Ralph Peters - Red Army

"Keep going," Plinnikov said. "Get down into the low ground. Stay on the trail as long as the smoke holds. Fast now, move."

Plinnikov sensed that they were very close to the enemy. Clots of earth and stone flew into the air, hurtling across his narrowed horizon.

Plinnikov guessed that, if he moved off the trail, there might be mines, but that the trail itself would only be covered by direct fires—which would be ineffective in the confusion of the Soviet artillery preparation.

"Lieutenant, we're catching up with the barrage. We're too close."

"Keep going. We're already in it. Go right through."

"Comrade Lieutenant . . ." It was Junior Sergeant Belonov, his gunner and assistant. The boy's face was milky.

"It's all right," Plinnikov told him through the intercom. "Just spot for targets. If we wait and try to sneak through, they'll get us for sure."

An unidentified object thumped against the vehicle so hard that the vehicle jolted, as though wincing in pain.

"Go faster, "Plinnikov shouted to the driver. "Just stay on the road and go as fast as you can."

"I can't see the road. I lose it."

"Just go." Plinnikov brushed his fingers at his nose. He felt fear rising in his belly and chest, unleashed by the impact of whatever had hit the vehicle.

Suddenly, the artillery blasts seemed to swamp them, shaking the vehicle like a boat on rough water. Plinnikov realized that if they threw a track now, they were dead.

57

Ralph Peters

"Go, damn you."

In the thick smoke, the lights of the blasts seemed demonic, alive with deadly intentions.

"More to the left . . . to the left."

The tracks seemed to buckle on the edge of a ditch or gully, threatening to peel away from the road wheels.

"Target," Plinnikov screamed.

But the sudden black shape off to their right side was lifeless, its metal deformed by a direct hit. The driver swerved away, and the tracks came level, back on the trail again.

Plinnikov broke out in a sweat. He had not seen the shattered vehicle until they almost collided with it. He wondered, for the first time, if he had not done something irrevocably foolish.

Slop from a nearby impact smacked the external lens of Plinnikov's periscope, cracking it diagonally, just as the vehicle reached a pocket where the wind had thinned the smoke to a transparent gauze. Several dark shapes moved out of the smoke on a converging axis.

"Targets. Gunner, right. Driver, pull left now."

But the enemy vehicles moved quickly away, either uninterested in or unaware of Plinnikov's presence. The huge armored vehicles disappeared back into the smoke, black metal monsters roaming over the floor of hell.

None of the turrets turned to fight.

"Hold fire."

The enemy were evidently pulling off of a forward position. The fire was too much for them. Plinnikov tried his radio, hoping the antenna had not been cut away.

"Javelin, this is Penknife. Do you hear me?"

Nothing.

The heaviest fire struck behind them now. But the smoke, mingled with the fog and rain, still forced them to drive without points of orientation. Plinnikov worried because he had once turned in a complete circle in a smokescreen on a training exercise, in the most embarrassing experience of his brief career. He could still hear the laughter and the timeworn jokes about lieutenants.

"Javelin, this is Penknife. I have a priority message."

"Penknife, this is Javelin." The control station barely came through the sea of static.

"Enemy forces in at least platoon strength withdrawing from forward positions under fire strike. I can't give you an exact location."

"Where are you? What's your location?"

58

RED ARMY

"I'm in my assigned sector. Visibility's almost zero. We just drove under the artillery barrage. We're in among the enemy."

"You're hard to read. I'm getting a garbled transmission. Did you say you're behind the artillery barrage?"

"On the enemy side of it. Continuing to move."

There was a long silence on the other end. Plinnikov sensed that he had surprised them all. He felt a bloom of pride. Then the faint voice returned.

"Penknife, your mission now is to push as far as you can. Ignore assigned boundaries. Just go as deep as you can and call targets. Do you understand?"

"Clear. Moving now."

Plinnikov switched to the intercom. The smoke thinned slightly. His first instinct was to move for high ground so he could fix his location. But he quickly realized that any high ground would not only reveal his presence but was likely to be occupied by the enemy.

"Driver, follow the terrain, stay in the low ground. Just watch out for ditches and water."

He switched again, this time to his platoon net, trying to raise his other two vehicles.

"Quiver, this is Penknife."

He waited. No answer. He tried again and still received no response.

He swung the turret around to get a better view, straining to see through his cracked and dirty optics.

There was nothing. Misty gray emptiness.

"Penknife, this is Stiletto." Plinnikov heard Senior Sergeant Malyarchuk's voice. "I can't hear any response from Quiver. My situation as follows: moving slowly with the barrage. Can't see a damned thing. I lost you twenty minutes ago."

"This is Penknife. Clear transmission. Continue to move on primary route. Watch for Quiver, he may be stuck out there. End transmission."

His other vehicle might be broken down or mired. But, he realized, it was more likely that they were dead. He was surprised to find that he felt little emotion, and ashamed to experience how swiftly his thoughts turned to the implications the loss of the vehicle and crew had for him.

"Driver, get on that trail to the right. That one."

The vehicle moved sharply now, with the worst effects of the barrage well behind it. Plinnikov's optics had deteriorated severely. The crack in the outer lens allowed water to seep in.

"Slow. See the trail into the trees? Slow. Take the trail."

59

Ralph Peters

The vehicle eased onto a smooth forest trail that appeared very well-maintained. Plinnikov hoped to find a spot to tuck into for a few minutes so they could clean off all of their vision blocks and lenses and tighten the antenna. One barrage had already passed over the forest, and patches of trees had been splintered and blackened. The driver worked the tracks over a small fallen trunk. He drove the vehicle cautiously, with no desire to throw a track in such close proximity to the enemy.

"Comrade Lieutenant, I can barely see," the driver said. "Can I pop open my hatch?"

"No," Plinnikov said. "Stop right here. I'll get out and clean the blocks."

The vehicle rocked to a standstill. Plinnikov unlatched the safety bolt and pushed up his hatch. The sudden increase in the noise level was striking. The weight of the artillery preparation was incredible, and the fires sounded much closer now. It was difficult to imagine anything surviving such an effort.

In the wet green woods, fresh forest smells mingled with the stink of blown ordnance. Raindrops worked through the overhanging branches and struck Plinnikov's nose and cheeks, touching cool at his lips. The hatch ring felt slimy with moisture and dirt.

Just ahead, another trail crossed the one along which they had moved.

The other trail was deeply rutted and black with mud, evidence that several tracked vehicles had passed along it.

Plinnikov drew himself back down into the turret. "Belonov," he told the gunner, "make sure the auto-cannon's ready to go. I don't think we're alone."

"Comrade Lieutenant, let me check the exterior."