of Communist Party control of the Soviet armed forces, see Timothy J.Colton, Commissars, Commanders, and Civilian Authority: The Structure of Soviet Military Politics, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979, and Roman Kolkowicz, The Soviet Military and the Communist Party, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967. 3. Condoleezza Rice, ‘The Party, the Military, and Decision Authority in the Soviet Union’, World Politics, 40, 1987, pp. 55–81. 4. For more on Gorbachev’s ‘New Political Thinking’ and its effect on the armed forces, see Coit D.Blacker, Hostage to Revolution: Gorbachev and Soviet Security Policy 1985–1991, New York: Council on Foreign Relations Press, 1993; Jeff Checkel, ‘Ideas, Institutions, and the Gorbachev Foreign Policy Revolution’, World Politics, 45, 2, 1993, pp. 271–300; George E.Hudson (ed.), Soviet National Security Policy under Perestroika, Boston, MA and London: Unwin Hyman, 1990; Michael MccGwire, Perestroika and Soviet National Security, Washington, DC: Brookings Institution, 1991; Stephen M.Meyer, ‘The Sources and Prospects of Gorbachev’s New Political Thinking on

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 35

5.

6. 7.

8.

9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16.

Security’, International Security, 13, 2, 1988, pp. 124–63; and Alan B.Sherr, The Other Side of Arms Control: Soviet Objectives in the Gorbachev Era, Boston, MA and London: Unwin Hyman, 1988. On this point, see Roy Allison, ‘Military Factors in Foreign Policy’, in Neil Malcolm, Alex Pravda, Roy Allison and Margot Light (eds), Internal Factors in Russian Foreign Policy, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996, p. 243, and Eva Busza, ‘Transition and Civil—Military Relations in Poland and Russia’, Communist and Post-Communist Studies, 29, 2, 1996, p. 180. Thomas M.Nichols, ‘‘‘An Electoral Mutiny?” Zhirinovsky and the Russian Armed Forces’, Armed Forces and Society, 21, 3, 1995, p. 330. See Jennifer G.Mathers, ‘Corruption in the Russian Armed Forces’, World Today, 51, 8–9, 1995, pp. 167–70; Robert W.Duggleby, ‘The Disintegration of the Russian Armed Forces’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, 11, 2, 1998, pp. 1–24; and Kimberly Marten Zisk, ‘Institutional Decline in the Russian Military: Exit, Voice, and Corruption’, PONARS Policy Memo Series, 67, 1999, www.csis.org/ruseura/ ponars/policymemos/pm_0067.pdf. For descriptions of conditions in the Russian armed forces, see: Christopher Donnelly, ‘Evolutionary Problems in the Former Soviet Armed Forces’, Survival, 34, 3, 1992, pp. 28–42; Dale R.Herspring, ‘The Russian Military: Three Years On’, Communist and Post-Communist Studies, 28, 2, 1995, pp. 163– 82; and Lilia Shevtsova, ‘Russia’s Fragmented Armed Forces’, in Larry Diamond and Marc F. Plattner (eds), Civil-Military Relations and Democracy, Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996, pp. 110–33. For further analysis on this point, see: Brian A.Davenport, ‘Civil—Military Relations in the Post-Soviet State: “Loose Coupling” Uncoupled?’, Armed Forces and Society, 21, 2, 1995, pp. 175–94. For a more detailed discussion of the limitations of the legal and constitutional framework governing civil—military relations in Russia, see David Betz, ‘No Place for a Civilian? Russian Defense Management from Yeltsin to Putin’, Armed Forces and Society, 28, 3, 2002, pp. 481–504. Pavel Baev, ‘President Putin and His Generals: Bureaucratic Control and War-Fighting Culture’, PONARS Policy Memo Series, 205, 2001, www.csis.org/ ruseura/ponars/policymemos/pm_0205.pdf. Pavel Baev, ‘Putin’s Court: How the Military Fits In’, PONARS Policy Memo Series, 153, 2000, www.csis.org/ruseura/ponars/policymemos/ pm_0153.pdf. Brian Taylor, ‘The Duma and Military Reform’, PONARS Policy Memo Series, 154, 2000, ww w.csis.org/ruseura/ponars/policymemos/ pm_0154.pdf. Betz, ‘No Place for a Civilian?’, pp. 497–500. The main publications consulted in the research for this article were Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye (NVO) and Voyennaya Mysl’. The former is a weekly newspaper containing articles written by officers reflecting a range of views. The latter is the journal of the General Staff and reflects views within the military establishment. See, for example General-Major Aleksandr Vladimirov, ‘Korporativnaya Etika Voyennykh’, NVO, 49, 25 December 1998–14 January 1999, p. 4, and

36 CIVIL-MILITARY RELATIONS DURING REFORM

17.

18.

19.

20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

Colonel V.M. Rodachin, ‘Armiya i Politicheskaya Vlast”, Voyennaya Mysl’, 5, 1993, pp. 12–19. For an excellent summary of several such polls, see Sven Gunnar Simonsen, ‘Marching to a Different Drum? Political Orientations and Nationalism in Russia’s Armed Forces’, in David Betz and John Lowenhardt (eds), Army and State in Postcommunist Europe, London: Frank Cass, 2001, pp. 49–50. For examples of assertions of the importance of civilian control of the military, see: Eduard Vorobyev, ‘Rossiyskiy Variant’, NVO, 49, 25 December 1998–14 January 1999, p. 4; Mikhail Khodarenok, ‘Effekt Gracheva’, NVO, 31, 24–30 August 2001, p. 8; Igor Korotchenko, ‘Dumskiy Plan Voyennoy Reformy’, NVO, 4, 8–14 February 2002, p. 4; Rodachin, ‘Armiya i Politicheskaya Vlast”; Colonel-General V.I. Mironov, ‘Gumanizatsiya Voinskoy Deyatel’nosti i Dukhovnoye Vozrozhdeniye Rossiykoy Armii’, Voyennaya Mysl’, 8, 1993, pp. 2–6; and V.P.Seregin, ‘Grazhdanskoye Obshchestvo i Armiya’, Voyennaya Mysl, 2, 2002, pp. 66–70. For a particularly articulate expression of this perspective, see Seregin, ‘Grazhdanskoye Obshchestvo i Armiya’. For other examples, see: Vladimirov; ‘Korporativnaya Etika Voyennykh’; and Vorobyev, ‘Rossiyskiy Variant’. Rodachin, ‘Armiya i Politicheskaya Vlast”, p. 16. The points brought together in this paragraph can be found in: Vladimirov, ‘Korporativnaya Etika Voyennykh’; Vorobyev, ‘Rossiyskiy Variant’; Mironov, ‘Gumanizatsiya Voinskoy Deyatel’nosti’; and Colonel V.I.Lutovinov, ‘Patriotizm i yego Formirovaniye v Obshchestve i Vooruzhennykh Silakh’, Voyennaya Mysl’, 4, 1999, pp. 62–70. Huntington himself held this view. See Huntington, Soldier and the State, pp. 80–5. On this point, see also Ulf Sandhaussen, ‘The Military: A Threat to Democracy?’, Australian Journal of Politics and History, 44, 3, 1998, p. 334. Vorobyev, ‘Rossiyskiy Variant’. Salavat Suleymanov, ‘Zakon kak Fundament Voyennogo StroitePstva’, NVO, 17, 31 May—6 June 2002, pp. 1, 3. Seregin, ‘Grazhdanskoye Obshchestvo i Armiya’, pp. 66–70. See also Vorobyev; ‘Rossiyskiy Variant’. See, for example, Korotchenko, ‘Dumskiy Plan Voyennoy Reformy’, and Khodarenok, ‘Effekt Gracheva’. Makhmut Gareyev, ‘Genshtab Protiv Komiteta Nachal’nikov Shtabov’, NVO, 23, 12–18 July 2002, p. 4 Ibid. Mikhail Khodarenok, ‘Rossiya ne Gotova k Gryagushchim Voyennym Vizovam’, NVO, 43, 13–19 November 1998, pp. 1, 4. S.E.Finer, The Man on Horseback: The Role of the Military in Politics, Second Edition, London: Pinter, 1988, pp. 28–34. ‘Army Fields Deputies’, Moscow Times, 26 September 1995. David Mendeloff, ‘Explaining Russian Military Quiescence: The “Paradox of Disintegration” and the Myth of a Military Coup’, Communist and PostCommunist Studies, 27, 3, 1994, pp. 225–46. Vladimir Serebryannikov, ‘Voyennye v Zerkale Vyborov’, NVO, 29, 11–17 August 2000, p. 4.

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34. Andrey Korbut, ‘Voyennykh Vtyalivayut v Predvibornuyu Gonku’, NVO, 41, 22–28 October 1999, p. 3. 35. Timothy L.Thomas, ‘The Russian Military and the 1995 Duma Elections’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, 9, 3, 1996, p. 536. 36. Thomas, ‘The Russian Military and the 1995 Duma Elections’, pp. 534–5. 37. Serebryannikov, ‘Voyennye v Zerkale Vyborov’. 38. Korbut, ‘Voyennykh Vtyalivayut v Predvibornuyu Gonku’. 39. Lilia Shevtsova, Yeltsin’s Russia: Myths and Reality, Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 1999, pp. 28–9, 83–4, 203–4. 40. Shevtsova, Yeltsin’s Russia, pp. 49–50, 133–4, 183–6, 197–202. 41. See Simonsen, ‘Marching to a Different Drum?’, p. 44, and Hans-Henning Schroeder, ‘The Russian Army in Politics’, in Roy Allison and Christoph Bluth (eds), Security Dilemmas in Russia and Eurasia, London: Royal Institute of International Affairs, 1998, pp. 53–4. 42. Leonid Bershidsky, ‘Army in Bid to Gain Duma Seats Attacked’, Moscow Times, 27 September 1995.” 43. Andrey Rogachevskiy, ‘The Murder of General Rokhlin’, Europe—Asia Studies, 52, 1,2000, pp. 95, 99–102. 44. Andrei Korbut, ‘Sozdayetsya Ocherednoy Profsoyuz Voyennosluzhashchikh’, NVO, 1, 15–21 January 1999, p. 3. 45. Richard B.Spence, ‘Servants or Masters? The Military in the “New Russia’’’, in Constantine P.Danopoulos and Daniel Zirker (eds), Civil-Military Relations in the Soviet and Yugoslav Successor States, Boulder, CO and Oxford: Westview Press, 1996, p. 23. 46. Author’s interview with Dmitri V.Trenin, Carnegie Moscow Centre, July 1995. 47. Korbut, ‘Sozdayetsya Ocherednoy Profsoyuz Voyennosluzhashchikh’, p. 1. 48. Michael McFaul, ‘Russia’s Choice: The Perils of Revolutionary Democracy?’, in Timothy J.Colton and Jerry F.Hough (eds), Growing Pains: Russian Democracy and the Election of 1993, Washington, DC: Brookings Institution, 1998, p. 118. 49. Author’s interview with chairman of Military for Democracy, retired Colonel Vladimir Sergeyevich Smirnov, Moscow; April 1995. 50. Rogachevskiy, ‘The Murder of General Rokhlin’, p. 102. 51. Ibid., p. 109, footnote 108. 52. Andrei Korbut, ‘Armiya Gotovitsya k Vyboram’, NVO, 29, 30 July-5 August 1999, p. 1. 53. ‘Russia Votes’, Joint Project of the Centre for the Study of Public Policy, University of Strathclyde and the Russian Centre for Public Opinion and Market Research, www.russiavotes.org/. 54. Brian D.Taylor, ‘Russia’s Passive Army: Rethinking Military Coups’, Comparative Political Studies, 34, 8, 2000, p. 941. 55. Serebryannikov; ‘Voyennye v Zerkale Vyborov’. 56. Eva Busza, ‘Changing Rules for Russian Roulette? Rethinking the Soldier, State and Society in Russia’, PONARS Policy Memo Series, 65, 1999, www.csis.org/ruseura/ ponars/policymemos/pm_0065.pdf. 57. Shevtsova, Yeltsin’s Russia, pp. 50, 133. 58. Schroeder, ‘The Russian Army in Politics’, pp. 51–2.

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59. 60. 61. 62.

Korbut, ‘Voyennykh Vtyalivayut v Predvibornuyu Gonku’, p. 3. Serebryannikov; ‘Voyennye v Zerkale Vyborov’. Shevtsova, Yeltsin’s Russia, pp. 133–4, 150. Richard Sakwa, Russian Politics and Society, Third Edition, London and New York: Routledge, 2002, p. 153. 63. Shevtsova, Yeltsin’s Russia, p. 50. 64. Korbut, ‘Voyennykh Vtyalivayut v Predvibornuyu Gonku’, p. 3.

3 A New Day for the Russian Army? Reforming the Armed Forces under Yeltsin and Putin David J.Betz and Valeriy G.Volkov

Since the collapse of the Soviet Union, reform of the armed forces has been one of the most frequently cited objectives of the Russian state and one of the most resistant to realisation. The need for restructuring has long been evident even to casual observers of the Russian scene. The sinking of the submarine Kursk in August 2000 and the elusiveness of victory in the second military campaign in Chechnya only added a few more pixels of resolution to an already clear picture: after nine years of President Boris Yeltsin as commander-in-chief the army was a shambles; efforts at its reform had been ill conceived, inadequately supported financially and politically and, ultimately, fruitless. Something seemed to change, however, with the rise to power of President Vladimir Putin in 1999–2000. As one of Putin’s political tools and strongest partisans in the first months of the transition of power, the military played a role in assuring his success. In turn, initiatives of the new president including, inter alia, a National Security Concept and Military Doctrine in 2000, a package of reform measures in January 2001, pronouncements of an acceleration of the ‘professionalisation’ of the army in November 2001, followed by a reiteration of the importance of military reform in an address to the Federal Assembly in April 2002 suggested that the Kremlin was finally resolved to address the problems afflicting the armed forces. Putin brought a new concordance to a strained civil-military relationship; clearly, he respects the military institution, seems to share its values and laments its decline. In return, military men respect him, seeing him as one of their own in a way they never did Yeltsin. The professional soldiery no longer feel themselves to be ‘forgotten outcasts in the state structure’; they see themselves, and are increasingly seen by others, to be at the heart of the new ‘New Russia’. Still, we must ask if this ‘harmony’ is a harbinger of the army’s reform. Are we seeing a sea change for the prospects of military reform or just ripples on the surface of the tide that swept the Soviet military juggernaut into oblivion?

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Our view tends to the belief that the tide has not turned. The National Security Concept and Military Doctrine of 2000 are platitudinous in essence, offering sometimes astute assessments of the problems at hand while tendering no realistic solutions. The piecemeal reforms announced in January and November 2001 have not been welcomed in the corridors of the General Staff and opposition to Putin’s Western-oriented foreign policy among some of the military elite suggests that the current relative harmony in civil-military relations may be headed for the divorce court.1 Indeed, it is important to point out that while the military has no reform plan of its own as of yet (what Putin ordered in November 2001 was that a plan—for the transition of the army by 2010 to a contract personnel basis—be drawn up by the end of 2004) senior military officials including the Chief of the General Staff, Anatoly Kvashnin, have already noted their opposition to a widely publicised reform proposal of the Gaydar Institute of the Economy in Transition which calls for a quick transition of the army from a conscription to a professional manning model.2 This would suggest that the inevitable interagency haggling over policy to come may still reduce the boldest plan to a hackneyed banality, while the process of reform as a whole is vulnerable to sabotage from within by a disaffected military bureaucracy, and from without by the potential waning of political interest. In other words, while given the scale of the job at hand it is all too easy to be over-pessimistic, one should also be wary of over-exuberant estimations of what has been achieved because the real work on reform of the armed forces has barely begun. Our aims in this chapter are, therefore, modest and twofold: first, to contrast the approaches of Yeltsin and Putin to the issue of military reform in an attempt to account for the palpable change in mood and morale in the security services since the latter’s arrival on the scene; second, to peer through the smoke and mirrors that mask and distort this issue in order to offer some reasonable indications of its likely development in the mid-term. Let us look first at developments up to New Year’s Eve 1999. YELTSIN AND REFORM: COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF AS ‘ABSENTEE LANDLORD’ In July 1992, Defence Minister Pavel Grachev announced a three-stage plan for the reform of the armed forces that was to entail the establishment of a specifically Russian Ministry of Defence (MoD), some changes in force structure and organisation, and force reductions to as little as 1.5 million troops. At the heart of Grachev’s plan was the idea of creating ‘mobile forces’—high-tech and rapidly deployable formations

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based on the extant airborne divisions.3 Lacking spirited backing—either political or, indeed, within the military itself- and divorced from fiscal reality, the plan went nowhere. How, in the context of unprecedented economic decline, the MoD was going to pay to maintain much of the military structure of the USSR while at the same time adding on ‘mobile forces’ of a new type was never explained. Nonetheless, speaking to the Collegium of the MoD in November 1994 Yeltsin averred that the creation of the mobile forces was being completed, that a new concept for the development of the armed forces was drawing to a close and that Grachev was the best Defence Minister of the past decade.4 Such comments were indicative of the nature of civil-military relations under Yeltsin. In the first few years after the collapse of the USSR some formal steps towards reforming the military, placing it within a new legal framework and modifying its military doctrine were taken, but the state’s general disorganisation precluded consistent reform efforts in any particular area. Moreover, the attention of the president was not fixed on creating a viable military structure; rather, it was on accomplishing an equally tricky job: assuring the army’s loyalty while cutting its budget. His solution, putting the army under the command of people he trusted and granting them the autonomy to cope with the hard times by their own means as they saw fit proved to be a winning combination for the stability of his regime while simultaneously a disaster for the troops. The passage in November 1993 of a new Military Doctrine can be seen in this context of a disinterested commander-in-chief.5 Perhaps the most telling aspect of the doctrine for the prospects of reform—not to mention the nature of civil-military relations—was the tenuous connection of the doctrine to any overarching political concept of security needs and available resources. Presumably, there was some connection to the ‘Basic Provisions of a Foreign Policy Concept’ which was adopted at around the same time.6 However, at the time Russia had no politically approved conception of its national security as such. As a result, the 1993 doctrine reflected preferences for armed forces development based on the army’s world view, showed little evidence of civilian input and suggested that the object of the exercise was to lock into policy the priorities of the military leadership before those of the state had clarified. The approval of the doctrine can only be understood in reference to the October crisis of that year. Whatever his other failings, Yeltsin was one of the savviest political operators of his day. His finely honed political instincts did not fail him in 1992–93 when, anticipating that the army might play the decisive role in the escalating confrontation between him and the parliament, he took care to keep the generals on his side by not demanding painful reforms in the armed forces at a time when they

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might have done the most good. In essence, the Military Doctrine which was enacted by presidential decree (No. 1833) just a few days after the bombardment of the White House by army tanks brought the parliamentary revolt of Aleksandr Rutskoy and Ruslan Khasbulatov to an end was part of the price Yeltsin paid for the army’s support. Nonetheless, the doctrine purchased by the army—however reluctantly— with the deployment of tanks in the streets of Moscow proved a cheap prize in the end. With its fate tied to that of the president by this act, the army was like the lobster in the pot unable to get out when Yeltsin turned up the heat. By 1994, the military budget was already being cut, while at the same time the launch and subsequent bungling of the first war in Chechnya convinced many military officers of the malfeasance of the Yeltsin regime for sending an unprepared army into battle against its own citizens only to withdraw support and deny responsibility for the campaign when things went bad, leaving the army to hold the bag. By the time of the parliamentary elections in December 1995, political interest in the moribund defence reform had begun to grow, not least because of the continuing debacle in Chechnya. On 16 February 1995 in his annual address to the parliament Yeltsin declared the situation in the armed forces ‘unsatisfactory’ and demanded that urgent measures be taken for its reform. Then on 23 February 1995, at a wreath-laying ceremony on Defenders of the Fatherland Day, he reinforced that point, saying that ‘the army is slowly beginning to get out of hand—the conflict in Chechnya convinced us once more that we are late with reform of the army’.7 By this time, however, relations between the army and the state had come to a mutually unpleasant neutrality, the military needing the politicians primarily for the money—little as there was of it—while accumulating resentment towards the authorities due to their systematic neglect of the army’s plight. The army’s reaction to Yeltsin’s urging on reform was to dig in its heels: questioned by journalists about reform Grachev pronounced, ‘If there is money, there will be reform’.8 Indeed, for another year little more of substance was said about reforming the armed forces. In fact, after simmering since the early 1990s, the military’s pay crisis came to a head in 1995. By January 1996, 80 per cent of officers had gone without pay for five months or more, and it was estimated that on average officers were owed the equivalent of US$750 each in back pay.9 This was the setting in which, in February 1996, Yeltsin demanded that Prime Minister Viktor Chernomyrdin present a comprehensive proposal for the reform of the armed forces. When no plan materialised the president announced that he would create a new commission on military reform. There is good reason to believe that these pronouncements were

REFORMING THE ARMED FORCES 43

mere political rhetoric. Certainly both the government and the military had grown accustomed to ignoring the president’s infrequent bluster about ‘imminent military reform’.10 Likewise, it seems doubtful that Yeltsin’s political instincts would have led him to launch any major changes in the military entailing the discharge of thousands of officers which might have cost him support among the military electorate on the eve of an election campaign.11 Instead, on 16 May 1996, at the height of the presidential campaign, Yeltsin decreed that the military would be manned entirely on a professional basis by April 2000. On the one hand, the decree was absurd. As Aleksandr Lebed put it: ‘It is a purely populist decree and nothing will be achieved’.12 General Igor Rodionov called it ‘dangerous and irresponsible electioneering rhetoric that at best could never really be implemented and at worst could cause the final downfall of the Russian Army’.13 Thesewere trenchant criticisms. On the other hand, it was a superlative political sneak attack that caught Yeltsin’s opponents offguard as well as a measure of how weary the Russian public had grown with the waste of youths in military service that a hollow promise to end the draft could still be thought to generate votes. A few analysts such as Dmitri Trenin at the Carnegie Foundation and the popular General Boris Gromov endorsed the decree, though it seems theirs was a more general support for the concept of professional armed forces rather than any confirmed belief in the practicality of the decree in question.14 In June 1996 Yeltsin also ousted the deeply detested Grachev—‘Pasha Mercedes’, as he had come to be known—from the MoD as part of a bargain with Aleksandr Lebed who threw his support behind the president in the second round of elections in return for being named secretary of the Security Council and for the appointment of his ally, General Igor Rodionov, as Minister of Defence.15 No doubt these tactical manoeuvres contributed to Yeltsin’s re-election but they did nothing to further the cause of reforming the armed forces. In fact, Lebed’s tenure as defence ‘supremo’ was short-lived. He and Rodionov had only a brief time in which they floated a few ideas for changing the armed forces which boiled down to roughly what had been proposed before: consolidating the manpower of the multitude of undermanned divisions into fewer fullstrength units and creating powerful, mobile rapid-reaction forces. There was general agreement on the desirability of professionalising the armed forces but no plan or timetable for how this could be done. Lebed, meanwhile, was soon consumed with negotiating an end to the conflict in Chechnya and embroiled in a battle with members of Yeltsin’s entourage which finally culminated in his dismissal in October 1996.16

44 RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002

With Lebed gone Rodionov was without allies. ‘I stand on the sidelines as a spectator to the process of destruction of the army, and am unable to do anything about it,’ he lamented in January 1997.17 He was entangled in a conflict with Yuri Baturin, head of the newly created Defence Council which was tasked with overseeing the reform of the armed forces.18 Contrary to popular lore, the conflict was not over competing reform plans. In fact, neither Baturin nor Rodionov ever tabled anything but the sketchiest outline of a reform agenda. The gist of their conflict was more fundamental: Rodionov maintained that, without money, there could be no reform of the armed forces, while Baturin argued that the military had to utilise as yet untapped reserves from the Soviet era to survive, make less demands on the federal budget and reform at the same time.19 Despairing at the rapidly worsening state of the armed forces and his inability to get the authorities to pay any attention to it, Rodionov made dramatic pronouncements about the disastrous state of the army. For example, in spring 1997 he stated that, without proper funding ‘after a certain period of time, Russia could near a threshold beyond which its missiles and nuclear systems would become uncontrollable’.20 In hindsight, this was an importunate gambit; the move generated only a little public sympathy for the army’s dilemmas domestically while garnering a mountain of alarmed editorials in the international press, to the evident agitation of the Kremlin. That March, Rodionov and Baturin held a joint press conference in order to quell reports of a serious falling out between the MoD and the Defence Council and to outline another three-stage military reform programme. The tension between the two men was clear: each was trying to secure the support of the media, with Baturin the more successful performer. Ultimately, Rodionov and Chief of the General Staff Viktor Samsonov were fired by Yeltsin, who judged their efforts at reform saying, ‘I am not simply dissatisfied. I am indignant over the state of reforms in the army and the general state of the armed forces. The soldier is losing weight while the general is getting fatter.’21 In essence, given a choice between spending more money on the potentially elaborate reforms likely to come from Rodionov or the minimalist approach championed by Baturin, Yeltsin chose the latter and with it a more tractable and carefully spoken minister, General Igor Sergeyev. By 1997, observers of the Russian military were reminding themselves of an old truism: ‘The Soviet Army is never as strong, or as weak, as it seems.’ The fact was, however, that the army had become very, very weak indeed. The view that defence reform thus far had been a sham was near ubiquitous among independent analysts and officers na perekur (on smoke-break) alike. According to one interlocutor:

REFORMING THE ARMED FORCES 45

The military reform in Russia is a big hoax. All military reforms in other countries have amounted to the demobilisation of the old army and the creation of a new one which is based on a different recruitment mode, doctrine, etc. This has not been done in Russia. The old army has not been disbanded, no new one has been built, and meanwhile the military are decaying somewhere in between.22 Meanwhile, the old truism that ‘the army is the mirror of society’ was taking on a grisly reality. In the words of another interviewee: Our army is becoming a bunch of gangsters just like the rest of our society. The fact that soldiers have weapons and ammunition does not make them too distinct from civilians, since huge numbers of young Russians today have machine-guns—it is an open question whether the army has more machine-guns than the society. In other words, the army is fully merging with society; they are two parts of the same body afflicted with the same diseases.23 In response to the growing public awareness of the crisis a vocal campaign to ‘save’ the armed forces was launched in June 1997 by General (ret.) Lev Rokhlin, who had left the military after the first war in Chechnya to become a deputy of the State Duma and chairman of its Defence Committee. Ever sensitive to the political climate, Yeltsin signed a new decree ‘On Priority Measures to Reform the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation and Improve their Structure’ in July 1997 that was meant to provide the basis of a meaningful military reform.24 Following from this decree, Sergeyev announced a new plan for the reform of the armed forces that broke down more or less as follows: • From 1997 to 2000—consolidating the service branches from five to four by amalgamating the Air and Air Defence Forces into a single service; creating ‘Strategic Deterrence Forces’ through the merger of the Strategic Rocket Forces with the Military Space Forces and the forces of Rocket Space Defence; rationalising the eight military districts of the armed forces with those of other ministries (such as Interior and Emergency Situations) by streamlining into six Operational-Strategic Commands in order that resources could be shared and efforts coordinated in time of crisis; and reduction of overall troop strength to 1.2 million men. • From 2000 to 2005—further consolidating the forces into three branches, Air and Space Forces, Land Forces and Naval Forces. • After 2005—comprehensive and high-tech rearmament of the army (expected to be accomplished by 2025).25

46 RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002

Though by no means comprehensive the plan had some merit. The timescale of rearmament looked more reasonable than previous plans, while Sergeyev seemed to be signalling that the MoD under his leadership would at last cease its pointless demands for greatly increased funding. One might argue the wisdom of Sergeyev’s decision to grant the lion’s share of resources to the preservation of the Strategic Rocket Forces at the expense of conventional forces—as, indeed, did Kvashnin during a widely reported clash between the minister and the Chief of the General Staff in summer 2000—but the decision did have supporters who rationally judged that without a modern nuclear arsenal Russia could hardly justify its lingering pretension to great-power status.26 In December 1997 Sergeyev gave an optimistic update on the first five months of his reform programme, claiming that the first practical results had been achieved and that the transformation to ‘small, fully manned and combat-ready armed forces with effective deterrence capabilities, a rational structure and number of personnel’ was on track.27 In actuality, he spoke too soon, as military reform was about to go off track so profoundly that by 1999 the term barely seemed a part of the army’s vocabulary. The reasons behind the failure to implement the Sergeyev reforms can be boiled down to two essentials: most importantly, the August 1998 ‘Asian flu’ caused a financial meltdown in Russia which made impossible the army’s spending plans; secondarily, opposition in Russia to NATO’s intervention in Kosovo followed by a new round of fighting in breakaway Chechnya helped drive a reassessment of Russia’s foreign and security policy and the role of the security services in the state. THE ‘PUTIN EFFECT’: A NEW HARMONY IN CIVILMILITARY RELATIONS? By the late 1990s in the wake of NATO’s enlargement and intervention in Kosovo a new security mindset was emerging in Russia which in some respects was the exact opposite of the relative optimism of the early Yeltsin era. Increasingly, elites—particularly in the security services— came to contend that even though Russia was smaller than the Soviet Union it still faced a complex of external and internal challenges including international terrorism and regional separatism inspired and supported by Islamic radicalism, NATO’s eastward expansion, US challenges to Russia’s influence in the other post-Soviet states, and overall US attempts at enforcing its hegemony in international relations. In other words, Russia needed a strong military in order to defend its legitimate interests, the nation’s defence-industrial potential could be an

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engine of economic growth, the role and status of the armed forces needed to be upgraded, and, overall, the need to restore Russia’s external and internal security put the military and the security services at the centre of state-building. While Vladimir Putin was by no means the originator of this mindset he was its symbolic focus and his brand of ‘pragmatic nationalism’ became the order of the day in foreign and defence policy. The new National Security Concept28 (January 2000, replacing one passed in December 1997), Military Doctrine29 (April 2000) and Foreign Policy Concept30 (July 2000) reflected this new thinking. After 11 September 2001, the emphasis placed on the threat of international terrorism in the National Security Concept seemed justified. On the other hand, strongly worded apprehensions— particularly in the Foreign Policy Concept—about US unilateralism and the expansion of NATO have been superseded by a series of breakthroughs: Russian acquiescence to an increased US presence in central Asia and the Caucasus, intelligence support for the US-led ‘War on Terrorism’, concessions in arms-control treaties and on national missile defence, and—not least—the establishment of a new NATO— Russia Council. For the purposes at hand, however, the really significant aspect of these documents is how vague and platitudinous they are on matters of military reform. The army needed a specific blueprint for reform; what it got was a broad discussion on national security interests, priorities and responsibilities. The Foreign Policy Concept made no mention of military reform at all, while the National Security Concept and Military Doctrine stated only that: An integral part and a priority task of the present stage of military organisational development is the implementation of comprehensive military reform determined by the radical changes in the military-political situation and the missions and conditions of safeguarding the military security of the Russian Federation.’31 In other words, it is difficult to define any ‘Putin effect’ on military reform on the basis of the bromides found in the foremost policy documents. Indeed, a characteristic feature of discourse on Russian military reform is the dearth of credible firsthand information on what is actually going on. We are not talking about comprehensive reports here but basic provisions and official plans for the reform which are normally available only in superficial rendering if at all.32 Consequently, we must endeavour to establish if there is some reality to Putin’s ‘new harmony’ with the military—fully aware of the pitfalls of subjectivity that might entail—with a view to explaining how it may be impacting on the wider issue of military reform.

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Even before becoming president, as prime minister and actingpresident, Putin demonstrated a new attitude to the military and an unusual affinity with people in uniform. There are two main trains of thought as to Putin’s reasons for identifying himself so strongly with the security services in autumn 1999: the first sees it as a public-relations ploy in anticipation of the presidential campaign; the other is suspicious of Soviet-style thinking returning to political fashion; neither is entirely true. Has there been anything unequivocally new about Putin’s administration with respect to the army? The most vivid change was immediately noticed and promoted optimism in the military: Putin signalled his sympathy and respect for the security services; he visited fleets and garrisons, expressed genuine interest in weapons and equipment, and was, as it is colloquially said in Russia, ‘in the theme’. In short, he behaved as a real and concerned commander-in-chief.33 But did this represent a new ‘harmony’ in civil-military relations? Risking the coherence of this chapter, we must answer that any such ‘harmony’ as may exist is most likely transient. The army felt that it was at last attracting the attention it deserved which meant that, though Putin brought about no substantive material change, military morale improved. Officers perceived a rejection of the practices of the Yeltsin regime which they blamed for the corrosion of the state and the turning of its core elements—among which the army is foremost—into social outcasts without status or support. In other words, it looked to military men as though there had appeared preconditions for a re-establishment of the ‘proper’ role and status of the military in the state. There are many reasons why this was a misconception: the question of the long-term commitment of political will, still insufficient state finances for defence, the absence of a truly useful security concept, and so on. The most important, however, was that—as so often happens in Russia—the job of putting to rights a mess affecting the entire society was given to those who symbolised the problem itself. That is, since civil democratic control of the military is not practised in Russia, the army adopted the belief that defence was their private matter and prerogative. Understanding this phenomenon requires emphasising the specifics of being a serviceman in Russia. To say that state service has always been honoured in Russia is a platitude and does not speak to the reality of life for career officers in the 1990s.34 What has to be pointed out is that, despite the poor material and psychological condition of the military at the time, the officer corps escaped total degradation of its morale and professionalism, and maintained a corporate ethos and consciousness of its duty. This was certainly not because of favourable economic conditions and social appreciation but—perversely—because of their near total

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absence. What emerged was a distinctive feeling of pride and corporate parochialism derived from an exaggerated sense of military commitment to duty, selflessness and patriotism. One of the rare recent open surveys of attitudes in the military showed that as of spring 1999 only 52 per cent of officers thought positively of continuing their military careers, 25 per cent were ready to leave the service at any moment and 23 per cent articulated no position on the matter.35 Recognising that the nature of professional military service requires a high level of dedication it is probably reasonable to add the latter figures together, indicating that some 48 per cent of officers felt alienated from their profession. It is also reasonable to assume—in the absence of evidence to the contrary—that this still remains the case. Nevertheless, while this snapshot gives some information for measuring the general satisfaction of servicemen with their status it does not easily translate into an assessment of the overall commitment to serve. Despite the high number expressing a desire for decommissioning there has been no corresponding increase in the level of formal resignations. Moreover, concerns about the collapse of the army’s morale have proven unjustified. The same poll showed that the respondents’ discontent was strongly linked to the perceived status of the army as a state institution; they demonstrated a tendency to extrapolate the health of the country from the significance of the military within it; officers were quoted repeating a famous phrase from the Soviet film White Sun of the Desert, ‘za derzhavu obidno’, which translates roughly as ‘I feel sorry for the Power’. That said, we do not mean by this digression to paint over in rosy shades the overall condition of morale in the Russian military. On the contrary, we view with some concern a situation wherein members of a state body with exceptional authority, purpose, strength and relative societal isolation are left alone to readjust definitions of their service, duty, ethics and so on. If the army loses the sense that it is a valued agent of its principal, which in a democracy is society via the state, it may elaborate its own ideas of statehood since—particularly in the Russian military which has incorporated the Clausewitzean ethic at a deep level— armed forces are only a means to the ends of the state. In effect, when the state lacks a clear formulation of its security interests the military’s professional core gets nervous and morbidly obsessed with its corporate interests, if only for reasons of self-preservation. This has been the case throughout the 1990s: the military—basically the officer corps—survived materially through a mixture of stoicism and (usually) petty corruption while seeking mental escape from hardship in thinking of itself as the last resort of true patriotism and as the inheritor of

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the legacy of the great Russian past, holding true to its old traditions while cultivating new myths. At the same time, the rest of society was reacting to the collapse of the old system with its assurances—lack of political freedom and minimal material quality of life, balanced against a certain social order and national global importance—and growing up to a new comprehension of the state: a hotchpotch non-liberal democracy lacking both checks and balances and ideological core sometimes called ‘Putinism’, exhibiting odd contrasts of pretension to great-power status versus a recognition of Russia’s peripheral role in the world economy, and strong presidency versus low governability. Fortunately, though Russian history rings with the clamour of rebellion and revolution, the notion of ‘state’ has never included military rule. Indeed, there is broad anecdotal evidence that the military today has long hoped for more, not less, state interference in its affairs. Thus it has been our assumption in this chapter that military reform made such little progress in the 1990s mainly because of a lack of state guidance and will. This thesis, to an extent, contradicts an established view in media discussions which says that the results of reform have been rudimentary because it has been left to the armed forces alone. We argue that, while the tendency to leave the MoD to its own devices has exacerbated the disaster, attributing all blame on the basis of this formula is oversimplistic. In fact, the real disposition of influence and authority between the MoD and the Kremlin with respect to the reform of the army is different from what it first appears. The president has all the levers necessary to exert control over the army whose leadership is bound to him by a mixture of professional loyalty and personal self-interest. In practice, however, he grants the military substantial autonomy from civilian interference, allowing it to act independently within certain broad guidelines set by the president explicitly or by implication. Thus, the pattern of civilmilitary relations in Russia is one which combines close political control of the military leadership with a lack of concrete political direction on matters of policy. Understanding this situation requires understanding several things. First, there is a rift in the army between the bulk of the command and staff officers on the one hand, and a considerably smaller number of top military leaders and bureaucrats on the other hand, that needs to be recognised. Strictly speaking, members of the second category, whether military or civilian, are fully controlled by the president and his administration (most effectively through control of appointments and discharges). Therefore, when one points to actions of such officials it should be understood that they are agents of the state executive first and

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foremost. Second, the state—now effectively an embodiment of presidential authority—controls the purse strings. Naturally, owing to the scarcity of money it is generally distributed not on the basis of objective requirements but with the aim of preserving the power of an entrenched presidency.36 Since the military itself in a time of peace and relative stability does not enhance political longevity, its capacity to claim resources is limited. Thus, the relationship of the stratum of top militarybureaucratic leaders with the president and his administration should be seen as symbiotic and fully collaborative, while recognising that this symbiosis need not (and probably does not) pertain to the army as a whole, the case of Marshal Sergeyev being an especially illustrative example of conducting a quasi-reform that was not a burden to the state whose elite was not immediately concerned with military matters. Third, it bears mentioning that the military is not inherently conservative; or rather its conservatism does not necessarily imply rejection of innovation or reorganisation. In reality, the military is always eager to embrace new technology. But that, inevitably, comes at a high price. Therefore, ‘military conservatism’ has been used as much by politicians as a rationale for curbing expenses as it has by military leaders seeking to avoid change. Indeed, officers often welcome reorganisations because they bring opportunity for advancement or the chance of early retirement with compensation, or at least no loss of benefits (e.g., free medical care at military facilities). This was the system that Putin inherited when he came to the forefront of national politics. At that time he had little freedom to position himself as a statesman other than as an adherent to the notion of gosudarstvennost (statist approach), which, leaving aside other explanations of his electoral appeal, including the explosion of residential high-rises in Moscow (coincidental or otherwise), a new war in Chechnya, and so on, society was ready to embrace as a symbol of order, security and stability.37 His known baggage included work in intelligence similar in many respects to military service, a relatively early voluntary retirement with the rank of lieutenant-colonel, and leadership of the Federal Security Service. These lines on a curriculum vitae formed the main elements of his public image (indeed, in a nutshell, this is all society knew of the political nonentity who was suddenly thrust to prominence). Nevertheless, one thing must be understood: unlike Yeltsin in 1993, Putin had no need for the overt use of the security services to consolidate his power base. His interest in reviving the faded symbols of a strong state was an outgrowth of social and bureaucratic expectations placed on him at the beginning of his political ascendance.

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The idea of recruiting to high positions in the state ‘people with shoulder-straps’—a euphemism for officials with military rank—was never articulated as an end in itself; rather, it was rationalised as an unavoidable consequence of the weakness of the state. For example, answering questions about civilian officials in the MoD at the Russian PEN Centre on 3 December 1999, Putin stated: ‘It may be that a civilian should be at the head of the MoD in a normal state. But we have a weak state, and to make up for this state’s weakness we have people from armed structures in places where civilians ought to work.’38 While the distinctive trend of officials from the security services taking high state posts probably has a pragmatic rather than sinister rationale, there is all the same a danger of the ‘militarising’ of the state becoming an established modus operandi.39 Characteristic of the reflexive military habit of the new executive was an episode in August 1999 at the ceremony of his stepping down as director of the FSB, when Putin said in a joking but customary military manner: ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Putin has turned his duties over’ while the newly appointed director replied, ‘General Patrushev has taken over the post.’ If Putin’s military manner and poise contributed to the army’s conviction that something would be done on the matter of its reform, how does it play in society’s consciousness of the need to ‘fix’ the military? When asked about the state of military reform the vast majority of Russians confirm that something must be done urgently about the army’s ills, by which they mean its low level of combat readiness, dismal performance in Chechnya, poor funding and supply, criminality and corruption, dedovshchina (bullying), the broken-down system of conscription, etc.40 Therein lies an important misconception of the subject with great practical implications. Namely, as public opinion polls show (and equally, the way in which the questions are posed) societal attitudes address almost exclusively the reforming of the army which should properly be conceived as an aspect of the reform of the state’s security structures in their entirety. The distinction in Russia between ‘reform of the armed forces’ (a narrow issue referring to the forces of the MoD) and ‘military reform’ (a broader issue not exclusively, or even mainly, the task of the MoD) has been well and often articulated elsewhere.41 For our purposes here it is important to understand that this is more than a terminological debate; rather, it dovetails with a disjuncture in the attitude toward the issue of reform in society and among elites. In the case of the former, we see that society is absorbed by particular aspects of the army’s degradation but lacks interest or knowledge of the problem as a whole. In the case of the

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latter, the inconsistency stems from the absence of consensus on the ends, means and conduct of military reform. The introduction by the new Defence Minister, Sergei Ivanov, of new terms into discourse on the reorganisation of the military can be seen as an attempt to exit from this terminological minefield. For example, the term ‘military building’ is now frequently substituted for ‘military reform’.42 Another new term is ‘optimisation’ of the army, which sounds catchy to the layman, and together with ‘pragmatism’ seems to constitute one of the central tenets of ‘Putinism’. But what it seems to mean in practice is little more than the decade-old reactive practice of redistributing available resources and reducing the total cost of defence (e.g., the size of the army) without really changing its underlying structure. Another nuance of ‘optimisation’ is that the state’s military organisation should be relevant to the real security challenges of the day. This phrase sounds familiar to the military establishment whose professional education is peppered with such jargon.43 At the same time, it lends a hint of novelty to the current debate and dissociation from the compromised approaches to military reform of the 1990s. Yet, as was pointed out, the two main documents—National Security Concept and Military Doctrine—that should have set out those challenges systematically failed to do so inasmuch as they are examples of obsolete fears and phraseology. This is more than a semantic problem because there is clearly the potential that, without real understanding of what the army is supposed to be ‘optimised’ for, the end result of the current round of reform looks set to amount to simply more downsizing of a military that remains in essence a poor, shrunken and embittered version of its Soviet predecessor. REFORM OR WINDOW-DRESSING? There is an expression in Russian that goes ‘We thought we had hit bottom, but then we heard someone knocking from below.’ What Putin has brought to the army is a sense that maybe there is no one knocking any more; no one is lowering a rope into the pit, but maybe things have finally stopped getting worse. After ten years of disappointment Russian military men may well ‘thank Heaven for small mercies’ but the exit from this nightmare is brimming with pitfalls. Past experience would suggest that the state of the economy which, arguably, proved the downfall of Sergeyev’s reforms constitutes the main limitation on success. Further increases in the size of the military budget cannot be considered without imperilling the ‘economy first’ policy of the

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government; at the same time the substantial budget increases seen already are offset by the continuing costs of deploying troops in Chechnya. Moreover, Putin’s readiness to invest major political capital in overcoming the growing intransigence of conservative military thinkers in the General Staff, given the many other pressing issues on his agenda, is also in question.44 The bottom line, however, is that Putin has brought a new and welcome style to the role of commander-in-chief without addressing the inherent dysfunctionalism of the system of civil—military relations that militates against real military reform. The MoD still lacks accountability and transparency at nearly all levels. The government itself possesses no clear understanding of how much is spent on defence, for what purposes or why, while the strong—but highly personalised and opaque—system of vertical control over the military centred on the presidency allows for corruption, bureaucratic game-playing in the corridors of power and shirking in the General Staff on implementation of unwanted reforms. In other words, notwithstanding recent rhetoric on the urgency of military reform, the window of opportunity for change seems to be closing while the main players gear up to bicker over the colour of the curtains. NOTES 1. Admittedly, two of the most outspoken opponents, Colonel-General Leonid Ivashov, formerly head of the Main Directorate of International Military Cooperation, and Colonel-General Valery Manilov, formerly First Deputy Chief of the General Staff were forced to retire from their posts in 2001. Still, one must wonder at the size of the constituency in the General Staff quietly holding similar views. A report in Nezavisimaya Gazeta (NG), 21 December 2001, spoke of the delicate balancing act of the Defence Minister, Sergei Ivanov, who must teeter on the fence between ‘pro-Westerners’ in the Kremlin and ‘and-Westerners’ in the General Staff. 2. A debate on the merits of the plan (E.Batolkin, E.Luboshits, E.Khrustalev and V. Tsymbal, Reforma Sistemy Komplektovaniya Voyennoy Organizatsii Rossii Ryadovym i Mladshim Komandnym Sostavom, Moscow: Institute of the Economy in Transition, 2002) between members of the Union of Right Forces and the General Staff was published in Komsomolskaya Pravda, 7 December 2001. 3. For more detail on the plan for developing mobile forces, see Roy Allison, ‘The Russian Armed Forces: Structures Roles and Politics’, in Vladimir Baranovsky (ed.), Russia and Europe: The Emerging Security Agenda, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997, pp. 187–8. 4. Quoted in Vital) Shlykov, ‘The War in Chechnya: Implications for Military Reform and Creation of Mobile Forces’, in Mikhail Tsypkin (ed.), War in

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5.

6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14.

15.

16.

17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22.

Chechnya: Implications for Russian Security Policy, Monterey, CA: Department of National Security Affairs, US Naval Postgraduate School, 1996. The Military Doctrine was passed by the Security Council and enacted by a Decree of the President of the Russian Federation (No. 1833) on 2 November 1993. Initially the doctrine was not to be published but detailed summaries were published by Izvestiya, 18 November 1993, and Krasnaya Zvezda (KZ), 19 November 1993. For a detailed summary and comment on the doctrine in English, see Charles J.Dick, ‘The Military Doctrine of the Russian Federation’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, 7, 3, September 1994, pp. 481–506. This was never published. Pavel Baev discusses it in The Russian Army in a Time of Troubles, London: Sage, 1996, p. 31. Quoted in Shlykov, ‘The War in Chechnya’. Ibid. KZ, 2 March 1996. Pavel Felgengauer, ‘Russian Military Reform: Ten Years of Failure’, in Mikhail Tsypkin (ed.), War in Chechnya. For a discussion of the size and character of the military electorate see Sven Gunnar Simonsen, ‘Marching to a Different Drum? Political Orientations and Nationalism in Russia’s Armed Forces’, in David J.Betz and John Löwenhardt (eds), Army and State in Postcommunist Europe, London and Portland, OR: Frank Cass, 2001, pp. 53–4. Quoted in the New York Times, 1 June 1996. Quoted in Felgengauer, ‘Russian Military Reform: Ten Years of Failure’. Both are quoted in the New York Times, 1 June 1996. Trenin argued that a volunteer force was a goal worth striving for while conceding that the Yeltsin decree was unrealistic. Gromov contended that the Russian army ‘needs professionals rather than kids’, adding that in this way there would be ‘less mothers’ tears’. In the first round of balloting in the 1996 presidential elections Lebed garnered third place after Yeltsin and Communist Party leader Gennady Zyuganov. He withdrew from the race before the second ballot and endorsed Yeltsin. Lebed’s dismissal came amid allegations that he was preparing a coup made by the Interior Minister, General Anatoly Kulikov—who had been named by Lebed as the main guilty party for the poor performance of the security services in Chechnya. See interview with Lebed in NG, 18 October 1996. Quoted in Sovremennaya Politicheskaya Istoria Rossii: Litsa Rossii (1985–98), Vol. 2, Moscow: RAU-Korporatsiya, 1999, p. 676. Ironically, given that it became such a thorn in his side, the creation of a Defence Council which could take on a unified decision-making and policymaking role in defence was one of Rodionov’s main ideas for the basic direction of military reform. Rossiyskaya Gazeta (RG), 17 January 1997. Quoted in NG, 8 February 1997. ‘Yeltsin Sacks Military Brass’, Reuters, 22 May 1997. From interviews by the authors at the Russian Institute of Strategic Studies, Moscow, January 1999.

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23. Ibid. 24. Presidential Decree No. 725s, 16 July 1997. An excerpt of the decree was published in RG, 19 July 1997. It was also discussed in some detail by Pavel Anokhin in Rossiyskiye Vesti, 18 July 1997. 25. The plan was outlined in Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye (NVO), 19–25 September 1997. 26. A notable supporter was Alexei Arbatov, deputy chairman of the State Duma Defence Committee, who spoke out in favour of Sergeyev’s plans arguing that they would have been successful were it not for the financial crisis of 1998; he also defended the concentration on nuclear forces which— unlike the rest of the army—he viewed as still meeting the requirements of modernity and readiness. See: Alexei Arbatov, ‘Russia: Military Reform’, SIPRI Yearbook 1999, London: Oxford University Press, 1999; and ‘Press Conference with State Duma Committee for Defence Vice-Chairman Alexei Arbatov on Vladimir Putin’s Foreign Policy’, Press Development Institute, 5 March 2001, found (in English translation) on Johnson’s Russia List, 5137, 7 March 2001. 27. Igor Sergeyev, ‘Reform the Armed Forces by the 21st Century’, Military News Bulletin, VI, 12, December 1997, pp. 1–3. 28. Published in NVO, H-21 January 2000. 29. Published in NG, 22 April 2000. 30. Published in RG, 11 July 2000. 31. The wording is exactly the same in both documents. 32. Typically, official releases on military reform consist of bland bureaucratic enumeration of intentions lacking in detail or analysis. Indicative in this respect was an ‘interview’ about military reform with Defence Minister Ivanov on the eve of the tenth anniversary of the Russian army (7 May 2002) on the MoD website: www.mil.ru/m020507r.htm. 33. Journalists covering these visits made frequent note of his manner of speech, swift reactions and straightforward remarks which gave the impression that he was naturally at ease among soldiers. 34. The term ‘service’ has a positive connotation in Russian with a sense contrary to that of personal profit-making. 35. From an opinion poll published in KZ, 13 April 1999. 36. Incidentally, the role of parliament in the distribution of state funds, particularly in defence, is minimal. For more on this and on the use and abuse of the MoD’s personnel system for the maintenance of exclusive presidential authority over the military, see David J.Betz, ‘No Place for a Civilian? Russian Defense Management from Yeltsin to Putin’, Armed Forces and Society, 28, 3, Spring 2002. 37. The possession of gosudarstvennost, meaning strong ‘statehood’ or ‘stateness’, is tied in the minds of the elite and mass alike in Russia with the presence of stability—a national historical preoccupation. The conviction that Yeltsin’s opportunistic ‘denial’ of the state (so it is perceived) in the early 1990s led directly to instability, hardship and ruin in most aspects of life is widely held. Similarly, the idea that the post-Soviet elite enriched themselves under a facade of democratic rhetoric lacking real substance, becoming in the process cynically concerned with upholding the rules of a

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38. 39.

40.

41. 42. 43. 44.

corrupted ‘democratic’ game in order to institutionalise the wealth and privilege attained by them under the status quo, also gained prevalence in the public consciousness. Hence, when Putin arrived on the scene people were well prepared to displace dashed hopes for democracy and feelings of socio-economic disparity and privation with the invigoration of gosudarstvennost. Quoted in Olga Kuchkina, ‘Ne Khochu, Chtoby v Rossii Bylo ChP’, Mir za Nedelyu, 15, 4–11 December 1999. We use the term ‘militarising’ advisedly bearing in mind that the trends are not easily interpreted and that the background of many recent appointees is in the intelligence services not the army. For more on this issue see Betz, ‘No Place for a Civilian?’ For example, see the summary report of the Fond Obschestvennoye Mneniye (Public Opinion Foundation) of 21 February 2002 on its website www.fom.ru, where it reports that the number of respondents answering ‘yes’ to the urgency of military reform has held steady over the last three years at about 95 per cent. For example, by Arbatov in ‘Russia: Military Reform’, p. 196. The change was not missed by specialists in Russia; see the article by V.Solovyev in NVO, 24, May 2002. Indeed, the term ‘optimisation’ is widely used in historical and theoretical courses on the creation, consolidation and control of the Red Army/Soviet armed forces. In his latest State of the Nation Address (18 May 2002), Putin reiterated the importance of military reform: ‘One of the undoubted priorities is the continuation of the military reform and a move to a professional army, in conjunction with reducing the term of call-up service. Society needs this reform, but above all the army itself needs it.’ However, the address was overwhelmingly focused on economic matters, giving relatively little attention to the military

4 Russian Soldiers in the Barracks A Portrait of a Subculture Joris Van Bladel

The informal culture in the Russian barracks, known as the system of dedovshchina (commonly translated as bullying), is already well described and documented in both the scientific literature and the politically inspired writings of human-rights activists.1 What is common in this literature is the descriptive, as well as the normative, character of it. This means that moral outrage motivates these publications and that the spectacular character of dedovshchina is highlighted. In this overview of the soldiers’ informal culture, I use the theoretical framework of total institutions to go beyond a purely descriptive analysis of the soldiers’ informal culture. The concept of total institutions will therefore be shortly summarised in a first part of this chapter. By using the idea of total institutions, I will not focus on the moral aspects that go together with this organisational phenomenon; nor will I highlight the violence and other cruel violations of the physical and mental integrity of the soldiers.2 Moral preoccupations hinder scientific analysis and make assessment and identification of the precise underlying structural elements more difficult. However, in this chapter I will use the results of interviews I conducted with Russian soldiers at the end of the 1990s. These soldiers were mainly visitors of the Soldiers’ Mothers Organisation of St Petersburg. The soldiers’ voices will give realistic illustrations of the theoretical concepts proposed in this contribution. In short, I will touch upon the following aspects of the Russian soldiers’ informal culture: after a theoretical overview of total institutions and a structural overview of the phenomenon of dedovshchina, I will make some comments concerning the origins and evolution of dedovshchina, and, finally, I will suggest some possible solutions for this phenomenon that, apparently, stubbornly refuses to go away.

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THE CONCEPT OF TOTAL INSTITUTIONS In the 1950s, Erving Goffman introduced the idea of total institutions, by which he meant: ‘place[s] of residence and work where a large number of like-situated individuals, cut from the wider society for an appreciable period of time, together lead an enclosed, formally administered round of life’.3 Goffman used the term to refer not only to the more obvious examples such as concentration camps, prisons, military barracks and convents, but also to such institutions as tuberculosis sanatoria, mental hospitals, ships and so on. In addition to the physical exclusion of the residents of total institutions from the outside world (as symbolised by material fences such as barbed wire, walls, etc.), Goffman observed also a breakdown of barriers that separate the normal spheres of the life of a ‘free citizen in the external world’. All aspects of life are conducted in the same place and under the same single authority; all daily activities of the inmates are carried out in the immediate company of other inmates; and all activities are tightly scheduled. This schedule is imposed from above by a system of explicit formal rules and a body of officials. This schedule is also the result of a single rational plan that is designed to fulfil the official aims of the institution. This organisational reality results in a basic split between the large group of inmates (the managed group) and the small supervisory staff (the managing group). This split is traditionally translated in the army context into the difference between the categories of officers and enlisted men. As in the armed forces, the managing group tend to feel superior and righteous, while the inmates tend to feel inferior, weak, blameworthy and guilty. Such totally structured institutions give rise not only to a particular work ethos, but also to a distorted self-image among inmates, and a drastically changed meaningful domestic existence. In his study Goffman focuses on the inmates’ world, with a view to identifying what strategies the inmates try to build in order to survive the institution that has been imposed on them. This enables Goffman to explain the rationality of the inmates’ behaviour, behaviour that the external observer might otherwise view as abnormal, sometimes violent and most of the time contradictory to the goals of the organisation. In other words, Goffman draws our attention to the perverse effects created by total institutions. Goffman’s reconstruction of the inmate’s world accentuated two particular phenomena that are used by the staff to manage the daily activity of a large number of persons in a restricted space with minimal expenditure of resources. These two methods of power exertion comprise the so-called method of ‘mortification’ on the one hand, and the creation

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of a system of privileges on the other. Goffman identified a process of ‘mortification’, especially characteristic of the period of recruitment. During this process the ‘self’, the private life of the inmate, is intentionally and unintentionally deconstructed and eventually destroyed. Several techniques are used, including humiliation and degradation (swearing at inmates, forcing them to swear, uncomfortable and ill-fitting uniforms, and shaving their heads); isolation (depriving inmates of the right to leave the compound); exigency of complete obedience (applying rules to the point of absurdity); ‘contaminative exposures’, that is, the complete deprivation of privacy (discussing personal files in public, extracting public confessions of ‘bad’ behaviour); and ‘interpersonal contamination’, that is, forcing interpersonal contact upon the individual (via shared toilets, shower facilities and dining rooms). In some extreme forms, physical abuse is used in order to mortify the self. Constant surveillance and reduction of the adult inmate’s autonomy to that of a child engenders chronic feelings of uneasiness, nervousness and anxiety in the individual. The sense of personal inefficiency produced by organisational regimentation results in a situation of tyrannisation. This feeling can be labelled, using the terminology of Durkheim, as a state of ‘anomie’. Besides the distortion of the inmate’s personal self, the staff of the total institution also uses a more common method to obtain obedience, namely the application of a system of rewards and punishments. Generally speaking, there is nothing special about this behaviourist method of rewarding acceptable or desired behaviour and punishing unacceptable behaviour in order to discipline inmates. Nevertheless, in the context of total institutions, the system of rewards in particular receives a specific unintentional function. Rewards result in cooperativeness from persons who often have cause to be uncooperative. In a world in which freedom is totally or at least gravely deprived, rewards give the inmates a framework for personal reorganisation. Through rewards, however minimal they may be, the inmates are given the possibility to regain some personal autonomy and increase the impact they may have on their own life. It is this possibility to reassemble the self that makes the rewards so (symbolically) important. The system of rewards results in a system of privileges, which form, according to Goffman, the most important feature of the inmate culture. The system of privileges constructs a world of its own in which a specific communication system or ‘institute lingo’ develops. In addition, the system provokes activities which Goffman catalogues as ‘messing up’. Messing up is a complex system of engaging in forbidden activities which gives the leading inmates an informal status within the group. There are also ‘secondary adjustments’ in which

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informal systems of control are installed among inmates, thus necessitating a specific social typing. This whole internal world among inmates has, according to the logic of total institution, one single function, namely to attempt to rebuild the autonomy of the individual self. It represents an awkward cry for freedom from the inmates, based on the minimal resources they have at their disposal. In this way the inmate counter-reacts to the staff’s destruction of the inmate’s individual autonomy, and attempts to rebuild this autonomy. The conflict between the staff and the inmates is thus basically focused on the autonomy of the self. This observation can lead to rather optimistic assumptions regarding the human quest for freedom and resistance to oppression. As Giddens has noted: in Goffman’s portrayal of total institutions individuals do not appear for the most part as broken beings. On the contrary, they find a multiplicity of ways of recovering their integrity, of creating personal territories of their own and of combining together to resist the impositions to which they are subject. There are all sorts of ways in which through their wit or cunning inmates establish counteractive modes of interaction which ‘breed and start to infest the establishment’.4 Goffman, however, is more reserved on this matter. He acknowledges that there is a certain fraternisation among inmates in which mutual support is given and a set of counter-mores is installed. It is also true that, in this process, the staff of the organisation is totally rejected in a sort of protest against the regime that has been imposed on the inmates. However, Goffman warns that the solidarising tendencies should not be confused with a high group morale and solidarity It is a functional, calculated and rather negative solidarity, necessary to survive in a world of anomie, that is characteristic for total institutions. In other words, Goffman refers here indirectly to the rational actors’ paradigm and strips group solidarity from its moral connotation. The world of the Russian soldier will be used below to illustrate how negatively violent and murderous, but effective, such fraternisation tendencies may be. Besides the informal world that tends to be created in the struggle for the autonomy of the self, another practice can be highlighted that has an important impact on the inmate’s world. This is the system of patronage that is studied by anthropologists such as Eric Wolf and Sharon Kettering. Patronage refers to a rather stable personal relationship between unequals, between leaders and their followers, ‘patrons’ and ‘clients’. The stability of the relationship is based on the exchange of power and the

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mutual benefit of the two partners. Clients offer the patrons support and deference by providing services and through gestures of submission and the language of respect. The patrons, in their turn, mainly provide protection. It is clear that in the inmates’ world of the total institution patronage networks are easily installed. Newcomers need guidance and protection in the strange world of the total institution. They can receive this protection when they follow the rules of the inmates already present. In this way, the fraternisation process among inmates that was observed by Goffman in total institutions may be explained through the system of patronage. The system of patronage makes a positive contribution to group integration and group solidarity, notwithstanding the high price that has to be paid for this forced solidarity. Indeed, patronage breeds conflict, corruption and behaviour that deviates from the formal duties of a public role. Both insights, the informal culture of the inmates in total institutions and the system of patronage, leave us with two paradoxes: first, both systems breed both stability and conflict, and, second, group solidarity is in both systems based on rational egotistical behaviour. These two counter-intuitive observations of how egotism breeds solidarity and how violence breeds stability will be illustrated and explained by the Russian soldiers’ informal culture. The organisational nature of the Russian army can be seen as prototypical for a total institution. Below, we will demonstrate this statement based on some critical aspects of total institutions, as well as contextualising the Russian army as a total institution in the broader Soviet-Russian society. DESCRIBING ‘THE RULE OF THE GRANDFATHERS’ Explained through the concept of total institutions, dedovshchina is the outcome of a system of privileges, a system of secondary adjustment and an involuntary process of fraternisation that takes place within the group of soldiers. Through these phenomena the soldiers try to defend themselves against the regime imposed upon them by the officer corps, or more accurately the army rules of life imposed by the officer corps on the group of soldiers. Dedovshchina is thus a rational response from the soldiers, both as individuals and as a group, to the strange and enclosed military world. Briefly, the system of dedovshchina is an informal hierarchical structure installed among the group of soldiers that is primarily based on seniority. This means that the senior group of soldiers reigns over the younger group of soldiers. The aspect of seniority is etymologically expressed in the Russian word dedovshchina, derived from

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the Russian root ded, which means grandfather.5 Dedovshchina is, in Goffman’s words, the organisational realisation of a system of privileges in which informal status is rebuilt as a counter-movement against the mortification tendencies in the barracks. It is also based on the system of patronage: the relationships between soldiers are intrinsically unequal since they are based on traditional seniority rules. In return for obeying the rules of the elder soldiers, the grandfathers, a neophyte soldier survives the odd soldiers’ world. Moreover, obedience to the grandfathers’ rule also represents an investment in the future, since growing up and surviving in the system automatically means gaining prestige and rising in the informal ranks of the soldiers. Dedovshchina is thus a rational system, that knits the group of soldiers closely together. The system of the collective holds the rational elements that ensure the continuity of the system of dedovshchina. This last remark is especially important from a sociological point of view because this system holds the elements that ensure its own reproduction. Dedovshchina is a strong social system which once installed is very difficult to dismantle. This is all the more so since the system contains elements of self-control that make the problem of discipline in the barracks much easier for the officer corps. In practical terms, the culture of the soldiers is based upon an informal hierarchy, in which the soldier (automatically) grows up from being a’slave’ to becoming a ‘master’. The system of dedovshchina is composed of four (or at times five or six) hierarchically structured stages, each with its well-defined functions and ranks.6 The existence of the ranks is based on the time schedule imposed by the recruitment system. This recruitment system generally prescribes two recruitment periods a year and a twoyear duration of conscript service. This means that there are permanently four distinctive groups present in the barracks. The distinction between the four groups, each with its specific function, is shown in Table 4.1. As the table shows, the soldiers use a highly specific terminology to indicate to which category an individual soldier belongs. This affirms Goffman’s view of a strong tendency of ‘social stereotyping’ in the inmate’s world. Moreover, the soldiers have a specific language that is only understood by those who belong to the informal culture. This aspect of ‘the soldiers’ lingo’ has been studied by Russian linguists. Russian soldiers have also another secret way of communicating with each other: the secret language of tattoos. Just as in prisons, some soldiers display their status by means of tattoos, in a way that is commonly understood by the other soldiers. For the purposes of this chapter, this (secret) language aspect is only interesting to the degree that it helps us to understand the solid structure of the social fabric of the soldiers’ world.

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TABLE 4.1: SOLDIERS’ SENIORITY GROUPS

A basic underlying factor that influences the system of abuse is scarcity. Generally, total institutions impose a system that lacks freedom, but Russian soldiers lack even more fundamental things such as food, beverages and especially money. This last aspect is particularly important for Russian soldiers. Money gives the soldier access to products that may colour his grey, dull and monotonous life. It can improve his diet and may help him temporarily to flee his dreadful situation through alcohol and drugs. However, soldiers receive a monthly stipend of only 18.5 rubles: moreover, these payments are frequently either delayed by several months or simply not forthcoming.7 In this situation, the elder soldiers use all possible means to acquire money. They steal money from the younger ones and force them to go out begging illegally for money, wherever they can. In practice, this sometimes means that the dukh has to steal from civilians in order to comply with the orders of the dedy. Another example of the dedovshchina system being exported out of the barracks is illustrated by the story of Yevgeny. Yevgeny explained in an interview that he was obliged by the dedy to write to his mother asking her to send him money. As soon as this money arrived Yevgeny had to give it to the dedy. Had Yevgeny (and his mother) failed to obey this order, Yevgeny would have been beaten to death. Other witnesses recounted that category I soldiers systematically had to give up their meals to the older soldiers. Vitaly, for example, had to give his meal to a particular category IV soldier. When

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he complained to this particular soldier that he was hungry, he was beaten up and told to steal food in order to stay alive. Similar measures were taken by the dedy in order to obtain cigarettes and alcohol. In a sense such behaviour is based on a sense of self-sufficiency in a world of scarcity. When the army does not provide the soldiers with basic goods, the soldiers have to provide the basic elements for survival themselves. They are forced to organise themselves in order to survive. It would be a mistake to reduce the soldiers’ informal culture to the system of dedovshchina, which would mean effectively reducing the informal leadership to seniority. Other ‘primitive/traditional’ factors are also playing in the informal culture of the Russian soldiers. Most important among these is physical strength. According to Alyosha, there was one way to avoid the effects of dedovshchina, namely through physical strength. If you could prove with your fists that you could resist the elders, the elders would, in the end, leave you alone. Alyosha cited one example of a soldier from the Caucasus who was able to resist the orders of the elders. Quite logically, the elders co-opted this soldier and used him as an ally. The soldier from the Caucasus was used to beat up other soldiers. In this way he acted as a gang member with the lowest status who had to carry out the petty orders of the godfathers. Alyosha’s story suggests that there is a structural relationship between the way soldiers are organising themselves and the way criminal gangs are organised. It goes beyond the scope of this contribution to outline the typical Russian mafia structures, the so-called krysha system.8 But it is important to note that definite processes of criminalisation of the soldiers’ informal culture were under way in the 1990s. Besides seniority, self-sufficiency and physical strength there is another bonding factor: namely the regional factor. When I asked Akhmed if he had suffered from dedovshchina, he smiled and said that his friends from the Caucasus helped him to resist the rule of the grandfathers. ‘We were strong enough to resist the elders’, he said. Organisationally, this means that regional bonding, or zemlyachestvo, is another system that co-exists with dedovshchina. The idea of zemlyachestvo can also be related with the idea of localism or provincialism. In paractice, it can be said that the soldiers’ culture is based on primitive bonding variables that are used to overcome the situation of scarcity and total control: namely seniority, physical strength, a focus on self-sufficiency and basic survival, localism or provincialism, etc. These traditional variables determine the way in which the elder soldiers try to break through the all-encompassing power of the Russian army and to make their lives less dull and monotonous. The character of these variables belongs to a particular timeframe in Russian cultural history. Indeed,

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they may without hesitation be described as typical for the Russian peasant community of the nineteenth century, which was also a world in which violence, uncertainty and haphazardness were abundantly present. It was a life in which the basic concern of the peasant was focused on physical survival. The Russian soldiers’ informal culture is in this way traditional and, consequently, not compatible with the idea of the post-modern military organisation that cultivates concepts such as selfrealisation, personal skills, moral and physical integrity, etc. Consequently, contrary to the Western post-modern army or the professional army and post-modern society, the individual is not placed at the centre of the Russian officers’ concern. In any case, Russian soldiers’ informal culture stands in sharp contrast with the commercial slogan ‘an army of one’ that is used in the US armed forces and which sends the message that, in the US armed forces, every person counts. PAST AND FUTURE OF THE SOLDIERS’ INFORMAL CULTURE There are two basic schools of thought regarding the origin of the informal culture of the Russian soldiers. One group argues that the origins of dedovshchina lie in the notorious Soviet prison camp or Gulag system.9 We will call this the structural school of thought and dedovshchina is considered to be a perverse effect of the way the military organisation is structured. The other school of thought is led by the American sovietologist William Odom, who traces the origins of the grandfathers’ rule to 1967, when the Soviet recruitment system changed from a service period of three years to the current two-year period.10 Odom claimed that the soldiers who were serving the three years were so resentful that they started to torture the younger soldiers. What is important in Odom’s reasoning is that dedovshchina is seen as the result of a specific intention. Therefore, we call Odom’s way of thinking the ideational school. To this second school of thought I also add two Russian sociologists, Aleksey Levinson and Yury Levada. These two authors claim that the system of dedovshchina has been intentionally installed by the officer corps in order to socialise the soldiers.11 Based on the axiom that the system of dedovshchina is related with the concept of total institutions, it is clear that I support the structural hypothesis, rather than the ideational hypothesis. I base this opinion on four arguments. First, it is a mistake to think that the informal soldiers’ culture is based on a kind of meta-decision of a group of people to punish another group of people. Such a widespread and solid system cannot be installed and reproduced on the basis of the frustration of a

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single group. Dedovshchina is the result of a particular type of organisation that structures the lives of the inmates in a specific way. Why would this system exist in other closed, total institutions such as prisons and camps as well? Second, there was also a change in the period of service in the 1990s. More precisely, the conscription period was reduced from two years to 18 months in the period 1991–96. This had, however, no effect on the basic characteristics of dedovshchina. In the 1991– 96 period, the four categories of the rule of the dedy were easily adapted to become a system of three categories. It has already been mentioned that it is not the number of categories that is important, but rather the traditional idea that seniority goes together with authority. Third, I have interviewed two fathers of soldiers, who did their service before 1967. Both of them stated that, during their service, the rule of the elders existed, as did zemlyachestvo.12 However, there was a nuance. The system in the 1950s and 1960s was less brutal and criminalised than it was in the 1990s. This last point is interesting. It leads to our hypothesis that scarcity, aggravated by the economic crisis in Russia during the 1990s, has an important effect on the practical outcomes of the rule of the grandfathers. It leads us to suggest that there is a certain conjunctural evolution in the degree of brutality that goes together with the system of dedovshchina that is dictated by the economic conjuncture of the country. Fourth, we can make a methodological remark on the view of Odom on the origin of dedovshchina. Odom’s ideational hypothesis was supported by interviews he conducted among officers. It is claimed that this is the wrong category of people to ask question of about the soldiers’ informal cultures. Officers are excluded from the soldiers’ informal culture and are consequently not well informed about it. The arguments of Levada and Levinson are politically inspired and antiSoviet views which are difficult to falsify. Nevertheless, the idea that dedovshchina is based on a well-planned policy is not supported. First, it is difficult to imagine that an organisation that is in deep crisis, and that was unable to implement any coherent reform programme during the 1990s, would be able to plan and implement such an ‘efficient’ socialisation policy as the system of dedovshchina is claimed to be. Second, both authors highlight the importance of terror and violence as socialising factors. In our view, a system that is solely based on violence is not strong enough to be a reproducible system. Finally, the impact of the officers on the system of dedovshchina is overestimated. The disagreement with the Odom hypothesis and our own study of the total institution concept lead us to subscribe to the structural school of thought.13 Indeed, the internal life of the prisoners in the Gulag, described in the Gulag literature, presents a system that is comparable

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with the soldiers’ system. Moreover, Cressey and Krassowski have studied the Soviet labour camps and have given a convincing image of these camps as total institutions, explaining how strategies of secondary adjustments were put into practice among the prisoners. The Soviet camp subculture has many comparable aspects with the soldiers’ culture in the barracks. This being said, again, we should not push the comparison between the Soviet labour-camp subculture and the soldiers’ subculture in the barracks too far. The system of dedovshchina is not a copy of the prison-camp system. Nor is it, as Levinson and Levada claim, a consciously created culture imposed by the Soviet authorities, who, as the engineers of the soul, tried to mould the soldiers into the ideal of the Soviet man. Dedovshchina was and is rather the result of the perverse effects of the way organisations were/are run by the Soviet/Russian state. Consequently, unless the structure of the Russian military organisation is changed fundamentally, the military authorities will have little impact on the negative effects of the rule of the grandfathers. Indeed, the internal logic of dedovshchina makes it a very difficult system to destroy, so long as the basic structural idea of total institutions remains unchanged. There are a number of basic approaches that can be proposed with a view to eradicating this detrimental, inefficient system of the soldiers’ informal military culture. This is necessary if Russia wants to adopt a post-modern all-volunteer force. First, it should be pointed out that ideological and moral arguments against the ‘rule of the grandfathers’ make no sense from a sociological point of view. Consequently, it makes no sense to accuse the Russian armed forces of violations against human rights, even if this is the case.14 Human-rights violations are the ugly outcomes of the way the organisation is structured. Neither is it efficient to call for a spiritual, patriotic or even religious revival of Soviet youth in order to prevent the abuses that take place in the barracks.15 It is much more efficient to focus on the structural elements which underlie the informal culture of the Russian army. Therefore, the Russian army needs to dismantle the organisational format of total institutions. The more Russia is able to open up its system, the greater the chances that the informal culture of the soldiers, and the system of secondary adjustments/messing-up behaviour, can be abolished. Second, communication between the soldiers and the managing corps has to be improved. This means that the officer corps has to be diversified. Soldiers need to have the opportunity to speak confidentially with their superiors. Therefore trustworthy channels have to be set up, involving independent figures such as doctors and priests. In sociological terms, the introduction of priests would diversify the

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monolithic group of officers. Such diversification improves communication between the soldiers and narrows the radical officers— soldiers split. It goes without saying that the religious diversity of Russian society must also be reflected in the barracks. Protestant and Roman Catholic priests as well as Muslim imams must be available for soldiers. Finally, and perhaps most important of all, a professional NCO corps needs to be organised that can act as a mediator between the closed and homogeneous worlds of the officers and soldiers. The introduction of a trustworthy, legitimate and respectful NCO corps would be an important step enabling the negative aspects of the soldiers’ informal culture to be dismantled. Third, it is essential that the army take responsibility for its mistakes. The army needs to admit that it is fallible, and to show an ability to learn from its mistakes and take honest measures to avoid repeating these mistakes in the future. Instead, in the current situation officers are in fact rewarded for doing bad work, and their response to criticism tends to fall somewhere between paranoia and arrogance. Open and honest communication with their soldiers, the families and even the political world would not only improve the organisational effectiveness, but would also mean that the armed forces could also count on a better societal image, and a better negotiating position in the democratic relations with civilians and the political world.16 NOTES 1. See, for example: S.A.Belyanovskiy (ed.), Dedovshchina v Armii (Sbornik Sotsiologicheskikh Dokumentov), Moscow: Akademia Nauk SSSR, 1991; Mikhail Zolotonosov, Obyknovennii Sadizm, Staty o Rossyskoy Armii: 1993– 1997, St Petersburg: Tuskarora, 1997; ‘dedovshchina’, in S.S.Solovyev and I.V.Obraztseov, Rossiyskaya Armiya ot Afganistana do Chechni, Moscow: Natsionalnyy Institut Imeni Yekateriny Velikoy, 1997, pp. 339–45; Amnesty International Report EUR 46/10/1997, Torture, Ill-treatment and Death in the Army; Manfred Sapper, Die Auswirkungen des Afghanistan-Krieges auf die Sowjetgeselhchaft: Eine Studie zum Legitimitätsverlust des Militärischen in der Peresrojka, Hamburg: LIT Verlag, 1994, pp. 124–37; Eva Maria Hinterhuber, Die Soldatenmütter Sankt Peterburg, Zwischen Neotraditionaltsmus und neuer Widerständigkeit, Hamburg: LIT Verlag, 1999, pp. 31–3; Françoise Daucé, L’Etat, l’armée et le citoyen en Russie postsoviétique, Paris: 1’Harmattan, 2001, pp. 107–17; Carey Schofield, Inside the Soviet Military, London: Abbeville Press, 1991, pp. 82–6. 2. For a description of the violent nature of the army life, see especially: Mikhail Zolotonosov, Obyknovennii Sadizm; European Council of Conscripts Organizations, Casualties in Peacetime: A Study on Violence and Intimidation in the Armed Forces in Europe, Nijmegen: Gelderland offset, 1997, pp. 45–64;

70 RUSSIAN SOLDIERS IN THE BARRACKS

3. 4. 5. 6.

7. 8.

9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

Yevgenia Borisova, ‘Vitaly’s Story: Knocking the Spirit out of the New Recruits’, St Petersburg Press, 11–17 October 1994. Erving Goffman, Asylums: Essays of the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other Inmates, New York: Doubleday, 1961, p. xiii. Anthony Giddens, Social Theory and Modern Sociology, Cambridge: Polity Press, 1987, p. 130. See V.P.Korovyshkin, Slovar’ Russkogo Voyennogo Zhargona, Yekaterinburg: Urals University Press, 2000, p. 86. The number of categories is not an essential element in our analysis. For instance, some researchers point out six stages in a two-year service cycle: Solovev and Obraztseov, Rossiyskaya Armiya, p. 341. What is important is the stratification of the group of soldiers based on seniority and automatically growing up throughout the system. This was the stipend in March 1998. In 2002, the stipend was 22 rubles. For a good introduction on the krysha system, see, for instance, Center for Strategic and International Studies, Russian Organized Crime, Washington, DC: CSIS, 1997, pp. 29–31; Stephan Handelman, Comrade Criminal: Russia’s New Mafia, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995; and for an applied study on organised crime in the Russian armed forces, see: Graham Turbiville, Mafia in Uniform: The Crimmalization of the Russian Armed Forces, Leavenworth, KS: Foreign Military Studies Office, 1995, www.army.mil/ frnso/fmso.htm. For a good reference, see Donald R.Cressey and Witold Krassowski, ‘Inmate Organizations and Anomie in American Prisons and Soviet Labor Camps’, Social Problems, 5, 4, 1958–59, pp. 217–30. Also the Soldiers’ Mothers of St Petersburg subscribe to this hypothesis. William Odom, The Collapse of the Soviet Military, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998, p. 48. Aleksej Levinson, ‘Esthetik der Gewalt: Armee und Gesellschaft in der UdSSR/Rusland während des letzten Jahrzehnts’, in Berliner Debatte INITIAL, 8, 1997, pp. 769–91. Cressey and Krassowski, ‘Inmate Organisations’, pp. 217–30. See unpublished PhD thesis, J.Van Bladel, ‘The All-Volunteer Force in the Russian Mirror: Transformation without Change’, State University of Groningen, 2002. S.A.Podolskogo (ed.), Prava Cheloveka I Armiya, Realizatsiya I Zashchita Prav Voyennosluzhashchikh, Prizyvnikov, Veteranov I Chlenov Ich Semey, St Petersburg: Informatsionno-Izdatelskoye Agenstvo, 1999. V.I.Mironov, ‘Humanisation of Troop Activity and the Spiritual Rebirth of Russia’s Army’, Military Thought, January 1993. The conflict between the Soldiers’ Mothers organizations and the military is primordially based on a lack of information and clear communication. The Soldiers’ Mothers are most of the time just asking for information to which they have the right. A better and more honest communication between the armed forces and the Soldiers’ Mothers would resolve the conflict between this NGO and the army.

Part II: Force Structure

5 Nuclear versus Conventional Forces: Implications for Russia’s Future Military Reform Frank Umbach

Over the decade since their formation, the Russian armed forces have experienced a continual financial crisis and a steep decline—as Russia’s defeat in Chechnya in 1996 and the renewed and ongoing war there since 1999 have brutally revealed. The sinking of the submarine Kursk in the Barents Sea in August 2001, and the navy’s clumsy and futile rescue effort as well as its Soviet-style disinformation of its own public illustrated for many Russians and outside observers the crisis in Russia’s armed forces. Since 1989, Russian experts have discussed genuine military reform. So far, however, only modest steps have been taken.1 Mostly, the Defence Ministry and General Staff have downgraded ‘military reform’ to a ‘reform of the armed forces’—and these are not the same thing.2 Pavel Felgenhauer, for instance, lamented in February 2001: ‘Commanding generals are not “reforming” anything within their domain for the simple reason that they genuinely believe the Soviet military machine was the best in the world and it doesn’t need reform, but restoration.’3 Yet neither new strategic concepts nor modernisation plans during the 1990s had been able to keep the military healthy because of deeper sociocultural and intellectual reasons which are often overlooked.4 As a consequence, Russia was forced to rely on its nuclear posture more than ever. The conflict and discussions highlighted the fact that Russia was forced to choose between being a future global or a regional power. President Vladimir Putin has made valiant attempts to maintain Russia’s superpower military status under straitened circumstances. However, simultaneously, there was an unmistakable increase in concern about military and other external threats in Russia’s new National Security Concept of January 2000 and its new Military Doctrine of April 2000, by contrast to the Yeltsin period, in which the security dangers were

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seen primarily as domestic (such as in Russia’s national security doctrine of 1997). A major barrier to reform has also been lack of money. Putin has compelled the armed forces to adopt more radical reforms, but, since these have tried to reconcile the very different interests of the various services, the armaments industry, and the foreign and security policy elite, they have not been coherent and have left many questions open. Domestic debate still swirls around specific threat scenarios and the future of conventional as distinct from nuclear weapons, albeit the most important changes in Russia’s security and defence policies took place before September 2001.5 While reform of the armed forces envisions primarily cutting troop numbers and structural changes, a real military reform envisions fundamental changes in all spheres related to the armed forces, including also the civil-military control system and the defence industry. Characteristic of almost all official reform concepts was the gap between pretensions and economic reality—a gap which widened until the mid-1990s.6 Numerous problems complicated even a very narrow understanding of reform, such as: the rise of other uniformed forces, the decline in morale, mounting crime, the unsolved dedovshchina (bullying) problem, the conscription crisis, lowering of operational readiness, etc., which are treated elsewhere in this book.7 RUSSIA’S HOLLOW ‘PAPER FORCE’ In summer 1999, only three divisions and four brigades in the Leningrad, Moscow, North Caucasus and Siberian military districts maintained the status of ‘permanent readiness units’, which requires having at least 80 per cent of personnel strength and 100 per cent of weapons and equipment. The major exercise ‘Zapad-99’ in June 1999 demonstrated a much better capability to deploy large combined-arms forces than many Western experts expected.8 However, the exercise used up the navy’s entire annual fuel reserve.9 Moreover, with the renewed war in Chechnya Russia’s conventional military capabilities became increasingly overtaxed. Furthermore, the socio-economic crisis in the armed forces resulted in a growing de facto alliance between local military commanders and regional bosses. In July 1998 Aleksandr Lebed, governor of Krasnoyarsk Kray, even threatened to assume control of the nuclear weapons based in his region in order to force the government to pay its soldiers.10 However, the possibility of ‘nuclear regionalism’ is fortunately rather remote, at least in the short term.

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TABLE 5.1: FORCE OPTIONS

Assumptions: * Raise defence budget to 3.5% of GNP. + Keep armed forces at current level of 1.2 million. ′ Reduce personnel to 0.8 million and change ratio between maintenance and investment to 55:45 or even 50:50. Source: Alexei G.Arbatov, ‘The Transformation of Russian Military Doctrine: Lessons Learned from Kosovo and Chechnya’, The Marshall Centre Papers, 2, Garmisch-Partenkirchen: George C.Marshall European Centre for Security Studies, July 2000, p. 25.

Under the projected budget levels at the turn of the century, the principal priorities of Russia’s defence policies became increasingly unrealistic. Aleksei Arbatov offered the options shown in Table 5.1 (above) for Russia’s conventional and nuclear forces in 2000. Given the scarce resources, a further manpower reduction seemed unavoidable.” However, Russia’s General Staff still saw 1.2 million as the ‘minimum strength’ and the ‘crucial barrier which the state cannot cross’, because the military and political leadership might not resort to using even a limited number of nuclear weapons for solving defence tasks in a local war which can escalate to a full-fledged regional war (against NATO and the US), as the Chief of the Centre for Strategic Forecasts of the General Staff, Colonel Vyacheslav Zubarev, argued in June 2000.12 Furthermore, Russia’s military hardware will become obsolete by 2005– 10. Sergei Rogov has warned that Russia has no more than 10 years to strengthen the country’s economy.13 Indeed, most weapon systems Russia produced from 1992–99 had been exported to foreign countries. OVERCOMING RELIANCE ON NUCLEAR WEAPONS Following the promotion of commander-in-chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces (RVSN) Igor Sergeyev to Defence Minister in May 1997 and the merger of space forces with the RVSN (see Chapter 6), reportedly some 80–90 per cent of total armament resources were channelled to the RVSN by the end of the 1990s.14 Hardly surprisingly, that drastically worsened the state of the conventional forces and offered a striking contrast to the

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TABLE 5.2: WEAPON DELIVERIES OF RUSSIA’S MILITARY INDUSTRIES, 1992–99

Source: NAPSNET, Daily Report, 21 February 2001.

‘Concept of Development of Nuclear Forces until 2010’ and the ‘Foundations (Concept) of State Policy of the Russian Federation in the Area of Defence Development until 2005’, adopted in July-August 1998.15 Sergeyev, the Foreign Ministry and many well-known civilian experts justified their favouritism for Russia’s RVSN on the grounds that under all circumstances Russia must maintain nuclear parity with the US and NATO, and portrayed the US nuclear strategic forces as the most dangerous threat to Russia’s national security.16 In fact, Russia’s nuclear arsenal was the last attribute of a ‘virtual’ super-power whose economic base was becoming ever more dubious.17 Against this background Chief of the General Staff Anatoly Kvashnin presented some radical proposals at a Defence Ministry staff meeting on 12 July 2000, which essentially favoured developing conventional weapons at the expense of the RVSN. He justified the ‘denuclearisation’ by arguing that not NATO and the US, but the conflicts at the southern rim of Russia and Islamic fundamentalists and terrorists were the most dangerous threats to Russia’s security.18 Accordingly, he told senior officials and the business establishment that Russia could no longer sustain a posture like NATO’s, nor could it compete militarily with it. Therefore, he also favoured a new foreign policy that envisioned a closer relationship with the West and even the possibility of NATO membership.19 By 2003 Kvashnin foresaw a reduction in the status of RVSN from an independent force to a weapons system that would be absorbed into the air force; the Russian military would go over to the classic division into land, air and sea forces. In addition, by 2003 there would be a unilateral reduction in the RVSN from 19 divisions to two and scrapping of 150 intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs) and 500–1,500 warheads. This

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meant a unilateral disarmament of more than 400 of the total stock of 780 ICBMs, most of which needed to be taken out of service in any case, because of age or treaty requirements.20 These proposals immediately ran into massive resistance, not only from Sergeyev, but also from the Foreign Ministry and many other senior officers and prominent civilian experts like Aleksei Arbatov and Sergei Rogov. The latter accused Kvashnin of a ‘strategic capitulation’ because ‘the US gets an overwhelming advantage in its nuclear capacity, and will be able to secretly deploy thousands of ordinary high-precision weapons to attack Russia’s sites’.21 ‘Abandoning the nuclear shield, Kvashnin will turn Russia into an Indonesia without missiles. There will be no turning back then, because the Russian missile industry will be destroyed for good.’22 This clash was to some extent the continuation of a row between two schools of thought and their different world views throughout the 1990s: a ‘traditionalist’ school who saw Russia’s military potential as the guarantor of its international great-power status and directed its policies against any foreign policy losses or deterioration of Russian military power in general and of its strategic nuclear forces (SNF) in particular; and a more ‘realist’ school who favoured aligning Russia’s future with economic and political realities inside and outside Russia.23 Its continuation at the highest level inside the Russian high command led to a split of the military elite. It signalled that at least the General Staff was slowly overcoming the ‘Kosovo syndrome’, the expectation of NATO’s use of force against Russia over political disagreements,24 and reliance on tactical nuclear weapons as the only means to deter NATO. Russia’s elite had also painfully to discover that Russia had no military instruments to influence a Yugoslav-type future conflict: their conventional forces were too weak as the second Chechen war demonstrated, while Russia’s SNF were not credible because Moscow was not willing to commit suicide over Serbia or similar conflicts. As a Russian commentator later summarised the conflict in the high command in March 2002: when Sergeyev was the minister, the RVSN did what they wanted with the military budget, commandeering a lion’s share of the funds for themselves. It was done to the detriment of other branches of the service, without so much as a thought spared to their needs… The national interests of Russia were not jeopardised by a hypothetical nuclear exchange, and it does not take a genius to understand that the amount of delivery means for strategic nuclear arms Russia possesses is too much for it. As for the Russian general application forces, they were left far behind world standards in virtually all

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parameters. The situation being what it is, Kvashnin…could not do other than to incite a mutiny against the missile tyranny. By the way, virtually all Russian generals supported him in this.25 Because of this polarisation, Putin was forced to make a basic decision.26 But interestingly, he stopped the debate only after Sergeyev reacted to Kvashnin’s demands. Despite their public infighting, the meeting of the Security Council on 11 August 2000 did not result in the immediate sacking of either Sergeyev or Kvashnin. Putin, however, dismissed six generals allied with Sergeyev, who reportedly resisted plans to subordinate the RVSN to the air forces to cut costs, indicating that he sided with Kvashnin over how to divide Russia’s scarce resources between conventional and nuclear forces.27 The debate also helped Putin to redirect Russia’s foreign and security policies on the basis of a more realistic threat perception towards a rapprochement with the West, NATO and the US—long before the September 2001 events. The proposal to ‘denuclearise’ Russia’s forces was particularly explosive because it was a clear departure from the policy set out in the 2000 Military Doctrine that recognised the enhanced value of substrategic nuclear weapons. Russia had already dropped its 1982 pledge to ‘no first use’ of nuclear weapons in the document ‘Principle Guidance on the Military Doctrine of the Russian Federation’ in November 1993.28 It had since underlined the increasing role of Russia’s strategic and tactical nuclear weapons in its defence policies to compensate for the deficiencies of the conventional forces,29 particularly in the Far East opposite China.30 This new emphasis had been confirmed in Russia’s 1997 National Security Concept31 and in doctrine and strategy proposals in the following years. It suggested an excessive reliance on nuclear forces for virtually any military-political contingency, including the right to use them even pre-emptively in ethno-political conflicts that Russia’s conventional forces could not effectively deal with.32 Reports about the deployment of Russian tactical nuclear weapons in Kaliningrad Oblast in January 2001—which Russia immediately denied— highlighted the substrategic nuclearisation tendencies in the European theatre as well. It also demonstrated once again that a verifi able treaty for tactical nuclear weapons between NATO and Russia was urgently needed.33 Characteristically, Russian military experts produced a concept of ‘deescalating’ conventional conflicts through the use of nuclear weapons and described the evolving security posture as ‘extended nuclear deterrence’ to demonstrate Russia’s readiness to use force, including nuclear weapons.34

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In general, Russia placed too much emphasis on nuclear scenarios that were largely unrealistic and did not address any of the most important security problems on its southern flank. It tried to bolster its declining world power status but without having effective means of control,35 and instead of improving living conditions and raising the actual fighting capacity of conventional troops engaged in peacemaking missions and internal conflicts. Moreover, Russian nuclear weapons designers were confronted with the fact that their country could no longer afford a vast nuclear weapon archipelago. As a result, they and the General Staff lobbied to build a new generation of low-yield tactical nuclear weapons— weapons which could be Moscow’s answer to its lack of high-precision conventional weapon systems, and which have been defined as ‘strategic weapons’.36 However, the use of Russia’s present tactical nuclear arsenal even in a major military conflict with China is very questionable because of the proximity of almost all major Russian cities and military headquarters in the region to the common border.37 Recognising these dilemmas on its potential eastern front, Russia may develop a new generation of tactical nuclear weapons and munitions with low yield and super-low yield, delivered to targets by both strategic and tactical delivery systems, such as the newly developed Iskander 400-km short-range missile system.38 In 1999 and 2000, Russia conducted seven sub-critical tests on Novaya Zemlya.39 However, START-I prohibits the deployment of new airlaunched cruise missiles (ALCMs) on medium bombers, reducing the options for a cheap expansion of a theatre-range nuclear force, whereas the 1991 decision by President Gorbachev (confirmed by President Yeltsin in 1992) to retain only air-based tactical nuclear weapons prevents their deployment on ships, submarines or on the Iskander missile. That explains why the Russian military favoured giving up these arms-control agreements: their restrictions prevented cost-effective military solutions to their perceived potential security threats. As Nikolay Sokov argued: Paradoxically, the less threat Russia anticipates from NATO, the greater the propensity to withdraw from arms control treaties and the greater the emphasis placed on substrategic nuclear weapons (including the use of heavy bombers for theatre missions as well as ALCM deployment on medium bombers). If the threat from NATO is low, then existing treaties lose their primary value: restrictions on US and NATO forces. Instead, in the absence of threat from the West, Russia would be able to disregard a possible buildup of US nuclear forces and perceive much greater value in increasing

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its own nuclear arsenal vis-à-vis other threats (from the south, for example).40 The internal debate over the use of nuclear and chemical weapons in Chechnya in 1999 and 2000 seemed to confirm that Moscow’s priorities still tended toward a nuclearisation of Russia’s defence policy.41 But further modernisation of the SNF and tactical nuclear arsenal would only exacerbate underlying problems because it would come at the expense of conventional forces at a time when Russia must cope with a lasting and extremely violent ethnic conflict in the northern Caucasus. Hence, reliance on the nuclear factor did not necessarily guarantee Russia’s national security under all circumstances, nor did it represent the most likely contingency. Against this background of excessive emphasis on nuclear weapons for all contingencies, with the prospect of fighting according to concepts of operational art that envision the pre-emptive or even the preventive use of tactical nuclear weapons in ethnic conflicts, Kvashnin’s argument was based on a more realistic analysis in which it was not the US and NATO that were the main threats to Russia, but conflicts in Chechnya and elsewhere, where nuclear weapons cannot guarantee Russia’s security and stability. IMPLICATIONS FOR THE SNF In the 1990s, Russia’s nuclear forces had become a multiplier to compensate for the inferiority and the declining capabilities of its conventional forces, yet they remained incapable of coping with the most pressing military contingencies: limited wars and low-intensity conflicts. Nonetheless, funding for the new Topol-M (SS-27) missile—in particular for its more survivable, but also more expensive road-mobile version— was still insufficient. Kvashnin’s expectation of large savings from the RVSN cuts is, however, exaggerated. In 1999 the RVSN was supposed to have consumed 18 per cent and in 2000 10 per cent of the total defence budget. But 40–60 per cent of all research and development money and 80–93 per cent of procurement funds went to the RVSN.42 As it is less the missiles than the associated infrastructure (such as early-warning systems and satellites, 80 per cent of which need replacing) that is costly,43 Kvashnin’s reform proposals would save only some 19 million rubles over 15 years (0.7 per cent of the planned defence budget for the period). Furthermore, nuclear disarmament requires substantial new investment for the storage and destruction of warheads and missiles. By 2007, Russia will have built

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and deployed fewer than (the originally planned) 150–170 Topols, not to mention the 600–700 it requires for maintaining the START-II level of around 3,000–3,500 warheads.44 As originally agreed on 3 July 1998 at a Security Council meeting, Russia wanted to produce 30–40 new SS-27s on average per year (also the most cost-effective rate of production), and 350– 400 until 2010.45 But even during the heyday of the Cold War in the 1980s, the production rate of the SS-25 was, on average, just 48 per year. A lower figure of 20 would not translate into any significant savings because of the research and development costs. Russia would just obtain fewer missiles for the same money. An even lower production, down to 12–15 per year, would threaten the survival of the network of about 200 suppliers.46 Yet even the goal of 150–170 with a present production rate of just six new Topol-M per year is no longer realistic. It is more likely that Russia will not have more than 100–120 new Topol-M ICBMs, while the life-spans of nearly all older Soviet-made SS-18 and SS-19 ICBMs will be exhausted by 2010.47 In the next few years, the Defence Ministry plans to invest less than 28 per cent of all money appropriated for the acquisition of new strategic nuclear weapons and infrastructure into the radical modernisation and restructuring of the SNF.48 High-yield liquid-fuel MIRVed (Multiple Impact Re-entry Vehicle) ballistic missiles are being replaced with singlewarhead Topol-M missiles of which Russia has 30 at present. The construction of the new Yury Dolgorukiy-class nuclear-powered submarine armed with 20 new solid-fuel submarine-launched ballistic missiles (SLBM; each Bulava-30 missile—a solid-fuel SLBM based on the Topol-M—has ten warheads) has started, albeit the development of this new missile has been extended and that makes its production before 2010 highly uncertain. In the coming 10–15 years, only two to three new nuclear-powered strategic submarines will be produced for the Russian navy, with a maximum of 200–300 strategic nuclear warheads.49 Furthermore, a new generation of ALCMs with a range up to 5,500 km has been developed. However, the air force can count on keeping not more than 100–200 ALCMs on its TU-160 strategic bombers. At present, Russia has 20 of those bombers, which can each carry 12 ALCMs.50 While these programmes will ensure an effective nuclear deterrence and maintain Russia’s security, the production rate will also be rather limited as the result of the new defence priorities, the numerous constraints of Russia’s defence budget and the need to invest heavily in modernising the command and control infrastructure. Up to 80 per cent of Russia’s ballistic nuclear missiles are to be withdrawn from active service in light of START-II and because of their age before 2005–7. The service life of some older missiles can maybe be extended for some few years.

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But this will not solve the SNF’s structural problems because their service life is much shorter than Western missiles’ due to poor quality and maintenance difficulties. Even the service life of the newish Topol-M can currently only be extended by one or two years.51 Hence it seems that Russia will enter the second decade of the twenty-first century with a nuclear arsenal of probably fewer than 1,000 strategic nuclear warheads, that equals those of France, Britain and China rather than that of the United States.52 It also explains why some Russian military experts have called for an official START-III ceiling not of 1,500 but of just 1,000 warheads.53 In this light, the RVSN commander-in-chief, Colonel-General Vladimir Yakovlev, defended Russia’s ratification of START-II in April 2000 by pointing out: START-II allows Russia and the US to have 3–3,500 warheads each. I think this is more than enough. I also think START-II is good for Russia from the economic point of view, since 70 per cent of missiles, 60–70 per cent of combat control equipment, and about 70 per cent of satellites now in operation have already become obsolete. Besides, 60 per cent of information systems in the missile-space defence forces are out of date… Over the past ten years, expenditures on the Russian armed forces have been reduced approximately tenfold. Research and development has suffered the most, as well as weapons and military hardware procurement. This has impacted greatly on the RVSN. Last year we received only 45– 50 per cent of the minimum needs of our forces… The number of satellites is decreasing faster than new ones are being launched.54 As a result, Russia is no longer capable of 24-hour reconnaissance from space. Russia’s Global Navigational Satellite System (GLONASS), too, has only nine satellites instead of 24 and thus cannot operate properly.55 Furthermore, in any variants of the future structure of Russia’s SNF, the role of the naval strategic nuclear forces will increase to 35–55 per cent of nuclear delivery systems.56 One possibility is, however, to reach a compromise with the US for a START-III agreement that gives up the provision of START-II to equip an ICBM just with one warhead. As of mid-2002, Russia has an arsenal of approximately 8,400 operational nuclear warheads, with almost 5,000 on strategic nuclear weapons systems and nearly 3,400 substrategic and air defence warheads. Furthermore, Russia has around 10,000 more nuclear warheads in storage. Some are destined for dismantlement: others may function as a strategic reserve for a possible redeployment.57

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TABLE 5.3: RUSSIAN NUCLEAR STRATEGIC FORCES, 2002

Key: ALCM—air-launched cruise missile; AS—air-to-surface missile; ICBM— intercontinental ballistic missile, range greater than 5,500 km; MIRV—multiple independently targetable re-entry vehicle; SAM—surface-to-air missile; SLBM— submarine-launched ballistic missile; SRAM—short-range attack missile. Source: ‘Russian Nuclear Forces’, Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, July–August 2002, pp. 71–3, here p. 72.

In this light, Russian experts would like to counteract the cuts of numbers of nuclear missiles by equipping them again with multiple, independently targetable re-entry vehicles (MIRVs) which had been excluded in the START-II framework. While a single-warhead Topol-M costs around 100 million rubles, a missile equipped with three warheads costs 150 million and a mobile Topol-M with three warheads 200 million. Russian experts believe this would offer a cost-effective way to modernise and maintain a strategic arsenal of 1,000 to 1,500 warheads.58 A MIRV-ed arsenal has also been seen as a more cost-effective countermeasure and undermining US missile defence plans. In this regard, Russia’s Foreign Minister Igor Ivanov remarked in May 2000: ‘If the US withdraws from the Anti-Ballistic Missile (ABM) treaty, Russia would consider itself free from any regulations of the treaty. Then we will have to consider the agreement on liquidation of medium-and shortrange systems.’59 However, other military sources pointed out that the

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TABLE 5.4: RUSSIAN NUCLEAR FORCES 2002—NON-STRATEGIC FORCES

Note: * An additional 8,000–10,000 non-operational strategic and non-strategic warheads may be in reserve or awaiting dismantlement. Source: ‘Russian Nuclear Forces, 2002’, Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, July– August 2002, pp. 71–2.

MIRVing of the Topol-M would cost over $1 billion, and the programme would take five to seven years.60 THE STRATEGIC OFFENSIVE REDUCTION TREATY OF MAY 2002 At first glance, the new Strategic Offensive Reduction Treaty (SORT), signed on 24 May 200261 between the US and Russian presidents at their Moscow summit, will not change very much on Russia’s side in regard to its SNF. Both sides agreed to cut their ‘operationally deployed strategic warheads’ to 1,700–2,200—approximately two-thirds from their present strategic nuclear arsenals over a ten-year period. The treaty, just 485 words in five articles, does not define, however, which strategic warheads it covers (or what ‘operationally deployed strategic warheads’ really mean) nor how those are to be counted. The US side was primarily interested in as much flexibility as possible, including the possibility to quickly re-deploy warheads which have been removed from delivery vehicles such as ballistic missiles and bombers. By 2012, it is expected that the US will have deployed 2,200 strategic weapons and retain an additional 2,400 in an operationally maintained status of ‘responsive capability’.

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The final negotiations revealed on one hand the new strategic quality of the US-Russian relations after 11 September 2001, and on the other hand the following three facts which are often still overlooked by Western critics: 1. The more Russia’s SNF have declined over the last decade, the more it is Russia (and not the US) that—in principle—is primarily interested in an agreed treaty on the strategic nuclear forces of both sides as well as an inspection regime similar to the existing one for START-I. 2. But simultaneously, the better the relationship between Washington and Moscow, the less important becomes the treaty for both sides. The strategic relationship between the US and Russia is already moving from one of Mutual Assured Destruction (MAD) of the Cold War period into one of Mutual Assured Security (MAS).62 Negotiated arms control then will have only residual importance. 3. Interestingly, the critics of the new treaty in Moscow, Washington and Europe cling much more to the Cold War period and a mutual threat perception (or at least a lasting mutual mistrust) than those supporting the new treaty who are mostly concerned about very different global security threats in the new century. But critics, too, admit that lowering the number of deployed warheads decreases the number of warheads ready for quick use—therewith reducing risks of an unauthorised or accidental launch due to Russia’s deteriorating early-warning capability. Nonetheless, it is understandable that Russia sought rules that would count warheads according to the maximum number any deployed delivery vehicle could carry, similar to those of START-I. While the new SORT thus offers each side a much greater flexibility, it offers little predictability in regard to future strategic force structure—a central purpose of all former nuclear arms control treaties,63 but also the consequence of their former and to some extent still existing mutual threat perceptions. But as two US scholars have correctly pointed out: ‘Indeed, with Washington and Moscow working toward friendship relations, the warheads Russia keeps in storage—not the ones it deploys on its ICBMs, bombers, and submarines —may well be the greater nuclear threat to the United States.’64 But, most important for Russia, the new treaty seems to offer a possibility it long has sought unsuccessfully: to re-MIRV its ICBMs. Without it, a nuclear balance with a rising nuclear power such as China is only a question of time.65 Alexander A.Pikayev, for instance, pointed out in 1999: ‘maintaining this [nuclear] predominance [towards China] is

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TABLE 5.5: PLANNED REDUCTIONS IN THE RUSSIAN ARMED FORCES (’000s)

Source: Julian Cooper, ‘Russian Military Expenditure and Arms Production’, in SIPRI (ed.), Yearbook 2001: Armaments, Disarmament and International Security, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press, 2001, p. 322.

vitally important for maintaining the fragile stability along the banks of the Amur River. A Russo-Chinese arms race would not be possible for Moscow as long as Russia adhered to the START-II ban on MIRVed ICBMs.’66 However, it might be unrealistic to re-MIRV ICBMs because of the reference to START-I in the new SORT.67 In this light, Russia has now opted to withdraw from the provisions of START-II and to keep its present arsenal of MIRVed ICBMs. According to Defence Minister Sergei Ivanov, Russia will retain some 154 SS-18 heavy ICBMs and 36 combat rail-mobile SS-24—all carrying 10 MIRV warheads. Originally, those ICBMs were to be phased out before 2003 and eliminated before 2007 under START-II. Ivanov explained that this decision was not a response to the US withdrawal from the 1972 ABM treaty. At the same time, he hoped that these MIRVed ICBMs would be maintained operationally until 2016. But such an extending of the missiles’ service lives seems highly uncertain and costly at the expense of the already extremely low number of newly procured SS-27 Topol-M ICBMs.68 Whether this decision makes sense in the mid- and long-term future for Russia’s SNF seems rather doubtful. Given the fact that the SS-18 ICBM with its 10 MIRV warheads was at the centre of US attention during the past 30 years of nuclear strategic arms negotiations and treaties, the US surprisingly declared it had no objections to the structure and make-up of Russia’s nuclear forces, including Russia’s decision to maintain the SS-18. Russia’s decision is seen in the Bush administration to be in full compliance with SORT and it agreed that the START-II treaty will no longer be effective.69 But even SORT that allows re-MIRVing will not solve Russia’s military’s structural problems, just buy some limited time given the operational lifetimes of its older SS-18, SS-19, SS-24 and SS-25 ICBMs and the re-direction of financial resources away from SNF towards conventional forces.

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RUSSIA’S PRESENT MILITARY REFORM CONCEPT With President Putin’s approval on 15 January 2001 of the ‘Plan for the Buildup of Military Forces to 2005’ it became clear that, even if there had been a political compromise, it essentially followed Kvashnin’s proposals. Therewith, a smaller and more efficient army would be able to spend more on sophisticated high-tech weaponry. Seventy per cent of the defence budget had been spent on the soldiers’ incomes, leaving just 30 per cent for weapons. In the future, the ratio should shift to 60/40 in 2006 and 50/50 in 2011.70 These reductions, however, will also lead to new defence problems, especially in the Far East, where in future only 80,000 ground troops71 will face more than 2 million Chinese soldiers along a border of more than 4,300 kilometres—and where China’s strategic nuclear arsenal could grow from its current 300 to between 600 and 900 warheads by 2010–15, calling into question the Russian nuclear deterrent.72 Plans to merge the RVSN with the air force further weaken the status of Russia’s SNF in the overall defence posture. On 28 March 2001 Sergeyev was relieved of his post and became Putin’s adviser for ‘problems of strategic stability’. It was, however, not Kvashnin who became the new Defence Minister, but rather Sergei Ivanov, a trusted Putin adviser and secretary of the powerful Security Council. He nudged the reform process in a direction that favoured conventional forces. But at the same time, he curbed Kvashnin’s ambitions and manipulation of the General Staff to report directly to the president, circumventing the newly appointed civilian Defence Minister.73 In April 2001 Sergei Ivanov outlined a new, comprehensive concept for reforming Russia’s sprawling, ill-trained, under-funded and increasingly non-operational military. It confirmed the cuts in troop numbers, rationalised weaponry and outlined tighter budget controls. At the same time, he promised higher incomes for Russia’s professional soldiers over the next ten years and confirmed the plans to restructure Russia’s SNF. And yet, the conceptual battle was not over. President Putin, who met the high command of the Defence Ministry in October 2001 for a heated discussion, criticised the Defence Minister over the slow progress on military reforms.74 Even in March 2002 Pavel Felgenhauer could write: Military Chiefs have been deliberately sabotaging all attempts at serious reform of the armed forces since 1992. They still think they are preparing to fight a major war in which the West is the main potential enemy. And given that this is the case, they will never cut back the size of their forces.75

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At the beginning of 2002, President Putin approved an armaments programme until 2010 that placed much more emphasis on research, development and engineering work, in which the project to develop and produce a fifth-generation multi-role fighter played a very prominent role.76 However, some Russian experts believe that financing this is also unrealistic.77 Despite the shifting of funds to conventional forces the ground forces will not receive up-to-date military hardware by 2010. Although they have benefited from the reordering of financial resources, the ground forces claim to have just 28 per cent of the defence budget— 40–50 per cent below what they say they need.78 Indeed, the focus of new procurement spending is the modernisation and upgrading of air and naval weaponry and in particular satellites, high-precision weapon systems and reconnaissance-strike complexes. But their production will begin only after 2006 or even later.79 Instead, approximately 50 per cent of the 2002 defence budget for modernisation and new procurement will be spent on upgrading obsolete military hardware.80 Putin’s force reductions and the modernisation of conventional forces signal, however, that the political leadership and part of the military establishment are slowly moving away from the old threat scenarios of the Cold War. But these reductions on their own do not automatically improve the forces’ fitness for action which can translate into effective new military options. Nor is it clear that the reductions will suffice to overcome internal and operational problems. The military has not received a real 50 per cent increase. Funding that was previously hidden in other budgets (though still not all of it) has now been included in official defence expenditure figures.81 A ‘REVOLUTION IN MILITARY REFORM’ IS STILL WAITING Russia can take part in a nuclear apocalypse on equal terms, but the Russian Army is not prepared for a modern war with the use of conventional weapons. (Mikhail Khodarenok in March 2002)82 During the 1990s, Russia’s strategic nuclear weapons constituted a declining instrument of war rather than a symbol of Russia’s place in the world. Recent changes imply ‘denuclearisation’ of defence policy in general, and of Russia’s strategic nuclear posture in particular, and contrast with a growing ‘nuclearisation’ since 1992, especially in the enhanced status accorded to substrategic nuclear weapons. Yet the lowering of the nuclear threshold to the regional or even local level, as

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outlined in Russia’s 2000 Strategic Concept and Military Doctrine, will remain for the most part in the next decade and in fact will depend more on the efficiency of conventional forces in low-intensity conflicts than on the formal compromises laid down in these documents. However, the reprioritising of funds to conventional forces suggests that the nuclear threshold may rise again if the situation in the armed forces in combat readiness and efficiency significantly improves. For the time being, in its own best interest, the West needs to follow closely those Russian military policy discussions, which until recently have been less concerned with nuclear deterrence than with the actual tactical nuclear weapons to be used at different levels. The West needs to ensure that these policy discussions—including Russian readiness to resort to pre-emptive and preventive nuclear attacks in loosely defined ‘crisis situations’—are aired in the newly established NATO—Russia Council and other fora. Whether the lifetime of Russia’s older ICBMs can be extended further until 2016 seems highly uncertain. More than 60 per cent of Russia’s ICBMs are beyond their warranty life. The life-span of the SS-18s had already been extended from 15 to 22 years, whereas the lifetime of the SS-24 was extended only by one year. Even the 360 newer SS-25 (almost half of Russia’s ICBM force, produced between 1985 and 1994) will reach the end of their lifetimes between 2008 and 2010.83 In the short- and mid-term perspective, any re-shifting of funds again to the SNF has become even more unrealistic given that the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington have highlighted new urgent priorities for Russia too. Its air defence, for instance, is in a critical condition and cannot effectively safeguard strategic sites against suicide hijackers. Even the then chief of Russia’s air force, Anatoly Kornukov, admitted that a plane taking off in the Moscow region could hit the Kremlin before it could be intercepted by air defence systems because the level of combat readiness requires 10–12 minutes to bring it up. Anatoly Kvashnin himself confirmed the condition of Russia’s armed forces on 30 May 2002 at a conference on crime in the armed forces. He described the present situation in the military as ‘beyond critical’ with a decline in combat readiness which ‘could become irreversible 0146 0146’.84 Another official report stated recently that 46 per cent of servicemen live below the poverty line, whereas in the Interior Ministry 53 per cent and in the Federal Border Service 57 per cent of families are officially impoverished.85 Although those figures are of course alarming and should attract the attention of the Russian public and government, the Defence Ministry seems to use the depressing situation in the armed forces ‘to side-step the issue of military reform and substitute it with the

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problem of defence financing’.86 As Alexander Golts rightly described the situation in June 2002: the Defence Ministry has been creating almost perfect conditions for ubiquitous embezzlement. Even though a fifth of state spending goes to the military, the public has no opportunity to monitor defence spending. Even Duma deputies, apart from Defence Committee members, do not know the purposes for which the Defence Ministry appropriates money. Meanwhile, the Defence Minister and Chief of the General Staff continue making great efforts to classify all information related to the armed forces as a secret.87 Despite the fact that even the official Russian defence budget has tripled during the last three years, the military is still criticising substantial shortfalls.88 According to Deputy Defence Minister Colonel-General Igor Puzanov, lack of funding for training not only was undermining the armed forces, but also ruled out the planned replacement of conscriptionbased forces with a professional army in the immediate future.89 Thus far, Putin’s policy of increasing the official defence budget has not had a real impact on Russian armed forces’ operational readiness. Although Putin’s and Ivanov’s concept is moving in the right direction and the military reform debate continues, decisive measures may no longer be sufficient. What Russia needs is a ‘revolution in military reforms’ that goes much deeper than the agreed cuts in the regular armed forces and other troops90—particularly at a time when other countries pursue often even more ambitious reforms. But the core of financial problems for Russia’s military is not insufficient funds, rather its clinging to traditional Soviet threat perceptions as well as unwillingness to face the real challenges of Russia’s security policies. Furthermore, the military’s lack of transparency at nearly all levels allows massive corruption and bureaucratic game-playing. Only on the foundation of a real, democratic, civilian, parliamentary control over the defence sector will it be possible to initiate a wide-ranging and deepening military reform that will last for at least a decade instead of proposing and initiating unrealistic reform concepts which can never be implemented due to economic constraints and unrealistic defence plans. The political and the military elite need to understand that the unstable condition of Russia’s military forces poses a threat to the democratisation process in Russia and to socio-economic stabilisation—a fact that is not fully understood in the West either. Demands for higher increases in Russia’s defence budget alone will not resolve the core problems. It speaks for itself that Foreign Minister Igor

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Ivanov published in July 2002 an unusual article in one of the most important newspapers to justify Putin’s pro-Western foreign policy against rising resistance in the political and military elite and accusations of a policy of ‘unilateral concessions vis-à-vis the USA’91—ahead of a convocation of ambassadors which had not taken place for 20 years.92 As it looks now, in the coming decade the significance of at least the strategic nuclear weapons in Russian defence policy will continue to decline. The terrorist attacks on 11 September 2001 too may have important consequences for Russian defence policy, in focusing attention on strengthening conventional forces, while further weakening the arguments of the ‘rocket mafia’. However, successful military reform will be feasible only after the Chechen war ends. That, unfortunately, still seems unrealistic given the vested interests of those officers and soldiers involved in widespread weapon sales and smuggling in the region and the lack of will to seek a peaceful solution on both sides. But a’revolution in military reforms’ cannot wait forever in Russia. NOTES 1. On the legacies of the Soviet Union, see William E.Odom, The Collapse of the Soviet Military, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998; Christoph Bluth, The Collapse of Soviet Military Power, Aldershot: Dartmouth, 1995; Andrei A. Kokoshin, Soviet Strategic Thought, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998; Stephen J. Blank and Jacob W.Kipp (eds), The Soviet Military and the Future, Westport, CT and London: Greenwood Press, 1992. On military reform concepts and the situation in the 1990s, see: Michael H.Crutcher (ed.), The Russian Armed Forces at the Dawn of the Millennium, Carlisle, PA: Center for Strategic Leadership/US Army War College, December 2000; Richard F.Starr, New Military in Russia: Ten Myths that Shape the Image, Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1996; Dale R. Herspring, Russian Civil —Military Relations, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1996; Pavel Baev, The Russian Army in a Time of Troubles, London: Sage, 1996, particularly Chapter 3; Nikolay Sokov, Russian Strategic Modernization, Past and Future, Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield 2000; Roger R.Reese, The Soviet Military Experience: A History of the Soviet Army, 1917–1991, London and New York: Routledge, 2000. 2. See, inter alia, Frank Umbach, ‘Zwang zur Militärreform’, Internationale Politik, 9, 1996, pp. 57–62, here pp. 58ff. 3. Pavel Felgenhauer, Moscow News, 15 February 2001. 4. See also Christopher C.Locksley, ‘Concept, Algorithm, Indecision: Why Military Reform has Failed in Russia since 1992’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies (JSMS), 1, March 2001, pp. 1–26. 5. See also F.Umbach, ‘Dilemmas of Russian Military Modernization’, in Transatlantic Internationale Politik, Spring, 1, 2002, pp. 26–30; Vladimir Ivanov, Nezavisimaya Gazeta (NG), 2 October 1999, p. 11; Krasnaya Zvezda

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6.

7. 8. 9.

10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19. 20.

(KZ), 4 May 2000; Steven J.Main, ‘‘‘it’s the Thought Process that First Went to War”: Marshal I.Sergeyev, General A.Kvashnin, and the Experience of World War II, A Commentary’, JSMS, June 2001, pp. 49–70. On the situation until the middle of 1994, see, for example, Heinrich Tiller and F. Umbach, ‘Kontinuität und Wandel der russischen Streitkräfte unter Jelzin: Gefangene zwischen Vergangenheit und Zukunft’, Cologne: BIOst Report No. 52, 1994. See also F.Umbach, Future Military Reform; Russia’s Nuclear and Conventional Forces, Conflict Studies Research Centre: Defence Academy of the United Kingdom, D65, August 2002. See the chapter on Russia in The Military Balance 1999–2000, Oxford: Oxford University Press, IISS, October 1999, pp. 104–18. See F.Umbach, ‘The Maritime Strategy of Russia: The Gap between Great Sea Power Ambitions and the Economic-Military Realities’, in Juergen Schwarz, Wilfried A.Herrmann and Hanns-Frank Seller (eds), Maritime Strategies in Asia, Bangkok: White Lotus Press, 2002, pp. 171–206, here p. 187. Felix K.Chang, ‘The Unraveling of Russia’s Far Eastern Power’, Orbis, Spring 1999, pp. 257–84, p. 263. See also Segodnya, 14 February 1998. Alexei Arbatov, who had previously argued for 600,000 servicemen, favoured 800,000 Russian armed forces in 2000—see Alexei Arbatov and Pyotr Romashkin, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye (NVO), 8, 3–16 March 2000, pp. 1 and 3. V.Zubarev, NVO, 20, 9–15 June 2000, p. 3. Sergei Rogov, NVO, 1, 12–18 January 2001, pp. 1–2. See Moscow Times, 9 September 2000 (online). See Ivan Safronov and Ilya Bulavinov, Kommersant daily, 4 July 1998, Anatoliy Yurkin, KZ, 5 August 1998, pp. 1 and 3; Oleg Falichev, KZ, 18 August 1998, pp. 1–2. On Sergeyev’s military reform concept of two phases, see Igor Sergeyev, ‘Novaya Rossiya, Novaya Armiya’, Vestnik Voyennoy Informatsii, 10, 1997, pp. 1–4. See F.Umbach, ‘Russia as a Virtual Great Power: Implications for its Declining Role in European and Eurasian Security’, European Security, 3, Autumn 2000, pp. 87–122. See also Nikolay Sokov, ‘Denuclearization of Russia’s Defense Policy’, Center for Nonproliferation Studies, Monterey, CA: CNS Reports, 13 July 2000, and idem, ‘Kosovo Syndrome and the Great Nuclear Debate of 2000’, PONARS Policy Memo Series, 181, 2000. See also John Lloyd, Financial Times, 17 July 2000, p. 2. On the internal and public debates between Kvashnin and Sergeyev, see Alexander Golts, Itogi, 4 July 2000, pp. 12–14; Mikhail Timofeyev, NVO, 28 July—3 August 2000, pp. 1 and 4; Vladimir Yermolin, Izvestiya, 5 July 2000, p. 3; Viktor Baranets, Komsomolskaya Pravda, 12 July 2000, p. 6; Alexander Shaburkin, Vremya MN, 12 July 2000, p. 1; and 15 July 2000, p. 1; Vadim Solovyev, NG, 14 July 2000, p. 1; idem, NVO, 26, July 2000, pp. 1 and 3; Viktor Yuzbashev, Vremya Novostey, 21 July 2000, p. 3; Alexey Petrov, NG, 27 July 2000, p. 3; Nikolay Petrov, Kommersant, 29 July 2000, p. 2; Viktor

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21. 22. 23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

Litovkin, Obshchaya Gazeta, 30, 27 July—2 August 2000, p. 3; Yevgeniy Vertlib, Novaya Gazeta, 40, August 2000, pp. 1 and 3; Sergei Rogov, Vremya MN, 18 July 2000, p. 3; idem, Interfax, 26 July 2000; idem, NG, 26 July 2000, p. 2; idem, Izvestiya, 13 July 2000; Dmitry Koptev, Izvestiya, 5 August 2000, p. 3; Mikhail Kozyrev, Kommersant, 11 August 2000, p. 2. From Western sources, see David Hoffman, International Herald Tribune (IHT), 14 July 2000, p. 4, 15–16 July 2000, pp. 1 and 4, and 1 December 2000, p. 5; Paul Mann, ‘Russian Shakeup Draws Mixed US Assessment’, Aviation Week & Space Technology, 14 August 2000, pp. 30ff. Sergei Rogov, NG, 26 July 2000, p. 2. Sergei Rogov, Vremya MN, 18 July 2000, p. 3. On these two competing paradigms in regard to the world view and different threat perceptions inside Russia in the 1990s, see Andrei Shoumikhin, ‘Current Russian Perspectives on Arms Control and Ballistic Missile Defense’, Comparative Strategy, 1999, pp. 49–57; Yuri Chkanikov and Andrei Shoumikhin, ‘Russian Security Requirements and US Limited National Missile Defence System: Is Accommodation Possible?’, Comparative Strategy, 1998, pp. 291–307. See also Nikolay Sokov, ‘“Kosovo Syndrome” and the Great Nuclear Debate of 2000’, PONARS Policy Memo Series, 181, 2000. Mikhail Khodarenok, NVO, 9, 2002, 22–28 March 2002, p. 6. See also Nikolay Sokov, ‘The Fate of Russian Nuclear Weapons: An Anticlimax on August 11’, Monterey, CA: Institute of International Studies, CNS Report, 14 August 2000. See also Petr Akopov, Izvestiya, 1 August 2000, p. 2; Washington Times, 1 August 2000 (online version); Alan S.Cullison, Wall Street Journal Europe, 2 August 2000, pp. 1–2; Fred Weir, Christian Science Monitor, 2 August 2000. The document in Izvestiya, 18 November 1993, pp. 1–4 modified the 1982 Soviet pledge not to use nuclear weapons against non-nuclear states (such as a denuclearised Ukraine)—see also Dunbar Lockwood, ‘Russia Revises Nuclear Policy, Ends Soviet ‘No-First-Use’ Pledge’, Arms Control Today, December 1993, p. 19. Minister of Defence Army General Pavel Grachev had already declared it in an article four months earlier: see KZ, 9 June, pp. 1 and 5. See, inter alia, Vladimir Belous, ‘Key Aspects of the Russian Nuclear Strategy’, Security Dialogue, 2, 1997, pp. 159–71; Nikolay Sokov, ‘Russia’s Approach to Nuclear Weapons’, Washington Quarterly, 3, 1996, pp. 107–14. See, for instance, Aleksei G.Arbatov, ‘Virtual Arsenals’, in Michael J.Mazarr (ed.), Nuclear Weapons in a Transformed World: The Challenge of Virtual Nuclear Arsenals, New York: St Martin’s Press, 1997, pp. 319–36, p. 331. See Rossiyskaya Gazeta (RG), 26 December 1997, pp. 4–5. See also Aleksei G.Arbatov, ‘Voyennaya Reforma: Doktrina, Voyska, Finansy’, Mirovaya Ekonomika I Mezhdunarodnye Otnosheniya, 4, 1997, pp. 5– 21, here p. 8. See Nikolay Sokov, ‘The Tactical Nuclear Weapons Controversy’, Jane’s Defence Weekly (JDW), 31 January 2001, pp. 16ff.; Jeremy Bransten, ‘Russia: Report of Missile Deployment in Kaliningrad Threatens to Upset East/

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34. 35.

36. 37.

38.

39. 40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51.

West Ties’, RFE/RL Analysis, 11 January 2001; Bill Gertz, Washington Times, 4 January 2001 (online version) and 11 January 2001 (online version). See Nikolay Sokov, ‘A Conflict of Strategic Interests’, JDW, 2 August 2000, pp. 25ff., here p. 25; Igor Khripunov, ‘Last Leg of the Triad’, Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, July-August 2000, pp. 58–64, here p. 61. See F.Umbach, ‘Nuclear Proliferation Challenges in East Asia and Prospects for Co-operation: A View from Europe’, in Kurt W. Radtke and Raymond Feddema (eds), Comprehensive Security in Asia: Views from Asia and the West on a Changing Security Environment and Their Implications for Europe, Leiden: Brill, 2000, pp. 66–133, here pp. 74ff. See Pavel Felgengauer, Segodnya, 6 May 1999, pp. 1–2; David Hoffman, IHT, 1 September 1999. See, for instance, Andrei Piontkovskiy and Vitaly Tsigichko, Segodnya, 31 May 2000, p. 4. See also F.Umbach, ‘Russia’s Strategic and Military Interests in North-and Southeast Asia’, in Michael H.Crutcher (ed.), The Russian Armed Forces at the Dawn of the Millennium, Carlisle, PA: Center for Strategic Leadership, United States Army War College, December 2000, pp. 261–321, here p. 285. See also Alexei G.Arbatov, ‘The Transformation of Russian Military Doctrine: Lessons Learned from Kosovo and Chechnya’, The Marshall Centre Papers, 2, Garmisch-Partenkirchen: George C.Marshall European Centre for Security Studies, July 2000, p. 18. Andrei Korolev, ‘Nuclear Test Range in Arctic to be Used Intensively’, Bellona, 1 June 2000 (via Internet: www.bellona.no/imaker? id=16950&sub=l). Sokov, ‘“kosovo-Syndrome” and the Great Nuclear Debate of 2000’, p. 4. On these plans see ‘Letter of June 1999. Security Council Meeting: What Is Under the Veil of Secrecy?’, PIR Arms Control Letters, Moscow, 9 June; Richard Paddoc, Los Angeles Times, 14 September 1999; Zbigniew Brzezinski, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 10 November 1999, p. 10. Vladimir Perov, Novyye Izvestiya, 8 June 2001, p. 2. Aleksandr Babkin, RG, 27 June 2000, pp. 1 and 3. Sergei Putilov, Vremya MN, 19 December 2000, p. 3. See also Pavel Podvig (ed.), Russian Strategic Nuclear Forces, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001, here p. 575. Nikolay Sokov, ‘Nuclear Weapons and Russia’s Economic Crisis’, PONARS Policy Memo Series, 43, November 1998. See Yury Maslyukov (Head of the Duma Committee on Industry, Construction and High Technology), Vremya MN, 3 April 2002, p. 4; Anatoly Baranov, Novaya Gazeta, 25–27 April 2002, p. 7. Mikhail Vinogradov, ‘Modernization of Nuclear Arsenals: How to Set the Rules of the Game’, Yadernyy Control Digest, 5, 3 (15), Summer 2000, here S 1. Maslyukov, Vremya MN, 3 April 2002, p. 4; Baranov, Novaya Gazeta, 25–27 April 2002, p. 7. Maslyukov, Vremya MN, 3 April 2002, p. 4; Baranov, Novaya Gazeta, 25–27 April 2002, p. 7. See Boris Talov, RG, 13 October 2000, p. 4.

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52. Maslyukov, Vremya MN, 3 April 2002, p. 4; Anatoly Baranov, Novaya Gazeta, 25–27 April 2002, p. 7. 53. See also Elina Treyger, ‘Nuclear Arms Reduction and Defense Reform in Russia (summary of Sergei Rogov’s comments)’, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace Issue Brief, 2, 12, 22 November 2000; Podvig (ed.), Russia Strategic Nuclear Forces, here pp. 577 and 579. 54. Yakovlev interviewed by Ludmila Averina, Trud, 13 May 2000, p. 2. 55. Vladivostok News, 28 September 2001 (online version). 56. In 1997, the Russian Security Council decided to raise the naval component of the SNF to 55 per cent in 2010—see Vladimir Urban, Novyye Izvestiya, 9 February 2002, pp. 1–2. 57. See ‘Russian Nuclear Forces, 2002’, Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, JulyAugust 2002, pp. 71–3. 58. Georgy Ilyichev and Dimitry Safonov, Izvestiya (Moscow issue), 4 July 2001, p. 4. 59. Quoted following Itogi, 18, 2 May 2000, pp. 10–13. 60. See Vladimir Urban, Novyye Izvestiya, 9 February 2002, pp. 1–2. 61. ‘Treaty between the United States of America and the Russian Federation on Offensive Reductions’, Arms Control Today (ACT), June 2002, p. 9. 62. See also Joachim Krause and Benjamin Schreer, ‘Eine “Neue” Nuklearstrategie der USA? Die Nuclear Posture Review’, Internationale Politik, July 2002, pp. 35–42. 63. See Wade Boese and J.Peter Scoblic, ‘The Jury is Still Out’, ACT, June 2002, pp. 4–6, here p. 6. 64. Ibid. 65. On China’s modernisation and expansion programmes of its strategic nuclear forces, see Umbach, ‘Nuclear Proliferation Challenges in East Asia and Prospects for Co-operation’, here pp. 101ff. and F.Umbach, ‘Strategic Trends of Global Denuclearization and Nuclearization: Implications for Japan’s Security Policies, Regional Stability and the TMD-Debate in East Asia’, in Hiroshima Peace Science, 27, April 2001, pp. 63–118, here pp. 85ff. 66. Alexander A.Pikayev, The Rise and Fall of START II: The Russian View, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace/Non-Proliferation Project/ Global Policy Program, 6, September 1999, Chapter 4, here p. 3 (www.ceip.org/programs/ npp/pikayev.htm). 67. See Sergei Sokut, NG, 21 June 2002, pp. 1 and 9 (but he did not detail the reference to START-I). START-I envisages the reduction of the Soviet Union’s heavy deployed missiles to 154 (SS-18s). Furthermore, the treaty allowed two existing missile types to be reduced from a certain type not to exceed 500 warheads. In order to minimise the destabilising effect of these warheads being returned to their launchers (re-MIRVing), the START-I treaty limited the total number of unloaded warheads to 1,250 on each side —see Podvig (ed.), Russian Strategic Nuclear Forces, here p. 22. In this context, it seems that it would allow Russia a re-MIRVing within this START-I ceiling of 1,250 warheads. However, Article III, 5d of START-I states as follows: ‘A Party shall not have the right to attribute to ICBMs of a new type a number of warheads greater than the smallest number of

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68. 69. 70. 71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79.

80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91.

warheads attributed to any ICBM to which that Party has attributed a reduced number of warheads pursuant to subparagraph >c< ’. See Nikolay Novichkov, ‘Russia to Retain MIRVs beyond START-II Deadline’, JDW, 28 August 2002, p. 3. See ‘U.S. Does not Object to Russia Maintaining Satan Missiles—Bolton’, Interfax-AVN, 13 September 2002. Interviewed in KZ, 25 April 2001. See also Robert Cottrell, Financial Times, 26 April 2001, p. 3. Grigory Tikhonov, Tribuna, 20 January 2001, p. 1. I have analysed the development programmes of Russia’s and China’s strategic nuclear arsenals in Umbach, ‘Strategic Trends of Global Denuclearization and Nuclearization’, pp. 63–118. (Also available on the website of the DGAP: www.dgap.org.) Pavel Felgenhauer, Moscow Times, 18 January 2001. Ilya Bulavinov, Kommersant, 18 October 2001, pp. 1 and 2. Pavel Felgenhauer, Moscow Times, 21 March 2002. See Nikolay Novichkov, ‘Russia Adopts 10-Year Arms Plan’, JDW, 6 February 2002, p. 16 and idem, ‘Russia Puts Money into Research, Development’, JDW, 20 February 2002, p. 20. See Viktor Litovkin, Obshchaya Gazeta, 4, 4 January 2002, p. 6, and 31 January 2002. See the interview with Colonel-General Nikolay Kormiltsev by Nikolay Poroskov, Vek, 1–2, 11–17 January 2002, pp. 1 and 3. See ‘No Big Changes Planned in Size of Russian Arms Budget’, Jamestown Foundation Monitor, 23 January 2002; Alexander Golts, ‘The Shadow That Lags Behind’, Yezhenedelnyy Zhurnal, 25, July 2002, quoted here following CDI Russia Weekly, 213, 5 July 2002. See Vadim Solovyev, NVO, 33, 7 September 2001, pp. 1 and 3; Sergei Putilov, Vremya MN, 14 June 2001, p. 4; Mark Galeotti, ‘Budget for Defence Reform’, FIR, March 2002, pp. 50–1. See also V.Aleksin, NG, 15 September 2000, pp. 1 and 3; Alexander Bekker, Vedomosti, 25 August 2000, p. Al. Mikhail Khodarenok, NVO, 9, 22–29 March 2002, p. 3. See also Podvig (ed.), Russian Strategic Nuclear Forces, here p. 655 (footnote 25). Pavel Felgenhauer, Moscow Times, 18 July 2002. Ibid. and Vadim Solovyev, NVO, 15, 17–23 May 2002, pp. 1 and 4. Felgenhauer, Moscow Times, 18 July 2002. Alexander Golts, Yezhenedelnyy Zhurnal, 23, 18 June 2002, here following the quotation in CDI Russia Weekly, 211, 21 June 2002. Yury Golotyuk, Vremya Novostey, 26 September 2001, p. 2. See Robin Hughes, JDW, 13 June 2001, p. 12. See also Vadim Solovyev, NVO, 16, 12–18 April 2002, p. 1. Leonid Radzikhovskiy, Itogi, 11, 2002; Igor Korotchenko, NG, 6 March 2002. In February 2002, 20 retired generals and admirals attacked President Putin in an open letter that his reforms would ruin Russia and his foreign policy contradicted Russia’s interests. They demanded the re-establishment of the socialist system and the ‘plan-market-economy’—see Sovetskaya Rossiya, 22

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February 2002. One of the most outspoken critics of Putin’s pro-Western policy is Colonel-General Leonid Ivashov who was ironically until 2001 the head of the international cooperation section in the Russian Defence Ministry, responsible for all foreign contacts of the military. Although he has been dismissed, he has been transferred to the position of VicePresident of the Academy of Geopolitical Sciences where he is educating the next generation of Russia’s officer corps and an influential institution to shape the military’s future geopolitical and geo-strategic thinking. As an example of his outspoken criticism, see his interview by Yelena Aleksandrova, Parlamentskaya Gazeta, 5 April 2002, pp. 8–9. 92. Therein, he seems to indicate that Russia would not hinder a possible US military action against Iraq—see his interview in Izvestiya, 10 July 2002.

6 The Strategic Rocket Forces, 1991–2002 Steven J.Main

WHAT ARE THE STRATEGIC ROCKET FORCES? In an ‘encyclopaedic dictionary’ published to commemorate their 40th anniversary, the Strategic Rocket Forces (RVSN) define themselves thus: The Strategic Rocket Forces are a service branch of the armed forces of the Russian Federation, the central part of the strategic nuclear forces (SNF). Created in accordance with the decree of the USSR’s Council of Ministers dated 17 December 1959, RVSN’s predetermined [tasks] include: to put into effect measures of nuclear deterrence during the threat of aggression, or during the course of a war using conventional weapons of destruction…in the event of a nuclear war, to destroy strategic objects forming the basis of the enemy’s military and military-economic potential; to repel an enemy’s nuclear-missile and space-missile attack; to secure the actions of groups of the armed forces at all stages of the conduct and escalation of military conflicts. Basic means and capabilities of RVSN: enormous strike power; high combat readiness; the ability to carry out combat duties in the shortest possible time; unlimited reach and great accuracy in striking at enemy targets; the capability to secretly prepare and launch a nuclear-missile strike under any weather…conditions; RVSN’s great survivability includes the central organs of military combat and control, combat units of Space Missile Defence…the combat units and institutions involved in the control and launch of space apparatus, scientific-research organs and military-research establishments.1 However, on 1 June 2001, RVSN was transformed from being a service branch of the armed forces (vid) to an arm of service (rod). Tanks are an ‘arm’, if you like, of the ground forces, submarines an ‘arm’ of the navy. This downgrading also meant that it was no longer commanded by a

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commander-in-chief (C-in-C), but simply by a commander, like the military districts. Even so, maintaining two-thirds of Russia’s missile launchers and nuclear warheads, RVSN is still the dominant force in the strategic nuclear triad of RVSN, naval and air platforms.2 FROM SOVIET TO RUSSIAN (1991–93) By 1991, RVSN had been commanded for six years by Colonel-General Yu. P.Maksimov who, although not a career missileman, saw the first missile regiment equipped with the new Topol-M missile (April 1987), the introduction of the first rail-missile complex (October 1987) and other important developments. Despite the imminent collapse of the USSR, on 12 November 1991 President Gorbachev issued a decree, creating a new service branch—the Strategic Deterrence Forces (Strategicheskiye Sily Sderzhevaniya, SSS)—and appointed Maksimov their C-in-C. The new service was to consist of RVSN, the early-warning missile attack system, space control directorate, anti-missile defence, the directorate of head of space means and, in an operational sense, ‘air force and naval strategic nuclear forces’.3 With the formal demise of the USSR a month later, however, neither the service branch nor the post got off the drawing board.4 The RVSN found its assets scattered across four new republics: Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Belarus. In numbers of missile launchers, Russia had 1, 035; Ukraine 176; Kazakhstan 104 and Belarus 72. With the financial backing of the USA and international pressure from elsewhere, a process of ‘denuclearisation’ was begun, culminating, over the next five years, in the withdrawal or the destruction of all nuclear weapons from Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Belarus.5 On 16 January 1992, the Soviet Ministry of Defence became the Main Command of the armed forces of the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS). General Maksimov was appointed C-in-C of their strategic forces, with under his command: Units, formations, institutions, military-educational institutions of the RVSN, air force, navy, anti-aircraft defence, directorate of the head of space troops, airborne forces, strategic and operational intelligence-gathering, nuclear-technical units, as well as the forces, means and other military installations designed to control and maintain the strategic forces of the former USSR.6 The decree on the strategic forces (SF) could simply have been the old SSS one put into effect, now defending the CIS ‘common defence space’.

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At least for the time being, the SF belonged in the CIS’s unified military structure. Yet the framework was confused. Formally speaking, the CIS had under its command only the SF and peacekeeping forces. Although de jure control of the nuclear arsenal may have resided with the CIS, actual control lay with Russia: the nuclear ‘briefcase’ was passed to Yeltsin when Gorbachev relinquished power.7 However, there was no genuine desire in other republics to maintain a’common defence space’ and this increased pressure on Russia to assert full operational control over all nuclear weapons on CIS territory. The plan for Russia’s armed forces clearly showed Russia’s intentions: they were to have five services, one of which was to be RVSN.8 On 22 August 1992, among a list of senior military appointments in the new Russian armed forces was C-in-C for RVSN, namely ColonelGeneral I.D. Sergeyev who had been deputy C-in-C Soviet RVSN for combat training.9 Such a post was clear evidence that Russia was becoming frustrated at the other CIS members’ reluctance to help maintain the collective nuclear security forces. The process took a further step with the passing on 24 September 1992 of the law ‘On Defence’, under Article 5 of which the Russian president had the power ‘to issue the order to the armed forces of the Russian Federation to carry out military actions [including] the use of nuclear weapons and other means of mass destruction within the powers determined by the Supreme Soviet of the Russian Federation’.10 Thus, by the CIS Bishkek summit on 9 October 1992 the end of the CIS SF was in sight. Maksimov at his ‘personal request’ tendered his resignation, and was—despite his age (68) —put ‘at the disposal’ of the Russian MoD; he did not officially retire until March 1993.11 The process of ‘denuclearisation’ thus acted as a catalyst for the creation of Russian armed forces, and in weakening the viability of the CIS as a military organisation. The Lisbon Protocol of 23 May 1992 granting Russia legal jurisdiction over all the nuclear weapons of the former Soviet Union (fSU) also played a role. Russia had taken the logical path forward—after all, it had witnessed the nationalist forces unleashed in the wake of the collapse of the USSR12 and the creation of republican armed forces, and was feeling the economic burden of maintaining a military force designed for a superpower. The process of forming a military structure specifically for Russia began to make the very existence of CIS united armed forces look anachronistic. A major article on the RVSN by Sergeyev in April 1993 failed to mention them.13 The deterioration continued, until the CIS heads of state decided on 24 September 1993 to turn the high command of the

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united armed forces into the headquarters for coordinating military cooperation. Attempts to convince the other republics of the utility of maintaining a collective nuclear security force had failed. It would be wrong, however, to give the impression that the attempt was doomed from the start. From Russia’s viewpoint, maintaining the old Soviet defence space—with everything, literally, already in place—would have been easier than adapting or building from scratch. The costs (human, economic, geostrategic) of having to mould a new defensive structure to meet the security needs of a country as vast as Russia were and are considerable, and the number of states that Russia could count on as ‘allies’ was very small. Its security position had worsened—with the very real possibility that it could become involved in a regional conflict, having so many new neighbours and borders. Russia would have to secure its own national interests as best it could, even if this meant reliance on its nuclear deterrent to keep the potential aggressor at bay. In June 1993, Sergeyev wrote what, in effect, had become a truism since 1991: The main means of maintaining the security of our state and the whole Commonwealth are the SNF. Only they are capable of solving the problems of containing aggression, securing strategic stability in the world and, in the final analysis, preventing a world war. Without question, the main role here belongs to the RVSN, which forms the core part of SNF and comprises about 60 per cent of its launchers and 65 per cent of its warheads, solves up to 80 per cent of its combat tasks.14 THE RUSSIAN MILITARY DOCTRINE (NOVEMBER 1993) There had been a steady progression away from the thinking of the 1960s, which interpreted using nuclear weapons as weapons with massive firepower, i.e. in a war-fighting capacity, with the ability to solve a variety of strategic tasks. By the 1980s, with their increased accuracy and numbers, nuclear weapons were going from being weapons to be used in war to becoming political weapons, as the costs of fighting a nuclear war meant avoiding one if at all possible. In the final draft USSR Military Doctrine (1990), there were signs that the USSR had realised this: it committed itself to non-first use of nuclear weapons; it regarded no single state as ‘the enemy’ and would not use its armed forces in a

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conflict which did not involve either its own defence or the defence of its allies.15 But Russia’s security position had deteriorated—there were military conflicts within the fSU; the weakening of Russia’s conventional forces was increasingly obvious; production was falling—and the CIS had failed to establish a ‘common defence space’. Work on a Russian Military Doctrine had to begin.16 Interest in the draft document was greater for what it did not say than for what it did. Western commentators speculated about the fact that Russia had apparently withdrawn its earlier commitment to non-first use of nuclear weapons, and feared that this signalled a more confrontational approach. However, from mid-1992 to November 1993 Russia’s military and political leadership repeatedly made it clear that the new doctrine would do away with this policy, simply because Russia had very little choice. The only force at its disposal which friends and enemies would take seriously was its nuclear force. At a special conference in Moscow on 27–30 May 1992 a number of speakers linked the declining power of Russia’s conventional forces, increasing reliance on its strategic deterrent and the draft Military Doctrine. Colonel-General I.N.Rodionov, head of the Military Academy of the General Staff, and a future Russian Defence Minister, stated: Nuclear weapons…are the basic means of deterring possible aggression, in other words, preventing war… Under no set of circumstances will we be the aggressor, but the rest [of the world] must know…that, in the event of aggression against Russia, it will use all means at its disposal to defend its own interests.17 Lieutenant-General L.I.Volkov, head of an RVSN scientific-research institute, also spoke: The disintegration of the Warsaw Pact and of the armed forces on the former territory of the USSR, as well as the elimination of tactical nuclear weapons, strengthened the West’s military superiority in general purpose forces and equipment (by more than twofold with respect to Russia). Under these conditions, the SNF and their core, the RVSN, remain the last military-political force maintaining constant combat readiness, supporting the strategic balance in the world and Russia’s security and preventing its transition to the ranks of second-rate states.18

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He warned that making the nuclear forces Voluntarily’ weak would be an ‘unforgivable mistake… The SNF must ensure deterrence from aggression, above all from political pressure and blackmail from countries possessing nuclear weapons.’19 In September 1993, General Grachev gave as a priority: ‘first of all, to prevent the outbreak of a global nuclear or conventional war by means of maintaining the SNF in a state ensuring a retaliatory response with the necessary effectiveness and under all conditions’.20 Russia’s nuclear arsenal was now very much viewed as an instrument of war-prevention, not of war-fighting, even less of war-winning. As a direct result of the weakness of its conventional forces, Russia would have to rely more on the nuclear deterrent, and for that threat to be credible—especially to states with their own nuclear weapons—Russia could not tie one hand behind its back by repeating formulaic notions concerning non-first use. The year 1993 was a turbulent one in the history of the Russian state. The draft Military Doctrine was eventually passed by the Security Council on 2 November, Yeltsin signing it into law on the same day.21 With particular regard to nuclear weapons, the new doctrine stated that: ‘The aim of the policy of the Russian Federation in the sphere of nuclear weapons is to avert the threat of a nuclear war by precluding aggression against the Russian Federation and its allies’ (emphasis in the original).22 The doctrine also reaffirmed that Russia would not use nuclear weapons against states party to the 1968 Non-Proliferation Treaty. In fact, there were only two listed scenarios when Russia would use them, namely when: ‘a) such a state, which has allied relations with a nuclear state, attacks the Russian Federation…b) such a state collaborates with a nuclear power in carrying out, or supporting, an invasion or armed aggression against the Russian Federation’.23 The doctrine also stated that it would be Russia’s policy ‘to reduce nuclear forces to a minimum which would guarantee against a large-scale war and maintain strategic stability and, eventually, to ensure full elimination of nuclear weapons’.24 In stating that ‘the Russian Federation shall guarantee its military security by all means at its disposal, giving priority to political-diplomatic and other peaceful means’, the emphasis is on non-forceful means, without ruling out the possibility that Russia will use everything at its disposal to maintain its security. In a state possessing nuclear weapons, the inference is clear. Comments in the West prompted the Russian MoD to clarify Russia’s position in a statement through its Military Development and Reform Directorate. In its opening paragraphs, it emphasised the ‘defensive nature’ of Russia’s Military Doctrine and explained why there was no mention of ‘no first use’:

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In the document, there is no mention of the use of nuclear weapons, either first or second. The main essence of Russia’s nuclear strategy is aimed at the prevention of nuclear war itself… Nuclear weapons in the army and navy of Russia in [the doctrine] are not viewed as a weapon to conduct military action and achieve victory in war, but as a political instrument to maintain Russia’s security and strategic stability and remove the threat of nuclear war in the world…the aim of the policy of the Russian Federation in the area of nuclear weapons is removing the danger of nuclear war by containing aggression unleashed against the Russian Federation and its allies… nuclear weapons of this country serve and will serve as a reliable means of assuring security for itself and its allies and of nuclear containment.25 For many in Russia’s leadership it was easy to accept that the main reason why Russia was not embroiled in a major external conflict—given its internal weaknesses—was its nuclear arsenal. If the arsenal could not be enhanced militarily—due to financial difficulties—then it had to be strengthened in another way, for instance by saying: ‘although we don’t want to use them, if we have to, we will’. It would have been ludicrous to hold on to the notion of ‘no first use’—after all, deterrence relies on the potential adversary believing that you will carry out the threat, regardless of whether you will in practice. THE RVSN UNDER SERGEYEV (1993–97) A few months before the new Military Doctrine was adopted, Sergeyev published an article examining how the current reform process was affecting RVSN. He pointed out that while there had been a ‘significant reduction’ in tension between East and West and a ‘reduction in the likelihood of world wars’ breaking out, nevertheless there were still ‘potential sources of military conflict’ and that, for the foreseeable future, ‘the military threat to Russia has scarcely disappeared’.26 He noted that the Russian armed forces were being developed along two main principles: First. Deterring any aggressor from unleashing a nuclear or a largescale conventional war against Russia, by maintaining the strategic nuclear forces in a state guaranteeing an effective response under any conditions. Second. Deterring an aggressor from unleashing regional and local wars and military conflicts by means of creating and maintaining the combat potential of the groups of general purpose forces at a level guaranteeing repulsing the aggression.27

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He notes how the general purpose forces have been ‘significantly weakened’; hence the base means in maintaining the security of our state and of the entire Commonwealth remain the SNF. Only they are able to solve the tasks of deterring aggression, maintaining strategic stability in the world and, in the final analysis, prevent war. Without question, the fundamental role belongs to the RVSN, which form the core part of the SNF.28 RVSN’s future development would depend on a range of new factors: ‘Concluding agreements on reducing strategic offensive weapons; sharp reduction in monies allocated for defence; collapse in industrial cooperation for designing, experimenting and serial production of missile technology.’29 Sergeyev outlined three stages; the first had already been completed by the end of 1992 and had ‘created a real basis for the future reform of RVSN’. The second, up to 1995, was to involve the re-staffing of the missile complexes in Kazakhstan and Ukraine; complete the relocation of units from Belarus to Russia and strengthen links with industry to maintain the ‘creation and secure use of missile weapons and the formation of a Russian corporation of enterprises’. As a technical specialist,30 Sergeyev would have been well aware of the necessity of sourcing as much as possible from within Russia. The third and final stage, 2000–3, was to realise the final provisions of START-II and the creation of the RVSN grouping, incorporating stationary and mobile missile complexes. ‘Concrete directions [napravelniya]…will be made more precise in 1995, taking into account the then existing political and economic conditions.’31 Sergeyev closed by stating that RVSN had three inter-related tasks to carry out in the foreseeable future: (1) to support the necessary level of combat readiness of the existing grouping of forces to maintain nuclear deterrence and strategic stability and prevent war; (2) to continue the reorganisation and improvement of RVSN grouping while reducing the number of launchers by up to a third; (3) to put into effect the provisions of the START (Strategic Arms Control) treaties.32 While all service branches suffered because of the run-down economy, RVSN was also hit by the fact that the missile systems were now produced partly abroad: Of the three leading missile factories, only one was left in Russia— in Votkinsk… The division into sovereign states has shown that

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strategic weapons should not be made even by the hands of friends … On Russian territory, there remain only 60 per cent of the defence enterprises for RVSN. Right away, we were forced to create our own Russian corporation, uniting about 200 enterprises. The Topol-M from the bolt to the most complicated systems [had to be] purely Russian.33 This re-sourcing of production was also described in an interview by the head of RVSN’s procurement department, Major-General V.Meleshko: With the collapse of the USSR, a number of enterprise-suppliers remained in the near abroad. The department had to establish a corporation in order to get our orders fulfilled. The department succeeded in transferring to Russian territory the production of a number of vitally important…lines of production. The Moscow joint-stock company MOVEN mastered the production…of special ventilators, which had been formerly manufactured by the Nikolayevsk ship-building factory…St Petersburg AO ‘Elektropul’t’ an electrical transfer system, which had been produced earlier by the Khar’kov Electromechanical factory [both in Ukraine].34 It has to be seen as one of Sergeyev’s less glamorous, but nonetheless significant achievements that he was able to re-source so much production into Russian hands. In renewing and upgrading the missile complexes, Sergeyev was also throwing a lifeline to the struggling domestic defence industry. Yet this need to spend on a force which, all going well, would never actually be used was to rankle with other service chiefs. The RVSN continued to perform well, in assessments carried out by its own inspectors and those of the General Staff. Thus, in 1994, Sergeyev reported that ‘all units…of the missile forces are combat ready and able to carry out their pre-allotted tasks’. An ‘excellent’ rating was awarded to those units involved in the test-firing exercises carried out that year,35 despite the fact that RVSN only received one-third of monies allocated for combat training.36 Similarly in 1996, in his official report to the Minister of Defence, Sergeyev stated that 80 per cent of RVSN units checked in the winter-training period were ‘good’, even though RVSN received only 56 per cent of what had been allocated.37 The main conclusion of an enlarged session of RVSN’s Military Council in 1996 was that ‘the organs of control and the troops are capable of… fulfilling tasks facing RVSN’.38 The session also heard that 76 per cent of the divisions tested were ‘good’ and the rest ‘satisfactory’.39

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These efforts were appreciated. In April 1995, during a tour of RVSN units, Defence Minister Grachev stated that ‘the RVSN are not only the firm guarantee of the country’s security, but also the fundamental factor of deterrence in a geopolitical sense’. Alluding to the possibility of future NATO expansion into eastern Europe, Grachev reminded everyone that ‘Russia is a super-country, possessing super-weapons. And no one should forget that.’40 Earlier on, Grachev had told an audience that ‘RVSN remains the most important means of stabilising the political situation in the world’.41 And all this with a force which, according to official figures, accounted for only 9 per cent of total armed forces personnel and between 6 and 8 per cent of the defence budget.42 In the middle of 1996, the Chief of the General Staff (CGS), General M.Kolesnikov, reiterated the SNF’s primary task as being ‘the maintenance of a guaranteed deterrent against the unleashing of world nuclear or conventional war’. For this objective to be achieved, SNF would ‘maintain their existing three-force structure: land, naval and air. Their development must be given priority.’43 With such powerful support Sergeyev’s RVSN was in the ascendancy; it was also unique in that its weapons and troops were controlled by the president and Minister of Defence respectively.44 This gave their commander the potential for privileged access to the leadership, which may also have rankled elsewhere, especially given the severe restrictions on defence spending throughout the 1990s. In December 1996, Sergeyev examined what had been achieved in the previous five years and looked ahead: the most significant [achievement] can be considered to have been the almost complete withdrawal of the RVSN groupings from the countries of the near abroad. By today, almost all the nuclear weapons in Kazakhstan have been destroyed… In relation to the missile regiments left in Belorussia, their withdrawal…we plan to complete in March 1997… The planned rearmament of the missile regiments with a new generation missile complex system has continued, even if not according to the…necessary tempo… and the most important thing…we have begun a modernisation programme of the Topol missile complex system, which will form the nucleus for the future of the RVSN grouping and will maintain Russia’s security into the 21st century. The work is not easy, there’s not enough money. Nevertheless, we have already finished the creation of the Russian corporation of producer-enterprises…the material basis for the beginning of series production.45

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Despite the re-equipping not going as quickly as he would have liked— by 1996, while a further three missile regiments were put on combat duty, more than half of the force’s missile complexes had passed their guaranteed operational service life—he had a lot to be proud of, though circumstances had helped. War in Chechnya had amply demonstrated how poor the country’s conventional armed forces were. In contrast, RVSN were still operationally capable. Such events were soon to impact on Sergeyev’s career. General Grachev —who had been dismissed in June 1996 amidst rumours of corruption and even murder—had been replaced by General I.N. Rodionov. There was tension in the relationship between the armed forces C-in-C (Yeltsin) and the new Defence Minister, who had been a career soldier, as evidenced in February 1997, when Rodionov publicly stated that, unless more money was forthcoming for defence, Russia faced ‘the complete degradation of its armed forces’.46 Itreached boiling point when, in full glare of the TV cameras, Yeltsin publicly humiliated Rodionov for a perceived failure to carry out military reform: Rodionov was dismissed on 22 May 1997 and the following day newspapers carried the announcement that Sergeyev had been appointed in his place.47 A new acting CGS was also appointed: the former North Caucasus Military District Commander, Colonel-General A. Kvashnin.48 Kvashnin often liked to refer to himself as being just ‘an old soldier’ and this is fair comment. As commander of the district which was the operational centre in the First Chechen War (1994–96), he was a man who had experience of controlling men in combat and knew what kept an army in the field. Sergeyev was a good, technical specialist and kept the most technical branch of the armed forces equipped and ready. However, given the threats to Russia’s security revealed by the Chechen War, did Russia now have the right kit to face the right threat? INTEGRATION—TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE? There followed turbulent years for Russia and for RVSN. Economic meltdown in autumn 1998 threatened to plunge Russia into economic, political and social turmoil; the Second Chechen War (1999–) and NATO’s air campaign against Yugoslavia in 1999 gave further support to the argument that Russia was inadequately equipped to meet the potential military threats. Russia adopted a new Military Doctrine in April 2000 and, in the same year, there was almost a state of open war between the General Staff and the Defence Ministry concerning the future of the SNF.

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Almost right away the elevation of Sergeyev to Defence Minister impacted on the RVSN. On 16 July 1997, Yeltsin issued a decree unifying RVSN with the Military Space Troops (VKS) and Troops of Missile Space Defence (RKO).49 The new C-in-C, Colonel-General V.N. Yakovlev, who had spent his entire career in RVSN, dubbed the unification of the three forces as ‘the first important step on the path of reform of the SNF’.50 The plan to unify VKS and RKO with RVSN was a comparatively old one: The decision…was worked out in the General Staff, in particular by the Centre for Military-Strategic Studies, no less than ten years ago, it received the approval of the Academy of Military Science and was recommended more than once by various commissions of the General Staff… However, the stubborn resistance over the years of the leadership of PVO troops [?] and VKS did not allow the realisation of what had been planned.51 Although it had been dusted down from the Soviet era, it was still a decision which many agreed with. Yakovlev detailed the reasoning behind the decision: because of their similarity in structures, the presence of duplicating layers in the central control organs, use of a common experimental test base. The rocket troops have played a big part in mastering the cosmos with the assistance of Earth’s satellites, carried into space by powerful rocket launchers… And there’s history; for example before 1982, the Main Administration of Space Means was part of RVSN. A further argument in favour of the unification process is that before unification, about 60 per cent of enterprises in Russia all at the same time were working on weapons and military technology in the interests of RVSN, VKS and RKO.52 A service had been created which united all the strike, information and early-warning defence systems vital to the deterrence and retaliatory power of the state. A unified system of command and control was designed, not only to raise combat effectiveness, but also to reduce manpower and costs.53 The practical result was the disbandment of 50 military units and establishments and more than 5,000 posts (more than 10 per cent of them in December 1997).54 RVSN now concentrated on equipping its units with one ICBM, namely Topol-M, as opposed to the six different types of Soviet days: this would reduce production costs by up to two-thirds. By 2001 a further manpower reduction would save a further 650–680 billion rubles annually.55 Following integration, there was a 32 per cent reduction in the administrative staff; three research

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institutes were amalgamated into one; and two test ranges at Plesetsk were merged. At the end of 1997, the sum of all these changes was impressive: ‘Before integration, the budgets of RVSN, VKS and RKO accounted for, in total, 19.3 per cent of the military budget but, after integration, and putting into effect the steps outlined, the integrated budget will be only 15.5 per cent.’56 Such a reduction alone would save the defence budget 1,300 billion rubles.57 Still, the service would have to prioritise because behind the impressive-looking figures lurked a very harsh reality: every ruble had to be spent in the most effective way possible. As Yakovlev himself admitted: ‘[previously it] simply was not necessary to consider expenditure, but nowadays we have to count every ruble’.58 The merger was a clear demonstration of the impact of Russia’s poor economy on its defence. Sergeyev could also have been attempting to protect RVSN by imposing cuts through integration, rather than facing harsher cuts by someone less sympathetic. Even so, the force was to face a tough time, because of one major issue which no amount of cost-cutting could resolve: was the security that it was providing for Russia being bought at too high a price, i.e. to the detriment of other service branches? Certainly, by the middle of 2000, this was the general feeling: General Staff statistics showed that between 50 and 80 per cent of allocations for new weapons and military technology went to the SNF.59 In a session of the MoD Collegium, ‘it was underlined that today, when nuclear weapons, in the main, are a factor of political deterrence and the threats have qualitatively changed, then the possibility has arisen to lower the level of strategic offensive weapons to a minimum’.60 While there could be no doubting RVSN’s crushing firepower, its use was hard to imagine. There was an ever-decreasing likelihood that Russia would face an all-out nuclear war, and even a large-scale conventional war looked a distant prospect. However, Russia could still very easily become involved in military conflict. Was Russian security enhanced by another successful test firing of another Topol-M? Of course, the rocketeers and their supporters argued that it was, but if RVSN was ever used would it not have failed in its primary function: preventing largescale war in the first place? It seemed that Russia was not ready to fight any war, except, arguably, the one it wanted to avoid most: nuclear. THE CHANGING THREAT PERCEPTION AND THE SNF The necessity of introducing correctives in the Military Doctrine adopted in 1993 was brought about by events in the

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north Caucasus, the adoption by NATO of a new Concept, allowing the North Atlantic alliance to take military decisions without the consent of the UN Security Council. In the opinion of military experts, Russia’s Military Doctrine reflected the concept of a peace-loving state and was a doctrine of containment. Deeply defensive in nature, the Military Doctrine at the same time does not exclude the use of all possible ways and means to conduct the fight, including nuclear weapons, to repulse exceptional threats, involving territorial integrity, sovereignty and, in general, the existence of the Russian state.61 A neater summary of the new April 2000 Military Doctrine would be hard to find. The adoption of a revised National Security Concept in January 200062 had preceded the new doctrine. The Concept highlighted fears that Russia was becoming increasingly sidelined in international affairs, and analysed the main threats in the international sphere: among these were attempts by ‘individual states…to reduce the role of the UN and OSCE’; ‘weakening the political, economic and military influence of Russia in the world’; and ‘the eastward enlargement of NATO’.63 Foreign threats to Russia included: the expansion of military blocs and alliances, detrimental to the military security of the Russian Federation; the introduction of foreign troops…on territory bordering the Russian Federation and states friendly to it; attempts to ignore (belittle) the interests of the Russian Federation in solving problems of international security, hindering its growth as one of the influential centres of a multipolar world.64 In responding to any future military threat, the Concept is fairly blunt: The main task of the Russian Federation is to deter aggression of any scale against it and its allies, including the use of nuclear weapons. The Russian Federation must have nuclear forces capable of delivering specified damage to any aggressor state or a coalition of states in any situation.65 The conditions of nuclear use are outlined in slightly more detail in the Military Doctrine: The Russian Federation reserves the right to use nuclear weapons in response to the use of nuclear and other types of weapons of mass

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destruction against it and (or) its allies, as well as in response to large-scale aggression using conventional weapons in situations critical to the national security of the Russian Federation [emphasis mine]. The Russian Federation will not use nuclear weapons against states party to the Non-Proliferation Treaty which do not possess nuclear weapons, except in the event of an attack on the Russian Federation, the Russian Federation’s armed forces or other troops, its allies or a state to which it has security commitments that are carried out, or supported, by a state without nuclear weapons jointly, or in the context of allied commitments with a state with nuclear weapons.66 This was controversial, largely because of its ambiguity. Again, there is no statement concerning the non-first use of nuclear weapons. The precise conditions under which Russia would use them are left open. In this case, imprecision, not clarity, helps to add to the nature of the deterrent. Colonel-General V.Manilov, first deputy Chief of the General Staff, commented shortly after its adoption in April 2000 that: The provisions of the doctrine dealing with nuclear weapons do not just meet the vital requirements of Russia, but also correlate with the international obligations our country has assumed and the principles of nuclear strategy of, say, the US, UK and France… The absolutely clear, extremely transparent essence of the warning …is that nuclear weapons may be used as a response to the use of nuclear and other types of weapons of mass destruction against Russia and/or its allies, and also in response to large-scale aggression through the use of conventional arms in situations critical to Russia’s national security. It is obvious that a critical situation could emerge as the result of aggression alone, as well as its consequences raising the question of the further existence, or end, of Russia. Finally, the integral formula of Russian policy in the field of the use of nuclear weapons may be reduced to the following: no aggression, no use of nuclear weapons.67 A man widely credited as being one of the main authors of the nuclear section of the doctrine, Major-General V.Dvorkin, was interviewed before the doctrine was formally approved.68 In response to a question concerning the negative reaction of Western media, Dvorkin noted: ‘Changing conditions behind the use of nuclear weapons have come about not because of Russia hardening its position, but more because of a not totally successful wording [formulirovka] of the conditions in the basic

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statements of the Military Doctrine approved in 1993.’69 In his words, it was necessary to remove the ‘negative guarantees’ enshrined in the 1993 doctrine to non-nuclear powers and make it clearer under what circumstances Russia would be prepared to use nuclear weapons. In short, according to the April 2000 doctrine, Russia will use nuclear weapons under the following circumstances: 1. 2. 3. 4.

in direct response to a nuclear or large-scale conventional attack; if its very existence as a state is under threat; if its territorial integrity, or sovereignty, is threatened; or if ‘critical situations arise in relation to national security’. RVSN APRIL 2000-JUNE 2002

Accompanying these documentary developments had been recognition of the need to improve the combat capability of the general purpose forces. The acrimonious debate involving General Kvashnin and Marshal Sergeyev about the priorities for the country’s strategic and conventional forces was only brought to an end by the direct intervention of President Putin at a session of the Security Council in August 2000.70 By the end of the session, a new development strategy to take the armed forces forward to 2015 was agreed and, although it did not result in the demise of RVSN, it was a Pyrrhic victory for Marshal Sergeyev. True, at the end of the meeting, he remarked that ‘the discussions are over and the supreme commander-in-chief [Putin] has passed the decision. It is well grounded and substantiated within the framework of the country’s economic possibilities. Not a single booster will be dismantled before it serves its full operational life.’ General Kvashnin was much more taciturn: ‘our main objective is the harmonious development of all services of the armed forces’.71 The political leadership accepted that little of practical value was to be gained in having large nuclear stockpiles rusting and costing money, if the soldiers in the country’s two designated most important ‘strategic directions’—the Southwestern and the Central Asian—were not sufficiently trained, equipped, barracked, etc., to meet the threat there. Cutting the numbers of nuclear warheads was therefore a relatively easy choice. With so many of Sergeyev’s zealously guarded missiles fast reaching the end of their service life and the limitations of arms control treaties, many missiles would have to be scrapped sooner rather than later. Putin had decided to gear reforms towards developing Russia’s conventional, rather than nuclear, might:

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Analysis of the…developing…military-political situation shows that threats to the security of the Russian Federation in the next few years could be called forth by the rise of possible armed conflicts and local wars, in which basic tasks will have to be carried out by general purpose forces. The army could be used…in peace-keeping operations, in the fight against the movement of drugs, combating terrorist organisations, capable of presenting a threat to Russia’s national security.72 A critical meeting of the Security Council took place on 9 November 2000, at which Putin insisted that conventional forces must have the latest technology and that ‘it is absolutely wrong to maintain a bulky and often ineffective military organisation in our conditions’.73 The planned reform envisaged a two-stage process. The first stage covered 2001–05 and forecast a big drop in personnel numbers in all power structures. By 2005, their total strength would have been reduced by 19.7 per cent. RVSN was to lose 60,000.74 The second stage would switch the emphasis to logistical support of forces and units: although manpower would be cut, funding would stay the same, allowing more money to be paid to servicemen, as well as more equipment to be bought.75 Stemming from an assessment of the real situation, an analysis of the state and perspectives on the unfolding military-political situation, the possibilities of the state in militarily and economically supplying the army and navy, the tasks were corrected and steps taken to optimise the structure, composition and number of the armed forces… All of this found expression in the approved… plan… This fundamental document provides for maintaining the country’s strategic nuclear forces at the necessary level, permitting the guaranteed solution of nuclear deterrence and the development of groups of general purpose forces.76 This did not prevent C-in-C RVSN Yakovlev fighting a rearguard action to prevent the further demotion of his service and stressing the utility of leaving the integrated service’s structure intact. In an official commentary concerning Putin’s proposals in November 2000 to cut Russia’s warhead stockpile to 1,500, Yakovlev stated that this would ‘fit into the scheme’ of Russo-American treaties on the reduction of strategic offensive weapons ‘very well’. However, ‘in the past three years, we created an optimal structure of the RVSN, made up of the strike element, the military space command and the missile defence force. This structure is reliably protecting the homeland and should be preserved.’77 A few weeks later,

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in an official comment on the increase, by 20,000, of the number of personnel to be removed from RVSN by 2005, he pointed out: ‘The fact is that the optimal integrated structure is more effective than when [RVSN] was divided and the past three years’ experience has confirmed this.’78 In a piece marking the professional holiday of RVSN, as well as noting the results of the year—six successful missile test launches; 44 satellites and space apparatus put into space; 650 million rubles’ worth of administrative savings, etc.—Yakovlev stated: ‘I will say only one thing, that nuclear weapons are the basis for the country’s defence strategy, the decisive factor in maintaining deterrence. Thanks to [its] nuclear potential, Russia remains a state able to fully maintain its political, economic and territorial interests.’79 Yakovlev also pointed out that the ‘weight’ of RVSN in the country’s defence budget had been reduced from 19.3 per cent on the eve of integration to 11.2 per cent by the end of 2000— so much protection for a comparatively small amount of money.80 For his part, in his address to ‘leading staff of the armed forces in November 2000, Putin did not deny that the twin tasks of ‘strategic deterrence and the prevention of aggression’ were being handled ‘successfully’ but he also pointed out that ‘it is necessary to see other challenges… Our army and navy must be ready to neutralise and repel any armed aggression and conflict in all the strategic directions.’81 In mid-January 2001, Putin approved the military structural plan to 2005, which envisaged the RVSN being converted to a combat arm of the armed forces by 2002, and incorporated into the air force by 2006. Furthermore, according to the AVN news agency, anyone who made public comments opposed to the plan—and the report cited by name Sergeyev, Yakovlev and Dvorkin—would face instant dismissal. From then on, it was only a question of time before Sergeyev and Yakovlev would be replaced and RVSN transformed further. And so it duly happened. On 29 March Sergei Ivanov was appointed Defence Minister and Sergeyev became an adviser to the president.82 On the same day, it was reported that RVSN had Host’ Space Troops.83 On 25 April 2001, Sergei Ivanov confirmed: the RVSN will be transferred into an arm [rod], following the removal of the Missile Space Defence Troops and the Military Space Command. On the basis of the latter will be formed a new arm of troops—the Space Troops. The land-based strike group of RVSN will be developed independently within the current structure of the land, air, naval components of the SNF84

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RVSN’s reduced status was further underlined with the appointment of a’Commander’: no longer was RVSN to be headed by a C-in-C. The man in question was Colonel-General Ye. Solovtsov who had been Commandant of the Peter the Great Strategic Missile Forces Academy.85 Colonel-General A.Perminov, formerly RVSN Chief of Staff, was appointed Commander of Space Troops.86 Sergei Ivanov, however, was keen to emphasise that much would still be expected from RVSN: ‘The main goal of the policy of the Russian Federation in the area of nuclear deterrence is to ensure the guaranteed defence of the territorial integrity and sovereignty of the Russian Federation and its allies. This is an inviolable position [emphasis in the original]. … While carrying out military reform, reducing both the number of weapons and personnel, we will maintain the demanded combat readiness of the nuclear forces and, undoubtedly, the high standard of nuclear security.’87 By the end of April 2001, RVSN had been divided into ‘two separate, but closely cooperating’ arms of service.88 As Solovtsov, reflecting his predecessors, stated a few months later: ‘In this difficult period which Russia is living through, only reliance on nuclear deterrence will allow it to ensure the balance of forces and the reserve of time to reform its armed forces and raise their combat might to the required level.’89 Solovtsov also took pains to point out how much work has been undertaken to reduce costs and improve overall operational effectiveness. In his article on RVSN’s professional holiday, 17 December 2001, Solovtsov outlined what his force had achieved since June 2001: For about half a year, the RVSN have functioned as an independent arm. During this period, the formation of the command has been completed, a complex of measures on optimising the structure of the departments and services has been realised, the requisite legal base has been re-worked, purposeful lessons have been undertaken to improve the training of the operational staff of the central command points.90 Underlining how much the force was actively re-structuring itself and saving money, Solovtsov also stated that RVSN’s administration had been cut by 32 per cent and that there was now a whole new generation of officers in its command apparatus—average age 33, 90 per cent of whom had higher military or specialised higher military education. Inspections confirmed that combat readiness was still high: ‘About 95 per cent of the large formations and 90 per cent of the missile regiments were judged “good”; there were no “unsatisfactory” results.’91 And yet, the authorities might further downplay RVSN’s role: ‘We are adopting a whole series of

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comprehensive steps to solve existing problems, but we hope that our concern for the future does not escape the attention of the government and the MoD of the Russian Federation.’92 When he was presenting Solovtsov with RVSN’s new Standard, Sergei Ivanov, for his part, stated that ‘nuclear weaponry serves as the basis for preserving peace and preventing war’; thus, on the surface at least, Solovtsov’s quietly stated pessimism appears wrongly placed. Indeed, according to recent speculation Marshal Sergeyev has succeeded in persuading Putin to allocate more money to developing RVSN as a cheap strategic alternative to counteract the recent US decision to pull out of the 1972 Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty.93 However, the debate about the naval component of the strategic triad has also re-surfaced. Given the restrictions of START-2, particularly on land-based ICBM forces, the Russian Security Council decided in 1997 that by 2010 approximately 55 per cent of Russia’s strategic nuclear warheads should be carried on submarines and warships. Sergeyev soon reversed this policy.94 Yet in February 2002, the first deputy chief of the General Staff, Colonel-General Yuri Baluyevskiy, again stated that the priority would be to develop the SLBM (submarine-launched ballistic missile) force. Submarines are harder to track, monitor and target, a theme developed by Captain V.V.Zaborskiy—former department head, Main Naval Staff Operations Directorate—who cogently argued that not only was the SLBM ‘invulnerable and effective’, but also had a greater future than silo-based missiles.95 Given the intent to reduce ‘SNF to a level of minimum sufficiency’, any increase in the more cost-effective SLBMs will be at RVSN’s expense. CONSPECTUS Over the past decade the armed forces of the Russian Federation, and the RVSN, have undergone a tremendous period of change, possibly unparalleled in their nation’s history. Throughout, RVSN has allowed Russia both to continue the reform process ‘under peaceful skies’ and to play several notches above the indices of power and influence, too commonly measured in terms of economic activity. Russia has influence, arguably, through two main factors: its geo-strategic situation and being the world’s second largest nuclear power. These ensure that Russia still has to be reckoned with. Russia’s doctrine writers had agreed that the easiest and cheapest way to forestall aggression was to increase the level of doubt about Russia’s policy on nuclear weapons use. It was not pretty, or even subtle, but it was cheap and effective. The weapons perform more of a political than

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military role, but one which is no less vital for that. RVSN thus enjoyed a unique advantage: privileged access to the president.96 Recent years have seen RVSN reduced in status. One cannot deny their overall importance to Russia’s security, but, in helping to tackle the real threats, nuclear weapons are not the answer. Russia’s nuclear arsenal has become one of the last victims of the end of the Cold War. Russia is not the USSR: it does not have the same stature on the world stage, the economic base to maintain a large nuclear capability, nor the ideological base to support one. If its conventional forces were stronger, then the standing of Russia’s nuclear force would diminish further. A certain minimum number of nuclear weapons will always be maintained, but the final denouement for RVSN will come as part of a combined air space service. NOTES 1. Voyennyy Entsiklopedicheskiy Slovar’ Raketnykh Voysk Strategicheskogo Naznacheniya, Moscow: Bol’shaya Rossiyskaya Entsiklopediya, 1999, p. 447. 2. Colonel-General N.Solovtsov, ‘RVSN Segodnya: Raketnyy Shchit Ustoychiv I Nadezhen’, Armeyskiy Sbornik, 12, 2001, pp. 9–12; p. 11. 3. ‘Novyy Vid Vooruzhennykh Sil SSSR’, Krasnaya Zvezda (KZ), 19 November 1991. 4. Voyennyy Entsiklopedicheskiy Slovar’, p. 629. 5. There is a lot of material on this particular subject, but for a reasonable grounding in the detail, as well as the main chronology of events, the reader would be well advised to consult one, if not all four, of the following works: Colonel A.V.Nedelin, ‘Yadernyy Vek Otkryl Dveri Novomu Periodu Istorii’, Voyenno-Istoricheskiy Zhurnal, 1, 2002, pp. 53–64; M.I.Musatov, Strategicheskie Sily Sderzhivaniya v Sisteme Oboronoy Bezopasnosti Rossii v Sovremennykh Geopoliticheskikh Usloviyakh, Moscow: NPO Shkola, 1999; O.P.Jalonen, ‘Captors of Denuclearisation?’, TAPRI Research Report, 54, Tampere, Finland: TAPRI, 1994; Steven J.Zaloga, The Kremlin’s Nuclear Sword: The Rise and Fall of Russia’s Strategic Nuclear Forces, 1945–2000, Washingto, DC and London: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2002. 6. Maksimov, ‘Strategicheskie Sily SNG: v Postoyannoy Boyevoy Gotovnosti’, Vestnik Voyennoy Informatsii, 4, 1992, p. 3. 7. Nedelin, ‘Yadernyy Vek’, p. 62. 8. ‘Vooruzhennye Sily Rossii: Etapy Formirovaniya’, KZ, 23 June 1992. 9. KZ, 22 August 1992; Voyennyy Entsiklopedicheskiy Slovar’, p. 474. 10. KZ, 10 January 1992. 11. Voyennaya Entsiklopediya, Vol. 4, Moscow: Voennoye izdatel’stvo, 1999, p. 530. 12. One report, published not long before the Bishkek summit, spoke about the summit taking place in a ‘crisis political atmosphere. In three regions…of the former Union, blood is flowing. Fighting has not come to an end in

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13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18.

19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32.

Nagorno-Karabakh, or on the Armenian-Azerbaijani border, there is a new wave of fratricidal warfare in Abkhazia; Tajikistan has now become part of the front line, where the number of victims is numbered in thousands.’ A.Dokuchayev, ‘Nakanune Sobytiya: V Bishkek Pervymi Pribyvayut Voyennyye’, KZ, 7 October 1992. Colonel-General I.Sergeyev, ‘Raketnyye Voyska Rossii: Segodnya I Zavtra’, Vestnik Voyennoy Informatsii, 4, 1993, pp. 1–6. I.Sergeyev, ‘Raketnyye Voyska Strategicheskogo Naznacheniya: Problemy Stroitel’stva I Reformirovaniya’, Voyennaya Mysl’, 6, June 1993, pp. 12–18; p. 14. ‘O Voyennoy Doktrina SSSR: Proyekt’, Voyennaya Mysl’, Special Issue, 1990, pp. 24–8. According to the draft, the USSR ‘will never, under any circumstances, be the first to initiate military action against any state, if it or its allies have not been the object of armed aggression; never be the first to use nuclear weapons…has no territorial pretensions towards any state, considers no nation as its enemy’. A.Kokoshin, ‘Voyennaya Doktrina Prinyata: Chto dal’she?’, Vestnik Voyennoy Informatsii, 3, March 1994, pp. 1–4; p. 1. Colonel-General I.N.Rodionov, ‘Nekotoryye Podkhody k Razrabotke Voyennoy Doktriny Rossii’, Voyennaya Mysl’, Special Issue, July 1992, pp. 6– 14; p. 13. Lieutenant-General L.I.Volkov, ‘Prednaznacheniye, Zadachi I Sostav Raketnykh Voisk Strategicheskogo Naznacheniya v Sovremennykh Usloviyakh I v Perspektive’, Voyennaya Mysl’, Special Issue, July 1992, pp. 57–60; p. 57. Ibid., pp. 57–8. General P.Grachev, ‘Glavnaya Zadacha: Predotvrashcheniye Voiny’, Vestnik Voyennoy Informatsii, 9, 1993, pp. 1–3; p. 1. C.J.Dick, ‘The Military Doctrine of the Russian Federation, November 1993’, Camberley, Surrey: Conflict Studies Research Centre, Occasional Briefs, 1993; p. 1. ‘Main Provisions of the Military Doctrine of the Russian Federation (Digest)’, Military News Bulletin, 11, November 1993, pp. 1–12; p. 2. Ibid. Ibid. ‘Voprosy Yadernoy Politiki v Voyennoy Doktrine Rossii’, Vestnik Voyennoy Informatsii, 1, 1994, pp. 4–5. Sergeyev, ‘Raketnyye Voyska’, p. 12. Ibid., p. 13. Ibid., p. 14. Ibid. Sergeyev is a Member of the Academy of Military Sciences; Corresponding Member of the Russian Engineering Academy of Science and a Corresponding Member of the Missile-Rocket Academy, Voyennyy Entsiklopedicheskiy Slovar’, p. 474. Sergeyev, ibid., p. 15. Ibid., p. 18.

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33. I.Sergeyev, ‘Klyuchi Na Start—u Raketchikov, “Yadernyy Chemodanchik”—u Prezidenta’, KZ, 8 February 1995. 34. Major-General V.Meleshko, ‘Raketno-Yadernoye Oruzhiye: Osnova Bezopasnosti Strany’, KZ, 4 December 1996. 35. I.Sergeyev, ‘Poletnyye Zdaniya Raket “Nulevye”, No Smysl Dezhurstva ne Izmenilsya’, KZ, 17 December 1994. 36. Ibid. 37. S.Davidenko, ‘Raketnyye Voyska Garantiruyut Natsionalnuyu Bezopasnost Rossii’, KZ, 30 July 1996. 38. I.Baychurin, ‘Novosti: RVSN Ostayutsya Shchitom Rossii’, KZ, 16 November 1996.’ 39. Ibid. 40. A.Pelts, ‘U Raketchikov Tsel Odna: Vysochayshchiy Uroven Boyegotovnosti’, KZ, 18 April 1995. 41. A.Pelts, ‘Problemy Raketnykh Voysk: Eto Problemy Bezopasnosti Rossii’, KZ, 13 April 1995. 42. I.Sergeyev; ‘Vooruzhennyye Sily: Problemy i Perspektivy RVSN i Voyennaya Reforma’, KZ, 5 December1996. 43. General M.Kolesnikov, ‘Voyennaya Reforma i Stroitelstvo Vooruzhennykh Sil Rossii’, KZ, 25 May 1996. 44. Sergeyev, ‘Klyuchi’. 45. Sergeyev, ‘Vooruzhennyye sily’. 46. General I.N.Rodionov, ‘Sokhranit Tot Fundament Na Kotorom Postroim Dostoynuyu Rossii Armiyu’, KZ, 25 February 1997. 47. KZ, 23 May 1997. 48. KZ, 24 May 1997. 49. Extracts of the decree were published in KZ, 19 July 1997. 50. Colonel-General V.N.Yakovlev, ‘Integratsiya Strategicheskikh Yadernykh Sil: Pervyye Shagi’, Vestnik Voyennoy Informatsii, 12, December 1997, pp. 7–9; p. 7. 51. Lieutenant-General L.Volkov, ‘Pervyye Shagi Voyennoy Reformy’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye (NVO), 43, 21–27 November 1997. 52. V.Yakovlev, ‘My Sokhranyayem Vysokiy Boyevoy Potentsial’, NVO, 46, 12– 19 December 1997.” 53. Ibid.; Colonel-General A.Perminov, ‘Ot Integratsii RVSN Vyigrali: No Ne Tolko’, KZ, 26 November 1998. 54. Yakovlev; ‘My Sokhranyayem’. 55. Ibid. 56. Yakovlev, ‘Integratsiya’. 57. S.Sokut, ‘Novyye “Topolya” Poluchat Yadernyye Boyegolovki’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta (NG), 16 December 1998. 58. V.Yakovlev, ‘Glavkom Nl Dolozhil: Ukaz Prezidenta Vypolnen na Dva Mesyatsa Ranshe Sroka’, Rossiyskaya Gazeta, 22 November 1997. 59. V.Solovyev, ‘Podkovernaya Borba Generalov Vyryvayetsya Naruzhu’, NG, 14 July 2000. 60. M.Timofeyev, ‘Predmet Razdora—Raketnyye Voyska,’ NG, 13 July 2000. 61. ‘Dva Goda Voyennoy Politiki’, ITAR-TASS, 25 April 2002.

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62. KZ, 9 October 1999; ‘National Security Concept of the Russian Federation’, Military News Bulletin, 2, February 2000, pp. 1–12. 63. ‘National Security Concept’, p. 4. 64. Voyennaya Doktrina Rossiyskoy Federatsii, 21 April 2000, www.scrf.gov.ru/ Documents/decree/2000/706–l.html, pp. 1–21; p. 3. 65. ‘National Security Concept’, p. 10. 66. ‘Voyennaya Doktrina’, p. 5. 67. Colonel-General V.Manilov, ‘Predotvrashcheniye. Sderzhivaniye. Partnertsvo’, NG, 25 April 2000. 68. Major-General V.Dvorkin, ‘Doktrina Sergeyeva ne Zhestche Preduyushey’, NG, 19 February 2000. 69. Ibid. 70. ‘Development Strategy of the Armed Forces Defined’, Military News Bulletin, 8, August 2000, pp. 1–2. At the session, Putin is reported to have stated that ‘when pilots do not fly and sailors do not go to sea, can it be said that everything is right and proper in the structure of the armed forces today?’ In bringing the public debate between Kvashnin and Sergeyev to an end, he stated: ‘I have been rather tolerant of the debates in the defence ministry and society as a whole…now is the time to bring the matter to its rightful conclusion.’ (Ibid., p. 2.) For more on the use of history as a political tool in the debate, see Steven J.Main, ‘“It’s the Thought Process That First Went to War”: Marshal I. Sergeyev, General A.Kvashnin and the Experience of World War Two, A Commentary’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, 14, 2, June 2001, pp. 49–70. 71. ‘Development Strategy’, p. 2. 72. S.Ivanov, ‘Stroitelstvo Vooruzhennykh Sil Budet Otvechat Vyzovam Vremeni’, KZ, 10 August 2001. 73. ‘Decisions on the Reform of the State’s Military Organisation Have Been Adopted’, Military News Bulletin, 11, November 2000, p. 1. 74. Ibid. However, the proposed cut was increased to 80,000 less than a month after the Security Council session: ‘Ofitsialno: RVSN Sokratyat na 80 Tysyach’, Zakavkazskiye Voyennyye Vedomosti, 2 December 2000. 75. ‘Decisions on the Reform’. 76. S.Ivanov, ‘My Nasledniki Slavy Russkogo Voinstva’, KZ, 7 May 2002. 77. V.Yakovlev, ‘Kakim Budet Otvetnyy Khod SShA’, Vestnik Voyennoy Informatsii, 12, 2000, pp. 6–7; p. 7. 78. ‘Ofitsialno: RVSN’. 79. V.Yakovlev, ‘Gotovnost—Postoyannaya’, KZ, 16 December 2000. 80. Ibid. 81. V.Putin, ‘Strategic Deterrence and the Prevention of Aggression’, Military News Bulletin, 12, December 2000, pp. 1–5; p. 3. 82. KZ, 29 March 2001. 83. ‘RVSN “Poteryal Voiska”’, 29 March 2001, www.nns.ru/archive/ chronicle/ 2001/03.29html. 84. S.Ivanov, ‘Voyennaya Reforma Kak Neobkhodimaya Chast Preobrazovanii v Rossii’, KZ, 25 April 2001.

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85. ‘Komanduyushchiy Raketnymi Voiskami Strategicheskogo Naznacheniya Naznachen General-Polkovnik Solovtsov’, AVN, 27 April 2001; Military News Bulletin, 5, May 2001, p. 17. 86. Colonel-General A.Perminov, ‘Kosmos i Voyennaya Bezopasnost’, KZ, 21 April 2001. 87. Ivanov, ‘Voyennaya Reforma’, p. 1. 88. Colonel-General N.Solovtsov, ‘Strategic Missile Forces in the System of Ensuring Strategic Stability and National Security’, Military News Bulletin, 9, September 2001, pp. 5–8; p. 7. 89. Ibid., p. 8. 90. N.Solovtsov, ‘17 Dekabrya—Den RVSN: Raketnyy Shchit Derzhavy’, KZ, 15 December 2001. 91. Ibid. 92. Ibid. 93. V.Georgiyev, ‘Armiya-Pravitelstvo: 1:0 v Polzu Raket’, NG, 21 June 2002. 94. V.Urban, ‘Yuriy Dolgorukiy Undercuts the Topol, Novyye Izvestiya, 9 February 2002, p. 1. 95. V.Zaborskiy, ‘Neuyazvimyye i Effektivnyye’, NVO, 30, 8–15 September 2002. 96. In a recent article in the highly respected newspaper, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye, the following statement was made: ‘When Sergeyev was the Minister [of Defence], the Strategic Rocket Forces did what they wanted with the military budget, commandeering a lion’s share of the funds for themselves’ (NVO, 9, 22–28 March 2002, p. 6). Even accounting for some exaggeration, it is hard to imagine such a situation arising unless the president gave it his blessing.

7 Reform and the Russian Ground Forces, 1992–2002 Michael Orr

The Russian ground forces have always been the largest and most important of the armed services; indeed, the Russian word armiya can equally well translate the English words ‘army’ and ‘armed services’. It is only comparatively recently that Russians have begun to use the terms vooruzhenyye sily (armed forces) and sukhoputnyye voysk (ground forces) to distinguish the two concepts. In May 1945 the Soviet Union had over 11 million men under arms and 80 per cent of them served in the ground forces. The Great Patriotic War (1941–45) was basically a land war and the other services played subsidiary roles. The development of nuclear weapons, however, threatened the ground forces’ pre-eminence and the newly created Strategic Rocket Forces (RVSN) became the senior branch of the armed forces. The ground forces remained the largest of the armed services, absorbing nearly half of the Ministry of Defence’s manpower and recovered from their eclipse under Khrushchev in the 1960s, but the other Soviet armed forces benefited even more from the great expansion of Soviet defence spending between 1975 and 1985. Nevertheless, the ground forces continued to dominate in senior appointments, such as Minister of Defence and Chief of the General Staff and with 2 million troops and over 200 divisions, the Soviet Union remained the predominant land power in the world.1 Remembering this background helps to understand why the Russian Federation has found it so difficult to reform its ground forces over the last decade. The legacy of the Soviet army to its Russian successor is not merely a collection of buildings and equipment; this chapter will show that the enduring Soviet mindset is the major obstacle to change. It is therefore essential to understand what sort of war the Soviet ground forces were intended to fight and how they were organised. In the middle of the 1980s the Soviet ground forces contained about 210 manoeuvre divisions. About three-quarters of them were motor rifle divisions and the remainder tank divisions; in addition a large number of artillery, air defence, engineer and other combat and service support

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formations were available. However, even the Soviet Union could not maintain this force at wartime readiness. Formations were divided into three readiness categories (A, B and V, after the first three letters of the Cyrillic alphabet). Category A divisions had at least 80 per cent of the wartime manpower establishment and were fully provided with modern weapons and equipment. Divisions located in the groups of forces outside Soviet territory were kept at a high alert state which was frequently tested. The USSR was divided into 16 military districts. The border military districts contained mostly B and V category divisions, usually with one category A ‘show’ division; they were intended to provide ‘follow-on’ forces within a few days of mobilisation. The internal military districts commanded mostly category V divisions and even some so-called ‘mobilisation’ divisions which were little more than stores of obsolete equipment and hardly ever conducted any field training. The Soviet ground forces therefore were designed to wage a highintensity, high-technology war (possibly involving battlefield tactical nuclear weapons). They were intended to deliver an overwhelming armoured punch in the initial phase of a war, backed by a capability to continue to generate forces over a prolonged period. The ‘probable enemy’ for most of this army was NATO and, although the North Atlantic states had superior manpower and economic resources, the Soviet system gave the USSR and its Warsaw Pact allies a potentially warwinning advantage in the short and medium term.2 The experience of the Afghan War (1979–89) did not alter the Soviet ground forces’ preoccupation with large-scale conventional or tactical nuclear warfare. Counter-insurgency, peacekeeping and the other tasks that Western armies now call ‘Operations Other Than War’ did not feature in Soviet military education. Despite formal references to the importance of morale and training, the focus of Soviet military thinking was technology and organisational matters, rather than human problems. In the 1980s and 1990s the ground forces were most concerned about the impact of the Revolution in Military Affairs, especially factors such as precision guided weapons and automated command systems. Traditional military structures were coming under review because new forms, based on army corps and brigades, were considered more manoeuvrable and flexible than the classic army/division/regiment chain of command.3 Political pressure halted these experiments, when Gorbachev imposed a shift to ‘defensive’ structures, reducing the proportion of tanks, heavy artillery, assault crossing assets and other ‘offensive’ weapons systems. The ground forces’ leadership conformed but never accepted a military justification for this aspect of perestroika (reform), except perhaps to buy a

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breathing space while they re-equipped for the Revolution in Military Affairs. But while they were struggling to cope with these changes, their strategic assumptions were nullified by the collapse of the Warsaw Pact and Soviet Union. Obviously so rapid and overwhelming a shift in world affairs would challenge any military system but the Russian military have undoubtedly failed to cope with the changes of the last decade. At root this is because they have concentrated too much on the technical, military aspects of the strategic situation and failed to understand the political significance of the end of the Cold War. This is not at all surprising. The Russian high command were (and are) graduates of Soviet military academies which provided a superb training for operational commanders and staff officers but in political matters taught an ideology rather than educated students in world affairs. Thus the end of the Cold War was assessed basically in terms of drastic change in the correlation of forces to Russia’s disadvantage in a potential war against NATO but without asking if such a war had become less likely. With such a mindset the strategic picture was inevitably bleak. The generals concentrated on the loss of the forward bases in eastern Europe and the better-prepared divisions in the frontier military districts (which mostly became part of newly independent republics). Russia did not have the economic resources to build a slightly scaled-down version of the Soviet military machine, but the system did not have the intellectual resources to develop alternative concepts. It is instructive to examine the report on a military-scientific conference on ‘Future Russian Security Policies’ held at the Military Academy of the General Staff in May 1992.4 Although some speakers referred to the increased possibility of local wars and low-intensity conflicts, the overwhelming concern of the conference was to discuss how the Russian armed forces could best prepare for a full-scale war against NATO. This is particularly obvious in the paper ‘Allocation, Missions and Composition of the Ground Forces’ given by Colonel-General F.M.Kuzmin, head of the Frunze Military Academy. It discusses the need for smaller, more mobile and flexible formations which will be required, given the lower force-to-space ratios to be expected in future operations and the improvements in command and control and firepower which will follow from the military-technical revolution. In other words, the aim is to find new ways of conducting traditional missions and there is little, if any, awareness that the ground forces might have to undertake new missions requiring fundamental changes in their doctrine and organisation. Nevertheless this conference and similar studies continued to set the tone for doctrinal debates about the role and structure of the Russian ground forces throughout the first decade of their existence.

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Another significant indicator of how the military leadership was thinking was their persistent claim that the strength of the armed forces should be calculated in terms of a standard norm, such as a flat rate of at least 1 per cent of the national population or a correlation between manpower and the length of national borders. Naturally Russia, with its 22,500 km of frontier, fares badly when compared to states such as France or Germany in terms of the latter ‘scientific’ norm. Such an approach neglects crucial issues such as the nature of the threat against which the state must be defended or whether the vast expanses of Russia’s Arctic coastline actually require more than their natural defences. Force-tospace ratios may be a useful tool when calculating a divisional frontage in a military academy exercise but determining the size of a nation’s armed forces surely requires more sophisticated assessment.5 One reason why such simplistic arguments went unchallenged was that there was no real civilian involvement in strategic debates within the Soviet Union. There was no equivalent of the discussions within parliaments, the academic world and the media which occur in Western countries. Strategic studies were a military monopoly and in any case usually conducted under a security classification. The military were very contemptuous of outside expertise; by their definition, anyone who had not served in the armed forces and studied at a military academy was an amateur and their views irrelevant. When he was head of the General Staff Academy, General Igor Rodionov, a future Minister of Defence, sensed the need for civilian involvement but his solution, that politicians, journalists, civil servants, etc. should attend courses at military academies, would have indoctrinated them with the military view of the world rather than encouraged a fruitful exchange of views.6 Thus there was little public debate when the Russian Federation began to create its own armed forces. In fact, it is misleading to talk of Russia ‘creating’ its armed forces at all; Russia took over the Ministry of Defence and General Staff, all the armed forces on Russian territory and as much of those located abroad as it could hold on to. The initial aim was to save as much as possible from the wreck of the USSR, not to begin again from first principles. The Ministry of Defence almost immediately produced a programme for developing the Russian armed forces, divided into three stages. The first stage, occupying the rest of 1992, was to involve the organisation of the Ministry of Defence itself, defining the structure of the armed forces and supervising the withdrawal of forces from outside Russia. During the second stage, 1993–94, the withdrawal of forces would be almost completed and there would be some reorganisation of the armed forces into a smaller manpower establishment (2.1 million as opposed to 2.7

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million men). A mixed manning system would be introduced, in which so-called ‘contract servicemen’ would serve alongside conscripts. Alternative civilian service would be introduced. A new military infrastructure would be built, to provide barracks and training facilities for the forces withdrawn from abroad. The existing five armed services would be retained, as would the military districts. In the final stage, from 1995 to 1999, the troop withdrawal would be finally completed and the new peacetime structure of the armed forces would take shape, in a manpower establishment of 1.5 million men. It was proposed that military districts would be replaced by new ‘territorial commands’ and the number of formations, especially cadre formations, would be drastically reduced. Those formations would be deployed to create groupings which met Russia’s new strategic requirements. Finally there would be a ‘reorganisation of the types of armed services and their branches’.7 The programme set the pattern for the reform projects which have succeeded it. Almost all seem to involve three phases, prudently organised so that real change does not occur until the final stage, by which time the project has been replaced by a new scheme. From the ground forces’ point of view the real problem with the 1992 programme was that it assumed that the armed forces could proceed at their own pace and took no account of external factors such as local conflicts which broke out throughout the former Soviet Union. The ground forces had to provide peacekeeping troops for these conflicts and might have to meet other eventualities. There was a need for deployable forces, which the ground forces, in the confusion of the re-deployment of forces from outside Russia and with their reliance on ‘heavy’ tank and motor rifle divisions, were ill equipped to provide. The solution, proposed by officers with an airborne forces background, such as Pavel Grachev, the new Minister of Defence, was to create a new structure, the Mobile Forces. It would be an inter-service force and possibly even a separate branch of the services altogether. The Mobile Forces would be formed from existing organisations, such as the Airborne Forces (VDV) and the Naval Infantry, with new airportable ‘light’ motor rifle brigades, backed by formidable air assets and other combat support. These would form the ‘Immediate Reaction Forces’ and a second element, the ‘Rapid Deployment Forces’ would include three new army corps and other highquality ground forces formations. The missions of the Mobile Forces were to be, first, to protect Russia’s borders from external aggression by rapidly reinforcing frontier troops and covering forces in the threatened sector and, second, to provide peacekeeping or peace enforcement units

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to operate under CIS or UN auspices in local wars and inter-ethnic conflicts.8 In theory, the Mobile Forces were not a bad idea but, in practice, there was no possibility that Russia could afford to create and maintain such a large, high-quality force; it was military planning which took no account of economic reality. From the point of view of the ground forces staff, the plan also threatened to deprive them of their best forces, leaving only the operational control of mobilisation reserves. The idea was discussed for a couple of years before its impracticality was finally accepted but its chief impact was to distract staffs from realistic thinking about the development of the ground forces and to embitter the already strained relationship between the ground forces and the airborne forces. In any case two factors made effective planning for the future of the ground forces almost impossible. The first was the virtual collapse of the manning system and the second was the war in Chechnya. Inevitably the Russian Federation had a smaller population base than the USSR and long-standing demographic problems made this worse. Although the Russian Federation had 55 per cent of the Soviet population, the proportion of Russians who were 18 or younger was much less. Declining health standards made the problem more acute, but the real difficulty was the unpopularity of military service. Families were increasingly unwilling to see their sons serve in the armed forces. President Yeltsin responded by increasing educational and social exemptions from conscription and what had been a problem at the end of the Soviet era became a crisis almost overnight for the Russian armed forces, especially for the ground forces. Because the ground forces had tried to retain as large an order of battle as possible, rather than make a realistic assessment of threats and capabilities which would have entailed major force reductions, they were left with formations which were well described as ‘flags on a map’. Understrength units could not train effectively and resources were wasted trying to maintain unused vehicles and empty barracks. As formations were brought back from eastern Europe the ground forces hardly had the men to guard its vast stockpiles of arms and ammunition. The experience was particularly depressing for officers and their families. Returning from garrisons where they generally had a comfortable standard of living, they were often dumped in tents or huts in open fields, or at best forced to share unsuitable accommodation. Some units were so short of men that the officers had to stand guard duty in the barracks. Not surprisingly many officers, and many of the best officers, began to look for another career.9 The Chechen War demonstrated clearly that the manpower crisis had destroyed the ground forces’ combat capability. An army with over 70

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divisions in its notional order of battle struggled to raise a handful of deployable units. Officers and men who had never served together before were sent into battle in ‘composite regiments’. The reputation of the army never recovered from the disaster of the battle for Groznyy in the winter of 1994–95. Some units were performing better by the end of the war but, although some generals have since claimed that they were on the point of victory by August 1996, the soldiers on the ground and most Russians were only too relieved when the war ended in an ignominious withdrawal. From August 1991 until the post was abolished in December 1997 the commander-in-chief of the ground forces was Colonel-General Vladimir Semenov. Interviews and articles in the military press give an instructive insight into the thinking of the ground forces’ professional head during this period of crisis. He was born in 1940, commissioned into the motor rifle troops in 1962 and then followed the classic route to high rank, through Frunze and General Staff military academies and suitable command and staff appointments, mostly east of the Urals. Competent, but probably not outstanding, his major qualification for the post of commander-in-chief may have been that he was away from the centre during the turmoil of the Gorbachev years and especially the August 1991 coup. In an interview in April 1993 Semenov said that local conflicts appeared more likely than a large-scale war but it was clear that, under his direction, the ground forces’ main priority was to develop combinedarms formations that would be ‘combat super-systems’, with unified G3I (command, control, communications and intelligence) and combat support systems and equipped with modern artillery and missiles. Comparisons were made with the American army and the Gulf War experience was used to justify retaining the existing ‘heavy’ structure of armies and divisions. He was opposed to the creation of Mobile Forces as a ‘monster that would bleed dry all the other branches of the armed forces’. He was keen to reduce the number of cadre formations and increase the number of properly manned and trained units. The introduction of contract service is mentioned in the above interview but there is no discussion of the impact on the ground forces or how far professionalisation should go. In an article published in March 1995, at the start of the First Chechen War, Semenov was still focused on structural and technical problems, although manpower problems have a significant place in his agenda. Contract service was mentioned, but only as a way of compensating for the shortage of conscripts, not as something which might change the character and organisation of the ground forces. By the time he was interviewed for Krasnaya Zvezda in October 1996 his view of the ground

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forces development had not changed but he was clearly becoming preoccupied with bureaucratic politics. Although Semenov claimed to favour reducing the number of under-manned formations, the new Minister of Defence, General Rodionov, was proposing to reduce the ground forces to only 12 divisions (as opposed to the current figure of 40). Semenov argued for the need to retain a traditional mobilisation capacity even though he admitted that the ground forces did not have even one fully manned division at the time. Eventually Rodionov issued an order sacking Semenov but he continued to go to his office every day until the row was ended by Rodionov’s own dismissal in May 1997.10 Rodionov was replaced by General Sergeyev, previously commanderin-chief of the Strategic Rocket Forces whose appointment signalled a sharp decline in the political influence of the ground forces. Sergeyev convinced Yeltsin that military reform could be achieved by relying on nuclear weapons to deter not only a world war but a range of lesser threats. Ground troops would be required for peacekeeping operations and minor conflicts but otherwise significant economies could be made. The reduced status of the ground forces was made clear when Sergeyev not only appointed Strategic Rocket Forces protégés to senior General Staff appointments which had traditionally been held by ground forces officers but even abolished the Main Command of the Ground Forces. Its functions were distributed among a dozen or more General Staff directorates and the senior ground forces officer was simply head of the General Staff’s main directorate of the ground forces. In theory this implied that the ground forces were no longer an independent branch of the armed services ranking with the air force or navy. This ‘reform’ was a military nonsense, justified only in terms of internal politics within the Ministry of Defence, and these political and personal arguments continued to distort the development of the ground forces. The well-publicised dispute between General Sergeyev; the Minister of Defence, and General Kvashnin, the chief of the General Staff, had its roots in personal ambition as well as inter-service rivalry. Some significant changes were made; the number of ground forces formations was reduced and they were organised in a more sensible structure. The number of military districts was reduced from eight to six and each military district was given an operational role as the headquarters of a strategic direction.11 Within the military districts formations and units were ranked by readiness status. A new category of ‘Permanent Readiness’ formations and units was introduced, initially composed of three divisions and four brigades in the Moscow, Leningrad and North Caucasus Military Districts which were to be fully equipped and at least 80 per cent manned. The next grade was ‘Reduced Strength and Cadre’

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formations which would still be fully equipped but have only 10–50 per cent of their manpower establishment during peacetime. There were to be 21 divisions and 10 brigades in this category which would require up to 30 days to reach combat readiness. Finally, the ‘Strategic Reserves’ were little more than equipment storage depots.12 Although in outlining this structure the head of the ground forces main directorate, Colonel-General Yuri Bukreyev, said that ‘a possible aggression against Russia is not foreseeable in the near future. Local armed conflicts pose a threat to its security now’, he was still eager to compare the number of formations in the Russian army with the 54 divisions which he claimed were available to NATO.13 The contradiction in the ground forces’ planning was plain. They could not abandon their Soviet fixation with NATO, even with a Second Chechen War on the horizon. When that war broke out, in August 1999, the permanent readiness forces were immediately fully committed. The improvements in the mechanics of mobilising and deploying forces were obvious; the chaos of 1994–95 was not repeated. However, the performance of those forces demonstrated that, in doctrine and training, the ground forces were still not prepared for limited war or counter-insurgency. Nevertheless, the Second Chechen War rescued the ground forces. The war demonstrated the irrelevance of nuclear deterrence forces in local conflicts and General Sergeyev’s credit declined steadily. In the following year Bukreyev was openly critical of the decision to suppress the ground forces headquarters. Disbanding the Main Command of the Ground Forces and creating a new structure in its place, dividing the command and control of the ground forces among a multitude of directorates which are subordinate to a variety of authorities and lack a united command and staff, has led to the erosion of responsibility for the ground forces as an armed service. In turn this has prevented the setting of priorities in their organisation, development and training, making it impossible to concentrate efforts on the most important directions, and obstructs the establishment of a single view on everyday issues concerning the forces and how they are to be trained and employed.14 After three wasted years the Ground Forces Main Command was reestablished and was actually re-born as a more powerful organisation with increased command responsibilities. The six military districts were subordinated to the ground forces headquarters rather than the General Staff and the commander-in-chief of the ground forces was also made a deputy Defence Minister, making him senior to his fellow heads of

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service in the navy and air force. Colonel-General Nikolai Kormiltsev was brought from the Siberian Military District to be the new professional head of the ground forces. The appointment was an interesting choice. Kormiltsev is an officer in the mould of his Soviet predecessors. He is an armoured infantryman and has spent almost all his career east of the Urals. He is not a member of the North Caucasus clique around General Kvashnin and appears to have no personal experience of local wars, counter-insurgency or peacekeeping operations. He is not therefore the obvious man to re-focus the ground forces on the challenges of the twenty-first century. He is credited with the successful amalgamation of the Siberian and Transbaikal Military Districts and was probably seen as a safe pair of hands to rebuild the ground forces command structure. Kormiltsev’s articles suggest he is an administrator rather than an innovator.15 Although they often refer to the need to study and apply the lessons of the Chechen Wars there are other indications that he is a tactical conservative. At the start of 2002 a new set of Combat Regulations appeared in draft form for experimental use. They follow the pattern of the existing 1989 edition, apart from the introduction of one chapter entitled ‘Actions to Localise and Terminate Armed Conflicts’. This occupies 36 pages in a volume over 550 pages long.16 In addition, during 2002 more money became available for the ground forces training budget. The way this money has been spent is a significant indicator of Kormiltsev’s priorities. There have been a number of mobilisation exercises and, although there has been some joint training with other ministries with counter-insurgency themes, most attention has been paid to high-profile exercises featuring assault river crossings with tanks driving underwater. In fact, the scenarios of these exercises closely resemble the test exercises which were such a feature of the training year in the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany during the Cold War. While Kormiltsev has been in command the question of professional manning of the armed services has been the most prominent aspect of military reform. His attitude is ambivalent; although he claims to be in favour of ‘contract service’ he has not objected to the slow process recommended by the General Staff. In fact he has argued that a professional army should be introduced over an 11- to 15-year period, ‘in the most favourable circumstances’. In fact, Kormiltsev does not favour a completely professional system. Permanent readiness forces would be fully manned by professionals but a short period of obligatory military service would have to be retained to provide a mobilisation capability for the cadre and reserve formations. The spectre of 1941 still influences Russian strategic thinking.

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So far this chapter has deliberately concentrated on the ground forces’ policy-makers but it is time to ask how well their pronouncements fitted the realities of the last decade. First, the leadership of the ground forces were slow to adjust to the change in Russia’s geo-strategic position. They continued to think in terms of strategic rivalry with NATO and because they saw this as a zero-sum game were fixated by the fear of a growing NATO threat. They did not notice that once it became obvious that a Soviet resurrection was unlikely NATO countries began to view Russia as an obstacle rather than an opponent. While it is true that the military as a group proved more attached to communism than most of Russian society, serving generals were willing to adapt to the new political order. However, they found it much more difficult to accept that the Russian empire as well as the Soviet Union had passed into history. National pride and strategic logic argued against Russia’s new borders and the generals’ nightmare was that the Russian state might shrink even more. Where successor republics lacked the political authority to control the Soviet military assets on their territory, the Ministry of Defence in Moscow was eager to assume the responsibility. In Moldova, the Transcaucasus republics and Tajikistan, instability and often civil war followed. Russian-subordinated ground forces were implicated to varying degrees in those instabilities and the result was generally the deployment of a Russian-led peacekeeping force, often involving the same troops.17 While Yeltsin was president there was no attempt to calculate the longterm costs and benefits of maintaining a Russian military presence in the former Soviet Union. Under President Putin economic realism has been allowed to influence decision-making and a programme of reduction and withdrawal is in progress. However it comes too late for several hundred Russian servicemen who have lost their lives in regional conflicts over the last decade, to say nothing of the thousands who have died in Chechnya. (The civilian death toll is of course much higher and almost impossible to calculate with any accuracy.) The social costs to servicemen and their families of living in worsening conditions in isolated garrisons and the impact this had on retention and recruitment of personnel are also hard to calculate. By the time that the withdrawal began it was too late to undo the distrust of Russian intentions among Russia’s neighbours. It is noteworthy that this policy change has met with considerable opposition in the press and parliament, often expressed as personal abuse of the Defence Minister or Chief of the General Staff. The comments indicate that there is still no general understanding of the need for real reform in the Russian defence community.

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The debate about professionalisation of the armed forces has been conducted in the same climate. The need for a conscript army to provide a strategic reserve or mass army has been almost universally accepted by military professionals. It is only in the last couple of years that something like a debate has begun but the lack of independent commentators has been very obvious. One legacy of the Soviet era is that there is no tradition in Russia of subjecting defence policy to informed debate by politicians or the public at large. Military decision-making is a sealed environment and is not subject to civilian accountability, as in the West. But rather than discussing the theory of manning systems it might be more useful to look at the army which the present system actually produced. Some of its problems are well known. The increasingly poor health of Russian youth is reflected in the difficulty the army has in finding fit conscripts. Over 40 per cent of the age group are found to be unfit for military service and many of those who are recruited have medical limitations on how they serve. This is a particular problem for the ground forces because other branches of the armed services, such as the airborne and special forces or the navy, get first call on the fittest recruits. Yet service in the combat arms of the ground forces is physically arduous. In the same way, about 40 per cent of potential recruits claim the higher-education exemption. Other services have priority in picking from the limited pool of better-educated recruits although the modern soldier must operate highly technical weapon systems. The days of the infantryman with musket and bayonet are long past, even if the Russian army’s equipment is rapidly ageing, with no prospect of large-scale modernisation for several years at least. Overall, therefore, the Russian ground forces have to cope with what they can get, rather than select the most suitable recruits. It is a bitter joke to say that they are once again ‘an army of workers and peasants’. But there are more serious problems than obsolete equipment or poor recruits. The Russian armed forces are rapidly losing the esprit de corps or military ethos which makes a military organisation an effective fighting force (and politically reliable). The indicators of that decline have been obvious for some time, often dating back to the Soviet era. One of the consequences of Gorbachev’s glasnost policy was to draw attention to the problem of dedovshchina, or institutionalised bullying by older conscripts. The often drunken and violent rituals by which conscripts live are a better indication of where power lies inside the barracks than the official chain of command. In a normal military system officers are entitled to obedience from their subordinates but in turn have a duty of care towards them. That vital link has been broken in the modern Russian army. According to official figures, there are about a thousand non-

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combat deaths each year in the Russian armed forces but the wellinformed Soldiers’ Mothers Committees claim the true figure is closer to 3,000 deaths a year. Analysis of the figures shows that at the root of the problem is the officer corps’ failure to look after their men. A high proportion die in accidents which could be prevented if soldiers were properly supervised. Decent barracks and food would reduce the numbers who pick up some disease while in the army. But the most preventable deaths are those caused by bullying and the suicides of soldiers who cannot face the bullying any longer.18 It is hard to see how any professional officer corps could tolerate this pattern of behaviour but in fact dedovshchina became prevalent because too many officers shirked their responsibilities. The lack of a professional corps of non-commissioned officers was a crucial factor here. Russian officers were effectively being asked to do the jobs of sergeants as well as their own and too many were prepared not to ask questions about bruised faces on morning parade if it meant a quieter life. By now, physical abuse is such an accepted part of Russian military life that many officers routinely use force themselves to discipline their soldiers; only the exceptional cases come to public notice. For example, in October 2002 a Captain Ilyasov was court-martialled in Yekaterinburg. He would regularly wake his soldiers up during the night for a snap inspection and if he found anything amiss would beat the culprits with a rubber dildo. In September 2002, after a drunken escapade by some conscripts who had nearly completed their service, the chief of staff and some officers of an artillery battalion beat five likely offenders with spade handles and threatened the rest of their soldiers with similar treatment. That incident came to light because 54 of the soldiers left camp and marched into Volgograd to complain. Officers are not even ashamed to assault fellow officers. In the Siberian Military District in October 2002 Major-General Komissarov was court-martialled for beating up one of the colonels on his staff.19 Officers will also often hire out their soldiers for cash or favours. Like physical abuse, it is a commonplace part of Russian military life which only receives attention when something goes wrong. For example, Private Kiselev died when the trench he was digging collapsed on top of him in July 2002. He was not digging a defensive position but a drainage ditch for a country house, a dacha belonging to a friend of his colonel.20 This sort of exploitation, like physical abuse of soldiers, indicates that the average Russian officer does not see his soldiers as fellow servicemen or even as fellow human beings. There is no relationship of mutual respect between leaders and led, and it is difficult to see how a professional army can be created without one. At the moment, officers often despise contract

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servicemen even more than conscripts. Kontraktniki serving in Chechnya and other ‘hotspots’ are often called mercenaries and marauders by senior officers. Of course, a military officer’s responsibilities are not only to his soldiers. He also takes on a duty to serve and defend the state. But a significant proportion of Russian officers are not only lax in performing their duties but eager to find every opportunity for corruption that their profession offers. Some might try to justify this by arguing that the state has failed to live up to its part of the bargain. Until 2002 a lieutenant or captain’s pay was not enough to put his family above the official poverty line and the impact of the changes in military pay, allowance and tax scales in 2002 is still uncertain. For long periods in the last decade even these beggarly wages went unpaid, forcing officers to find second jobs if their families were not to starve. The urge to find some unofficial way of making military service pay is understandable and Russian officers have shown considerable ingenuity in their graft. Military commissars can take bribes in return for exempting young men from conscription or to arrange a comfortable posting close to home. Alternatively a bribe can ensure a contract serviceman a posting to a peacekeeping unit in the Balkans, where salaries are $1,000 a month. Unit commanders will take bribes to allow soldiers to stay at home. (In one interesting variation on this theme, Lieutenant-Colonel Nikitin in Kostroma received R23,000 over 18 months for allowing soldiers to dodge service and spent the money on improving facilities in his barracks.21) No-one has ever been able to put a figure on the scale of theft in the Russian armed forces overall. Rations are sold while soldiers go hungry. Arms and ammunition disappear, perhaps to hunters, or gangsters or terrorists, but no-one knows. Fuel, spare parts and vehicles can be bought; recently, at Mulino, home of a permanent-readiness motor rifle regiment, tanks ran out of fuel on the ranges because it was being sold by the tanker-load to local businesses. A motor rifle regimental commander sold all his unit’s lorries, becoming, briefly, a millionaire. Vital parts of weapons are sold for the precious metals they contain. In May 2002, the Chief of the General Staff said that ‘theft and robbery are rampant in the Russian army and its officers receive no punishment for abuse of power’. In April 2002, the Minister of Defence, visiting 20 Guards Army in the Moscow Military District, described the volume of theft there as ‘simply impermissible’, which raises the intriguing possibility that the ministry recognises an acceptable level of theft.22 These stories of abuse, theft and corruption are well known. The danger is that they are taken for granted when military reform is being discussed, so that structural change or professional manning can be

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discussed in a form of vacuum. In fact, the choices about the size and composition of the armed forces or the details of reform programmes or equipment purchases are almost irrelevant in the light of the human problems afflicting the Russian military. This is particularly true of the ground forces, which are the most manpower-intensive of armed services. To put the problem at its simplest, if a programme for professional armed forces could be agreed and funded, how could it be put into practice by the Russian army? Where will Russian officers learn how to treat soldiers as fellow professionals? How can a professional ethos be created in the armed services as they exist today? As this chapter was being written it was announced that Sergei Ivanov, the Minister of Defence, at the end of a discussion of military reform, asked President Putin to restore the five-pointed star as the insignia of the armed forces. There could hardly be a better illustration of the reasons for the failure of reform in the ground forces or the armed forces as a whole. It is typical of the fixation with the Soviet past rather than a Russian future and demonstrates a preference for symbols rather than reality. Will an officer be less likely to beat a soldier or steal his pay and rations if both are wearing stars in their cap badges? Most importantly, will putting a star on a flag check the continuing collapse of the Russian military system? NOTES 1. A.G.Lenskiy and M.M.Tsybin, The Soviet Ground Forces in the Last Year of the Soviet Union,, St Petersburg, 2001, pp. 5–10; V.A.Zolotarev (ed.), A History of Russian Military Strategy, Moscow: Kulikovo Pole, 2000, pp. 457–79; J.Erickson, L.Hansen and W.Schneider, Soviet Ground Forces: An Operational Assessment, Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1986, pp. 1–30. 2. Besides the works cited in Note 1, see the appropriate annual issues of The Military Balance, published by the International Institute of Strategic Studies (London). The best account of the Soviet military system is C.N.Donnelly, Red Banner, Coulsdon: Jane’s Information Group, 1988. 3. R.Hall, Where Next for the Soviet Division?, Jane’s Soviet Intelligence Review, December 1990; V.S.Kalyuzhnyy, ‘What Sort of Division Do We Need?’, Voyennaya Mysl’, November-December 1991. 4. Special Issue of Voyennaya Mysl’, July 1992, summarised by P.H.Vigor and M.J. Orr in Future Russian Security Policies: A Military-Scientific Conference, Camberley, SSRC Paper C84, November 1992. 5. For examples, see Lieutenant-General Mazurkevich, addressing a working group of the Russian Federal Assembly and NATO Parliamentary Assembly, as quoted by AVN news agency, 22 November 2001; ColonelGeneral V.Zherebtsov, ‘If You Wish to Be Handsome, Serve Russia’, Rossiyskaya Gazeta, 7 October 1995, p. 8; Army General A.Kvashnin said

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 137

6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

11.

12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17.

18.

19.

Russia ‘has the least number of soldiers manning each kilometre of border— 16 instead of no less than 50 in other countries’ (CDI Russia Weekly 1 February 2002). I.Rodionov, ‘Does The CIS Need Military Science?’, Krasnaya Zvezda (KZ), 28 January 1992, p. 1. A.Dokuchayev, ‘Russia’s Armed Forces: Stages of Their Formation’, KZ, 23 June 1992, p. 2. O.Vladykin, ‘Russia’s Mobile Forces’, KZ, 18 December 1992, p. 2. M.J.Orr, Manpower Problems of the Russian Armed Forces, CSRC Paper D62, February 2002, pp. 1–3. V.Semenov, ‘The Ground Forces Change Shape’, KZ, 28 April 1993, p. 1; V. Semenov, ‘The Ground Forces: The Main Directions Of Their Organization and Development’, Armeyskiy Sbornik, March 1995, p. 9; V.Semenov, ‘The Ground Forces and Reform’, KZ, 31 October 1996, p. 1. The Siberian and Transbaikal Military Districts were combined in 1999 and the Volga and Urals Military Districts were amalgamated in 2001. The military district/strategic direction combinations were: Leningrad/ Northwestern; Moscow/Western; North Caucasus/Southwestern; Volga— Urals/Central Asian; Siberian/Siberian; Far Eastern/Far Eastern. See: ‘Prospects for Military Development’, KZ, 5 August 1998, p. 1; Yu.Baluvevskiy, ‘A New Role for the Military District’, Voyennaya Mysl’, May-June 1999, p. 2. Interfax, Moscow, 3 March 1999. Ibid. Yu.Bukreyev, ‘Mother-Infantry Is Still “Raising Dust”’, Armeyskiy Sbornik, May 2000, p. 33. See also Yu.Bukreyev, ‘Russia Needs Powerful Ground Forces’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye, 3 November 2000. See, for example, the following articles, all by Kormiltsev: ‘Mother-Infantry Still Serves Russia’, Armeyskiy Sbornik, August 2001; ‘The Ground Forces Were and Will Be the Foundation of Combat Power’, Na Strazhe Rodiny, 21 February 2002, p. 2; ‘Combat Capability: The Demand of the Times’, Armeyskiy Sbornik, April 2002, p. 3. ‘Contents of the Draft Combat Regulations of the Ground Forces’, Voyennaya Mysl’, January 2002, p. 53. D.Lynch, Russian Peacekeeping Strategies in the CIS, London: Macmillan, 2000; M.J.Orr, ‘14th Army and the Crisis in Moldova’, Jane’s Intelligence Review, June 1992, p. 247; M.J.Orr, ‘The Civil War in Tajikistan’, Jane’s Intelligence Review, April 1993, p. 181; M.J.Orr, ‘Peacekeeping: A New Task for Russian Military Doctrine’, Jane’s Intelligence Review, July 1994. Minister of Defence Ivanov gave the official figures for 2002 as 531 men having died on duty as a result of accidents and crimes and 20,000 having been wounded. This figure apparently does not include suicides. Ivanov said, ‘The accident rate is not falling.’ Interfax, Moscow; 26 November 2002. S.Shevaldin, ‘Strange Barracks Cruelty’, Gazeta, 18 October 2002; for details of the Volgograd incident, see M.Orr, ‘Putin’s Generals Have Lost Control’, Wall Street Journal Europe, 4–6 October 2002; ITAR-TASS, Moscow, 23 October 2002.

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20. V.Rubtsov and V.Ampelonskiy, ‘A Soldier’s Death at a Dacha’, Moskovskiy Komsomolets, 8 July 2002, p. 2. 21. S.Abashkin, ‘Detochkin with Shoulder Straps’, Versty, 23 May 2002, p. 1. 22. V.Vershinin, ‘Fuel is Stolen Straight Off an Exercise’, Vek, 6 November 2002; RIA News Agency, Moscow, 26 April 2002; Interfax-AVN, Moscow, 30 May 2002.

8 The Reform of the Russian Air Force Stéphane Lefebvre

The Russian air force (Voyenno-Vozdushnyye Sily—VVS) is no longer the feared instrument that it was in Soviet times. The past ten years have proven to be very challenging, if not disquieting. The problems encountered today by the VVS are hardly surprising to the observers of the Russian political and economic scenes; they stem from an economy in reconstruction, a new strategic environment, and parochial interests. It is not the first time in its history that the VVS faces such a situation. It suffered from Stalin’s purges and was nearly eliminated by Germany in the Great Patriotic War (1941–45), but heroically came back to inflict serious losses in a war of attrition against an initially superior foe. Its heyday came during the Cold War that ended in 1989, when it significantly increased its numbers and ability to wage war from the air. Although the VVS never did match the West in all technological areas, experts recognised that it had talent and resources to innovate in several. The Afghan War (1979–89) proved inconclusive for the VVS; despite all its efforts, it barely affected the outcome of the struggle on the ground. A couple of years later, the Gulf War confirmed that its doctrine and tactics needed to be rethought and its infrastructure and organisation adapted to the changing nature of war and the new geostrategic situation emerging with the end of the Cold War.1 Later in the 1990s, Operation Desert Fox over Iraq and Operation Allied Force over Kosovo and Serbia would further convince military leaders that the VVS ought to be the armed forces’ spearhead in a conventional conflict of that kind.2 The difficulties encountered by the VVS over the last decade are easy enough to pinpoint; their exact scale, however, is not. The statistics and official statements attesting to the poor state of the force or assert ing its health are consistently too under-specified to be really meaningful, and oftentimes contradictory. They are used for many reasons, from boosting the budget for the VVS, to making a point against an opponent, to boosting export figures. While we should be cautious while using them,

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they remain useful in providing us with a general, if not specific, appreciation of the situation. A NEW REALITY Just before the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the VVS had 20 large strategic formations, 38 air divisions, 211 air regiments and about 10,000 aircraft, with first-rate airfields, and command and control and communication facilities in border districts. After the break-up, it was left with 60 per cent of the combat aircraft and about 50 per cent of the airfields, mostly located west of the Urals. Many key installations, including airfields and training centres, and modern aircraft were now located on foreign soil. Personnel, aircraft and equipment located in former Warsaw Pact countries were, however, repatriated.3 Plagued with a plethora of older aircraft, the VVS rapidly disposed of 1, 700 (Su-7, Su-17, MiG-21, MiG-23, MiG-27, Tu-16 and Tu-22) in order to focus its fleet around fourth-generation aircraft. Yet the fleet inventory in 2001 still had several dozen types and variants of aircraft and an even greater range of spare parts, ammunition and petrol, oil and lubricants. If only for this, the VVS is a very complex organisation to sustain. Over a few years, personnel was also reduced to 170,000 from 500,000, and the number of generals to 130 from 330.4 The VVS now has 142 airfields with a runway longer than 1,800 metres, with no less than 50 per cent in need of capital repairs and reconstruction, a proportion which is expected to reach 80 per cent in 2005. In 2002, only 70 airfields were in use since the VVS had funds to repair no more than one airfield per year. The VVS main airfield, Chkalovskiy, near Moscow, was resurfaced in 2001, but a year later repairs remained incomplete due to a lack of light-signal equipment, for which there are no manufacturers in Russia.5 The general ailments affecting the armed forces during the 1990s (underfunding, indiscipline, poor morale, personnel problems6 and ‘institutional interests in self-preservation’, that is, ‘giving lip service to the realities of the post-Cold War environment’ by trying ‘to retain as much as possible traditional strategic roles and operational missions’7) have not spared the VVS. Lack of financial resources has affected readiness, training, maintenance, research and development, modernisation, the purchase of new weapons systems, logistical support to aircraft, flight safety and the resolution of social problems. Over the last ten years, the budget allocated to the VVS has consistently been below the amounts requested by as much as 70 per cent. This goes a long way to explain why the infrastructure is in such disrepair, why so many

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servicemen’s families are hungry and homeless, and why the air fleet is in a low state of combat readiness due to a lack of fuel, spare parts and flying time for pilots. In the mid- to late 1990s, only 50 per cent of aircraft could be flown during the day and 30 per cent at night. The VVS finally admitted in 1997 that it could no longer conduct large-scale conventional operations over several theatres of operations or strategic directions.8 Ten years ago, there were too many pilots for the number of aircraft available. While their number has been considerably reduced, other problems such as a lack of fuel and airworthy aircraft have reduced flying time to an average of about 20 hours per year. Because flying time is given primarily to the better-qualified first-class pilots, second- and third-class pilots are hardly able to keep their qualifications, let alone move to the next level. This is a very precarious situation, since first-class pilots today represent 40 per cent of the total number of pilots in air regiments, and on average they are only a few years away from the retirement age for pilots of 45.9 In early 2002, morale was further affected by the decision to phase out the traditional VVS blue uniform to replace it with a cheaper khaki model simply for the sake of uniform unification across the armed forces (except for the navy).10 ADAPTING THE VVS The Mission The dissolution of the Soviet Union confronted the new Russia with a host of regional conflicts (Chechnya, Osetia, Daghestan, Moldova, Georgia and Tajikistan). These conflicts, similarly to the Soviet-Afghan War, were not fought as large-scale, theatre-level conventional wars, that is, on a linear battlefield with pre-determined tactics and professional soldiers and/or conscripts. Engagements in such conflicts occurred in unexpected locations, including urban areas, and involved guerrillas or para-military groups using the ground and man-made and natural obstacles to the fullest extent. Fighting under these circumstances placed an emphasis on air strategic and operational mobility and the development of precision guided weapons. Russian officers at large, however, are not yet fully assimilating the lessons supposedly learned from regional conflicts very quickly, and still devote considerable time to studying large-scale conventional and nuclear war scenarios.11 Conscious somewhat of the changing nature of conflicts, then ColonelGeneral Petr Deinekin, VVS Commander-in-Chief, wrote in 1993 that:

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The principal goal of air force organisational development for the period up to 2000 is to establish, based on existing air units, a highly mobile branch of the armed forces with a balanced make-up and modern aircraft and weapons capable of effectively accomplishing the full set of its assigned missions in joint or independent operations and requiring minimum outlays for upkeep.12 Two years later, he defined the VVS’s purpose thus: ‘The air force is a highly manoeuvrable branch of the armed forces intended for conducting combat operations and air operations in various kinds of military operations in continental and ocean theatres of war (theatres of military operations) and in distant military-geographic areas.’13 In a later interview with Armeyskiy Sbornik, he elaborated on this by saying that the VVS had a decisive role in ‘winning strategic air supremacy, weakening the enemy’s military-economic potential, disorganising his state and military command and control, engaging strategic and operational reserves, and providing air support to large strategic formations of the ground troops and navy in operations’. With regard to the task of supporting ground forces, he alluded to the 1991 Gulf War, where ‘mass employment of aviation…allowed the multinational forces command element to decide the outcome of the war in a short time essentially without involving the ground grouping’.14 For many senior VVS officers the air support to ground troops is the most important mission of the VVS, but can only be accomplished with success if air supremacy has been achieved at the tactical and operational levels. Air operations using advanced technologies and munitions, despite the higher cost, are also seen as important because they allow the VVS to hit targets with fewer personnel and weapon systems and greater effectiveness, thus reducing its own losses (by two-five times).15 In 2001, VVS Commander-in-Chief Army General Kornukov described the tasks of the air force in the twenty-first century as follows: [T]he main tasks of the air force in 21st-century military operations are likely to be the following: repelling first surprise air attacks preceding land and naval invasion…; inflicting a defeat on the main forces of the aerospace adversary by coordinated actions of defence forces engaging aerospace offensive weapons in flight …and attack forces throughout their entire basing system; providing air support and air cover for the armed forces’ land units in order to enable them to seize the strategic initiative by way of conducting defensive and counteroffensive operations; providing air support and air cover for joint actions by the armed forces and other troops of the

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Russian Federation; participating in peacekeeping operations outside of the Russian Federation.16 These missions are more defensive in nature than during the Cold War and, despite a different wording, relatively similar in terms of focus to those of General Deinekin. The Structure The Russian VVS was established on 7 May 1992, after the Russian government decided to create its own independent armed forces following the failure to create CIS armed forces. The VVS was organised into major commands subordinated to the authority of the VVS commander-in-chief, and large strategic formations subordinated to the Long-Range, Frontal and Military Transport Aviation commanders. Two air force armies were formed in the North Caucasus (the 4th Air Army) and Moscow (the 16th Air Army from the defunct Western Group of Forces) Military Districts, which had only had air force educational and training centres as second-echelon military districts during the Soviet Union’s time.17 To fulfil General Deinekin’s 1993 goal, reforms were to take place in three stages. The first one, from 1991 to 1992, included the formation of a new Russian VVS High Command and the revision of the VVS organisational development concept. The second stage, from 1993 to 1995, included the completion of the withdrawal of VVS assets from former Warsaw Pact countries and former Soviet republics, and the formation of new VVS formations in Russia, a reduction in personnel, and a reform of the acquisition and cadres training systems. At that stage, all VVS formations and units would fall under four commands: Long-Range Aviation, Frontal Aviation, Military Transport Aviation and Reserve and Cadres Training. The third stage, after 1995, was to include a complete overhaul of the airfield network, and the implementation of new logistical and cadres training systems. A 1995 study on ‘The Russian Air Force’ (conducted by the VVS High Command and directed by General Deinekin) laid out the motives for merging VVS with the Air Defence Forces (Voyska Protivo vozdushnoy Oborony—PVO), then one of the armed forces’ five branches. These motives focused on historical experiences, the organising principles of foreign armed forces, most of which have only three branches of service, and the necessity to have a centralised view of the air picture. The merger was also aimed at optimising the use of resources and cutting expenditures, leading to joint procurement practices, logistical support

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and training. It was estimated that combining both branches would allow a reduction in personnel from 340,000 to 180,000.18 Before the idea of the VVS-PVO merger was adopted, Deinekin proceeded with the abolition of the headquarters of the Frontal Aviation and Reserves and Cadres Training commands and the transfer of their staff and responsibilities to the VVS High Command and the Volga Military District Air Force respectively.19 The merger was decreed by President Boris Yeltsin on 16 July 1997, and was to be completed by 1 January 1999. The PVO’s Missile and Space Defence Troops (Voyska Raketno-Kosmicheskoy Oborony—RKO) were excluded from the merger and subordinated to the Strategic Missile Forces (Raketnyye Voyska Strategicheskogo Naznacheniya—RVSN) instead. At the same time, military districts, which would take the status of operational-strategic commands, were to assume operational control of all the units, from whatever branch of the armed forces, based within their territorial boundaries. For the VVS, it meant that its Frontal Aviation formations and units would be under its direct command, but operationally controlled by military districts, except for the newly formed Moscow Air Force and Air Defence Forces District. Long-Range Aviation and Military Transport Aviation were not immediately affected by these changes and remained under the command and control of the VVS commander-in-chief.20 The merger proceeded in two stages. The first stage, completed on 1 March 1998, saw the integration of the two High Commands (VVS and PVO) into one. The second stage, completed at the end of 1998, saw the reorganisation of both branches’ large strategic formations. This included the establishment of the Moscow Air Force and Air Defence District (renamed Special Purpose Command of the Central Air Defence Zone in 2002) in the Western strategic sector, air force and air defence armies under the operational control of military district commanders, and independent air force and air defence corps in the Volga and Ural Military Districts (later an Air Army for the amalgamated districts). One of the major difficulties encountered was to devise a single command and control system for all air force assets. As it was, the aviation command and control system was not sufficiently protected and had very little mobility. Those parts working well, moreover, were and are still for the most part obsolete, just like the communication and electronic and radar support systems.21 Colonel-General Anatoly Kornukov, who succeeded Deinekin in January 1998, had previously served as Commander of the Moscow Air Defence District. At his first press conference on 10 February 1998, he announced that the new air force would assume operational control over

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TABLE 8.1: RUSSIAN AIR FORCE COMMANDERS-IN-CHIEF, 1992–2002

all its combat assets on 1 March, that the new command post would be operational the following day, that the merger would occasion the departure of 122,000 servicemen (later raised to 125,000), 48,800 officers and 46 generals, whose posts would be abolished, and that operational and tactical formations would be reduced or reorganised. This last provision ultimately involved 12 VVS and PVO air armies, 15 divisions, 81 regiments and 496 units. It was also announced that Long-Range Aviation and the Military Transport Aviation would be reorganised into the 37th (Strategic) Air Army of the Supreme High Command and the 61st Air Army of the Supreme High Command respectively, and directly and operationally subordinated to the new Air Force High Command. Frontal Aviation, as previously noted, was to be divided into air force and air defence armies directly subordinated to the commander-in-chief, but under the operational control of the military districts, each corresponding to an operational-strategic command on important strategic directions (Northwestern, Western, Southwestern, Far Eastern and Southern). There are five such air armies today: the 6th Air Force and Air Defence Army, headquartered in St Petersburg, Leningrad Military District; the 4th Air Force and Air Defence Army, headquartered in Rostov-on-Don, North Caucasus Military District; the 11th Air Force and Air Defence Army, headquartered in Khabarovsk, Far East Military District; the 14th Air Force and Air Defence Army, headquartered in Chita, Siberian Military District; and the 5th Air Force and Air Defence Army, formed after the 2001 merger of the Volga and Urals Military Districts.22 For the Moscow area, the Moscow Air Force and Air Defence District was formed, incorporating the former Moscow Air Defence District and the 16th Air Army, reorganised into the 16th Composite Air Corps. The new corps was given one air division, two fighter regiments and an air transport regiment. It was redesignated the 16th Air Force and Air Defence Army in 2001. Three months after Kornukov’s appointment, President Yeltsin appointed 35 generals to senior air force positions, in effect putting in place Kornukov’s team.23

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TABLE 8.2: AIRCRAFT INVENTORY, 2001

Note: The Conventional Forces in Europe (CFE) Treaty’s Tashkent Agreement of 15 May 1992 limits Russia to 3,450 combat aircraft in the area west of the Urals. The Military Balance 2001–2002, Oxford: Oxford University Press for the International Institute for Strategic Studies, 2001, p. 116.

From the time Kornukov assumed command to January 1999 (one year), the number of airmen serving in the new VVS dropped to 184,594 from 318,000. The merger of the VVS and the PVO in the end resulted in 580 units and sub-units being disbanded, 134 units and sub-units being reorganised and 600 re-subordinated, and 32 airfields being vacated.24 By 2005, the VVS is expected to change its shape further as the Russian armed forces will likely have completed the implemention of a new threebranch structure (army, navy, air force) from the current four, in accordance with the government’s plan for reforming the armed forces between 2001 and 2005. Kornukov, who had reached retirement age, was replaced in January 2002 by Colonel-General Vladimir Mikhailov, aged 58. Kornukov was rumoured to have had his request for extension refused because of ‘his tough opposition to cuts in air defence units [and because] he was too outspoken’. In 2004, Mikhailov is expected to be replaced by his first deputy, 49-year-old Lieutenant-General Anatoly Nogovitsyn.25 Although Kornukov showed determination and a certain degree of success in implementing far-reaching changes in the VVS, like Deinekin he was unable to give the VVS its former lustre. In a moment of desperation, he told the media in August 2001 that the VVS had ‘practically ceased to be a service in permanent battle readiness’, noting that a meagre 5 per cent (or less) of the air fleet was composed of

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modern, state-of-the-art aircraft. At the same time, other military officials boasted that the aircraft inventory reduction had increased the number of aircraft available to take off to 80 per cent. In fact, the reorganisation initiated by Deinekin and implemented by Kornukov had not freed the large sums of money necessary to make a significant impact on the status of the fleet, training standards or combat readiness.26 SOCIAL CONDITIONS The VVS was underfinanced throughout the 1990s. In comparison with the air force budgets of foreign armed forces, which hover around 30 per cent, the VVS has complained that its share of the military budget was too low; in 1992, it was 20 per cent, in 1998, 9 per cent and in 2001, less than 12 per cent. On this basis, Russian officials and experts have argued that to fulfil its missions properly the VVS should see its share of the budget increase significantly. Limited budget allocations have had a negative impact on personnel. Several incidents highlighted the difficult situation faced by many: according to deputy Defence Minister Boris Gromov, in November 1994, 10,000 pilots were without permanent quarters. Four years later, it was reported that 30,263 VVS personnel were without apartments and 10,000 living in sub-standard housing. In 2001, the deputy VVS commander noted that 25,944 officers and warrant officers were essentially homeless and 41,851 more in need of proper housing.27 The situation was particularly adverse until the end of the 1990s and marked by numerous incidents of protest over unpaid salaries and allowances. Pilots, for instance, were reported to have gone on hunger strikes to get housing and food for their children. One threatened to take over by force an electric power plant if power was again cut without warning during training flights.28 To compound this problem, senior VVS officers were involved in criminal activities such as embezzlement and theft.29 TRAINING The problems besetting the VVS have had a tremendous impact on training. Routine exercises, large and small, common during the Cold War have been reduced to a minimum. In the influential journal Military Thought, Colonel Krasnov noted: the reduction of routine, scheduled large-scale exercises and the critically low personnel training standards. Commanders and pilots

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have not gone through rigorous combat training and [have] no experience in combat alert duty; graduates of military aviation institutes (schools) lose their professional skills after four to five years of service. Thus, only one-third of young pilots who joined the air force after 1994 are prepared to perform combat missions.30 In the early 1990s, many Russian military authors recommended a move away from traditional training methods (there were fewer funds available and many training facilities were lost with the break-up of the Soviet Union) towards an increased and more productive use of ‘weapon ranges, flight simulators and computer aided training schemes’.31 For this to happen, however, more qualified training instructors, modern simulators and computers were required; they were not forthcoming. Flying hours were consistently well below the bare minimum of flying hours (in Russia, 80 hours; over 100 in Soviet times) a pilot needs to remain proficient. In 2001, a fighter pilot flew on average 15 hours, a bomber pilot 14, an army aviation (ASV) pilot 20, a Military Transport Aviation (VTA) pilot 22.5 and a Long-Range Aviation (DA) pilot over 50.32 Under such circumstances, a pilot 2nd class (one who can accomplish a daytime all-weather mission and a night mission under normal weather conditions) would be fully trained after 10–15 years. As a result, pilots overall are poorly qualified and demoralised.33 Over the last ten years, the VVS has streamlined its training processes and reduced the number of training establishments. In 1996, the VVS was managing 14 higher and four secondary educational establishments in addition to a host of institutes and academies. Three years later, the number of establishments had been reduced by half with the implementation of a new educational structure based on one academy, two universities (based upon the Air Defence Academy and the Zhukovskiy Air Engineering Academy), as well as six institutes, previously called military schools.34 By 2002, pilot conversion and advanced training had been consolidated into four Centres for Combat Training and Aircrew Conversion; DA, VTA, ASV, Air Defence and Frontal Aviation each has its own centre.35 The air defence surface-to-air missile troops and the radio-technical troops also have their own dedicated training centre. With regard to training aircraft, the VVS has decided to change its Czech and L-39 Albatros aircraft. In 2001, it selected the Su-49 as its new piston-engine primary trainer (100 are expected to be purchased to equip two training regiments), and in 2002 the Yak-130 combat trainer to replace its fleet of L-39 and serve as a light strike aircraft for low-intensity conflicts. Russia is expected to acquire 150–200 aircraft by 2020, with the

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earliest delivery in 2005, but is only funding the next stage of research and development work. The competitor to the Yak-130, the MiG-AT, will be developed for the export market.36 OPERATIONAL DEPLOYMENTS The VVS has been in decline for a decade. Yet Russian combat operations could not have been conducted and sustained without the contribution of air power. The full range of VVS capabilities was not fully exploited, however, due to a lack of preparation and training among air staff and crews. Chechnya, 1994–96 For the first Chechen campaign, Frontal Aviation formed a special aircraft regiment from elements of the 4th Air Army, reinforced with subunits and elements from a number of military districts (such as the A-50 ‘Mainstay’ airborne early-warning and control system). The regiment deployed at least 140 aircraft, including Su-25 ground attack aircraft, Su-22M fighter-bombers, and Su-24 Frontal Aviation bombers, but its fuel, ammunition and spare parts stocks were ‘50 per cent less than prescribed’.37 During its first seven months of operational deployment, which included the invasion (December 1994) and consolidation phases (January to June 1995) of the operation, there were over 9,000 sorties, including 5,300 air strikes and 627 air reconnaissance missions. The VVS easily eliminated the Chechen air force and its 266 aircraft. The air regiment’s first task was to destroy the aircraft of the Chechen force based at the Khankala, Kalinovskaya and Grozny North airbases, followed by air support to advancing Russian units, the transport of troops and materiel, reconnaissance, bomb-damage assessments, air strikes and other missions. Although the lack of spare parts and pilot training were serious causes for concern, as of December 1995 losses had been limited to one Su-24 (slammed into a mountain), two Su-25 (anti-aircraft fire) and damage from anti-aircraft fire to 24 other aircraft. Over the course of the whole campaign, the air regiment destroyed 3,519 buildings and other targets, in addition to damaging command posts, armoured and soft-skinned vehicles, cars, bridges, warehouses, guerrilla assembly points, industrial facilities and sections of highways. It is interesting to note, given these results, that at some point General Deinekin denied that civilian sites had been targeted. Until May 1995, when the fight shifted to less populated

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areas, ground offensive operations were not preceded by air strikes to avoid unnecessary civilian casualties; only in cases of fierce resistance was air support from ground attack aircraft and helicopters requested. Civilian infrastructure, according to him, was hit collaterally due to its proximity to legitimate targets.38 Russian troops were hit by their own too. Some of the air strikes’ bombs and unguided rockets hit buildings already seized by Russian troops because of target designation errors, poor coordination and communication with forward air controllers, and insufficient training.39 Precision-guided munitions (PGMs) were also used against small military targets, including in urban areas, but accounted for only 2.3 per cent of sorties, mainly because Russia does not have all-weather precision weapons. The bulk of the bombs dropped in Chechnya therefore were ‘dumb’ ones. The presidential palace in Grozny, for example, was attacked by Su-25 ground attack aircraft using the BETAB-500 concretepiercing bomb and the heavy S-24 unguided rockets. General Deinekin commented that PGMs were needed in greater quantity as well as greater strike coordination to deal with low-intensity targets such as those encountered in Chechnya. Even so, Grozny was vastly damaged.40 Army aviation from the North Caucasus Military District provided 55 helicopters (25 Mi-24, 28 Mi-8 and two Mi-6) divided into three helicopter regiments and a squadron of Mi-26 heavy lift helicopters, and another squadron of Mi-9 command and communications helicopters from the Volga Military District. In March 1995, the number of helicopters in Chechnya reached 105, including 55 Mi-24. The Mi-24, however, could not operate under low-visibility conditions because of on-board navigation problems; in other words, it needed line-of-sight to the targets to be effective. Most of the combat helicopters deployed were for the most part worn out and equipped with obsolete systems, with no or little ability to operate at night. As of August 1995, the helicopter fleet had flown 16,547 sorties: 37 per cent for fire missions, 44 per cent for transport-assault missions, 8 per cent for reconnaissance missions and 12 per cent for special tasks (search and rescue, radio relay, etc.). About half the helicopter pilots had served in Afghanistan. By July 1995, five Mi-8 and seven Mi-24 had been lost, and 30 other helicopters damaged.41 The major tactical problem with the ASV was that it employed its helicopters ‘at stand-off range on city ring’ and ‘would rarely venture into urban canyon for fear of attack’. Resupply and transport missions therefore predominated.42 VTA provided 30 aircraft (An-12, An-22, An-26, An-124 and I1–76) to airlift troops and equipment from the Mozdok and Beslan airfields. Overall, these aircraft conducted 3,227 sorties, and transported 133,024

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troops and 9,205 tonnes of cargo.43 DA also made a contribution to the war effort by bombing concentrations of Chechen troops and roads and providing target illumination (24 sorties) at night. It flew 172 sorties and dropped 2,287 bombs and 2,479 flares.44 Overall, poor weather, insufficient preparation and training, and the lack of all-day all-weather platforms affected air operations—air reconnaissance in particular—throughout the campaign. Ground troops thus did not receive the amount of direct fire support they had expected and were even subject to fratricide because of poor communications.45 Chechnya, 1999–2002 In the second Chechen campaign, some of the lessons learned from the first campaign had an impact. The VVS had a much bigger role in the joint operations and contributed to the intelligence picture by performing more effective air reconnaissance sorties. Air assets were used more often and the VVS showed improvement in its ability to coordinate missions with other forces deployed in Chechnya and conduct air reconnaissance missions. The latter involved the use of the Su-24MR, Su-25 and MiG-25RB and the Pchela-1T unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) for real-time aerial reconnaissance. The aircraft and helicopters used in terms of types and numbers were very similar to those of the first campaign. Of note, the Ka-50 ‘Hokum’ combat helicopter and the modernised Su-25T all-weather aircraft were tested; the latter successfully fired Kh-25ML rockets.46 The ASV deployed a helicopter regiment comprising 80 Mi-24 and Mi-8 to Chechnya. The primary missions assigned to the Mi-24 were to support ground troops’ movements and to attack Chechen guerrillas in mountainous areas.47 In the first stage, in Daghestan from 2 August to 30 September 1999, Mi-24 and Mi-8 attack helicopters were used against Chechen armed groups in southwestern Daghestan. During that stage, one Su-25 fighter ground attack aircraft and three helicopters were lost. During the second stage, from 1 October 1999 to 22 April 2000, air strikes, often using fuel-air explosives and cluster bombs, were used extensively to avoid close combat casualties among Russian forces. Overall, however, unguided bombs and rockets were the main air—ground munitions used. Before Russian forces reached Grozny in mid-October 1999, the aerial attacks were said to emulate NATO Operation Allied Force over Serbia and Kosovo earlier that year. During that stage, two Su-25, two Su-24 maritime reconnaissance aircraft and ten helicopters were lost. During the third stage, from May 2000 onward, marking the end of major operations in Chechnya, air support continued against pockets of

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Chechen fighters. Again, most air operations were conducted during daytime and under good weather conditions, except when use was made of the Su-24M.48 Fratricide incidents involving VVS platforms were again reported, but were much less of a problem. Among the major VVS losses figure a September 2001 Mi-8 crash that killed 11 passengers, including eight colonels and two generals from the General Staff, and two Su-25 attack planes lost in action in Chechnya in 2001. 11 September 2001 and the War on Terrorism The VVS was not put on high alert in the moments following the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, but on a heightened state of readiness, and cancelled its flights over the Atlantic, Pacific and Arctic Oceans conducted as part of a training exercise scheduled for 10–14 September.49 Media sources commented that the air defence system around Moscow was full of holes and that what happened in New York could easily have happened in Moscow. While Moscow was defended by three rings of defence during the Cold War, today they no longer exist. The air approaches to Moscow are now protected by two regiments of fighter-interceptors whereas 15 years ago there were 20. The Moscow Air Force and Air Defence District’s airspace was covered by three air defence corps.50 In December 2001, the commander of the VVS radio-technical troops, Lieutenant-General Aleksandr Shramchenko, admitted that since reforms started 50 per cent of the troops’ capabilities to monitor Russia’s airspace had been lost: ‘In fact we do not control the airspace from the Ural Mountains to the Kurile Islands. There is only a thin thread of radar coverage along the border with Kazakhstan, Mongolia and China.’ Reductions which followed the merger of the air force with air defence forces led to the loss of 30 per cent of the units and 60 per cent of the personnel. Older-generation radars are in service and only about ten are modernised every year.51 VTA I1–76 transport planes flew to Bagram airfield near Kabul transporting Russian Embassy personnel, a mobile hospital, and construction and humanitarian supplies. These flights were occasional, as most cargo shipments to Afghanistan are carried out by the Ministry for Emergencies. As of 31 December 2001, they had flown more than 100 people and 40 tonnes of cargo to Bagram.52

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Other Deployments The VVS has deployed a variety of aircraft in support of Russian forces involved in regional operations such as those in Moldova and Tajikistan and flown on behalf of the UN or NATO in missions such as those conducted in Kosovo (27th Aviation Group with 11 Mi-8 and Mi-24 helicopters and 50 pilots and technicians), and in Sierra Leone (an aviation unit composed of four Mi-24 and 115 pilots and technicians), where it provided armed escorts and reconnaissance services to UNAMSIL (United Nations Mission in Sierra Leone).53 MODERNISATION Russia’s military aviation industry nearly collapsed in the 1990s. For most of the decade, the Russian government avoided buying any significant number of aircraft (only 9.4 per cent of the VVS procurement projects were funded in 1996, 3.4 per cent in 1997 and 1.6 per cent in 1998), forcing the industry to consolidate further and focus its activities on the export markets. This has contributed to keeping the industry alive for the moment when Russia would be financially sound enough to decide on the modernisation of older aircraft and the acquisition of new ones. The industry has shown surprising vitality, having no fewer than 15 types of platforms undergoing testing in August 2001. Furthermore, since the air force was formed in May 1992, at least 15 new weapon systems have entered service, keeping smaller industries alive. These include the R-77 air-to-air guided missiles, laser-designated bombs and the Stroy-P reconnaissance UAV.54 The VVS’s objective is to modernise 20–25 per cent of the fleet to the fourth-generation plus one level until a fifth-generation multi-role aircraft enters service around 2010 and replaces the MiG-29 and Su-27 aircraft.55 The modernising of the current fleet and the acquisition of new aircraft are pressing as bulk obsolescence is setting in. Already in 1996, Major-General Aleksandrov and Colonels Barayev and Gerasimov warned in Military Thought that Russia was on the verge of losing ‘its great aviation power status’.56 In 2002, 50 per cent of the aircraft were more than 15 years old, 20 per cent ten to 15, 30 per cent five to ten, and less than 1 per cent under five years old.57 The development cost for the fifth-generation aircraft, officially referred to as the Frontal Aviation Advanced Aviation System (Perspektivnyy Aviatsionnyy Kompleks Frontovoy Aviatsii—PAK FA), is expected to reach $1.5 billion, but Russia is expected to cover only around 20 per cent of the cost, and export customers the remaining portion. The

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initial contract for its development was given to the Aviation Military Industrial Complex Sukhoi (as lead designer) in April 2002 by the Military-Industrial Commission. Sukhoi will work on a tight schedule, being contracted to complete the draft design by the end of 2002. Given the financial questions surrounding the whole project, many doubt that it has been launched to really re-equip the VVS, but rather to sustain the industry and gain a potentially large export market.58 Developed in the 1980s, the Sukhoi S-37 and the Mikoyan multi-purpose combat (MFI) fighters are fifth-generation technology demonstrators which are in many respects already obsolete (e.g. computers) and will serve as the basis for Sukhoi’s fifth-generation aircraft.59 With regard to the modernisation of the current fleet, the focus is on upgrading or replacing their radars and weapon control systems in order to maximise the employment and effectiveness of new precision-guided missiles and avionics suites.60 Air-related infrastructure projects include the development of new over-the-horizon and bistatic radars as well as a new military-civilian radar system called the Federal System for Reconnaissance and Control of the Airspace of the Russian Federation (FSR i KVP), which will provide Russia with a unified air traffic control system.61 The Future VVS senior officers who have studied coalition operations conducted in the 1990s (such as Operations Desert Storm, Desert Fox and Allied Force) have paid particular attention to the use of long-range precision weapons and the leading role of offensive air operations in these conflicts. Drawing conclusions for the future, General Kornukov notes that: In future, military conflicts will afford chances of comprehensive engagement of first and second echelons of opposing (troops) forces. This will be accompanied by simultaneous actions against all targets regardless of the depth of their disposition, with weapons allocated for the purpose dispersed over all possible lines of attack. This tendency is also due to the use in future military conflicts of unmanned long-range precision weapons and a considerable boost in the combat potential of strike aircraft.62 Kornukov and several of his contemporaries believe that the quality of the VVS weapon systems and platforms will be more important than their quantity for Russia to achieve air superiority and secure strategic objectives in any future conflicts involving Russian armed forces. In that

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sense, the Gulf War and Kosovo are focal examples of conflicts whose initial period of war and their eventual resolution was dependent in large part on air power and advanced technologies.63 The VVS emphasis on modernisation is thus quite understandable; it does not want to be at the receiving end of an operation similar to Allied Force.64 The problem, though, is that the VVS cannot project power far beyond Russia’s landmass, which is forcing Russia to rely on nuclear deterrence in any conflictual situation with a technologically advanced country. Russia in a sense has been very lucky since the dissolution of the Soviet Union; all the conflicts it has been party to have been of the low-technology, highintensity kind.65 Over the next decade, financial limitations will force the VVS to retire older aircraft and reduce its personnel further. To free money for modernisation, a further 36,000 positions are expected to be cut from the air force by the end of 2004, even though there are critical shortfalls of officers (about 8,000 in June 2001). Low morale and corruption will continue to affect readiness. A modern air force with a professional and technically proficient staff is not likely to emerge until 2020. NOTES The views expressed in this chapter are the author’s own and do not represent the views of any organisation, past or present, with which the author might have been associated. 1. For a history of the Russian/Soviet air force, see Mark O’Neill, ‘The Soviet Air Force, 1917–1991,’ in Robin Higham and Frederick W.Kagan (eds), The Military History of the Soviet Union, New York: Palgrave, 2002, pp. 153–68; and Robin Higham, John T.Greenwood and Von Hardesty (eds), Russian Aviation and Air Power in the Twentieth Century, London: Frank Cass, 1998. 2. Greg Austin and Alexei D.Muraviev, The Armed Forces of Russia in Asia, London and New York: I.B.Tauris, 2000, p. 236. 3. Krasnaya Zvezda (KZ), 5 November 1994, p. 3; KZ, 28 May 1994, p. 1. 4. Col.-Gen. Petr S.Deinekin, ‘Russia Remains an Air Power’, Military News Bulletin, 6, 1993, p. 2; Rossiyskiye Vesti (RV), 18 May 1996, pp. 8–9, Interfax, 11 August 1997; RV, 15 August 1997, p. 3; Izvestiya, 12 May 1994, p. 5. 5. Col.-Gen. Petr S.Deinekin, ‘The Homeland Will Not Be Left Wingless: On the Concept of Air Force Organisational Development and Employment’, Armeyskiy Sbornik (AS), 8, August 1995, pp. 4–10; Interfax, 21 December 1996; Interfax Military News Agency, 28 August 2001; ITAR-TASS, 27 February 2002; Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye (NVO), 22 March 2002. 6. For a quick overview of the poor state of the armed forces in the mid-1990s, see ‘Russia: Military Decline’, Oxford Analytica East Europe Daily Brief, 26 January 1996.

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7. Alexei G.Arbatov, The Russian Military in the 21st Century, Carlisle, PA: US Army War College, Strategic Studies Institute monograph, 3 June 1997, p. 7. 8. Col. A.Gabov, ‘Direct Command and Control of Aviation: Organizational Problems’, Military Thought, 7, 1, 1998, p. 48; Interfax, 7 April 1997; KZ, 16 August 1997, pp. 1–2; Segodnya, 30 March 1995, p. 2; Moskovskiy Komsomolets (MK), 11 April 1995, pp. 1–2; Le Monde, 14 April 1995, p. 3; New Europe, 195, 16–22 February 1997, p. 19. 9. Interfax, 5 June 2001; www.militarynews.ru, NVO, 3 August 2001; Nezavisimaya Gazeta (NG), 19 July 2001, pp. 1–2; Austin and Muraviev, The Armed Forces of Russia in Asia, p. 247. 10. Interfax, 7 February 2002. 11. Cols A.B.Krasnov and Yu.N.Shemuranov, ‘The Role of Aviation in Armed Conflicts’, Military Thought, 7, 1, 1998, p. 37; on the lessons from regional conflicts, see Lester W.Grau and Michael A.Gress (trans/eds), The Soviet Afghan War: How a Superpower Fought and Lost: The General Staff Study, Lawrence, KS: University Press of Kansas, 2002, pp. 310–11. 12. Col.-Gen. Petr S.Deinekin, ‘Basic Directions of Air Force Organisational Development and Training under Present Conditions’, Military Thought, 2, 7, 1993, p. 3. 13. Deinekin, ‘The Homeland Will Not Be Left Wingless’, pp. 4–10. 14. Interview with General Pyotr Deinekin, AS, 3, March 1997, pp. 6–9. 15. AS, 11, November 1997, pp. 4–9. 16. Army Gen. A.M.Kornukov, ‘Apropos of the Grown Role of Confrontation in the Aerospace Sphere and Air Force Tasks in 21st-century Military Operations’, Military Thought, 10, 5, 2001, p. 11. 17. Deinekin, ‘The Homeland Will Not Be Left Wingless’, pp. 4–10; KZ, 5 November 1994, p. 3; Moscow News, 47, 27 November—3 December 1997, p. 7; RV, 18 May 1996, pp. 8–9; KZ, 5 June 1996, p. 1. The Kubinka air base, where the 16th Air Army’s headquarters is located, has been linked to fraudulent activities, especially concerning the misallocation of housing units built by Germany for returning Group of Western Forces servicemen. 18. NG, 22 January 1997, p. 5; General of the Army Pyotr Deinekin, ‘The Russian Air Force’, International Affairs, 43, 5, 1997, p. 228; Austin and Muraviev, The Armed Forces of Russia in Asia, p. 241. 19. Andrew Duncan, ‘Time of Consolidation for Russia’s Military’, Jane’s Intelligence Review, 9, 10, October 1997, p. 455. 20. Rossiyskaya Gazeta (RG), 19 July 1997, p. 5; Interfax, 11 August 1997; KZ, 16 August 1997, pp. 1–2. Gen. Deinekin explained the merger as follows: ‘The merging of the Air Force and the Air Defence Forces under a single command…will make it possible, with maximum effectiveness, to address the main following tasks: to detect the launching of nuclear missiles, air, or space attack; to provide early warning; to achieve and maintain air superiority; to cover troops and logistical facilities against air reconnaissance and air and space strikes; to provide air support to ground and navy forces; to ensure effective engagement of air and air defence forces; to effectively engage nuclear missile groupings; to ensure effective engagement of the enemy’s strategic, operational and tactical reserves, and to perform a number of other basic missions.’ Deinekin, ‘The Russian Air

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21. 22.

23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29. 30.

Force’, p. 228. Col. A.B.Krasnov, Professor and Doctor of Military Sciences, argued that, ‘Merging the Air Force and the Air Defence Forces into one armed service of the Armed Forces (emphasis in original) holds out much prospect and offers numerous advantages in the context of struggle for air supremacy, if only because the ‘sword’ and the ‘shield’ end up in the hands of one and the same authority. The advantage lies not only in the fact that the measure will reduce or abolish identical echelons, particularly so at the operational-strategic level. The new air force configuration provides better conditions for planning the employment of disparate forces, which operate in one and the same air sphere and against one and the same air enemy, and for using them in a coordinated way; it will also help achieve their massing on the basis of a single concept as efforts are made to deal with the whole set of missions involved in air and anti-aircraft operations, and cut the time necessary for the organization of teamwork.’ Col. A.B. Krasnov (ret.), ‘Struggle for Air Supremacy Against a Vastly Superior Enemy’, Military Thought, 7, 4, 1998, pp. 52–3. Col.-Gen. V.P.Sinitsyn, ‘The Air Force: Evolution and Development’, Military Thought, 7, 4, 1998, p.’ 10. Each air army comprises one or two air divisions which include air defence fighter regiments, anti-aircraft missile troops and radio technical troops, and one or two air divisions configured to offer strike missions and support to the military district’s forces and separate regiments. Yefim Gordon and Alan Dawes, Russian Air Power: 21st Century Aircraft, Weapons and Strategy, Shrewsbury: Airlife Publishing, 2002, p. 13. On these series of changes, see Charles J.Dick, Military Reform and the Russian Air Force, Report B56, Camberley: Conflict Studies Research Centre, September 1999, pp. 2–3; Interfax, 1 February 1998; Izvestiya, 11 February 1998, p. 2; Interfax, 16 March 1998; Interfax, 29 April 1998; Interfax, 6 May 1998; Interfax, 10 June 1998; NVO, 22–28 January 1999, pp. 1, 3; Interfax, 15 August 2002. KZ, 13 January 1999, p. 1; NVO, 22–28 January 1999, pp. 1, 3. Kommersant, 23 January 2002, p. 3. Dick, Military Reform and the Russian Air Force, pp. 4–5; Interfax, 6 August 2001. Dick, Military Reform and the Russian Air Force, p. 7; Interfax, 27 January 1997; NG, 30 November 1994, pp. 1–2; Interfax, 4 July 2001; KZ, 21 December 2001. In January 1995, 850 air force personnel working at the Lipetsk training centre were homeless, and those with housing for the most part lived in dilapidated barracks. In August 1997, there were 400 servicemen without accommodation at the Engels Air Base. See Pravda, 25 January 1995, p. 8; KZ, 27 August 1997, p. 1. Radio Russia, 16 August 1994 at 2 p.m., translated in Defence & Security, 93, August 19, 1994, p. 5; Izvestiya, 17 August 1994, p. 1; ITAR-TASS, 21 May 1997. Kommersant, 20 May 1997, p. 7; Segodnya, 24 January 1998, p. 1. Col. A.B.Krasnov, ‘Enhancing the Air Force’s Combat Readiness’, Military Thought, 11, 1,2002, p. 41.

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31. Dennis J.Marshall-Hasdell, ‘The Russian Air Force—Prospects for the Future’, Jane’s Intelligence Review, 5, 12, December 1993, pp. 532–3. 32. Interfax, 11 February 2002. 33. AS, August 2001; NVO, 3 August 2001. 34. These are: Yu.A.Gagarin Air War College (Affiliate in Krasnodar), Military Aviation University of Technology (Affiliate in Stavropol), Air Defence University (Affiliate in St Petersburg), Voronezh Military Aviation Engineering Institute, Irkutsk Military Aviation Engineering Institute, Tambov Military Aviation Engineering Institute, Yaroslav Air Defence Anti-Aircraft Missile Institute, Krasnodar Military Aviation Institute, Chelyabinsk Air Institute for Navigators. Sergei Sokut, ‘Results: Russian Air Force Achieved Worthy Results Last Year’, NVO, 22–28 January 1999, pp. 1, 3; KZ, 20 January 1996, p. 6; KZ, 5 February 2002. The Yuri A.Gagarin College teaches air strategy and tactics for commanders and staff officers, air navigators and logistical and communication officers. 35. Hugo Mambour, ‘The Warplanes of Lipetsk’, Combat Aircraft: International Journal of Military Aviation, 4, 1, January 2002, p. 53. 36. ‘Russia’s Air Forces Choose the Sukhoi Su-49 as their Primary Trainer’, Combat Aircraft: International Journal of Military Aviation, 4, 1, January 2002, p. 14; Piotr Butkowski, ‘Russian Air Force Selects Yak-130,’ Jane’s Defence Weekly, 37, 13, 27 March 2002, p. 19; Alexey Komarov, ‘Russia Picks MiGAT, Yak-130 in Trainer Bid’, Aviation Week & Space Technology, 156, 14, 8 April 2002, p. 40. 37. Andrew Wilson, ‘Russian Military Haunted by Past Glories’, Jane’s International Defence Review, 29, 5, 1996, p. 26. 38. Gen. Pyotr Deinekin, ‘The Air Force in the Chechen Conflict’, KZ, 17 March 1995, p. 2, translated by T.Araslanova in Defence & Security, 34, 22 March 1995; Vyacheslav Kondratyev, ‘The Awesome Sky over Chechnya’, Krylya Rodiny (KR), 1, January 1996, pp. 1–5; Vyacheslav Kondratyev, ‘The Awesome Sky over Chechnya’, KR, 2, January 1996, pp. 1–4; Charles Blandy, David Isby, David Markov and Steven J.Zaloga, ‘The Chechen Conflict: A Microcosm of the Russian Army’s Past, Present and Future’, Jane’s Intelligence Review Special Report, 11, 1996, pp. 14–19. 39. The ‘friendly fire’ problem was analysed by Lt.-Col. Ye.N.Kashitsin and Col. V.A. Kharitonov, ‘Cooperation of Ground-Troops Combined Units and Units with Aviation in Combined-Arms Engagements’, Military Thought, 5, 4, July—August 1996, pp. 21–4. 40. Kondratyev, ‘The Awesome Sky over Chechnya’, 1, pp. 1–5; ‘Russian General Stresses “Internal” Strike Needs’, Jane’s Defence Weekly, 25, 16, 17 April 1996, p. 21; AS, 11, 1997, pp. 4–9. 41. Kondratyev, ‘The Awesome Sky over Chechnya’, 2, pp. 1–4; Wilson, ‘Russian Military Haunted by Past Glories’, p. 26; Paul Beaver, ‘Army Aviation in Chechnya’, Jane’s Defence Weekly, 23, 23, 10 June 1995, p. 79; KZ, 4 February 1995, p. 3; Interfax, 1 March 1995; Kondratyev, ‘The Awesome Sky over Chechnya’, 1, pp. 1–5. 42. Arthur L.Speyer, III, ‘The Two Sides of Grozny’, in Russell W.Glenn (ed.), Capital Preservation: Preparing for Urban Operations in the Twenty-First Century, Santa Monica, CA: RAND Corporation, 2001, p. 79; Olga Oliker,

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43. 44. 45. 46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

Russia’s Chechen Wars, 1994–2000, Santa Monica, CA: RAND Corporation, Report MR-1289, 2001, pp. 12, 15–16. Gordon and Dawes, Russian Air Power, p. 153; Kondratyev, ‘The Awesome Sky over Chechnya’, 1, pp. 1–5; Kondratyev, ‘The Awesome Sky over Chechnya’, 2, pp. 1–4. Gordon and Dawes, Russian Air Power, p. 153; Kondratyev, ‘The Awesome Sky over Chechnya’,1, pp. 1–5. Speyer, ‘The Two Sides of Grozny’, p. 79; Oliker, Russia’s Chechen Wars, pp. 12, 15–16. The Military Balance 2000–2001, Oxford: Oxford University Press for the International Institute for Strategic Studies, 2000, pp. 113–14; Oliker, Russia’s Chechen Wars, pp. 51, 56; Interfax, 14 November 2001; Interfax, 13 March 2002. Interfax, 14 November 2001; Interfax, 13 March 2002. The Military Balance 2000–2001, pp. 112–13; Oliker, Russia’s Chechen Wars, pp. 42, 55. ‘Russian Air Force Planes’ Flight Cancelled’, Daily News Bulletin, Moscow: Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Federation, Information and Press Department, 12 September 2001. MK, 12 September 2001, p. 2; RG, 14 September 2001, p. 6; MK, 20 September 2001, p. 2. KZ, 14 December 2001; Interfax, 10 December 2001. Interfax, 24 December 2001; Interfax, 11 January 2002. Interfax, 12 October 2001; ‘Russian Aviation Unit Conducts Live Firing Training Exercise’, Freetown: UN Mission in Sierra Leone, Press Release, 20 April 2002; Interfax, 31 October 2001. Olga Kryazheva, ‘Russia’s Strategic Bomber Force Growing’; Interfax, 6 August 2001; Sokut, ‘Results: Russian Air Force Achieved Worthy Results Last Year’, pp. 1, 3. Christian Science Monitor, 24 August 2001; NVO, 10 August 2001. Maj.-Gen. V.Y.Aleksandrov, Col. V.B.Barayev and Col. A.A.Gerasimov, ‘Aviation in Securing Russia’s Geopolitic Interests’, Military Thought, 5, 5/6, 1996, pp. 33–8. NVO, 14–20 May 1999, p. 6; Interfax, 7 June 2001. Lyubov Pronina, ‘Designers Propose Russian Future Fighter Types’, Defence News, 16, 47, 3–9 December 2001, p. 12; Vedomosti, 9 August 2001; ‘Russia’, Air International, 62, 6, June 2002, p. 326; Vremya, 30 April 2002; Piotr Butkowski, ‘Russia Postpones Fighter Decision’, Jane’s Defence Weekly, 37, 14, 3 April 2002, p. 6. On these two aircraft, see Yefim Gordon, Sukhoi S-37 and Mikoyan MFI Russian Fifth-Generation Fighter Technology Demonstrators, Grand Avenue, MI: Speciality Press, 2002. NVO, 6 July 2001, p. 5. Krasnyy Voin, 13 January 1999, p. 1; NVO, 22–28 January 1999, pp. 1, 3. Kornukov, ‘Apropos of the Grown Role of Confrontation in the Aerospace Sphere’, p. 10. On this subject, see Stephen J.Blank, The Soviet Military Views Operation Desert Storm: A Preliminary Assessment, Carlisle, PA: US Army War College,

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Strategic Studies Institute, 23 September 1991; ‘Soviets Debate Lessons of the Gulf War’, Soviet/East European Report, VIII, 24, 15 March 1991, pp. 3–4; ‘Viewpoint: What the Russians Learned from the Gulf War’, Aviation Week & Space Technology’, 137, 14, 5 October 1992, p. 78; Mary C.Fitzgerald, ‘Soviet Military Doctrine Implications of the Gulf War’, International Defence Review, 24, 8, 1991, pp. 809–10; Mary C.Fitzgerald, ‘Russia’s New Military Doctrine’, RUSI Journal, 137, 5, October 1992, pp. 40–8; Mary C.Fitzgerald, ‘Russia’s New Military Doctrine’, Naval War College Review, XLVI, 2, Spring 1993. 64. Alexei G.Arbatov, ‘The Transformation of Russian Military Doctrine: Lessons Learned from Kosovo and Chechnya’, TheMarshall Centre Papers, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany: George C.Marshall European Centre for Security Studies, 2000, p. 18; Interfax, 2 August 2001. 65. Stephen Cimbala, Russia and Postmodern Deterrence, forthcoming. From the Introduction posted at www.perso.club-internet.fr/kozlowsk/ deterrence.html.

9 Rudderless in a Storm: The Russian Navy, 1992–2002 Mikhail Tsypkin1

The Russian navy has been dramatically reduced during the first postSoviet decade—but not reformed. While the change of Russia’s geopolitical position in 1991–92 was rapid and drastic, the Soviet navy’s transformation into the Russian navy has been slow and uncertain. In place of real work to create a naval force fully consistent with Russia’s requirements, the navy has all too frequently preferred to wax nostalgic about the grandeur of the Soviet blue-water navy, and to try to turn these nostalgic images into hazy plans for the future. The result is that the new Russian state has an increasingly hollow force built for a global oceanic struggle.2 THE FACTS A few years ago the ships and aircraft of the Northern, Pacific, Black Sea and Baltic Fleets, as well as of the Caspian Flotilla, were a naval force second only to that of the United States. On paper this is still true: Russia has an aircraft carrier Admiral Kuznetsov, 40 nuclear attack submarines, a dozen top-rated Kilo diesel submarines, two nuclear guided missile cruisers and large numbers of smaller ships; naval manpower is 171,500, and Russia continues to be a nuclear superpower at sea.3 But the navy suffers from a severe malaise: it was cut rapidly and brutally in the 1990s; officers are severely underpaid; there is not enough money for operations, maintenance and training; and future shipbuilding programmes are so much in doubt that Russian and foreign observers talk about the possible disappearance of the Russian navy. The facts of a dramatic decline are indisputable. By 1995, the navy had lost half its squadrons and bases; by 1996, half its personnel, (compared to the early 1990s), and 41 per cent of its ships and 63 per cent of its fixedwing and rotary aircraft.4 By 2001, its order of battle was one-third of that in 1992; 90 per cent of its ships were in need of repair.5 By 2002, according

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to its commander-in-chief (C-in-C) Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov, it was just over a quarter of the Soviet navy in size.6 In 2000, the navy exercised even less than in 1999:195 (in 1999– 315) missile firing and 368 (1999–934) anti-submarine warfare (ASW)/ minesweeping exercises.7 Average annual at-sea duty time per ship was 6.4 days; of these 4.4 days were single-ship sea duty, 1.5 days in tactically homogeneous groups and 0.5 days in tactically mixed groups.8 Out of 584 naval aviation crews only 156 were combat ready, and only 77 were ready for night flying; their average annual flying time was 21.7 hours (in 1999 it was 24 hours). Average annual flying time for the crews of naval missile-carrying aircraft was 1.8 hours (in 1999–5 hours); for fighter crews —7 hours (in 1999–19).9 The Admiral Kuznetsov made only one distant deployment, and has spent the rest of the time being repaired at Sevmorput shipyard. Only one heavy nuclear missile cruiser, the Petr Velikiy, is combat ready.10 In 2001, one of the last vestiges of Soviet global naval glory was abandoned, when President Putin ordered the Russian naval base at Cam Rahn Bay to be shut down. The seaborne leg of Russia’s nuclear triad has also grown smaller. The number of nuclear submarines (SSBNs) declined from 62 in 1990 to 28 in 2000; the number of warheads they carried also declined but not as steeply, from 2,804 to 2,336.11 According to a Western source, only 15 Russian SSBNs are operational.12 Reportedly not more than a quarter of the SSBN fleet is on patrol at any given time.13 This is not yet a new, smaller navy consciously created in response to post-Cold War requirements, simply one reduced by attrition. In fairness, one should note that the drastic reduction was possibly more dramatic because throughout his tenure (1956–85) the late navy C-in-C Admiral Sergei Gorshkov reportedly resisted decommissioning, so the Russian navy had first of all to retire ships which had been kept in service much longer than necessary.14 Thus, the overall loss of combat strength may not be as catastrophic as the Russian navy makes it sound. At the same time, ships which had been in service for only 10–12 years have had to be decommissioned because there is no money to repair them.15 Even though the navy manages to keep several SSBNs on patrol, conduct exercises, send some ships on foreign visits and participate in international activities (such as maintaining sanctions against Iraq), the overall decline is obvious. The navy suffers from serious crime problems, both corruption among the officers and violence among the enlisted men. In September 1998, a seaman killed several of his crewmates and barricaded himself in a submarine. In the same month, conscripts guarding the navy’s nuclear test range at Novaya Zemlya mutinied and took schoolchildren and their

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teachers hostage. In August 1999, two seamen attacked a sentry guarding a radioactive waste store at the Gremikha navy base on the Kola Peninsula; in the ensuing shootout five seamen were killed.16 Severe harassment of conscripts is taken for granted; so are malnutrition and mistreatment by officers. POLITICS AND NAVY IN RUSSIA: AN INCONVENIENT MARRIAGE Russians tend to view their future though the prism of their history. The navy’s top thinkers are well versed in the history of their service—and are not very comfortable with it, despite their claims of past naval glory. Political leaders showered the navy with attention only to neglect it when other needs of state arose. The happy—and only—exception is Peter the Great, whose passionate commitment to the Russian navy and maritime expansion is beyond doubt. He was prominent in his efforts to open up the Baltic and Black Seas to Russia, which was important in Russia’s campaigns against Turkey under Catherine the Great later in the eighteenth century. However, the navy made no contribution to the signal achievement of Russian power—the victory over Napoleon in 1812–15. Later, the Russian navy was victorious at Sinop over an adversary in decline, the Turkish navy. In the Crimean War of 1854–56, which Russia lost, the Russian command sank its outmoded ships in order to block the entrance of Sevastopol harbour.17 It took more than 20 years after that defeat for the navy to demonstrate innovative spirit by carrying out the first successful torpedo attack against a Turkish ship in 1877.18 This was followed by a naval buildup which culminated in one of the worst naval defeats in history, at the hands of the Japanese in the Tsushima Straits in 1904. That disaster was followed by another attempt to build a bluewater navy, which resulted in some successful designs, such as the Novik-class destroyer, which could make 37.3 knots in 1913,19 but was abandoned at the outset of World War I, in which the navy played a minor role supporting ground operations. An eminent Russian naval historian who had seen action in World War II as a naval officer, Dr Korneliy Shatsillo, believed that Russia’s attempt to build a blue-water navy in the years preceding World War I wasted resources needed for the army and thus contributed to Russia’s poor performance in that war.20 This does not mean that the navy made no impact on the political fortunes of the empire in the early twentieth century—quite the contrary. It was not, however, through action on the high seas, but through mutinies, such as the one on the battleship Potemkin, which slaughtered its officers in 1905 and became a symbol of Russian revolution. In 1917

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and 1918, the sailors of Kronstadt descended on the streets of Petrograd to terrorise the democratic Provisional Government, help propel Lenin into power and disband the first freely elected Russian Constituent Assembly. Once the Bolsheviks had moved the capital from the shores of the Baltic to land-locked Moscow, sailors’ ability to play politics was reduced, and their desire to do so was extinguished when the Red Army and secret police crushed the sailors of Kronstadt who decided in 1921 that they no longer liked Bolsheviks and rose against them. The communist revolution and civil war (a strictly land affair) destroyed the Russian navy; its rebuilding began only during the industrialisation of the late 1920s to 1930s; the initial plans were for a navy primarily equipped with submarines, smaller surface ships and aircraft to protect the Soviet coastline, the longest in the world. Only in 1937 did Stalin order construction of a blue-water navy.21 This programme was curtailed in 1940 as war against Germany looked increasingly inevitable; once Germany attacked in 1941, the programme was cancelled completely in favour of building smaller ships that could help support ground forces’ flanks, interdict lines of communication in the Baltic and Black Seas, and conduct short-range convoy escorts in the north: all missions performed without particular distinction.22 After World War II Stalin again decided to build a blue-water navy, but would not open the state coffers to build aircraft carriers. His successor, Nikita Khrushchev, not only did not want to build carriers, but did his best to get rid of surface ships; he wanted the navy to deploy nuclear-armed ballistic missiles on as many submarines as possible, and initiated a crash submarine construction programme. The Soviet navy’s golden era began three years after Khrushchev’s removal with the appointment of Marshal Andrei Grechko as Minister of Defence in 1967. In the aftermath of the Cuban missile crisis, which painfully exposed the Soviet lack of power-projection capability, the navy C-in-C Admiral Gorshkov, with the help of Marshal Grechko, convinced the new team in the Kremlin that a navy with a global reach was the perfect instrument for implementing their imperial ambitions.23 A massive naval buildup followed, Soviet naval bases appeared throughout the Third World to the dismay of Western politicians, and debating the intentions of Admiral Gorshkov became a steady occupation for US naval intelligence analysts. Finally, the Soviet navy fulfilled its old dream and bought built a real carrier, the Admiral Kuznetsov, but that might have been the straw that broke the camel’s back—soon after its launch the USSR fell apart.

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THE TALE OF TWO HEROES What inspiration can today’s Russian admiral draw from this history? It is rich in deeds of brilliant, courageous and patriotic officers. What it lacks is a leader who successfully translated the dream of naval glory into the language of political utility, and made a lasting contribution to advancing Russia’s interests. Many Russian naval officers would object that Admiral Gorshkov was that kind of leader; indeed, the current C-inC, Kuroyedov, has chosen Gorshkov as an object of emulation.24 But Gorshkov operated within Brezhnev’s decadent regime, whose oligarchs he learned to manipulate in order to build a blue-water navy that contributed nothing to the wellbeing of Soviet citizens. And even Gorshkov, according to Georgy Arbatov, complained that government policy did not really correspond to the navy’s needs.25 In his wake, Gorshkov left a disaster: his proud navy did not save the USSR from collapse, and his naval buildup not only helped bankrupt the empire, but led directly to today’s parlous condition, since appropriate support facilities were not built. The most glaring outcome is the lack of any serious plan for decommissioning the huge fleet of nuclear submarines: more than 120 are rusting in Russian bases, the fuel in their reactors a threat to the environment and navy families, and an attractive target for terrorists and aspiring nuclear powers. After the heroes of communism had been discredited, Russians needed a new national hero. The role was given to Marshal Georgy Zhukov, the top Soviet soldier of World War II. This choice, however, was a bitter pill for the navy, since Zhukov, the ultimate army man, viewed the navy as of little importance to a continental power like the USSR, helped Khrushchev resist the admirals’ ambitions and did not disguise his contempt for the navy. So, while the rest of Russia has chosen to idolise Zhukov, the navy has selected Admiral Nikolai Kuznetsov. Kuznetsov served as Stalin’s Minister of the Navy and navy C-in-C from 1939 until 1946, when he fell from favour, was reduced in rank to rear-admiral and removed from his job. In 1951, Kuznetsov regained the dictator’s favour, and served as Navy Minister until 1953. Under Khrushchev, who abolished the Naval Ministry, Kuznetsov served as navy C-in-C from 1953 to 1956, when Khrushchev fired him for stubborn attempts to promote plans for a blue-water navy. Zhukov also fell from grace twice, at about the same time as Kuznetsov, but he was feared by politicians because of his popularity. Kuznetsov suffered because he refused to accept the views of civilian authorities on professional matters as final.26 In contrast, Zhukov was an obedient, if sometimes grumbling and blunt, soldier of the Communist Party. Kuznetsov’s (and the navy’s)

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greatest combat achievement resulted from an act of insubordination. Before the German attack at dawn on 22 June 1941, hours before Stalin finally agreed to put the military on alert, Kuznetsov, at his own risk, put the navy on full combat alert, an order credited by Kuznetsov and his admirers for the small naval losses on the first day of the Great Patriotic War.27 Thus, Kuznetsov’s legacy is one of frequent discord with civilian authorities who did not understand the needs of the navy as the navy saw them. Kuznetsov’s navy wanted to serve the nation—but the nation, or those who made the decisions on its behalf, often found the price too steep. NAVY AND POLITICS IN 1992–99: STRATEGIC ESCAPISM President Boris Yeltsin failed to give a clear sense of direction to the military as a whole. His primary interest in military affairs was in ensuring that the military command would not take part in political intrigue against him, and would support him against opponents if the need arose. This policy was proven to work in October 1993, when the military suppressed, albeit reluctantly, the anti-Yeltsin Supreme Soviet and its armed militants. The navy, far from Moscow in its bases, could not help or harm Yeltsin, and that reduced its clout. Yeltsin was happy to use the navy as a prop for a good photo opportunity, as in August 1998, when he ‘supervised’ an exercise of the Northern Fleet, and in its course authorised the launch of a submarine-launched ballistic missile (SLBM).28 Yeltsin failed to provide the navy with firm guidance regarding Russia’s place in the world, and did not push energetically for reform of the armed forces. Yeltsin started with the notion that the US and Russia were equal, which allowed him to maintain a superpower rhetoric useful for domestic consumption. There was no realistic treatment of how to maintain equality without anything approaching equal resources. By the mid-1990s it was clear that Yeltsin’s publicly declared belief that Russia and the USA were two global leaders was nothing but an illusion. The Russian political establishment responded with increasingly antiWestern sentiment, culminating in something akin to a war panic during the Kosovo campaign in 1999. While President Yeltsin himself rarely engaged in such rhetoric, he did not forcefully discourage it. The National Security Concept approved by Yeltsin on 17 December 1997 steered clear of open hostility to the West, but treated NATO’s expansion as a threat to Russian security, and US international predominance as something Russia should work to change. The Concept acknowledged that Russia’s international influence was diminished, and

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warned that ‘a number of countries’ were trying to further weaken Russia ‘politically, economically and militarily’, although the threat of direct military attack had decreased.29 For many officers brought up on the dogmas of Marxism-Leninism and inevitable hostility between the USSR and the West, this was Cold War Lite: politicians seemed to be going back to the good old times. If the military just held out without reform, many seemed to hope, the government would eventually relent and fill the hollow post-Soviet military with men and materiel. Yeltsin’s government believed that a weak economy was the main threat to Russia30 and would not increase defence spending, but their retreat to Cold War Lite phraseology encouraged the military’s recalcitrance. The navy was in a particularly difficult situation because its missions were closely connected to Cold War policies. In addition to its role as one of the legs of the nuclear triad, the navy was supposed to destroy US SSBNs and carrier groups, interdict NATO lines of communications and assist the ground forces in continental theatre offensives.31 It was also supposed to promote the Soviet military-political offensive in the Third World by showing the flag and projecting power. The mission of protecting Russia’s coasts was moved far offshore, where enemy ships were supposed to be ambushed. Most of this made little sense after 1991. The nuclear deterrence mission remained, but in an increasingly downscaled version. Other missions were simply too expensive as well as unnecessary. Russia’s troubles were in the south, where the Black Sea Fleet was dramatically weakened by the prolonged fight with Ukraine over basing rights, and in central Asia, where Russia’s naval presence was limited to the Caspian Flotilla. Just as the navy could not help Yeltsin against the Supreme Soviet in 1993, it was not very useful in the wars in Chechnya, only sending some naval infantrymen. The political leadership, eager to avoid accusations of not supporting the military, did not want to tell the navy directly that its role had been reduced. Instead, together with a Ministry of Defence and General Staff dominated by ground forces and later Strategic Rocket Forces officers, they simply cut the navy’s budget share. A knowledgeable correspondent reported that the navy’s share of the defence budget declined from 23 per cent in 1993 to 9.2 per cent in 1998, and grew to only 11–12 per cent after 2000.32 Without firm political guidance, the navy developed its own interpretation of the pre-revolutionary, Soviet and current naval developments. According to this, there can be no valid reasons for making Russia do with a relatively small navy primarily meant to defend its coasts. Therefore, Russian naval history is a tale of a struggle between

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wise blue-water navy-loving patriots and navy-haters, unwise and sometimes unpatriotic. In this view, Russia did not build a blue-water navy in the 1920s because the leading military personalities Mikhail Frunze and Mikhail Tukhachevskiy were ‘navy-haters’, and not because Russia lacked resources or justification for such a major undertaking; Marshal Zhukov (who agreed with Khrushchev’s refusal to build a ‘balanced’ blue-water navy) was an ‘ignoramus’ in naval matters, rather than someone who learned from World War II to be sceptical about the navy’s strategic utility for Russia.33 The navy is proclaimed to be not just a service of the armed forces, but a ‘bearer’ of Russia’s ‘wonderful… cultural and religious traditions’.34 Thus, thenavy becomes a national treasure in and of itself, rather than a rational policy instrument. Many politicians and the media eagerly embraced this sentimental vision: the worse the conditions of sailors’ everyday lives, the more perilous every deployment on poorly maintained ships, the more heated the civilian rhetoric about the historic and future greatness of the Russian navy. The navy understood the game: while maintaining the semblance of subordination to civilian authority and their policy of low funding, its command tolerated and perhaps even organised numerous appeals by navy veterans, warning of the dire consequences of the blue-water navy’s decline. Thus, for instance, a group of retired admirals appealed to Yeltsin in the official Morskoy Sbornik (Naval Digest), warning of the growing threat from NATO, emphasising that the navy was ‘the only’ service capable of repelling Western aggression from the sea, and demanding (and here is the crux of the matter) that the navy be financed separately from the rest of the armed forces. They also demanded that the navy C-in-C report directly to the president, bypassing the Minister of Defence and the General Staff.35 MARSHAL SERGEYEV AND THE NAVY The first serious attempts to reform the navy began in May 1997, when Yeltsin, having finally realised that without reform the military would disintegrate or rebel, or both, appointed General (later Marshal) Igor Sergeyev as Minister of Defence with a mandate to cut and restructure the armed forces. Sergeyev appeared unmoved by the myth of the navy as a national treasure; moreover, he made it clear that it was the navy’s (and the military’s) refusal to shrink that was at the core of its malaise. In August and September 1997, the minister visited all the fleets; his mission included ‘helping’ them conduct ‘organisational measures’ (language indicating that downsizing was discussed). Visiting the Northern Fleet, Sergeyev put his case bluntly: ‘We have a choice: either the structure and

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quantity of the “sinking navy” and disintegrating army, or combat-ready reformed Armed Forces.’36 Sergeyev’s policy was based on the belief that Russia could secure a breathing space by relying on nuclear deterrence against any major nuclear or conventional threat. Conventional forces would be reduced until funding for new weapons became available; a relatively small number of permanently ready units would be sufficient to deal with the only plausible threat, that of local conflicts along Russia’s periphery. For the navy, it meant preservation—at gradually reduced levels—of its SSBN force and assets to protect them, and to take part in local conflicts wherever feasible. This new policy was to be implemented by a new C-in-C, Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov, who had had a meteoric career. In February 1996 he was promoted, after less than three years as chief of staff of the Baltic Fleet, to command the Pacific Fleet; in July 1997, he was made chief of the Main Naval Staff—first deputy C-in-C of the navy— and, in November, its C-in-C.37 A limited but real structural reform was implemented in 1998–99 in two sensitive regions: Kaliningrad in the Baltic Sea and the Kamchatka peninsula in the Pacific. In Kamchatka, the navy was to lead a joint command of naval forces (flotillas of mixed forces and attack submarines), air defence and ground forces. A joint logistics system was also established. This grouping is responsible for defending the Kamchatka and Chukotka peninsulas, a huge expanse of territory.38 In the process, the Pacific Fleet’s structure was changed: ‘a squadron of ships, several brigades of ground forces, and air supporting units were disbanded or reformed’. ‘Ten thousand’ servicemen were reassigned or discharged.39 Instead of separate staffs for each service, the new grouping has a joint staff, commanded by a naval officer, and assisted by three deputies, for naval forces, ground forces and aviation.40 Similarly, in Kaliningrad the navy received under joint command ground forces and air assets. The change was controversial. It gave the navy a boost of two joint commands in strategically important regions, at the expense of the ground forces, who traditionally predominated in joint commands. In Kamchatka, the decision caused open disobedience: ‘Lieutenant General Mukhamed Batyrov, commander of the 25th [ground forces] Corps, publicly criticised the reforms prescribed by the General Staff.’41 It took a visit from Admiral Kuroyedov to end the unprecedented public conflict. Kuroyedov initially demonstrated considerable political savvy. He abandoned the navy’s exaggerated rhetoric in favour of assigning it a realistic mission of creating the ‘least favourable’ conditions for any maritime attack against Russia,42 and acknowledged that Russia could not

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operate in the world oceans, since it had neither the necessary forces (with the exception of attack submarines), logistical support, nor command and control systems in distant areas. He softened the blow by suggesting that naval theorists continue to ponder such operations.43 Kuroyedov also realised that in the economic and political circumstances it made more sense to promote the concept of Russia’s general maritime rather than narrowly naval interests.44 This moderate course was soon subjected to the severe shock of the war in Kosovo. The main weakness of Sergeyev’s policy was that it required a pacific foreign policy. Reliance on nuclear weapons could indeed save Russia from large-scale aggression, but left it without a credible conventional option with which to exert pressure on international politics. The NATO campaign led to an eruption of antiWestern sentiment among the Russian public and elites. The greater the intensity of such feelings, the more heated the rhetoric, the more frustrating the realisation that Russia had no instrument for influencing NATO. No one seriously believed that Russia would risk a nuclear war over Yugoslavia, and NATO was not going to take Russia’s diminished conventional forces into consideration. Sergeyev’s doctrine had already been seriously damaged by the financial meltdown of August 1998, which left the military with little prospect for conventional rearming, and Sergeyev’s cherished strategic forces without a hope of keeping up with the USA. Sergeyev’s doctrine was dead, because Russia did not want a foreign policy that kept it out of global power politics. The military reacted to this new mood with alacrity, although with little effectiveness. The stunt of sending paratroopers from the peacekeeping contingent in Bosnia to seize the airport in Pristina brought international embarrassment when the subsequent stages of the operation (flying reinforcements from Russia and establishing a strong foothold in Kosovo) failed since no neighbouring nation would give Russia overflight rights. However, the episode played well at home, where the media, in patriotic fervour, took the failure for a triumph, primarily because it angered and frustrated NATO.45 Other military actions were less satisfactory, since they caused less visible frustration. Although some pundits in Moscow daydreamed scenarios of a naval war between Russia and NATO in the Mediterranean, the dispatch of an intelligence-gathering ship and then of the ill-starred Kursk Oscar-class submarine to the Mediterranean was hardly noticed in the West. Still, Admiral Kuroyedov insisted that the appearance of the Kursk in the area had ‘a considerable international impact’, convinced NATO that Russia’s navy ‘was highly combat ready’ and that Russia continued to play ‘an important geo-strategic role’ in the region, and

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seriously ‘disturbed’ the NATO ASW forces.46 The Zapad-99 exercise in June 1999 purported to demonstrate how Russia would defend against a NATO attack, and ended with two Bear bombers simulating a preemptive nuclear strike against US territory; it was proclaimed by a respectable newspaper to have left the West in a state of ‘shock’.47 The real impact was much more modest, but all these gestures played well domestically. A very few domestic observers quietly noted the crucial fact that the slow and vulnerable bombers, without fighter support, were intercepted by US F-15s from Iceland, which would in real life have made their strike against the mainland impossible.48 The navy’s performance in Zapad-99 was less glorious than it wanted the public to believe: it suffered from such a shortage of fuel that it had to keep in port two large ships, and cut short the deployment of the new Admiral Chabanenko; an ASW exercise had to be cancelled. But what mattered for the navy was that it legitimised the mission of destroying ships armed with long-range land-attack cruise missiles. Navy spokesmen, including the C-in-C, repeatedly stated that the NATO operation in Yugoslavia heavily depended on sea-based cruise missiles, and that the only way to defend Russia against this threat would be for its navy to go far enough into the oceans to stop the US navy before it could deliver a strike against the Russian homeland. TO THE BOTTOM: THE KURSK DISASTER On 24 July 2000, the recently elected President Putin found time to attend the defence of a dissertation at the non-governmental Academy of Military Science. A degree of Candidate of Military Science (roughly equivalent to PhD) was sought by Admiral Kuroyedov. The topic of the dissertation was appropriately grand: ‘The State Strategy for the Defence and Realisation of Russian National Interests in the World Ocean.’ The president reportedly took part in a lively debate on the merits of the dissertation, after which the 21 members of the Academy’s dissertation council all voted in favour of awarding the degree. But this was not the end of the affair. Once the president had congratulated Kuroyedov and left, the council did not disperse. The dissertation’s sponsor—the Military Academy of the General Staff—and several reviewers recommended that Kuroyedov be awarded the highest degree of Doctor of Science (there is no Western equivalent), because he had succeeded in solving a great ‘scientific problem’: he had discovered the ‘methodology’ for protecting Russia’s interests. The council’s secret ballot was 19 in favour, two against.49

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Sixteen days after this gesture of personal presidential involvement in naval affairs, unprecedented since Peter the Great, at 22.30 on 10 August one of the navy’s newest and most powerful submarines, K-141 Kursk, left its base at Zapadnaya Litsa. Its mission was to take part in a major Northern Fleet exercise, simulating an attack against a carrier battle group. The Kursk was also to test new batteries which powered the torpedoes to be used in the exercise. The submarine sent its last report at 8.51 on 12 August; after launching a simulated strike by 24 Shipwreck cruise missiles, the Kursk was ready for the next phase of the exercise, a torpedo attack. At 11.30 the Petr Velikiy registered an unexplained underwater sound, followed by an even stronger one. No action was taken in response. The planned torpedo attack by the Kursk was not carried out, and the submarine did not report the reason for this failure. It was only at 16.35 that the fleet attempted— and failed—to establish contact with the Kursk. A search-and-rescue mission was finally ordered at 18.14.50 The subsequent chain of events is well known: a doomed rescue attempt which demonstrated painful technical and professional failings. All 118 hands were lost. The navy’s immediate reaction was to mislead the public and civilian authority about the progress of the rescue mission, and to blame the disaster on a collision with a foreign submarine. It took an investigation more than a year long for the government to acknowledge that the only navy to blame was the Russian one. President Putin and the Russian navy had been friends for some time: as deputy chief of the presidential administration in 1997, Putin served on the military council of the navy, an advisory body to the navy’s command; Putin has reportedly retained his membership even as president. Within months of Putin’s appointment in 1997, navy C-inC Admiral Felix Gromov was replaced by Admiral Kuroyedov; Putin might have been in a position to influence this decision. Judging by the speed with which Putin’s relationship with the navy developed upon his selection as Yeltsin’s successor, Kuroyedov must have impressed Putin early on. Putin’s policy has suffered from a fundamental contradiction. On the one hand, Putin wants to be seen as a leader rebuilding the might of the Russian state, especially its military power. He and his team have correctly calculated that this would appeal to the mass electorate. Perhaps it appealed to the president himself. On the other hand, Putin has claimed that Russia is poor and has to live according to its means—this view appeared prominently in his election platform. Nowhere did he offer an explanation of how to make Russia mighty again on a shoestring budget.51 Without clear guidance, the military naturally assumed that the

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anti-Western atmosphere of 1999 would save them from finally adjusting to the post-Cold War world. Putin’s early actions encouraged this thinking. In November 1999, he chaired a meeting of the Russian Security Council which focused on Russia’s maritime problems; Putin reportedly voiced concern about Russia losing its position, saying that Russia became a great power only when it became a great maritime power.52 Putin had demonstrated his mettle as supreme C-in-C in April 2000, taking part in a Northern Fleet exercise aboard a Delta IV SSBN, and spending the night—the first Russian or Soviet leader to do so. A defence correspondent called this a ‘successful tactical move’ by the navy’s command, which used the occasion to lobby for more funds to restore to operational condition the Typhoon SSBNs, and to plan deployment of a task force to the Mediterranean later that year.53 On 10 January 2000, Putin signed a new National Security Concept. Its ‘principal point’ was ‘that military threats to Russia [were] on the increase and the main danger emanate[d] from the West’.54 On 3 March, Putin signed a directive ‘On Russia’s Maritime Activity’ and an associated document ponderously entitled ‘The Foundations of Naval Policy of the Russian Federation Until the Year 2010’.55 This was the product of the navy’s struggle throughout the 1990s for greater autonomy from the Ministry of Defence and General Staff. Their motivation, apparently, was—once again—to obtain a separate budget.56 The ‘Foundations’ were initially supposed to be the naval strategy.57 A separate naval strategy, however, would have been an open break with the Soviet approach, which emphasised joint strategy and did not allow individual services to claim strategies of their own. The navy did not get its own strategy—the Military Doctrine signed by Putin on 21 April speaks about ‘joint strategic and operational planning of employment of the armed forces’; the high command, when preparing the doctrine’s final draft, excluded the section on naval strategy.58 Nevertheless, the doctrine refers to the ‘Foundations’ as guiding Russia’s actions in defending its maritime interests.59 No other service received such special mention. Kuroyedov did not lose all hope of a special place for the navy. Shortly after he defended his dissertation, he published a scholarly essay on maritime strategy (morskaya strategiya).60 This term implies in Russian an approach substantially broader than purely military. Kuroyedov maintained that Russia’s maritime strategy should help it achieve practical results in the shortest possible time: language close to Putin’s arguments that Russia’s first task is to improve its economic situation. Unlike his predecessors, who bombarded President Yeltsin with demands to counter the US navy ship for ship, Kuroyedov offered to

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counter any naval threat by flexibly adjusting the available Russian naval ‘combat systems’ to enable them to disrupt enemy operations. The Russian navy should no longer be required to maintain a global presence: its regular missions should be limited to the Arctic, North Atlantic, Baltic and Black Seas, and northwestern Pacific Ocean. This progressive message, however, was contradicted by the essay’s traditional views. In reality, Kuroyedov had nothing to offer the economy except more government spending on the navy. There was no place for market mechanisms in Kuroyedov’s vision: maritime development can help economic growth only if ‘the Russian state plays a leading role’, while the navy spearheads development and implementation of maritime policy. Couched in the excessively scholastic terminology of Soviet military science, it is the same old threat assessment: Russia is threatened from the sea. This threat is truly global. Russian naturally needs a ‘balanced’ navy (i.e., blue-water, equipped with all classes of ships). Just as President Putin was sending a series of contradictory political messages to the nation and the armed forces (liberal economics in an illiberal state, closer alliance with the West and nostalgia for super-power grandeur, etc.), Kuroyedov was responding with a contradictory maritime strategy. These messages help explain the policy origins of the Kursk disaster, and the admirals’ subsequent conduct. The decision to send a group of ships, including the Kursk, to the Mediterranean was the direct result of an openly anti-Western orientation after the Kosovo conflict. This orientation seemed to be good public relations for the president, who ‘want[ed] to lead a strong…power, and view[ed] the navy as a symbol of this strength’.61 The idea that the navy was the best instrument for promoting Russia’s international influence without firing a shot was forcefully put forward by Vice-Admiral Mikhail Motsak.62 Motsak’s argument was a slightly updated version of the ideas of Admiral Gorshkov, and was very much in line with other resurrections of Soviet strategic dogmas attempted in the late 1990s. Kuroyedov himself penned an admiring anniversary article about Gorshkov in January 2000.63 The navy saw Putin’s interest as an opportunity to advance individual and corporate self-interest. After the Pristina adventure had been treated as a heroic deed, the admirals+good reason to believe that the strategically senseless deployment to the Mediterranean would bring them rewards. Had Kuroyedov reported the truth about the disastrous condition of the navy, Putin might not have authorised the deployment, or the preceding exercise, thus foreclosing the navy’s first opportunity for higher status and better budget since the mid-1980s. And the terrible condition of the navy was obvious to its C-in-C: Kuroyedov’s lead article

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in the first issue of the Naval Digest for 2000 was dedicated specifically to preventing ship accidents.64 Once real disaster struck the Kursk, the navy’s chain of command, led by Kuroyedov, misinformed not only the public (hardly extraordinary in Russia), but the Supreme C-in-C Putin himself. Putin was reportedly told that the Russian navy had all necessary means for rescuing survivors, and that no foreign aid was necessary. While it is unlikely that foreign rescuers could have saved any sailors, the navy’s stonewalling and lies helped create an image of a president indifferent to the lives of Russian servicemen. On 15 August, the navy’s leaders, including Admirals Kuroyedov and Popov, began to blame the disaster on a collision with a US or British submarine.65 This theory, picked up by the Russian media and some of Putin’s political allies,66 created diplomatic complications: after vigorous denials from abroad, there was nothing Putin could do further, while the continuing accusations made Putin look weak. The navy’s behaviour was consistent with their insistence that the West continued to be Russia’s main enemy, a mindset encouraged by the National Security Concept and Military Doctrine. A RECOVERY? The Kursk tragedy demonstrated that the Russian navy was in no condition to show the flag on the high seas. The planned deployment to the Mediterranean was cancelled, because the navy’s condition simply did not permit it; the Northern Fleet could not even afford the necessary repairs and maintenance for all the ships scheduled to deploy.67 This was the first step away from the escapism of the 1990s; the subsequent development of Russia’s naval policy has been, to paraphrase Lenin, half a step forward, one-quarter of a step back. Putin has had to deal with two obvious problems: the first, prevention of another disaster and reestablishing order and responsibility in the naval command; the second, determination of the navy’s future shape. Putin refused to punish anyone until the investigation was complete. Since the Kursk was at the bottom of the Barents Sea, this had to wait until October 2001, when the submarine was raised by Dutch and Norwegian companies with participation from the Russian navy. Observers noted that the navy leadership were quite reluctant to raise the submarine, since that would make the day of reckoning closer. As the Kursk was raised, Admiral Kuroyedov, followed by other high-ranking officers, again blamed a ‘foreign submarine’ for the disaster.68 It did not take investigators long to establish what had not happened. On 1 December 2001, the Prosecutor General Vladimir Ustinov presented a

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preliminary report to Putin, in the presence of Chief of the General Staff Anatoly Kvashnin and Kuroyedov. At the meeting Putin stated that there were no indications of a collision between the Kursk and any other ship.69 Next day, more than a dozen high-ranking Northern Fleet officers, including commander Admiral Vyacheslav Popov and chief of staff ViceAdmiral Motsak, were reprimanded and sent into retirement.70 The President’s wrath, however, was quite restrained. ‘After having been sacked, Vyacheslav Popov became a representative for Murmansk province in the Federation Council…Mikhail Motsak got a job [as the first deputy] of Victor Cherkesov’, the president’s representative to the Northwestern Federal District.71 Admiral Kuroyedov was not disciplined at all. None of the three has disavowed their earlier version of the disaster —that the Kursk was sunk by a foreign submarine. Moreover, Admiral Popov has been reported as insisting, even after Putin’s pronouncement, that the investigators look for the remnants of a US MK-48 torpedo in the wreck, an escalation of his accusation from an accidental collision to that of an attack and premeditated murder!72 The final results of the investigation clearly indicated that the culprit was an explosion of one of the Kursk’s torpedoes.73 Putin’s sensitivity to the navy has also been demonstrated by the handling of the results of the investigation: the government has not released a detailed report because it is mostly classified. Still, the crew’s relatives were allowed, according to official sources, access to all investigative materials, including classified ones. Excerpts from the materials were leaked in August 2002 by the official Russian Gazette (Rossiyskaya Gazeta)—without any protest from the administration— which pinpointed a whole series of violations of regulations by officers and sailors, and by the shipbuilding industry.74 Crucial safety equipment was not properly maintained; the exercise plan lacked proper orders for organising search and rescue missions; the Northern Fleet command ignored the instruction of the Main Naval Staff to conduct, in August 2000, a submarine rescue exercise; Popov took too long to declare an emergency; the exercise was very poorly organised; there was a suspicion that signatures to a number of documents had been forged, etc.75 Despite such serious violations, a decision was reached not to prosecute anybody. Shaping the future navy has turned out to be no more straightforward than Putin’s handling of the disaster. ‘There has not been a serious debate on the size and composition of a navy that would be affordable and sustainable in the second decade of the post-Cold war era.’76 The president appeared to continue with his pre-disaster naval policy. On 27 May 2001, Putin signed a Maritime Doctrine, evidently based on Kuroyedov’s ideas, which emphasises the economic benefits that Russia

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should gain from maritime activity, but is quite vague about practical details.77 This lengthy quasi-scholarly document was aptly characterised by two retired Russian navy officers as nothing more than ‘a wish to return Russia to the world ocean before other powers divide its riches’.78 The next project reportedly based on Kuroyedov’s dissertation was the creation of a Maritime Collegium.79 Modelled after Admiralteystv-kollegiya, a body established by Peter the Great to oversee Russia’s maritime affairs, it is supposed to implement the Maritime Doctrine. According to some reports, the navy command saw this as a quasiministry of the navy, capable of bypassing the navy-haters in the Ministry of Defence and dealing directly with the navy-friendly president.80 If Kuroyedov had such dreams, the reality was disappointing. The formation of the collegium was entrusted to Prime Minister Mikhail Kasyanov, who discovered that the new state body was of interest to other players—the fishing industry, shipbuilders, the merchant marine, governors of coastal provinces and arms exporters. An initial draft presented by Kasyanov to Putin in early September 2001 listed as members representatives of so many interests that the president turned it down.81 When Putin approved the statutes several days later, the collegium was to be chaired by the prime minister himself; his first deputy there was to be the first deputy prime minister in charge of the defence industry Ilya Klebanov, and his deputies were the Minister of Economic Development German Gref, the Minister of Defence Sergei Ivanov, and Admiral Kuroyedov.82 The chairman and all his deputies outranked the navy C-in-C. It seems that Putin chose to take Kuroyedov’s thesis of the economic importance of the ocean to heart -and the navy has been left without any special leverage in the new body. Meanwhile, the future shape of the navy has remained in doubt. The ‘Foundations’ of March 2000 made a modest effort at defining what types of ships Russia would have to buy, and what kinds of missions they would carry out. The navy is supposed to deter both nuclear and conventional attack on Russia. Nuclear deterrence continues to be allimportant, and buying new SSBNs, modernising and maintaining existing ones, and buying missiles for them are designated as priorities for the navy’s weapons-acquisition programme. The defence of coastal waters becomes more important, to be achieved by attack submarines and ‘multi-purpose’ surface ships. The ‘Foundations’ insist that Russia will need aircraft carriers—logical if the navy is to deploy, as proposed, to distant seas if a threat to Russia emerges there, but an impossible demand on Russia’s economy.83 The economic situation makes most of these plans look unrealistic for the immediate and mid-term future. Even the most clear and well

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established mission—nuclear deterrence—is in trouble.84 The navy has not received a single new SSBN since 1992. Only one is being built, the Yuri Dolgorukiy of the Borey class. Construction began in 1996, and is not likely to be completed before 2005.85 TheTyphoon and Delta-III SSBNs were bought between 1976 and 1989; the newer Delta-IVs joined the fleet in 1985–91.86 The service life of an SSBN is 20 to 25 years.87 With no maintenance, it may be as short as 10 to 15 years.88 Further, the SSBN fleet is threatened by the lack of replacement SLBMs, whose service life is ten years. The Makeyev Missile Centre, the main SLBM contractor, has experienced significant delays in its attempts to build a new missile to replace the SS-N-20 SLBM on the Typhoons and to arm the future Yuri Dolgorukiy. While Sergeyev was Minister of Defence, an attempt was made to modify the Topol-M SS-27 to be used as an SLBM. The attempt, which favoured the Strategic Rocket Forces’ contractor, the Institut Teplotekhniki (Institute of Thermal Technology), did not succeed, but disrupted the naval contractor’s work. Now the navy may have to abandon its five largest SSBNs, the Typhoons, and rely on the remaining seven Delta-IVs as the sea-based leg of the nuclear triad. This will require eventual replacement of the SS-N-23 SLBM with the new RSM-54 Sineva, a ‘radical …modification with 10 instead of 4 warheads, and more sophisticated satellite navigation, command computer, and anti-ABM systems’.89 Throughout the 1990s, there were a number of changes in the posture of the strategic nuclear forces. The relative importance of the land-based ICBMs and the navy’s SLBMs was at the centre of a fierce debate over very scarce resources. Sergeyev’s appointment as Minister of Defence was not as detrimental to the navy’s nuclear role as often imagined. In July 1998, the Security Council decided to emphasise the sea-based leg of the triad, decreeing that its share would increase from 30 to 50 per cent of Russia’s strategic nuclear arsenal.90 Still, Sergeyev put most of the acquisition budget into buying land-based ICBMs. With Putin’s accession, the navy’s budget started growing, albeit slowly, and the navy’s arguments that its submarines provide for the most secure nuclear posture have been reaffirmed by the General Staff, which announced in January 2001 that the naval deterrent will play the leading role in future.91 No one is asking (at least, in public) an obvious question: since Russia is soon likely to have fewer than a dozen SSBNs in its arsenal, and only a quarter of those combat ready at any given time, and since the Kursk disaster demonstrated that Russian submarines are not very safe, could an accident to just one SSBN significantly reduce Russia’s strategic nuclear forces? The Strategic Offensive Reduction Treaty (SORT), signed

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by the USA and Russia in Moscow in May 2002, which allows Russia considerable leeway in reducing its strategic arsenal, may alleviate the pressure on Russia to keep up the numbers of its sea-based weapons, but the inability to complete construction of even one SSBN in more than ten years makes one wonder about the future of its sea-based systems. The situation with other classes of ships is not much better. Throughout the 1990s, the navy received only ships ordered by or designed for the Soviet navy to fight NATO on the high seas: nuclear submarines (such as the Gepard that joined the navy in 2002 after 11 years at the shipyard), heavy nuclear missile cruisers, large ASW ships, destroyers. The navy also has some newer acquisitions. The keel of the new corvette Steregushchiy was laid in 2001; it is expected to join the navy in 2005. It is planned to lay the keel of another ship of the same class in 2003. The frigate Yaroslav Mudryy is 80 per cent complete after 14 years of construction; another frigate, the Tatarstan, joined the navy after 12 years of construction.92 The modest financial boost given to the navy has resulted in some acquisition progress, but much more needs to be done if Russia is not to lose in the not-too-distant future the capability to defend its coastal waters, not to mention the more distant ‘approaches to its shores’, a mission that, in the eyes of the navy planners, requires aircraft carriers.93 A number of factors have kept the navy command clinging to such Cold War missions as repelling an attack by a US carrier group from the Norwegian Sea. There are the inertia of thinking and self-interested conservatism. There is also the irresistible attraction of focusing the navy’s plans on missions that require existing assets—and they are concentrated in the Northern and Pacific Fleets, which have only their old Cold War enemies to worry about. (To be fair, the situation in the Pacific is more complex, but currently the main threat to Russian interests there is poaching.) These are reasons internal to the navy. There is also a very important reason external to the navy: the Russian government has been unable to devise a foreign policy that could firmly convey a message to the military that their Cold War ideas belong in the archives, not in threat assessments94 and operational plans. Telling the military that Russia has no enemies is not enough—the political leaders should have filled this ambiguous vacuum with alliances capable of supporting the Russian state in its current weakened condition. Putin has made some progress in this direction, especially after the September 2001 terrorist attacks. His good relationship with President Bush, and the considerable strategic capital gained from a small investment in central Asia, in Afghanistan apparently encouraged Putin to look towards the threat and opportunities in the south. For several

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years, while the media, politicians and retired officers were bemoaning the fate of the great blue-water navy, the very unglamorous Caspian Flotilla has actually increased its size, according to some sources, by two and a half times: most of the small patrol craft built in recent years were sent to the flotilla, which has also been reinforced by several small ships transferred from the Black and Baltic Seas. The new frigate Tatarstan joined the Caspian Flotilla.95 A small force consisting of two frigates, 12 major patrol craft and 50 smaller craft can have a serious impact in this sensitive and important area.96 This dynamism is obviously linked to the economic importance of the Caspian, the conflicting claims of several states on its energy resources, and its proximity to the volatile Caucasus and central Asia. After an unsuccessful summit of Caspian basin states in April 2002, Putin ordered Kuroyedov to conduct a major exercise there.97 (Of course, an exercise of this size had to be planned well beforehand, but Putin used it as a political gesture after the summit had failed to resolve the littoral states’ differences.) The naval exercise was conducted on 8–15 August 2002; its main goal was protection of economic facilities against terrorism, and the navy (including naval infantry) was joined by ground and air forces, Interior Ministry troops, etc.98 Two weeks later, during his visit to the Pacific Fleet, Putin praised the Caspian exercise, with its focus on counterterrorism and economic security, as the model for other fleets to follow.99 He named two main missions for the Pacific Fleet: nuclear deterrence and protection of Russia’s maritime border,100 both compatible with a realistic approach to what the navy can do for Russia today. This naval version of ‘small is beautiful’ is not going to flourish easily in the Main Naval Staff While preparations for the Caspian exercise were in their last stage, Kuroyedov marked Navy Day by an article entitled ‘We Are an Oceanic Power’, claiming that the USA and NATO were out to weaken Russia militarily, removing it as an economic competitor, and that this disaster could only be prevented by Russia regaining its status as a ‘great naval power’. He named the mission of defending against US aircraft carriers and long-range sea-launched cruise missiles as the navy’s top priority.101 How can this backbacksliding occur, and what does it really mean? Civilmilitary relations in Russia, after attempts of the first half of the 1990s to bring civilian experts into public debates on military affairs, have become increasingly a private dialogue between the supreme C-inC and his soldiers and sailors. The navy C-in-C is not responsible to anyone but the president, and Putin’s pronouncements are likely to send confusing signals to the navy and the taxpayers. As long as no one owes an explanation to the public, the Russian navy is likely to continue to be

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buffeted by capricious winds, rudderless in the stormy seas of postcommunist politics. NOTES This chapter represents the views of the author, and not those of the Department of the Navy or any other US government agency. 1. I would like to thank Kevin Farrell, George Fedoroff and Aleksandr Golts for their insights, as well as my mother, Natalia Michnikova, for her research assistance. 2. First Deputy Chief of Staff Colonel-General Yuri Baluyevskiy noted in November 2000 that the Russian military was still ‘a scaled-down version’ of the Soviet military; see ‘Colonel General Yuri Baluyevskiy: Army Will Divide Up Air, Sea, and Land’, Moskovskiy Komsomolets, 23 November 2000, translated in FBIS, CEP20001123000337. 3. United States Naval Institute Database, online in Periscope, www.periscope.icg. com/eurasia/russia/navy/index.html. 4. Georgiy Kostev, ‘Moryaki Nadeyutsya na Luchsheye’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye (NVO), 2 June 2000. 5. Mikhail Khodarenok, ‘Chernyy God Rossiyskogo Flota’, NVO, 23 February 2001. 6. V.I.Kuroyedov and M.I.Moskovenko, ‘O Natsionalnoy Morskoy Politike Rossii’, Voyennaya Mysl’, 1, 2002, p. 13. 7. Khodarenok, ‘Chernyy God Rossiyskogo Flota’. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. Ibid. 11. Admiral V.Kravchenko and Rear-Admiral A.Ovcharenko, ‘Morskiye Sily SYaS Rossii v Usloviyakh Deystvuyushchego Dogovora SNV-2’, Morskoy Sbornik, 2000, 8, p. 4. 12. Periscope, www.periscope.icg.com/eurasia/russia/navy/ index.html#overview. 13. A.G.Savelyev and F.I.Novoselov, ‘Strategicheskoye Sderzhivaniye i Strategicheskaya Stabilnost’: Rol i Mesto Morskikh Strategicheskikh Yadernykh Sil’, in V.G.Baranovskiy (ed.), Mirovoy Okean i Strategicheskaya Stabilnost, Moscow, 2002, p. 43. It is not clear whether the authors refer to the total number of SSBNs, or to the number of SSBNs in operational condition. 14. I must thank George Fedoroff for this observation; he heard that opinion from the then Soviet navy C-in-C Admiral Vladimir Chernavin, during the latter’s visit to the US A in 1991. 15. ‘Arctic Priorities’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 7 December 1999, translated in FBIS, CEP19991206000042. 16. Aleksandr Alf, ‘Soldaty “Dyryavyat” Yadernyy Shchit’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 7 August 1999.

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17. This summary of Russian naval history is based on an outstanding overview of the subject by Robert B.Bathurst, Understanding the Soviet Navy: A Handbook, Newport, RI: Naval War College Press, 1979, pp. 49–94. 18. Ibid., p. 68. 19. Ibid., p. 70. For a detailed analysis of the Russian shipbuilding programmes in 1907 and 1914, see K.F.Shatsillo, Ot Portsmutskogo Mira k Pervoy Mirovoy Voyne: Generaly i Politika, Moscow: ROSSPEN, 2000, pp. 83–103, 174–83, 234– 42, 274–84. 20. Shatsillo, Ot Portsmutskogo Mira k Pervoy Mirovoy Voyne, p. 344. 21. A.A.Kokoshin, Armiya i Politika, Moscow: Mezhdunarodnyye Otnosheniya, 1995, pp. 196–8. 22. Bathurst, Understanding the Soviet Navy, p. 92. 23. Rear-Admiral V.Apanasenko, ‘Nerealizovannaya Programma Opal’nogo Glavkoma’, Morskoy Sbornik, 1990, 8, p. 10. 24. Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov, ‘On Vyvel Flot v Okean’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 19 January 2000. 25. G.Arbatov, Zatyanuvsheyesya Vyzdorovleniye (1953–85), Moscow: Mezhdunaro-dnyye Otnosheniya, 1991, p. 227. 26. Apanasenko, ‘Nerealizovannaya Programma’, pp. 9, 10. 27. Aleksandr Kochukov, ‘Na Flotakh—Boyevaya Trevoga’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 24 July 2002. 28. Ilya Kedrov, ‘Prezident Uprazhnyayetsya v Strategii’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 22 August 1998. 29. ‘Kontseptsiya Natsionalnoy Bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 27 December 1997. 30. Ibid. 31. B.N.Makeyev, Voyenno-Morskiye Aspekty Natsionalnoy Bezopasnosti Rossii, Moscow: Komitet po Nerasprostraneniya i Kriticheskim Tekhnologiyam, 1997, p. 25. 32. Sergei Sokut, ‘Trudnoye Preodoleniye Nostalgii’, NVO, 6 September 2002. 33. Yuri Teplyakov, ‘Okean. Rossiya. Flot’, Moskovskiye Novosti, 2, 28 January 1992. 34. Rear-Admiral V.G.Lebedko (ret.), ‘VMF na Zashchite Natsionalnykh Interesov Rossii’, Voyennaya Mysl’, 1, 2002, p. 67. 35. ‘Obrashcheniye Veteranov Velikoy Otechestvennoy Voyny i Vooruzhennykh Sil’, Morskoy Sbornik, 1997, 10, pp. 24–6. 36. General Armii I.Sergeyev, ‘Flot Vypolnyayet Svoi Zadachi’, Morskoy Sbornik, 10, 1997, pp. 3, 5. 37. ‘Naznacheniya,’ Morskoy Sbornik, 11, 1997, p. 19. 38. ‘Admiral Zakharenko on Pacific Fleet Reorganisation’, Oriyentir, 9, 1 September 1999, pp. 20–3, translated in FBIS CEP 19991029000008; ViceAdmiral V.Fedorov, ‘A Single Troop Grouping in the Country’s Northeast: the First Experience’, Morskoy Sbornik, 3, March 1999, pp. 33–5, translated in FBIS FTS19990502000593. 39. ‘Admiral Zakharenko on Pacific Fleet Reorganisation’. 40. Sergey Voyeykov, ‘Kamchatka: New System of Command and Control’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 21 March 1998, translated in FBIS UMA-98–082.

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41. Yuriy Golotyuk, ‘Navy Commander in Chief Instructed to Sort Out Kamchatka: Generals’ “Mutiny” Seems to Have Helped Improve Admiral’s Standing’, Russkiy Telegraf, 19 March 1998, translated in FBIS uma03201998001319. 42. Admiral V.Kuroyedov, ‘Nyneshniye Napravleniya Reformirovaniya Nashego VMF’, Morskoy Sbornik, 4, April 1998, pp. 3, 4. 43. Admiral V.Kuroyedov, ‘Kompleksnyy Podkhod k Razvitiyu Morskoy Sily Gosudarstva’, Morskoy Sbornik, 8, August 1999, p. 6. 44. Ibid., p. 7. 45. See Mikhail Tsypkin, ‘The Russian Military, Politics and Security Policy in the 1990s’, in Michael H.Crutcher (ed.), The Russian Armed Forces at the Dawn of the Millennium, Carlisle, PA: US Army War College, 2000, pp. 35–7. 46. Admiral V.Kuroyedov, ‘Itogi i Perspektivy’, Morskoy Sbornik, 12, December 1999, p. 3. 47. Aleksandr Koretskiy, ‘Russia Inflicted Nuclear Strike on United States: Only in Training for Now’, Segodnya, 2 July 1999, translated in FBIS, FTS19990702000715. 48. Sergei Sokut, ‘Krug Pocheta Nad Islandiyey’, NVO, 2 July 1999. 49. Valeriy Aleksin, ‘Prezident Rossii na Zashchite Dissertatsii Glavkoma VMF’, NVO, 27 July 2000. The ideas of the dissertation were by no means a radical departure from previous programmatic documents: it was mainly ‘an adaptation of the World Ocean Federal Targeted Programme published in early 1997’ (George Fedoroff, 26 August 2002). 50. ‘Antigosudarstvennaya Taina’, Rossiyskaya Gazeta, 29 August 2002. 51. Putin did increase defence budgets from 109 billion rubles in 1999 to 284 billion in 2002, while inflation was running at about 20 per cent per year; see Aleksandr Golts, Yezhenedel’nyy Zhurnal, 25 January 2002, http:// www.ej.ru/003/life/military/ index.html_Printed.html. In 2003, the defence budget is projected to grow to 345.7 billion rubles; see Andrei Nikolayev: ‘Armii Nedodano 18.8 Milliarda Rublei’, Vremya Novostey, 26 September 2002. Still, Russian defence spending, estimated in this interview to be less than 3 per cent of GDP, leaves Russian armed forces quite poor. 52. Valeriy Aleksin, ‘Rossiya Vozrozhdayet Status Velikoy Morskoy Derzhavy’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 14 March 2000. 53. Sergei Sokut, ‘Putin Osvaivayet Rol Glavkoverkha’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 7 April 2000. 54. Alexei G.Arbatov, ‘The Transformation of Russian Military Doctrine: Lessons Learned from Kosovo and Chechnya’, Marshall Centre Papers, 2, p. 15, Garmisch-Partenkirkchen: George C.Marshall European Centre for Security Studies, 2000. 55. ‘Osnovy Politiki Rossiyskoy Federatsii v Oblasti Voyenno-Morskoy Deyatelnosti na Period do 2010 Goda’, Morskoy Sbornik, 4, April 2000, pp. 4– 10; Sergei Patyrev, ‘Podtekst Morskoy Doktriny’, NVO, 17 August 2001; Aleksin, ‘Rossiya Vozrozhdayet Status Velikoy Morskoy Derzhavy’. 56. Patyrev, ‘Podtekst Morskoy Doktriny’. 57. Ibid.; Andrei Gavrilenko, ‘Zavtra—den’ VMF’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 24 July 1999.

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58. Georgiy Kostev and Igor Kostev, ‘Vopreki Doktrinam i Programmam’, NVO, 1 February 2002; ‘Generalnyy Kurs v Mirovom Okeane’, NVO, 19 November 1999. 59. ‘Voyennaya Doktrina Rossiyskoy Federatsii’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 12 May 2000. 60. Vladimir Kuroyedov, ‘Rozhdayetsya Novaya Morskaya Strategiya Rossii’, NVO, 28 July 2000. 61. Yuri Golotyuk, ‘Voyenno-Morskaya Gordost Velikorossov’, Vremya Novostey, 18 August 2000. 62. Mikhail Motsak, ‘S Pritselom Na Nepryamye Strategicheskiye Deystviya’, NVO, 28 January 2000. 63. Kuroyedov, ‘On Vyvel Flot v Okean’. 64. Admiral V.Kuroyedov, ‘Vazhneyshaya Problema Tekhnicheskoy Ekspluatatsii Flotov’, Morskoy Sbornik, 1, January 2000, pp. 3–6. 65. For the chronology of the disaster and the Russian navy’s misinformation, see the report by Bellona Foundation, It Sank—2002, http:// www.bellona.no/ en/international/russia/navy/northern_fleet/ incidents/25442.html. See also ‘Admiral Kuroyedov Nazval 80%-Nuyu Prichinu Gibeli “Kurska”’, http://lenta.ru/russia/2000/10/24/ submarine_kuroyedov. 66. ‘Deystviya Putina Byli Zapozdalymi’, Gazeta.ru, 22 August 2000, http:// www.gazeta.ru/kursk. 67. Vladimir Yermolin, ‘Vozvrashchatsya—Plokhaya Primeta’, Izvestiya, 12 October 2000. 68. Aleksandr Golts, ‘Utonuvshiye vo Lzhi’, Itogi, 43, 2001. 69. http://president.kremlin.ru/events/393.html. 70. Yuri Golotyuk, ‘Admiralskiy Chas’, Vremya Novostey, 3 December 2001. 71. Bellona Foundation, It Sank—2002; Aleksandr Chebotarev, ‘Mikhail Motsak —Doroga k Domu Prolegla Cherez Okean’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 8 October 2002. 72. ‘Antigosudarstvennaya Taina’. 73. Vladimir Pasyakin, ‘Vstrecha s Sem’yami Pogibshikh Podvodnikov’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 10 October 2002. 74. ‘Antigosudarstvennaya Taina’. 75. Pasyakin, ‘Vstrecha s Sem’yami’. 76. Pavel Baev, The Russian Navy after the Kursk: Still Proud but with Poor Navigation, PONARS Policy Memo, 215, Washington, DC, 25 January 2002. 77. ‘Morskaya Doktrina Rossiyskoy Federatsii’, NVO, 3 August 2001; Vadim Solovyev, ‘Rossiya Obrela Yeshche Odnu Doktrinu—Morskuyu’, NVO, 3 August 2001. 78. Kostev and Kostev, ‘Vopreki Doktrinam i Programmam’. 79. Yuri Golotyuk, ‘Admiraly Ostalis’ za Bortom’, Vremya Novostey, 6 September 2001. 80. Solovyev; ‘Rossiya Obrela’. 81. Golotyuk, ‘Admiraly Ostalis’ za Bortom’. 82. ‘Kasyanov Vozglavil Morskuyu Kollegiyu’, NVO, 14 September 2001. 83. ‘Osnovy Politiki’, pp. 9, 10.

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84. It is beyond the scope of this chapter to deal, except in passing, with the seabased leg of the Russian strategic nuclear triad, since this subject requires a study of the Russian strategic nuclear policy in the 1990s. 85. Savelyev and Novoselov, ‘Strategicheskoye Sderzhivanie’, p. 48; Sokut, ‘Trudnoye Preodoleniye Nostalgii’. 86. Savelyev and Novoselov, ‘Strategicheskoye Sderzhivanie’, p. 48. 87. Radiy Zubkov, ‘Uncertain Future of Missile Submarines: The State, Not the Military Department, Should Determine the Fate of Russia’s Naval Strategic Forces’, NVO, 17 December 1998, translated in FBIS, FTS19981217000130. 88. Mikhail Pogorelyy, ‘Russian Nuclear Triad After 9/11: Prospects of the Strategic Nuclear Forces Development in the Context of the New USRussian Relations’, Paper presented at conference ‘Russian Security Policy and the War on Terrorism’, Naval Postgraduate School, Monterey, CA, 4 and 5 June 2002. 89. Ibid.; Zubkov, ‘Uncertain Future of Missile Submarines’; Sergei Sokut, ‘Rossiya Menyayet Kontseptsiyu Stroitel’stva Yadernykh Sil’, NVO, 18 January 2002. Different sources cite slightly different numbers for different classes of SSBNs. 90. Sokut, ‘Putin Osvaivayet Rol’ Glavkoverkha’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 7 April 2000. 91. Sokut, ‘Rossiya Menyayet’. 92. Sokut, ‘Trudnoye Preodoleniye Nostalgii’. 93. Communication from George Fedoroff, 26 August 2002. 94. Colonel-General Viktor Yesin (ret.), who served as deputy secretary of the Security Council of the Russian Federation until 2002, stated that the General Staff still relies on their Cold war threat assessments; see Dmitriy Afinogenov and Viktor Yesin, ‘Politika: V Plenu Ustarevshikh Stereotipov’, NVO, 26 April 2002. 95. Yuri Golotyuk, ‘Prezident Podvel Itogi Sammita’, Vremya Novostey, 26 April 2002; Yevgeniy Ustinov, ‘Kaspiy: Flotiliya na Podyeme’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 14 May 2002. 96. Sergei Blagov, ‘Russia Makes Waves in the Caspian’, Asia Times, 15 August 2002. 97. Golotyuk, ‘Prezident Podvel Itogi Sammita’. 98. Sergei Sokut, ‘Flot Uchitsya Zashchishchat’ “Lukoil”’, NVO, 12 August 2002. 99. Vstrecha Prezidenta Rossiyskoy Federatsii V.V.Putina s Moryakami Tikhookeanskogo Flota, 26 August 2002, http://president.kremlin.ru/text/ appears/ 2002/08/18591.shtml. 100. Vystupleniye Prezidenta Rossiyskoy Federatsii V.V.Putina na Soveshchanii s Komandovaniem Tikhookeanskogo Flota, 28 August 2002, http://president. kremlin.ru/text/appears/2002/08/18722.shtml. 101. Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov, ‘My—Derzhava Okeanskaya’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 27 July 2002.

Part III: Experience

10 The Challenge of ‘Small Wars’ for the Russian Military Pavel K.Baev

During the first decade of Russia’s post-Soviet history, its armed forces were involved in various forms—from direct fighting to internationally supervised monitoring—in more regional or localised violent conflicts than any other army in the world. The accumulated experience is unique and uniquely varied in character, location and duration: from being a useful participant in all UN and NATO peacekeeping operations in the Balkans to conducting protracted combat operations in Chechnya to bringing tanks to the streets of Moscow and shelling Russia’s own parliament. A logical thing to assume would be that this vast experience is absorbed and translated into guidelines for a military reform and strategic requirements for long-term development of the armed forces. Logic, however, rarely works for Russia and even a superficial assessment of Russia’s military posture would firmly conclude that such an assumption has few if any connections with reality. Indeed, a debilitating shortage of resources, lack of political leadership, incompetence and corruption have, taken together, determined the descending trajectory of the Russian army. This chapter will attempt to show, nevertheless, that firsthand experience from ‘small wars’ had a more serious impact on the ongoing transformation of Russia’s armed forces than is acknowledged by most Western and Russian analyses.1 SMALL WARS AND BIG BATTALIONS While the dissolution of the Soviet Union is generally perceived as an amazingly peaceful catastrophe, it did resonate violently in many ‘hotspots’ across its vast space. The outbursts of conflicts started in the late 1980s in such dissimilar places as Osh (Kirgizia), Tbilisi (Georgia) and Vilnius (Lithuania), culminating in the August 1991 putsch in Moscow. The spontaneous collapse of the dysfunctional state terminated some of the conflicts (for instance, in the Baltic) but also caused escalation

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of several new ones. Most of those received only scant international attention (increasingly focused on the Balkans) and were, at least initially, happily ignored by the new Russian leadership, that was busy launching breathtakingly bold (or, depending upon the wisdom of hindsight, criminally irresponsible) reform projects. The military, however, were not in a position to distance themselves from those conflicts since in many cases their garrisons happened to be right in the middle of the violence. A consistent response to this range of challenges was next to impossible due to President Yeltsin’s doubts and delays in organising the high command.2 When a Russian Defence Ministry was eventually organised in May 1992, it had to improvise ad hoc strategies for each crisis, starting with Moldova, where its 14th Army claimed victory in the battle for Bendery. By July, two very similar peacekeeping operations were launched in South Osetia and Transdniestria with the consent and even participation of the parties to the conflicts and mandates centred on monitoring ceasefires. Autumn saw Russian troops providing direct support to separatists in Abkhazia and to the central government in the bloody civil war in Tajikistan; in the latter case, a CIS (Commonwealth of Independent States) peace-keeping mandate was hastily issued; in the former, Moscow saw no need for such a formality. A rare precedent for internal peacekeeping was set by the deployment of troops to quell the violent territorial dispute between North Osetia and Ingushetia in Prigorodny district; neighbouring Chechnya, however, was left to pursue its secessionist project. In all these cases, the decision to launch an operation or, as was the case in Azerbaijan, to withdraw, was taken in the Kremlin; all the details, however, were left to the military to sort out without even symbolic political oversight.3 That was also the case with the deployment of Russian troops to Bosnia-Herzegovina in the framework of UNPROFOR, which in fact had happened before the new Ministry of Defence was organised in Moscow. And it was only in that case that Russia was able to claim some sort of impartiality (whatever its sympathies with the Serbs); in all other operations its troops were firmly backing one of the parties to the conflict. Even when peacekeepers were doing only traditional linear monitoring of ceasefires (as in Transdniestria or, since July 1994, in Abkhazia), there was always a stronger grouping of forces nearby that had played a pro-active role in the conflict, so, as the Economist put it, ‘one Russian army is keeping a peace that another has broken’.4 The year 1993 added two unique cases to this body of experience. One was the deployment of some 2,500 troops to Moscow in the early hours of 4 October; a few tank salvos secured Yeltsin’s victory over the

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parliament.5 Another was the deployment of four battalions to Western Georgia; in a matter of a few days the anti-government rebellion there disappeared without a single clash.6 The year 1994 saw a reorganisation of the Russian ‘peace operation’ in Abkhazia (now with a proper mandate and even UN supervision) and very nearly saw a new peacekeeping operation for monitoring the finally established ceasefire in Nagorno Karabakh (Azerbaijan held firm to its preference for no operation at all rather than a Russian one). But the big drama of that year happened in Chechnya where the failure of a ‘special operation’ in support of pro-Moscow warlords led to a greater failure in providing them with limited military support, and then to a disastrous full-scale intervention. Nothing in their previous experience (with the possible exception of Afghanistan) had prepared the Russian army for the fierce resistance it encountered in Chechnya; the military planning of the operation was as badly mishandled as was the political war-making.7 There is neither space nor need to scrutinise here the travail of that 21-month-long internal war, but a relevant point is that it had a massive impact on all other operations, not only vastly overtaking their lessons but also sharply reducing resources and political attention available for them. Not a single new operation was launched by Moscow during that war (the brigade in the Balkans was reassigned from UNPROFOR to IFOR), while all ‘peacemaking’ deployments were scaled down.8 This trend continued after the defeat in Chechnya became official; one change that accentuated it was the peace accord in Tajikistan signed in June 1997 (the only case of successful conflict resolution in the former USSR), that reduced somewhat, but not entirely, the pressure on the Russian 201st Motor Rifle Division (MRD) based there.9 Another change that went generally against the trend was Russia’s contribution of four battalions to NATO’s new peace operation in Kosovo (KFOR), following the controversial ‘March on Pristina’ by a ‘peacekeeping’ company assigned to SFOR.10 The escalating instability in the north Caucasus made it necessary for the Russian military to undertake a new operation in Daghestan in summer 1999. While again featuring many past shortcomings, this campaign turned out to be successful beyond expectations.11 The Russian army rushed straight into the Second Chechen War, with determination to achieve the victory that had been denied to them two years previously and with new confidence in the political leadership. Initial success was indeed achieved due to much improved planning and force concentration,12 and the Chechen warlords were pushed back, but by spring 2000 the campaign had already arrived at the familiar deadlock— and has remained there until the time of writing (in mid-2002).

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The impact of the second war is even more profound than that of the first, so every chapter in this book touches upon it. What has to be emphasised here is the fact that it has further undermined Russia’s capacity to sustain its military involvement in managing other conflicts. Opting to join the US-led anti-terrorist coalition, Moscow has been unable to provide any military contribution, or at least to strengthen its military presence in central Asia. It refrained from applying military instruments in support of its peacekeepers in Abkhazia even in high-risk situations (as in October 2001 or April 2002). It had also to cut down its contributions to both SFOR and KFOR. Without extracting itself from the Chechen quagmire, Russia is in no position to project force south-wards, however strong the temptation or acute the need might be. CONCEPTUALISING THE ‘SMALL WARS’ PROBLEM Experience of this scale and variety necessitates plenty of hard thinking but there is not much evidence of that in Russian military documents and literature (the term ‘debates’ is hardly applicable). Indeed the Military Doctrine (from its 1992 draft and 1993 text through all the follow-up revisions to the new text of 2000) pays only peripheral attention to small wars,13 and there are notoriously few in-depth analyses of lessons learned.14 Traditional military conservatism could easily be identified as a source of this inattentiveness and even negligence, and it was reinforced by the lack of any engagement into this ‘marginal’ issue of such influential branches of the armed forces as the navy and, particularly, the Strategic Rocket Forces. The former continued to cherish the dream of ‘blue-water’ navigation as reflected in the 2001 Naval Doctrine.15 The latter, acquiring the dominant influence over the military from mid-1997 to mid-1999, effectively blocked all efforts (inconsistent as those were) to draw lessons from the defeat in Chechnya.16 There was, however, more to the neglect of the small wars experience than just ‘tank battles’ traditionalism, inter-service rivalry or, for that matter, psychological denial of the Chechen disaster. It related directly to the profound identity crisis that bedevilled the Russian armed forces for most of the 1990s. The military had serious problems identifying with the new Russian state (which had a lot of uncertainty about its own identity) and thus were unable to define in any comprehensible manner their core mission and functions. The abstract idea of ‘protecting Russia’ had to be clarified through threat assessment but that process remained profoundly confused. There was certainly the habitual ‘NATO threat’; even if diffused by the end of bilateral confrontation, it was still materialised in durable military

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structures and actualised first by the scandals around the alliance’s enlargement and then—quite sharply—by the war in Kosovo.17 The problem with this threat was that the only way Russia’s military were able to cope with it was nuclear-strategic, since the imbalance in conventional capabilities was growing daily.18 Another threat—signified by tanks on Moscow’s streets in August 1991 and October 1993—was related to the instability of Russia’s political system with its peculiar mixture of authoritarianism and democracy. While the armed forces accepted the role of a presidential institution, answerable only to the commander-in-chief, the top brass were reluctant to develop a high political profile, expecting serious damage to the integrity of the military structures. It was probably indeed the case that the major threat to Russia’s security in the 1990s was internal, but the army could not take the main responsibility for countering it, and generally was more a part of the problem than a solution. There were also threats related to Russia’s territorial integrity, and Chechnya was certainly on the very top of this list. However, Russian society in 1994–96 unequivocally refused to embrace the use of military means to that aim, so the armed forces—that had been forced into that war—felt denied any justification for their sacrifices and betrayed.19 In the flux of Soviet collapse, it was genuinely difficult to comprehend why Chechnya had to be brought forcefully back into Russia, while, for instance, Crimea was left out. The issue of protecting the ‘Russianspeakers’ in the ‘near abroad’ was also brought into this debate and inflated by heated political rhetoric. In fact, it was only in the Transdniestria conflict that this issue was really at play, while in Estonia and Latvia, which were the main targets of inflammatory exercises, the use of military instruments was never seriously considered.20 The confusion lasted until autumn 1999 when Vladimir Putin, on his way to the presidency, offered the military a clear purpose—to protect Russia against terrorism and instability encroaching from the south. The armed forces eagerly embraced this clarity, which also involved an opportunity to cover the defeat in Chechnya with a new victory, as well as the new leader, who appeared to have a genuine affection for ‘big guns’.21 This mission secured the army an instant stream of support and sympathy from society, and had an extra benefit of offering justification for long-standing operations in Tajikistan and Abkhazia. Refocusing their functions on the ‘anti-terrorist war’, the armed forces soon discovered that they were not particularly prepared to perform those, as the deadlock in Chechnya vividly demonstrated. The removal of the ‘strategic cabal’ from key positions in the Ministry of Defence (MoD) was only a small consolation, since the savings from cuts in financing the

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ICBM ‘Topol-M’ project were nowhere close to the funds necessary for upgrading the conventional forces, even if significant money was allocated for conducting the war. Starting to look seriously at the accumulated experience, the military leadership found the scale of restructuring to be so massive and the urgent needs so pressing that military reform became impossible.22 The new emphasis on cooperation with the West in the US-led anti-terrorist coalition, added since autumn 2001, has not made this task any easier. Indeed, as the new partnership with NATO moves from the ‘talk-shop’ phase to practicalities, the problems with interoperability reveal a massive capabilities gap as well as serious disagreements between military cultures. There is no doubt that ‘small wars’ of different types will be the main occupation of the Russian military in this coming decade, but the level of success depends upon addressing without further delay a range of crucial challenges. BURDEN-SHARING WITH THE ‘OTHER ARMIES’ Harsh competition between the armed forces and several ministries and agencies that acquired their own enforcement capabilities (the Russian term for them is ‘power structures’) was a typical feature of the Russian security system in the 1990s. The main prize in this competition was the resources of the state budget, and the military bitterly complained that their share was progressively shrinking. Indeed other ‘armed bureaucracies’ had better access to the Kremlin (such as the Federal Security Service, the FSB), or were more able to prove their political value (such as the Ministry of Interior), or showed more cost-efficiency (such as the Tax Police), or just made a better use of their resources (such as the Border Service or the Ministry of Emergencies). The military leadership found itself trapped in a vicious circle of shrinking capabilities leading to declining political influence and to further diminishing share of resources.23 Besides bureaucratic battles in Moscow, there were serious problems with establishing cooperation between the military and the ‘other armies’ in such faraway places as Daghestan or Prigorodny district, North Osetia. There were examples when such cooperation indeed worked, as was the case with the 201st MRD in Tajikistan, which provided reasonably effective combat support to the Border Troops. But in most ‘hotspots’ the military had few if any contacts with other ‘power structures’. The fault was not so much with the local commanders as with the general Russian pattern of conflict management, which relied heavily on the use of military instruments but neglected such means as law enforcement or development aid.24 The experiences from Bosnia or

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Eastern Slavonia were generally perceived as irrelevant, and, in situations where there was a need to combine ‘linear’ peacekeeping with policing (as in the Gali region of Abkhazia), Russian troops remained helpless.25 The most profound failure of ‘inter-powerhouses’ cooperation was the First Chechen War. From the start of the invasion, when the MoD was in charge, through the prolonged deadlock, supervised by the Ministry of the Interior, to the very end of the war, orchestrated by the Russian Security Council, the division of responsibility remained haphazard, while various units were controlled and supplied by their respective bureaucracies. That discord was sharply revealed by the hostage crisis in Budennovsk in June 1995, when the top figures in the MoD, Ministry of the Interior and the FSB were pushing the blame to one another, leaving it to Prime Minister Chernomyrdin to find a resolution. By the end of the war, it had become painfully clear that only elite SOBR (rapid response) and OMON (special purpose) units of the Ministry of the Interior were capable of performing combat tasks, while ragtag regiments of the regular army had neither training nor discipline.26 While there were some improvements in the combat-worthiness of the military in 1997–98, there was hardly any noticeable change in the pattern of relations between the ‘power structures’. President Putin deserves credit for recognising this problem early on and addressing it with characteristic determination on three levels. At the top level, he strengthened the coordinating role of the Security Council under his most trusted ‘lieutenant’, Sergei Ivanov.27 At the middle level, he created seven federal districts and charged his personal envoys with the task of establishing close cooperation between the military, the Interior Ministry and the law enforcement agencies inside these new ‘super-regions’. And at the specific level of the Second Chechen War, Putin gave the military carte blanche to conduct the operations as they saw fit and provided them with considerably more resources than they had had in the first war. The system of bureaucratic infighting, nevertheless, has proven to be resilient. In March 2001 Putin had to appoint Sergei Ivanov as Minister of Defence, which seriously weakened the coordinating role of the Security Council, since the new secretary, Vladimir Rushaylo, did not have much administrative clout. What happened instead of ‘team work’ was increasing penetration into the military and other ‘power structures’ by the FSB, and Ivanov, despite his personal ties with the president, was not quite able to check this trend.28 The armed forces still cannot overcome the disadvantages in competition with other ‘armed bureaucracies’ for privileged access to resources.29

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At the middle level, the presidential envoys were more useful in orchestrating regional electoral intrigues than in integrating the activities of the ‘power structures’, over which they had only limited authority and could not control resource distribution.30 The plan to merge the rear services of the army and the interior troops, vigorously pushed forward by the General Staff, was blocked by the resistance of the Interior Ministry.31 But the most obvious failure of cooperation between ‘powerhouses’ was again in Chechnya where, according to one observer, profound mistrust between different forces (OMON is particularly hated) is covered by the ‘myth of a Joint HQ’.32 The FSB had been put in charge of the war in January 2001, but, except for ‘termination’ of several warlords, including Khattab,33 it can claim few successes in bringing the war to an end. Meanwhile, the units of the North Caucasus Military District (MD) have to struggle again against deteriorating supplies and lack of resources.34 The war against terrorism by its very nature requires joint and tightly coordinated efforts of various state agencies, but there is much more evidence of bureaucratic squabbling in Putin’s government— and the military are steadily losing what little ground they had. UNITING THE ARMED FORCES ‘Small wars’ are not expected to require the employment of the whole power of the armed forces; nevertheless, they present significant challenges for cooperation between their various branches and services. That was clear already in the early 1990s to the Defence Minister Pavel Grachev, who advanced an ambitious design for the mobile forces that were supposed to become Russia’s main instrument for managing local conflicts. The implementation of that revolutionary plan was blocked by the resistance of the ground forces, which were afraid of losing their primacy and becoming subordinated to the airborne troops, as well as from the transport aviation that was exploring possibilities for commercial use of its assets.35 What buried Grachev’s ‘dream forces’ was the First Chechen War, which put the armed forces under tremendous pressure. Paradoxical as it may seem, the war produced, at least in the short term, more internal cohesion and a new sense of common purpose in the armed forces. Since the North Caucasus MD was clearly not able to handle this limited operation on its own, combat-ready elements and reinforcements were assembled from all over Russia, thus distributing the burden of the war throughout the military structures. Even the navy that had by and large ignored the ‘small wars’ theatres now had to send its marine battalions to Chechnya.36 In the absence of a coherent strategy, this

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unifying effect, achieved by default rather than by design, was not sustainable—and was indeed entirely lost after the defeat. In fact, the reforms launched in summer 1997, half-hearted as they were, brought visible alienation between the branches of the armed forces, primarily due to the prioritisation of the strategic forces at the expense of all other services. Defence Minister Igor Sergeyev was much criticised for that narrow focus but his basic premise was sound: it was possible to advance the modernisation of the Strategic Rocket Forces but not of the conventional forces on the very shallow resource base that was made available for the MoD.37 The summer 1999 campaign in Daghestan showed no improvement in the performance of the military, which had to pay a high price for smallscale victories; so more surprising were the determination and reasonably efficient organisation shown from the first days of the Second Chechen War.38 The General Staff was able to translate the political demand for a ‘victory through punishment’ into a strong mobilisational drive inside the armed forces. The foundation of that success was not so much the modest improvements in combat capabilities achieved through the reforms of 1998–99, as the instant alliance between the ground forces and the air force achieved on the basis of big new funding for combat operations. The air force had played a key role in the First Chechen War as well, but was not able to benefit from it in terms of better maintenance or supply.39 This time, their command was determined to prove the unsurpassable value of air power in ‘small wars’, bragging about its ability to replicate NATO’s air war in Kosovo.40 This war-cemented alliance between the General Staff, the ground forces and the air force was able to win the crucial bureaucratic battle against the MoD in summer 2000, resulting in reallocation of budget priorities from the strategic forces towards financing the war.41 The navy was by and large marginalised and managed to attract attention to its disastrous degradation only after the Kursk catastrophe in August 2000.42 The course of the Chechen War, however, has tested the limits of the bureaucratic victory in Moscow and poisoned its fruits. The scale of the effort that had to be sustained despite the pressure of casualties has proven to be more than what could be covered by the increased resource base; the air force, for that matter, had to allocate upward of 60 per cent of its operating budget in 2000 to Chechnya-related tasks.43 The war has become the major obstacle for implementing structural reforms, while also increasing their necessity. The gradual shift in military planning and buildup towards ‘small wars’ and counter-terrorist operations involves significant reconfiguration of all components of the armed forces. The navy, for

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instance, despite the urgent need to rescue its Northern Fleet (illuminated so sharply by the Kursk disaster), now places the emphasis on building minor combatants (corvettes) and, particularly, on strengthening its Caspian Flotilla.44 The air force is taking steps at re-orienting its longrange aviation towards high-precision strikes, as well as ‘carpet bombing’ in local conflicts.45 However, the MoD under Sergei Ivanov has not been able to integrate these steps in a consistent programme of building military capabilities for the new tasks and increasingly finds itself bogged down by petty bureaucratic intrigues.46 MODERNISING MILITARY STRUCTURES Modernisation was always a key requirement in the Soviet military buildup; however, its specific parameters were invariably determined by the expected character of operations against the ‘main adversary’ on the Western theatre. Regional conflicts were not expected to influence those parameters in a significant way, and this attitude by and large continued until the end of the 1990s, despite all the experience in ‘small wars’. That is why the Russian military were as much astonished by the type of warfare in the US operation in Afghanistan as they were shocked by the quick victory.47 Nevertheless, there is now a better understanding of the needs in modernising structures, C3I (command, control, communications and information) systems, and armaments, that would amount to focusing the Revolution in Military Affairs on the ‘small wars’. Structures ‘Small wars’ generate two sorts of requirements for military structures: specially trained division-size units are necessary for manpower- intensive operations, and versatile battalion-size units are crucial for special operations of different types. Initially, the Russian military leadership assumed that the airborne troops (VDV) would be able to cover both requirements, but by 1994 they had shown clear symptoms of ‘peacekeeping overstretch’.48 Defence Minister Grachev came up with the idea of converting two motor rifle divisions into peacekeeping units, but the First Chechen War put an end to this experiment. One lesson from the defeat was to make sure that in every military district there was at least one combat-capable division/brigade, and it was these units that provided for the success in the initial phase of the Second Chechen War. Owing to unit rotation, this combat experience is now broadly spread in the ground forces, but it is also of a very particular type, and it does not necessarily make the ‘full-strength’ units prepared

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for other types of operations. It is only the 201st Division stationed permanently in Tajikistan and the airborne troops (bedevilled, like all the military, by endless reorganisations) that have accumulated experience in ‘muscular peacekeeping’.49 As for the special forces, their core is made of seven spetsnaz brigades (one in every military district), but their capabilities and profile are increasingly uncertain. Their traditional subordination to the Main Military Intelligence Directorate (GRU) is weakened by the crisis of the latter, while the project for creating a new command for special forces faces many bureaucratic hurdles.50 It is the special units of the Ministry of the Interior (SOBR) and the FSB (Vympel) that are perceived as the most valuable assets in counter-terrorist operations and, accordingly, receive priority funding, while the military spetsnaz gradually loses its combat edge. Armaments The problem of the Russian armed forces in this regard is not only that they are equipped with the weapons of 1970s-1980s but also that much of this weaponry is not suitable for ‘small wars’. For that matter, in all the local conflicts of the past decade Russian troops did not see a single enemy tank, not to mention aircraft, but still have plenty of anti-tank and antiaircraft weapons. The basic units, therefore, remain ‘heavy’ and their tactical and theatre mobility is in fact declining, due in no little part to abuse and poor maintenance of transport means. Despite the muchtrumpeted Armaments Programme for 2001–10, approved in early 2002, current budget allocation provides only for cheap modernisation of the available armaments, extending their already-stretched service life.51 The most pressing requirement from the ‘small wars’ environment is definitely for high-precision weapons and munitions, and it is precisely here that the shortcomings in Russian capabilities are the most obvious. The air force command has been eager to emphasise increased accuracy of strikes in Chechnya,52 but in fact only on rare occasions have laser-guided missiles been used efficiently.53 Long-range aviation (not used in Chechnya) could, in principle, deliver high-precision strikes, but its conventional air-launched cruise missiles are quite expensive and so usable only on high-value targets, of which only a few can normally be found in ‘small wars’. Another requirement is steady support for ground troops from combat and transport helicopters of army aviation, but this branch has seen virtually no modernisation at all in the 1990s, while the number of operational helicopters has dropped from 2,300 to 1,700. The Russian

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combat ‘workhorse’ Mi-24 badly needs replacement and several helicopters of the new generation (including Ka-50 Black Shark) are ready for serial production—but acquisition in significant numbers remains out of the question.54 Army aviation is essentially unable to operate in night/ poor-weather conditions, which is a major handicap. It must be added that ground troops are lacking these capabilities on every level from the individual soldier to armour and artillery regiments that remain the main source of ‘crude’ firepower on battlefields. C3I Traditionally placing a heavy emphasis on rigid control at every level of military structures, Russia finds itself hopelessly inadequate in technical support for C3 systems. While some other ‘power bureaucracies’ (primarily the FAPSI—Federal Agency of Government Communications and Information) have managed to keep up with the speed of technological innovation,55 the military have not been able to invest anything in modernising their communication equipment and still have to rely mostly on radio transmitters produced in the 1980s. This fundamental deficiency has affected the whole system of control over ‘peace’ operations: there is no single command or MoD department in Moscow that can keep track of all the deployments in various ‘hotspots’ and secure efficient decision-making in critical situations. The commanders of troops in Tajikistan or Abkhazia have more authority to make their own decisions than Moscow feels comfortable about, but often feel neglected and disoriented by inadequate orders.56 Another shortcoming which is particularly painful in the ‘small wars’ environment is the absence of technical means for real-time intelligence.57 The Russian air force have been using the unmanned aerial vehicle Pchela-1T in Chechnya but processing the video signal has proven to be too complicated, so their efficiency comes nowhere close to the revolutionary role of the US ‘Predator’ and ‘Global Hawk’ in Afghanistan and Iraq.58 Poor intelligence, unreliable tactical communication, and bad inter-service cooperation are the main causes of the ‘friendly fire’ incidents, of which the most embarrassing was the ‘friendly’ ambush on the OMON unit in Grozny in March 2000 that left 22 policemen dead. The only way to avoid such incidents and to compensate for lack of reliable intelligence is found in artillery and air strikes by ‘squares’ at a safe distance from own forces, instead of providing close support. Fundamentally, the Russian armed forces are stuck with pre-computerage technology, and that puts them at a huge disadvantage not only vis-àvis NATO armies but also in dealing with some of the rebel organisations

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and terrorist networks in the ‘small wars’ environment. While the most recent interpretation of the concept of the ‘Revolution in Military Affairs’ was introduced by the General Staff back in the late 1970s, now the Russian top brass are aware of being hopelessly behind not only the vanguard of this revolution, consisting exclusively of the US forces, but also its second and third echelons, quickly losing the edge in potential conflicts to the south of Russia’s borders. While hypothetically Russia could still rely on the quantitative superiority of its armed forces, in practical terms the deadlock in Chechnya denies it even that advantage. And that leaves the Russian strategists with the uncomfortable and, as yet, politically unacceptable option of considering the use of tactical nuclear weapons in ‘small wars’.59 TRANSFORMING THE MILITARY CULTURE The military culture that Russia inherited from the Soviet Union was quintessentially a bureaucratic one. The functioning of the tremendous military machine over the 30-year period from Stalin’s departure to Gorbachev’s arrival established firm rules, traditions and habits that together shaped a specific and highly conservative culture. That bureaucratic culture was not in the least oriented towards real fighting, so Afghanistan was an anomaly, which generated much more denial than learning.60 President Yeltsin, embracing in May 1992 the MoD and the General Staff as ‘Russian’ institutions, de facto subscribed to this culture, so it was not significantly challenged by then-victorious democratic discourse. The real challenge to that old culture came from the ‘small wars’. Combat experience was imported from all the ‘hotspots’ into the high command, creating a new institutional culture that was a peculiar mix of old bureaucratic patterns and new war-fighting skills, of deadly corridor intrigues and battlefield manoeuvring, of high respect for paperwork and low respect for human life.61 The First Chechen War powerfully reinforced that culture, and also turned it into an aggressively self-protective one, since the ‘betrayal’ of the society left the military in an isolation resembling ostracism. The defeat, while inflicting deep psychological traumas, did not bring any critical self-reflection: the public was largely glad to forget about the war, and the evolving institutional culture of the armed forces was rejected by society and ridiculed by the political elite. The arrival of President Putin, to which the start of the Second Chechen War was so instrumental, made a strong impact on the further development of this peculiar bureaucratic-warrior institutional culture.

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Being himself a product of corporate bureaucratic culture, Putin could not reject or downplay the bureaucratic tradition in the armed forces.62 On the other hand, he took personal responsibility for the war and so had to rely on the ‘warriors’ to find the way to a victory. His attempts at harmonising these traits in the military culture initially involved giving something to everybody while demanding more efficiency and expecting rock-solid loyalty. The embarrassing public row in summer 2000 between Sergeyev and Anatoly Kvashnin, who personified respectively the bureaucratic and the war-fighting drives in the military culture, proved that his ‘harmonisation’ did not quite work. Replacing Sergeyev in June 2001 with Sergey Ivanov (by no means a ‘warrior’), Putin committed himself to a more pragmatic course in reforming the military, without granting an outright victory to Kvashnin. He has essentially shelved all the grandiose plans envisaged by the doctrinal documents and subscribed to the vision of compact and modern forces oriented primarily on countering effectively the challenges of ‘small wars’.63 At the same time, he remains distrustful of the ‘Chechen generals’, suspecting that their first loyalty is to winning the war, and keeping them under close supervision by the FSB.64 That leaves him without a reliable base of support in the officer corps, for whom ‘small wars’, and first of all Chechnya, are the only available form of training. While the current intrigue in the triangle between the MoD, the General Staff and the Kremlin revolves mostly around budget allocation, the issue that has emerged as the crucial hurdle for military reform is the shift to the all-volunteer army. For Putin it is crystal clear that the ‘small wars’ experience and first of all the Chechen debacle requires a rapid professionalisation of the armed forces.65 This vision, however, clashes with both the bureaucratic conservatism and the ‘warrior’ sub-culture so that a united top-down front in the ranks has emerged in order resolutely to oppose this ‘innovation’. While the ‘parquet generals’ push forward mind-boggling calculations of the costs of recruiting soldiers and sergeants,66 the ‘Chechen generals’ remain unable to advance a consistent argument explaining their position since they cannot say explicitly that forcing untrained soldiers to cover their clumsy manoeuvres by indiscriminate fire is the only war-fighting method they know. Nevertheless, the General Staff has managed—not shying away from a new conflict with the MoD and exploiting Ivanov’s isolation in his own bureaucracy67—to sabotage Putin’s intentions and to reduce the reform to an ‘experiment’ with turning the 76th Airborne Division into a ‘professional’ unit.68

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CONCLUSIONS The impact of the ‘small wars’ of the 1990s on the Russian armed forces has been not only massive in its scale but also highly controversial in character. They inflicted heavy casualties and profoundly affected the military culture, but they also limited the ability of the military to absorb combat and peacekeeping experiences. They generated high requirements for modernisation but, at the same time, eliminated most opportunities to implement those by consuming so much that all the vital reserves of the army are depleted. They clearly pointed towards a professional army but produced so much demoralisation and corruption in the ranks that the transition towards an all-volunteer force has been effectively blocked. One particular result of numerous engagements in ‘small wars’ has been the distorted relations between the military and the political leadership. While the Russian top brass firmly believe in Clausewitz, in most post-Soviet conflicts they have not been able to find a consistent policy which could guide their operations. This experience brought deep distrust in any political control (particularly parliamentary ‘interference’) and the desire to answer to a commander-in-chief who would provide a sense of purpose for the ongoing and possible new deployments. Vladimir Putin initially appeared to be exactly the leader that the top brass had been dreaming about, but his gradual shift of priorities that has acquired the character of a determined drive Westwards since autumn 2001 inevitably leads to parting company with both the military bureaucrats and the ‘Chechen generals’. Putin has to face the fact that the Russian armed forces with their current posture and professional culture are so fundamentally archaic that common methods of modernisation may simply be inapplicable. He is able to grasp the intensity and the political usefulness of the challenges originating in the global war against terrorism but it has become clear that the army is not suitable for or capable of meeting them: hence his reliance on special services and other ‘armed bureaucracies’, which will probably continue. Generous new funding that was provided for the military in 1999–2001 disappeared without much trace, but in the near future Putin’s new priority to accelerate economic growth will strictly limit the scale of financial incentives for reforms, including professionalisation. Finally, Putin cannot avoid the conclusion that his course on sustaining and eventually winning the war in Chechnya works strictly at cross-purposes with the goals of reforming and modernising the military. As long as the corrosive impact of this ‘small war’ continues, Russia’s armed forces are doomed to remain on the descending trajectory.

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NOTES 1. Thus, Alexei Arbatov pays scant attention to this factor in his excellent article ‘Military Reform in Russia: Dilemmas, Obstacles, and Prospects’, International Security, 22, 4, Spring 1998, pp. 83–134, and in his chapter ‘The Russian Armed Forces: Structures, Roles and Politics’, pp. 165–95 in Vladimir Baranovsky (ed.), Russia and Europe: The Emerging Security Agenda, SIPRI, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. For more up-to-date perspectives, see Michael Crutcher (ed.), The Russian Armed Forces at the Dawn of the Millennium, Carlisle, PA: US Army War College, 2000; and Stephen Cimbala (ed.), The Russian Military into the Twenty-First Century, London and Portland, OR: Frank Cass, 2001. I have earlier looked into this problem in Part III (‘The Devil Is in the Details’) of my book The Russian Army in a Time of Troubles, London: Sage, 1996. 2. That procrastination not only caused a lasting disorganisation but also distorted the identity-reshaping process in the armed forces. For a competent analysis, see Chapter 16 (‘The Illusion of the CIS Armed Forces’) in William E.Odom, The Collapse of the Soviet Military, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998. 3. I examined in more detail these operations in Pavel Baev, ‘Russia’s Experiments and Experience in Conflict Management and Peacekeeping’, International Peacekeeping, 1, 3, Autumn 1994. 4. ‘Imperfect Peace’, Economist, 14 November 1992, pp. 39–40. 5. While the records of this crisis remain poor and the assessments differ greatly, the extreme reluctance on the part of the military leadership to take on the praetorian role is well established. See, for instance, Brian Taylor, ‘Russian Civil-Military Relations after the October Uprising’, Survival, 36, 1, Spring 1994, pp. 3–29. 6. Vladimir Baranovsky, noting that the campaign in Western Georgia ‘was closer to farce than to large-scale tragedy’, explains that ‘Shevardnadze’s opponents were contesting control of a system which had almost completely fallen apart and was in a state of virtual paralysis.’ See Vladimir Baranovsky, ‘Conflict Developments on the Territory of the Former Soviet Union’, pp. 169–203 in SIPRI Yearbook 1994, Oxford: Oxford University Press for SIPRI, 1995, on p. 195. 7. Anatol Lieven’s epic book Chechnya: Tombstone of Russian Power (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1998) stands apart in the bibliography of that war; for a detailed account of the first phase of the operation, see Timothy L.Thomas, ‘The Battle for Grozny’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, March 1997, pp. 50–108; for competent analysis, see John R.Pilloni, ‘Burning Corpses in the Streets’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, June 2000, pp. 39–66. 8. According to my estimates, 27,500 Russian troops were involved in peace operations of different kinds by the end of 1992; by the end of 1993, this figure had grown to 36,300, reaching the peak of 42,000 by mid-1994. By the end of the First Chechen War, it stood at around 35,000, going further down to below 30,000 by mid-1999. See Baev, The Russian Army, pp. 130–2.

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9. For detailed analysis of Russia’s role in managing this conflict, see Lena Jonson, The Tajik War: A Challenge to Russian Policy, Discussion Paper 74, London: RIIA, 1998. 10. See Igor Korotchenko and Vladimir Mukhin, ‘Russian Dash Has Overtaken NATO Deployment’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye (NVO), 23, 18–24 June 1999. 11. See, for instance, Vadim Solovyev, ‘New Invasion Revealed Flaws in Russia’s Military Posture’, NVO, 35, 10–16 September 1999. General Troshev in his recent memoir presents a much more professional performance; see Gennady Troshev, ‘Prelude to the Second Chechen War’, NVO, 24 August 2001. 12. See Michael Orr, ‘Better or Just Not so Bad? An Evaluation of Russian Combat Effectiveness in the Second Chechen War’, pp. 82–101 in A.C.Aldis (ed.), The Second Chechen War, Camberley: Conflict Studies Research Centre (CSRC), P31, June 2000. 13. Marcel de Haas provides a detailed analysis of these texts in Chapter 1; for further evaluation, see also Steven J.Main, ‘Russia’s Military Doctrine’, Occasional Brief 77, Camberley: CSRC, April 2000. 14. One example is A.Raevsky and I.N.Vorobev, Russian Approaches to Peacekeeping Operations, UNIDIR Research Paper 28, Geneva, 1994. The experience of the first Chechen war is analysed in N.N.Novichkov, V.Ya.Snegovsky, A.G.Sokolov and V.Yu.Shvarev, The Russian Armed Forces in the Chechen Conflict, Moscow: Infoglob, 1995 (in Russian); and the second war is analysed in Vladimir Bochkarev and Vladimir Komoltsev, ‘Russian “Mountain Storm”’, NVO, 7, 25 February 2000. 15. For the text of this document, see NVO, 28, 3 August 2001.1 looked into the navy’s degradation in Pavel Baev, ‘The Russian Navy after the Kursk: Still Proud but with Poor Navigation’, PONARS Memo 215, Washington, DC: CSIS, January 2002. 16. This clash of interests is analysed by Frank Umbach in Chapter 5; for a sharp comment, see Mark Galeotti, ‘Russia’s Nuclear Attack on Its Conventional Forces’, Jane’s Intelligence Review, December 1998, pp. 3–4. 17. I looked into this issue in Pavel Baev, ‘Selective Engagement and Permanent Crisis: Entering the Second Decade of NATO-Russia Relations’, pp. 37–52 in David G. Haglund (ed.), What NATO for Canada?, Kingston, Ontario: Queen’s University, Centre for International Relations, Martello Papers, 2000. 18. Accordingly, the ‘response’ to the Kosovo war was tested at the strategic exercises Zapad-99, which envisaged, inter alia, a nuclear retaliation for NATO’s occupation of Kaliningrad. See Nikolai Sokov, ‘The Tactical Nuclear Weapons Scare of 2001’, report of the Monterey Center of NonProliferation Studies, available at http://cns.miis.edu/pubs/reports/ tnw.htm. 19. For an examination of the impact of that war on the Russian military see Roy Allison, ‘The Chechnya Conflict: Military and Security Implications’, pp. 241–80 in Roy Allison and Christoph Bluth, Security Dilemmas in Russia and Eurasia, London: RIIA, 1998. My chapter in that book (‘Peacekeeping and Conflict Management in Eurasia’, pp. 209–29) focused on the interplay

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20.

21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

30. 31. 32. 33.

34.

between the war and other ‘peace’ operations. One good Russian analysis (mostly by Vitaly Shlykov) appeared on the very eve of the second war; see ‘Chechnya and the Status of the Russian Army’, Voyennyy Vestnik, 6, Moscow: Mezhregionalnyy Fond Informatsionnykh Tekhnologii’, 1999. For an analysis of the interplay between military withdrawals and nationalistic discourses, see Sven Gunnar Simonsen, ‘Compatriot Games: Explaining the “Diaspora Linkage” in Russia’s Military Withdrawal from the Baltic States’, Europe-Asia Studies, 53, 5, July 2001, pp. 771–91. My earlier analysis of tensions between Putin and the top brass is in Pavel Baev, ‘Putin’s Court: How the Military Fit In’, PONARS Memo, 153, Washington, DC: Council on Foreign Relations, December 2000. I examined in much detail Putin’s options for reforming the military in my two chapters (featuring the best case and the worst case) in Mark Galeotti and Ian Synge (eds), Putin’s Russia: Scenarios for 2005, London: Jane’s Special Report, February 2001. See Dale R.Herspring, ‘Russia’s Crumbling Military’, Current History, 97, 621, October 1998, pp. 325–8. For my more detailed analysis, see Pavel Baev, ‘Conflict Management in the Former Soviet South: The Dead-end of Russian Interventions’, European Security, 6, 4, Winter 1997, pp. 111–29. The smouldering conflict in the Gali region is analysed in Dodge Billingsley, ‘Security Deteriorates along the Abkhazia-Georgia Ceasefire Line’, Jane’s Intelligence Review, September 2001, pp. 18–20. For an insightful evaluation of an SOBR unit performance, see Lieven, Chechnya, pp. 50–5. See Aleksandr Golts and Dmitry Pinsker, ‘The Headquarters of the CinC’, Itogi, 28, 12 July 2000. See Igor Korotchenko, ‘Top Brass under FSB Supervision’, NVO, 7 December 2001. The Academy of Military Sciences at its annual meeting in January 2002 placed the emphasis on the need for an integrated system of control over the ‘power structures’. See Mikhail Khodarenok, ‘The Price of Improvisations Will Be High’, NVO, 1 February 2002. For penetrating analysis of the design and practicalities of the system of federal districts, see Nikolai Petrov, ‘Seven Faces of Putin’s Russia’, Security Dialogue, 33, 1, March 2002, pp. 73–91. See the interview with General Vladimir Isakov, head of the Rear of the Armed Forces, in Mikhail Khodarenok, ‘The Troops Are Strong with their Rear’, NVO, 2 March 2001. See Vladimir Voronov, ‘The Neighbourhood of the War’, Yezhenedelnyy Zhurnal, 12 April 2002. The death of this Arab field-commander, who symbolised the presence of ‘evil forces’ of international terrorism in Chechnya in spring 2002, has created new problems for the Russian authorities in explaining the resilience of the Chechen resistance. See Pavel Felgengauer, ‘A New Demon Has To Be Found’, Moskovskiye Novosti, 17, April 2002. See Mikhail Khodarenok, ‘Problems of the Fighting District’, NVO, 13 July 2001.

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35. See Robert Hall, ‘Russia’s Mobile Forces: Rationale and Structure’, Jane’s Intelligence Review, April 1993, pp. 154–5. 36. The only previous experience was the landing of one marine battalion in Poti in October 1993 that saw no resistance. Marines were among the bestperforming units in that campaign, and so were deployed to Chechnya again in autumn 1999. See Yanina Vaskovskaya, ‘The Chechen Secrets of the Black Sea Fleet’, Novaya Gazeta, 4 September 2000. 37. For a sympathetic view, see Aleksandr Golts, ‘Technocrat’s Last Chance’, Itogi, 30, 28 July 2000. 38. On the battles in Daghestan, see Aleksandr Shaburkin, ‘Victory Reports’, NVO, 18 September 1999. 39. See Pavel Baev, ‘Russia’s Airpower in the Chechen War: Denial, Punishment and Defeat’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, 10, 2, June 1997, pp. 1–18. 40. See Benjamin S.Lambeth, ‘Crisis of Russian Air Power’, pp. 164–95 in John Andreas Olsen (ed.), From Manoeuvre Warfare to Kosovo?, Oslo: Royal Norwegian Air Force Academy, 2001, particularly pp. 179–85. 41. Later on, in early 2002, Alexei Arbatov blamed General Kvashnin for undermining Russia’s bargaining positions in strategic negotiations with the US. See Lidiya Andrusenko, ‘Russian—American Summit Will Resolve Nothing’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 7 February 2002. For more on this tug-ofwar, see Chapter 5. 42. For more on the problems of the navy, see Chapter 9. 43. See Vladimir Komoltsev, ‘Analysis of Combat Operations in Chechnya’, NVO, 1 March 2000. 44. See Georgy Kostev and Igor Kostev, ‘Notwithstanding Doctrines and Programmes’, NVO, 1 February 2002; Aleksandr Plotnikov, ‘The Caspian Monster Spreads Its Wings’, GraniRu, 25 April 2002, www.grani.ru/ putin_army/articles/caspian_ monster/. 45. See Sergei Sokut, ‘Comprehending the Chechen Experience’, NVO, 10 August 2001; Sergei Sokut, ‘Turn to the South’, NVO, 21 April 2000. 46. As one analyst noted, the position of the Defence Minister with its presentday burden of responsibilities requires a lot of authority and knowledge and is just not suitable for a civilian. See Mikhail Khodarenok, ‘The Grachev Effect’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 22 August 2001. 47. See Pavel Felgengauer, ‘The Computer-Gun War’, Moskovskiye Novosti, 21, 2002. 48. See Michael Orr, ‘Peacekeeping and Overstretch in the Russian Army’, Jane’s Intelligence Review, August 1994, pp. 363–4. In Chapter 7 in this volume, Michael Orr analyses in more detail the transformation of military structures in general and the trajectory of the airborne troops in particular. 49. It could be noted that the 201st Division was several times officially recognised as the best unit in the ground forces. See Vladimir Georgiyev, ‘Russia’s Bridgehead in Central Asia’, NVO, 15 January 1999. On VDV problems, see Mikhail Timofeyev, ‘Tanks but No Wings’, NVO, 11 August 2000. 50. The intelligence-gathering functions of GRU are increasingly overtaken by the External Intelligence Service (SVR), while its role in ‘small wars’ is

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51.

52. 53.

54.

55. 56.

57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

63. 64.

weakened by the dominance of the FSB and the Ministry of the Interior. See Stanislav Lekarev, ‘Two Types of Russian Intelligence Are Unified’, NVO, 31 August 2001. On the fate of the project for a new special forces command, see Vladimir Malevanny, ‘On the Spearhead’, NVO, 9 February 2002. The programme was approved by President Putin who had on many occasions emphasised the need to make the military-industrial complex work for the army. See Vitaly Shlykov, ‘Potemkin Complex’, Itogi, 14, 19 June 2001. See Michael Gordon, ‘Imitating NATO: A Script Is Adopted for Chechnya’, New York Times, 28 September 1999. See David A.Fulghum, ‘Air War in Chechnya Reveals Mix of Tactics’, and Alexei Komarov, ‘Chechen Conflict Drives Call for Air Force Modernization’, both in Aviation Week and Space Technology’, 14 February 2000, pp. 76–8 and 80–1 respectively. Ka-50, the star of many air-shows, was in fact tested in Chechnya, but this victory over the eternal competitor Mi-28 is of no material consequence. See Mikhail Khodarenok, ‘Black Sharks in the Chechen Sky’, NVO, 3 March 2001. See Gordon Bennett, ‘The Federal Agency of Government Communication and Information’, Sandhurst,CSRC, C105, August 2000. One recent example is the scandal in Russian—Georgian relations caused by the surprise deployment of a peacekeeping company in the Georgian Kodory Gorge. See President Shevardnadze’s interview to Moskovskiye Novosti, 16, April 2002. On the experiments with reconnaissance helicopters operating at night, see Viktor Velichkovskiy, ‘Eagle-Owls over Chechnya’, NVO, 21 June 2002. See Vernon Loeb, ‘Afghan War Is a Lab for US Innovation: New Technologies Are Tested in Battle’, Washington Post, 26 March 2002. On that issue, see David Filipov, ‘Russia’s Scattered Tactical Arms a Temptation for Terrorists’, Boston Globe, 18 June 2002. For an insight into the impact of the war on the military culture, see Alexander Alexiev, Inside the Soviet Army in Afghanistan, Santa Monica, CA: RAND, 1988. For my more elaborate analysis of this impact, see Pavel Baev, ‘The Plight of the Russian Military: Shallow Identity and Self-Defeating Culture’, Armed Forces & Society, 29, 1, Autumn 2002. Dale Herspring has argued convincingly on Putin’s bureaucratic style and substance; for the gist of the argument, see ‘Putin as a Bureaucrat’, Johnson’s Russia List, 5373, 31 July 2001; more elaborate analysis can soon be found in the article by Dale Herspring and Jacob Kipp in Communist and PostCommunist Studies, 35, 3, Autumn 2002. Putin outlined this vision in his speech at the meeting in the MoD on 20 March 2002. For the text, see http://194.226.82.50/text/APPTemplAppear Idl0660.shtml. See Korotchenko, ‘Top Brass’. I examined these uneasy relations in Pavel Baev, ‘President Putin and his Generals: Bureaucratic Control and WarFighting Culture’, PONARS Memo, 205, Washington, DC: CSIS, November 2001.

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65. He expressed this view clearly in an interview in the first year of his presidency; see Vitaly Tretyakov, ‘The Army Must Be Professional’, NVO, 29 December 2000. 66. For a convincing counter-argument, see Eduard Vorobev, Yefim Luboshits and Yevgeni Khrustalev, ‘The President’s Choice’, NVO, 14 December 2001. 67. See Vadim Solovyev, ‘Generals Move to Opposition against the Kremlin’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 13 November 2001; Ivan Goryayev, ‘The Brain of the Army is a Tough Nut’, GraniRu, 13 March 2002. 68. See Yuri Golotyuk, ‘Military Shrewdness: The President Has Rejected a Decisive Military Reform’, PolitRu, 7 March 2002.

11 Information Warfare in the Second (1999–) Chechen War: Motivator for Military Reform? Timothy L.Thomas

During the past ten years, the Russian military has attentively studied the subject of information war (IW). The main catalyst for this interest was the successful use of IW by coalition forces during Operation Desert Storm. Russian military theorists watched coalition planes bomb Iraqi targets in real time with precision and understood that warfare had entered a new phase, one dominated by information-based equipment and resources. Two further motivators were the poor use of IW by the Russian armed forces during the First Russian—Chechen War (1994–96), which contributed to the loss of Russian morale, and the successful use of IW by NATO during the conflict over Kosovo. The success of the coalition forces in both Desert Storm and Kosovo indicated that military reform would be bankrupt if the technical aspect of reform did not include information-based technologies. These technologies must be imbedded into new military equipment, from sensors and radars to jet fighters and cruise missiles. However, Russia was also concerned about the impact of information technologies on the brain and consequently morale. These technologies included the rapid distribution of information via the mass media and Internet. Military reform would also have to take this element into consideration. RUSSIA’S UNDERSTANDING OF INFORMATION WAR AND THE INFORMATION WEAPON This rather detailed discussion of Russia’s concept of information war (IW) and information weapons is necessary so that the reader can construct the correct prism through which to view Russian information operations in Chechnya. Relying on a US or British definition of the term will not suffice, because the parameters included by the Russians are so different. Russian military theorists divide the concept of information warfare into two distinct fields: information-technical and information-

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psychological. If an information warfare element under consideration is a machine-driven data processor component (computers, sensors, satellites, reconnaissance-strike systems, etc.) then the category under consideration is information-technical. Electronic warfare would also be an element in this field. If the element is a human-based data-processor component (the brain, which can be influenced or manipulated by propaganda, psychotronics, non-lethal weapons or special pharmaceuticals according to the Russian paradigm) then the issue under consideration is information-psychological. Thus psychological operations (PSYOPs) are an element of this field. This division of labour for IW theory has been constant for several years. For example, instructors at the Russian General Staff Academy in 1995 defined information war (using the Russian informatsionnoye protivoborstvo [information struggle]) in a technical-psychological sense. Their definition read: Information warfare is a means of resolving a conflict between opposing sides. The goal is for one side to gain and hold an information advantage over the other. This is achieved by exerting a specific information/psychological and information/technical influence on a nation’s decision-making system, on the nation’s populace, and on its information resource structures, as well as by defeating the enemy’s control system and his information resource structures with the help of additional means, such as nuclear assets, weapons and electronic assets.1 In 1999 Vitaliy V.Panov, first vice-president of the Russian Academy of Missile and Artillery Sciences, stated that divisions between military operations and economic or political forms of warfare were very distinct. However, he found it more and more difficult to separate strictly military aspects from the entire set of techniques (to include economic and political) that guide the information area. He felt it imperative to interpret the essence and forms of IW. Its content ‘includes both softwarehardware as well as information-psychological components…in contrast to conventional warfare, information warfare has not only overt, but also covert threats and purposeful hostile actions’.2 Russia’s military doctrine of 2000 noted that ‘information-technical and information-psychological’ hostile information operations were the main external threats to Russia. Thus, these dual themes appear to be the main prism through which Russia views the topic of information war and information threats.

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Russian military officers as well as civilian intellectuals note that, in order to have an information war, one needs information weapons. Dr Vitaliy Tsygichko of the Institute of Systems Analysis has provided the best description of the information weapon from a Russian perspective. He wrote that information weapons could be classified by a number of attributes. These include single and multimission/universal purpose; short- and long-range operation; individual, group and mass destruction capabilities; various types of carriers; and destruction effect. He and some Russian colleagues, in a pamphlet entitled ‘Information Weapons: New Challenges to International Security’3 further classified information weapons as belonging to one of six forms: 1. means for the precision location of equipment that emits rays in the electromagnetic spectrum and for the destruction of that equipment by conventional fire; 2. means for affecting components of electronic equipment; 3. means for affecting the programming resource control modules; 4. means for affecting the information transfer process; 5. means for propaganda and disinformation; 6. means for using psychotropic weapons. THE USE OF THE INFORMATION-TECHNICAL IW ASPECT IN CHECHNYA The Russian armed forces utilised several types of information-technical devices during the fight for Chechnya. Three stand out. They are the use of remotely piloted vehicles (RPVs), the electronic warfare battle between the two sides, and the first use of the reconnaissance-strike system (not the reconnaissance-strike complex) to direct precision-guided weapons. Remotely Piloted Vehicles An August 1996 article in Armeyskiy Sbornik (Army Journal) discussed the US, Israeli and British use of remotely piloted vehicles in Vietnam, Grenada, Lebanon and Argentina. It was noted that RPVs provided detailed information about the situation in a zone where a strike was planned. In the same journal in December 1996, Colonels Grigoriy Budzinskiy and Vladimir Platonov wrote that reconnaissance drones, equipped with television cameras, were very successful in carrying out real-time reconnaissance missions in Chechnya. The colonels advised including a squadron of reconnaissance drones in future combined-arms army reconnaissance forces.4

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At the very start of the most recent Russian—Chechen conflict journalist Nikolay Novichkov wrote that the Stroy-P remotely piloted reconnaissance system was deployed in one of the areas adjacent to Chechnya at the end of September 1999, and had been added to the list of military equipment shipped to the combat operations area. Used in Chechnya in 1995 as well, the system consists of two ground mobile remote command and control facilities with launchers mounted on them, and 10 Pchela-lT remotely piloted rescue aircraft, each with TV equipment and designed for ten flights. The RPV flies at speeds of 110– 130 kilometres per hour, and has an operating altitude of 100–3,000 metres and a flight duration of two hours with a combat operating radius of 50–60 kilometres. The Pchela has no night-vision capability, required if round-the-clock artillery strikes are to be used. Three Stroy-P systems were in the inventory in 1999, with a fourth planned for 2000 and 40 by 2001, but no current figures are available. If additional money is allocated, flight-technical specifications could be increased by an order of magnitude (flight time will increase from two to four and a half hours).5 Such support is vital since Russia has admitted on more than one occasion that its space intelligence is insufficient, and the Stroy-P can make up for this shortcoming in a land as small as Chechnya. The missile and artillery forces also foresee a vital need for more RPVs. Their chief, Colonel-General M.I.Karatuyev, in a lessons-learned article in 2000, noted that the fighting in Chechnya demonstrated the need for remotely piloted reconnaissance vehicles with optical and infrared (IR) bands to see enemy territory in day or night, to carry out laser illumination of individual targets for laser-guided precision shells, and to support artillery fire corrections. The fighting also demonstrated the need for a reconnaissance complex allowing reconnaissance of the local area conducted from a portable, elevated platform in the optical and IR bands, and in radar mode.6 Electronic Warfare In the opinion of journalist Andrei Soldatov, writing just before Russian troops surrounded Grozny in November 1999, Russia’s chances of winning the Second Chechen War ultimately depend on the outcome of the radio electronic struggle. Soldatov wrote that Chechnya, however, was at a real disadvantage since its radar stations, cellular and trunk-line communications and relay points were bombed in the first weeks of the war. But other systems such as satellite telephones and field commanders’ radios were available to the Chechen commanders and this

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equipment appeared to be sufficient. The low number of Russian units capable of conducting such warfare also offset this disadvantage. Colonel Vasiliy Gumenniy, chief of the Russian North Caucasus Military District’s radio-electronic warfare service, supported this view that, in spite of all the disadvantages, the Chechens had developed an extensive reconnaissance communications system by 1999. In April 2000 he and co-author Colonel Vladimir Matyash noted that the Chechens had acquired the following reconnaissance communications equipment by the start of the war: a network of NMT-450 standard cellular communications (connected to a cellular communications system in Ingushetia, allowing field commanders to have 20–60 ‘correspondents’7 in their radio network, and 60–80 correspondents in the reconnaissance information network of short-wave range); a trunk-line communication system using Motorola and Kenwood products, among others; radio relay communication lines; stationary and mobile tele-broadcast stations; short-wave communications from international organisations like the Red Cross; radio networks based on amateur shor-wave radio transmission resources; cable communication lines; and portable and mobile radio communications equipment and radio telephones. Satellite communications in Chechnya were conducted via INMARSAT and IRIDIUM systems, offering access to both intercity and international communication nets, and the Internet.8 Further, they noted that Chechen reconnaissance was conducted with optical-electronic, acoustic, radiotechnical and radar means. Chechen ‘front’ commanders had mobile TV transmitters that could transmit 20–30 kilometres. These broadcasts were sometimes used to show Russian atrocities against Chechen civilians, or to engage in visual deception. Gumenniy and Matyash concluded that the Chechens had professionally prepared for information war with their reconnaissance communications assets.9 But new equipment was also on hand for the Russians this time. According to the Main Intelligence Directorate (GRU), the Russian army already was equipped with new Akveduk-type communications assets to assure confidentiality in tactical communications. New Vega radiotechnical reconnaissance systems were in radio-electronic units as well. Russian concerns were that the Chechens would obtain equipment from Arabic countries to test these systems, in some cases from Western governments.10 In addition to the armed forces electronic warfare (EW) units, two other Russian groups, the GRU of the armed forces and FAPSI (Federal Agency of Government Communications and Information), conducted radio espionage. The Tselina-2 is the most widely used radio electronic reconnaissance satellite in Russia, and the Kosmos model satellites are

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also used for the same purpose.11 Russian intercept operators reported finding 49 enemy radio transmitters in the battle zone around Grozny in January 2000. In order to ‘take out’ a transmitter, radio interceptors first ascertain the location of a target. A reconnaissance group then goes out to discover the precise location of the enemy, and to ensure that the ‘intercept’ is real and not set up to ensure unacceptable collateral damage to the civilian population. Once the target is verified, the information is passed to the fire control command post, and a strike launched.12 The Russian command created groupings of radio-electronic combat (REB) forces designed to work at the tactical control level. During the First Chechen War, REB forces experienced a narrow frequency range for their equipment and an insufficient level of automation. Additionally, REB units lacked equipment for radio-electronic suppression of trunkline, cellular and satellite communications systems. In the Second Chechen War REB forces conducted tests of the radio network and developed an understanding of the radio-electronic situation confronting them. They determined the coordinates of Chechen communications centres, control points, concentrations of forces and firing means. The Russian commanders called these REB groupings the eyes and ears of the forces. Their systems’ ability to supply real-time enemy emission sources that were used for target reconnaissance and target data served, in essence for the first time, as prototypes of reconnaissance-strike systems on the tactical and operational levels. This was especially true for the Arbalet-M portable radio direction finding and radio suppression systems: The course of the counter-terrorist operation shows us convincingly that the effectiveness of the disorganisation of the enemy’s control system in many ways determines the results of interfering with his radio-electronic equipment and information database. He who controls information, and he who is able to reliably destroy the communications and control systems of the enemy and to provide for the uninterrupted operation of his own automated troop command and control system (ASUV) will be the victor in modern wars.13 The Russian journal Voyennaya Mysl’ (Military Thought) also discussed deficiencies in the EW force at the start of the Second Chechen-Russian War. One officer noted that Chechen capabilities were underestimated, enabling the Chechens to continue to operate their informationreconnaissance networks. Russian soldiers did not do a good job of concealing methods used to command and control their troops (as in the

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first conflict), and consequently the Chechens were able to ascertain where Russian troops would regroup and the locations of their positions, both firing and rear sites.14 Lieutenant-General Valeriy Volodin, chief of the Electronic Warfare Directorate of the General Staff, highlighted the growing importance of electronic warfare still further by celebrating the first ever Electronic Warfare Specialist Day on 15 April 2000. He noted on this occasion that the purpose of the directorate is to use electromagnetic emissions to compromise useful information and introduce false information; and to protect Russian radio-electronic systems and reduce the likelihood of destruction by precision weapons from missile systems, aircraft and ships. Future combat systems will be based on reconnaissance equipment, precision direction and fire destruction, and joint automated control systems. Volodin added that the development of EW equipment is efficient and of minimal cost. According to his calculations, expenses to maintain EW equipment are only 5–8 per cent of other types of arms. More importantly, EW resources increase combat capabilities of ground troops by one and a half times, and decrease the loss of aviation by four to six times, and of ships by two to three times.15 A year later Volodin noted that EW was growing from a support to a new, independent, specific form of military operation. This indicates that the communications struggle in the war in Chechnya had demonstrated to the Russian military the increased importance of the service. Volodin noted that the struggle for superiority of control mechanisms includes not only electronic suppression of an enemy’s communications means but also their electronic destruction. Further, he noted that success in combat depends on the ‘stability of the state and military command and control system and other information systems against the informationpsychological, software and electronic influence of an enemy’. In Chechnya, Volodin pointed to Russian successes in helicopter and portable electronic reconnaissance and suppression systems, specialised automated jamming systems, and automated equipment systems which permitted operational-tactical computations with the use of modern information technologies, including electronic terrain maps.16 These maps made a significant difference by providing Russian forces with an accurate display of the land before them. During the first Chechen campaign, maps in the troops’ hands were made years before, in Soviet days. Commanders were extremely critical of the 1980 maps they received before the first Grozny battle, which resulted in many leaders getting lost. Entire ‘microrayons’ were absent from some maps. Those used by the troops in 1999, according to General G. Troshev,

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commander of Russian troops during the second Chechen campaign, were not any better at the start of the operation. In April 2002, EW was again highlighted, this time by Major-General Andrey Osin. Osin, who also works in the EW Directorate, stated that systems and complexes make it possible to suppress radio, radio relay and satellite communication lines and radar and radio navigation systems; to conduct reconnaissance; to control jamming stations; and to protect troops and installations from strikes and reconnaissance.17 These items reflect the essence of the Russian effort in Chechnya in locating and destroying the Chechen resistance. The Reconnaissance-Strike System Without a doubt, combat operations in Chechnya have underscored the need for Russia to devote more attention to the development of integrated space and precision-guided systems, and space-based intelligence-gathering systems. According to one report, Russia only has one electronic intelligence (ELINT) and one naval intelligence-gathering satellite in space, and not a single optical electronic or photo reconnaissance asset. With three times fewer satellites in orbit than required, Russia is experiencing gaps of up to six hours a day in monitoring areas posing missile threats to Russia. Troops in Chechnya are forced to use a system similar to the US Global Positioning System, since Russia’s Global Navigation Satellite System (GLONASS) is on its last legs, with only 9 of 24 satellites operational.18 The Russian General Staff recognised the impact of new-generation weaponry on military art several years ago and began to work diligently to adapt to it. These changes have caused an evolution in Russian reconnaissance-strike and fire planning. In the past, this activity was called either the reconnaissance-strike complex (RUK) or the reconnaissance-fire complex (ROK). Today, Russian theorists are discussing the reconnaissance-strike system (RUS) and the reconnaissance-fire system (ROS), and the reconnaissance-fire operation (ROO)19 as additions to the RUK and ROK concepts. One of the earliest definitions of RUK and ROK was in a 1985 issue of Voyennyy Vestnik (Military Herald). Its information was attributed to foreign sources, a common Soviet practice to avoid revealing tactical- technical characteristics of their own systems: If the strike element destroys the target by fire (for example with conventional or rocket artillery), the complex is called a reconnaissance-fire complex, while if it does so by a missile strike

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(tactical or army aviation, tactical and operational-tactical missile launchers), it is called a reconnaissance-strike complex. Therefore reconnaissance-fire complexes are more of a tactical command resource while reconnaissance-strike complexes are operational command resources.20 A strike as used by the Russian military refers to a massive, simultaneous attack that is like a hammer and carries strong psychological overtones due to its destructive nature. Fire, on the other hand, is more rhythmic and takes place over a period of time. Thus ROK appears as a conceptual stepchild of RUK, with the latter much more mature and massive in nature. Two catalysts that catapulted the RUS ahead of the RUK were the performance of the coalition forces in Desert Storm, and their use of C4ISR (Command, Control, Communications, Computers, Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance) systems; and the Revolution in Military Affairs under discussion at the time. Russian analysts saw the revolution as transforming warfare from a struggle of forces and means into a contest between systems of systems. The term ‘military systemol-ogy’, in wide use among Russian military systems analysts, was used to describe the super-large, dynamic, complex systems under consideration. The method of systemology, in fact, stands traditional analysis on its head, emphasising complexity and the need for models based on dynamic, evolving, self-organising systems and emphasises a shift from modelling combat as force on force to system versus system.21 Asked to mathematically demonstrate the relation of processes that lead from ‘detection to kill’ in real time, one Russian scientist offered the following: ‘destruction capability=exposure of an object (via satellite or reconnaissance asset)×strike asset’s precision and speed of its components’.22 Even a cursory look at Russian military writings underscores the importance placed on the acquisition of the location of the enemy, followed by fixing him through fire means. As one analyst noted: The increase in fire capabilities of the troops, the appearance of highprecision weapons, and the development of various types of guided missiles are objectively increasing the role of reconnaissance and command and control systems. In conditions when the likelihood of hitting targets with the first shot or salvo is approaching one, reaction speed is becoming a paramount factor. The main targets of battlefield reconnaissance are enemy artillery and armoured equipment.23

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Major-General (ret.) Vladimir Ivanovich Slipchenko, writing on future war in 1999, noted that any state unprepared to wage ‘new-generation war’ will be forced to absorb the impact of an integrated precision weapon strike and electronic warfare operation.24 The precision strike represents a combination of reconnaissance and command and control weapons, whose target kill effectiveness can sometimes surpass that of tactical nuclear weapons.25 This system has found limited though good use in the fight in Chechnya. The integration of satellites, command and control assets, and precision-guided weapons into reconnaissance-strike complexes became an area of added interest immediately after the end of the first RussianChechen conflict. In an article in Armeyskiy Sbornik in October 1996, Lieutenant-General Yuriy Merkulov and Colonel Igor Golovanev discussed the value of destroying targets with precision non-nuclear means. The authors noted that new systems were similar to RUK in principles of organisation for combat, but surpassed them in capabilities. These systems use a heterogeneous mix of weapons from strategic aircraft and precision weapons to tube artillery, and are called interbranch ROS. Merkulov and Golovanev noted that the creation of reconnaissance-fire delivery systems with space systems can drop the requirement for precision weapons fivefold. The depth of space reconnaissance is limited only by the range capability of offensive weapons. Intelligence updates should not exceed two hours for the operational echelon and 20 minutes for the tactical echelon with such systems in place.26 Naturally, Russia does have satellite assets in Chechnya. The 42nd Motor Rifle Division, stationed in Chechnya in 2000 on a permanent basis, reportedly has a Ministry of Defence satellite communications station co-located with it. The network of portable stations can communicate with city networks of any city in the world. A protected modern computer network is used in the division’s command and control system. The computers communicate with the GLONASS navigation system, and the computers are installed at mobile command and control points of all links.27 In August 2001, Colonel A.A.Petrov and Lieutenant-Colonel A.L. Safronov wrote in Voyennaya Mysl’ that satellite communications had improved command and control immeasurably. They noted that over 50 satellite communications stations attached to units and sub-units were used effectively in Chechnya to organise communications. Yet even this number of sets did not completely satisfy troop needs, as they lacked light, mobile, armour-protected stations. The satellites were also a problem due to their low traffic capacity.28

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Ground forces commander and Deputy Defence Minister Nikolai Kormiltsev noted that in Chechnya up to 80 per cent of the firing missions were accomplished by missile troops, artillery and aviation in the immediate tactical depth of the enemy. Missile troops commander Lieutenant-General Vladimir Nikolayevich Zaritskiy added that the direction of future arms development would be the creation of combinedarms reconnaissance-fire delivery systems based on the missile-artillery reconnaissance-fire delivery system.29 The Russian military has used precision-guided ammunition for artillery and mortars.30 Ammunition was of the Krasnopol and Smelchak varieties. A complex of guidance systems is used to fire these munitions, with a laser target designator range finder and synchronisation instruments. These munitions reduce the number of conventional projectiles and shells by a factor of ten.31 The use of precision guided weapons is a key tactic in the fight with the Chechens. According to the head of the Combined Arms Academy, Colonel-General L.S.Zolotov, to counter the trump cards of a guerrilla (surprise and direct confrontation) it is necessary to attack the guerrilla with long-range or remotely controlled fires.32 This is similar to coalition forces in Afghanistan taking out guerrilla concentrations with ‘Hellfire’ missiles mounted on ‘Predator’ unmanned aerial vehicles. Space troops experts noted that the GLONASS system increased the efficiency of missile troops and artillery units by 40 per cent. Munition consumption is cut four or five times, and artillery munitions by 1.7 to three times. The air force and navy could also use GLONASS, and its use would reduce the inaccuracy of long-range cruise missiles to 10 or 15 metres. As a result, the Defence Ministry has requested for delivery some 9,000–10,000 navigation units before 2005.33 Thus, RPVs, EW and the reconnaissance-strike systems are three IW means to strike from afar and observe and listen in on the enemy 24 hours a day. While not perfect, the systems are providing more timely intelligence and accurate strikes on the Chechen positions. THE USE OF INFORMATION-PSYCHOLOGICAL WAR IN CHECHNYA There were three areas of interest related to the information-psychological aspect of IW in Chechnya. First was the manner in which Russian and Chechen officials fought one another verbally to win the media or ‘information war’ for public opinion. As the Russians found out, in the information age, it is more difficult than ever to control the flow of information to a population. A second area of interest was the intense

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information-psychological atmosphere of the war, where deception and manipulation were used extensively and the impact on the soldiers’ moralpsychological condition was great. Finally, there was widespread use of the Internet for the first time as an agent of influence, manipulation and organisation for combat in a local war. Information-psychological activities and the media There were several important military lessons that the Russian government and military learned from their first experience in Chechnya during 1994–96. Perhaps none was more important to long-term Russian success than the battle for public opinion. In the first war, for example, Russian journalists would fly into Daghestan’s Makhachkala airport and get free taxi rides into Chechnya. The Chechens would pay for the taxi ride once the journalist arrived at his or her destination, give interviews and remunerate the journalists for articles. Federal forces, on the other hand, avoided journalists, a remnant from the Soviet days of avoiding the press. Reports indicated that the military media did less than 5 per cent of the reporting in January 1995 of the news coming from Chechnya. Army journals came out some three months into the fighting and policy for the mass media some six months later. Nor was there a ‘musical score’ that the military followed. As a result, Russia’s citizens only saw what was important from the Chechen point of view on the evening news. This situation went on for weeks, with each journalist printing his or her own truth.34 The Russian military learned that information support to an operation can play a key role in the operation’s success or failure, can protect government interests and can achieve military-political objectives. MajorGeneral V.A.Zolotarev noted in 2000 that ‘the Chechen campaign of 1994– 1996 by military definition was three-quarters won by the Russian army by August 1996, but by that time it had lost 100 per cent in infospace’.35 Military information specialists needed support from other professionals such as the mass media and propaganda experts. But this support was not available. The Chechens, on the other hand, had created a Ministry of Information by February 1995, and they maintained the use of several mobile television complexes to report to the Chechen people from the mountains after being kicked out of Grozny. The Chechen newspaper Ichkeriya was the main backer of the concept of separatism and continued resistance to Russia’s armed forces. Local publications such as Respublika and Vozrozhdeniye did their part as well. Zolotarev considered the greatest effect of this effort to be the 30,000–40, 000 volunteers that supported the initial small group of Chechens

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opposing the Russian intervention. Two radio stations in support of the Chechen cause were opened abroad—Radio Free Caucasus in Latvia and a Chechen information centre in Krakow, Poland. Chechen President Dudayev made requests to the United Nations through other countries, and even requested NATO assistance. Zolotarev concluded that the Chechen use of information support demonstrated a corresponding influence on the course of the conflict and was a contributor to creating contradictions leading to the end of combat operations.36 In November 1999, while reporting on the Second Chechen-Russian War, Andrey Soldatov noted that: Whereas during the first Chechen campaign the majority of television reports and newspaper articles were couched in terms of sympathy with the rebel republic, this time the situation is the absolute opposite. Ruthless censorship is not letting Wahhabist propaganda get through…battle reports from Basayev, Khattab, and their minions, interviews with guerrillas—items given high-profile coverage on all channels during the last war—are now banned.37 Russian authorities initially shut off independent reporting during the second war in Chechnya, and did everything possible to ensure that official TV and newspaper reporters carefully reported their facts from the battlefield. The Chechens had unwittingly aided the Russians’ information campaign. In September 1999, Russia obtained a film of a Chechen fighter cutting the head off a Russian prisoner. This film was shown unedited on Russian TV, which did two things: first it warned Chechnya not to employ military-propaganda capabilities against Russia, and second the film caused many of the TV stations that reported Chechen news during the first campaign to take a Russian slant this time around.38 Thatis, the Chechen atrocities and their incursion into Daghestan in August 1999 exhausted any sympathy the Russian populace had toward the Chechens. It was easier for them and the journalists to swallow only an official version of events. At the same time, Russian memories were still fresh of NATO’s bombing of Kosovo. This translated into permission to apply force in Chechnya, since Russia faced problems with Chechens similar to Kosovo’s problems with the Serbs, from a Russian perspective. There were increased Chechen activities such as a wave of kidnappings, raids on republics bordering Chechnya, and the outbreak of additional criminal activities in Chechnya that supported, however tangentially, this line of thinking. Russian demographic expert Emil Pain, in a January 2000 speech, described the changed atmosphere in detail. He noted that the press was

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met with bayonets when they tried to go into Chechnya with the Russian troops in 1994, but in the second war there was only the official Kremlin version of events coming from the press. The army was ‘working’ in Chechnya, and the assault on Grozny was a ‘special operation’ and ‘cleansing’. There was also a significant increase, as compared with the first war, in the amount of censorship, and journalists were restricted in their access to events. In December 1999, Resolution No. 1538 of the Russian president created the Russian Information Centre (RITs). The Centre filtered information from the theatre of military operations, and selected information from foreign publications to be disseminated in Russia.39 Pain also noted how subtle changes in the goals of the military campaign continued to develop, which helped guarantee society’s support. The first goal was to repulse Chechen aggression; then the goal was to establish a sanitary cordon to protect Russian regions from Chechen raids; and by November 1999 the goal had become the complete annihilation of the ‘terrorists’. Putin changed that goal once more on 1 January 2000 when he noted that the operation was designed to ‘protect the integrity of Russia’.40 Finally, Pain noted that Russia’s strategy was to ‘reprogramme the mass consciousness’ by introducing a number of informationpropaganda clichés into it. These included the development of ‘models’ that included the terrorist and aggressor model; the ‘new war’ model (this time the army is ready); and the ‘Free Chechen’ model (convincing Russian society that Chechens were simply waiting for the Russian armed forces to liberate them). Pain concluded by stating that Russia, unfortunately, did not learn the real lesson of the first war, that controlling territory does not signify victory in a partisan war. Victory can only happen when one gains the trust of the population, not territory.41 In July 2001, an NTV reporter from Russia reported on the new travel restrictions affecting journalists attempting to work in Chechnya. In order to travel in Chechnya outside Khankala airport next to Grozny one had to obtain a permission slip from the staff of the Interior Ministry and be accompanied by a member of the military press centre. There are three press centres in Khankala: the press centre of the Russian joint task force, the military; the press centre of the Interior Ministry; and the press centre of the Internal Troops. And between them are only three cars to take people places. The Chief of the General Staff, Anatoly Kvashnin, offered the rationale for this treatment. He told the journalists that they were not doing a very good job and therefore it was decided to set up two military media outlets. Kvashnin added, ‘We will have a military television studio

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broadcasting here. You are working for the sake of war and we are working for the sake of peace. This is what it appears to be.’42 As time progressed, however, and as the Chechens were able to bypass the Russian-imposed information blockade via the Internet and via access to cellular phone hook-ups with foreign correspondents, Russia’s information advantage began to slip away. As the conflict drags on it is becoming more difficult for President Putin’s government to maintain public support both from Russians and from pro-Moscow Chechens living inside Chechnya. This is particularly true with regard to casualties, as the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe and other international organisations investigate claims from both sides. Pain noted that it was inevitable that: The current support of Russian societal opinion for the second Chechen war will not be very strong, and in the case of many people, will bring about an investigation of the domination of myths and illusions in Russian infospace created to manipulate the mass consciousness of the people.43 Initially, however, Russia’s control of and access to information were very successful, making the armed forces appear much more effective and capable than they were. This kept public opinion strongly behind the effort to subdue the ‘terrorists’. When this control began to wane after two years of fighting, the Russian Duma, in December 2001, changed the law on mass media and prohibited Russian media from publishing interviews with Chechen separatists. In addition, part of the blame for the gradual loss of public opinion can be placed on Russian tradition. The government demonstrated little accountability to its people in both Afghanistan and World War II over casualty numbers. In both Chechen conflicts it took public pressure applied by the Soldiers’ Mothers Committee finally to force the government to account for its soldiers. This public pressure group demonstrated how, in the information age, contradictory information could rise and escape the clutches of state control. Therefore, while it might be possible to win the IW struggle by controlling public opinion in the early going, it was demonstrated that the press or public pressure could nullify this control later on or control could be affected negatively by outside events. President Putin alluded to this in March 2002. He warned his staff that they were beginning to lose the information war in Chechnya and must correct this situation. He was referring to the effect of a multitude of negative media events that had taken place in March. Among them were: the public showing of a film by Boris Berezovskiy that implied Russia’s

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security forces might have played a role in the bombing of Moscow apartments that began the Chechen War; statements by Chechen special representative Akmed Zakayev in the Hague that Russia’s leaders, like Milosevic, should stand trial for their ‘crimes’ in Chechnya; the appearance of Chechen Foreign Minister Ilyas Akhmadov before the United Nations, where he called for a tribunal on Russian actions in Chechnya; and the initiation of Radio Liberty reporting into Chechnya in Chechen (which actually took place on 3 April, but was heatedly discussed in March). In response, Russian Minister of Internal Affairs Boris Gryzlov announced in mid-April that a ‘counter-propaganda’ agency would broadcast to Chechnya to counteract Radio Liberty. Impact of information-psychological activities on the moralpsychological condition of the soldier Psychological operations are a key element of information-psychological operations. Information-psychological measures are ‘those that change the conduct and emotional state of service members and the civil population of the opposing side, neutral and friendly countries to a desired direction during the determination of military-political questions’.44 One of the key lessons of the war in Chechnya is that the psychological climate of small-scale operations is equally as complicated and stressful as large-scale operations such as Desert Storm. Correspondingly, there will be an important role for psychiatrists/ psychologists to play at or near the front. It was clear from the fighting in the first Russian-Chechen conflict that the moral-psychological stability of a soldier could be easily upset and then manipulated by the side with the best information support devices. War always invokes fear in man. But the psychological climate for Russian forces in Chechnya was exacerbated by specific conditions. For example, the toughest fighting during both interventions, the combat in and around Grozny, took place under horrible weather conditions; and this was a civil war in which Russian forces were asked to perform police functions among their own non-combatants, who resented their presence. The situation could not have been worse for combat-stressrelated injuries, and for manipulation. The Chechen fighters had been a part of the Soviet armed forces. Therefore most of them spoke Russian fluently and had an excellent knowledge of Russian tactics and military culture (staffing procedures, logistics, etc.). Acts of subversion and terrorism also kept Russian forces on their guard and in a high state of readiness and anxiety. This increased stress, making Russian forces tentative in their planning since Chechen

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forces appeared able to predict their every move. Rumours easily became facts. In addition, the Russian force was not fighting for the survival of their race, as were the Chechens. This environment persuaded the Russian force to look at everyone as their potential enemy Was it the old man (need to check his arms for powder burns), the young child (look under his coat for a grenade) or the non-governmental organisation (NGO) worker (is he a Chechen posing as a Red Cross worker simply to get inside Russian defences)? Or was it the good-looking female, or the Russian officer (who was really a Ukrainian dressed in a Russian officer’s uniform)? Such continuous uncertainty allowed the Chechens to exert intense psychological pressure on the Russian force. This point was always kept in view by the Chechens and they manipulated it to their benefit whenever possible. Also, much of the fighting in Chechnya was hand to hand or at close range, and mutilations or torture were commonplace practices against those captured. This further increased stress and battle fatigue. The Chechens were easily able to provoke, intimidate, persuade and deceive Russian soldiers on many occasions. Not surprisingly, the first Russian—Chechen conflict caused several moral-psychological problems for the Russian armed forces. The main problem was the impact of the mass media on a soldier, and the lack of material support during the initial winter months of the operation (when a quick victory was sought). The focus for morale-psychological support to the troops, according to Zolotarev, should be educating service members on their patriotic duty, formation of hatred for the enemy, the development of both moral character and fighting qualities, the timely detection of psychological injuries in their subordinates, and ideological and moral-psychological protection from enemy propaganda. This was not accomplished in the fight for Chechnya. It was also noted that informing personnel about the situation, together with propaganda to improve the fighter in battle (dissemination of combat experiences, etc.) and preventing the dissemination of facts that damaged civil—military relations, was not conducted. In the second conflict, from October 1999 to the present, the Russian armed forces did much better in preparing the moralepsychological condition of soldiers. The Main Directorate for Educational Work and corresponding structures in the North Caucasus Military District published a newsletter on a periodic basis. It was clear that the command wanted to prevent Chechens from developing an information and psychological influence on soldiers, especially through Russian and foreign mass media outlets as happened the first time.45

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The military publication Morskoy Sbornik (Navy Journal) published a long article on the morale-psychological conditioning of soldiers in Chechnya, and Voyennaya Mysl’ did the same. The latter article highlighted the activities of a naval infantry battalion fighting in Chechnya,46 noting both group and individual tasks. For the former, ‘indoctrination’ personnel offered a rundown on the propaganda machine of the Chechens and how their psychological operations impacted on the consciousness and psyche of servicemen. Instruction was provided on how to act during contacts with the population, and how to use weapons in areas where combatants were present (training which did not seem to do much good in light of the need to issue a special order to stop ‘cleansing’ operations among civilians). Servicemen were also taught the importance of interacting with representatives of the local population and with religious figures. Finally, servicemen were taught not to allow civilians to feed them false information and win them over psychologically.47 On an individual basis, much morale and psychological support (MPS) training was available. The main aim of such training was to teach how to achieve moral and psychological superiority over the enemy; how to maintain discipline during combat; and how to inculcate feelings of selfconfidence and certainty of mission. The main forms of MPS were: twicedaily 15-minute combat briefings; a weekly political hour; weekly combat news sheets about soldiers who displayed gallantry; daily listening to radio news; agitators’ conversations with personnel; and regular delivery of newspapers. MPS tasks included psychological preparation of servicemen for close support of combat operations, and psychological aid to servicemen when it was needed. Psychological preparation included practice in specific combat situations, and teaching methods of psychological self-regulation and emotional mobilisation in times of stress. Psychological aid was focused at the combat crew and vehicle crew level. Mobile groups of psychologists with skills in psycho-diagnostics and correction and rehabilitation work, psychiatrists and psychoneurologists did consultative and diagnostic work. Psycho-correction and rehabilitation programmes were provided on an as-needed basis.48 The article asked for better information support for servicemen, including the supply of portable radios and small television sets to the area of combat. In addition, it was recommended that the armed forces operate a closed electronic media system. This would help create an ‘information field’ at the troop level that was under strict control.49

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THE USE OF THE INTERNET DURING THE CHECHEN CONFLICT The second Russian-Chechen conflict has witnessed a much greater use of the Internet than the first conflict. In fact, the Internet shares part of the blame for Russia’s loss of state control described above. Websites enabled combatants to mobilise public opinion and outside support for their cause. Use of the Internet demonstrated its importance to the weaker side in a conflict as a means for reaching public opinion and international organisations. Websites accomplished the following main tasks for the Chechens during the second conflict. First, the Chechens used websites to gather money. One of the amino.com sites, for example, showed where to send money to support the Chechen cause, including a bank account number in Sacramento, California. Second, the web was used to unite the Chechen diaspora. By conducting a search for the term Chechnya, one would stumble across related web pages that were of Chechen origin and supported the Chechen point of view. This allowed Chechens worldwide to stay in touch with the conflict, and to offer support (material, monetary, personal, etc.) if desired. Third, websites offered Chechens opportunities to show the world the results of successful combat actions against the Russian military through streaming video, such as Chechen ambushes of Russian convoys. It was hard for the Russian official media to refute what the video presented, especially if it showed a Russian defeat. On the other hand, this technique backfired on several occasions, in particular when Chechen sites showed the execution of Russian prisoners, losing the Chechens international support. Fourth, the Internet was used by the Chechens to rally Islamic faithful worldwide against the Israelis in their conflict with the Palestinians, serving to unite a religious sector of the world population. Fifth, the web allowed the Chechens to show the world what types of atrocities the Russians had committed against the Chechen population. Whether the Russians committed the atrocities or not was, of course, unverifiable but that is another use of the Internet—to put out one’s position on an issue and not have to justify it. Finally, the Internet offered products for sale such as CDs and other items showing the Chechen position. The situation in Chechnya is also reflected on web sites in the context of the joint Russian-US fight against terrorism. Students from the Russian city of Omsk have tried to thwart the efforts of the Chechen website Kavkaz-Tsentr, by writing to US government agencies, the media and private companies warning them that Kavkaz-Tsentr was transmitting

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from their territory. The Chechens have moved their Internet provider from the US to Canada, then to Georgia, and then back to the US.50 The Internet sites of the Russian Federation generally are not dedicated solely to the war, but contain many articles about it. The Chechen websites were more dynamic than the Russian sites and more easily accessible in the West. The Chechen www.kavkaz.org and Russian www.infocentre.ru sites are particularly good, however filtered and onesided they might be. The ‘information war’ is not yet over in Chechnya. Initial Russian successes are beginning to fade, but the Chechens have not capitalised on Russian shortcomings as they did during the first conflict. As one analyst noted: The Russian media, like the free media in most Western countries, was for the most part willing to accept both government controls and the government’s story in the name of national security for as long as that story made sense. The public, too, seemed happy enough at first with the government-released information. Over time, however, the disparities between the official line and the increasingly obvious realities, reported both by soldiers themselves and by their parents, proved impossible to ignore.51 How long the government’s picture of the conflict can be sustained is an open question. But then again, the name of the game is access, and Russia is in the driver’s seat. CHECHEN USE OF INFORMATIONPSYCHOLOGICAL ISSUES One of the more interesting sources encountered in the preparation of this chapter was the book The Armed Caucasus.52 It is a view of the fighting from the Chechen side, and contains a good deal of information on the information-psychological factor. According to the book, the Chechens considered their ‘moral-psychological’ factor as extremely high. Not less than 30 per cent of the population between the ages of 14 and 50 voluntarily took part in the fighting. The main characteristics of the Chechen fighters included patriotism, nationalism, religious fanaticism, decisiveness, being prepared to die, aggressiveness, strict internal discipline, the capability to continue fighting under extreme conditions, contempt for the enemy, unpredictability of actions, and revenge. Information-propaganda and political support to the Chechen campaign were viewed as an independent activity, usually associated with

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information war in the West. This included political and psychological work with personnel in the armed forces and society; the use of special propaganda PSYOPs against the enemy and various sectors of his society; diplomatic support for the actions of Chechens, to include use of the foreign press; and legislative support of military activity.53 Work within the armed forces included the use of slogans, swearing allegiance on the Koran, and acceptance of the Jihad. National ideas, Islamic values and the military history of Chechnya were often used in this regard. Islamic slogans were frequently tied to weapons and armoured vehicles. Work among the population included the development of several factors: a base of social-political support for the armed forces; the galvanising of the population against Russians operating in their areas; the conduct of mass meetings, and teaching how to spread rumours; and the spread of Chechen military traditions and the ideas of Islam, using audio- and video-cassettes, leaflets, radio, TV and the press.54 The Armed Caucasus noted that a Minister of Information and Propaganda, as well as offices of propaganda and external relations within the General Staff of Chechnya, information centres, agents and the press were required to implement this work. The coordinator for Chechen PSYOPs was the Minister of Information and Press of the Chechen Republic, Movladi Udugov. Of greatest interest to a student of military history is the book’s listing of Chechen principles for organising PSYOPs. It requires a combination of propaganda methods: a demonstration of real facts; keeping quiet about or negating real facts; specific distortion of facts for a particular use; and premeditated disinformation. These methods are aimed at Russia’s armed forces, its population and government leaders, as well as foreign audiences. Channels include the Internet and electronic mail, the Russian press, lobby groups and agents of influence, political organisations and movements in Russia, the intellectual and cultural elites of Russia and other countries, the Chechen diaspora and social organisations such as anti-military, humanitarian and human rights groups everywhere. Channels to spread PSYOPs among the Russian armed forces appeared to contain nothing new—agitation, leaflets, loudspeakers and radio stations, and capturing Russian soldiers by wearing Russian uniforms as a disinformation operation.55 Work among the civilian population included utilising to the maximum degree Russia’s press services. It was estimated during the First Chechen War that nearly 90 per cent of the information from the zone of conflict came from Chechen sources that helped formulate favourable conditions for influencing social opinion and spreading information ‘pictures’. Missions included forming an anti-military mood and a desire to stop

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military activity, discredit activities and the military-political leadership of Russia, and misinform Russia’s leadership about future Chechen plans. Exploiting the destabilising psychological factor of losses among Russian forces, and threatening the potential use by Chechnya of nuclear weapons helped accomplish this. The Chechens believe that work to agitate the Committee of Soldiers’ Mothers in Russia greatly damaged the Russian armed forces draft in 1995.56 Work with foreign audiences was also discussed. It included forming a positive image of the armed forces, strengthening international support and weakening the international position of Russia. This would be accomplished by exploiting the thesis of Chechnya fighting for liberation from Russia, by accusing Russia of violating international norms and laws on the conduct of war and using banned weapons, demonstrating cruelty by Russia’s forces as well as a disregard for the ecology of Chechnya, and keeping quiet about or negating similar actions by Chechnya’s forces.57 Chechens listed unofficial news outlets in the following countries: Jordan, Azerbaijan, Poland, Latvia, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Ukraine, Denmark, Great Britain, Belorussia, Russia (since closed), Germany, the USA, Lithuania, Turkey, France, Estonia, Georgia and Finland.58 CONCLUSIONS Military reform in the information age will strain Russia’s financial resources and its conventional military thinking. Militaries are moving out of the age of huge, ponderous armies for which the Soviet Union prepared, and into armies of sensors, satellites and space weapons. Hidden mobilisations (by electronic weapons), deep rear fights, and space as the new theatre of military activity characterise the new military environment. Weapons required to participate are expensive and hard to test and detect. Simultaneously, the information age is providing individuals and small groups with the power once attainable only by nation states. Armies today, while preparing for the new age, must keep a wary glance on these groups or face the probability of a surprise attack and the possible internal massive movement of populations. Much of the information to construct dirty weapons, as well as the capability to unite disparate factions and to send coded messages between them, are present on the information age’s great communicator, the Internet. Instead of a Global Village, the Internet may be viewed as the terrorist’s greatest planning and execution mechanism of all time.

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Thus, during its period of military reform, Russian planners (already strapped for cash) have to confront a scalable series of scenarios from the terrorist to Star Wars. Russia will have to choose its weapons platforms carefully. Most important, it will have to organise the military to meet these multiple and simultaneous challenges. The second Russian-Chechen conflict has provided insights into this dilemma. Russia’s use of high-technology equipment (RPVs, EW capabilities, reconnaissance-strike systems for its artillery and aircraft) has been successful but not capable of ending the conflict against an opponent fenced into a small plot of land and missing these same capabilities. These observations must be incorporated into the military reform package under consideration. Russian military theorists have undoubtedly learned a lot from the Chechen conflict, including how much even a local conflict can cost. They have also been able to test new weaponry under real conditions, much like the USA and Britain in Kosovo and Afghanistan. Undoubtedly this will impact on some area of military reform. Finally, military reform will have to take into consideration the moralpsychological aspect of the soldier. This might mean better housing, or higher pay, or even better equipment. Minister of Defence Sergei Ivanov noted that military reform could not go on indefinitely, that it is psychologically impossible to do so. Other, impartial observers to the Russian process might state that the Russian armed forces cannot stall military reform any longer. The information-age train is leaving the station, and Russia still is not on board. NOTES The views expressed in this chapter are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the official policy or position of the Department of the Army, Department of Defense or the US government. 1. Discussion with a Russian officer in Moscow, 1995. 2. Vitaliy Valerianovich Panov, ‘New Technologies and their Influence on the Development of the Means of Warfare’, Vooruzheniye, Politika, Konversiia, 1, January 1999, pp. 22–6, Foreign Broadcast Information Service (FBIS). 3. V.N.Tsigichko, D.S.Votrin, A.V.Krutskikh, G.L.Smolyan and D.S.Chereshkin, ‘Information Weapons: New Challenge to Information Security’, Moscow, 2000, pp. 20,21. 4. Grigoriy Budzinskiy and Vladimir Platonov, ‘Don’t Look Down on Reconnaissance, Otherwise You Will Lose any Battle before it Begins’, Armeyskiy Sbornik, December 1996, p. 39.

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5. Nikolay Nikolayevich Novichkov, ‘The Stroy-P System is Once Again in Chechnya: The Russian Army is Overcoming the Lag in the Use of Remotely Piloted Aircraft’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye Obozreniye, 5 November 1999, p. 2, FBIS, 23 November 1999. 6. Yu.D.Bukreyev, M.I.Karatuyev and L.S.Zolotov, ‘The Counter-Terrorist Operation in the Northern Caucasus: The Main Lessons and Conclusions’, Voyennaya Mysl’, 3, May-June 2000, pp. 5–21, FBIS. 7. Correspondents were radio amateurs acting in the interest of the Chechens. 8. Vasiliy Gumenniy and Vladimir Matyash, ‘War in the Airwaves’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 5 April 2000, FBIS. 9. Ibid. 10. Andrey Soldatov, ‘Probing Action: Chechnya Has Become an Electronic Battleground between Russian and Foreign Special Services’, Segodnya, 1 November 1999, p. 2, FBIS. 11. Ibid. 12. ‘The Eyes and Ears of the War’, Section of the ‘Telespetsnaz: Duty Unit’ TV programme, 27 January 2000, FBIS. 13. Gumenniy and Matyash, ‘War in the Airwaves’. 14. Bukreyev, Karatuyev and Zolotov, ‘The Counter-Terrorist Operation in the Northern Caucasus’, pp. 5–21. 15. Oleg Falichev interview with Valeriy Volodin, ‘The Battlefield—The Airwaves’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 15 April 2000, FBIS. 16. Oleg Falichev interview with Valeriy Volodin, ‘Electronic Warfare Chief on State, Prospects of EW Service’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 14 April 2001, FBIS. 17. Andrey Osin, ‘War of the Airwaves’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 12 April 2002, FBIS. 18. ‘We No Longer Make Rockets’, Kommersant, 28 January 2000, page 2, FBIS. 19. This is the author’s abbreviation. It was not used in the original Russian, while the terms RUS and ROS were. 20. M.Belov and V.Shchukin, ‘Reconnaissance-Strike Complexes of the US Army,’ Voyennyy Vestnik, 1, January 1985, p. 86. 21. Comments provided by Jacob Kipp, while discussing this chapter. 22. Discussion with Russian officer in Moscow, January 1999. 23. Sergey Grigorev, ‘Who Will Fire First? The Eyes, Ears, and Nervous System of the Ground Troops’, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, 22 August 1996, 16, 20, p. 6. 24. Vladimir Ivanovich Slipchenko, ‘Future War’, users.mos.ru.boris/vb.htm, 1 January 2000, FBIS. 25. Ibid. 26. Igor Golovanev and Yuriy Merkulov, ‘Space Nerves of Reconnaissance-Fire Delivery Systems’, Armeyskiy Sbornik, October 1996, pp. 12, 13. 27. Vasiliy Fatigarov interview of Vladislav Gekov, ‘The Nervous System of a Division’, Krasnaya Zvezda, 2 June 2000, FBIS. 28. A.A.Petrov and S.L.Safronov, ‘Features of Organizing Communications in Conducting Combat Operations in the Mountains’, Voyennaya Mysl’, September 2001, pp. 13–17, FBIS. 29. Vladimir Nikolayevich Zaritskiy, ‘The “God of War” at the Crossroads’, Armeyskiy Sbornik, 1 November 2001, pp. 3–7, FBIS. 30. Moscow AVN, WWW-Text, 1141 GMT, 15 November 2001, FBIS.

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31. Orlov Aleksandr’s interview of Vladimir Zaritskiy, ‘As Before, Artillery Remains the Main Weapon of the Battlefield’, Strana.ru, FBIS, 19 November 2001. 32. Bukreyev, Karatuyev and Zolotov, ‘The Counter-Terrorist Operation in the Northern Caucasus’, pp. 5–21. 33. AVN, 1201 GMT, 7 March 2002, FBIS. 34. Gennadiy Alekhin and Timofey Borisov, ‘Distinctive Feathers of National Hunt for “Canards”: We No Longer Lose Media Wars, but We Have Not Learned to Win Them Thus Far’, Rossiyskaya Gazeta, 26 June 2001, FBIS. 35. V.A.Zolotarev (ed.), Rossiya (SSSR) v Lokal’nykh Voynakh i Voyennykh Konfliktakh Vtoroy Poloviny XX Veka, Moscow: Kuchkovo Pole Publishing, 2000, p. 317. 36. Ibid., p. 320. 37. Soldatov, ‘Probing Action’. 38. Zolotarev, Rossiya (SSSR) v Lokal’nykh Voynakh i Voyennykh Konfliktakh Vtoroy Poloviny XX Veka, p. 322. 39. Emil Pain, ‘The Information Component in the Second Chechen War’, paper presented at the US/Russia Information Warfare Seminar, Washington, DC, 26 January 2000. 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid. 42. Natalya Zabuzova, Moscow NTV, 1000 GMT, 26 July 2001, FBIS. 43. Pain, ‘Information Component in the Second Chechen War’. 44. Zolotarev, Rossiya (SSSR) v Lokal’nykh Voynakh i Voyennykh Konfliktakh Vtoroy Poloviny XX, Veka, p. 429. 45. Aleksandr D’yakonov, ‘From the Experience of “Hotspots”: Honouring the Naval Infantrymen’, Armeyskiy Sbornik, 1 June 2001, pp. 32–5. 46. A.G.D’yakonov; ‘The Moral-Psychological Support Experience of the Counter-Terrorist Operation’, Voyennaya Mysl’, 3, May-June, 2001, pp. 41–8. 47. Ibid. 48. Ibid. 49. Ibid. 50. RIA-Novosti, 0632 GMT, 3 February 2002, FBIS. 51. Olga Oliker, Russia’s Chechen Wars: Lessons from Urban Combat, 1994–2000, Santa Monica, CA: RAND, 2001. 52. Aras Dzhangir, Vooruzhennyy Kavkaz, Reference Book on Military Systems of North Caucasus Nations, Vol. III, Baku, 2000, p. 51. 53. Ibid., p 52. 54. Ibid., p. 53. 55. Ibid., pp. 54–7. 56. Ibid., pp. 57–8. 57. Ibid., p. 58. 58. Ibid., p. 61.

12 War Scare in the Caucasus: Redefining the Threat and the War on Terrorism Jacob W.Kipp

Reading international media on Russia as the dog days of August 2002 began would have suggested that all was in order. The tenor was one associated with the slow season when everyone is off on vacation. The Moscow Times contained a brief report from Vladikavkaz in Northern Osetia on 2 August that called attention to tensions between Russia and Georgia over Chechen rebels in Pankisi Gorge but downplayed their importance. Well behind stories about the peat fires in Moscow, Tokhtakhunov’s arrest in Italy, and Energy Secretary Abraham’s concerns over the new Russo-Iranian nuclear deal, the Pankisi Gorge story came in just ahead of an account of a police officer’s shooting of a rottweiler and its owner in Moscow. However, a close look at the local press and mass media reveals anything but a slow season. The crisis over Chechen fighters infiltrating into Chechnya from Pankisi Gorge received extensive coverage in Moscow and Tbilisi, with each capital exchanging charges and counter-charges. The crisis had almost boiled over into Russian military intervention into Georgia on 1 August. A minute-byminute account of the mounting crisis in the Caucasus leaves one with reverberations closer to 1914 or 1939 than to an ordinary summer holiday. In the age of the War on Terrorism local issues can have international ramifications. A key issue at the core of this war scare was Russia’s changing definition of threats and the mutual interrelationship of various threats. The crisis in the Caucasus has been long in the making. Its origins are in Russo-Chechen relations, the collapse of the Soviet Union and the two Chechen wars of the last decade. Russian officials repeatedly claim that Georgia continues to serve as a sanctuary to Chechen and international terrorists who cross into Chechnya from bases in Georgia’s Pankisi Gorge. With the renewal of fighting between Russian troops and Chechen rebels in Dagestan in August 1999, Pankisi gorge became a point of contention. Georgian officials reported on 13 August that Russian aircraft had violated Georgian airspace and bombed the village of Zemo Omalo on 9

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August, wounding three persons. They warned that they would shoot down any future violators of Georgian airspace. At a meeting with the commander of Georgia’s border guards, the deputy director of the Russian Border Guards Service proposed that Russian and Georgian border guards be deployed to Pankisi Gorge, a proposal the Georgian side rejected.1 Local journalists conjectured that the attacks were linked to Wahhabis in the village and could be part of a Russian strategy to expand the war beyond Dagestan and Chechnya.2 Since then the gorge has been a prominent fixture in the complex tangle of Georgian-Russian relations, internal Georgian politics and the war in Chechnya. By October 1999 the flow of Chechen refugees to Pankisi Gorge had reached about 1,500. The Georgian government acknowledged the need to control and direct the flow of refugees and raised the issue of terrorist elements among them, specifically 50 ‘Wahhabis’, who were considered a threat to Georgian internal stability because of the possibility of their collaboration with Georgian Wahhabis in drug trafficking in Pankisi Gorge.3 For Georgia, Pankisi Gorge represented a classic spillover threat from an insurgency in a neighbouring state, i.e., the threat posed by transnational crime and violence, on one hand, and the risk that the powerful neighbouring state would threaten its territorial integrity and sovereignty. Given the complex role that Russia had played in Georgia’s internal conflicts in South Osetia and Abkhazia, Tbilisi had grounds for concern, especially with Russian troops deployed as peacekeepers and border guards within Georgia. The Russian government, which considered the Chechen fighters to be bandits and terrorists, drew attention to Pankisi Gorge as a haven used by Chechen bands to reconstitute their forces during the winter pause in operations. Citing Georgian sources, the Russian media estimated the number of combatants in Pankisi Gorge at 450 fighters.4 The same article linked the concepts of a struggle against international Islamic terrorism and the haven in Pankisi Gorge. The gorge is about 4–5 kilometres wide and about 16 kilometres long with mountains on three sides (west, north and east) and had a pre-war population of about 8,000 (65 per cent Kistins (related to Chechens) and 24 per cent Georgians). With the fighting of the last decade, refugees have entered the gorge and the Kistin population has become radical. Even in the Soviet period the region had a reputation for lawlessness. The presence of Chechen rebels and Arab terrorists, plus the almost routine kidnappings, has confirmed this reputation.5 For the past three years, Russian officials have pointed to the Pankisi Gorge as a terrorist and bandit bastion and in 2001 made it part of their War on Terrorism, charging the government of Georgia with an inability

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and/or unwillingness to prevent cross-border raids. Their claim coincided with a ‘scandal’ over the deployment of Chechen fighters from Pankisi Gorge to Kodori Gorge in Abkhazia. Several hundred Chechen fighters under the command of Ruslan Gelayev were moved to Abkhazia by the Georgian Ministry of Internal Affairs where they were involved in fighting with Abkhazian rebels and shot down a United Nations (UN) mission helicopter.6 Georgian sources admitted the movement but claimed it was only an attempt to get the Chechen fighters out of Pankisi Gorge and Georgia. Russian and Abkhazian commentators took a darker view, seeing in the transfer an open alliance between the Chechen fighters and the Georgian government. Members of President Shevardnadze’s government provided fuel to Russian critics by denying the Chechen commander’s presence in Pankisi Gorge and his intent to lead his troops into Abkhazia.7 In June 2001 Minister of Defence David Tevzadze stated Gelayev was not there and that, while there were over 7, 000 Chechens then residing in the Pankisi Gorge, they were refugees who had fled the fighting in Chechnya and posed no military threat.8 Even later, when Gelayev’s move to Abkhazia had become a scandal that cost the Minister of Internal Affairs his job, President Shevardnadze publicly defended the Chechen commander as ‘a normal-thinking and educated man who favours Georgia’.9 President Putin himself linked the global War against Terrorism with the war Russia was fighting in Chechnya.10 Russian hawks were much more explicit about what opportunities the War on Terrorism offered Russia in pursuit of its own interests in the Caucasus. Mikhail Leontyev asserted that Russia should take the opportunity to strike immediately at Pankisi Gorge. ‘If Russia now wipes out the Chechen militants in the Pankisi Gorge, not a single soul in the world will be able to reproach us.’11 The explicit linkage of the Pankisi Gorge to the War on Terrorism has given an international importance to the charges and counter-charges between Russia and Georgia and raises the question of Georgia’s ability to protect its own sovereignty and territorial integrity—which is already under question in two secessionist regions, Abkhazia and South Ossetia. In winter 2001 a detachment of US special forces arrived in Tbilisi with the task of preparing Georgian special forces to operate in the Pankisi Gorge. While the Russian government had welcomed the training mission as evidence of the US commitment to assist in the battle against international terrorism, it repeatedly warned that the situation in the gorge was becoming more and more dangerous. Chairman of the State Duma’s Committee on International Affairs, Dmitri Rogozin, noted the difficulties that the US mission had faced in recruiting and training Georgian troops and questioned whether, after six months, any progress

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had been made in closing down terrorist bases.12 The mission’s time ran out in early August, coincidentally as the Russian government reported the infiltration of a major Chechen force from Pankisi Gorge into Chechnya. Through August and September 2002 the Russian government kept up a steady stream of pressure on the government of Georgia. The Russian media presented Pankisi as a staging area for terrorist attacks upon Chechnya and spoke of links between Chechen fighters and Islamic militants, including al-Qaeda. While sympathetic to the terrorist threat facing Moscow, the Bush administration warned Russia not to act unilaterally at the expense of Georgia’s sovereignty and territorial integrity, while at the same time prodding Tbilisi to take its own measures to pacify Pankisi and assert effective control. Aircraft bombed the gorge; Georgia and the OSCE (Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe) said they were Russian aircraft. Russian officials denied responsibility, proposed a joint commission to investigate the bombing and leaked a story about advanced Georgian aircraft carrying out the attack. In the end Georgia did arrest Arab fighters in the gorge and agreed to joint Russian-Georgian border patrols to seal the common frontier, and the war scare subsided. However, the pace of terrorist actions in Chechnya did not abate and terrorists under the command of Shamil Basayev were able to bring their acts to Moscow in a bold hostage incident in a theatre that ended with the death of the terrorists and around 120 hostages. Basayev responded to the events in Moscow by threatening more suicide attacks that would result in the mass killing of Russian citizens. The terrorist threat continues to dominate Russian domestic and international politics. CHARTING CHANGING THREAT PERCEPTIONS The recent war scare provides clues to the recent evolution of Russian threat assessments. This is important because threat perceptions are a key factor in force requirements and provide one cardinal axis of military reform. Threats define force requirements because they identify possible enemies, likely theatres of war, and the nature of the projected conflict. In the post-Cold War era they have come to include non-state actors and transnational threats like organised crime, narcotic trafficking and terrorism. The general direction of these changes has been from an ideologically conditioned threat, the political content of which was set by the ruling party, towards a threat derived from an evolving, complex and conflicting assessment of national interests by new institutions and actors. The ideologically derived threat of the Soviet period had a global cast

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befitting the Soviet Union’s role as a superpower committed to an inevitable struggle against capitalism and imperialism. The core threat throughout the Cold War was the United States and its allies and the focus was the military balance in Europe and the strategic-nuclear competition between the superpowers. By the 1970s deteriorating relations with the People’s Republic of China had added another dimension to Soviet threat calculations. Finally, support for surrogate powers in the Third World added another layer, especially after the Soviet military intervention in Afghanistan. Relations between the Soviet Union and the West might turn warm or cold, but the prism of threat perception kept the focus on the United States in the context of a global competition for power and influence. Soviet Threat Perceptions and Perestroika In the Soviet Union threats were about the intentions and capabilities of others to act against the party-state. Down to 1991 there was a rather stable relationship in the mechanisms for threat forecasting, even if Gorbachev’s reform concept—perestroika—introduced some radical changes in the content. The political-military aspects of such forecasts were within the purview of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union under the leadership of the Politburo, supported by the apparatus of the Central Committee. The KGB provided political intelligence in support of party-state leadership. Military-technical aspects of threat were the purview of the Soviet General Staff, which was supposed to serve as an ‘unblinking eye on the future’. These agencies could, as they did in the early 1980s, have quite different assessments of the intensity and imminence of the threat before the Soviet Union. Under Yuri Andropov, the KGB instituted an intensive collection programme, code-named RYAN, in search of evidence for a pre-emptive nuclear strike by the new Reagan administration against the Soviet Union. The war scare of the early 1980s gave a particular coloration to the ‘Second Cold War’ of that period, especially the conjunction of renewed ideological struggle and the growing awareness of the decline of Soviet military-technological and industrial capabilities under mature socialism in the face of the evolving and dynamic military-technical threat posed by the United States.13 Party congresses, major addresses by general secretaries, and other documents provided periodic public statements regarding the threats before the USSR. By the early 1980s the military-technological threat had become a prominent part of Cold War psychological warfare for both sides. The Communist Party and Soviet state regularly sought to mobilise international opinion against US defence programmes from the neutron

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bomb through the deployment of Pershing II missiles and groundlaunched cruise missiles. In answer to the Reagan administration’s annual publication Soviet Military Power, the Soviet leadership began publishing its own annual, Otkuda Iskhodit Ugroza Miru (Whence the Threat to Peace), devoted to US military-technical capabilities.14 This was an exercise in information/psychological warfare before the term became a buzzword. Threat assessment was and remained a major part of the preparatory work for each five-year plan from the 1920s to the end of the Soviet Union.15 It was directly tied to economic development because of the emphasis upon mobilisation planning for the entire national economy and the requirement for national economic autarky in the face of capitalist encirclement. The threat assessment drove the war economy (voyen-naya ekonomika) ultimately into the ground. Key features of every threat assessment were the ideological context of the struggle between capitalism and communism and assessments of both the scale of a future conflict and its imminence.16 Even in the nuclear era Soviet preparations embraced the requirements for mass industrial war. Ideological rigidity and institutional biases associated with the planning process led to serious distortions in threat perceptions and perpetuated mobilisation planning requirements for a general war that included massive tank production in the first year of a general war with the West.17 Colonel-General A.A.Danilevich later recalled that certain factors drove threat assessment and combined to push the USSR into a costly arms race. He identified the ‘militant ideology of the CPSU and the nature of the command economy’, underscoring the special role of the ‘specific interests of the Soviet military-industrial complex’.18 While disagreeing on many aspects of Soviet military experience, Russian military experts share the perception that Soviet military science lost the ability to forecast future conflicts and that Soviet policy distorted military requirements. General Gareyev noted the lack of independent non-state inputs into policy discussions.19 Colonel Vitaly Shlykov declared that the United States won the Cold War not on the number of its tanks but on the number of its ‘think tanks’.20 By the late Soviet period, China had joined the list of major potential opponents, and preparing for war in the Far East had become a major defence burden. In the final analysis the Soviet General Staff considered 23 nations as likely opponents in a future war, imposing a huge burden upon the state, the economy and society. The nature of possible future war in the late Soviet period involved ‘a clash of two social systems on a global scale’.21

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With the achievement of strategic nuclear parity by the Soviet Union, the image of the future began to change. By the 1980s the General Staff’s reading of the military-technical characteristics of such a conflict came to embrace the possibility of a protracted conventional war but based on the fruits of the Revolution in Military Affairs (RMA) involving a qualitatively different set of armaments.22 Reconnaissance-strike and -fire complexes became topics of active discussion, as did the challenge of nonlinear combat and the use of operational manoeuvre groups.23 General Gareyev, the author of the operational manoeuvre group concept, had noted this asymmetric response to the military-technological threat posed by the West. Speaking about the impact of the Six Day War in the Middle East on Soviet weapons acquisition, Major-General V.V.Larionov observed that experience confirmed both the utility of precision anti-tank missiles and tanks in battle. In comparison with the West, our armaments developed asymmetrically. Initially there was a gamble on missiles, we had to develop ones that would reach another continent and therefore we emphasised range. But that left us behind in command and control and communications. Regarding precision weapons, work in this area is ongoing and largely successful. Here we did not permit a large gap.24 General Gareyev saw the key gap in the Soviet development of weapons systems for the RMA to be in the area of micro-electronics, which permitted the integration of reconnaissance, observation, automated aiming and automated control systems for precision fires and strikes. Micro-electronics are at the heart of ‘thinking precision weapons of the future and the technological basis of information war’,25 he said. Beyond this debate over threat forecasting there stood the looming issue of a crisis in the mechanism for threat articulation. Perestroika, with its attempt to disengage internationally in order to reform internally, put great strain on that mechanism. Within the Soviet elite there were fundamental disputes about a shift towards a benign image of the external world. Some, like Aleksandr Yakovlev, one of Gorbachev’s closest advisers, spoke of robbing the West of its threat by de-militarising the confrontation in Europe as the Soviet Union also disengaged in the Third World. Disengagement was supposed to provide a window for domestic reform that would lead to a revival of a more benign and democratic form of Soviet power. Between 1987 and 1991, a series of agreements put an end to the Cold War but provided no final detailed settlement. These included the International Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty,

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the agreements covering German unification, the Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE) Charter of Paris, and the Conventional Forces in Europe (CFE) Treaty. The pace of change quickly got beyond the means of Gorbachev and his supporters to control. The three key power institutions of the Soviet state, the Party, the KGB and the military, proved resistant to reform. Many within the Soviet elite saw disengagement and domestic reforms as threatening the very foundations of Soviet power. For the conservatives within the Party, KGB and military, it became increasing clear that perestroika and glasnost (openness) were creating conditions for the loss of the Soviet sphere of influence in the Third World, and the collapse of the satellite system in eastern Europe and the end of the Warsaw Treaty Organisation. In the aftermath of the Velvet Revolution in the autumn of 1989, these critics could see signs of the collapse of what Andrei Kokoshin has called ‘the third empire’, i.e., the Soviet Marxist-Leninist, multinational state, awash in a rising tide of nationalism, especially Russian nationalism. ‘The end of the 80s and beginning of the 90s marked the simultaneous collapse of all three “empires”’. Kokoshin has written of the ‘burden’ of three empires and their impact upon Russia’s rebirth as a great power.26 The Evolution of Russian Threat Perceptions, 1991–99 The coup of August 1991 was a belated and ineffective effort by the disgruntled elite to reverse these trends. Their failure accelerated but did not call the collapse of the old edifice. Andrei Kokoshin has compared the end of the Soviet Union as a superpower with the collapse of the Tsarist empire as a major actor in the European balance of power. In both cases the seeds of discord were sown by issues associated with cultural and nationalist struggles on the periphery of the empire. Behind the ideological posture of the communist state and its internationalist struggle were a set of threats created by the very nature of the multinational empire. The Yeltsin government in Russia posed the most serious threat to the Soviet state by advocating Russian national interests and promoting national autonomy within the fellow union republics and within Russia’s own ethnic-territorial subdivisions. Against this national consciousness there were divisions in Moscow that robbed the state of the ability to act against these new internal threats. Over the next decade the Yeltsin government undertook the dismemberment of the Soviet system and embarked upon sweeping reforms to privatise and marketise the economy and to create a democratic state. The post-Soviet era proved far more chaotic and destabilising than the original architects of reforms had envisioned. The

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gross domestic product continued to decline sharply. Crime and corruption became major threats to both the economy and the polity. Ethnic, religious and regional tensions brought new conflicts on Russia’s periphery. Russia was no longer a superpower, and these problems raised questions as to Russia’s status as a great power. General Anatoly Kulikov, then Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Internal Affairs, described this situation as a ‘geopolitical catastrophe’.27 In contrast with the Soviet period, threats to state sovereignty and territorial integrity took on an internal focus that often became linked to the possibility of external intervention into Russia’s domestic affairs. Military reform and threat assessment took place in a ‘Time of Troubles’.28 In this context, the Russian state had no effective institutions for studying and articulating the challenges and threats to itself. The Yeltsin administration created a presidential agency to coordinate defence and security policy, the Security Council, in 1992. The Security Council had a chequered life over the 1990s. It did develop an extensive apparatus in support of its policy formulation functions, serving as the final clearing house for major security documents, including military doctrine and national security strategy. By 1998 its staff had developed a complex methodology for the formulation of Russian national interests and the assessment and classification of threats to those interests in a wide range of internal and external areas. These included political, economic, defence, ethnonational, technogenic and natural disasters, ecological, informational, law enforcement, and social protection of the population.29 Some have criticised the Council’s ineffectiveness in coordinating the policies of Russia’s power ministries. Others have described it as ‘a new Politburo’. At times it has been a battleground for power contenders, especially when General Aleksandr Lebed headed it briefly after the 1996 presidential elections and used it as a vehicle to negotiate a ceasefire in Chechnya. Lebed’s interlude was, however, brief. The Security Council has always been a creature of the presidency, and under Boris Yeltsin that relationship waxed and waned. In the midst of the financial meltdown of August 1998 and the ensuing governmental crisis, Andrei Kokoshin occupied the post of secretary of the Security Council and took on the task of finding a way to create a government of public confidence. That effort failed when his recommendations ran counter to the interests of President Yeltsin and ‘the family’, a cohort of oligarchs and family members committed to retaining the power of the president over the government.30 The Security Council was one step for Vladimir Putin on his way to power. His tenure coincided with a marked deterioration of Russia’s relations with the United States and NATO as a result of the military

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intervention against Milosevic’s Yugoslavia. When Putin became president, the Security Council achieved significant influence under a new secretary, Sergei Ivanov. Ivanov enjoyed the confidence of the president and during his tenure the Security Council became a focus of security policy formulation. It continues to be dependent on the president for influence and when Ivanov moved to the Ministry of Defence in March 2001, the future role of the Security Council was again open to question. As the events of September 2001 proved, President Putin could set a new line for Russian security policy in response to the terrorist attacks in the United States and Washington’s declaration of a War on Terrorism. The Yeltsin government in Russia, which inherited the international position of the USSR, began with a strikingly benign and almost Utopian view of the international system and an utter absence of any established mechanisms for dealing with threat analysis. Andrei Kozyrev, Yeltsin’s first Foreign Minister, spoke of the integration of Russia into the West. One of the liberal reformers close to Yeltsin, Kozyrev represented the apogee of pro-US and pro-Western sentiment in Moscow. For Russia as an emerging market democracy, there were no threats in the conventional sense of the term. But this benign view of Russia’s threat environment proved short-lived. In December 1992, only a year after the collapse of the USSR, Kozyrev shocked a CSCE ministerial meeting when he accused NATO of pursuing goals that were ‘essentially unchanged’ and seeking military advantage in eastern Europe. He pledged Russian support for Serbia and stated that Russia would defend its national interests by military and economic means. Less than an hour after giving the speech Kozyrev returned to the podium to say that his remarks had been intended as a ‘rhetorical device’ to demonstrate what could happen if nationalists and communists came to power in Moscow.31 Janus-like, Kozyrev had pointed towards NATO expansion as a threat to Russia and then warned the West that Russia’s own internal instability was the chief threat to a democratic Russia. For the Yeltsin administration, mobilising Western support in its domestic battle with parliamentary opposition became part of the politics of threat perception for a weak and chaotic Russia. While he would remain Foreign Mminister for another four years, Kozyrev’s domestic and international credibility had been undermined. At the same time the Russian Ministry of Defence under General Pavel Grachev took on the task of writing a Military Doctrine for Russia. What was noteworthy about this process was the circumscribed role of the General Staff and the willingness of active duty and retired military officers to address both military-political and military-technical aspects

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of threat perceptions. Beginning with a special issue of Military Thought in June 1992 devoted to the debate on Military Doctrine and concluding with the publication of the military doctrine as approved by Security Council in November 1993, the debate over doctrine and threat perceptions became linked. The debate raised such issues as the use of the armed forces to protect Russian minorities in the near abroad and addressed the need to turn the Commonwealth of Independent States into a unified security system under Russian leadership by building upon the mutual security treaty of 15 May 1992 signed by Russia, Kazakhstan, Armenia, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan. The promulgation of the Military Ddoctrine only one month after the storming of the Moscow White House provided a specific context to this document of the transition period. The doctrine addressed both military-political and military-technical aspects of the threat. It contained a brief introduction, sections on the political, military, military-technical and economic bases of doctrine, and a brief concluding section. This division into sections marked a break with the Soviet bifurcation into military-political and military-technical parts by recasting the second section to include a discussion of economic factors associated with marketisation and privatisation. The introduction made three salient points. First it presented the doctrine as ‘a component part of the conception of security of the Russian Federation…and a document of the transition period’. Moreover, it defined the transition period as one marked by three mutually interdependent processes: the establishment of the Russian state structure, the execution of democratic reforms in Russia and the coming together of a new system of international relations. Second, it defined the content of the Military Doctrine in a manner that stressed war prevention and defence of vital national interests: This is a system of officially adopted state views on the prevention of wars and armed conflicts, on military construction, on the preparation of the country for defence, on the organisation of counter-actions to threats to the military security of the state, on the use of the armed forces and other troops of the Russian Federation for the protection of the vital interests of the Russian Federation.32 Third, the introduction asserted that Russian vital interests posed no threat to other states and spoke of the need for ‘coordinating measures of a political, economic, legal and military nature with the participation of all organs of state power and administration, of social formations and citizens of the Russian Federation’.33

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Minister Grachev noted changes in the threat environment confronting Russia, i.e., the reduced risk of world war, and said that the chief danger for the stability of peace now came from local wars and armed conflicts.34 The Russian armed forces would conduct both defensive and offensive operations depending on the nature of the conflict unleashed. Grachev outlined plans to increase the effectiveness of the armed forces through a two-stage plan of development during which Russia would build mobile forces. The first stage of the plan, to be completed by 1996, involved the re-deployment of all forces back within Russia’s borders and the reduction of the overall size of the force. Then a second stage, the reequipping of the force, would begin. This would include a mixed system of force generation (conscript and voluntary service).35 The doctrine also addressed the stationing of Russian troops abroad.36 On the internal role of the Russian armed forces, Grachev noted the new tasks associated with maintaining internal order and pictured the new doctrine as an ex post facto justification for the use of troops in support of President Yeltsin’s government in Moscow on 3–5 October against his opponents.37 The transition period outlined in the doctrine, however, proved both longer and more chaotic than Grachev predicted. Military reform remained a dead letter during his tenure and by late 1994 the armed forces were once again being used to restore internal order and to quash Chechen separatism. Grachev’s own star began to set with the military setbacks in Chechnya that began in January 1995 and continued into the summer of 1996. Grachev’s successor, General Igor Rodionov, made very clear what he saw as the linkage between the threat environment and military reform. In the debate over Grachev’s draft Military Doctrine, Rodionov had spoken of the new threats facing Russia. In addressing both the militarypolitical and military-technical sides of military doctrine, while not dismissing the need to prepare for nuclear war, he spoke of the special relevance of the Gulf War. On the one hand, he used it to make the case for a willingness of the USA and its NATO allies to use force in pursuit of foreign policy goals and identified the threat posed by high-tech, conventional weapons, because of the military-political, military-strategic and military-technical situation confronting Russia and the Commonwealth had become a possible variant for ‘major aggression against Russia’.38 In addition, Rodionov argued that Russia had to prepare for local wars near to the borders of Russia and other members of the Commonwealth, as well as in more distant regions, where Russian national interests could be affected. Finally, Rodionov spoke of internal conflicts, arising out of national or religious antagonisms, which could lead to civil war and foreign intervention.39 During his brief tenure

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Rodionov found himself engaged in a losing fight with the civilian leadership of the national security apparatus over the proper course of military reform. In the face of pressure to confine reform to the armed forces and focus upon personnel reductions, Rodionov had warned that NATO expansion could mean the appearance of a non-strategic nuclear threat directly on Russia’s western frontiers. ‘We might objectively face the task of increasing tactical nuclear weapons at our border.’40 With the break-up of the KGB, the function of external collection and analysis fell to the External Intelligence Service (SVR), which came under the direction of Yevgeny Primakov in September 1991. Primakov, a journalist and academic specialist on the Middle East with close ties to the Soviet intelligence services, viewed the situation in the early 1990s to be analogous to that facing Russia after the Crimean War when the balance of power in Europe had isolated a defeated Russia. For Primakov and the SVR there was no shortage of threats in the new international situation, especially in the case of the emergence of US global hegemony and a unipolar international system. Such a system would marginalise Russia’s position and could preclude the consolidation of its position as a great power. It fell to the SVR to provide the most complete articulation of threats facing Russia during Yeltsin’s first term in office. Primakov spoke of Russia as a great power and promoted the reintegration of the successor states into a Russian-dominated security system. In early 1995 Yeltsin appointed Primakov to replace Kozyrev as Minister of Foreign Affairs, a post he would hold until the autumn of 1998, when he became prime minister. To compensate for Russia’s weak position in Europe, Primakov explored cooperation with China and renewed ties with radical regimes in the Middle East. Primakov did not resort to intractable confrontation in Europe; rather he sought to use Russia’s limited leverage to extract concessions that would enhance Russia’s engagement and limit the impact of Western inroads, especially the expansion of NATO and the employment of NATO as an agent of peace enforcement in the Balkans. It was Primakov who gave Russian security policy its Eurasian vocabulary and its commitment to oppose monopolarism, shorthand for US global hegemony. Primakov sought to revive Russia’s place in a new balance of power and took as his model the policies of Prince Gorchakov, Russian Foreign Minister under Alexander II. Gorchakov’s foreign policy provided the external environment for domestic reform and transformation during the epoch of the Great Reforms. It sought to keep Russia engaged in Europe while the empire carried out the reforms necessary to restore its place in the balance of power. That this policy of gathering strength (sosredotocheniye), which allowed Russia to shift sides

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in the rivalries in Europe while its soldiers acquired a colonial empire in central Asi,a might seem out of keeping with the post-Cold War international system did not bother Primakov. He took the long view of international power-politics, favoured pragmatism and sought time for domestic reform to restore Russia’s status as a great power.41 The pragmatism was manifest in the negotiations that led to Russia’s decision to join IFOR in the execution of the Dayton Accords for BosniaHerzegovina.42 It was also manifest in the NATO-Russia Charter of 1997. Derek Averre in his analysis of Russian attitudes towards NATO expansion pointed to two trends, one of which was the legacy of Soviet power and the attempt to reconcile diverging interests and come to terms with new internal and external threats. He categorised the Russian response as realism in the face of the emerging post-Cold War security system in Europe.43 In December 1997 the Security Council published Russia’s first National Security Concept, which stressed the internal threats to Russian security and treated NATO expansion as a political but not military threat. The Yeltsin administration emphasised the social, economic and ethnic problems that could undermine Russia’s integration into the global economy. Organised crime and corruption and not military threats were given top priority. Reformers spoke of a ‘window of security’ that Russia might exploit to bring about transformation. Russia’s defence leadership, especially Marshal Sergeyev, emphasised the limited modernisation of strategic nuclear systems as one way to sustain Russia’s great-power status and largely ignored the continued decay of its conventional forces.44 Limited reforms were undertaken to increase cooperation of Russian conventional forces facing an increasingly unstable situation in the Caucasus as Chechnya drifted into lawlessness. In 1998 the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Ministry of Defence ran a joint command post exercise to test the ability of all Russian forces in the North Caucasus to cooperate in a crisis contingency. Minister of Internal Affairs Sergei Stepashin commented on the imminent need for such cooperation: ‘The situation in the North Caucasus makes it imperative that narrow departmental interests do not impede practical work’.45 The Impact of NATO’s Kosovo Campaign and Chechnya, 1999–2001 The assumptions behind such realism were called into question by the events of 1998–99. Russia’s financial meltdown in the late summer of 1998 called into question any hope for rapid economic recovery and raised the prospect of growing internal instability. Executive leadership under

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Yeltsin appeared increasingly chaotic and unpopular. Russia became even more of a marginal player in the post-Cold War security system. The crisis began with NATO’s pressure against Milosevic’s Yugoslavia and reached a peak when NATO embarked upon an air campaign to force Milosevic to submit. Russian public opinion of all shadings turned strongly anti-Western during the bombing campaign.46 At the same time the Yeltsin government found itself isolated internationally and without any effective course of action to counter NATO or protect the interests of its ally, Milosevic’s Yugoslavia. In a set of domestic and international manoeuvres, Yeltsin avoided impeachment and set Viktor Chernomyrdin to help negotiate an end to the conflict. NATO’s unilateral use of force without the endorsement of the UN Security Council heightened Russian fears that a local conflict on Russia’s own periphery could serve as the basis for NATO actions to impose a settlement at the expense of Russian sovereignty and territorial integrity. The response was a review of the use of nuclear forces to ‘de-escalate’ a future conflict, if conventional forces could not mount a sustained defence of Russia’s national interests.47 In June the Russian Ministry of Defence executed its first large-scale military exercise of the post-Cold War era and included in it simulated limited nuclear attacks against aggressor forces threatening Kaliningrad and Belarus. In Zapad-99 the Russian forces responded to precision strikes on Russian and allied territory with limited nuclear strikes ‘against the countries from whose territories the offensive was launched’.48 The exercise came on the heels of the unilateral deployment of 200 Russian paratroopers from its SFOR brigade to Kosovo in order to pre-empt NATO deployments.49 Russian media treated the ‘march’ as a symbolic reassertion of Russia’s influence in the face of the reality of NATO’s power. The Ministry of Defence related the timing of Zapad-99 to the Russian national psyche by initiating the exercise on the eve of 21 June, the anniversary of the German invasion in 1941. In a visit to the Ministry of Defence immediately after the exercise President Boris Yeltsin in the presence of senior officials of the government and the leadership of the Ministry of Defence congratulated those present on the success of the exercise, but then declared that the threat of large-scale military aggression against Russia ‘is something for sci-fi books’.50 The military came away from NATO’s Yugoslav campaign with some specific priorities informed by the manner in which NATO had conducted its air and information operations. Minister of Defence Sergeyev explicitly linked the study of past military experience, Russian and foreign, to the task of formulating new concepts of military art. Sergeyev stressed the imperative of studying NATO’s campaign against

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Yugoslavia: ‘We also need to deeply and comprehensively analyse the forms and means of use of armed forces of the USA and NATO against independent Yugoslavia.’51 This was particularly relevant because the Minister had observed specific shortcomings in operational and combat training during the recently concluded strategic command-staff exercise Zapad-99.52 The fact that this exercise included the employment of Russian nuclear forces in a pre-emptive strike against an aggressor using advanced conventional forces underscored a major point made by General Gareyev. Nuclear forces would retain their deterrence capabilities and preclude their massed employment, but they could not exclude the use of advanced conventional weapons in a local armed conflict. Gareyev noted: Considering the new nature of armed conflict, in recent years a number of countries have been laying their main emphasis in military development on qualitative improvement of conventional arms, and primarily high-precision weapons, increasing the fighting power and mobility of troops (forces), and preparing armed forces for military activities based on the use of conventional weapons, but with regard for the constant threat of use of nuclear weapons. The system of strategic actions of armed forces and other troops is changing.53 Thus, there emerged an explicit linkage between the ‘strategy of indirect actions’ and waging ‘contact-less’ armed struggle and the risks of horizontal and vertical escalation to regional, general and nuclear war. Russian analysts associated with the Academy of Military Sciences have developed a coherent interpretation of the RMA and managed to relate it to the immediate and future military threats before Russia. Russia could not pose a symmetric response to the US challenge in the RMA, but it could respond asymmetrically to the threat of foreign intervention in local conflicts on the periphery of Russia. This response was particularly important by the late summer of 1999, given deteriorating situations in the Caucasus. Chechen fighters and Islamic militants had carried their cause into Daghestan and brought a Russian military response, initially confined to destroying the enemy forces in Daghestan or their expulsion. However, after a series of murky bombing incidents inside Russia itself, the Russian government under a new prime minister, Vladimir Putin, declared its intention to take the war into Chechnya proper. He found strong support for such an effort within the Russian General Staff. General Anatoly Kvashnin, appointed Chief of the General Staff in June 1997, was the former commander of the North

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Caucasus Military District during the First Chechen War. Kvashnin favoured the reform of the Russian armed forces along lines that would enhance conventional military power and modernise the force to fight local wars. Putin staked his own rise to power on military success in Chechnya, and between his appointment as acting president and his election, Russian forces captured the flattened Chechen capital, Grozny. The uneven struggle, however, continues, pitting regular Russian troops and Putin paramilitary formations against Chechen Mujahadeen. The Chechens cannot expel the Russians and the Russians cannot prevent Chechen raids and terrorist actions. A significant portion of the Chechen population has been displaced. Human-rights activists have pointed to systematic abuses of the civilian population by the Russian occupation forces and the Moscow-sponsored government in Grozy. This struggle is the military manifestation of what Samuel Huntington has described as a ‘clash of civilizations’.54 Over the next two years the discussion of threats to Russia’s security underwent a subtle shift. Initial public documents on Military Doctrine and the National Security Concept stressed the primacy of the threat from monopolarity and US global hegemony.55 The ongoing war for the reconquest of Chechnya provided the context for the draft Military Doctrine published in October 1999, for the draft made very explicit the link between restoring Russian sovereignty in this region and the struggle against monopolarism. As a declaratory statement of Russian intentions, the draft justified the prosecution of that war as an exercise in restoring national sovereignty and territorial integrity and carried with it an implicit domestic agenda that put a premium on the restoration of order. The draft Military Doctrine placed the presupposition of war at the very centre of Russian politics with the most profound ramifications for the Russian state and society and for Russia’s place in the international system. As Prime Minister Vladimir Putin told officers at a naval base in Russia’s Far East in October, ‘The government has undertaken to rebuild and strengthen the military might of the state to respond to new geopolitical realities, both external and internal threats.’ Putin pointed to events in the Caucasus, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan creating new threats for Russia and stated that ‘developments in Europe, in Yugoslavia, also prompt a lot of thought’.56 While most commentators on the draft military doctrine stressed the risk posed by NATO’s capacity to intervene on Russia’s periphery, others faulted the doctrine for its failure to make a realistic assessment of Russia’s domestic situation and international position a decade after the end of the Cold War. In some of the sharpest criticism of the project, RearAdmiral Vasiliy Gulin, Russian Navy (retired), called into question some

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of the document’s most basic assumptions about Russia’s role in the world, pointing to Russia’s economic and demographic decline, its international isolation and its reduced influence in world affairs. Gulin simply doubted the ability of Russia to oppose the emerging post-Cold War order and suggested that Russia should seek an orientation towards Europe and prepare for ‘serious demographic threats from the East and South’.57 PUTIN AND THE WAR ON TERRORISM From his assumption of the presidency, Putin put his own stamp on Russian domestic and international policy. His domestic agenda involved the restoration of state power in order to provide order and stability. He placed a high premium on Russia’s economic development and integration into the global economy Chechnya became the point where domestic order, economic recovery and national security joined. Successful prosecution of the Chechen War, beginning with the deliberate assault on the Chechen capital in 2000 and continuing as counterinsurgency operations, became the most vital issue for Russian national security. In 1999–2000 the primary threat concern associated with the conduct of that war was the possibility of Russia’s international isolation and even foreign intervention as a result of the brutal conduct of Russian forces in Chechnya. The Putin administration persistently treated the Chechen resistance as bandits and terrorists, enacted harsh measures against the Chechen civilian population and linked the continued resistance to external support from Islamic radicals and terrorists. The conflict in Chechnya was explicitly linked to increasing instability across Russia’s southern periphery from the Caucasus through central Asia, where hostilities were ongoing or imminent.58 In July 2000 the Shanghai Five (Russia, China, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan) reiterated their commitment to cooperate militarily in combating national separatism, international terrorism and religious extremism, as well as weapons trafficking, drug trafficking and illegal migration.59 While Russian-US relations remained frozen during the last year of the Clinton administration and the first few months of the Bush administration, there was strong evidence that Putin was willing to come to agreements on Cold War legacy issues—NATO expansion, strategic arms control and national missile defence—if Russia could be sure of some understanding regarding Chechnya and cooperation in the struggle against international terrorism.60 The opportunity for the recasting of Russian-US relations came on the US homeland on 11 September 2001. Putin moved rapidly to join the global War on Terrorism,

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and Russia rendered immediate assistance to US forces in their operations against the Taliban and al-Qaeda in Afghanistan, including support for the deployment of US forces in Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan. Putin stated his price for such support as the explicit linkage of Russia’s counter-insurgency operations in Chechnya with the War on Terrorism, thereby providing international legitimacy to Russian actions and radically reducing the risk of international isolation and Western intervention.61 Putin demonstrated his good faith in the new arrangement by both symbolic and tangible actions. On 12 September the Russian envoy voted for the unanimous resolution of the UN Security Council, which expressed its readiness to take all necessary steps to respond to the attacks—and any acts of terrorism—which it called ‘criminal and unjustifiable’.62 At the meeting of the NATO-Russia Permanent Joint Council on 13 September 2001 Russia joined in NATO’s condemnation of terrorism and pledge for action: ‘NATO and Russia are united in their resolve not to let those responsible for such an inhuman act go unpunished. NATO and Russia call on the entire international community to unite in the struggle against terrorism.’63 Putin announced Russian withdrawal from the naval base at Cam Rahn Bay, Vietnam and the intelligence station in Lourdes, Cuba. Russia accepted US withdrawal from the ABM Treaty, concluded negotiations on a START-III Treaty for radical reductions in strategic nuclear arms, and muted its criticism of NATO expansion in exchange for a ‘19+1’ arrangement for consultations. In short, in a few months the issues that had dominated Cold War threat analysis were radically transformed in the context of the War on Terrorism. CONCLUSION Thus, we return to the war scare over Pankisi Gorge in the summer and autumn of 2002. That crisis, with its threat of the use of Russian forces within Georgia, was resolved in large measure because it not only did not bring into play a US-Russian strategic rivalry but actually benefited from US presence and mediation between Moscow and Tbilisi in the context of the War on Terrorism. The present circumstances highlight how far threat perceptions have evolved since the early 1980s, when a war scare was about strategic nuclear exchange. At the same time, the War on Terrorism has brought to an end the post-Cold War decade of transition. Putin bears much of the responsibility for recasting Russia’s international posture and threat perceptions. His policy has been pragmatic, set by domestic requirements and the realities of Russia’s limited power. Such an assessment places distinct limits on military reform and puts a high

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priority on developing the means to deal with the threats of insurgency on Russia’s periphery. NOTES The views expressed in this chapter are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the official policy or position of the Department of the Army, Department of Defense, or the US government. 1. ‘Border Chief Says Georgia Will Down Airspace Violators’, Tbilisi PrimeNews, 0840 GMT, 13 August 1999. 2. ‘Is Russia Trying to Enforce [sic] a War on Georgia?’, RFE/RL, 12 August 1999. 3. ‘Georgia Controlling Refugees to Stop Wahhabis’, Tbilisi Prime-News, 1310 GMT, 8 October 1999. 4. Viktor Yadukha and Mikhail Vignanskiy, ‘Terrorist International: Chechen Field Commanders Recruit Mercenaries and Prepare Winter Quarters’, Segodnya, 29 October 1999, p. 3. 5. Yevgeny Krutikov, ‘The Pankisi as it Is: Life in the Most Criminal Gorge of the Greater Caucasus’, Versiya, 27, 15–21 July 2002, p. 11. 6. Eka Andjaparidze and Philip O’Neil, ‘Georgia: Chechen Transfer Operation Exposed’, IWPR’s PR’s Caucasus Reporting Service, 12 October 2001. 7. ‘Georgian Interior Minister Denies Presence of Chechen Rebels Near Abkhazia’, Interfax, Moscow, 25 August 2001. 8. Richard Giragosian, TransCaucasus: A Chronology, X, 6, June 2001. 9. ‘Moscow Angered by Shevardnadze’s Attempts to Whitewash Chechen Terrorist Ruslan Gelayev’, Pravda.ru, 8 November 2001, http:// english.pravda.ru/ hotspots/2001/1 l/08/20403.html 10. ‘Putin Determines Russian Stance on Anti-Terror Cause’, Moscow; RIA Novosti, 24 September 2001. 11. Igor Torbakov, ‘Russia Considers Its Own Interests as Moscow Ponders Anti-Terrorist Actions’, 18 September 2001, http://www.eurasianet.org. 12. Viktor Sokolov, ‘Dmitri Rogozin: Pankisi Gorge Problem Cannot Be Solved without Russian Military Participation’, Strana.ru National Information Service, 1 August 2002. 13. Benjamin B.Fischer, A Cold War Conundrum, Washington, DC: Central Intelligence Agency, 1997, http://www.cia.gov/csi/monograph/coldwar/ source.htm#HEADING1–01. See also: Christopher Andrew and Oleg Gordievsky, KGB: The Inside Story of Its Foreign Operations from Lenin to Gorbachev, New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1991; Oleg Kalugin with Fen Montaigne, The First Directorate: My 32 Years in Intelligence and Espionage Against the West, New York: St Martin’s Press, 1994; and Markus Wolf, Spionage Chef im Geheimen Krieg: Erinnerungen, Dusseldorf and Munich: List Verlag, 1997. 14. Otkuda Iskhodit Ugroza Miru, Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1982; and Whence the Threat to Peace, Moscow: Military Publishing House, 1982.

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15. John Erickson, The Soviet High Command: A Military-Political History, 1918– 1941, New York: St Martin’s Press, 1962; Lennart Samuelson, with Foreword by Vitaly Shlykov, Plans for Stalin’s War Machine: Tukhachevskii and Military-Economic Planning, 1925–1941, New York: St Martin’s Press in association with Centre for Russian and East European Studies, University of Birmingham, 2000; O.N.Ken, Mobilizatsionnoye Planirovaniye i Politicheskiye Resheniya: Konets 1920—Seredina 1930-kh, St Petersburg: Yevropeyskiy Universitet v Sankt-Peterburge, 2001; Kimberly Marten Zisk, Engaging the Enemy: Organization Theory and Soviet Military Innovation, 1955– 1991, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993; and A.A.Kokoshin, Armiya i Politika: Sovetskaya Voyenno-Politicheskaya i Voyenno-Strategicheskaya My sl’—1918–1991 gody, Moscow: Mezhdunarodnye Otnosheniya, 1995. 16. Samuelson with Shlykov, Plans for Stalin’s War Machine. 17. ‘Intervyu: Ugrozy Real’nyye i Mnimyye, Beseda s Polkovnikom v Otstavke V.V. Shylkovym’, Problemy Prognozirovaniya, 4, 1996, pp. 131–2. 18. ‘Intervyu: Voyenno-Tekhnicheskaya Politika, Retrospektivnyy Analiz’, Problemy Prognozirovaniya, 2, 1996, p. 137. 19. ‘Intervyu: Voyenno-Tekhnicheskaya Politika, Retrospektivnyy Analiz: Nerazrivnaya svyaz Voyennoy i Politicheskoy Strategii, Beseda Generala Armii M.A.Gareyeva s Zaveduyushchim Laboratori INP RAN S.A.Belanovskim’, Problemy Prognozirovaniya, 3, 1996, pp. 163–9. 20. ‘Intervyu: Ugrozy Real’nyye i Mnimye, Beseda s Polkovnikom v Otstavke V.V. Shylkovym’, p. 132. 21. ‘Intervyu: Voyenno-Tekhnicheskaya Politika, Retrospektivnyy Analiz’, pp. 138–9. 22. Ibid., p. 139. 23. Jacob W.Kipp, ‘Conventional Force Modernization and the Asymmetries of Military Doctrine: Historical Reflections on Air/Land Battle and the Operational Manoeuvre Group’, in Carl G.Jacobsen (ed.), The Uncertain Course: New Weapons, Strategies and Mind Sets, Oxford: Stockholm International Peace Research Institute (SIPRI)/Oxford University Press, 1987, pp. 137–66. 24. ‘Intervyu: Voyenno-Tekhnicheskaya Politika: Retrospektivnyy Analiz: O Tsene Nauchnogo Prognozirovaniya v Voyennom Stroitel’stve, Beseda s Generalom-Mayorom v Otstavke V.V.Larionov’, Problemy Prognozirovaniya, 3, 1996, p. 173. 25. ‘Intervyu: Voyenno-Tekhnicheskaya Politika: Retrospektivnyy Analiz: Nerazrivnaya Svyaz Voyennoy i Politicheskoy Strategii, Beseda Generala Armii M.A.Gareyeva s Zaveduyushchim Laboratori INP RAN S.A.Belanovskim’, pp. 167–8. 26. A.A.Kokoshin, Byt’ Rossii Velikoy Derzhavoy v XXI Veke, Moscow: IPI, 1996. 27. Anatoliy Sergeyevich Kulikov, ‘Russian Policy in the Sphere of National Security: Essence and Magnitude of Internal Threats to Stability and Order’, European Security, 6, 3, Autumn 1997, p. 17. 28. Pavel Baev, The Russian Army in a Time of Troubles, London: Sage, 1996. 29. M.I.Abdurakhmanov, B.A.Barishpolets, V.A.Manilov and V.S.Pirumov, Osnovy Natsionalnoy Bezopasnosti Rossii, Moscow: Druza, 1998, pp. 156–73.

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30. Carolina Vendil, ‘The Russian Security Council’, European Security, 10, 2, Spring 2001, pp. 67–94. 31. Don Oberdorfer, ‘A Sudden Cold War Scare: Russian Warns World of What Might Be’, Washington Post Foreign Service, 15 December 1992. 32. Rossiyskoye Federatsiya, Sovet Bezopasnosti, ‘Osnovye Polozheniya Voyennoy Doktriny Rossiyskoy Federatsii’, Moscow, 1993, p. 1. 33. Ibid. 34. Nezavisimaya Gazeta (NG), 4 November 1993, p. 1. 35. Ibid. 36. Izvestiya, 4 November 1993, p. 2. 37. NG, 4 November 1993, p. 1. 38. I.N.Rodionov, ‘Nekotoryye Podkhody k Razrabotke Voyennoy Doktriny Rossii’, Voyennaya Mysl’ (Special Issue), July 1993, pp. 9–10. 39. Ibid., pp. 10–11. 40. Igor Rodionov, ‘Neobkhidimo Reformirovat’ ne Chasti Sistemy Voyennoy Bezopasnosti Gosudarstva, a Vsyu Yeye v Tselom’, Nezavmmoye Voyennoye Obozreniye, 22, November 1996. 41. Yevgeny Primakov, ‘Russia in World Politics: A Lecture in Honor of Chancellor Gorchako’, International Affairs, 44, 3, 1998, pp. 7–12. 42. Jacob W.Kipp, Timothy L.Thomas, Lester W.Grau, Major Raymond C.Finch, III, General-Major Leonid Vasilyevich Luzhkov, Colonel Yuri Vasilyevich Morozov and Colonel Yuri Nikolayevich Dubov, Lessons and Conclusions on the Execution of IFOR Operations and Prospects for a Future Combined Security System: The Peace and Stability of Europe after IFOR, Fort Leaven worth, KS: Center for Army Lessons Learned, 1999. 43. Derek Averre, ‘NATO Expansion and Russia’, European Security, 7, 1, Spring 1998, pp. 42–3. 44. Mikhail Tsypkin, ‘Military Reform and Strategic Nuclear Forces of the Russian Federation’, European Security, 9, 1, Spring 2000, pp. 22–40. 45. ITAR-TASS, RTR, 27 July 1998. 46. Alexei Arbatov, ‘The Transformation of Russian Military Doctrine: Lessons Learned from Kosovo and Chechnya’, The Marshall Center Papers, 2, Garmisch-Partenkirchen: George C.Marshall Center, 2000, p. 4. 47. Jacob W.Kipp, ‘Russia’s Nonstrategic Nuclear Weapons’, Military Review, May-June 2001, pp. 27–38. 48. Igor Korotchenko and Vladimir Mukhin, NG, 23 June 1999, p. 2; Alexander Babakin, Rossiyskaya Gazeta, 26 June 1999, p. 2; Yury Golotyuk, ‘Zapad-99 Said To Have Rehearsed Nuclear Strike’, Izvestiya, 29 June 99, p. 2; Dmitry Litovkin and Roman Fomishenko, Krasnaya Zvezda (KZ), 13 July 1999, p. 2; Alexander Golts, Itogi, 31, 3 August 1999, pp. 12–15; and Michael R.Gordon, International Herald Tribune, 12 July 1997, p. 2. While the exercise emphasized a Baltic scenario, it should be noted that in identifying potential operational theatres General Barynkin had spoken of Kaliningrad as a possible future area of conflict if there should be a change in German policy towards the region. At the same time Barynkin had expressly mentioned an existing threat in the south in the form of Turkey’s increased economic power and pretensions in the Black Sea region and its possible intervention in the Transcaucasus. See V.M.Barynkin, ‘Voyennyye Ugrozy Rossii i Problemy

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002 255

49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

56. 57. 58.

59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

Razvitiya Yeye Vooruzhennykh Sil’, Voyennaya Mysl’, 1, January-February 1999, p. 3. Tim Judah, War and Revenge, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2000, pp. 284–5. Ilya Bulavinov, Kommersant, 3 July 1999, pp. 1–2. Ibid. Kipp, ‘Russian Non-Strategic Nuclear Weapons’, pp. 27–38. Ibid., p. 5. Samuel P.Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order, New York: Touchstone Books, 1998. On the national security concept of 2000 see: Jakub M.Godzmirski, ‘Russian National Security Concepts, 1997 and 2000: A Comparative Analysis’, European Security, 9, 4, Winter 2000, pp. 73–91. On the Military Doctrine, see Jacob W.Kipp, ‘Russia: New Draft Military Doctrine’, in: Ustina Markus and Daniel N.Nelson (eds), Brassey’s Eurasian & East European Security Yearbook, Washington, DC: Brassey’s, 2000, pp. 325–42, and Chapter 1 in this volume. ‘Russian Premier Vows to Rebuild Military Might’, Vladivostok, Russia, Reuters, 28 October 1999. Vasiliy Gulin, ‘Obsuzhdayem Proyekt Voyennoy Doktriny: Prochny li Basovyye Osnovy?’, KZ, 26 November 1999. Pavel K.Baev, ‘Russia’s Policies in the Southern Caucasus and the Caspian Area’ European Security, 10, 3, Autumn 2001, pp. 95–116. See also Lena Jonson, ‘Russia, NATO and the Handling of Conflicts at Russia’s Southern Periphery’, European Security, 9, 4, Winter 2000, pp. 45–72. ‘Shanghai “Five” Sign Joint Statement’, People’s Daily, 6 July 2000, http:// english.peopledaily.com.cn/200007/06/eng20000706_44803.html. Dale Herspring and Jacob Kipp, ‘Understanding the Elusive Mr. Putin’, Problems of Post-Communism, 48, 5, September-October 2001, pp. 3–17. Jacob W.Kipp, ‘Tectonic Shifts and Putin’s Russia in the New Security Environment’, Military Review, March-April 2002, pp. 5–71. United Nations, Security Council, ‘Security Council “Unequivocally” Condemns Terrorist Strikes against US’, Daily Highlights, 12 September 2001, http://www.un.org/dh/20010912.htm ‘NATO, Russia Make Joint Call to Fight Terrorism’, Brussels, Reuters, 12 September 2001, Johnson’s Russia List, 5441, 13 September 2001, [email protected]

Part IV: Where To?

13 Putin’s Military Priorities: The Modernisation of the Armed Forces Roger N.McDermott

The era of noncontact wars is approaching, combat operations will be different. In the operation in Afghanistan the Americans are not losing people while they achieve all their military and political objectives that were set. They have a different perception of war. They are moving forward; we are standing still.1 General Andrei Nikolayev At perhaps no time in Russia’s history has the urgency of modernisation and military reform been greater. Yet, as clear as this fact may be to observers, the path toward implementing real military reform has been cyclical and has witnessed near gridlock. The level of poverty, for instance, among Russian troops during the 1990s reached record levels and the problem of military debt contributed, among other factors, to the weakening of military prestige within Russian society.2 This was one issue that Vladimir Putin promised to address when he came to power at the turn of the millennium. His success in doing so, however, has been increasingly questioned within Russia. The tremendous geopolitical shifts over the past decade and a half have also witnessed a transformation in the way that modern warfare is conducted. Preparing to engage in large-scale conflict involving the use of mass armies has now largely been consigned to history: the emphasis in modern warfare is placed on small teams of specialists, air power and high-precision weapons. In October 2001 the US Department of Defense published its Quadrennial Review, signalling a shift in US defence planning from a traditional threat-based model to one guided by an assessment of the capabilities of an adversary.3 In Russia, however, despite its experience of low-intensity conflict during the past quartercentury, the military has not abandoned its belief in preparing for largescale conflict as the main form of military action.

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RECEIVING THE CHALICE Putin presented himself at an early stage as both friend and protector of the Russian military. An advocate of a strong, centrally controlled state, Putin has sought to stamp his impression upon the military, though achieving this in practice has proven elusive. Clearly, Putin inherited a military in very bad condition, despite much discussion of military reform during the 1990s. The armed forces suffered as they competed with numerous security ministries for a share of the defence budget, often with conflicting interests, and the officer corps had largely lost its ethos. The reform process itself became a victim in the power struggle between the Ministry of Defence (MoD) and the General Staff. Russia’s armed forces suffered from underfinancing, outdated equipment, ill discipline and low morale.4 Military exercises conducted on a large scale became a rarity during the 1990s: Zapad-99 in June 1999 was the most expensive military exercise held by the Russian armed forces since 1985. Large exercises in August 2002 in the Caspian Sea involved 60 ships and 10,000 troops. But its problems were all too familiar: reports of tanks freshly painted but lacking sufficient armour and an unconvincing performance by a new frigate.5 Military leaders resolutely continued to believe in the need for a strong military to defend Russia’s national interests. General Nikolay Mikhaylov, writing in 1998, was convinced that the manner in which war is conducted would radically differ within two decades. Such thinking illustrated well the new sense of urgency with which planners discussed the modernisation of the military.6 Russia’s own experience of lowintensity conflict, particularly in Chechnya, highlighted the dichotomy that existed between the nature of the threats which Russia faces, and the capability of its armed forces to deal adequately with them. In 2001 Defence Minister Sergei Ivanov reiterated Russia’s intention to switch to a three-branch military structure. In addition, he made a promise of enhancing payments to service personnel in an attempt to boost morale, while seeking to improve the balance between maintenance and development. Other aspects of military reform must be considered as a backdrop to the reform of the armed forces. Social, economic and legal features of reforms that were initiated by Yeltsin remain priorities that Putin must evolve if reform is to succeed. During the 1990s reform of the ‘other forces’ was almost non-existent. Largely neglected by Western analysts, their size and significance often overlooked, the paramilitary forces controlled by a number of ‘power ministries’ consume a significant part of

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TABLE 13.1: ‘OTHER FORCES’ IN RUSSIA IN DECEMBER 2001

Source: Vadim Saranov, ‘Critical Mass: There Are Too Many Armed Formations in Russia’, Versiya, 47, 11–17 December 2001, CDI Russia Weekly. 184, 14 December 2001. I am indebted to Frank Umbach for supplying this material.

defence expenditure: estimated in 2000 at around one-third of the defence budget. As an example of the priorities for reform among these ‘other forces’, the Federal Border Guard Service (FPS) has been subjected to the cyclical and at times meaningless reform process. It is tasked with the protection of the longest land border in the world, yet it has been subject to the same problems afflicting the regular armed forces: low morale, corruption and poor quality of manpower, while struggling to acquire its share of spending. Reform of the FPS, largely seen in manpower reduction during the 1990s, has been neither clear nor consistent. Putin intends to further reduce the FPS by 15,000 troops in the next five years, but this raises

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serious questions regarding the number of troops reasonably needed to protect RF borders against threats Putin has made a priority: terrorism and trafficking of all kinds. Moreover, revisiting the plans for reforming the FPS first mooted by General Nikolayev (commander of the FPS 1993– 97), border districts have been replaced with regional directorates as well as streamlining central command structures. However, real reform of the FPS, addressing its core manning and funding problems, has been eschewed in favour of organisational manoeuvres and force reduction.7 Establishing the Priorities Putin has used the Security Council to coordinate consistent security policies and to promote military reform.8 Putin’s military priorities were initially organisational. He implemented the re-drafting of the National Security Concept, the Military Doctrine and a new Maritime Doctrine. In so doing, little risk was taken while the idea of reform was promoted. Administrative streamlining has also entailed attempting to gain greater accountability over defence spending. Putin has revived the space troops and the ground forces high command and proclaimed the targets of improving mobility, professionalism, discipline and law and order in the armed forces. He has also enhanced the powers of the military districts, enabling them to exercise operational as opposed to purely administrative command at a regional level. This should help to eliminate duplication and thus reduce costs.9 Putin, to a greater extent than his predecessor, understands the dire condition of the armed forces and cares very deeply about their plight, which is understandable given his own background in the KGB. The nature of the crisis is not lost on him, but the question remains whether he will succeed in achieving real reform. In appointing a close colleague and a civilian as Defence Minister, Putin strengthened his own control over the armed forces. He also enhanced the authority of the MoD in forming security policy at the expense of the General Staff. The Military Doctrine does not serve as a blueprint for reform; indeed, that is not its function.10 It does, however, suggest that a balance must be achieved between the political requirements and economic constraints: An attainable correspondence, within the limits of the country’s economic potential, between, on the one hand, the level of combat and mobilisation readiness training, the preparedness of bodies of military command and control and of the troops (forces), their structures, fighting strength and strength of the reserve, and

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reserves of material means and resources, and on the other hand, the missions of safeguarding military security.11 Such ideals are a useful focus, but the document is largely inconsequential in determining the limits and future course of military reform, serving instead as a document to which the various interested parties can appeal, in claiming consistency with the stated objectives. Putin has in fact conceded that the aims outlined in the Military Doctrine are currently unrealisable, owing to the economic constraints placed upon it. There is an undoubted imbalance within the defence budget, for instance, between the maintenance of the army and the procurement of military hardware.12 Putin has made it clear that he wants the armed forces to implement reforms rather than engage in protracted discussions on their precise nature. Yet a great dichotomy still exists between the stated aims of reform and the present condition of the armed forces. THE CRISIS IN THE ARMED FORCES The conscription system itself is a major contributory factor in the decline of military discipline. This has long been recognised in Russia, yet Yeltsin’s plan in 1996 to professionalise the army by 2000 failed miserably within two years. The armed forces have suffered due to the poor health of recruits and a culture of abuse (dedovshchina). In 1997, Nikita Chaldymov, serving on the presidential human rights commission, described the Russian military as ‘inhuman’.13 The General Staff has found it difficult to dispense with Soviet views of Russia’s need to maintain a global war capability. It retains the vestiges of the Cold War in a continued belief in the necessity for mass mobilisation forces based on conscription, and in its decade-long opposition to the legal right of young men to perform alternative, nonmilitary service. Nevertheless, the army has experienced growing problems in securing the quality needed in military personnel from its call-up. A number of factors indicate the collapsing nature of the conscription system. There is a severe crisis both in finding suitable recruits and in keeping them. Colonel-General Vladislav Putilin, chief of the Main Organisation and Mobilisation Directorate, held a meeting in late November 2001 with representatives of organisation-mobilisation bodies. Significantly, it was the first such meeting for five years.14

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Social Conditions Military registration and enlistment offices throughout the country are concerned by the growing problems associated with the call-up. The spring 2001 call-up showed more than 13 per cent of potential recruits evading military service, a phenomenon particularly prevalent in Moscow, St Petersburg, Volgograd, Kaliningrad and Nizhniy Novgorod. For the first time in a decade the army has recruited illiterate soldiers, while the number of able-bodied recruits has decreased by one-third since 1998. The health of potential recruits also differs on a regional basis. The rate of those passed fit for service in Novosibirsk (53.7 per cent) and Udmurtia (51.3 per cent) is low, and this is also reflected in the Magadan and Orel regions.15 In the first two years of Putin’s presidency the number of alcoholics and drug addicts in the army increased by 2.4 times. The poor physical standard of those who are called up increasingly affects the army’s ability to function. Problems associated with discipline have resulted in low morale. Cruelty and harassment of recruits have become institutionalised, producing a climate of fear that permeates units across the country.16 Reported incidents of cruelty in the barracks and embezzlement have increased by 28 per cent since 2000. What is especially worrying is that the corruption and criminality exists among officers. This is not restricted to the army but finds parallels in the other branches of the armed forces. The Pacific Fleet, for instance, recorded over 200 crimes in the first threequarters of 2001. Institutional dedovshchina is not only recognised as a growing problem in the fleet but has surfaced in connection with officers. Justice Major-General Valeriy Suchkov, military prosecutor of the Pacific Fleet, confirmed that over 100 officers have been convicted over the last three years, including at least three senior officers.17 Suchkov noted during an inspection of the Varyag that 35 per cent of all wounds resulted from cruelty and harassment suffered on board the ship. In addition serious crimes such as embezzlement and blackmail have also been uncovered. Lieutenant-Colonel A.Shadrakov was convicted of employing fictitious persons and drawing their salaries for more than three years; but he was only given a suspended sentence. In the course of 2001 more than 30 officers stood trial for embezzlement or blackmail, around half of whom held senior rank. Figures released by the General Staff in July 2002 highlight the disastrous nature of both morale and discipline. In 2001 there were 70 suicides among soldiers; warrant officers and officers; the figure for the first half of 2002 reached 98. In the same period 2,270 servicemen deserted (since these are officially released figures the actual figures could well be higher). General Rodionov, speaking in 1996, linked

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such deaths in the armed forces to poor social conditions and declining morale; today the causes are claimed to be unclear.18 Paying Soldiers In this context the issue of pay is of crucial importance. Soldiers and others on active service in Chechnya experienced problems in receiving their salaries. The Volgograd garrison court supported the lawsuit filed by two sergeants demanding their combat salaries from unit 55642, who were on active service between June and November 2000. The court ordered the unit to pay 123,930 rubles to each sergeant.19 Not every case is dealt with in such an equitable manner. According to the Russian Union of Committees of Mothers of Soldiers, such verdicts are all too infrequent. In 2001, 251 complaints were made and 63 cases resulted in payments to servicemen. (The abysmal conditions experienced by Russian servicemen have been highlighted by the work of the Unions of Soldiers’ Mothers. They represent a growing moral opposition towards the draft, with offices throughout the Russian Federation. The Union is most commonly approached on cruelty in the barracks or the nonpayment of combat salaries.20) Putin prioritised resolving the social problems experienced by servicemen and their families, telling the Security Council in May 2001 that this was a matter of principle: ‘the military man should feel socially comfortable and materially well provided for’. Around 40 per cent of servicemen’s families live below the subsistence minimum. The average per capita minimum standard of living grew by more than 34 per cent in 2000, while inflation was around 22 per cent; consequently large numbers of officers’ families sank further below the minimum standard. Government promises to address the problems of officers’ pay are regarded with scepticism on the part of many Putin promised to increase military salaries by 20 per cent as of 1 September 2001: this proved to be a mirage given the resulting manipulation of the balance between pay and allowances.21 The MoD certainly regarded the proposed changes in the structure of monetary allowances with scepticism. Calculations suggested that contrary to government projections the increases in monetary allowances would result in no more than a 10–15 per cent rise, not the 50 per cent suggested by some. Having suffered from stagnation for almost a decade, military salaries are henceforth to be linked to those of civil servants, though this will be done in stages and is likely to take at least a decade. Furthermore, the conduct of defence budget negotiations behind closed doors conceals much of the opposition that it stimulates from the military

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themselves. Lyubov Kudelina, Deputy Defence Minister, defends this position: she believes that too much is discussed openly and she is vehemently opposed to publishing all the articles of the defence budget— though it is open to the inspection of the OSCE. This is one example of the curious situation within Putin’s concept of ‘managed democracy’, that the Russian people themselves are not permitted access to how the military budget is spent.22 Salary and housing are urgent priorities for Putin’s vision of military reform to succeed. In particular the planned abolition of the right to apartments for those retiring from the military can only, in the short term, serve to increase the numbers seeking early retirement.23 Housing problems have continued to plague servicemen throughout the decade. In 1999 there were 93,400 homeless officers; that number increased by January 2000 to 95,600 and by August 2002 it had reached 168,000.24 Major-General Vadim Nikolaskiy, deputy chief of the MoD Housing Department, suggested as a possible solution that the state should create a new social programme for servicemen, enabling officers to divert part of their money allowance to a state-protected fund, while renting housing in the same manner as students in military academies.25 Improving the conditions of soldiers’ barracks is not impossible, as Putin has seen for himself. A two-year rebuilding programme between 1999 and 2001 was successfully completed at the Lefortovo military camp in eastern Moscow. Inspecting the refurbishment with Putin, Defence Minister Ivanov commented, ‘If all barracks are of this standard, then the changeover to a professional army across the country as a whole will be made considerably easier.’26 Resolving such deeply rooted social problems lies at the heart of Putin’s military priorities. Indeed, without substantive progress on the issue, according to Putin, it will be ‘quite impossible to talk about the reform of the armed forces’.27 However, as the president has also made clear, such measures are only achievable on the condition of continued growth in the Russian economy, and progress will require time and proper investment. Many officers have felt justifiably subjected to numerous unfulfilled promises of governmental assistance. Conscripts are still routinely forced into service at a great distance from home. Once drafted, they may find themselves used as cheap labour or suffer the humiliation of dedovshchina. Recruits learn to acquire a criminal mindset within the corruption of their units, and bring such practices into society when their service ends.

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TABLE 13.2: ATTITUDES TOWARDS MILITARY SERVICE

Source: Vremya Novostei, 22 February 2002, cited in M.J.Orr, Manning Problems of the Russian Armed Forces, Sandhurst, CSRC, D62, Feb. 2002.

Manning The reasons for seeking to overhaul the conscription system are both social and demographic. The quality and quantity of recruits deteriorate every year. Colonel-General Vladislav Putilin illustrated the nature of the problem in 2001. A total of 194,824 persons were called up in the autumn draft; 33,500 failed to respond. The figure for the spring call-up was 27, 500.28 As many as 85 per cent of those registered with the military commissioner’s offices are granted deferments from service. More than half of potential recruits suffer from poor health. All this makes the twiceyearly draft a time for decrying the manning system.29 Demographic problems are anticipated to peak around 2008–10, and this is seen as an important undercurrent driving forward plans to abolish the current conscription system. Putilin admitted that the need for a professional army in Russia is predicated upon an anticipated deficit of 30–40 per cent in recruitment by 2010.30 Demographic trends have, therefore, played a critical role in conditioning the political and military advocates in favour of professionalising the armed forces. Problems relating to the manning system in the Russian armed forces are not new; they have been analysed since before the disintegration of the

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USSR. The conscription system has suffered from a shortage of conscripts, deterioration in their quality, health and education, and a predilection to criminality and unwillingness to serve.31 Education of a professional NCO cadre is also needed to address the long-term problems caused by the shortage of junior officers in the Russian army, which contributes significantly to everyday problems of managing Russian soldiers. PROFESSIONALISING THE ARMED FORCES: A PANACEA OR DISTANT DREAM? In November 2000 Putin asked the Russian Security Council to examine plans to create a professional army. This is thought to have resulted from a series of Security Council meetings held in 2000 which suggested that Russia should no longer rely upon conscription. Defence Minister Pavel Grachev in May 1993 had envisaged the professionalisation of the military taking place in three stages, culminating in raising the professional component to 50 per cent by 2000. The presence of professional servicemen, serving under contract within the Russian armed forces, is not new, as the first of these joined in 1992, though their reputation to date has been poor. Indeed, the 201st Motor Rifle Division, based in Tajikistan, is almost entirely professional. Since the early 1990s the Russian government has conveyed mixed signals on the issue of professionalisation. The Finance and Economic Development Ministries vetoed proposals put forward by the Defence Ministry for additional contract servicemen. Yeltsin’s failed attempt in 1996 to reinvigorate the idea left it largely discredited. More importantly, there is little recognition or understanding within the Russian military of the character of a ‘professional’ army on Western lines.32 This could take a longer time to redress. Only the day before Putin’s announcement in September 2001, Defence Minister Sergei Ivanov had dismissed speculation about the abolition of conscription,33 revealing the disunity within the security establishment and its natural reluctance to consider change. Putin initially chose to set the rather ambitious target of ‘abolishing’ conscription by 2010. A more realistic time-scale envisages the achievement of a professional army between 2010 and 2015. In any case, the transition will be gradual and experimental in its nature. A draft programme for placing the armed forces on a contract basis will be completed by 2004—just before the next scheduled presidential elections. Controversy surrounding the proposals was hardly surprising, but the debate within the military revealed genuine disunity, entrenched views and the difficulties Putin would face in implementing his priorities.

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Colonel-General Putilin, for instance, did not oppose the idea, but he voiced concern over the problems that professionalising the military would entail.34 Improving the infrastructure of military garrisons will be a key objective in successfully carrying out such reforms. The MoD envisages professional and conscript soldiers living together in the same barracks, while admitting the need to renovate these barracks. Financial plans by the MoD, when they are discussed openly, reveal that substantial parts of the extra cost of professionalising will be reforming the physical infrastructures. Unfortunately, the financial burden will be great and the necessary improvements cannot be achieved by 2004 even if the money is made available. Equally, the cost of recruiting contract servicemen into units will be enormous. In short, an effective programme of professionalising the army cannot be carried out successfully without proper funding. Putilin estimated that the cost of maintaining one contract motor rifle division would be 30 per cent more expensive than one manned by conscripts. In his view, professional servicemen would require a minimum monthly salary of R5,500 (around US$175).35 General Andrei Nikolayev, chairman of the Defence Committee of the Duma, agreed with Putilin’s sober assessment of the problems in professionalising the military. The question of the infrastructure must be answered. ‘You cannot drive contract servicemen into dilapidated barracks,’ Nikolayev said.36 It is equally important to address the ethos of contract servicemen, which he suggested be with the defence of the country in mind, not financial gain. Implementing these reforms will necessitate a gradual approach, in Nikolayev’s view, allowing time to change the psychology of contract servicemen. Nikolayev has been an outspoken opponent of the unrealistic approach taken towards military reform by both the MoD and the General Staff. He is convinced that the main avenues of reform ought to be changes in manning principles and the rearmament of troops with modern weaponry. In practice, he complained, these are substituted by cuts in personnel.37 Nikolayev’s criticism is that military reform in the 1990s failed to address either the political or the economic side of the debate. In fact, theoretically the General Staff is far from opposed to the idea of a professional army. The General Staff carried out a detailed study in 1999 that concluded that Russia would be unable to recruit enough ablebodied soldiers by 2005. In addition, another study carried out at the Academy of Military Sciences in Moscow, led by its president General Makhmut Gareyev, concluded that a professional army could be achieved within six years. The report suggested that: • A soldier only needs to be taught theory for six-eight months.

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• Contract soldiers should be drawn from the ranks of the conscripts. • If it is properly financed reform will take ten years. • By 2005 the army should include 150,000 professional soldiers and 392, 000 conscripts serving for two years. • Contract servicemen will only join the army if the pay is good enough.38 Putin has found political support for his reform plans from a broad spectrum in society. One keen supporter has been Vladimir Kulikov, deputy chairman of the Federation Council Defence Committee. Kulikov argued, in particular, that the principal need for a professional army was based on the ineffectual nature of conscripted soldiers. He noted that 47 in every 1,000 recruits each year are sent home due to ill health. Psychological disorders, including pathological tendencies, are a direct result of the pressure exerted on new recruits, known to shoot at each other under serious strain.39 Political support for Putin’s plans to professionalise the military was forthcoming from political parties such as SPS and Yabloko, each making military reform one of their main priorities. Rather unrealistically, however, SPS leader Boris Nemstov suggested the cancellation of the call-up as early as 2004. In February 2002, the General Staff finished drafting a blueprint for transferring the army and navy to contract service; after some minor revisions it was belatedly submitted to President Putin in July 2002. That process is expected to culminate in December 2003 in a federal programme which Putin can endorse before the presidential elections in 2004.40 But by the summer of 2002, the time-scale had not only slowed down but was taking account of economic reality. Even Putin acknowledged that the reform can only occur gradually, and within the confines of further growth in the Russian economy.41 The 76th Airborne Division at Pskov will serve as an important case study, to ascertain the most suitable infrastructure changes needed to support a professional army. The experiment began on 1 September 2002 and is expected to end in summer 2003; the government will then evaluate its results with a view to costing the implementation of contract service throughout the armed forces. It will necessitate increasing monthly allowances, building improved barracks and providing apartment blocks for contract servicemen.42 It is estimated that the experiment may cost 2–2.5 billion rubles; housing alone will involve spending at least 1.5 billion rubles.43 Financial obstacles impede military reform in general and professionalising the armed forces in particular. According to MajorGeneral Valeriy Astanin, deputy chief of the armed forces Main

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Organisational-Mobilisation Directorate, the cost of rapidly cancelling conscript service could reach ‘hundreds of billions [of rubles] which neither the army nor the country has, and so the transition to a contract army may stretch out’. In fact, Astanin believes that the cost of professionalisation could necessitate doubling the defence budget. Opponents of professionalisation may encourage the development of the 76th Division as a showcase example of progress within the armed forces: however, one requiring expenditure that would make further professionalising economically unrealistic. Time-scale for Reform and Addressing Social Conditions Anatoly Kvashnin, Chief of the General Staff, recognises the task of modernising the Russian armed forces will take some time; he has suggested this period may be longer than ten years. Looking beyond this, he suggested that the armed forces in future should be radically different and comparable with those of other developed nations. Kvashnin has admitted that the level of combat readiness has declined in the past decade. Further reduction of the size of the armed forces is expected to achieve a level of 1 million men, which in Kvashnin’s view will be the size of the contract army.44 Moreover, Kvashnin does not necessarily envisage the complete abolition of conscription. The reformed armed forces could combine professional and conscripted servicemen. Professional soldiers, in his opinion, would be sent to ‘hotspots’.45 Nonetheless, Kvashnin’s assessment of ‘adequate pay’ and a ‘range of social benefits’, as the means of securing better-quality recruits, appears somewhat simplistic. Raising the income of contract servicemen serving in Tajikistan in the 201st Division did not result in an improvement in the quality of recruits, or solve the manning problems within the division. In order to attract quality recruits fundamental changes must be made in the public perception of the armed forces, raising the prestige of military service. Achieving this will demand more than substantially raising salaries and privileges to servicemen; it will necessitate a long-term sustained government policy directed at the education of the young, making military service more acceptable to them. A professional ethos, however, cannot be purchased; if this aspect of professionalising the armed forces is overlooked, Russia will risk achieving little more than state-approved mercenaries.

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Training and Education The Russian armed forces have experienced severe problems in recruiting graduates from the military institutes as well as the universities. Keeping such graduates within the military has proven an impossible task. Graduates from military academies and universities sign a five-year contract with the military; on completing that period of service they are free to take up a civilian job. In a period of decline necessitating military reform, it is not unusual that some attention is given to the educational requirements of the military. This has certainly been a historical tradition within the Russian armed forces. After the disastrous Soviet war against Finland in 1940, the General Staff began to pursue precisely that course of action: Marshal Shaposhnikov demanded exacting and laborious scrutiny of the Finnish war, and the Red Army had to be retrained in the art of war. Attention was duly given to junior officers, renovating the syllabi for military academies and placing a greater emphasis upon field exercises. Kvashnin, also realising the significant role of education in professionalising the armed forces, has attempted to promote the issue of education within the General Staff. He has overseen the establishment of a military and historical college within the General Staff Academy. Likewise, standards of combat training have concerned ground forces commander Colonel-General Nikolai Kormiltsev, who advocates pedagogical skills for the supervisors of military exercises. In his opinion, this should foster creativity in the organisation of field training and tactical exercises.46 TheSoviet system, of course, allowed little scope for individual creativity and initiative and this has persisted in the Russian armed forces. Preparing officers for their military duties ought to be a continuous process. In Russia this has been badly neglected and underfinanced. Consequently, officer training has been lacking in sufficient detail, and their warrant officers and ensigns have been subject to these failings, living with its consequences on a day-to-day basis. The MoD has to prioritise the education of officers, and NCOs in particular, if professional standards are to be attained in the armed forces. The curriculum has altered in as much as communist ideology has disappeared; however, other weaknesses have resulted. Colonel-General Leonid Zolotov, chief of the Combined Arms Academy, believes the curriculum needs urgent revising in order to train highly professional specialists. In addition he is convinced that, by cutting the length of courses in the military academies from three to two years, there is no longer enough time for proper training. Such cuts in the length of courses

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also shift the balance between theoretical and practical training in the education process. While the necessity of educational reform is widely recognised as a priority, there remain divergent views on how to achieve it. Funding will prove a significant obstacle to reform. Kvashnin implemented a directive in December 2001 reducing the level of salary paid to teaching staff within the Russian Armed Forces Academy. As a consequence, more than 70 staff resigned in protest. Without fundamental reform of the education system, properly targeted on senior as well as junior officers, attempts to professionalise the military will also founder. Putin has also considered re-introducing a course in basic military training to the school curriculum to facilitate better standards at the outset, while recognising that it may not dispel young men’s reservations about joining the ranks.47 THE FUTURE RUSSIAN SOLDIER The Russian armed forces have undoubtedly had a great history, twice playing a major part in repelling the European dictators Napoleon and Hitler. Indeed they survived the great ravages upon their structure, personnel and morale exacted by Stalin’s purges in the 1930s and the tremendous upheaval of World War II. It would be folly to write off the Russian armed forces on the grounds of the problems and weaknesses of the last decade. In fact, despite demographic and financial problems, today Russia’s armed forces would present a formidable foe to any aggressor. The era of large-scale wars fought by mass armies is largely over. Perhaps the greatest obstacle to military reform lies in the mindset, which clings doggedly to the need for a mass army—even in the postCold War world. Russia’s recent military history, denoted by its involvement in small wars and international peacekeeping duties, seems to demand professionalisation. By any standards this is a visionary policy that will take time to implement, and it will require further analysis of the exact nature of what Russia requires to preserve its sovereignty and defend its national interests. It may also promote the further involvement of Russian forces in international cooperative peacekeeping operations. If there is any tangible progress in Russian military reform within the past decade it is in so far as the dreaming approach that denoted the reform policies of Yeltsin has given way to a more rational and sensible one. Putin has achieved much in terms of securing a tighter grip on the armed forces. The president is keen to achieve the political dividend which would surely follow linking his name with a radical transformation of the Russian armed forces. His is a far-from-reactionary

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policy, under consideration since well before November 2000, when he first instructed the Russian Security Council to examine the manpower issue in detail. The belief in the successful professionalisation of the armed forces may yet entail levels of self-deception akin to Prince Potemkin’s villages. If the absence of financial backing remains a feature of the political landscape within Russia, then the reforms will fail. Similarly, if professionalising the armed forces is viewed as a cure to all ills of Russia’s military, its failure will be inevitable. In the medium term, Putin’s military reform programme may be judged against social factors such as the provision of housing, increased salaries, reduction in the incidents of dedovshchina and enhanced morale. In the long term, however, his reforms will stand or fall on the success of the professionalising of the military: on this issue and that of financial accountability he has nailed his colours to the mast. Military reform must, however, become more systemic and less piecemeal in order to succeed. Putin appears to be following such an approach. He must also overcome the huge financial hurdles involved in such a costly and ambitious programme. The Russian economy is the real focus of Putin’s presidency. Military reform must be coupled to the progress of the economy, or rooted in economic reality: this is clearly apprehended by Putin, unlike his predecessor. And yet the end result will not guarantee successful reform. Reducing financial waste, reducing corruption and improving economic accountability within the armed forces will be as critical challenges as professionalisation in shaping the parameters of military reform in the next decade. Transforming the condition of the military as a whole will be a gradual process: Putin appreciates there is no rapid solution. However, the start—stop structural tinkering approach to reform that has failed to deliver progress in the past decade has so far been eschewed by President Putin as he pursues more realistic plans. Andrei Kokoshin, writing in the 1990s, stressed the need for ‘rapid’ military reform with the timely warning: ‘History has given Russia only so much time to reform the military; it would be foolish to believe that Russia has all the time it needs.’48 The continued talk of military reform, without its implementation, has had a negative effect on morale. Despite a decade of ‘military reform’, the Russian armed forces face the prospect of enduring another 10 to 15 years of ‘reform’. It is a daunting prospect for servicemen who long to rid themselves of the label ‘defaulters in uniform’. During that time reform must be genuine, albeit gradual, if it is to raise the morale and standards of the Russian armed forces. It may also, if it succeeds, witness the evolution of the contract soldier into a type of soldier peculiar to Russia’s needs but distinct from Western models, but

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one more capable of meeting the challenges of warfare in the twenty-first century. NOTES 1. N.Nikolayev, ‘Priorities: Duma Military Reform Programme’, Nezavisimoye Voyennoye ‘Obozreniye (NVO), 8 February 2002, p. 1, FBIS-0335. 2. Izvestiya, 9 February 1999. 3. US Department of Defense, Quadrennial Defence Review Report, 30 September 2001, p. 13. 4. D.R.Herspring, ‘The Continuing Disintegration of the Russian Military’, in M.H. Crutcher (ed.), The Russian Armed Forces at the Dawn of the Millennium, Carlisle, PA: US Army War College, 2000, pp. 133–46. 5. Frank Umbach, ‘The Maritime Strategy of Russia: The Gap Between Great Sea Power Ambitions and the Economic-Military Realities’, in Jürgen Schwartz, Wilfried A.Herrmann and Hanns-Frank Seller (eds), Maritime Strategies in Asia, Bangkok: White Lotus Press, 2002, p. 187; Michael Lelyveld, ‘Caspian: Results of Russian War Games Still a Mystery’, Eurasia Insight, 24 August 2002, www.eurasianet.org/departments/insight/ articles/082402.shtml. 6. N.V.Mikhaylov, ‘Russia May Preserve Great Power Status’, NVO, 25 October 1998. 7. Alexei Arbatov, ‘Military Reform in Russia. Dilemmas, Obstacles, and Prospects’, International Security, Spring 1998, pp. 83–134; ‘Appendix 4E: Russian Military Expenditure and Arms Production’, SIPRI Yearbook 2001: Armaments, Disarmament and International Security, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001, p. 313–22; for further detail on the FPS, see Gordon Bennett, The Federal Border Guard Service, Camberley: CSRC, C107, March 2002. 8. Carolina Vendil, ‘The Russian Security Council’, European Security, 10, 2, pp. 86–7. Further analysis of the Security Council can be found in M.A.Smith, The Security Council, Sandhurst: CSRC, C94, 1997. 9. Krasnaya Zvezda (KZ), 25 April 2001. 10. S.J.Main, Russia’s Military Doctrine, Sandhurst: CSRC Occasional Brief No. 77, April 2000. See Marcel de Haas, ‘An Analysis of Sov iet, CIS and Russian Military Doctrines 1990–2000’, Journal of Slavic Military Studies, 14, 4, December 2001, pp. 1–34. 11. Military Doctrine of the Russian Federation, Nezavisimaya Gazeta (NG), 22 April 2000. 12. Zavtra, 24 April 2001. 13. Russian Television Network, Moscow, 23 November 1997, FBIS-0503, 24 November 2001. 14. O.Falichev, ‘Who Will Join the Ranks of the Army?’, KZ, 21 November 2001, p. 2. 15. Ibid. 16. See Chapter 4.

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17. Among those convicted were three submarine commanders and five unit commanders: ‘Justice Major-General Valeriy Suchkov: Crime Rate among Officers is What Worries Us’, Boyevaya Vakhta (publication of the Pacific Fleet), 3 December 2001, p. 3, WPS. 18. One draftee on the Varyag committed suicide in August, and three more almost drowned after jumping overboard and swimming to shore; all were cases of victimisation. Ibid.; V.Georgiyev, ‘The General Staff Releases Crime Statistics’, NG, 12 July 2002. 19. I.Belasheva, ‘Fighting for Pay: A Lot of Soldiers and Servicemen are Fighting in Chechnya for Free’, Vremya Novostei, 21 October 2001, p. 3. 20. Soviet myth-making about the power of its armed forces has steadily weakened since the disintegration of the Soviet Union in 1991. Consequently many young people in Russia wish to avoid being drafted into what is perceived as a poor and violent army. Cf. Soldiers’ Mothers of St Petersburg, Report, 20–26 September 1999; F.Daucé, L’Etat, l’armée et le citoyen en Russie postsoviétique, Paris: L’Harmattan, 2001. 21. V.Sokirko, ‘Vladimir Putin’s Promises to the Army Have Not Been Kept’, Moskovskiy Komsomolets, 22 November 2001, p. 2. 22. V.Georgiyev, ‘Lyubov Kudelina Against Opening All Articles of Military Budget’, NG, 23 November 2001, p. 2. 23. NVO, 11 May 2001, FBIS-0096, 18 May 2001, FBIS-0397. In November 2001 Putin described the welfare and maintenance of servicemen as ‘the most important and decisive part of military reform’. ‘Russia’s Putin Stresses Importance of Servicemen’s Welfare Provision’, ITAR-TASS News Agency, BBC Monitoring Service, 12 November 2001. 24. Izvestiya, 25 June 2001; Viktor Litovkin, ‘Military Reform and the Country’s Economic Resources’, RIA Novosti, Moscow, 28 August 2002. 25. Obshchaya Gazeta, 18–19, 8 May 2001. 26. BBC Monitoring Service, 12 December 2001. 27. ‘Russia’s Putin Stresses Importance’. 28. V.Batuyev, ‘Event of the Week: Serve Under Obligation or at Your Own Desire’, Moskovskiye Novosti, 5 February 2002. 29. ‘Russian Spring Call Up Begins: Problems, Cost of Professional Army Outlined’, AVN, 1 April 2002; See M.J.Orr, Manning Problems of the Russian Armed Forces, Sandhurst: CSRC, D62, February 2002. 30. BBC Monitoring Service, 23 November 2001. 31. C.J.Dick, The Russian Army: Present Plight and Future Prospects, Sandhurst: CSRC, OB31, p. 2; J.C.Oliphant, The Soviet Serviceman in a Changing System, Sandhurst: Soviet Studies Research Centre, D53, 1990. 32. I am indebted to Michael Orr for his insight into Russian military thinking on this issue. 33. I.Bulavinov, ‘Transition for the Army on Contractual Basis: Expenditures to Total at Least 100 Billion Rubles’, Kommersant, 22 November 2001, p. 1, WPS Agency. 34. O.Falichev, ‘The Military by Vocation: Creation of a Professional Army Requires Precise Weighted Decisions’, KZ, 29 November 2001.

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35. Kommersant, 24 November 2001; ‘Russian General Outlines salary Requirements for Professionals’, AVN, Moscow, BBC Monitoring Service, 2 April 2002. 36. Nikolayev was an important individual in the early reform of the Russian military 1992–93. See V.Batuyev, ‘Disintegration of the Army as a Consequence of the Military Reforms?’, Vremya MN, 23 November 2001, p. 2. 37. Izvestiya, 16 October 2001. 38. Komsomolskaya Pravda, 7 December 2001. Vladimir Kulikov considers the target of reducing the length of service for draftees from two years to six months as impossible: ‘Russian Chief of General Staff Garners Senators’ Support for Military Reform’, ITAR-TASS News Agency, BBC Monitoring Service, 3 December 2001. 39. AFP, 29 November 2001. 40. ‘Rotation of Paras in Chechnya Linked to Plan for Russian Professional Army’, ITAR-TASS News Agency, Moscow, BBC Monitoring Service, 1 April 2002; O.Odnokolenko, ‘Reform: How Much Does a Professional Cost?’, Itogi, 22 January 2002, pp. 18–20, FBIS-0375; ‘Blueprint for Building Professional Army in Russia Ready—General’, ITAR-TASS News Agency, Moscow, BBC Monitoring Service, 27 February 2002; Isabelle Facon, The Reform of the Russian Army: Issues and Obstacles, Sandhurst: CSRC, D64, July 2002. 41. ‘Putin Criticises Idea of Armed Forces Rushing to Contract’, ITAR-TASS News Agency, Moscow, 26 August 2002. 42. ‘Putin Criticises Idea of Armed Forces Rushing to Contract’, 43. Litovkin, ‘Military Reform and the Country’s Economic Resources’. 44. Parlamentskaya Gazeta, 21 March 2001; ‘Russian Top General Reassesses Threats, Pins Hopes on Contract Army’, ITAR-TASS News Agency, Moscow, BBC Monitoring Service, 29 April 2002. Kulikov has also mentioned the same figure of 1 million men serving in a future contract army, ‘Vladimir Kulikov, Federation Council Member, Representative of Magadan Oblast Administration: What Kind of Army Russia Needs’, Parlamentskaya Gazeta, 16 January 2002, FBIS-0370. 45. ‘Russian Chief of Staff Says Professional Army Needed for Hot Spots,’ NTV, Moscow, BBC Monitoring Service, 21 November 2001. 46. FBIS-0257, 26 June 2001; KZ, 21 October 2001. 47. ‘Russian President Speaks in Favour of Adding Basic Military Training to School Curricula’, RIA Novosti, 5 October 2002. 48. A.A.Kokoshin, Soviet Strategic Thought, 1917–91, Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1998, p. 208.

14 An Economic Analysis of Russian Military Reform Proposals: Ambition and Reality Peter J.Sutcliffe and Chris Hill

RUSSIA’S ECONOMY AT THE CROSSROADS The Russian economy will, to the end of 2002, have registered four successive years of growth. The rapid decline of the post-Soviet years would appear to have finally bottomed out and some of the conditions necessary for future sustained growth have been or are being met. There have been false dawns before, notably in the mid-1990s when rapid privatisation and a booming stock market convinced many that real transformation was at hand. But this optimism was soon overwhelmed by fiscal and monetary indiscipline leading to massive deficits, spiralling inflation and ultimate financial collapse. However, during his first year as president, Vladimir Putin consolidated his control over the levers of power and subsequently has used it to push through a number of economic reforms that have helped to stabilise government finances while improving transparency and efficiency throughout the economy. This does not definitively mean that Russia’s long-term economic growth path is assured. The economy remains precariously dependent upon primary resources and their initial processing. Oil and gas alone now account for nearly a quarter of gross domestic product (GDP), about half of all export earnings and around a third of government tax revenue. Gazprom on its own represents perhaps 6–7 per cent of Russian GDP. This lack of economic diversity makes the economy especially vulnerable to external shocks, such as sharp price movements in the global economy or recession in major export markets. On the reform front, as much remains undone as has been done. Opposition to economic liberalisation remains, especially within the middle levels of government where corruption and incompetence still flourish. On a more positive note, the dismissal of Central Bank chief Viktor Gerashchenko, who presided over a corrupt, ineffective and excessively regulated banking system, should remove one of the main obstacles preventing essential banking sector reform.

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Nevertheless, despite the legislative fireworks, full implementation of the government’s ambitious reform programme will remain difficult, and progress could stall as economic growth slows. What we can forecast with some confidence is that the economic collapse associated with the demise of the Soviet Union has run its course and, barring calamitous externalities, is not likely to re-emerge. Russia could have become a giant version of Belarus or have fractured ethnically like Georgia, but it has not. It has made its choice and this has from the beginning been broadly pro-West, despite nationalist and authoritarian overtones to appease still entrenched conservative opposition in the power ministries and elsewhere. Indeed, Putin may even be stepping out a little ahead of public opinion, but so long as the West remains receptive and markets remain open, progress and prosperity—relative to the Soviet era—lie ahead. Membership of the World Trade Organisation appears likely in 2004 or thereabouts and this alone will help to consolidate and enforce the rules upon which a fully functioning market economy is based. At the very least, activity both on the diplomatic stage and with regard to reform legislation is in stark contrast to the inactivity, sleaze and drift of the later Yeltsin years and has inspired a confidence in Russia, both abroad and at home, that it has hitherto lacked. The original architect of Russia’s economic transition, Yegor Gaidar, has been a hostile critic of all Russian governments since his own, but now considers that Russians at every level are at last beginning to learn the lessons of transition. There is a better understanding of markets generally and a more fertile ground for reform than ever existed before, hence perhaps the serial failure of so many Russian economic reform efforts over the past decade. Empirical evidence from the shop-floor suggests that many private firms are beginning to market the high skill levels available in Russia, and, where these are lacking, to import them from abroad. Shareholders are now less likely to see their assets stripped and better corporate practice, where it exists, is being rewarded by higher share prices. But this is just a start and we assess that it will be a generation before structural transformation is complete. So the overall picture remains positive, but with significant downside risk. Putin himself remains hugely popular within Russia and is, we judge, in a politically strong enough position to sustain fragile progress. Indeed, it is not the Putin leadership that is fragile; on the contrary, it appears focused and robust. What is still fragile is the structural apparatus of the state that impedes reform implementation. It could perhaps be argued that Putin is trying to do too much too soon and that the pace of reform legislation is outstripping the ability of the judiciary and of the various state bureaucracies to cope.

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MACRO-ECONOMIC PERFORMANCE AND PROSPECTS Helped by relatively high global prices for energy and raw materials, 2000 was the best year for the Russian economy since the demise of the Soviet Union, featuring robust GDP growth of 9 per cent, surpluses on federal budget, current and trade accounts, improved reserves, lower inflation and unemployment, a small rise in personal incomes, and related improvements in other social indicators. The positive import substitution effects of the massive devaluation of the ruble in late 1998 were also still evident in 2001, contributing to GDP growth of 5 per cent and generally positive, albeit marginally poorer than 2000, macroeconomic figures across the board. Reform momentum has also gathered pace over the past two years, with important new legislation on taxation, budget policy, licensing, land ownership, monopoly pricing, banking, money laundering and judicial reform being passed by an unusually compliant—and busy—Duma. Table 14.1 charts the ups and downs of the Russian economy over the past half-decade. Overall, 1998 appears to have been the year of Russia’s economic nadir with subsequent performance in virtually all categories improving markedly. However, the data for 2001 give rise for concern in two important areas. First, despite a small real increase, investment rates remain extremely poor both in relation to the rise in GDP and in comparison with other developing countries. China, for example, spends around 35 per cent of annual GDP on fixed investment, more than double the Russian level. Foreign direct investments (FDI) have also been disappointing. In 2000, they totalled only US$2.7 billion against US$9.6 billion in Poland, US$30.5 billion in Brazil and US$39 billion in China. In 2001, FDI increased only marginally to US$2.9 billion. We can conclude that extra revenue from high energy prices has not diffused into other sectors and that growth is consumer—rather than investmentled. Secondly, Russia’s external situation is deteriorating slowly because it is linked to the global economy mostly through energy and raw material exports and little else. Energy and other commodity prices now tend to exhibit extreme volatility in response to external forces, such as the ongoing international crisis and global War against Terrorism, which put upward pressure on prices, and slowdowns in the global economy, which exert downward pressure on prices. Throughout the last months of 2001 and into 2002, the latter factor appeared to be more dynamic and export revenues declined in 2001. Oil prices have since rebounded so revenues in 2002 should recover somewhat. But wild price fluctuations add an

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TABLE 14.1: SELECTED ECONOMIC INDICATORS FOR RUSSIA, 1997–2001

Source: Russian Economic Trends, Monthly Update, 18 June 2002.

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element of uncertainty and inhibit foreign investment. Meanwhile, imports are booming due to real ruble appreciation and rising real incomes. The current account is likely to remain in surplus at least for 2002, but its size is diminishing and this could affect future foreign debt repayments that will peak at around US$20 billion in 2003. In addition, there are a number of other micro-economic and structural barriers that will restrict growth and prevent Russia from reaching its full potential. Phenomena such as the over-regulated and under-capitalised banking system, the cashless or ‘virtual’ economy, the placing of paternalism ahead of profit, organised crime, poor protection of property rights, general illegality, capital flight, the collapsing healthcare system, alcohol abuse and demographic decline are well documented. What little remains of the independent media also continues to face official obstruction. Nevertheless, we do not wish to over-emphasise all these points and believe that most are likely to diminish in importance as reforms progress. The longer-term problem is that the perception of Russia as a place with all these obstacles and barriers, even as they begin to be removed, will continue to deter investment unnecessarily, so there will be a lot less of it than might otherwise have been the case. This does not mean that growth cannot continue; indeed, we believe that it will even as the effects of devaluation wear off and should the oil price fall. What the overall micro-economic picture in Russia does do is lower the trend growth rate for the foreseeable future, or at least until economic reforms have had time to take effect. All the above factors cast doubt on the longer-term sustainability of high rates of economic growth, upon which all related security issues ranging from future prosperity levels to military reform prospects depend. Some of these structural weaknesses and barriers will ease or disappear over time as reform mentality seeps further into public consciousness and acceptance. Others could remain stubbornly in place as part of the Russian character and as a reminder of what distinguishes Russia and its people from everywhere else. The kind of determined, dedicated application to problem-solving and hard work at the shopfloor level that underpinned Chinese and east Asian economic growth rates over the past two decades or so are not perhaps things that could or even should be applied to Russia. Cushioned by its huge energy and material reserves and helped along by slowly progressing integration into the global economy, the Russian economy will continue to grow but, in our opinion, at a much more sedate pace than either the ‘Asian Tiger’ economies in their prime or indeed the Russian government’s own forecasts.

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FIGURE 14.1: GDP PROJECTIONS: AMBITION AND REALITY

On balance, our assessment is that the 5 per cent average annual GDP growth projected by the Russian government is not realistic. Nevertheless, we do believe that Russia could maintain a more modest 3 per cent, maybe even 3.5 per cent, average annual GDP growth rate over the next decade and a half, assuming that real progress with reform continues and that the oil price averages around or above US$20 a barrel in real terms. We would further expect that economic vulnerability caused by the lack of structural diversity in the economy will, in the short to medium term, lead to good years with growth well in excess of 3 per cent and poor years when there may be no growth at all. To some observers, sustained annual average growth of more than 3 per cent might sound quite good and for most advanced industrial economies already operating at full(ish) employment it would be. However, Russia is starting from an extremely low base level and has a huge amount of ground to make up. Under-employment is rife throughout manufacturing industry while labour productivity is barely one-fifth of Western levels. World Bank global comparisons of per capita GDP put Russia in 98th place, between Jamaica and Colombia. Figure 14.1 demonstrates the projected gap between the official target annual average GDP growth rate of 5 per cent and the lower (i.e., 3 per cent) level of the more modest 3 per cent to 3.5 per cent band that we project.

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PROSPECTS FOR MILITARY EXPENDITURE The Russian defence budget has been severely overstretched ever since the break-up of the Soviet Union in 1991, unable to support even dwindling force levels with any significant modernisation. Military expenditure (MILEX) hit rock-bottom in 1998 and, although it has subsequently been increasing, remains hopelessly inadequate to properly maintain, train and equip the armed forces as currently structured. The overall sum allocated to defence in the 2002 state budget was R284.2 billion, some 32 per cent more than that approved for 2001 and 15 per cent more than the amount actually spent in 2002. If defence sector inflation stays within the 12–14 per cent range targeted for the overall economy, outlays will thus register a small real increase in 2002. However, appearances can be deceptive and should inflation be in the region of 15– 17 per cent, as many observers expect, then real defence outlays would fall marginally. As in all previous years, a major element of what NATO countries would regard as defence spending will be funded from outside the defence budget. For example, outlays on paramilitary forces are contained within the budget allocation for law enforcement and state security, while military pensions are part of the social security budget. Both account for huge sums, with pensions, for example, likely to top R40 billion. The budget allocation for military reform, also outside the defence budget, will rise dramatically in 2002 to R16.5 billion from just R4.2 billion in 2001. It is of course difficult to calculate the exact value of all the various elements of off-defence budget outlays. Apart from defence spending either articulated or hidden in other parts of the federal budget, there are a number of totally off-budget sources of military spending. Oblasts and cities often provide direct financial assistance to local military units or enterprises, along with free or cut-price access to utilities such as gas, electricity and telephones. The Ministry of Defence (MoD) also earns significant sums by hiring out troops to local authorities and civilian enterprises, by leasing property and by selling surplus equipment, including weapons. Barter deals, cheap borrowing, the use of local ‘scrip’ money and delaying payments are all used to supplement official defence spending as well. Our best guess is that the total value of all these elements of nondefence budget spending will in 2002 amount to around R190 billion, making overall military outlays on NATO definitions some R480 billion, representing a defence burden of roughly 4.5 per cent of projected GDP. This would be quite a fall from the 2001 figure of just under 5 per cent of GDP, suggesting that the recent trend towards sharply higher real

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defence spending may be coming to an end. But in each of the three previous years, developments led to the government allocating much more to defence throughout the budget year than it initially contemplated. Although data for the first few months of 2002 suggest that the authorities are this time sticking more closely to the agreed budget, some overspend is possible, particularly after mid-year when substantial pay awards for officers and contract troops are implemented. The overall military burden in 2002 may in fact end up not much different from the 2001 level. Preliminary government projections for 2003 suggest that defence budget outlays should rise by about 17 per cent compared to the figure planned for 2002. The increase is somewhat greater than likely inflation across the whole economy but only maintains the share of defence in overall government spending. It has already been criticised by Anatoly Kvashnin, Chief of the Russian General Staff, as insufficient and some changes are probable. Nonetheless, we forecast that a burden of around 5 per cent of GDP—nearly double the average in NATO—is likely to continue for the foreseeable future. Thus, the military will receive at least a proportionate share of the modest economic growth expected throughout the next decade and a half. ECONOMIC AND DEFENCE ECONOMIC PROJECTIONS Based upon the analysis presented so far, our economic and defenceeconomic projections for Russia are presented in Table 14.2. The results suggest real cumulative increases in both GDP and MILEX of around 50 per cent between the beginning of 2002 and the year 2015, and of more than 30 per cent to the end of 2010. Assuming the 5 per cent of GDP military burden figure, roughly constant now for the past halfdecade, remains as the politically sustainable level, the chief determinant of future MILEX will be the rate of economic growth. But it should still be noted that it is government revenues that fund MILEX, not GDP. Although related, the former are very much dependent upon high oil and commodity prices whereas the projected GDP growth path should, as the economy develops and becomes marginally more diverse, be a little more independent of global price movements. The point here is that government revenues may be flush today but could well be above their sustainable growth path. Therefore, any major and sustained fall in the oil price will have a greater negative effect on revenues and affordable MILEX than on GDP, and Russia would, under such a scenario, find it especially difficult to maintain the current as large as GDP annual percentage increases in MILEX.

Note: The figures for MILEX growth are based on assessed and therefore approximate levels of Russia’s defence burden and are not intended to be an exact guide. As military reform progresses, we would expect more currently off-budget military spending to be captured by the official defence budget. Ergo, annual percentage rises in total MILEX should be smaller than headline annual percentage increases in the defence budget itself.

TABLE 14.2: GDP, MILEX AND BURDEN PROJECTIONS FOR RUSSIA, 1997–2015

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MOD REFORM AT LAST? The macro-economic analysis above suggests that a financial window of opportunity now exists for significant progress towards the reform of the Russian armed forces to be made. What are the chances of success? Civilians in Charge On 28 March 2001 Putin announced a reshuffle of ministers in Russia’s security apparatus. Two senior posts in the Defence Ministry went to civilians, with Sergei Ivanov, former secretary of the Security Council, appointed as Defence Minister and Lyubov Kudelina appointed as one of the deputy Defence Ministers, with responsibility for the Main Directorate of Military Budget and Finance. These changes at the top have positive implications for financial reform in the military, with Kudelina’s budgetary expertise complementing Ivanov’s political influence. Kudelina’s surprise appointment is an indication that Putin sees controlling defence expenditure as vital to the success of armed forces reform. Kudelina, a graduate of economics from the Moscow Financial Institute with over 20 years’ experience in the Finance Ministry, is no stranger to military affairs. In July 1999 she was appointed deputy Finance Minister with responsibility for Russia’s power ministries and played a key role in the government’s efforts to impose fiscal discipline on the Defence Ministry. She appears to have a reputation for integrity and competence. It is hoped that she, as an outsider, can challenge the corruption and bureaucratic inertia which pervades the Defence Ministry’s Main Directorate of Military Budget and Finance, a situation that has led to the loss of a substantial proportion of funds each year through theft and mismanagement. Treasury System The situation has not been helped by the lack of oversight in military accounting, which is shrouded in secrecy. The Defence Ministry traditionally administered its own financial affairs through special accounts with Russia’s Central Bank and was able to move scarce funds around to cover what were perceived to be the military’s greatest needs. The campaign in Chechnya for example has been funded partly through resources transferred from elsewhere in the defence budget, leaving military districts in the Far East with particularly acute financial difficulties. The system lacked accountability and, in addition to facilitating corruption, was open to political manipulation. It has been alleged that former Defence Minister Igor Sergeyev directed funds to the

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Strategic Rocket Forces at the expense of the conventional forces. Unsurprisingly, the Finance Ministry has been attempting to wrest control of the defence budget from the Defence Ministry since at least 1997, a move which has been staunchly opposed by leading generals. Putin appears now finally to have succeeded in pushing through the move to the Treasury system, although problems and obstruction persist and the system could perhaps be described as working in part. All Defence Ministry payments, including the upkeep of military units and the state defence order, are supposedly being processed by federal Treasury bodies. Speaking in an interview in April 2001, Finance Minister Kudrin described how repayment of debt on the defence order was being delayed because the Ministry of Finance was now checking every contract and paying enterprises directly. Treasury control means it will be easier to track defence funds. The Defence Ministry will be less able to re-direct funding, as it will be forced to stay within a framework approved in the budget law. As well as moving control of the defence budget to the Treasury, the government has introduced a new budget code and stricter accounting practices. Previously the Defence Ministry arrived at an annual figure for the defence budget and presented it to the Finance Ministry, which then sought to bring this in line with the parameters of the federal budget. Now the Treasury is to calculate the appropriations each ministry can count upon on the basis of projected government revenue. Treasury officials will work alongside military financial experts. Kudelina’s move to the Defence Ministry should help smooth out the transition to new working practices, although she will undoubtedly continue to encounter passive resistance in Russia’s higher military echelons. Armed Forces Reform Putin’s efforts to enforce fiscal discipline on the military are part of a wider effort to implement reform in Russia’s armed forces. In 2000, the government announced its intention to cut 365,000 military personnel from the fighting services by the end of 2005, a vital move if Russia is to balance the country’s defence effort against available economic resources. In November 2001, Ivanov announced plans to abolish conscription and to start building fully professional armed forces from 2004. Putin has called on the security and finance sectors to work together in carrying out these reforms. Accepting that there are economic parameters to Russia’s defence ambitions and introducing new financial management practices which challenge vested interests in the Defence Ministry are vital steps in any

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reform process. The personnel changes at the top of the Defence Ministry have improved the prospects for such reform, although much of what we have to go on at present is vague statements of intent. Ultimately, better financial management of Russia’s armed forces without restructuring can only go so far. As long as the forces are configured in a manner reminiscent of the Soviet era, when issues such as cost and efficiency were of no concern, it will be difficult either to decrease the financial burden of defence spending or ensure value for money and real enhancements in military capability. AMBITION AND REALITY—THE MATHEMATICS OF MILITARY REFORM As well as his commitment to increasing pay and ending conscription, Ivanov has also said that he wishes to cut the proportion of the defence budget going on the maintenance rather than development of the armed forces from 70 per cent in 2000 to 60 per cent in 2005 and 50 per cent by 2010. As so often with Russian statements, the language is imprecise but it seems likely that, by maintenance, Ivanov meant nearly everything outside the defence order. In line with that, Aleksandr Kabanov, deputy head of the Defence Industry Department in the Industry and Science Ministry, has argued that defence industry output ought to grow by a minimum of 60 per cent between 2000 and 2004. However, as ministers have admitted, a boost in equipment spending of the size envisaged by Ivanov and Kabanov is, at best, only feasible if accompanied by a substantial reduction in force numbers. Despite inevitable opposition from some senior military officers, details of these cuts have been announced. The posts of some 365, 000 Defence Ministry servicemen, 105,000 servicemen from other power ministries and 130,000 civilians are to be axed by 2005. Figures published separately for the downsizing in individual services do not add up exactly to these numbers but provide an indication of priorities. Within the MoD, 180,000 military slots (54 per cent) will be lost by the ground forces, 60,000 (16 per cent) by the Strategic Rocket Forces, 50,000 (14 per cent) by the navy and 50,000 (14 per cent) by the air and air defence forces. Among the other departments with military employees, the Ministry of the Interior will probably have to surrender 34,000 posts, while the number of border guards will be reduced by 30,000, railway troops by 10,000 and ‘Emergency Situations’ forces by 4,500. Further cuts, post-2005, have also not been ruled out; indeed, they may now be necessary if conscription is to be abolished. In any case, Ivanov will have his hands full in quelling the bitter turf battles and inter-service rivalries

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that have historically made force reductions somewhat less than optimally efficient. The authorities have claimed that this reduction in posts will enable Defence Ministry spending per serviceman to double by 2005 and treble by 2010. Assuming—as seems likely—that the starting point for the calculation was the official figure of almost 1.2 million men reported as serving in the MoD’s forces in 2000, this means that real levels of defence spending are planned to rise by almost 7 per cent a year between then and 2005. Without any further reductions in posts after 2005, attainment of the 2010 target would involve a further significant increase in outlays over the second five-year period of about 8.5 per cent per annum after inflation. The official MILEX goals are clearly extremely ambitious and we doubt whether, without a substantial deterioration in the international political climate, they will be realised. For a start, we do not expect the rapid growth in GDP achieved in 2000 and 2001 to be repeated, at least not on a regular basis. Instead, as stated above, we project annual average GDP growth of more than 3 per cent, with even this being dependent upon further progress with reform and no collapse in global energy prices. If total defence spending were to expand at the same pace as the Russians appear to be planning for the MoD budget and economic growth were 3 per cent a year, then the defence burden would swell from just under 5 per cent of GDP in 2001 to more than 6 per cent in 2005 and to almost 8 per cent by 2010. At these levels it would increasingly impinge on the resources available either to invest in the civilian economy or to improve standards of living. The Russian government is of course projecting different and more benign forecasts of future GDP growth and thus of the defence burden as well. Indeed, as we have seen, it expects annual average GDP growth of 5 per cent a year until 2010 rather than the over 3 per cent we are projecting. Moreover, it will equate defence spending with the defence budget. Although this is by far the largest single component of total defence spending, it omits all outlays on military activities funded through other parts of the state budget or by non-budgetary means, which together make up roughly 40 per cent of total spending on NATO definitions. So the Putin government may well believe that, even with the massive hikes planned for defence outlays, they will, in 2010, still account for just 3.5 per cent of GDP. This level has long been seen as reasonable and, during the Yeltsin era, became something of a totem target for those seeking increased spending. Figure 14.2 charts the Russian growth profile against our own MILEX projection.

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FIGURE 14.2: MILEX PROJECTIONS: AMBITION AND REALITY

Even with the robust growth foreseen by the Russian MoD, MILEX in 2010 is still only just over one-third the Soviet peak level reached in 1988. We are unaware of any official MILEX targets post-2010. Under our lower growth profile, projected MILEX increases steadily, but by 2010 is still less than a quarter and by 2015 only 27 per cent of the Soviet peak level achieved in 1988. Moreover, MILEX in 2010 is still only about threefifths of the level reached in 1992, Russia’s first year as a post-Soviet independent state. Furthermore, even if the rises in defence spending planned by the Russian government were to be obtained, it is doubtful whether the sought-after re-orientation of outlays away from personnel and towards equipment could be fully achieved, especially if the proportion of contract servicemen (who are expensive relative to conscripts) is to rise. Despite official claims that in 2000 there were 1.2 million military personnel in the MoD, we believe that actual numbers were significantly smaller. A majority of the 100,000 service posts to be eliminated in 2002 are apparently vacant. The same is likely to have been true of the 91,000 MoD military positions scrapped in 2001. In such cases the financial savings are minimal. Furthermore, where regular servicemen are retired, they will be entitled by law to substantial housing and severance benefits. Independent Russian analysts have calculated the additional financial cost of cutting personnel by the planned amount at R21 billion over five years, a figure we believe to be a little too high but which is nonetheless

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indicative of the heavy charge on the defence budget. In 2000, former Defence Minister Sergeyev allegedly wrote to Prime Minister Mikhail Kasyanov arguing that it was impossible to reduce military personnel numbers by even 50,000 because they could not be provided with their housing entitlements. There is also a problem concerning the rank mix needed to yield the planned savings; indeed, the authorities have admitted that almost twothirds of the eliminated MoD military slots will need to be those of officers, including a very large number of senior staff. Given that the current force structure is top-heavy, this emphasis makes sense. However, from around 2005 onwards, Russia faces a severe and unavoidable demographic decline, with the number of 18-year-old males available for conscription falling within five years by over 40 per cent. Since at least the mid-1990s there have been many complaints from the forces that, even with the existing demographic pool, it has been difficult to secure sufficient numbers of healthy, well-educated recruits. It therefore became clear that, unless the number of conscripts was cut more sharply than was at that time envisaged, this problem would become much more acute towards the end of the decade, when the total number of 18-year-old males fit for service would actually be less than current conscription rates. Clearly, the Russian armed forces will not be able to conscript every available male, which explains why they will need—and now acknowledge the need—to pay them instead. Nevertheless, the creation of a professional army through the gradual abolition of conscription, while also preserving the planned (albeit reduced) force size, will by definition involve the retention and recruitment of many more regulars than previously envisaged. This will inevitably be very costly and might force the MoD to scale back its projections for future force numbers and re-equipment. The proposals by Ivanov to end conscription and move to an allprofessional force are still at the experimental stage. Firm plans will probably not be ready until 2004 but Ivanov has already said that, if the transition were to be completed in full by 2010, it would cost approximately R100 billion, a huge sum. Nevertheless, there has long been recognition among Russian specialists of the benefits of eliminating conscription and converting the forces to an all-professional basis. Indeed, former President Boris Yeltsin once declared that 2000 would see the final compulsory inductions into the armed forces. This deadline was obviously quietly dropped but the end of conscription, even if the timespan eventually proves to be a decade or more, will mean significant additions to the wage bill and to accommodation costs.

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FIGURE 14.3: DEMOGRAPHY AND CONSCRIPTION, 2000–18

Under these conditions, plans to correct the balance of spending between the maintenance and the development of the armed forces from the 70:30 ratio at the start of the decade to 50:50 by 2010 will without any doubt be severely compromised. On current projections and before the Ivanov announcement on ending conscription, we estimated that they would involve a massive real increase in weapons procurement and research and development spending of 230 per cent by the end of this decade, an implausibly high amount. Nevertheless, even on our own more modest projections of GDP and MILEX growth, spending per man would roughly double between 2000 and 2010 (against official claims that it will treble) while development spending could still grow by around three-quarters in real terms over this period: an impressive amount. Assuming that good progress is also made with military reform, radical downsizing and ending conscription, we now believe that, from an economic perspective, the Russian armed forces could reemerge in the decade post-2010 as a modern and powerful presence on the world stage. But improvements in operational capabilities this side of 2010 are much more likely to be incremental than substantial. And there is no possibility whatsoever of Russia’s conventional forces being rebuilt to the point where their strength relative to that of their Western counterparts is comparable to that enjoyed by the Soviet military throughout the Cold War.

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FUTURE SPENDING PRIORITIES There are of course an almost infinite number of ways in which the additional money that we expect to see allocated to defence could be distributed. Nonetheless, it is clear that there will be no immediate, largescale boom in weapons procurement. Neither the government nor the armed forces perceive any great benefit from increased acquisition of most of the weapons systems currently in the inventory, these usually having been developed in the 1980s or earlier and now considered increasingly less of a match for their Western counterparts. Instead, there is a belief that emphasis needs to be placed on creating, almost across the board, a new generation of equipment embodying the latest technology. In financial terms, therefore, a high priority will probably be given to weapons research institutes, which are likely to receive substantial amounts of extra money for better machine tools and other equipment while their staff, hitherto very poorly paid, should see their status enhanced. This will, of course, be accompanied by an expectation of better results but it is unlikely that many major new weapons systems, including even those that have been in development for some years, will be ready for quantitatively significant levels of production much before 2007–08. In addition, the military will need to define what its highpriority weapons programmes are and then allocate funding accordingly. If past practice is any guide, this planning process could easily result in little more than an unseemly scramble for resources between service branches and units. Manufacturing facilities will also need several years to prepare for the arrival of new weapons systems. With many of these promised systems technically much more advanced than their predecessors, increasingly sophisticated manufacturing equipment will have to be bought and staff will have to undergo training in its use. The cost of developing better weapons systems and modernising manufacturing plants to produce them in quantity will be enormous and, if done properly, could easily absorb all of the additional ‘development’ funding contained in our forecast. In practice, however, significant sums are likely to be diverted for the better maintenance and repair of the existing weapons inventory. In part, this is because, given the unavoidable delays in bringing new weaponry into service, the operational life of existing systems will need to be extended, often well past original expectations. Beyond that, however, the armed forces have become increasingly aware that the reliability of many of their older weapons systems (including associated vehicles) is uncertain and thus likely to undermine operations and put soldiers’ lives at risk. The Chechen experience has reinforced these concerns. Nonetheless, despite

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life-extension programmes and better maintenance, many Russian weapons systems are so elderly that the forces will in practice have little option but to scrap them in the coming few years. As a result the total inventory is likely to decline significantly.

15 Reshaping Russia’s Armed Forces: Security Requirements and Institutional Responses Christopher N.Donnelly

A review of the Russian press today will provide many widely differing answers to the question ‘What sort of armed forces does Russia need?’ The answer that is given usually reflects what sort of a future the person answering would like to see for Russia. The question: ‘What sort of armed forces should Russia have?’ follows the question ‘What sort of country should Russia be?’ Those who want to see Russia re-established as a ‘great power’, for example as a smaller-scale USSR but without an excessive ideological preoccupation, will give one answer. Those who want to see a Russia that acts as a partner to Europe or the USA give a quite different answer. Between these two alternatives—neither of which are extremes—lies a host of different options. There are as many different answers to be found in the Russian press as there are experts. Yet the very question does make us instantly aware of the link between the future of Russia and the future of its armed forces, and of the interaction between military reform and reform in Russia as a whole. In a country such as Russia, where the armed forces have played such an important historical role, military reform is inextricably linked with social, economic and political reform, and can help or hinder the whole reform process. Russian political analysts are fully aware that military reform will help decide whether Russia becomes fully part of modern Western society or not. Indeed, many hold that military reform may determine whether Russia remains a single state or not, let alone what sort of state it will be. This is the prime reason why we in the West should also have an interest in Russian military reform. Its outcome is of importance not only to Russia: it will have a direct bearing on outsiders as well—that is, on us. This is not just an issue of whether or not Russia will become a threat to ‘the West’ as the USSR was seen as a threat. A glance at a map of the world (and it is surprising how often analysts do not bother to do this) will show us immediately just how important Russia is to global security and stability. Look how far it stretches across the northern hemisphere.

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Look who its neighbours are. Look also at demographic and economic statistics for Russia and for its neighbours; at current and projected population densities; at energy reserves and future supply-and-demand statistics; at projections of economic growth. Consider also the proliferation of technology and the availability of weapons of mass destruction in the former Soviet space. On all these counts, the stability (and therefore the security) of Russia is of great importance to the world community and to Europe and North America in particular. I would therefore start this study with the premise that as long as Russia is on the road to democracy, however imperfect or slow its progress might be, then it is in our interest that Russia should have strong and effective armed forces and it is consequently in our interest to help Russia achieve that goal, however difficult it might be. But that is a task easier said than done. It is a truism to say that only the Russians themselves can decide what sort of armed forces the country will have in the twenty-first century. Indeed, given the current very sensitive nature of the issue of military reform in Russia, it is highly likely that any attempt by outsiders even to offer advice on this issue will be misconstrued, possibly misrepresented and, quite likely, counterproductive. So what can a chapter like this contribute to such a complex and sensitive issue? It cannot provide a definitive answer to the question. But it can go some way towards suggesting alternatives. Also, it is possible with some confidence to identify what sort of armed forces the country does not need. We can also safely review the basic principles of building armed forces in a democracy, so that current and future students and practitioners of Russian military reform can measure its progress against those principles and draw their own conclusions. Finally we can identify examples in the experience of other countries which have had to tackle similar problems, even if only in part, and which might therefore be a source of ideas for Russians seeking to answer the question posed in the first lines of this chapter. BACK TO BASICS What sort of armed forces does any country need today? I would suggest that the following list addresses the main elements of this question, and that it is the answers to these issues which will determine whether the armed forces of any country can be considered adequate or effective in current conditions. 1. As far as the real internal and external security threats to the country can be ascertained, both as they are today and as they might

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reasonably be expected to develop, the armed forces should be organised, trained and equipped to meet those threats. 2. In meeting the security threats, a balance must be struck so that the cost of establishing defence and security does not so undermine economic development nor so hinder social and political development that it prevents the country’s progress and is thereby counter-productive. 3. The armed forces must be supported by the population. The people must be prepared to pay the financial cost of security and defence; to provide the manpower, whether by conscription or otherwise; and to support the employment of the armed forces to meet security threats by supporting the political will of the government. 4. The armed forces themselves must be internally cohesive and function effectively, reflecting social demands, generating force efficiently and proving adequately flexible to evolve to meet changing security requirements. 5. The armed forces developed for national security should not be such as to generate fear or suspicion among the country’s neighbours and thereby create instability and insecurity. They should be capable of cooperating in operations with armed forces of other countries where necessary to tackle security threats on an international scale. THE CHANGING SECURITY SCENE Tackling military reform in Russia today is so very complex because of the recent coincidence of an extraordinary series of events. First, we have seen the disintegration of a multiracial ‘empire’ and its satellite states into a large number of new independent states of varying degrees of viability and competence, some very unstable and in conflict with neighbours. Second, we have the problem of the transformation of a large country from a totalitarian state to a democracy, and from a centrally planned economy to a market economy. To these two major factors we must add a third, in part precipitated by the destruction of the bipolar world system which the collapse of Soviet power brought about. This is the dramatic change in the international security scene. This change faces the whole of the industrialised world with the need to reform its armies and security forces. But it presents Russia with a particularly difficult problem when combined with the two factors above.

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THE CHANGE IN THE NATURE OF CONFLICT A study of history over the last 200 years shows us that approximately every 50 years the world has experienced a revolutionary change—a paradigm shift—in the nature of armed conflict, provoked by sociological, technological or other factors. Examples from the past two centuries would be: the development of effective mass conscript armies during the Napoleonic wars (circa 1800); the introduction of rapid-firing rifled weapons in the mid-nineteenth century; the industrialisation of military production and relevant infrastructure that preceded World War I; and, the development of nuclear weapons and their global delivery systems during and immediately after World War II. It seems to me that we are now in the midst of just such a ‘revolutionary’ change, ushered in by the dramatic developments of the past decade and brought into sharp focus on 11 September 2001. The major factors underlying this change, which is still ongoing, I would tentatively identify as follows: • the rapid advance of technology and its uncontrollable proliferation; • the growing gap between rich and poor countries; • the information revolution. As a result all countries, including Russia, are faced today with the need to reassess what constitutes security, what are the threats to their security and what should be the responses to those threats. As is so often the case, it is not a single cause but the combination of new factors which creates the new security conditions and which will generate new security threats. Take, for instance, the issue of the rapid advance of technology mentioned above. Technological advantage in warfare is always transient. It would be unwise to assume that ‘Western’ technological superiority will in all cases translate into overwhelming military superiority. Today, the rapid proliferation of technology means that even small developing countries (especially those run by strong dictatorial regimes) and even ethnic or ideological groups within states can, by focusing their efforts, acquire weapons and delivery means which can pose a real threat to major powers. When this is coupled with fanaticism the threat is even more evident. The growing gap between rich and poor countries poses a potential security problem in many ways, not just when combined with the problem of proliferation of technology. This gap is most dramatically evident if we compare the statistics for population growth and per capita income for the countries of North Africa and the Middle East with those of Europe, and project these over the next ten years. It is wrong to blame

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this growing wealth gap on ‘Western’ countries just as it is wrong to conclude that poverty alone produces, or even justifies, terrorism. In fact, in what is becoming known as the ‘arc of instability’ stretching from north Africa to central Asia, incompetent government, social injustice and lack of democracy are by far the greatest causes of discontent. But the discontent and desperation generate such serious security problems as illegal migration and drug smuggling and create the breeding grounds for fanaticism that can in turn produce regional instability and terrorism. This is a worsening problem and one that will have to be dealt with on its home ground by pro-active measures (which may be military, political or economic) as well as by protective or defensive measures in our countries. This, too, has important implications for the security policy of Russia, as it does for that of European and north American countries. The information revolution is the third general factor that has so changed the security environment. This has several aspects. It is one of the factors which contributes to the proliferation of technology. It can accentuate the ‘poverty gap’ by making it more evident. In democracies it has two major implications. First, reliance on information technology can render a society very vulnerable to certain forms of terrorist attack. Secondly, democracies can no longer exert total control over the flow of information and therefore over the media. Yet dictatorships can, if they are efficient, manipulate the media to a certain degree and thereby have a considerable influence on public opinion, including in democracies with which they may be in conflict. As even Russia has had to learn painfully in recent years, governmental information and even military intelligence can no longer compete with the media for speed of information transit. As a result, every action which a democracy takes in pursuance of its security, be it a military operation or not, will in future be played out in a new environment—that of intrusive media attention. If we do not take account of this and plan accordingly, then not only will our security operations suffer severely, but social stability will be damaged. REDEFINING SECURITY: NEW THREATS AND RESPONSES Only a decade ago, ‘security’ was synonymous with ‘defence’. East and West faced the threat of World War III, which in Europe meant the threat of invasion—a thing feared, with whatever justification, by both East and West. The threat was common, as was the response—mass armies based, in continental countries, on mass mobilisation and conscript military service. Deterrence was by conventional defence backed up by the threat

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of nuclear weapons. From Moscow to Madrid, ‘national security’ was measured largely in military strength. Today ‘national security’ means much more than just military might. In as far as ‘security’ retains its military significance, ‘deterrence’ is by guarantee of effective counter-attack, the difficulties and cost of which put a premium on crisis and conflict prevention. Otherwise, security has become a much broader issue. For most European countries, security today is primarily measured in non-military terms, and threats to security are non-military in nature. These threats include: incompetent government, corruption, organised crime, insecure borders, smuggling (weapons, drugs, contraband, people), illegal migration, ethnic and religious conflict, proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, shortage of natural resources (e.g. water) and, of course, terrorism. As security is no longer just a military concern either in Russia or elsewhere, it is no longer just the preserve of MoDs and MFAs (Defence and Foreign Ministries) which have to date been the main ministries involved in security cooperation. Furthermore, it is no longer possible to draw a clear distinction between external security and internal security. Security henceforth requires the coordination of the ‘external’ ministries (MoD and MFA) and their agencies (armed forces, intelligence services) with those of the ‘interior’ ministries: internal affairs, education, finance, transport, environment, health, etc., and their agencies (policing forces, security services, disaster relief agencies, etc.). Security today takes in social development and it demands the involvement of all elements of society in a way which security in the Cold War days did not. Meeting these new requirements demands fundamental reform of national structures, patterns of investment, systems of government. This is true for Russia just as it is true for the USA and for all European countries. The Soviet Factor To the basic requirements of armed forces and to the demands of the new security scene we must add the complications of the Soviet factor. The first of these is geographical. The disintegration of the USSR has left the Russian Federation with a unique geographical legacy. The country still stretches almost halfway around the world. Its underdeveloped, poorly populated but resource-rich far eastern regions border on a dynamically developing China and are potentially open to the Pacific-rim countries. The former Soviet central Asian heartland has now become five independent states which border on Afghanistan and Iran and are not only embroiled in the new ‘War on Terrorism’ but, along with Russia itself, could easily become involved in a wider regional

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conflict originating in the dispute between India and Pakistan. In the Caucasus, regional instability at the geographical nexus of Russia, Iran and Turkey combines with the importance of the region as a crossroads of the oil and gas trade to make this arguably the most sensitive strategic region for Russia today. In all these areas Russia faces potential problems which by any standards could develop into real military threats. Those of us who live in western Europe or North America (and to whom the problem of major conventional war now seems very remote or wholly displaced by the threat of terrorism and other menaces) should not forget that this is not the case for much of Russia. Just like, for example, Turkey, Russia can still justify the need for large conventional military forces backed up by nuclear weapons, because of the unpredictability or instability of its neighbours to the south and east. Furthermore, many of the new states which have emerged from the collapse of the USSR are themselves unstable and generate a security problem, to say nothing of areas such as Chechnya and Daghestan which are part of the Russian Federation. This also demands an actual or potential military response from Russia. But the kinds of forces these ‘internal security’ threats demand are not the same as might be required against an external threat from the south or east. Third, many of the new threats to security which confront the whole of Europe and the industrialised world, and which threaten Russia too, emanate from within Russia or pass through Russia’s peripheral regions. Drugs and illegal migrants are obvious examples. Organised crime is endemic to the whole post-Soviet space and is one of the region’s most unwanted exports. Religious extremism is also an ever more unwelcome phenomenon and also readily available for export. Thus Russia’s dilemma is how to reconstruct, from its inherited Soviet military basis, new armed forces and security forces which meet all of these real security challenges: the long-term neighbours to the south and east; internal security threats caused by instability on Russia’s periphery; and the new security threats posed by the changing world security environment. The forces developed—army, policing forces and border regime—should ideally deter the threats, then be able to contain them if deterrence fails and finally be able to defeat or eradicate them to reestablish security. They should be competent to do this without having a detrimental effect on the political, social or economic development of Russia in peacetime, and with minimal disturbance to the social system in event of their being used. These, in principle, are the kinds of armed forces and security forces Russia, like any modern state, needs. The

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question is, how to achieve them in practice from the starting point of today. THE PARTICULAR PROBLEMS OF THE TRANSFORMATION OF POST-COMMUNIST ARMED FORCES There are certain specific and particular features of the former Soviet military system which will complicate the transition of the Russian armed forces in the post-Cold War world. These I would summarise as follows: 1. The Soviet philosophy of preparing almost exclusively for World War III (i.e., total war based on total national mobilisation) and never paying adequate attention to local wars or studying alternative force models makes it difficult for officers brought up in this system to appreciate other military systems. 2. The very efficiency of the Soviet military system at producing greater raw combat power than NATO (more bangs for the buck) makes it difficult for officers trained in the Soviet system to accept the need to adopt what to them will appear to be a less militarily efficient force. 3. The lack of interference by politicians in the military details of the Soviet military system (a very desirable circumstance to soldiers) makes it difficult for Russian officers today to learn to deal with the democratic political process in which military issues at the strategic level are legitimately a joint civilian-military responsibility. This is especially true if the political leaders are not competent in military affairs. 4. The lack of interaction with the public before 1991 makes the officer today disdain to do so. This tradition also makes the public uninterested, or feel they have no right to get involved in military affairs today, as they were prevented from doing so in the past. Civilmilitary relations are often fragile as a result, or become confrontational, as with the Soldiers’ Mothers Organisation’s efforts to improve the lot of conscripts in the Chechen Wars. 5. Experience, often very unpleasant, of incompetent ‘reform’ by ‘democratic’ politicians in the early 1990s, of neglect (even more destructive of morale) or of the breaking up of military forces between ministries has resulted in great suspicion among the officer corps of governmental efforts to propose reform today. 6. In Russia, as in many post-communist countries, the armed forces have suffered a loss of public support and society has not yet established a new set of moral values. This makes it difficult to

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recruit young officers and to build a new moral basis for the armed forces. 7. The Soviet system of yedinonachaliye (one-man command), a rigid command and discipline system, proved inappropriate in peacetime. First, it led to poor internal communication between ranks. Topdown orders discourage bottom-up ideas, and resentment flourishes. Secondly, it resulted in the Soviet military’s failing to develop a transparent and consistent system for officer evaluation and posting or promotion. Career development was subject to political reliability and the whim of senior officers. This tradition continues today, creating demoralisation, obstructing reform and preventing new standards being set for officer promotion and force development. 8. Because of the reserve-mobilisation nature of the Soviet armed forces, the USSR maintained an enormous officer education system with very long courses. But this concentrated on inculcating uniquely military operational skills rather than providing a general securityoriented education. Officers developed only skills for fighting World War III, making it difficult for them to adapt to the new security environment. 9. The specialised nature of officer training before 1991 has made Russian officers very difficult to re-employ in civilian life. In the USSR there was no necessity for, and therefore no tradition of, officers seeking a ‘second career’ in civilian life. This, coupled with economic uncertainty, today makes officers cling to their posts and become an obstacle to reform. 10. The financial systems (or, rather, lack of them) in Russia before 1990 have resulted in a serious lack of experts in financial accounting and military budgeting. Endemic corruption is facilitated by a lack of transparency in financial and budgetary issues. This is a widespread problem of both attitude and mechanisms. 11. Russia has very imperfect legislation on many aspects of armed forces. Many old laws and regulations are still in place which are no longer appropriate and which sometimes impede the modern functioning of the forces. In many cases even minor decisions (such as for officers to attend courses overseas) can only be made by the Defence Minister or Chief of the General Staff (CGS) personally. Regulations and official documents (e.g., the Security Concept) still directly or implicitly maintain NATO/the West as the main enemy. 12. Soviet and Russian equipment has always been very good, but some key items are not compatible with peacetime usage rates (e.g., aircraft flying hours between major overhaul). This is an important technical point which is often ignored in the equipment debate.

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The interaction of these special features with the factors addressed in the earlier part of this chapter produces very specific circumstances which make defence and security sector transformation in Russia more complex and difficult than in Western countries. The all-important issues are those concerned with the relationship and interaction between armed forces and society: civilian and democratic control; morale and the personnel system; conscript versus regular forces; and so on. It is on personnel rather than equipment, tactics or organisation that any armed forces depend most for their effectiveness. It is investment in personnel that must be at the basis of any new army that Russia attempts to build. CONTROLLING THE DEFENCE AND SECURITY SECTOR The relationship between the armed forces and the social system of which they are part is fundamentally different in democracies and market economies from the relationship built up in a totalitarian and centrally planned system. This basic problem, which is usually expressed shorthand as ‘democratic control of armed forces’ or ‘civil—military relations’, is not just the issue of whether the army is a threat to the government. It is in fact an extremely complex issue and one which no former ‘communist’ country has yet fully resolved. The issue of transforming the defence and security establishment in Russia, as in all post-communist states, can be broken down into several distinct, though closely linked, areas. These are as follows: • Democratic control: this encompasses two things—the government capability to direct (to plan, decide on and implement) military and security-sector activity; and the parliament’s capability to monitor both government policy and armed forces’ and security forces’ compliance. (The English word ‘control’ is often inadequately translated into Russian as kontrol’, which refers to only the second of these two factors.) • Civil—military relations: this term I am using to cover the relationship between each element of the security sector (i.e., armed forces, police, internal troops, etc.) and, first, the government and secondly, society at large. • Defence reform: this term covers (a) the re-structuring of the armed forces and security-sector forces to meet the new defence and security threats that the country will face in the future; and (b) the reorientation of the psychology of the armed forces and security forces and of the population, so that they can come to terms with the new requirements of operating within a democracy and market economy.

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• Industrial conversion: this necessitates the re-structuring of the defence industrial system to meet the new requirements of: (a) operating within a market economy; and (b) providing weapons and equipment to meet future threats. Decisions on defence and security transformation in Russia, as in any other country, are not issues that the armed forces alone can be left to decide. Policy deisions on this, as on any issue in a democracy, must be a mutual balance of responsibility between politicians and their technical experts. A pluralistic society recognises the contest within government between different departmental interests for limited resources. But to make such decisions in a civil-military partnership requires a civilian body of experts knowledgeable enough to address defence and security issues with credibility and confidence. Without such civilian expertise decision-makers cannot take hard decisions which are opposed by the entrenched and conservative military staff. Unfortunately, the Soviet heritage has left Russia without this strong body of civilian expertise. Building such an expert civilian security community is the sine qua non of Russian defence and security-sector reform. Another basic feature of the totalitarian system was that all assets, civilian and military, belonged to the state and the state could dispose of them as it wished. The lack of a market economy meant that these assets were never costed. In particular, there was no understanding at all of nonmaterial costs. For this reason the armed forces in such a totalitarian system could not be easily disentangled from the civilian state system and could not be measured separately from other elements of the national security sector. It is for this reason that we must consider the transformation of the post-Soviet armed forces of the MoD as an integral part of the trans formation of all agencies and forces of national security, both internal and external. This includes Ministry of Interior security forces, border troops and police forces (militsiya) and other militarised or armed agencies, all of which, together with the MoD armed forces, share between them the functions of internal and external security of the state. A practical example of this can be seen in Russian operations in Chechnya, where troops of the MoD, the Interior Ministry, the Federal Security Service (FSB) and Border Guards have all seen combat action. The traditional split of ‘military’ forces in the USSR under three ministries—MoD, Interior and KGB (Border Guards)—was a specific feature of the Soviet system designed to prevent too much power being concentrated in the ministry and becoming a threat to the Party. This principle was further complicated by Yeltsin, who hived off bodies of

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troops to different agencies on the ‘divide and rule’ principle until military or armed units were to be found under the control of as many as 15 separate organisations or agencies. This heritage of multiple militaries still plagues Russia. Although the chaotic system has now been reduced to more manageable proportions it is still far from satisfactory, resulting in widely differing standards of discipline, training, morale and competence. While Russian security requirements may well demand more types of military forces than the European norm of three (army, police and gendarmerie, to cover external and internal security and border regime), the current mix is costly and inefficient. Streamlining and rationalising this system will be basic to the success of military and security-sector reform. The very fact that, in the general decline of the armed forces, several distinct bodies of effective ‘special forces’ have been created is itself a potential obstacle to reform. The existence of these forces, such as the troops who dealt with the Chechen hostage crisis in Moscow in October 2002, can on the one hand be shown to be an appropriate response to at least some of the new threats that Russia faces. But on the other hand, the existence of these special forces allows the government to deal with internal emergencies or foreign security obligations without facing up to the reform of the military and security system as a whole. For this reason, it is impossible to restrict reform to the armed forces of the MoD alone, even though that should be the primary focus. It will be essential to consider troops of other ministries, especially those of the Interior Ministry and Ministry of Emergency Situations (MChS). When deciding what kind of armed forces it needs, Russia has to consider all its different forces in toto, and not MoD troops alone. The other key element of the totalitarian system and command economy to which we referred above concerns the centralised control of all state assets. In practice this made military assets available to the civilian economy when needed, for example, diverting troops for months at a time to help with the harvest or to work in factories to replace labour shortages. It also made all-important civilian assets part of the military planning system: military requirements were built into the design of all merchant ships, transport aircraft and so on. The biggest burden that this Soviet heritage has placed on modern Russia is the position of the defence industrial complex within the state. The future of the armed forces and the future of the defence industry are inextricably interlinked. The reform of either one depends on the reform of the other. The Russian armed forces need an effective industry to provide them with weapons in the future, and Russian defence industry requires a substantial home market for its products if it is to survive. But

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at the moment, the Russian armed forces are so strapped for cash that they are unable to place orders. Defence industry is relying on its enormous reserves of R&D (research and development) from the 1980s and early 1990s for its current generation of weapons. But without new R&D funds defence industry will be unable to provide the armed forces with the new weapons they will require to meet the security needs of the future. Yet if the army is tied to its old equipment holdings, reform will be ever more difficult. This is not just an issue of modernising tactics and developing concepts for new ways of warfare (for example, as the USA has demonstrated in Afghanistan). Despite their enormous weapons and equipment stocks, the Russian armed forces also face problems in maintaining the conventional items of equipment that do not change so quickly. At times of rapid technological progress, such as today, weapons tend to evolve more rapidly than do the platforms (e.g., ships, tanks, planes) that carry them. Again, the US example of smart bombs dropped from 40year-old bombers in Afghanistan is indicative of this trend. But ships, tanks, planes and missiles all need regular overhaul if they are to remain battle-worthy. Missiles deteriorate by virtue of their corrosive fuel and have a clearly limited life. The very logical Soviet design of, for example, aircraft minimised the need for airfield service and maintenance (thus reducing the demand for airfield technicians in wartime). But in compensation, the aircraft needed a factory overhaul after 250 flying hours. For wartime use this makes great sense. For peacetime use (e.g., intensive training, or small wars far away or stretched over a long period) this is far less cost effective. Moreover, the cost of this factory overhaul was included in the Soviet procurement package. With the collapse of the Soviet economic system, this regular overhaul has now to be paid for in real money. Not only is the cost enormous, but there is no budgetary provision for it. In a few years’ time, the Russian armed forces face block obsolescence of their enormous equipment stocks, unless a new system of maintenance and refurbishment is established. Meanwhile, defence industry will continue to decline because much of it has so far failed to reform to meet the new demands of a market economy and the world of real money. What is needed here, then, is a total reform of the defence economic system to bring it more in line with market mechanisms and a cash economy. Russia needs defence accountants, a proper defence financial system, and a budgetary and planning process which establishes some relationship between a need, cost and effect. This is totally lacking in the current system. As the whole Russian economy struggles to reform—with some success—the armed forces will have to follow suit if they are to

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survive, and not to create a destructive drag on the process of national economic reform as a whole. Although statistics are subject to different interpretation, it is safe to reckon that, in the Soviet period, some 80 per cent of industrial enterprises included at least some defence production, and that the burden of defence to the economy as a whole was well in excess of 20 per cent of gross domestic product (GDP). Currently, the official figure for the cost of Russia’s defence is 2.56 per cent of GDP but the real cost is at least 50 per cent higher than this because the military sector still draws on uncalculated economic assets, still engages in civilian commercial activity and still does not count the cost of loss of conscripts’ productivity to the nation. The total figure is thus a far greater percentage of national wealth than the USA (2.89 per cent) or the UK (2.39 per cent) spend. Even so, by absolute economic standards it is a tiny sum compared to the current size in men, units and equipment of the Russian armed forces. It is just too little to keep such a huge force alive and functioning effectively. Russia either needs much cheaper or smaller armed forces, or a 20 per cent per annum growth rate sustained for two decades to bring its current force structure up to modern standards. As the latter is unlikely, then the former is essential. Otherwise the armed forces face continued degradation which will lead eventually to systemic collapse. The problem is not just structural; it is also psychological. In effect, the Soviet system, which was superb at mobilising all national assets for a war of survival in 1941–45, never made the transformation to a peacetime mentality and operating procedure that Western countries and their armed forces did between 1945 and 1955. The USSR and its armed forces were maintained on a wartime footing for 30 years too long. In giving such priority to the armed forces, the country was bankrupted and the Soviet economic, social and political systems were grossly distorted. It is proving almost as difficult for the Russian General Staff to break away from this mentality as it is for the economy to recover from the command system. The enormous Cold War military infrastructure that Russia inherited on the disintegration of the USSR has been neither dismantled nor rationalised. It is maintained in a steadily decaying state at crippling expense in the hope (on the part of the General Staff) that one day it can be restored, and in being restored will return Russia to the status of a great power. To maintain this obsolete structure to the detriment of the reform of the system as a whole has required the General Staff to maintain the image of NATO as a potential future threat, despite the evolution of Russia’s relationship with the West and the evident new threats that Russia faces.

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Of course, to admit that there is no longer a threat from the West will be very painful. If the Cold War structure were dismantled, the rationale for many officers’ careers would be removed. The officer corps would have to be totally restructured and much equipment destroyed. To do this will require very firm control by the Russian leadership to overcome the entrenched conservatism of the General Staff and to force them to address the real threats to Russia’s security. Most Russian commentators today assess that the current Russian leadership cannot yet exercise this degree of control. Such control would require not only strong political will but also the power to give orders to the generals with the certainty that those orders would be obeyed, plus some mechanism to check up on compliance. It would also require a very high degree of understanding of the faults and failings of the old system and a clear vision of what to replace the old system and structures with. It is not just Russia that needs this combination of political will and vision; many Western countries lack it too, and have similarly failed to introduce the necessary fundamental reforms into their armed forces. THE HUMAN FACTOR The most important element in reshaping Russia’s armed forces to meet future security needs does not concern either equipment or organisational structure but personnel. This is by far the most difficult issue to tackle, the most long-term in its effect and the one where there is the greatest interaction with Russian society—a society which today is in the throes of drastic change. The most immediate ‘human factor’ issue that the Russian armed forces need to solve is actually organisational in nature. It concerns the process of career development inherited from the Soviet system. This bedevils the whole issue of reform. The Soviet military system maintained (and the Russian military system has inherited) under the title of yedinonachaliye a philosophy of command and discipline developed for and appropriate to wartime conditions. But after 1945 this philosophy, like so much of the Soviet system, was never evolved to suit peacetime requirements. Yedinonachaliye places a very large burden of responsibility on, but also gives a very large measure of authority to, commanders at every level. This includes authority for posting and promotion. An officer’s career development, therefore, depends almost exclusively on the opinion of his direct superior. The Soviet (and Russian) armed forces never evolved the objective, transparent, centralised personnel evaluation and reporting system that most Western armies have developed over the past few decades.

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The practical effect of this is that there is no mechanism whereby a Russian Minister of Defence or CGS seeking to push through reform can identify which officers at every level have the requisite personal qualities to implement it. Without this knowledge, a reforming leadership cannot post the right officers into the key positions to ensure that their orders from above are translated into action throughout the system. This is probably the greatest systemic obstacle to reform in the Russian military system. It is consequently the most important thing the Russian armed forces need to put right if they are to adapt for the future. The second ‘human factor’ issue is that of morale, a term which itself springs from the same root word as morality. The Soviet military system had its own moral cohesion, based on communist ideology. Whether one believes in the ideals of Marxist-Leninism or not, it cannot be contested that the communist system gave the Soviet military machine its remarkable degree of doctrinal coherence. Not only was there a high degree of synergy between tactics and strategy, equipment and training, but the system with its attendant ideology and particular ethos gave a clear purpose to the armed forces. It also provided for high levels of funding (and good equipment and training go a long way towards building a soldier’s morale), high prestige and social status, and high levels of officer training and professional military education. The Soviet armed forces in their heyday were well motivated, relatively uncorrupted compared with Soviet society as a whole, and well regarded by most of the population. With the collapse of the USSR and communist system the Russian armed forces to a large extent have lost this intellectual coherence and with it the basis of their morality and morale. One of the saddest aspects of the long, steady decline of the Russian military has been this loss of the sense of honour and dignity of military service. If organisational reform is the ‘body’ of the armed forces, this is its ‘soul’. The greatest danger for the Russian armed forces is that, the longer this situation persists, the more difficult it will be to recover from. Indeed some Russian analysts believe that the loss of morale and morality within the officer corps as a whole is so severe that some branches of the forces are today beyond reform. The significant point here is that the extent of this decline in motivation and morale differs throughout the armed forces. The ground forces seem to have suffered the worst, the navy the least. There is a striking difference between units in all services, depending on the abilities of their commanders, the tasks of the unit and available resources. Interior troops have fared better overall, and troops of the Emergency Ministry have emerged quite well. In all cases, special forces units and units of the

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airborne forces have succeeded in keeping relatively intact their morale and a sense of purpose. The implications for the future development of the Russian armed forces are considerable. Rebuilding morale is a most important factor, both long-term and short-term, for successful reform. But this will be the most difficult task of all. The biggest threat to the process of reform is the conviction, still prevalent in some sectors of the military community, that the old system (that is, the relationship between the armed forces and society that existed in Soviet times and which, with hindsight, now appears very attractive) can be rebuilt. The effort to re-introduce basic military-patriotic education in secondary schools is an example of such backward thinking. The hard truth is that Russian society has changed a great deal in the past decade and the gap between new civilian and old military thinking has now grown very wide. But many officers are still detached from society and find its recent changes hard to accept. The Russian people still cling to the idea of the army as a key element of national identity and, as such, the army is ‘popular’. But until and unless those same people are willing to see their sons serve in the army, then the army will continue along its path of social decline. If the old social contract between armed forces and society cannot be revived, then the only option is to rebuild it on a new basis. The inescapable conclusion of most Russian security analysts today is that Russia needs a new army, not a revived and rebuilt version of its old army. Furthermore, the basis for morale and motivation must be lodged firmly in popular support. In Russia, just as in Western countries, the army will henceforth have to sell itself to the people. It will have to become an institution in which people are proud to serve; where they are not ill treated but where officers and others show care and concern for their subordinates; where standards of integrity and honesty are seen to be high. This will be of exceptional importance if the armed forces move towards regular (i.e., fully paid) service instead of conscription. The line between a regular professional army and a mercenary army is a fine one. It will take a great deal more effort, and a great deal more transparency, if the Russian army’s attempts to become a ‘professional’ army are not to deteriorate into its becoming a mercenary one. Of course, personnel management is one of the most difficult things to get right in any large organisation. But in an army, failure is catastrophic. Getting this right must be a top priority. It will be difficult, it will be painful, it will have a cost and it will take time. But if it is not done well, then no amount of good equipment will compensate. The country will not have an army (or police force, etc.); it will just have a waste of money.

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The NCO Issue There is a widely held view that what is really needed by the Russian army as it struggles to reform is a strong, reliable and competent regular non-commissioned officer (NCO) cadre. The models of the USA, the UK, Germany and France are often held up to justify this. Russian officers with experience of these armies gained in Bosnia or Kosovo will often agree, seeing the value of NCOs as incontrovertible evidence of the truth of the assertion, an assertion I would certainly not challenge in principle. But in practice building an effective NCO corps will not be an easy option for Russia. Armies reflect the social structure of their countries. For example, the UK, the USA, France and Germany have civilian societies in which there is a long tradition of reliance on the middlemanagement level—the foreman in a factory, the independent modern farmer, the manager of a shop, the owner of a small business. In civilian life these people have the independence, initiative and education to accept responsibility. National culture carries this into military service, albeit in different styles. As this stratum of society has been weak in Russia because of the communist heritage, the material for the US/German style of NCO will only gradually become available. Furthermore, the culture of the officer/conscript system will not find it easy to ‘grow’ this stratum of military society and to allow it the initiative, authority and respect without which it cannot exist. Over time, to be sure, it will certainly be possible to develop this level of command. Both the British and German armies today base their NCO structure on training and education within the forces themselves. It should certainly be possible to replicate this in the Russian system. But it will have to be accompanied by a cultural evolution so that the command structure is prepared to delegate authority right down to the NCO level. A good example to study here would be the Bundeswehr ‘redefinition’ of East German army officers’ posts (up to lieutenantcolonel) as senior NCO (Hauptfeldwebel, etc.) posts. It would also be very instructive to study how armies such as the British and German today make good use of promoting regular NCOs into the ranks of officers with specific or limited—but immensely valuable—functions. All this will take time, and will require a specific and dedicated effort to accomplish. But it will be an effort well worth making, and this is one area where practical assistance from armies with a strong NCO tradition can really help speed up the process.

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Officer Selection and Education Much faith is also placed in the new generation of young officers in the Russian army for advancing the cause of reform and renewal. It is argued that one cannot expect senior officers to change their way of thinking, but, once a new generation has come into the armed forces, all will be well. Old thinking and old practices will be swept away and the officer corps will be modernised, in tune with the new conditions of society. In fact, this is not so automatic a process as is often assumed. The rather unpalatable fact is that Russia has so far done little to reform the officer selection and training processes. A new generation of junior officers has in fact been educated largely in the old style. This has, arguably, been the biggest failure of the reform process so far. It has resulted in a new generation of junior officers who have received their military education within a ‘democratic’ system and who are proud of their technical and academic achievement and of their officer academy. However, because in many cases the training system has only changed superficially, it has often failed to teach this generation such fundamentals as leadership, responsibility, integrity and respect for subordinates. In consequence, where there was previously only one layer of conservative opposition to reform—the more senior level with a lot to lose—there is now a second group—young men and women who, while they are certainly not communist-minded, do not necessarily share Western values and who may become increasingly resistant to external advice and to change. This could be a major obstacle to the introduction of many essential reforms, not least an effective NCO system, which relies on the delega tion of responsibility to subordinates who are trusted and respected. Of course, not all recently trained officers are narrow-minded and not all officer academies remain unreformed. But if this issue is not tackled soon, and with greater energy, then it will inevitably slow down further reform despite the best efforts of Russia’s political hierarchies. THE SOLUTION: REGULAR PROFESSIONAL ARMED FORCES? It was President Yeltsin who first committed Russia to developing fully regular, professional armed forces and, although the deadline has been constantly pushed back, this is still officially the long-term target. It may indeed be that this is the solution to Russia’s military reform problem. But in my view, the issue is far from certain. On the one hand, much of the opposition to introducing a regular army is based on an instinctive and

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ideological aversion to the idea by General Staff officers. Experiments in professionalisation in specific units have been so badly carried out as to raise the suspicions of deliberate sabotage by those charged with carrying out the test. On the other hand, many of the strongest proponents of professionalisation in Russia have no idea of the cost and complexity of the changes they are espousing. There are four things that contribute to this cost and complexity: personnel, infrastructure, equipment and sustainability. Personnel and Infrastructure Conscript soldiers cost relatively little in terms of cash. There is, of course, a high social cost to the country of taking a young man out of education or productive work. But in modern economies with several per cent unemployment, this cost is less evident. Moreover the cost is not borne by the defence budget. The conscript endures a relatively low standard of living, and needs little by way of support, being unaccompanied by a wife or children. The regular soldier, by contrast, must be paid at a rate comparable with the commercial world and provided with adequate housing for his family and other social support. Otherwise, he will leave the army for better conditions elsewhere. The average cost of a regular soldier or officer in NATO countries is approximately 2–2.5 times the per capita GDP per year for wages, pensions, social support and training (including an allowance for replacement personnel in the training pipeline). The regular soldier is therefore an expensive soldier. The extra infrastructure needed by the regular soldier (and his family) itself generates more administrative costs. Moreover, the conscript is always available for service. He gets little leave. The regular soldier not only has to have reasonable leave periods, but during his service he will be detached for in-service training courses and the like which will reduce his availability. Furthermore, the experience of the USA and the UK shows a very high turnover of regular soldiers—many leave without re-enlistment after three-five years. This, of course, undermines the rationale of having regulars for long service. In fact, most regular professional militaries employ individual rotation and replacement. This is very disruptive since personnel turnover is continuous and often exceeds 50 per cent per year within many units. This reduces small-unit cohesion and therefore further compromises readiness. It has proved very difficult in the US system, for example, to form cohesive units for an extended operation from personnel all of whom must have over nine months left before their contracts come up for renewal. By comparison many long-term conscript-/reserve-based

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militaries have tended to use unit rotation and replacement. This, like a sausage machine, generates interchangeable cohesive teams, platoons and companies. This increases small-unit cohesion and results in relatively high readiness, once units have been formed and fully trained. Equipment How well armed forces can be equipped depends in large measure on how well they can be manned. In many branches of the armed services today there is a direct correlation between the time available for training and the educational level of the serviceman on the one hand, and, on the other, the complexity of equipment which can be introduced. Furthermore, for the last 30 years, as weapons and equipment have improved, their cost has risen much faster than the rate of inflation. Consequently, as forces modernise, if they retain the same force structure, the cost of equipment procurement as a percentage of the overall budget will double in real terms approximately every 18 years. If the percentage of gross national product (GNP) allocated to defence is constant, and if GNP does not grow annually in real terms by a considerable amount, then the costs of procurement will lead inevitably to a reduction in the size of the force. It is this which, more than anything, drives countries to conduct defence reviews. The politician who promises that ‘leaner will be meaner’ and ‘smaller equals better’ is in fact making virtue out of necessity. The USSR provides a good example of a country which tried both to maintain the size of its forces and to keep them up to date. This contributed in no small measure to the destruction of the Soviet economy. Today’s Russia cannot follow the Soviet option. It is possible, of course, to save money by careful defence spending. Countries often waste their defence budgets by incurring extra costs for political reasons: building their own aircraft instead of buying a cheaper foreign one, for example. However, the scope for saving by rationalising the defence budget is limited. In the end, modern armies cost a lot, and regular armies cost a lot more than conscription-based reserve armies. Sustainability Very few armed forces on a peacetime footing can sustain their total force structure on operations for extended periods. Countries can afford only a limited budgetary allocation for unplanned operations and limited stocks of combat consumables.

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If a modern army is to be sustained on operations, experience shows that a simple rule can be applied. Land forces need to have at least three times the combat manpower of the actual battalions making up the force deployed. To generate a combat force (including all necessary direct support functions) of 60,000 will require a total combat force of some 200, 000. In addition, a large number of military or civilian personnel will be needed to staff the infrastructure and support the whole. To buy a modern regular army, you need to buy five or six men or women for every one you want to deploy in combat. Many would argue that this estimate is on the low side. At this point it is important to recognise that a soldier does not need to be ‘regular’ to be good. Conscripts can be very good if they are well trained and instructed. But while this is relatively easy to apply to specific skills, it is not so easy to apply to a wide variety of skills. It is difficult for the conscript to be versatile and to cope with complex technical equipment. Reservists, on the other hand, can bring technical skills from the civilian economy. But they often have a problem in maintaining combat skills. There is clearly no easy answer to the question of a ‘regular’ or ‘conscript’ army for Russia. It would appear that the Russian leadership made a political commitment to professionalising the armed forces without understanding the implications this would have for cost and organisation, to say nothing of its impact on the civil—military relationship. The particular problem that has arisen in Russia today is a result of force structures being reduced but remaining largely conscript-based. The country faced two simple alternatives: either the conscription term had to be reduced or conscription had to become selective. As a general rule, the former reduces effectiveness and versatility, and the latter is socially divisive. Russia opted for the latter course and is now suffering as a result. It is clear that Russia cannot maintain its current system indefinitely. The time is now ripe to seek some alternative form of service avoiding the extremes of either conscript or regular service, but blending the advantages of both. Old Infrastructure Costs Although we have just addressed infrastructure costs as they apply to regular armed forces, there is another infrastructure cost that afflicts armed forces in transition such as Russia’s—the infrastructure retained from Cold War days. These are the structures for commands, mobilisation, defence organisations, garrisons, the logistic stockpiles and

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so on which formed the basis of Cold War defence systems and which are in the main not used in today’s security operations. Even though these structures have been reduced in Russia, far too much remains, and the cost is still an enormous drain on the meagre defence budget. To be sure, there are many arguments that can be, and are, made to retain this Cold War infrastructure: ‘It is needed to provide a proper officer career structure’; ‘It is essential to keep the armed forces in touch with the population’; ‘We might just need to have a mass mobilisation in the near future’; ‘We cannot afford the social disruption and cost of so many redundancies.’ It is amazing how similar these arguments are in all countries, and how difficult it is for all military establishments, not just Russia’s, to accept the necessity for fundamental change. But if it is not cut down soon, and to an absolute minimum, this obsolete infrastructure will absorb so much of the available human and financial resources that the proportion of usable personnel and cash available to the Russian armed forces will be in turn reduced to below the essential minimum, and crucial reforms will be impossible. WAYS, ENDS AND MEANS If we draw together the above trends, we find that they move in the same direction for Russia as they do for other armed forces in industrialised countries. As forces need to become more flexible, versatile and capable of being sustained, their cost will increase and the size of force that can be afforded will drop. In fact, the essence of the problem is that Russia, like many countries today, is so involved in the rapidly evolving problems of force cuts, defence reforms, democratic transformations, financial reviews and the like that it is difficult for the military leadership to step back from dealing with painful details and to review the issue as a whole. Many military specialists fail to see that Russia today is facing what amounts to a revolutionary change in requirements. Russia, like other industrialised countries, has to take a new look at the classic interaction between Ends, Ways and Means. Current efforts at military reform are trying to reorganise ‘Means’ without addressing ‘Ends’ and ‘Ways’. In the Cold War, there was no need to discuss the End. It was fixed and agreed upon. All Russian military intellectual energy (and mechanisms for discussion) could be concentrated on Ways and Means. Today, there are two, potentially contradictory, Ends—‘defence’ and ‘security’. One way forward is to rationalise this by addressing both these Ends in sequence, i.e., to conclude that Russia will not need to worry about

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‘defence’ for at least a decade, so that reformers can concentrate now on meeting the needs of ‘security’. In theory, the ‘Way’ to deal with defence has not changed. For Russia, the General Staff can still justify a case for defence as requiring mass armies. But in practice Russia has already mostly lost this capability, just as NATO armies have everywhere. In fact, it is no longer clear what ‘the Way’ should be either for defence or for security for any army in the twenty-first century, let alone Russia’s. What is clear is that ‘the Means’ which Russia now possesses are not optimised either for defence or for security. We cannot yet say in any detail and with any conviction what kind of armed forces Russia will need for the twenty-first century. What Russian commentators are concluding is that the kinds of armed forces Russia (and most other European countries for that matter) has today are not right for the tasks which now face them. What is needed, therefore, is to focus debate in Russia on finding a new ‘Way’ that satisfies both Ends of defence and security and which is within the country’s Means. This is one contribution that the ‘academic’ or ‘policy support’ community can make to the process of defence reform in Russia as has happened in some Western countries. It is, moreover, an area where foreign analysts can really help their Russian counterparts despite the caveat already noted, that is, the national resistance any external ideas or offers of assistance could generate if they are not carefully expressed. Without prejudicing the outcome of this debate, which is in its infancy in Russia as it is elsewhere, it seems to me that trends are likely to lead in the following direction if forces are to be employable. Manpower will give way to firepower. Quantity and mass will give way to quality (i.e., of personnel and training, precision of weapons and equipment, etc.). There will be a premium on reach/range and speed of action, of deployment and of employment. Of first importance will be the information, intelligence and decision-making process which confers the capability to act pre-emptively, because, in the new environment, action may have to be pre-emptive and offensive to be successful. ASSESSING THE SECURITY REQUIREMENTS I have so far been talking about developing a force to meet the needs of security. It is worth addressing at this point just how the Russian government makes its assessment as to what sort of force it needs to meet the risks it faces. Here, Russia has a particular problem in that, in the communist system, such assessment was the responsibility of the Party, and the Party left the task largely to the military. As a result,

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governmental expertise outside the uniformed services was slight. There was overall in the USSR so little military expertise among civilians that military men really decided everything. There was no real civilian governmental control of defence policy, and no civilian governmental capability in defence planning. Instead, there was the concept of ‘military buildup’ (stroitelstvo) which is a very complex process, and which was almost totally the responsibility of the military leadership and defence industrial leadership. We see the result today, in Russia’s National Security Concept. This is a list of all possible threats prepared by each ministry or agency having anything to do with security. It is a collegiate review of facts as these agencies perceive them to be. But there is no prioritisation—no analysis of risk versus probability. The National Security Concept is therefore of little use as a policy planning document. How could a future Russian government make that analysis and prioritisation which the Russian National Security Concept avoids? To do so it would need a very good information system. Note the words: an information system is just what it says—a system for getting and analysing information of all sorts—from the press, commerce and industry, diplomatic sources, common sense, and finally, but only finally, secret sources. In Russia the intelligence services still reflect the heritage of closed societies, and a culture of secrecy and suspicion still prevails. If a government has no effective system of incorporating both open and secret information into its information system, but relies only on secret sources to make its analyses, then it is likely to go badly wrong in its choices. Open information, a system to evaluate it and politicians and civil servants educated to understand it are essential to enable intelligence to be used properly. Without this it will be impossible to make a realistic threat assessment. Without a realistic threat assessment, it is impossible to design, plan and prioritise the military and security system that the country needs. CONCLUSION That the Russian armed forces and security forces are in need of fundamental reform because they do not meet the needs of Russia’s national security today is clear to many people in Russia, including at the highest levels of the national leadership. That there should be objections and obstacles to proposed reforms is inevitable and perfectly understandable, because there are many different ideas of what reforms are needed.

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However, it is only when all the threads are drawn together, and the defence reform issue is seen both as part of the evolution of Russian society as a whole and as a reaction to the changing nature of security worldwide, that the true complexity of the task facing Russia becomes apparent. It would be difficult enough to choose and build a military and security system from scratch based on objective analysis. To have to construct a new system on the basis of the heritage of the Soviet system is a doubly difficult task. There are many mechanisms and structures accessible in Western countries and international institutions such as NATO that can help Russia with the mechanics of constructing forces on new lines. There is a great deal of experience, often negative and painful experience of failure, that Russia can study in Western countries. The academic and policy support community and Western specialists working with their Russian counterparts can help by spreading the basis of knowledge and debate on key issues of reform and force-building within Russia, airing the problems, pointing to useful examples for study and, above all, providing as objective a view as possible of the specific features of the ‘Russian condition’ for the benefit of the Russians themselves. ‘O wad some power the giftie gie us, tae see ourselves as others see us.’ Burns is justifiably popular in Russia, and the truth of his most famous sentiment is as well understood in Russia as it is elsewhere. This, perhaps, is the special contribution that we can make to helping Russia tackle this most formidable problem of providing itself with the armed forces it really needs. We all have an interest in seeing Russia succeed in this difficult task. NOTE The views expressed in this chapter are solely those of the author. They do not represent in any way official NATO or UK views. They are presented here purely to stimulate scientific debate on an important topic.

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Index

Abkhazia, 187, 188, 189, 234 Adamishin, Anatoly, 9 Admiral Chabanenko, the, 170 Admiral Kuznetsov, the, 160, 161, 164 Afghan War (1979–89), 122, 138; Afghanistan, 195, 250 Air Defence Forces (PVO), 142–7, 145, 155–9(n20); Air Defence Forces District, 143 air force (VVS), 138–2, 197, 198; aircraft, 139, 140, 145(table), 146, 148, 150, 152–6; airfields, 139; budget, 140, 146, 154; and the Chechen Wars, 148–3, 150– 4, 194; combat readiness, 146; command control, 143–8; commanders-in-chief, 147(table); modernisation of, 152–6, 154; munitions and weapons systems, 149, 152, 154; nuclear weapons, 79–4; pilots, 140, 147; problems facing, 139–3; role, 140–5, 153–7; social conditions, 146, 156(n27); Soviet legacy, 139; strength, 139; structural reforms, 142–9, 155–9 (n20), 156(n22); training, 147–1, 158(n34) al-Qaeda, 235, 250 Aleksandrov, Major-General V.Y., 153 All-Army Officers’ Meeting, 29 Andropov, Yuri, 236

Arbatov, Alexei, 55(n26), 73, 75, 90 (n11) Arbatov, Georgy, 164 ‘arc of instability’, the, 297 armed forces, 18(n28), 53–7(n1), 87, 98– 2, 243, 293, 294, 294–8, 318; and the 1991 coup attempt, 21; and the 1993 leadership crisis, 188, 201(n5); armaments, 196–197, 205(n51); armaments programme, 196, 205 (n51); budget, 22–6, 41, 50, 55(n36), 73, 80, 86, 87, 112–16, 172, 182(n51), 191, 194–8, 263, 268, 281–5, 301, 313–17; career development, 308; and the Chechen Wars, 194, 194–8; civilian control of, 23–8, 30, 32–6, 49– 3, 89; command control, 197–1, 301, 307; conservatism of, 50; creation of, 124–9; crisis facing, 260–8; deployment of, 7; deserters, 262; education reforms, 269–3; human factors and reform, 307–13; infrastructure, 125; Military Reform Concept, 85–86; modernisation of equipment costs, 313–17; morale, 48–2, 308–12; ‘optimisation’ of, 52, 57(n43); option, 73, 73(table); ‘other forces’, 261(table), 258–2, 304; performance in small wars, 193–8; 325

326

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002

political involvement, 19–3, 20, 23, 25–32, 190; and political parties, 29–5; professionalisation debate, 130–4, 132, 133, 264, 265–71, 271, 312–18; professionalisation of, 286, 289–3, 312–16; public confidence in, 33; Putin’s reforms, 38–2, 46–52, 53, 57 (n44), 72, 112–16, 113–17, 192–6, 257– 75, 286; recruits and recruitment, 132, 260– 4, 261, 264–8, 289–3, 290(table), 312– 16; reform priorities, 259–3; and regionalism, 72–7; regulation of, 20–6; salaries, 262–6; and small wars, 187–2, 189–4, 200– 4; small wars and reform, 195–198; small-wars military structure, 195– 9; social conditions, 261–5, 262–6, 271, 274(n23); Soviet legacy, 300–5, 304, 304–8, 306–10, 308, 315; spetsnaz, 196; strategic principles, 103; strength, 72, 73, 85, 85(table), 90 (n11), 112, 124, 125, 286–90, 314; suicide rate, 261–5, 272–6(n18); sustainability, 314–18; training, 269–3; voting power, 30–4; Yeltsin’s reforms, 38, 40–8, 187, 201 (n2), 260, 265, 312 army aviation, 149–3, 150–4, 197 ‘Asian flu’, 1998 epidemic, 45 Association of Internationalist Servicemen, 29 Astanin, Major-General Valeriy, 268 Averre, Derek, 245 Azerbaijan, 187, 188 Bagram airfield, 152

Baluyevskiy, Colonel-General Yuri, 115 Barayev, Colonel V.B., 153 barracks subculture, 57, 261–5; dedovshchina, 61–8, 65–67, 67–1, 133, 260, 271; distortion of personal self, 59–3; group solidarity, 61; language, 63–7; ‘mortification’, 58–2; patronage, 60–4; and physical strength, 64; regional bonding, 64; rewards, 59; seniority, 61–6, 63(table), 69(n6); as total institutions, 58–4 Basayev, Shamil, 235 Baturin, Yuri, 43, 44 Batyrov, Lieutenant-General Mukhamed, 169 Belarus, 13, 97 Berezovskiy, Boris, 222 Bosnia-Herzegovina, 187, 245 bribery, 134 Budennovsk hostage crisis (1995), 192 Budzinskiy, Colonel Grigoriy, 210 Bukreyev, Colonel-General Yuri, 129 Cam Rahn Bay naval base, 161, 250 Chechnya, xviii, 5, 6, 10, 15, 45, 190, 191, 197, 299; Chechen communications system, 211; Chechen use of the Internet, 225–8; First Chechen War (1994–96), 13, 41, 72, 127, 148–3, 188, 192, 194, 199, 207, 213–16, 218, 222–6, 228, 248; information warfare, 207; Russian goals, 220; Russian maps, 213–16; Second Chechen War (1999–2000), xvii, 38, 78, 129, 150–4, 188–2, 192– 6, 193, 194–8, 209–31, 248, 249; terrorist threat, 234–7, 247–50 Chernomyrdin, Viktor, 42, 192, 246 Chernov, Vladislav, 8 China, 8, 84, 85, 237–40, 244

INDEX 327

Chkalovskiy airfield, 139 Civic Union, 31, 32 civil-military relations, 19–3, 32–6, 180, 300–4, 302, 302–6, 309–13; civilian control, 23–8; division of authority, 23, 24; post-Soviet, 20–6; Putin and, 38–2; and Putin’s reforms, 46–52; under Yeltsin, 40 Combat Regulations, 130 Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS), 2, 3, 5, 7, 97–2; internal conflicts, 14; Russian influence, 8; Western presence in, 9–11 Communist Party, 20, 21, 22 Communist Party of the Russian Federation (KPRF), 32 Conference on Security and Cooperation in Europe (CSCE), Charter of Paris, 239 conflict, changing nature of, 296–297 Congress of Russian Communities (KRO), 31, 32 Conventional Forces in Europe (CFE) Treaty, 239 coup attempt (1991), 19, 21, 29, 239 Crimea, 190 Cuba, 8 Daghestan, 150–4, 188, 194, 219, 247– 50, 299 Danilevich, Colonel-General A.A., 237 dedovshchina (bullying), 57, 61–8, 133, 260, 261, 271; countering, 67–1; origins of, 65–67 Defence, Minister of, 24, 30, 205(n46) Defence, Ministry of, 2, 4, 14, 22, 22–6, 40, 51, 53, 72, 87, 97, 124–8, 187, 191, 195, 205(n46), 281; financial affairs, 285; and the First Chechen War, 192; and nuclear weapons, 79 Defence Council, 12, 43, 54(n18) defence industry, 73, 74(table), 305–10

Deinekin, Colonel-General Petr, 141, 143, 149, 155–9(n20) democratisation, 30 Dvorkin, Major-General V., 111 economic cooperation, 9 economic factors, 275–80; lack of accountability, 285; and military expenditure, 281–5, 286–94, 288(table); oil prices, 278, 283; performance, 277, 278(table), 278–3; projections, 280(table), 280–4, 282, 283(table), 283, 287–1, 288(table), 290–4; spending priorities, 291–5; Treasury system, 285 economic power, 16 electronic warfare, 208, 210–16 Estonia, 190 European Union (EU), 9, 16 External Intelligence Service (SVR), 244 Federal Agency of Government Communications and Information (FAPSI), 197, 212 Federal Border Guard Service (FPS), 258–2 Felgenhauer, Pavel, 72, 86 Finance, Ministry of, 22–6 Foreign Affairs, Ministry of, 5, 7 Foreign Policy Concept, 2, 3, 5, 7, 16, 17, 40, 46; basic principles, 8; development of, 7–9; effect of terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001, 9–11 Frunze, Mikhail, 167 Gaidar, Yegor, 276 Gareyev, General Makhmut, 5–6, 24–8, 238, 247, 267 Gelayev, Ruslan, 234 General Staff, 14, 53, 53–7(n1), 72, 73, 194, 200, 260, 307; and nuclear conflict, 238;

328

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002

and nuclear weapons, 77; and the professionalisation of the armed forces, 266, 267; and Putin’s reforms, 39 General Staff Academy, xvii, 5, 208 Georgia, 5, 188, 201–5(n6), 232–7 Gepard, the, 178 Gerashchenko, Viktor, 276 Gerasimov, Colonel A.A., 153 Giddens, Anthony, 60 glasnost, 21, 22, 132–6, 239 Global Navigational Satellite System (GLONASS), 80–5, 214, 216, 217 Goffman, Erving, 58–4, 63 Golovanev, Colonel Igor, 216 Golts, Alexander, 88 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 20–4, 77, 97, 122–6 Gorchakov, Prince, 244–7 Gorshkov, Admiral Sergei, 162, 163–6, 164, 174 Grachev, Pavel, 26–27, 40, 41–5, 42, 101, 125, 242–5; and the professionalisation of the armed forces, 265; on the RVSN, 105; small wars strategy, 193–7, 196 Great Patriotic War (1941–45), xvii, xvii–xvii, 121, 138, 163, 165 Grechko, Marshal Andrei, 163–6 Gromov, General Boris, 42, 54(n14), 146 ground forces: budget, 121; leadership, 123–7, 131; Main Command, 128, 130; recruits and recruitment, 132; reform and, 121–40; Soviet legacy, 122–6, 135; strength, 121, 126–30 Grozny, 127, 149, 151, 198, 212, 220, 248 Gryzlov, Boris, 222 Gulf War (1991), 11, 127, 138, 141, 154, 207, 243 Gulin, Rear-Admiral Vasiliy, 249 Gumenniy, Colonel Vasiliy, 211

helicopters, 149–3, 150–4, 197, 206(n54) Huntington, Samuel P., 20 Ilyasov, Captain, 133 Ilyukhin, Viktor, 30 Immediate Reaction Forces, 125 India, 8 information technology, 297 information warfare, 207–11, 228–1; Chechen use of, 226–30; information-psychological aspects, 208, 217–27, 227–30, 229; information-technical aspects, 208, 209–19, 225–8; information weapons, 209–8 Ingushetia, 187 Institute of the Economy in Transition, 39 intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs), 75, 87 internal conflicts, 12, 13, 14 International Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty, 239 international security environment, 295–9 Internet, the, 211, 221, 225–8, 229 Iran, 8, 299 Ivanov, Igor, 9, 10 Ivanov, Sergei, 10, 22, 52, 53–7(n1), 84, 89, 114, 135, 192, 283; appointed Minister of Defence, 193; economic reforms, 286–90, 290; and military reform, 257; Military Reform Concept, 85–86; and the professionalisation of the armed forces, 265; and the Security Council, 241 Ivashov, Colonel-General Leonid, 53–7 (n1), 95(n91) Kabanov, Aleksandr, 286 Kaliningrad, 169; Kaliningrad Oblast, 76 Kamchatka, 168, 169 Karatuyev, Colonel-General M.I., 210 Kasyanov, Mikhail, 176 Kazakhstan, 97

INDEX 329

Kettering, Sharon, 60 KGB, 236, 244 Khasbulatov, Ruslan, 41 Khattab, 193, 203(n33) Khodarenok, Mikhail, 87 Khrushchev, Nikita, 163, 164, 165 Kokoshin, Andrei, 239, 240–3, 271 Kolesnikov, General M., 105 Komissarov, Major-General, 133 Kormiltsev, Colonel-General Nikolai, 130–4, 217, 269 Kornukov, Colonel-General Anatoly, 87–2, 144–9, 153–7; on the role of the air force, 141–5 Kosovo conflict, 5, 13, 45, 46, 152, 154, 169, 169–2, 189, 202(n18), 207, 246–9 Kozyrev, Andrei, 241 KPRF (Communist Party of the Russian Federation), 32 Krasnov, Colonel A.B., 147, 155–9(n20) KRO (Congress of Russian Communities), 31, 32 Kudelina, Lyubov, 263, 283, 285 Kudrin, Finance Minister, 285 Kulikov, General Anatoliy, 240 Kulikov, General Vladimir, 267 Kuroyedov, Admiral Vladimir, 161, 168, 169, 170, 171, 172, 174, 180; and the Kursk disaster, 174, 175; strategy, 173 Kursk, the, xviii, 38, 72, 170, 171–6, 175– 8, 195 Kuzmin, Colonel-General F.M., 123–7 Kuznetsov, Admiral Nikolai, 164–7 Kvashnin, General Anatoly, 10, 39, 45, 74–9, 78, 85, 106, 221, 248, 268, 269, 282; on the armed forces, 88; and the RVSN, 112 Kyrgyzstan, 9, 10 labour camps, subculture, 67 Larionov, Major-General V.V, 238 Latvia, 190 Lebed, Aleksandr, 27–1, 31, 42, 42–6, 54 (n15), 54(n16), 73, 240 Leontyev, Mikhail, 234

Levada, Yuri, 65, 66 Levinson, Aleksey, 65, 66 Lisbon Protocol, the, 98 Main Military Intelligence Directorate (GRU), 196, 205(n50), 212 Main Political Administration, 20 Makashov, General Albert, 30 Maksimov, Colonel-General Yu. P., 97– 1 Manilov, Colonel-General Valery, 12, 53–7(n1), 110–14 Maritime Collegium, 176–9 Maritime Doctrine, 176 Matyash, Colonel Vladimir, 211 Meleshko, Major-General V., 104 Mendeloff, David, 26 Merkulov, Lieutenant-General Yuriy, 216 Middle East, 297 Mikhailov, Colonel-General Vladimir, 145–9 Mikhaylov, General Nikolay, 257 military culture, xviii, 198–3, 200–4 Military Development and Reform Directorate, 102 military districts, 128–2, 130, 136(n11), 143, 144, 259 Military Doctrine, 2, 3, 3, 4, 6, 11, 16, 17, 17(n1), 38, 39, 40–4, 46, 52, 54(n5), 72, 242–5; development of, 11–14; and information warfare, 209; and military reform, 46–47, 259–3; and the navy, 172–5; and nuclear weapons, 76, 87, 100–5, 110–14, 117(n15); and the RVSN, 99–5; and small wars, 189; and threat perception, 109–14, 248– 1 Military for Democracy, 30 military service, attitudes towards, 264 (table) Military Space Troops (VKS), 45, 107 military theory, xvii Missile Space Defence (RKO), 107, 143

330

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002

Mobile Forces, 125–9 Moldova, 5, 131, 152, 187 Moscow: 1993 leadership crisis, 188, 201(n5); air defence, 86–1, 151; terrorist attacks of 1999, xvii; theatre hostage crisis (2002), xvii, 17 (n1), 304 Moscow Air Force and Air Defence District, 143, 144, 151 Motsak, Vice-Admiral Mikhail, 174, 175 ‘Movement in Support of the Army;Defence Industry and Military Science’, 28–2 munitions and weapons systems, 149, 151, 152, 154, 217 Nagorno Karabakh, 188 ‘Nash Dom Rossiya’, 31, 32 national security, redefinition of, 298 National Security Concept, 2, 3, 3–3, 3 (table), 6–7, 16, 17, 17(n1), 38, 39, 46, 52, 72, 166, 172–5, 317; destabilising factors perceived by, 6; development of, 3–6; and nuclear weapons, 76; objectives, 7; and threat perception, 109–13, 245 NATO, 10–11, 13, 15, 45, 46, 74, 77–2, 241; and the CIS, 9; expansion of, 245; and the Kosovo conflict, 246–9; peacekeeping operations, 187; security policy, 5, 6, 18(n15); and terrorism, 250 NATO-Russia Charter (1997), 245 Naval Doctrine, 189 Naval Submariner’s Union, 29 navy, 160, 194–8; aviation, 161; Black Sea Fleet, 166; budget, 167, 178; Caspian Flotilla, 179, 195; decline of, 160–4;

and dedovshchina, 261; exercises, 161, 170, 179; and the First Chechen War, 194, 203–7(n33); imperial heritage, 162–5; lack of political leadership, 165–9; leadership, 164–7; nuclear submarines, 161–4, 177–80; nuclear weapons, 79, 162; Pacific Fleet, 168, 179–2, 261; reforms, 168–2, 174–82; and the Revolution, 163; role, 166–9, 177; and small wars, 189, 194, 195, 203–7 (n33); Soviet heritage, 163–7, 164; strategy, 172–5; strength, 160–3; and submarine-launched ballistic missiles, 115 Nemstov, Boris, 267 Nikolaskiy, Major-General Vadim, 263 Nikolayev, General Andrei, 259, 266 Nogovitsyn, Lieutenant-General Anatoly, 146 non-combat deaths, 133, 136(n18), 261– 5, 272–6(n18) non-commissioned officers, 310–14 North Africa, 297 North Caucasus Military District, 193 North Korea, 8 North Osetia, 187 Novichkov, Nikolay, 210 nuclear weapons, 4, 13, 45, 73, 74–78, 98, 99–5, 116, 117(n15), 169; conditions of use, 110–14; deterrence role, 247; naval, 79, 162; production rate, 79–4; and the SORT treaty, 82–8; strategic nuclear forces (SNF), 78, 78–6, 81(table), 82(table), 83, 87–2; warheads, 79 Odom, William, 65, 66 officer corps, 49, 67–1, 127, 307; abuses by, 133–8;

INDEX 331

attitudes to service, 48; back pay owed, 42; career development, 308; corruption, 261; income, 134; training, 269, 301, 311–15 Officers’ Assemblies, 29 Officers for the Rebirth of Russia, 29 Officers’ Union, 29 Operation Desert Storm (1991), xvii, 207, 215 Operation Enduring Freedom (2001–2), xvii Osin, Major-General Andrey, 214 Pain, Emil, 220, 221 Pankisi Gorge, 232–7, 250–3 Panov,Vitaliy V., 208 peacekeeping operations, 187–1, 188, 189, 192, 196, 202(n8), 245 perestroika, 20–4, 123, 236, 238, 239 Petr Velikiy, the, 161, 171 Petrov, Colonel A.A., 216–19 Pikayev, Alexander A., 84 Platonov, Colonel Vladimir, 210 political parties, military involvement with, 29–5 Popov, Admiral Vyacheslav, 175, 176 Potemkin, the, 163 ‘pragmatic nationalism’, 46 presidential envoys, 193 presidential responsibilities, 4, 7, 14, 49– 3 Primakov, Yevgeniy, 244–7 Pristina, 169–2 Professional Union of Russian Servicemen, 29 psychological warfare, 208, 217–20, 229; Chechen psychological operations, 227–30; morale and psychological support training, 223; psychological operations, 222–7; use of the media, 218–4 public opinion, and military reform, 51– 5

purges, xvii Putilin, Colonel-General Vladislav, 260–4, 264, 266 Putin, Vladimir, 14, 55(n33), 55–9(n37), 72, 131, 257; anti-terrorism policy, 249–2; armaments programme, 86, 205 (n51); and the Chechen Wars, 220, 222, 248, 249; and civil-military relations, 38–2; control of the armed forces, 259; and defence expenditure, 172, 182 (n51), 283; economic reforms, 275, 285; foreign policy, 8–9, 10, 15–16, 39; and the Kursk disaster, 174, 175; and the military culture, 199, 200–4; military policy, 13, 179, 190–4; military reform policies, 38–2, 46– 52, 53, 59(n44), 72, 85, 112–17, 192– 6, 257, 259–3, 262, 265–70, 270–5, 274 (n23), 286; military reforms attacked, 95(n91); and the navy, 161, 170–3, 171–5, 174, 175–8, 176–9, 179–2; and nuclear weapons debate, 76; popularity, 276–80; and the professionalisation debate, 265; and the Security Council, 241; security policy, 6, 16; and small wars, 199–3; status, 10; and the strategy debate, 111, 120 (n70); on terrorism, 234; threat perception, 248, 251; use of the armed forces, 22 Puzanov, General Igor, 88 radar coverage, 151–5 radio-electronic combat forces, 212 Rapid Deployment Forces, 125–9 reconnaissance-fire complex (ROK), 214–17

332

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002

reconnaissance-strike complex (RUK), 214–17, 238 reconnaissance-strike system, the, 214– 19 remotely piloted vehicles, 209–12 Revolution in Military Affairs, 122–6, 195–198, 215, 238, 247 Rocket Space Defence, 45 Rodionov, Colonel-General Igor, 4, 29, 42, 43–7, 54(n18), 100, 106, 124, 128, 243–6, 262 Rogov, Sergei, 3–4, 73, 75 Rogozin, Dmitri, 235 Rokhlin, Lev, 28–2, 30, 31, 44 Rushaylo, Vladimir, 193 Russian Armed Forces Academy, 270 Russian Civil War (1918–21), xvii Russian Federation (RF), 2; and the 11 September 2001 terrorist attacks, 9–11; banking system, 276; conflict model, 257; constitution, 4, 12, 22; creation of armed forces, 124–9; defence budget, 281–5, 282, 283 (table), 283, 306; external threats, 13–14; foreign policy principles, 8; gross domestic product, 275, 277, 278(table), 280(table), 280–4, 282, 283 (table), 283, 287–1; information system, 317; Internet sites, 226; missile production, 104; national interests, 6; nuclear arsenal, 80, 81, 81(table), 82 (table); nuclear strategy, 76–1; population, 126; position, 294; role, 249; security objectives, 7, 299–3, 317; security policy, 11, 15–16, 40–4, 46, 242–5, 244, 298, 315–20; security policy documents, 3(table), 17; Soviet legacy, 298–2, 318; status, 72–6, 116;

threat perception, 109–14, 235–8, 239–7, 249, 251; threats to, 189 Russian Information Centre (RIT), 220 Russian State Duma, 19; 1993 elections, 31; 1995 elections, 26–27, 28, 31, 41; 1999 elections, 30, 31, 32 Russia’s Choice, 30 Rutskoy, Aleksandr, 27, 31, 32, 41 Safronov, Lieutenant-Colonel A.L., 216–19 Samsonov, Viktor, 43 satellite communications systems, 216– 19 Security Council, 3, 4, 5, 8, 12, 13, 14, 101, 112, 115, 192, 193, 240–3 security policy, definition of, 3–3 Semenov, Colonel-General Vladimir, 127–1 Sergeyev, General Igor, 44, 74, 85, 114, 115, 117(n30), 245, 247, 289; and the ground forces, 128–2; and naval reform, 168; nuclear doctrine, 168, 169, 178; reform plan, 44–8, 53, 55(n26); reforms, 194; and the RVSN, 98, 102–9, 111–15, 121 (n96), 285; on the SNF, 99, 103 Shadrakov, Lieutenant-Colonel A., 261 Shaposhnikov, Boris, xvii, xx(n1) Shaposhnikov, Marshal of Aviation Yevgeny, 4, 269 Shatsillo, Dr Korneliy, 163 Shlykov, Colonel Vitaly, 237 Shramchenko, Lieutenant-General Aleksandr, 151–5 Sierra Leone, 152 Six Day War (1967), 238 Skokov, Yury, 4, 8 Slipchenko, Major-General (ret.) Vladimir Ivanovich, 216 small wars, 187, 187–92; cooperation with ‘other armies’, 191–6;

INDEX 333

impact of, 200–4; and military culture, 198–3; military performance, 193–8; modernising effect of, 195–198; threat of, 189–4 Sokov, Nikolay, 77–2 Soldatov, Andrei, 210–13, 219 soldier-politicians, 26–29 Soldiers’ Mothers organizations, 69 (n16), 221, 228, 262 soldiers’ stipends, 64, 69(n7) Solovtsov, Colonel-General Ye., 114–18 South Osetia, 187 Soviet-Finnish War, the Winter War (1939–40), xvii Soviet Union: armed forces, 121; break-up of, 2, 21, 97, 123, 131, 139, 187–90, 239, 299; ground forces, 122–6; military culture, 198; threat perception, 236–41 Special Purpose Command of the Central Air Defence Zone, 143 Stalin, Josef, xvii, 138, 163, 165 START-I arms control treaty, 77, 94 (n67) START-II arms control treaty, 79, 80, 84, 103 START-III arms control treaty, 80, 81, 250 state, militarising of the, 51, 57(n39) State Strategy for the Defence and Realisation of Russian National Interests in the World Ocean dissertation, 170–3, 182(n49) Stepashin, Sergei, 245 Steregushchiy, the, 178 Strategic Deterrence Forces (SSS), 45, 97 Strategic Missile Forces (RVSN), 143 strategic nuclear forces (SNF), 78, 78–6, 81(table), 82(table), 83, 86, 86–1, 99; naval, 177–80; role, 101, 103; and threat perception, 109–14; weapons allocation, 108 Strategic Offensive Reduction Treaty (SORT), 82(table), 82–8, 178

Strategic Rocket Forces (RVSN), 45, 74, 75, 75–76, 85, 96-97, 116, 121(n96), 121, 143, 285, 287; assets, 97; budget, 78–3, 80; and the collapse of the Soviet Union, 97–2; combat readiness, 105; and the Military Doctrine, 99–5; reduction in status, 111–18; under Sergeyev, 102–9; and small wars, 189; and unification with the VKS and RKO, 107–12 strategy, xvii Suchkov, Major-General Valeriy, 261 Tajikistan, 5, 9, 131, 152, 187, 188, 192, 196 Tatarstan, the, 178, 179 technological advance and proliferation, 296 terrorism, 10, 46, 86–1, 89, 151–5, 191, 193, 234, 235, 249–2, 251; attacks of 11 September 2001, xvii, 9–11, 15, 151 Tevadze, David, 234 theft, 134–8 trade, 9 Transdniestria, 187, 190 Trenin, Dmitri, 42, 54(n14) Troshev, General G., 214 Tsygichiko, Dr Vitaliy, 209 Tukhachevskiy, Mikhail, 167 Turkey, 299 Ukraine, 4, 97 UN peacekeeping operations, 187, 187, 188 Union for the Social Protection of Servicemen or Reservists (Shchit/ Shield), 29 Union of Servicemen of the Baltic States, 29 Union Treaty (1999), 13 United Kingdom, defence budget, 306 United States of America, 46, 257–60;

334

RUSSIAN MILITARY REFORM, 1992–2002

and the CIS, 9–10; defence budget, 306; nuclear arsenal, 83; security policy, 5; terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001, xvii, 151 Uzbekistan, 9 Varyag, the, 261, 272–6(n18) Vilnius, Lithuania, 187 Volkov, Lieutenant-General L.I., 100–4 Volodin, Lieutenant-General Valeriy, 213 Wolf, Eric, 60 World Trade Organisation (WTO), 276 Yakovlev, Aleksandr, 238 Yakovlev, Vladimir, 80, 107, 108; defence of the RVSN, 113 Yaroslav Mudryy, the, 178 Yazov, Dmitri, 21 Yeltsin, Boris, 12, 13, 21, 27, 28, 55–9 (n37), 101, 131, 290, 304; and the army, 40–4; and civil-military relations, 40; foreign policy, 7, 15; and the Kosovo conflict, 246; and the military culture, 198; and military reform, 38, 40–8, 187, 201(n2), 260, 265, 312; military support for, 22; and the navy, 165–8; re-election of, 42, 54(n15); and Rodionov, 106; and the RVSN, 107; and the Security Council, 240; security policy, 3, 4; and ZAPAD 96, 246 Yugoslavia, 246–9 Yuri Dolgorukiy, the, 177 Zaborskiy, Captain V.V., 115 ZAPAD-99 exercise, 72, 170, 202(n18), 246, 247, 254(n48), 257 Zaritskiy, Lieutenant-General Vladimir, 217

Zemo Omalo, 233 Zhukov, Marshal Georgy, 164, 165, 167 Zolotarev, Major-General V.A., 218–1, 223 Zolotov, Colonel-General Leonid S., 217, 269–3 Zubarev, Colonel Vyacheslav, 73