Tom Clancy - The Bear and the Dragon

“You can say that sort of thing to me, Colonel. Say it before Minister Luo, and your wife will pay the state for the bullet day after tomorrow,” Wei warned.

“Well, I know it,” Colonel Geng He-ping replied. “What will happen to you later today, Comrade General Wei, when you organize the information and find out that I am correct?”

“The remainder of today will have to take care of itself” was the fatalistic reply. “One thing at a time, Geng.” Then he assembled a team of officers and gave them each a task to perform, found himself a chair to sit in, and wondered if Geng might have a good feel for the situation-

“Colonel Geng?”

“Yes, Comrade General?”

“What do you know of the Americans?”

“I was in our embassy in Washington until eighteen months ago. While there, I studied their military quite closely.”

“And-are they capable of what you just said?”

“Comrade General, for the answer to that question, I suggest you consult the Iranians and the Iraqis. I’m wondering what they might try next, but thinking exactly like an American is a skill I have never mastered.”

They’re moving,”, Major Tucker reported with a stretch and a yawn. ”Their reconnaissance element just started rolling. Your people have pulled way back. How come?”

“I ordered them to collect Comrade Gogol before the Chinese kill him,” Colonel Tolkunov told the American. “You look tired.”

“Hell, what’s thirty-six hours in the same chair?” A helluva sore back, that’s what it is, Tucker didn’t say. Despite the hours, he was having the time of his life. For an Air Force officer who’d flunked out of pilot training, making him forever an “unrated weenie” in Air Force parlance, a fourth-class citizen in the Air Force pecking order-below even helicopter pilots-he was earning his keep more and better than he’d ever done. He’d probably been more valuable to his side in this war than even that Colonel Winters, with all his air-to-air snuffs. But if anyone ever said such a thing to him, he’d have to aw-shucks it and look humbly down at his shoes. Humble, my ass, Tucker thought. He was proving the value of a new and untested asset, and doing so like the Red Baron in his red Fokker Trimotor. The Air Force was not a service whose members cultivated humility, but his lack of pilot’s wings had compelled him to do just that for all ten of his years of uniformed service. The next generation of UAVs would have weapons attached, and maybe even be able to go air-to-air, and then, maybe, he’d show those strutting fighter jock-itches who had the real balls in this man’s Air Force. Until then, he’d just have to be content gathering information that helped the Russians kill Joe Chink and all his brothers, and if this was Nintendo War, then little Danny Tucker was the by-God cock of the by-God walk in this virtual world.

“You have been most valuable to us, Major Tucker.”

“Thank you, sir. Glad to help,” Tucker replied with his best little-boy smile. Maybe I’ll grow me a good mustache. He set the thought aside with a smile, and sipped some instant coffee from an MRE pack-the extra caffeine was about the only thing keeping him up at the moment. But the computer was doing most of the work, and it showed the Chinese reconnaissance tracks moving north.

Son of a bitch,” Captain Aleksandrov breathed. He’d heard about Gogol’s wolf pelts on state radio, but he hadn’t seen the TV coverage, and the sight took his breath away. Touching one, he halfway expected it to be cold and stiff like wire, but, no, it was like the perfect hair of a perfect blonde …

“And who might you be?” The old man was holding a rifle and had a decidedly gimlet eye.

“I am Captain Fedor Il’ych Aleksandrov, and I imagine you are Pavel Petrovich Gogol.”

A nod and a smile. “You like my furs, Comrade Captain?”

“They are unlike anything I have ever seen. We have to take these with us.”

“Take? Take where? I’m not going anywhere,” Pasha said.

“Comrade Gogol, I have my orders-to get you away from here. Those orders come from Headquarters Far East Command, and those orders will be obeyed, Pavel Petrovich.”

“No Chink is going to chase me off my land!” his old voice thundered.

“No, Comrade Gogol, but soldiers of the Russian Army will not leave you here to die. So, that is the rifle you killed Germans with?”

“Yes, many, many Germans,” Gogol confirmed.

“Then come with us, and maybe you can kill some yellow invaders.”

“Who exactly are you?”

“Reconnaissance company commander, Two-Six-Five Motor Rifle Division. We’ve been playing hide-and-seek with the Chinks for four long days, and now we’re ready to do some real fighting. Join us, Pavel Petrovich. You can probably teach us a few things we need to know.” The young handsome captain spoke in his most reasonable and respectful tones, for this old warrior truly deserved it. The tone turned the trick.

“You promise me I will get to take one shot?”

“My word as a Russian officer, comrade,” Aleksandrov pledged, with a bob of his head.

“Then I come.” Gogol was already dressed for it-the heat in his cabin was turned off. He shouldered his old rifle and an ammunition pack containing forty rounds-he’d never gone into the field with more than that-and walked to the door. “Help me with my wolves, boy, will you?”

“Gladly, Grandfather.” Then Aleksandrov found out how heavy they were. But he and Buikov managed to toss them inside their BRM, and the driver headed off.

“Where are they?”

“About ten kilometers back. We’ve been in visual contact with them for days, but they’ve pulled us back. Away from them.”

“Why?”

“To save you, you old fool,” Buikov observed with a laugh. “And to save these pelts. These are too good to drape over the body of some Chinese strumpet!”

“I think, Pasha-I am not sure,” the captain said, “but I think it’s time for our Chinese guests to get a proper Russian welcome.”

“Captain, look!” the driver called.

Aleksandrov lifted his head out the big top hatch and looked forward. A senior officer was waving to him to come forward more quickly. Three minutes later, they halted alongside him.

“You are Aleksandrov?”

“Yes, Comrade General!” the young man confirmed to the senior officer.

“I am General Sinyavskiy. You’ve done well, boy. Come out here and talk to me,” he ordered in a gruff voice that was not, however, unkind.

Aleksandrov had only once seen his senior commander, and then only at a distance. He was not a large man, but you didn’t want him as a physical enemy in a small room. He was chewing on a cigar that had gone out seemingly hours before, and his blue eyes blazed.

“Who is this?” Sinyavskiy demanded. Then his face changed. “Are you the famous Pasha?” he asked more respectfully.

“Senior Sergeant Gogol of the Iron and Steel Division,” the old man said with great dignity, and a salute which Sinyavskiy returned crisply.

“I understand you killed some Germans in your day. How many, Sergeant?”

“Count for yourself, Comrade General,” Gogol said, handing his rifle over.

“Damn,” the general observed, looking at the notches, like those on the pistol of some American cowboy. “I believe you really did it. But combat is a young man’s game, Pavel Petrovich. Let me get you to a place of safety.”

Gogol shook his head. “This captain promised me one shot, or I would not have left my home.”

“Is that a fact?” The commanding general of 265th Motor Rifle looked around. “Captain Aleksandrov, very well, we’ll give our old comrade his one shot.” He pointed to a place on the map before him. “This should be a good spot for you. And when you can, get him the hell away from there,” Sinyavskiy told the young man. “Head back this way to our lines. They’ll be expecting you. Boy, you’ve done a fine job shadowing them all the way up. Your reward will be to see how we greet the bastards.”