Several months after the fight for Ap Sieu Quan, Staff Sergeant Elrod was rea.s.signed from Hotel Company's First Platoon to become the battalion's intelligence chief, and was meritoriously promoted, to the rank of gunnery sergeant. The battalion continued to operate against the NVA in the provinces just south of North Vietnam. Throughout this time, he refused to carry an M-16. He had seen too many M-16s jam in too many fights, and lost too many Marines. After the battalion's rifles were replaced in December 1967, the newer rifles performed better, but many Marines still had problems, and the rifles with chromed chambers would not be available for months. The M-16 remained a bitter subject.

One day in spring 1968, after a skirmish in a gully near Khe Sanh, Gunnery Sergeant Elrod found an AK-47 beside a dead North Vietnamese soldier. The rifle was in excellent condition. He claimed it as his own, along with several magazines. This was not a trophy. It was a tool. Now he had an a.s.sault rifle he could depend on. The AK-47 did not solve all his problems. It solved one problem but replaced it with another. There was a special danger related to carrying the enemy's weapon: The M-16 and the AK-47 have distinctly different sounds, and whenever Gunnery Sergeant Elrod fired his new weapon, he risked drawing fire from other Marines. He considered this less of a risk than carrying a rifle that might not fire at all.

A few weeks later, Gunnery Sergeant Elrod was walking across a forward operating base near Khe Sanh with his AK-47 slung across his back. A lieutenant colonel stopped him.

"Gunny, why the h.e.l.l are you carrying that?" he asked.

"Because it works," Gunnery Sergeant Elrod replied.

"It's going to get you killed," the colonel said.

Gunnery Sergeant Elrod knew something about how Marines were getting killed. In his experience, this was not one of the ways.

"Sir," he said. "My Marines know what my weapon sounds like. And it works. And it works."

And that was the basic position from which any discussion about automatic rifles began and ended. It was well and good to design a rifle that fired bullets at tremendous velocity, or could achieve exceptional accuracy over substantial range. Soldiers would welcome a rifle that was especially lethal, just as they would praise a rifle that managed to be lightweight, or st.u.r.dy, or had recoil so slight that it almost could not be perceived. But none of these traits meant much if the rifle could not be relied upon to fire when a Marine pulled its trigger. If a rifle could not be trusted, its other characteristics were moot. Being a bayonet holder was not enough.

Gunnery Sergeant Elrod kept his AK-47 that day, and he carried it for several more months. He set it aside only when he rotated back to the United States.

i The Type 56 a.s.sault rifle, the clone of the AK.47 made in Mao'fs China since the Soviet army pa.s.sed the technical specifications to the People'fs Liberation Army in the mid-1950s. The Type 56 a.s.sault rifle, the clone of the AK.47 made in Mao'fs China since the Soviet army pa.s.sed the technical specifications to the People'fs Liberation Army in the mid-1950s.ii The available data, compiled in the database of the Wound Data and Munitions Effectiveness Team, or WDMET, showed that 51 percent of American combat fatalities in Vietnam during the period under study were caused by small arms, 36 percent by fragmentation munitions, and 11 percent by mines and b.o.o.by traps. From Ronald F. Bellamy and Russ Zajtchuk, Textbook of Military Medicine. Part I. Warfare, Weaponry and the Casualty. Conventional Warfare: Ballistic, Blast and Burn Injuries, Chapter 2, a.s.sessing the Effectiveness of Conventional Weapons (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Surgeon General, 1989), p. 65. The available data, compiled in the database of the Wound Data and Munitions Effectiveness Team, or WDMET, showed that 51 percent of American combat fatalities in Vietnam during the period under study were caused by small arms, 36 percent by fragmentation munitions, and 11 percent by mines and b.o.o.by traps. From Ronald F. Bellamy and Russ Zajtchuk, Textbook of Military Medicine. Part I. Warfare, Weaponry and the Casualty. Conventional Warfare: Ballistic, Blast and Burn Injuries, Chapter 2, a.s.sessing the Effectiveness of Conventional Weapons (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Surgeon General, 1989), p. 65.iii The new name brought the rifle into line with the military's standard designations. M stood for model; thus the M1903 springfield, the M1 Garand, the M.14, etc. The new name brought the rifle into line with the military's standard designations. M stood for model; thus the M1903 springfield, the M1 Garand, the M.14, etc.iv A lock was installed on most M.14s to prevent them from being used on automatic fire. In every ten-man rifle squad in the army in the early 1960s, two men were given the M.14 capable of automatic fire, known as the M.14E2; this version was equipped with a bipod and other features that drove up its weight. A lock was installed on most M.14s to prevent them from being used on automatic fire. In every ten-man rifle squad in the army in the early 1960s, two men were given the M.14 capable of automatic fire, known as the M.14E2; this version was equipped with a bipod and other features that drove up its weight.v Under the license sale arrangement, MacDonald would receive a cut of both Fairchild'fs and Colt'fs future receipts. This included a 1 percent commission from Colt'fs for the selling price of every rifle sold, and 10 percent of Fairchild royalties, some of which were calculated on a sliding scale. For sales to military customers, the combined formula guaranteed him 1.225 percent. These were considerable incentives for MacDonald to try to have the AR.15 adopted by the American military. (For a detailed review of the license deal, see 'How a Lone Inventor'fs Idea Took Fire,'h Business Week, July 6, 1968.) Under the license sale arrangement, MacDonald would receive a cut of both Fairchild'fs and Colt'fs future receipts. This included a 1 percent commission from Colt'fs for the selling price of every rifle sold, and 10 percent of Fairchild royalties, some of which were calculated on a sliding scale. For sales to military customers, the combined formula guaranteed him 1.225 percent. These were considerable incentives for MacDonald to try to have the AR.15 adopted by the American military. (For a detailed review of the license deal, see 'How a Lone Inventor'fs Idea Took Fire,'h Business Week, July 6, 1968.)vi The embarra.s.sment had grounds beyond the origins of the cadavers used. The twenty-seven severed heads were ultimately subjected to tests of little apparent value. And there are hints in the report of a lapse of scientific judgment that cast doubts on the value of the entire study. According to the report, Dziemian and Olivier used AR-15 ammunition different from the ammunition the American military used in Vietnam. Throughout the war, American troops would use a metal-jacketed round, just as the military had been using in other cartridges throughout the century. But in the Biophysics Division's test in 1962, the cartridges were described by Dziemian and Olivier as propelling 'bullets with a lead core and no metal jackets.'h These rounds could be expected to create wounds of a much different nature from those made by military ammunition, and their use in the tests risked undermining judgment about the relative lethality of the tested weapons. But there is a hurdle to knowing with certainty what really occurred: the secrecy and cover-up of the work. Was the reference a clerical error? The photographs of the ammunition released to the author by the United States government were low-quality digital scans and provided no help in determining the bullets' composition. Ultimately, it is not possible to tell from the records released to date. The study'fs final report did have other clerical errors, so it remains possible that this, too, was a clerical error. This was one of the pitfalls of secret tests, which were subject neither to peer review nor to public scrutiny. Both research lapses and editorial lapses could pa.s.s, and did pa.s.s, unchallenged. The embarra.s.sment had grounds beyond the origins of the cadavers used. The twenty-seven severed heads were ultimately subjected to tests of little apparent value. And there are hints in the report of a lapse of scientific judgment that cast doubts on the value of the entire study. According to the report, Dziemian and Olivier used AR-15 ammunition different from the ammunition the American military used in Vietnam. Throughout the war, American troops would use a metal-jacketed round, just as the military had been using in other cartridges throughout the century. But in the Biophysics Division's test in 1962, the cartridges were described by Dziemian and Olivier as propelling 'bullets with a lead core and no metal jackets.'h These rounds could be expected to create wounds of a much different nature from those made by military ammunition, and their use in the tests risked undermining judgment about the relative lethality of the tested weapons. But there is a hurdle to knowing with certainty what really occurred: the secrecy and cover-up of the work. Was the reference a clerical error? The photographs of the ammunition released to the author by the United States government were low-quality digital scans and provided no help in determining the bullets' composition. Ultimately, it is not possible to tell from the records released to date. The study'fs final report did have other clerical errors, so it remains possible that this, too, was a clerical error. This was one of the pitfalls of secret tests, which were subject neither to peer review nor to public scrutiny. Both research lapses and editorial lapses could pa.s.s, and did pa.s.s, unchallenged.vii Army of the Republic of Vietnam, which fought with American forces against the North Vietnamese troops and Viet Cong guerrillas (author's note). Army of the Republic of Vietnam, which fought with American forces against the North Vietnamese troops and Viet Cong guerrillas (author's note).viii The old cleaning gear was of little use. The M-14 had a bore diameter of 7.62 millimeters; the M-16 had a diameter of 5.56 millimeters. The cleaning rod used to push a patch through an M-14 barrel was too thick to pa.s.s through the newer rifle'fs barrel. The old cleaning gear was of little use. The M-14 had a bore diameter of 7.62 millimeters; the M-16 had a diameter of 5.56 millimeters. The cleaning rod used to push a patch through an M-14 barrel was too thick to pa.s.s through the newer rifle'fs barrel.ix What really caused the jamming? Ichord emphasized ball powder, a factor that a subsequent writer, James Fallows, endorsed. Thomas L. McNaugher, in his rigorous 1984 study, The M16 Controversies: Military Organizations and Weapons Acquisition, emphasized maintenance and noted that by 1970 the rifle was widely considered reliable. The most likely cause for most of the reported problems, based on the records now available, and the accounts of veterans, would seem to be corrosion in the rifles'f chambers. This was caused in some cases by cleaning habits in the wet climate of Vietnam, but from a manufacturing perspective was related more strongly to the failure of the army and Colt'fs to chrome-plate the chambers of all M.16s leaving Hartford until late in 1968. Another likely factor contributing to the failures to extract, though as far as is publicly known the army never conducted extensive tests of the cartridge cases from 1966 to 1968, was that the ammunition cases were too soft and expanded under the pressures of firing, lodging into pitting and tool marks in the chamber. The rifle'fs inherently poor resistance to corrosion and insufficient ammunition standards likely combined to create the most intractable jams. Rifle cleaning habits were in all likelihood much less of a factor, considering that the same troops, when using M-14s in the same environments, reported few reliability problems. By 1970, when McNaugher noted that the M-16s in Vietnam were performing reliably, the many manufacturing changes meant that in many ways the troops were carrying a different rifle than what had been issued in 1966 and 1967. What really caused the jamming? Ichord emphasized ball powder, a factor that a subsequent writer, James Fallows, endorsed. Thomas L. McNaugher, in his rigorous 1984 study, The M16 Controversies: Military Organizations and Weapons Acquisition, emphasized maintenance and noted that by 1970 the rifle was widely considered reliable. The most likely cause for most of the reported problems, based on the records now available, and the accounts of veterans, would seem to be corrosion in the rifles'f chambers. This was caused in some cases by cleaning habits in the wet climate of Vietnam, but from a manufacturing perspective was related more strongly to the failure of the army and Colt'fs to chrome-plate the chambers of all M.16s leaving Hartford until late in 1968. Another likely factor contributing to the failures to extract, though as far as is publicly known the army never conducted extensive tests of the cartridge cases from 1966 to 1968, was that the ammunition cases were too soft and expanded under the pressures of firing, lodging into pitting and tool marks in the chamber. The rifle'fs inherently poor resistance to corrosion and insufficient ammunition standards likely combined to create the most intractable jams. Rifle cleaning habits were in all likelihood much less of a factor, considering that the same troops, when using M-14s in the same environments, reported few reliability problems. By 1970, when McNaugher noted that the M-16s in Vietnam were performing reliably, the many manufacturing changes meant that in many ways the troops were carrying a different rifle than what had been issued in 1966 and 1967.x The United States Army in the Republic of Vietnam would not require soldiers to report M-16 malfunctions officially until spring 1968, making the military's data throughout the worst period of M.16 malfunctions, in 1966 and 1967, of dubious value. The United States Army in the Republic of Vietnam would not require soldiers to report M-16 malfunctions officially until spring 1968, making the military's data throughout the worst period of M.16 malfunctions, in 1966 and 1967, of dubious value.

CHAPTER 8

Everyman's Gun

Q: You said you killed an army officer?A: He was on a treetop on a small mountain near Kilak, Okidi Hill. The commander was in a tree. He was on a patrol or an observation post.Q: What happened?A: We were three. We came from behind. We saw him and he didn't see us. The commander was using his radio. The officer was not alone-the others were down below, cooking. They opened fire on us.Q: And then?A: The officer fell from the tree. It was my accurate fire that shot the officer.Q: After you knew he was dead, and the fighting was over that day, what did you think of the operation?A: I was so happy because I knew I would be promoted.Q: What was your new rank?A: I didn't get promoted.Q: There were other operations?A: My own group killed my mother. It was announced on the radio. I was involved in a raid, and later I learned my mother had died in the raid.-Notes from author's interview with Walter Ocira, a child soldier in the Lord's Resistance Army, in northeastern Uganda in 2007 THE EIGHT YOUNG PALESTINIAN MEN, DRESSED IN TRACK SUITS, reached the barrier outside Munich's Olympic Village in the darkness just after 4:00 A.M. A.M. on September 5. The fence was neither tall nor topped with razor wire, and an easy climb for a young man, even a young man with a duffel bag. The athletes and officials partic.i.p.ating in the 1972 Summer Olympics slept on the other side. Though the compound was guarded, the security was relaxed, even casual. The West German government, eager to exorcise the memories of Hitler's Olympics in Berlin in 1936, had chosen a low-key police posture: an unarmed security staff, unimposing barriers, a climate of trust and accommodation rather than suspicion and control. The organizers had dubbed the compet.i.tion "The Carefree Games." Like this motto, the public-relations ambition was unsubtle. The XX Olympiad was to be a global affirmation of Bavaria reborn, and a declaration of decency for a nation that had returned from fascism to the civilized world. on September 5. The fence was neither tall nor topped with razor wire, and an easy climb for a young man, even a young man with a duffel bag. The athletes and officials partic.i.p.ating in the 1972 Summer Olympics slept on the other side. Though the compound was guarded, the security was relaxed, even casual. The West German government, eager to exorcise the memories of Hitler's Olympics in Berlin in 1936, had chosen a low-key police posture: an unarmed security staff, unimposing barriers, a climate of trust and accommodation rather than suspicion and control. The organizers had dubbed the compet.i.tion "The Carefree Games." Like this motto, the public-relations ambition was unsubtle. The XX Olympiad was to be a global affirmation of Bavaria reborn, and a declaration of decency for a nation that had returned from fascism to the civilized world.

The men in the track suits were members of the Black September terrorist organization, a recently a.s.sembled cell directed to exploit the Games' officially friendly atmosphere. A police reconstruction would later claim that two of the cell's members had infiltrated the village weeks before and taken temporary jobs on the Olympic staff. The commander, Luttif Afif, a thirty-five-year-old emigre who had lived in West Germany for several years, had worked as an engineer; his deputy was a cook.1 Afif had patiently watched this same section of fence the night before and observed athletes returning from parties outside. The athletes had scaled the barrier, dropped into the compound, and continued toward their apartments. No guard had stopped them. They pa.s.sed unchallenged into the secure zone. Afif decided that his cell would imitate this behavior. The killers would masquerade as athletes coming home. Afif had patiently watched this same section of fence the night before and observed athletes returning from parties outside. The athletes had scaled the barrier, dropped into the compound, and continued toward their apartments. No guard had stopped them. They pa.s.sed unchallenged into the secure zone. Afif decided that his cell would imitate this behavior. The killers would masquerade as athletes coming home.

That night, before leaving their hotel, the Arabs slipped into athletic suits and packed their weapons into gym bags printed with the Olympic logo. Into each duffel they stuffed hand grenades, first-aid gear, amphetamines to ward off sleep, ropes cut to lengths ready for binding hostages, sections of pantyhose for masks, and a Kalashnikov a.s.sault rifle. Six of these rifles had been flown into Germany from Algiers, via Paris.2 The world had not yet adapted to the idea that calculated menace, in the form of attacks upon civilians, might lurk anywhere. This was before air pa.s.sengers and luggage were as a matter of routine thoroughly screened. The Kalashnikovs, tools designed for infantry, were in Munich to be used to corral and kill civilians. As they lifted each firearm and slipped it into the kit, Afif and his deputy gave it a kiss. "Oh, my love," they said. The world had not yet adapted to the idea that calculated menace, in the form of attacks upon civilians, might lurk anywhere. This was before air pa.s.sengers and luggage were as a matter of routine thoroughly screened. The Kalashnikovs, tools designed for infantry, were in Munich to be used to corral and kill civilians. As they lifted each firearm and slipped it into the kit, Afif and his deputy gave it a kiss. "Oh, my love," they said.3 Then the team set out, into the night. Then the team set out, into the night.

One operating tenet of Black September was its almost airtight secrecy. Even now, as they moved toward their crimes, six of the terrorists-Palestinians from refugee camps who had been trained in Libya-did not know what they had been ordered to Munich to do. Afif briefed them in a restaurant. They were to seize members of the Israeli delegation from their beds and then leverage their lives in a hostage siege. The world would be forced to hear the group's demands, including the release of more than two hundred prisoners, most of them Palestinians in Israeli jails. Afif had the list ready. For Black September, hostage-taking was not unfamiliar. Another cell had hijacked a pa.s.senger jet, Sabena Flight 572, several months before, and demanded a similarly extensive prisoner release. Israeli commandos stormed the aircraft as the terrorists waited on the ground. The prisoners remained behind bars. This time Black September had bolder plans and a grander stage. With an international press corps a.s.sembled for the Games, a hostage seizure in Munich would bullhorn the Palestinians' grievances as never before. Israel rarely bent to threats, the more so when demands were issued in public. Live television coverage was a more realistic aspiration than freeing prisoners in a swap. Afif told his cell what to expect. "From now on," he said, "consider yourself dead." Their status was predetermined, their fates known: "Killed in action for the Palestinian cause."

At about 3:30 A.M. A.M. the men stepped into taxis and were driven toward the section of fence Afif had selected. They arrived unmolested and met a group of Americans headed inside at the same time. The two teams-the athletes and the terrorists-helped each other over the top, gym bags and all. the men stepped into taxis and were driven toward the section of fence Afif had selected. They arrived unmolested and met a group of Americans headed inside at the same time. The two teams-the athletes and the terrorists-helped each other over the top, gym bags and all.4 Afif hurried his group toward 31 Connollystra.s.se, a residence where more than twenty Israelis slept. A new age of terrorism, long in the making, was about to introduce itself. By sunrise, eight men with a.s.sault rifles would command the attention of the world and change public security as it had been understood. Afif hurried his group toward 31 Connollystra.s.se, a residence where more than twenty Israelis slept. A new age of terrorism, long in the making, was about to introduce itself. By sunrise, eight men with a.s.sault rifles would command the attention of the world and change public security as it had been understood.5 The hostage siege in Munich, televised live worldwide, marked the next leap in the spread of automatic rifles, and the last tactical breakout, when a.s.sault rifles were applied to uses that the men and the governments that had given them their shape and numbers had not foreseen. Their steps in this direction, and use as a preferred tool for terror, predated Munich; there are earlier examples.i But September 1972 in Munich brought the day that it became clear that whatever the Kalashnikov once was, whatever it had been meant to be, it had a.s.sumed a fuller and more universally dangerous character. After Munich, the Kalashnikov's utility in crimes against civilians and public order would be demonstrated repeatedly, in hijackings, hostage seizures, a.s.sa.s.sinations, suicide rifle attacks, and summary executions, sometimes before video cameras, designed to sow hatred and fear. The rifles' toll would become larger and their uses more ghastly with the pa.s.sing years. They became requisite weapons for the ma.s.sacres in Baathist Iraq, in Rwanda, and in the former Yugoslavia, for lawless formations of child soldiers, and for political crimes intended to jolt the world, from the Chechen and Ingush siege at a public school in Beslan to the Lashkar-e-Taiba raid into Mumbai. By the time the Kalashnikov line was a half-century old, its appearance as a central killing instrument in many of the most disturbing acts of political violence was no longer a shock. It was a norm. The people's gun, defender of Russian soil and socialist ideal, had evolved into a familiar hand tool for genocide and terror. But September 1972 in Munich brought the day that it became clear that whatever the Kalashnikov once was, whatever it had been meant to be, it had a.s.sumed a fuller and more universally dangerous character. After Munich, the Kalashnikov's utility in crimes against civilians and public order would be demonstrated repeatedly, in hijackings, hostage seizures, a.s.sa.s.sinations, suicide rifle attacks, and summary executions, sometimes before video cameras, designed to sow hatred and fear. The rifles' toll would become larger and their uses more ghastly with the pa.s.sing years. They became requisite weapons for the ma.s.sacres in Baathist Iraq, in Rwanda, and in the former Yugoslavia, for lawless formations of child soldiers, and for political crimes intended to jolt the world, from the Chechen and Ingush siege at a public school in Beslan to the Lashkar-e-Taiba raid into Mumbai. By the time the Kalashnikov line was a half-century old, its appearance as a central killing instrument in many of the most disturbing acts of political violence was no longer a shock. It was a norm. The people's gun, defender of Russian soil and socialist ideal, had evolved into a familiar hand tool for genocide and terror.

The processes that completed the Kalashnikov a.s.sault rifle's march out of communist garrisons were not random. They resulted from deliberate socialist arms-manufacturing, stockpiling, and transfer practices, followed by many means of distribution-some legal, some not-that followed.

After the establishment of Kalashnikov factories in the 1950s and 1960s, the early circulation of rifles followed predictable paths. The Soviet Union and other communist nations armed the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese Army, equipping ideological partners for a war carried by ideological currents. Similarly, the gifts of AK-47s and an ammunition plant to Fidel Castro's Cuba during the 1960s fit with the mandates that armed the Warsaw Pact. These recipients were Kremlin allies. But as weaponry of Soviet provenance shaped socialist military forces around the globe, the Kremlin was also providing a.s.sault rifles and other armament to Arab states, seeking to blunt Western influence in the Middle East. By 1967, all of this was visible-as obvious as the Kalashnikovs in the hands of the NVA regulars in Vietnam, and as tangible as the piles of Kalashnikovs collected by the Israel Defense Forces after their defeat of Egypt's battalions in the Six Day War.ii The state-to-state transfers were also unsurprising. They were for wars fought in an orthodox way, by forces whose organization and tactics were doctrinal and familiar. In the early years of its proliferation, the AK-47 was a calling card, an explicit mark of the socialist hand in wars in which its weapons appeared, even in wars, like the Six Day War, that were watched uneasily within the Kremlin and by the Eastern bloc's ruling elite. The state-to-state transfers were also unsurprising. They were for wars fought in an orthodox way, by forces whose organization and tactics were doctrinal and familiar. In the early years of its proliferation, the AK-47 was a calling card, an explicit mark of the socialist hand in wars in which its weapons appeared, even in wars, like the Six Day War, that were watched uneasily within the Kremlin and by the Eastern bloc's ruling elite.

The transfers of a.s.sault rifles to Arab governments were scarcely remarked upon as they occurred. Diplomats and commentators concentrated on Soviet military hardware thought to be more menacing-the artillery, tanks, armored personnel carriers, radar systems, missiles, and aircraft that might change the regional security equation. Rifles were just rifles. Who worried over a weapon with a range of a few hundred meters, which injured its victims bullet by bullet, when a neighboring state was updating its jet fighters and main battle tanks? What was lost to the security experts of the era was a process more dangerous than the introduction to the region of larger-ticket conventional arms: the prodigious migration of the rifle from state garrisons to those bent on unconventional war and crime. By the late 1960s, the ingredients enabling this migration were in place. a.s.sault-rifle production had reached such levels that socialist military forces were well supplied, the proxy fights were established, and new armed political movements had taken shape. The movements represented a mix of nationalist, religious, and ethnic ambitions, and were organized by leaders willing to exploit arming opportunities made available by the Cold War. Within a very few years the Kalashnikov's attributes-its mechanical characteristics combined with its unprecedented availability-transformed Stalin's rifle, conceived as a tool of the state, into an engine for violence in the service of almost any cause.

Two phenomena paired to ensure this outcome. One was a socialist behavior: stockpiling, a behavior linked to the excessive rifle production in planned economies. The second was a capitalist axiom: the unrelenting energy of markets. Once excess socialist a.s.sault rifles existed, market forces ensured that they moved. Political motivations, not the laws of demand and supply, were often behind early distributions. Moscow, Beijing, and Pyongyang provided rifles to curry favor among potential allies or to disrupt the activities of the West. Hard currency in return was welcome, but other motivations shaped deals. With time, rifles transferred in this way were redistributed by brokers and gun-running networks unenc.u.mbered by political concerns. a.s.sault rifles became commodities. They recirculated by truck, train, containership, airplane, animal train, and brokerage. They often moved for profit alone. This migration accelerated throughout the later Cold War years and then beyond, when the stockpiles, less secure than in Soviet times, provided boundless new supply.

Decades of arms-manufacturing policies in the planned economies of the Eastern bloc had led, by the 1970s, to a material consequence: surpluses of arms without apparent use. The full extent of the Eastern bloc stockpiling is unknown. No thorough historical record has ever been a.s.sembled. Nor is it possible for a complete and accurate record to be made. All of the factors related to the socialist arms industry and the a.s.sociated forms of trade-the conventions of state secrecy, the volume of production over time, administrative incompetence, personnel turnover, pervasive corruption, and other forms of criminal activity-worked to prevent accountability. Further, weapons and ordnance were stockpiled by a range of organizations, adding complexity to the problem. The Soviet army served as the primary storekeeper in many regions, but in each of the Warsaw Pact countries the national army, the federal police, and the intelligence services also had armories. Many nations also cached weapons for emergency issue to workers and ad hoc militias, and stored others in schools, where they were used for preparing teenagers for conscription and civil defense. Years later it is not possible to a.s.semble the accountability puzzle fully. And yet in a few nations, enough arms eventually turned up, or enough researchers tried to doc.u.ment what was occurring as the weapons left government possession, to allow insights into the nature of stockpiling and the risks that accompanied ama.s.sing arms at such scale.

A pair of examples sketch the history. The urge to lay away weapons was powerful, and not readily deterred, even in the People's Republic of Albania, a founding member of the Warsaw Pact that broke from the Kremlin's...o...b..t. From late in World War II through most of the Cold War, Albania was ruled by Enver Hoxha, an avowed Stalinist. After Stalin died, Hoxha quarreled with the Kremlin. The tension grew severe enough to cut off the Albanian police and military from the princ.i.p.al source of socialist arms supply. The rupture in relations did not set Albania's state inst.i.tutions back in their quest for arms. By the early 1960s, Albania was receiving military aid from China, which was learning to use its weapons programs to build relations with other governments. At first China shipped in enormous quant.i.ties of arms and ordnance. Shipments alone were not enough to satisfy Hoxha, who wanted the further security of domestic sources. By 1964 the aid reached the next step: China was helping to build arms plants. Just as Soviet specialists had worked in mainland China in the 1950s to modernize small-arms production and train workers, Chinese technicians provided the same service in Hoxha's Albania. Some of the visiting Chinese specialists remained in Albania at least three years.6 One project involved launching Kalashnikov production in the central mountain district of Gramsh, where output eventually reached more than 275,000 a.s.sault rifles a year. One project involved launching Kalashnikov production in the central mountain district of Gramsh, where output eventually reached more than 275,000 a.s.sault rifles a year.7 In these ways, the Hoxha regime did more than stay apace in the arms race with other governments. Albania under his hand became a bunker state. Vast storehouses of arms, tinder for future wars in the Balkans and elsewhere, were stashed in buildings and tunnels across the land. In these ways, the Hoxha regime did more than stay apace in the arms race with other governments. Albania under his hand became a bunker state. Vast storehouses of arms, tinder for future wars in the Balkans and elsewhere, were stashed in buildings and tunnels across the land.

A different set of circ.u.mstances filled the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic with arms. Throughout the Cold War, the German drive across Slavic soil in the Great Patriotic War was both a fresh memory and a core narrative in Soviet national ident.i.ty. The Kremlin considered Ukraine a buffer in the event of another conventional war with the West. As Soviet and Warsaw Pact forces arrayed along the borders of the capitalist world, Ukraine was prepared as a second defensive line. Huge stockpiles were cached on its territory, ready to be issued in any number of desperate scenarios. The most spectacular of the storage sites was in Artemovsk, in eastern Ukraine, near the border with Russia. Artemovsk lies in a region atop geological deposits of salt, and when the Soviet army sought a place to hide a reserve of conventional arms, the mines-out of sight of American spy planes-seemed ideal.

More than 150 meters belowground, in man-made caverns from which miners had carted away salt, the army sequestered surpluses. The mines became a repository of small-arms firepower on a scale unknown in the West. The tunnels were filled with caches within caches, a layering of small arms reflecting generations of European war. Within them were weapons reaching to World War I, along with arms captured from the Third Reich or donated to the Red Army by the United States during the Lend-Lease program of World War II. Added to these were Soviet arms that the Red Army had used to fight the Wehrmacht, but subsequently replaced. There were newer additions: stockpiles of standard Soviet small arms from the Cold War, up to and including the most recent designs. The Artemovsk a.r.s.enal was an armory and a warren, a storage network mapped out by logisticians in which crates of weapons were separated by type and stacked toward ceilings, in places ten meters or more high. Electric cables and lights ran along the walls, keeping the place in a dim artificial glow. Beneath this maze and monument to Cold War thinking, farther below the earth, miners continued to extract salt. The depot was sealed off, separated by heavy doors and airlocks, the entrances watched by guards.8 In all, the caves held some 3 million guns. In all, the caves held some 3 million guns.

While Kalashnikov rifles were piled into storage, the a.s.sembly lines across the Warsaw Pact and Asia were producing more. Izhmash, the factory that began arms production in 1807, was now the busiest manufacturer of the Soviet Union's princ.i.p.al firearm and served as a routine stop for communist dignitaries visiting the Urals. The factory provided a source of national pride. The Kalashnikov a.s.sault rifle, like the caviar, like the vodka, like the furs, was seen as quintessential-a mark of the nation that produced it. Mikhail Kalashnikov had a new role. He was a tour guide. Early in the 1960s, before deposing his mentor, Nikita Khrushchev, Leonid I. Brezhnev visited Izhevsk as part of his duties as chairman of the Supreme Soviet, the union's legislature. Brezhnev was in his midfifties, dark-haired and emanating the insider confidence of a politician on the rise. Kalashnikov, ever capable of befriending and performing for power, was eager to escort the chairman on his rounds. In the Soviet Union, important decisions rested within few hands. Brezhnev was a potential patron, a man to be solicited, to be known to, no matter what.

I was entrusted with giving the necessary explanations. Of course, I was very enthusiastic about that a.s.signment: as a rule, the future of the enterprise as a whole and the small arms business specifically depended on such visits. I wanted to bring up not only general problems but also my own, designer's problem-the construction of an engineering building for small arms producers. Ideally it had to be exactly like the testing range near Moscow that had been destroyed so thoughtlessly years ago.As always we began the tour in the experimental section, then went on from there. We were pa.s.sing a conveyor with suspension brackets which held brand-new AKMs. Whenever Brezhnev picked up an a.s.sault rifle, the first thing he looked at was the bayonet... I did not really worry, but thought with curiosity: "Haven't the advisers of the esteemed guest notified him beforehand that the cardinal merit of my creation was not the bayonet but other more essential components and units?"But everything soon became clear. Brezhnev bent down to me and asked me in a subdued voice: "Can it be stolen?"I had to make one of those vague gestures which could be interpreted in many different ways. One or two minutes later Brezhnev said again in a conspiratorial tone: "What if I steal it?"For that not to happen, I had to give Brezhnev the bayonet which he liked so much. He was delighted as a boy. I rea.s.sured him sympathetically: "You can always tell a hunter."9 Having played to the chairman's feelings, Kalashnikov asked for what he wanted: an engineering building. The polygon at Schurovo, where the design contest that led to the AK-47 had been held, had been closed by Khrushchev. Kalashnikov seethed about this. He hoped Brezhnev would replace what the small-arms designers had lost. The chairman did not commit. (Some years later, Kalashnikov and officials from Izhevsk landed an hour-long meeting with Brezhnev, who by then was the general secretary-the Soviet Union's most powerful man. Brezhnev promised them that they would have the building. It was never built.) The exchanges pointed to the perils of the Kremlin's governing style. A small-arms research-and-development center was a cog in the national security apparatus. Arguably it was an important cog. It was not of sufficient importance for its status to require a decision of the head of state. But the concentration of power in few hands meant an endless scrum for access and favor, and involved the most senior officials in matters better handled by ministries and staff. It also colored the way midlevel bureaucrats acted and thought. Kalashnikov blamed Khrushchev for Schurovo's closure. He could conceive of relief only through Brezhnev.

The Soviet Union's behavior, and that of its Warsaw Pact underlings, manifested itself in uglier ways.

As Brezhnev's power and stature were rising, the a.s.sault rifles being a.s.sembled in secret in East Germany had found their way to border guard detachments at the boundary with West Germany. The new knockoff was starting to replace the PPSh submachine guns that had been carried by the government's border guards since the units had formed. The guards stood grim duty. In 1961, the East German government had begun construction of what it called the Anti-Fascist Protection Wall, another milestone in doublespeak, considering that the purpose of the wall was not to keep Germans from the west from entering the east, but to stop the flow of emigres fleeing the oppression and stagnation of the socialist side. The Kalashnikov's partic.i.p.ation in state-directed violence against civilians here would be of a smaller scale than what had been seen in Hungary, but its introduction would be dark, and would resonate for decades.

Early on the afternoon of August 17, 1962, two young construction workers in East Berlin, Peter Fechter and Helmut Kulbeik, agreed not to return from their lunch break on a road-reconstruction project, opting instead to examine a building near the wall that separated them from West Berlin. They wanted to escape, and planned a reconnaissance. Any attempt would mean dashing across the open s.p.a.ce, known as the "death strip," scaling the short wall on the far side, and pa.s.sing under the barbed wire. The building, near Checkpoint Charlie, was beside the new wall. Perhaps it would offer a suitable leaping-off point, out of view of the armed East German guards. Inside the building, the pair found a storage room with a rear window that was not bricked over. The wall was in front of them. It was not much taller than a grown man. They had not intended to make their escape on this day. But the temptation was powerful. After observing the narrow s.p.a.ce they would have to run across, Fechter and Kulbeik slipped through the window and landed on the death strip. Their sprint began.

The young men were quick, and they likely surprised the border guards watching the stillness below their posts. Both men reached the far wall. As they neared the concrete, the border guards opened fire with Kalashnikovs. Dozens of bullets flew toward the men. The range was short-perhaps sixty meters. The bullets missed Kulbeik. He scaled the wall and squeezed through the strands of barbed wire. Fechter was lean and fresh-faced; he looked fit. As he leaped to gain a hold with which to pull himself up, one of the rounds found its mark. He was. .h.i.t. He fell, back to the eastern side.

Kulbeik sensed his companion's peril. But Fechter was so close. If only he could get up and try again. "Now go, go now, now move ahead!" Kulbeik shouted.

Fechter could not raise himself. He had been struck in the pelvis.

The hips, upper thighs, and pelvic girdle are among the worst places for a rifle bullet to smack into a human being. Wounds to these areas are often instantly immobilizing. Load-bearing bones rupture. Victims buckle and collapse. Complicating matters and raising the risk of swift death, large blood vessels follow the contours of bones. If cut, these blood vessels tend to bleed heavily and in ways that can be hard to stop. In the mad race to stop the flow, pressure and tourniquets are hard to apply.

Just a few feet from Kulbeik, at the edge of the communist world, Peter Fechter could not stand, much less scale a vertical concrete wall. Unarmed, eighteen years old, and at the mercy of two governments whose boundary he straddled, he slumped to his side, his blood draining from a wound almost impossible to treat. He was in need of immediate aid. His hasty attempt to escape had come to a full stop. He was not inches from freedom. He was a spectacle, watched by residents and officials from both sides, a helpless young man, minutes from death.

He shouted for aid. Surely he was not a threat, or capable of escape. Weapons were no longer required. But the wall was new, and the procedures for this kind of moment uncertain. From their posts on the east and from the west alike, the guards watched, joined by a growing crowd. No one dared to step into the strip and help. Fechter was thrown a bandage from the Western side. His wound was too severe, and too tricky, for him to hope to treat himself. Fechter bled. After several minutes he pa.s.sed into unconsciousness, and fell silent. He slumped on his side, in the fetal position, wearing a dark sport coat. Later, the East German border guards, helmets on, their a.s.sault rifles slung across their dark coats, ventured to the wall and picked up Fechter and carried him away. An East German doctor soon p.r.o.nounced him dead.

No one outside his own circle had heard of Peter Fechter before. He verged on anonymity in life. His death was of the most public sort, and East Germany was unapologetic about how in his ending he realized instant and gruesome fame. Karl-Edvard von Schnitzler, the caustic East German television host, swept aside complaints, and defended the guards' decisions both to shoot and to leave the young man to die. "The life of each of our brave boys in uniform is worth more to us than the life of a law-breaker," he said. "One should stay away from our border-then you can save the blood, tears, and cries." The killing of Fechter also fit the use of the a.s.sault rifle for which Mikhail Kalashnikov had been rewarded: "reinforcing the power of the state." Here was the real Kalashnikov, 1962, propaganda peeled away.10 The Kremlin's posture toward its satellites and their yearnings for self-determination remained true to this form.

In early 1968, the Soviet Union faced another challenge from its western va.s.sals, this time in the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, where a reform-minded politician, Alexander Dubek, a.s.sumed control of the nation's Communist Party. Dubek sought change, including loosening restrictions on speech and on the press, liberalizing the economy, and offering citizens more consumer goods. The challenge to Kremlin hegemony was less confrontational than the uprising in Hungary twelve years before. But it was a threat. Its nickname, Prague Spring, suggested it was only a start. By July, with the Kremlin worried that tolerating one upstart might encourage others, the Soviet army was planning exercises-the word used to mask an invasion-on Czech and Slovak soil.11 Soviet divisions struck in August, advancing alongside troops from Bulgaria, Hungary, and Poland. The airport outside Prague was seized, allowing transport planes to offload troops. Resistance was sporadic and mostly light. But more than seventy people were killed, and Moscow had sent a fresh signal to its satellites and to the West: The communists' hold on power would be preserved by force. When it felt threatened, the Soviet Union and its local partners would move past talk of fraternal relations and partnership and turn its guns on its own, just as they would fire on their unarmed citizens when they tried to flee. Soviet divisions struck in August, advancing alongside troops from Bulgaria, Hungary, and Poland. The airport outside Prague was seized, allowing transport planes to offload troops. Resistance was sporadic and mostly light. But more than seventy people were killed, and Moscow had sent a fresh signal to its satellites and to the West: The communists' hold on power would be preserved by force. When it felt threatened, the Soviet Union and its local partners would move past talk of fraternal relations and partnership and turn its guns on its own, just as they would fire on their unarmed citizens when they tried to flee.

The Eastern bloc had changed from Stalin's time. The Great Terror had given way to a less b.l.o.o.d.y form of centralized rule. But there would be no organic evolution from the totalitarian remains of what Lenin and Stalin had built. If the system were to give way, it would have to crack. The political consequences of this posture, and its effects on civil liberties and human rights, were obvious. The security implications were worrisome. One day, when the communist systems came under strain, or when they shattered, their huge storehouses of weapons might slip from state control to markets, where appet.i.tes for the arms were growing.

Eastern bloc infantry rifles had come to the Middle East in large numbers in the mid-1950s. The first large shipment to be widely recorded-the Kremlin-negotiated deal via Czechoslovakia to Na.s.ser's Egypt in 1955-apparently did not involve AK-47s. Czech rifles were shipped. But not long after these transfers, Soviet AK-47s began to flow to the Egyptian army, as did M1943 ammunition and the technology to produce both the weapons and the cartridges. By the late 1950s, American technical intelligence officials were secretly testing Egyptian-manufactured 7.62x39-millimeter cartridges-a sign that a Middle Eastern version of the ammunition was already in significant circulation.12 By the early 1960s, Egyptian soldiers were carrying an Egyptian-made AK-47 knock-off-the Misr, the first of many Kalashnikovs to be cloned in the Middle East. Soon the Kremlin's engagement with Egypt, Syria, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya resulted in their militaries' adopting the Kalashnikov line. The timing was portentous. Unlike many military items the Soviet Union provided its customers in the region, small arms could be easily transferred to third parties, who could easily master their use. And the rush of Soviet infantry weapons into the region aligned with the rise of Palestinian nationalist groups, many of which engaged in campaigns of terrorism against Israel and its citizens. By the early 1960s, Egyptian soldiers were carrying an Egyptian-made AK-47 knock-off-the Misr, the first of many Kalashnikovs to be cloned in the Middle East. Soon the Kremlin's engagement with Egypt, Syria, Algeria, Tunisia, and Libya resulted in their militaries' adopting the Kalashnikov line. The timing was portentous. Unlike many military items the Soviet Union provided its customers in the region, small arms could be easily transferred to third parties, who could easily master their use. And the rush of Soviet infantry weapons into the region aligned with the rise of Palestinian nationalist groups, many of which engaged in campaigns of terrorism against Israel and its citizens.

Middle Eastern terrorism had been nurtured with state sponsorship. Soon after Israel declared independence in May 1948, Egypt's King Farouk I had organized unconventional fighters against the Jewish state. The fighters called themselves fedayeen, fedayeen, guerrillas prepared to sacrifice their lives. From bases in Jordan, Lebanon, and elsewhere, and with backing from Egypt's intelligence service, the Mukhabarat, they conducted attacks against Israelis in the early 1950s. After Farouk was deposed in 1952, in part because of Egypt's military failures, the Egyptians lent the fedayeen more support. Unconventional war and sabotage proliferated as other Middle Eastern governments and the Palestinian diaspora followed the Egyptian example. Unable to defeat Israel by conventional means, they maintained pressure in other lethal ways, while seeking a measure of deniability. guerrillas prepared to sacrifice their lives. From bases in Jordan, Lebanon, and elsewhere, and with backing from Egypt's intelligence service, the Mukhabarat, they conducted attacks against Israelis in the early 1950s. After Farouk was deposed in 1952, in part because of Egypt's military failures, the Egyptians lent the fedayeen more support. Unconventional war and sabotage proliferated as other Middle Eastern governments and the Palestinian diaspora followed the Egyptian example. Unable to defeat Israel by conventional means, they maintained pressure in other lethal ways, while seeking a measure of deniability.

In the evolution of war, processes that develop in parallel-political, technological, or tactical-can suddenly cross, and at these points of intersection wars change. In the crucible of the Middle East in the 1960s, this was the case. The Palestinian groups that chose militancy soon procured the newly available rifles that the Eastern bloc had shipped to its Middle Eastern clients. The AK-47 and the AKM became standard arms for unconventional war. They were studied in militant training camps and carried on guerrilla and terrorist missions that entered the groups' tactical routine. a.s.sault rifles, those lightweight instruments for concentrating firepower, multiplied the menace of individual insurgents and terrorists, elevating the danger they posed and the ambitions they voiced. The weapons' utility was not lost on the groups' leaders. Khalil al-Wazir, a commander who eventually led Fatah's armed war under the nom de guerre of Abu Jihad, embraced the AK-47 as a vehicle to victory. "The Kalashnikov is our only language until we free all of Palestine," he said.13 From the fedayeen camps in the Middle East, the weapon, and the mentality for turning its barrel toward civilians, spread outward. Eventually a flight from Libya in 1972 carried six of the rifles to Munich. From the fedayeen camps in the Middle East, the weapon, and the mentality for turning its barrel toward civilians, spread outward. Eventually a flight from Libya in 1972 carried six of the rifles to Munich.

By 4:30 A.M. A.M., the Black September cell members, a.s.sault rifles in hand, were trying to open the door to Apartment 1 at 33 Connollystra.s.se, where Israeli coaches and athletic officials were resting. One of the Israelis, Yossef Gutfreund, a wrestling referee, heard the noise. He opened the door and came face-to-face with the attackers. Gutfreund slammed the door, leaning into it and shouting to the other Israelis, calling them from their sleep. But the Palestinians had been quick. In the instant the door had been ajar, two of them inserted their a.s.sault-rifle barrels past the jamb, preventing Gutfreund from closing the door fully. They began to pry. Gutfreund was a huge man. He pushed back as long as he was able. For several long seconds he kept them out. His efforts saved a man. Tuvia Sokolovsky, a strength-and-conditioning trainer, scrambled from his bed and forced open a window. He dropped outside as the Palestinians rushed in. At least one of them opened fire as Sokolovsky dashed, but the bullets missed the man.

Inside the apartment, the attackers rounded up their captives: Gutfreund, Amitzur Shapira, Kehat Shorr, Andre Spitzer, Jacov Springer, and Moshe Weinberg. By this point, the Black September mission had already realized a measure of success. The cell had penetrated the Olympic Village and taken hostages, and its members were unharmed. But there was still a chance for the hostages to resist. Some of these Israelis were veterans of their country's many wars and possessed the light feet and powerful frames of lifelong athletes. These men had had an understanding of how and why to fight. Weinberg, a wrestling coach, acted first. He lunged at Afif with a kitchen knife. Another Palestinian fired. The bullet slammed into the side of the coach's mouth. Weinberg fell. It was a grotesque injury, but not fatal-a pa.s.s-through that missed his skull. He sputtered blood; his senses and much of his strength were intact. The Palestinians herded their unwounded captives through the apartment and bound them with their precut ropes.

Afif was not satisfied. With other members of his cell to help him, he forced Weinberg to his feet, ordered him outside onto Connollystra.s.se, and set out to seize more hostages. Weinberg was the quick-thinking sort, more than a match for the men who had captured him. He led Afif past Apartment 2, where smaller-statured Israeli athletes were quartered, toward Apartment 3, where Israeli wrestlers and weightlifters lived; these men brought muscle to a fight. Inside, Afif and his cell gathered six more hostages-David Berger, Zeev Friedman, Eliezer Halfin, Yossef Romano, Gad Tsabari, and Mark Slavin-and marched them at gunpoint outside, toward apartment 1.

Tsabari ran. One of the captors opened fire. Again the bullets flew wide. (As is the case with many who carry Kalashnikovs, the Black September terrorists were well armed but not crack shots.) Near the apartment's entrance, Weinberg lunged again. Even after being shot, he was formidable-a thick-necked career wrestler who had served as an Israeli commando. He punched one of the Palestinians in the face, fracturing his jaw. The man dropped his rifle as he fell. Weinberg scrambled to pick it up. There was not enough time. Another guard fired, shooting the coach several times. He collapsed. The remaining Israelis were forced inside, where Romano, a weightlifter on crutches from a recent training injury, sprang at their captors. After a struggle, one of the Palestinians opened fire. Romano's torso was shredded by automatic fire.

The Black September operation was a secret no more. The sounds of gunfire had awakened the Olympic Village, and an anemic counter-terrorism response began. A short while later, an unarmed German guard made his way on foot to the building, carrying a handheld two-way radio. There he spotted a man in a mask at the doorway, clutching a rifle. The security guard reported what he saw to his dispatch center, beginning a chain of notifications: to other apartments, to the Munich police, to the interior ministry of Bavaria, to the federal police, and to the German chancellor and diplomatic corps, which called Israel's amba.s.sador at his residence in Bonn.

At 5:08 A.M. A.M., the terrorists dropped three pieces of paper from the apartment to a security officer below. The papers contained their demands. German police ringed the building and the world watched on live television as the first deadline for executions, and then others, pa.s.sed. Israel reacted as expected. It refused to negotiate. A deal was struck on the ground: The Germans would provide pa.s.sage by helicopter to a nearby NATO airfield, from where the hostages and their captors would be flown by pa.s.senger aircraft to an Arab nation. Much of the world had not yet organized for domestic counterterrorism action, and did not have highly trained units designated for these moments. The West Germans were unprepared. The end came quickly. That night, after the Black September cell surveyed the Boeing pa.s.senger jet that was to carry the captors and captives from Europe, the Germans initiated an ambush at the airfield. It failed. The hostage seizure descended into a gunfight, in which the terrorists turned their Kalashnikovs on their hostages, who were bound and helpless before them.

On the morning of September 6, not quite twenty-four hours after Afif and his subordinates had scaled the fence, Jim McKay, an ABC television sportscaster, introduced the world to the age when military a.s.sault rifles had become elemental ingredients in forms of terrorism that would only grow. "Our worst fears have been realized tonight," he said, and then gave a summary of the number of athletes seized. Eleven men in all, he said, and added: "They're all gone."

Inside the Soviet Union, arms production continued. Throughout the mid-1960s, Soviet arms designers had watched the American rollout of the M-16 and had examined captured specimens from Vietnam. They had not been favorably impressed with Colt's rifle. (Kalashnikov himself called it "freakish," "prankish," and "capricious," and something that American soldiers "threw away.")14 The M-16's ammunition was another matter. It demanded attention. By the early 1970s, within five years of the M-16's designation as the United States' standard military rifle, the Soviet army was at work on its own small-caliber, high-velocity round: the 5.45-millimeter cartridge. Once the round was available to armorers, Kalashnikov, whose weapons were now entrenched in the Soviet military to the point of enshrinement, led a design team that created the weapon the army chose to fire it: the The M-16's ammunition was another matter. It demanded attention. By the early 1970s, within five years of the M-16's designation as the United States' standard military rifle, the Soviet army was at work on its own small-caliber, high-velocity round: the 5.45-millimeter cartridge. Once the round was available to armorers, Kalashnikov, whose weapons were now entrenched in the Soviet military to the point of enshrinement, led a design team that created the weapon the army chose to fire it: the Avtomat Kalashnikova-74, Avtomat Kalashnikova-74, the automatic rifle by Kalashnikov, selected in 1974. The AK-74 the automatic rifle by Kalashnikov, selected in 1974. The AK-74iii was to the AK-47 what the AR-15 had been to the AR-10-a pre-existing design reworked for a smaller, faster round. was to the AK-47 what the AR-15 had been to the AR-10-a pre-existing design reworked for a smaller, faster round.15 It entered ma.s.s production in 1976, and the Soviet army displayed it to the world in the 1977 October Revolution Parade in Red Square. It soon became the Soviet standard arm for many units, displacing the AKM. It entered ma.s.s production in 1976, and the Soviet army displayed it to the world in the 1977 October Revolution Parade in Red Square. It soon became the Soviet standard arm for many units, displacing the AKM.16 Old patterns in West-East arms design had recurred. The Soviet army had eagerly grasped and imitated the technical thinking of an opponent. Small-arms design had further converged. Old patterns in West-East arms design had recurred. The Soviet army had eagerly grasped and imitated the technical thinking of an opponent. Small-arms design had further converged.17 And again Mikhail Kalashnikov was toasted: He was named a Hero of Socialist Labor for a second time. And again Mikhail Kalashnikov was toasted: He was named a Hero of Socialist Labor for a second time.

The award provided another curious glimpse into life in the center of Soviet arms-design circles. One of the honors that accompanied designation of a two-time Hero of Socialist Labor was the a.s.signment of an artist to make a bust of the hero, to be installed at the recipient's place of birth. As Kalashnikov's bust was being shaped, he visited the studio of Anatoly Beldushkin, the artist commissioned to render him in bronze. He was surprised by what he saw. Beldushkin had fashioned the bust closely to Kalashnikov's likeness, but added a facial feature the designer did not possess: dense eyebrows. Kalashnikov understood.

I saw him make my brows very thick and protested half in jest: "What do I need brows like Brezhnev's for?" "Brezhnev has nothing to do with it," the sculptor tried to explain amicably to me. "Such brows are indicative of constant strain of thought."

Such was Kalashnikov's world, the Soviet Union of the 1970s, a system in which the habit of kowtowing was ingrained even in the sculptor's hands, and those enjoying its perks had casually, even cheerfully, accepted the strange rules. "I laughed merrily," Kalashnikov wrote. "'Couldn't you relieve me of this strain?'"18 His bust was completed, bearing brows like those of the general secretary. It was placed on a pedestal in Kurya, the village from which the Kalashnikov family had been cast out during collectivization and sent into exile. His bust was completed, bearing brows like those of the general secretary. It was placed on a pedestal in Kurya, the village from which the Kalashnikov family had been cast out during collectivization and sent into exile.19 By the 1970s, the Eastern bloc arms stores were proving to be of limited Cold War use, and the risks of the stockpiles and of greater a.s.sault-rifle distribution were becoming discernible. The war the rifles were to help the Kremlin win was not fought by the means the stockpilers had planned, and the armories stood as powerful attractants for all manner of opportunists. Illicit diversion was a natural risk. The pulls and pushes of demand and supply, along with ample precedents of diversions and their consequences, were in view. Three examples were instructive: the movement of firearm stocks left from World War II; the introduction of a.s.sault rifles to Uganda, where the government fell; and the a.s.sa.s.sination in 1981 of the president of Egypt, Anwar Sadat.

The bountiful trade in infantry rifles and machine guns a.s.sembled for World War II provided a useful precedent for understanding what was ahead. The war had pushed large quant.i.ties of military firearms around the globe, and when the fighting ended many governments were left with surpluses, sometimes staggering surpluses. For conventional forces, these excess weapons quickly became obsolete. In the arms-race climate of the Cold War, Western and Eastern armies adopted new standard cartridges and updated their standard arms. Where did the earlier generations of weapons go? Not into foundries. S