Ralph Peters - Red Army

The voice at the other end was slow in responding. Did I make a mistake? Anton wondered. Did I get something wrong? He stared out through the open rear of the vehicle, straining to read the situation map's details from an impossible distance, desperate to offer his father whatever he wanted.

"Firebird, this is Blizzard. Your decision is approved. Continue local defensive actions. Do all that you can to break the enemy's tempo of attack and to disrupt his plan." The voice paused, and Anton thought for a moment that the transmission had come to an end. He nearly panicked.

He wanted to tell his father . . . he wasn't certain . . . but he knew there were important things to say. Yet how was he to say them now, using this means? The officers and technical specialists around him stared. The hull of the vehicle had grown very still, as had the entire command post. They were all listening. Only the irregular sputterings of fire off in the distance offered any covering noise at all.

"You must hold out," the voice came back, and Anton imagined that he could detect a note of human warmth in it now. He realized with perfect lucidity what such a breach in his rigorous personal discipline must have cost the old man. "You must hold out. We will support you.

We will support you with every available sortie of attack aircraft. You may expect relief by our ground forces in twelve to eighteen hours . . ."

Again, the voice paused. "Can you hold on?"

Anton straightened his back. "Blizzard, this is Firebird. We will do our duty."

"I know you will do your duty," the distant voice said. "I know that all of your soldiers will do their duty. And you will have all the support the Motherland has to give you. Good luck." And his father formally ended the transmission.

Anton stood still. He felt as though a critical link had been severed, not just in a military context, but in his life. He wanted to hear his father's voice a little longer. Anything not to let go of the old man.

Voices picked up around him, calling in nervous haste. The chief of staff yelled for the ranking forward air controller. Yes, sorties. Aircraft.

We'll hang on, Anton thought.

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His stomach rebelled. The pang hit him so violently that it bent him over the radio set, and he feared he would lose all control on the spot. He hurried for the entrance flap in the canvas.

The chief of staff* touched him. "Comrade Commander, can I help you?"

"I'm all right," Anton said, pushing by. "I'm all right. I'll be back in a moment."

He blundered at the tentage, extricating himself with difficulty.

Outside, he had to step carefully across deep ruts cut by the vehicles as they positioned themselves between the trees. He looked around, trying to spot the perimeter guards. He did not want anyone to see him.

His intestines bit him again, struggling to empty themselves. Anton staggered. He decided that he could not worry who saw him. He touched a tree trunk for stability and caught himself around an antenna line. He broke free in an angry fit, charging past the tethers. Bushes caught his trousers.

He forced himself to march a little longer, to put a few low shrubs between his act and the field command post. Then he tore at his clothing, stripping down. He lowered himself against the trunk of a tree in his agony, straining to crouch on burning calves.

He knew he had failed. He had failed at everything for which he had spent his lifetime preparing. Now his father was trying to rescue him. He had even corrupted his father.

Anton stared, sweating, up through the trees. The sky shone a hot, magnificent blue. He wheezed, waiting for his body to finish punishing him. He felt that all of his strength was at an end.

The roar of the jets came up fast. They flew very low. It was a big, rushing noise, commanding in its power. The jets, he thought. Already.

His father had sent him these gifts.

But the forest began to burn around him. He was on his side, lying in dampness. Another blast picked him up and slapped him against a tree. He sagged, crying. The noise engulfed him. He wasn't certain whether the ground was shaking or if he was shaking on top of it. He felt as though he were tumbling. He was tumbling in the waves, playing with Zena. It was Cuba, and the sea was salty and warm, and the sky was a splendid cloudless blue. And the sun. The sun came closer and closer. And he rolled in the sea. It was too rough for Zena. He called to warn her. And the enormous sun came closer still, colliding with the earth.

314

RED ARMY

Anton opened his eyes. Everything around him was on fire. Then he realized that he was burning, too. His hands were burning. The rags around his ankles were burning.

He scrambled to his feet, stumbling, waving the torches of his hands.

Zena, he cried out, or thought he cried out. Father. Not like this, god, not like this.

315

TWENTY-THREE

S o b e l e v had lost his confidence. He expected death to come up and meet him on each next flight. He had worn himself through fear into resignation. He would go on doing his technical best to kill the enemy until the enemy killed him. The losses on both sides had scoured the skies of the masses of aircraft evident, despite the poor weather, on the first day of hostilities. Now the air efforts were concentrated against key points, and there were great expanses of nearly vacant skies.

Sobelev flew low. He would have liked to fly even lower, but the number of losses to power-line strikes had been appalling. There were too many towering pylons, with their long, ropy lines set like nets to catch the very best pilots.

He had lost his wingman on a run against the autobahn bridge between Wiesbaden and Mainz. He hit his target, but the strike did not seem to do any significant damage. His lieutenant went down and the bridge stayed up—it was an enormous structure—and the enemy retained its use.

It took all of Sobelev's experience and talent to fly the aircraft now.

Exhausted, he continued to worry that his own error would get him before the enemy did. He had a terribly difficult mission this time. Close support of ground forces in a battle with no clear front line. He had never believed that pilot training for close air support was really adequate, but he prided himself on his professional skills, and he did his best to 317

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improve himself. He had spent endless hours in the flight simulator, although he never really felt that the simulations were of sufficient quality. The voice commands never had the panic encountered on a real battlefield. Still, whatever the deficiencies of the system, the ground troops continued to scream for air support.

"Zero-Five-Eight, Zero-Five-Eight, I think I've got you on my radar."

It was the target control and identification post. "Is your wingman hugging you tight? I can't discriminate."

"This is Zero-Five-Eight. No wingman. Solo sortie."

"Roger, Five-Eight. I am vectoring you on an azimuth of two-four-five from your known point. You are about to become army property."

The ground rushed by under the belly of the aircraft, and the treetops seemed to surround the fuselage. Sobelev's tired mind fought to maintain control, to make everything hold together.

"Roger, I have the known point."

"You're in the box, Five-Eight. Passing you directly to your tactical controller."

A new voice came up. "North Star, this is Orion. Passing this one directly to the forward."