Apparently, it was not only the Iranians who were a problem. At the maintenance councils back at headquarters, Murawa had spoken with fellow officers who served with the Arab Islamic Union forces. Their tales made it plain that there was little to choose between their charges and Murawa's.
Despite unprecedented successes, the front was beginning to bog down. There was no military reason not to press on now. The Russians were clearly beaten. But each new local breakthrough proved harder to support and sustain logistically. The Iranians and the Arabs had gone through so many combat systems that they had too little left for the final blow. Their leaders barked that Japan was obliged to replace their losses. But even Murawa, a mere captain, knew that the additional systems did not exist. Japanese industry had gone all out to provide the vast forces already deployed. And, even if additional systems had been available, it would have been impossible to transport them all from Japan to the depths of Central Asia overnight. The prewar buildup had taken years.
The Iranians refused to understand. Murawa worked his crews until the men literally could no longer function without sleep. He sought desperately to do his duty, to return enough combat systems to the fighting forces to flesh out the skeletal units pointed northward. And all he heard were complaints that had increasingly begun to sound like threats.
Now all he wanted to do was sleep. It had been a hard day, a bad day. Sleep was his only respite and reward.
The explosions woke him.
Murawa had been dreaming of red leaves and old temple bells. Until suddenly the bells began to ring with a ferocity that hurled him out of his repose. He spent a long moment sitting with his hands clapped over his ears in a state of thorough disorientation.
The noise was of bells loud as thunder. Louder than thunder. The walls and floor wobbled, as though the earth had gotten drunk. Earthquake, he thought. Then a nearby explosion shattered all of the glass remaining in the window of his room and an orange-rose light illuminated the spartan quarters.
My God, he realized, we're under attack.
He grabbed wildly for his trousers. He was accustomed to seeing the mechanical results of combat. But he had never felt its immediate effects before. Once, he had seen an old Russian jet knocked out of the sky at some distance.
But nothing like this.
The huge noise of the bells would not stop. It hurt his ears badly, making his head throb. The noise was so great that it had physical force. The big sound of explosions made sense to him. But not the bells.
The sound of human shouting was puny, barely audible, amid the crazy concert of the bells.
He pulled on his boots over bare feet and ran out of his room, stumbling down the dark corridor toward the entrance of the barracks building. The Iranian military policeman on guard duty huddled in the corner of the foyer, chanting out loud.
"What's going on?" Murawa demanded in Japanese. But he was not really addressing the cowering Iranian. He hurried out past the blown-in door, tramping over glass and grit.
Outside, heavy snowflakes sailed down from the dark heavens. The white carpet on the ground lay in total incongruity with the array of bonfires spread across the near horizon.
The motor park. His repair yards.
He watched, stunned, as a heavy tank flashed silver-white-gold as if it had been electrified, then jerked backward like a kicked dog. Nearby, another vehicle seemed to crouch into the earth, a beaten animal—until it jumped up and began to blaze.
With each new flash, the enormous bell sound rolled across the landscape.
The bells. His tanks. His precious vehicles. His treasures.
What in-the-name-of-God was going on? What kind of weapons were the Russians using? Where had they come from?
Another huge tolling noise throbbed through his skull, and he briefly considered that the Iranians might have turned on them. But that was impossible. It was premature. And the Iranians could never have managed anything like this.
He pointed himself toward the communications center, feet unsure in the snow. He brushed against an Iranian soldier whose eyes were mad with fear, and it occurred to Murawa belatedly that he had come out unarmed. The realization made him feel even more helpless, although a sidearm was unlikely to be very effective against whatever was out there playing God in the darkness.
He ran along the accustomed route—the shortest way— without thinking about the need for cover. The air around him hissed. At the periphery of his field of vision, dark figures moved through the shadows or silhouetted briefly against a local inferno. He was still far too excited to seriously analyze the situation. His immediate ambition was limited to reaching the communications center. Someone there might have answers. And there were communications means. Other Japanese officers and NCOs. The comms center called him both as a place of duty and of refuge.
He almost made it. He was running the last gauntlet, slipping across the open space between the devastated motor parks and the administration area, when a force like a hot ocean wave lifted him from the earth and hurled him back down. The action happened with irresistible speed, yet, within it, there was time to sense his complete loss of orientation as the shock wave rolled him over in the air exactly as a child tumbles when caught unexpectedly by the sea. For an instant gravity disappeared, and time stretched out long enough for him to feel astonishment then elemental fear before the sky slammed him back against the earth. In the last bad sliver of time, he thrust out a hand to protect himself. It hit the ground ahead of his body, at a bad angle, and his arm snapped like a dry biscuit.
He lay on the earth, sucking for air. He felt wetness under his shoulder blades. He raised his head like a crippled horse attempting to rise. He felt impossibly heavy.
He tried to right himself, but it simply did not work. He almost rolled up onto one knee, but he found that his right arm would not cooperate. When he realized that the dangling object at the end of his limb was his own hand, a wave of nausea passed over him. There was blood all over his uniform, all over his flesh. He could not decide where it had originated. The world seemed extraordinarily intense, yet unclear at the same time.
He dropped the broken limb, hiding it from himself. The snow turned to rain.
He collapsed, falling flat on his back. Cold rain struck his face. He could see that it was still snowing up in the heavens. A white, swirling storm. The stars were falling out of the sky. He felt the cold wetness creeping in through his clothing, chilling his spine, his legs, even as the exposed front portion of his body caught the warmth of the spreading fires. He lay between waking and dreaming, admiring the gales above his head and blinking as the snow turned to rain in its descent and struck him about the eyes.
He waited for the pain, wondering why it would not come.
"I'm all right," he told himself. "I'm all right."
The sound of the bells had stopped. In fact, the world was utterly silent. Yet the flashes continued. The pink wall of firelight climbed so high into the heavens that it seemed to arch over the spot where Murawa lay.
What was wrong? Why couldn't he get up? Why was everything so quiet?
The sky's on fire, he thought.
What was happening?
The fuel dump, he decided lucidly. They've hit the fuel dump. The Iranians had been allowed to manage it themselves, and expecting no further threats from the Russians, they had been careless, neglecting to build earthen revetments or even to disperse the stocks.
It's all burning, he thought resignedly. But why couldn't he get up? It seemed to him that he had almost made it to his feet at his first attempt. But now his muscles would not pay attention to him.
It crossed his mind that they would have to send him home now. Back to Kyoto.
Where was the pain?
Gathering all of his will and physical strength, Murawa hoisted himself up on his good elbow.
Everything was on fire. It was the end of the world. There should have been snow. Or mud. But dust had come up from somewhere. Clouds and cyclones of
dust, flamboyantly beautiful. The burning world softened and changed colors through the silken clouds.
He began to choke.
The world had slowed down, as if it were giving him time to catch up. As he watched, a tracked troop carrier near the perimeter of the repair yard rose into the sky, shaking itself apart. He could feel the earth trembling beneath his buttocks.
Ever so slowly, dark metal segments fell back to earth, rebounding slightly before coming to rest.
He was choking. Coughing. But he could not hear himself coughing, and it frightened him.
Yet, it was all very beautiful in the silence. With the universe on fire.
Where was the pain?
He saw a dark figure running, chased by fire. The man was running and dancing ecstatically at the same time, flailing his arms, turning about, dropping to his knees. Then Murawa's eyes focused, and he saw that the man was burning, and that there was no dance.
Murawa collapsed back into the mud created by his own wastes. He wished he had not forgotten his pistol, because he wanted to be dead before the fire reached him.
Lieutenant Colonel John Reno's squadron had nearly completed its sweep along Engagement Area Emerald. Charlie Troop was finishing up the turkey shoot outside of Atbasar, and Alpha and Bravo had reformed into an aerial skirmish line that stretched for thirty nautical miles from flank to flank. His squadron alone had accounted for the destruction of, at latest count, two thousand four hundred and fifty-six enemy combat vehicles or prime support rigs, and they had not lost a single M-100. Reno had read his military history, and it seemed to him that his squadron's attack constituted one of the most lopsided victories on record. His father might have made it to four-star general, but the old bugger had never had such a victory to his credit. It was a glorious day.
There were only two real problems, in Reno's view. First, the regiment's other two squadrons had performed equally well. First Squadron even had a higher kill tally, although it was unfair to count them equally, since First Squadron had been able to run up the numbers by completing the destruction of all the vehicles massed and awaiting repair at the Karaganda yards. Still, there were ways of presenting yourself that made it clear to the media that your accomplishment had actually been the greater. The second problem, however, was considerably more formidable.
Taylor. Reno despised the sonofabitch. Neither did Taylor go to very much trouble to disguise his distaste for John Anthony Reno.
Reno understood why, of course. Taylor was a misfit. A misfit who just happened to have a string of lucky breaks. A misfit who surrounded himself with other misfits. That good-for-nothing kike Heifetz. So superior. After the Jews had gotten their asses kicked into the sea by the ragheads, for God's sake. It was positively unhealthy, the way Heifetz lived all alone in a bare apartment. With no apparent interest in women. And then there was Taylor's kiss-ass black boy, flaunting his red-haired wife in front of everybody all the time. They were like that, though. Always had to marry a white woman to prove they'd made it. Reno grinned, imagining the couple's embraces. Meredith's wife was an exceptionally attractive woman, and it was unfathomable why she would have thrown herself away on that colored ape. What on earth could she see in him? Of course, the worst of them all was that Martinez. A little wetback sand nigger. With a college degree. Fancied himself quite the playboy too. Worthless as a supply officer. No sense of priorities. Wouldn't dream of helping out a brother officer when there was a little problem with the books. Of course, they always went for the jobs like that. So they wouldn't have to mix it up out in the fighting. Why, Martinez was probably fast asleep somewhere, warm and safe. While better men were out doing his fighting for him. No, Taylor was as despicable as he was selfish. Surrounding himself with oddballs. Taylor's staff was a downright embarrassment to the Army. Christ, even the
Russians had picked up on it. Whereas your Russian got along just fine with a man like John Reno. Not that the Russians were anything to write home about.
And what was Taylor going to do? Well, Reno was certain, the sorry old bastard was not about to give credit where credit was due. No, if anything, he'd penalize John Reno just for having the good fortune to be born a general's son, for having a presentable wife from a good old Philadelphia family, for being all of the things that George Taylor could never be. Why, on his mother's side, Reno could trace his military ancestors back to the prerevolutionary frontier militia.
And that was the whole point. Taylor did not understand anything like that. Tradition. Honor. In another age, in a less confused army, Taylor would have been lucky to make sergeant.
And his face. You couldn't even introduce him to anyone. Then there was the rumor about the little tramp back in D.C.
Well, Reno was an insider. And he knew that Taylor had just about peaked. Oh, if this operation continued to go well, he might make brigadier general. But that was really about it. Taylor just didn't look the part of a very senior officer. And he certainly didn't act it. No, Taylor had made too many enemies over the years.
The fact of the matter was simply that the Army did not need characters like that. It continued to amaze Reno that Taylor had made it as far as this.
He had heard it repeated that George Taylor was the type of officer who was always ready to take on the dirty jobs. That hardly surprised Reno, since Taylor struck him as a dirty man.
He let his fantasies run for a moment. The best thing that could happen, of course, would be for Taylor to become a combat casualty. Not necessarily a fatality—since that might turn him into a hero. Just incapacitated. That would mean that Reno, as the senior squadron commander, would take over as acting commander of the regiment on the field of battle. Now that would be an opportunity.
"Saber six, this is Lancer," his internal comms net interrupted him. Reno made it a practice to assign colorful names to the stations within his own net, although it was forbidden by regulation. You had to add a bit of dash to things, if you were going to compete with show-offs like Tercus over in First Squadron.
"This is Saber six, over."
"We've got one," the other station said. "Looks perfect. Isolated. No nearby combat reserves. It's ours for the picking. Over."
"Roger. Report approximate size."
"Looks like eight box-bodied vans backed into a cluster. With a few dozen utility vehicles scattered about. No shooters."
Reno thought for a moment. The site sounded just about perfect. Safe. Manageable. They could do it quickly. Get it over with. Taylor wouldn't even know about it until it was too late to do anything about it.
"This is Saber six," Reno said. "Transmit grids to my navigational aids. Take out the support vehicles, just to be on the safe side, then have the dragoons secure everything. I'm on my way. Break. Second Saber, this is Saber six. Take over the squadron. I'm going to help Lancer capture an enemy headquarters site. Out."
Taylor was a fool, Reno thought as he strolled through the picturesque, carefully spotlit wreckage of the enemy field headquarters. It was really a very minor facility. But you wouldn't be able to tell that from the photographs.
"Sir, if you could just move a little bit to your left. There. I'm getting too much backlighting," Reno's staff photographer said. The enlisted man raised his camera to his eye.
"Well, move your goddamned lights," Reno said irritably. Taylor had scratched the idea of any dismounted operations except in emergency situations. But this was, of course, simply a matter of seizing the initiative. Taking advantage of the opportunity to capture an enemy headquarters. No one could challenge him on that. And the press would love it.
Reno stepped over an Iranian body. He waved his hand at the photographer.
"No. Too gory. Wait until we get outside and we'll take a few shots with the prisoners."
The media would be desperate for photos. The Pentagon would try to fob off "strategic" imagery that meant little to the unpracticed eye. The press would be only too grateful for on-the-ground human interest pictures, complete with the tale of a dar
ing raid on an enemy headquarters.
Reno descended the ladder from a ruined van and stepped out into the darkness.
"Where the hell are the prisoners?"
"Over here, sir." A flashlight clicked on, lighting the way.
Reno turned to his photographer. "You're sure you've got the right goddamned film in?"
"Yes, sir. No problem, sir. The pictures are going to be great."
Reno's boot caught something heavy and slightly giving and he almost fell face forward in the snow and mud. He slammed his boot down into the object to steady himself.
"What the hell's this?" he demanded angrily.
"Sir," a voice came out of the darkness. "That's one of the friendly casualties. When we were dismounting, the Iranians—"
"Get him the hell out of here," Reno snapped. "You," he told the photographer. "No more pictures until all of the casualties have been cleared away. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Reno's dismounted cavalrymen scrambled to clear their fallen comrades from the scene, while the photographer arranged his battery-powered spotlights. In a few minutes, the photo session was able to resume.
Reno stood proudly in the cones of light, jauntily training an automatic rifle on a group of Iranian officers and men whose hands reached up to catch the falling snow.
It was a great day to be an American, Reno thought.
Air Captain Andreas Zeederberg of the South African Defense Force was in a bad mood. His deep penetration squadron had been only fitfully employed during the offensive, and now, promised a high priority mission, he found himself leading his aircraft against a rust heap.
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