There Will Be War Volume VII

by Jerry Pournelle

  Or sell their souls for it, Rostov considered. Which explained why he was crouched amidst the rubble in the forty-degree night of a late Russian summer.

  A red-lit face hung suspended in the darkness next to him for a moment, then faded back into the gloom.

  “He’s late.” The smell of military issue vodka and harsh Turkish tobacco drifted toward Rostov from where the face had appeared.

  “He always is. He claims this trip will be worth the wait, though.”

  The face lit up again as Rostov’s companion took another deep pull on a cigarette. This time the round, mustachioed visage was grinning widely, a happy red man-in-the-moon puffing on a paper-filtered “papirosi.” “Zimyanski always says that. Remember that time he claimed to be bringing women from Kiev?”

  Rostov chuckled, nodded. The other man scratched his scruffy beard over his sergeant’s collar tabs, laughed and went on.

  “Two fruits from the Bolshoi in drag. Not that he knew it, of course, because he was saving them for us.” His voice took on a whine as he mimicked the tardy Zimyanski: “‘I swear to you, Aleksei; on my babushka’s head, I swear to you they are virgins!’”

  The two men laughed under their breath in weary reverie. Rostov was still grinning as he took a closer look at his friend, Senior Sergeant Mikhail Zorin. The big noncom looked about forty-five, but Rostov had no idea what his true age might be. But Zorin was the archetype of the squad sergeant. He was the best noncommissioned officer left in the Fifth Guards, and for all Rostov knew, in the entire Red Army. Rostov had heard that the Propaganda Committee from the war-films branch of Mosfilm had tried to get Zorin reassigned to their unit, but the sergeant had mysteriously disappeared for a month or two until their interest had subsided.

  But if Zorin was camera-shy, then video was the only thing that scared him. During the bloody and disastrous First Retreat from Moscow, when the avenging Alliance troops had fought their way into the city, block by shattered block, it had been Zorin’s presence, everywhere at once, it seemed, that had kept the remnants of Rostov’s company intact, carrying them through to fight their way out of the enemy encirclement to freedom. As far as Rostov was concerned, he and something over three hundred other men owed their asses to the burly sergeant. If not for Zorin…

  Well. If not for Zorin, his unit would likely have suffered the same fate as that of his wife’s artillery regiment in Kiev.

  Not that having a fellow like Zorin would have made any difference in Lilia Rostova’s situation.

  And, reminded of his wife, Rostov closed off further discussion with an abrupt silence, leaving Zorin to wonder in turn about his lieutenant.

  Zorin had served with Rostov almost continuously for the past four years, and knew the fellow well. Rostov’s silences always meant the same thing. For a moment the big sergeant wondered how his young lieutenant with the American movie-star looks could still be pining over the wife he’d lost in the first year of the counterattacks by the Alliance. Personally, Zorin failed to see the appeal in the photos he’d seen of the dark-haired, darker-eyed Lilia Rostova; too Indian-looking for his taste. Zorin had served in Afghanistan many years ago. All things considered, Zorin decided that he much preferred German girls, big blonde ones with their big…

  He smiled. Ah, well. The lieutenant was still young. Perhaps, in time… He looked at Rostov again in the feeble starlight. No. The passage of time would soothe Rostov’s grief not a particle, Zorin decided. There was something more to this young man and the woman he had loved than perhaps anyone would ever know. And anyway, suffering was what their people did best. They had had plenty of practice. They were Russians.

  Footsteps sounded on the ruptured pavement below them. They peered over the shattered wall to see two men approaching from the ruins of Saint Basil’s, a third figure borne between them.

  Widespread agreement held that anyone coming from the direction of the cathedral was safe from harm until after any negotiations. Zorin flicked the safety catch of his assault rifle to OFF. It was a nice agreement. But this was still Russia.

  “Looks like Zimyanski has brought us another warm body.” Rostov’s tone was neutral. He had accepted runaways and deserters before. Losses in the unit had been heavy, and the new men, captured by Zimyanski, were only too glad to avoid being handed over to a firing squad, and almost always made themselves useful somehow. They figured anything was better than being handed over to the KGB, now de facto rulers of the remnants of the government. They were right.

  Zorin remained hidden as Rostov stood slowly. “I am guessing,” Zorin whispered, “that Zimyanski is once again accompanied by that cheery fellow, Corporal Katchin.”

  “Of course,” Rostov answered, and gave a short, low whistle.

  Below, Zimyanski stopped abruptly. The tall, thin figure of Corporal Katchin released its hold on their burden and pointed its own rifle directly at the spot in the inky shadows where Rostov stood. As usual.

  How does he do that? Rostov thought with a shudder. In his build, his manner, and most of all his reflexes, Katchin reminded Rostov of nothing so much as an insect in human skin. Perhaps a little less merciful.

  “Is that you, Aleksei Aleksandrovitch?” Zimyanski shouted as he too released the man he and Katchin had been carrying. The figure settled limply to the street.

  Zorin, still concealed, shook his head and laughed under his breath in contempt. “Christus,” he muttered. “Let’s just wake up Comrade Lenin while we’re at it, why don’t we?”

  Grinning, Rostov clambered down from the tumbled slabs of red granite. Long practice made his descent down the scree a quiet one. At the bottom, he noticed that Katchin had not yet taken his rifle off him.

  Zimyanski began pumping Rostov’s hand even before he had gotten all the way to the street.

  “Aleksei, my good friend, how goes it with you and your men? And how is the so-fine Colonel Podgorny?”

  Rostov favored the dark little man with a smile. “We are well enough, thank you, Zimyanski. And you? You have cause to be overly suspicious this evening?” Rostov nodded toward Katchin’s tall, gaunt figure with its steady aim.

  “Put that weapon up, idiot!” Zimyanski hissed at his man with an anger that surprised Rostov. The little man seemed to be going to greater lengths than usual to keep the meeting amiable. Rostov could not help but begin to worry.

  “I must apologize, Aleksei. More trouble with bandits. Another of those damned Nationalist Liberation Brigades; Ukrainian this time, I think. Katchin is a little edgy, that’s all.” Zimyanski gestured toward two large blocks of masonry; their usual negotiating table. Rostov sat opposite the black marketeer.

  “Cigarette?” Zimyanski offered. As always, Rostov refused. Any deviation in the ritual was a signal that either man’s position had become compromised, his organization infiltrated or suspect. In the six months they had been trading, the KGB had apparently not deemed them a danger to the State. Not yet.

  “So who have you got over there, Zimyanski?”

  Zimyanski’s eyes flashed. “Barter. Why are you so curious?”

  Zimyanski’s tone was unduly hostile, Rostov thought, and he began to worry a little more. Something didn’t feel quite right about this meeting. But he only countered with a shrug. He and his men needed Zimyanski now. But they would not need, or tolerate him, forever. And it wouldn’t require turning him in to the KGB to be rid of him. In cases like Zimyanski’s, Rostov knew only too well that the army polished its own boots. Scraping someone like Zimyanski from the shine would be no trouble at all.

  “I only ask because he doesn’t look well. I can’t trade in dying men, or someone whose been exposed to Biologies.”

  Zimyanski relaxed a little. Most of his hearty good fellowship had evaporated, however, and what Rostov thought of as the man’s “Beast of Business” was coming to the surface.

  “Ah, I see. But he is not so very bad off, this one.” Zimyanski’s eyes narrowed. “And he has a certain curiosity value. What would you trade for
a specialist, Aleksei Aleksandrovitch? Eh? How many liters of petrol? How many of diesel? How many milligrams of real, quality penicillin?”

  The more Zimyanski said, the more Rostov was convinced the little man was worried himself. Zimyanski was acting like a Party man coming out of a synagogue. Still… “A specialist, you say? What can he do?”

  Zimyanski shrugged, smiling. His coy act. “He can work, of course. He’s whole. Just drugged.”

  Rostov almost cursed aloud. “Drugged” from Zimyanski meant the man had a respectable concussion, courtesy of the not-very-gentle Corporal Katchin.

  “He can handle a weapon,” Zimyanski continued. “He reads and writes. An educated man, Aleksei, like yourself.” Rostov ignored the silky insult in Zimyanski’s tone. “A historian, I believe, in civilian life. I am given to understand he knows quite a lot about computers.” Zimyanski smiled oddly. “He even speaks English.”

  Rostov was puzzled. The man didn’t sound very useful to him; an academic, a head of little practical value, attached to a stomach. Rostov would sooner have a good plumber. The water recycler was out again.

  Lieutenant Rostov put out a hand, palm down, and waggled it, his face the image of dubious indecision.

  “I don’t know, Zimyanski. I had come to trade for food. That has been our usual arrangement.”

  “Of course, of course, Aleksei Aleksandrovitch, please; not to worry.” Zimyanski dismissed such foolish concerns with an expansive wave of his arms. “I have also a cart.” He leaned forward, every inch the generous conspirator. “And in this cart are a dozen tinned hams for you and your men. Honest-to-God Polish ones, you won’t believe it.”

  Rostov didn’t, despite Zimyanski’s genuflection for emphasis. Still, a dozen tins of almost anything meant feeding his men decently for a change. If the price was taking on another stray deserter and sparing him the firing squad, well, why not? Rostov nodded. “Fine. I’ll take the hams. The man too. I’m sure we’ll find some use for him.”

  Zimyanski pretended to be overcome with reverence for Rostov’s command abilities. “I am positive that you will, Aleksei.” He gestured to Katchin, and the tall soldier left to fetch the cart of promised hams.

  “What’s your price, then, Zimyanski?”

  “Two hundred liters of petrol, in a single container.” Rostov’s uneasy worry flared into full suspicion. Half that much diesel might have been a reasonable request. Diesel could be safely and inconspicuously used for many things, even running an occasional engine. But two hundred liters of petrol? Petrol made fair bombs, yes; but two hundred liters was far too much for that. A judiciously placed incendiary grenade was better, and those were easily obtained. No, petrol was really only good for one thing: running internal combustion engines. And two hundred liters was too much to carry on a motorcycle and not enough to go very far in a truck. It was, however, just enough to allow one car to go a very long way indeed.

  Rostov suddenly knew this would be his last exchange with Zimyanski. It concerned him a little; Zimyanski might throw Rostov to the wolves if he was caught. But there was the meat. The men were very bad off, and winter was not far away. Rostov put out his hand and clasped Zimyanski’s.

  “Done. The fuel will be left for you at the usual pickup area.” Katchin returned just then with a small cart, its contents thumping and rattling against one another. Rostov wondered if the wraithlike guard would be accompanying Zimyanski wherever he was going. Somehow, he didn’t much think so.

  “Thank you, Aleksei,” Zimyanski was saying. “It has always been a pleasure dealing with you. Ah, so good that in these trying times, we can yet perpetuate the true spirit of brotherly socialism within our military profession.”

  Rostov thought he heard Zorin spit in the darkness behind him, and tried not to grin. He simply nodded.

  Zimyanski and Katchin drifted away into the night. Rostov watched them go with a vague unease, then went to the cart. To his astonishment, he found not only genuine Polish commercial-export hams, but three more than the dozen that Zimyanski had promised; likely the black marketeer’s entire remaining trading stock.

  Rostov spoke over his shoulder to Zorin, who had climbed down from concealment and gone to examine the prone man. “I think, Mikhail, that our old friend Zimyanski is getting out of the black-market business collective.”

  From the darkness behind him, Rostov heard Zorin curse in quiet anger. The lieutenant instantly spun, crouched, flipped his rifle’s safety off. “Mikhail?”

  He could see the dim outline of Zorin’s form, hunched over the body on the ground. Zorin’s voice drifted to him, barely a whisper. “Aleksei, you’d better come take a look at this.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Would that he were. That might help solve the problem.”

  Rostov frowned. Zorin’s tone had him more worried than had Zimyanski’s. He went to examine the unconscious man. Dust-covered uniform, bearded and thinned by hunger, the fellow at first looked like a hundred other survivors Rostov had seen. But when he finally recognized the uniform insignia, he realized that all his worries had been justified. If anything, he had not worried enough.

  Rostov back-pedaled away from the man as he would from a serpent. Zorin nodded at the reaction.

  “An American,” Zorin said. The burly sergeant shook his head, spat in frustration, and tossed his cigarette away. “Christus.”

  Rostov sat in the tent of the unit’s commander, Colonel Ivan Podgoray, watching the bearded American sleeping on a cot next to the camp stove. The colonel himself was seated in the far corner, talking quietly with their unofficial medic, Blaustein. Blaustein was a civilian doctor, a Jew, and had been one of Zimyanski’s first “trade” items to the unit: a real doctor, and a good one, at that. Podgorny had been eager to get him, and Blaustein had been happy to disappear from KGB files as “deceased.” Israeli participation in the Alliance had sealed the fates of all but a handful of Russian Jews, including Surgeon Blaustein’s family. But whatever grudge he might bear against the KGB, Blaustein had proven himself a loyal member of the Guards Engineers from the first day. Every man in the troop trusted him, and knew his value to their own continued existence.

  Rostov heard a sigh, and turned to see the American’s eyes flutter open. “He’s coming around, Comrade Surgeon.”

  Blaustein came and joined Rostov at the American’s bedside. Short and athletic, the doctor moved powerful hands over his charge with a fluid expertise. Rostov admired Blaustein’s dedication. He had heard Jews didn’t believe in an afterlife, though not for reasons the State approved. Still, Rostov thought Blaustein would have tended the wounds of Baba Yaga herself while blessed Saint Peter watched. The balding, darkly bearded man seemed incapable of cruelty or any lack of compassion.

  “So,” Podgorny said from his desk. At his tone, Rostov had to suppress an urge to leap to attention. “Now perhaps we will discover why an American in the uniform of their navy should be thousands of kilometers away from any ocean.” Podgorny sounded reflective, almost distracted, but Rostov did not relax. The troops joked that yes, Colonel Podgorny did indeed have a face disturbingly like Stalin’s. Ah, but deep down, where it really mattered, he had a heart like Ivan the Terrible.

  Rostov knew that neither was strictly true. Podgorny was a stern disciplinarian, utterly devoted to the welfare of his command and completely intolerant of threats to that welfare. Rostov and Zorin had feared for their lives at bringing an American prisoner back. And as to looks, Podgorny actually resembled no one quite so much as the American President Theodore Roosevelt. Which was to say, he looked like Trotsky.

  Colonel Podgorny stood and walked to stand at the side of the cot, his broad frame dwarfing the lanky American’s. “Are you awake?” the colonel asked politely in English.

  The American’s eyes opened fully. He looked at the three of them, longest at Blaustein, who wore no uniform. Once he seemed to have his wits about him, he sat up on the cot. Podgorny repeated the question.

  “You can
speak Russian, if you prefer,” the American said. His accent was pure Muscovite.

  “How do you feel?” Blaustein asked.

  The American shrugged. “Rather well, all things considered. I am thirsty, though.”

  Blaustein gestured to Rostov, who handed the American a cup of fresh water. He drained it, looking out through the narrow tent flap at the camp outside. A few soldiers could be seen, some parked vehicles, a long camp fire with cook pots set along its length in the Russian fashion. After a long time, the American looked back at Podgorny and spoke. “You’re not KGB.”

  Podgomy shrugged, nodded. “Correct.” He raised a finger for emphasis, and scowled in what the men called his “Stalin look.” “But the cellars of Lubyanka are still quite operational, as you will find out should you give the wrong answers to my questions. I require your name and rank, and your unit and duties. And what, God save us, is an American naval officer doing in the heart of Russia, and how did you come to be in Zimyanski’s hands?”

  The American took in the questions, gathered his thoughts, then spoke. “I take it we’re not overmuch concerned with the United Nations Articles of War?”

  Rostov stood, placed the muzzle of his rifle against the American’s ear, and took off the safety. It was a subtler gesture than throwing the bolt, and seemed to make more of an impression on officers.

  The American shrugged. “Point made. I’m Captain Martin Wrenn, United States Naval Intelligence. My unit was attached to the Ninth Marine Division in occupied Smolensk. My duties consisted of identifying, interrogating, and processing captured KGB personnel and Soviet Armed Forces defectors.” Wrenn looked up at Podgorny.

  Podgorny’s mustache curled as he pursed his lips. There was nothing to say for Wrenn’s bluntness. Since the tide had turned against them in the Great War of Global Liberation, the Soviet Army had lost more troops to defections and desertions than to actual combat.