Ralph Peters - Red Army

Antitank weaponry.

"Do you know where your company commander is?" Gordunov asked a waiting machine gunner.

The dark form mumbled, raising its blackened face from its weapon.

"He doesn't understand Russian," a voice said from the shadows.

"Where's Captain Karchenko?"

"He was here a while ago. But he's gone." Then the tone of the voice changed significantly. "Excuse me, Comrade Battalion Commander. I didn't recognize you."

"Where's your lieutenant?"

"Putting in an observation post down by the water line."

Too much time wasted already. "Bronch. Give me the mike."

The sergeant fumbled for a moment, then produced the microphone.

"Falcon, this is Eagle."

"This is Falcon."

"I'm on your side of the river. Are you in that action up north?"

"Just below it. Along the main road."

"All right. I'm close. Watch for me coming up the street." Gordunov Ralph Peters

handed the mike back to the communications specialist and took off at a limping trot. "Come on."

A blast shook the last scraps of glass from nearby windows. Gordunov kept moving. At the far end of the street, several buildings had caught fire. Occasional forms dashed past the flames, but it was impossible to tell if they were Soviet or enemy.

"Over here."

Gordunov rushed across the road, rolling once and throwing himself into the doorway. His body already bore numerous scrapes and bruises, the inevitable wounds of urban combat, and, along with the ceaseless pain in his ankle, the collection of injuries made Gordunov feel like a wreck himself. But he knew the ordeal had hardly begun.

Sergeant Bronchevitch waited for Gordunov to clear the doorway, then he followed quickly, unable to roll with the radio on his back.

In the pale glow from the flames up the block, Karchenko appeared as though he expected the sky to fall on him at any moment.

"Do you have any damned control of this mess?" Gordunov demanded.

"Comrade Commander . . . we're yigMng."

"Who's in charge up the road?"

"Lieutenant Svirkin's directing the blocking action. Gurtayev's putting in the positions around the bridgehead."

Directing the blocking action, Gordunov thought. What he meant was that the lieutenant was hanging on for dear life. Gordunov calmed slightly. "And what are you doing?" he asked Karchenko.

"This is my company command post. Between the bridge and the blocking force."

"Where's Major Dukhonin?"

"He's dead."

"I know. But where is he? Where's the body?"

Karchenko didn't answer.

"I said, where's his body?"

"I don't know."

"You left him?"

"No. I mean, he was dead."

"And you left him?"

"He was in pieces. We had to move. There were tanks."

"You left him," Gordunov said in disgust, arctic winter in his voice. It wasn't a matter of emotionalism. Gordunov considered himself a hard man, and he was proud of it. He had been the toughest cadet in his class, 142

RED ARMY

and the best boxer in the academy. And he prided himself on his strong stomach. But the first time he had seen what the dushman did to the bodies of the Soviet dead, he had been unable to speak. The sight of the bodies had filled the bottom of his belly with ice. That was why airborne soldiers brought back their dead. And they never let themselves be taken prisoner. Because the bodies of dead soldiers were only for practice.

Now Gordunov made no mental distinction between dead comrades in Afghanistan and those killed by British troops or Germans. It was simply a matter of military discipline, of pride, as routine as wearing a clean, well-fitted uniform on parade. Airborne soldiers brought back their dead.

"The tanks would have killed us all," Karchenko said, pleading for understanding. "We had to organize the position."

Dukhonin had been all right. Another veteran. A professional.

Dukhonin had been in the terrible fighting up in Herat in Afghanistan.

And his chest was sewn up so that it looked as though there were a zipper across it. Now he was gone.

"Ammunition all right?" Gordunov asked, in a controlled voice.

"We got our full load in. I think Anureyev's flight was hit a lot worse than ours."

"More targets," Gordunov said. "Listen. I sent Levin down to fetch you another platoon. I want you to block one hundred and eighty degrees off the river. You can weight the defense to the north, but don't take anything for granted. Move your command post closer to the bridge. You could be overrun up here before you knew what was happening. And push out observation posts."

A series of explosions crashed along the street.

"I'm surprised they're shooting everything up," Karchenko said. "The houses are full of people, you know. You don't see them. But they're here.

Six of them in this basement. They thought we were going to eat them."

"Keep the soldiers under control. How do you see the enemy over here? More Germans or more British?"

"Seems like a mix. The tanks are all German. I think we caught a German tank unit crossing the river up on the tactical bridges. But there was a British support unit tucked in near the landing zone."

"Well, the British won't care what they shoot up. It isn't their country."

"They're tough. Especially for rear services troops."

"We're tougher. Get this mess under control." Gordunov looked at his watch. "In ninety minutes, I want you to meet me in the lobby of the 143

hospital across the river. Bring Levin, if he's still with you. I'll get Anureyev up. I want to make damned sure that, come first light, every man is where we need him. We got the bridge easily enough. Now it's just a matter of holding it."

"For how long? When do you think they'll get here?"

A spray of machine-gun fire ripped along the street, punching into the interior wall above their heads.

"Sometime tomorrow." And Gordunov got to his feet and launched himself back into the darkness, with Sergeant Bronchevitch trailing behind him.

Karchenko might not make it, Gordunov thought. But he did not know with whom he could replace him. Dukhonin had been his safety man, his watchdog on this side of the river. Now Dukhonin was gone. There was no one left he could trust.

He thought of Levin, the political officer. Levin didn't have any experience. But he would have to use him, if it came down to it. Perhaps Levin on the eastern bank, while he took personal command in Karchenko's area. Or wherever the action was the most intense.

Gordunov hated the thought of relying on the political officer. But then he hated to rely on any man. He could only bear counting on Dukhonin because they had both come from the Afgantsy brotherhood.

In the darkness, Gordunov collided with a body rushing out of the shadows.

They both fell. The body called out in a foreign voice.

Gordunov shot him at point-blank range.

A return burst of fire from beyond the body sought him in the dark.

Gordunov flattened and fired back over the body of the man he had just shot. When the body moved, Gordunov drew his assault knife and plunged it into the man's throat.

There were several foreign voices now, calling to one another.

Unfamiliar-sounding weapons began to fire around him.

Gordunov peeled a grenade from his harness, primed it, then lobbed it down toward the mouth of an alley.

As the fragmentation settled Gordunov crawled into a doorway. The door was locked.

"I'm s h o t . . . I'm shot. . ."

Bronch. The radio.

Gordunov held still. His radioman lay sprawled in the street, his boots still up on the sidewalk. He repeated his complaint over and over, aching with the damage a foreign weapon had done to his body.

Gordunov watched the darkness. Waiting for them to come out. As if