Ralph Peters - Red Army

The near end of the bridge was clear.

Captain Levin had taken the assault squad well around behind the enemy position. Gordunov understood at once, feeling simultaneous relief that an immediate problem was out of the way and a peculiar sort of embarrassment that the political officer had performed so well.

Gordunov caught the rifleman by the arm. "Forget what I told you before. Just go up to the top floor and tell Sergeant Bronchevitch to bring the battalion command radio down to me. Do you understand?"

The soldier nodded. There was fear in the boy's face. How much of it was fear of battle and how much was fear of the commander, Gordunov could not tell.

As the rifleman scrambled back toward the hospital, Gordunov raised himself for a dash across the street, weaving behind the partial protection of wrecked cars in case any enemy troops remained on the scene. Each step on his bad ankle meant punishment.

Levin had already sent a team forward onto the bridge. The action continued on the far bank, but there was no more firing on Gordunov's side of the river. Levin was excited, elated. His delight in his accomplishment made him look like a teenager.

"Comrade Battalion Commander, we have prisoners."

"I see that."

"No. 1mean more. We surprised them." He turned to the alleyway.

"Sergeant . . . bring up the prisoners."

138

RED ARMY

The night had grown full around them. But the hot light shed by the burning vehicles revealed a string of eight more men in strange uniforms, all of them thirtyish or older, and some of them clearly not in shape for combat.

"They were up the road," Levin said. "I think they were trying to decide what to do. We just came up on them. And we helped them decide."

"You know all the uniforms. These are Germans?"

"Yes, Comrade Battalion Commander. Enlisted soldiers. This one is equivalent to a senior sergeant."

The prisoners looked pathetic. In Afghanistan, when you managed to take the enemy alive, he showed one of two faces. Either the prisoner was sullenly defiant, or he blanked all expression from his face, as though already dead. Which he soon would be. But these men looked frightened, surprised, sheepish. They didn't look like soldiers at all, really.

"The others are British. The ones who were shooting. We have three of them."

In the background, two tank main guns fired in succession. Across the low arch of the bridge, streaks of automatic-weapons fire cut the fresh night. The rain had slowed almost to a stop, and the damp river air carried acrid battle smells.

"This town," Levin went on, his speech rapid with nervous energy,

"you have to see it to believe it, Comrade Battalion Commander. When we were enveloping the enemy we came from back there." Levin gestured toward the dark alleyway. "It's like a museum. So beautiful. The houses in the center of town must be four or five hundred years old. It's the most beautiful town I've ever seen."

"This isn't a sightseeing trip," Gordunov cut him off.

"Yes, Comrade Battalion Commander. I understand that. I only meant that we must take care to minimize unnecessary damage."

Gordunov looked at the political officer in wonder. He could not understand what sort of fantasy world Levin lived in.

"We must try to keep the fighting out of the old part of town," Levin continued.

Gordunov grabbed the political officer by his tunic and slammed him against the nearest wall. In Afghanistan, you stayed out of the villages when you were on your own. The villages were for the earthbound soldiers in their armored vehicles. When a village was guilty of harboring the dushman, it was surrounded with armor. Then the jets came over very high, dropping their ordnance. After the aircraft, the artillery and the tanks shelled the ruins for hours. Finally, the motorized riflemen 139

Ralph Peters

went in. And there would still be snipers left alive, emerging from a maze of underground tunnels. Like rats. Gordunov hated fighting in the towns and villages. He liked the open country. But there had been times when the worthless Afghan People's Army officers had gotten their troops in a bind. And the Soviet airborne soldiers had had to go in to cut them free.

It was always worst in the towns. Towns were death.

The political officer did not attempt to defend himself. He only stared at Gordunov in bewilderment. Clearly, the two men did not understand one another.

Gordunov released the younger man. "Be glad," he told Levin. "Just be glad . . . if you're still alive this time tomorrow."

Sergeant Bronchevitch hustled across the cluttered street, carrying the command radio strapped across his shoulders. Despite the darkness, he found his way straight to Gordunov, as if by instinct.

"Comrade Commander. Falcon needs to talk to you right away."

Gordunov took the hand mike. "Falcon, this is Eagle."

At first, Gordunov did not recognize the voice on the other end. "This is Falcon. Dukhonin . . . the chief's dead. All shot up. We're in a mess."

It was Karchenko, a company commander. Gordunov had expected more self-control from the man.

"This is Eagle. Get a grip on yourself. What's the situation close in on your end of the bridge? Can I get over to you?"

"I don't know. We have the bridge. But we're all intermingled with British soldiers. And German tanks are working down the streets. Their actions aren't coordinated. But they're all over the place."

"Just hold on," Gordunov said. He released the pressure on the mike, then primed it once more. "Vulture, this is Eagle."

Nothing. Twilight static.

"Vulture, this is Eagle."

Only the noise of firing in the distance.

Gordunov turned to Levin. The political officer did not back away.

There seemed to be no special fear in him after the rough handling, just a look of appraisal. "Two things," Gordunov said. "First, get the prisoners shut up somewhere so that one man can watch them. Don't waste time.

Then get down to the southern bridge and find Captain Anureyev. Just take a rifleman or two, you'll be safer if you're quiet and quick. If Anureyev has control of his bridge, take one of his platoons and work up the far side of the river. Don't let yourself be drawn into a fight that has nothing to do with the bridges. I want this bridge reinforced. If Anureyev has the antitank platoon with him, bring two sections north. And tell that bastard to listen to his radio."

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RED ARMY

Gordunov turned to his radioman. "Come on," he told Bronchevitch.

"Stay close behind me. We're going across the river."

Gordunov took off at a scuttling run, limping, crouched like a hunchback. As he passed the walkway along the riverfront he fired a burst into the low darkness. There was no response, only the feeling of coolness off the flowing water.

No one fired at them as they continued over the dark bridge. It was a strongly built, two-lane structure that would easily carry heavy armored traffic. And they had it in their possession. Gordunov was determined to keep it.

The pain in his ankle seemed strangely appropriate now. Toughening.

A reminder that nothing was ever easy.

At the far end of the bridge, a Russian speaker called a challenge.

Sergeant Bronchevitch answered, and they were allowed back onto firm ground.

"Where's the commander?" Gordunov asked the guard.

"Up that way. Up the street somewhere."

Gordunov didn't wait for anything more. He didn't want to stop moving until he had found Karchenko. Until the situation was under some kind of control.

A few hundred meters up the road, a hot firefight raged between the buildings. Closer to the bridgehead, friendly positions had been established to cover the main road and the lateral approaches. Machine guns.