Podgorny made a dismissive gesture, and Rostov lowered his rifle.
Wrenn looked at the young Russian lieutenant. “Thank you.” He gathered his thoughts, ran a hand through his hair, moved it down to scratch thoughtfully at his beard. Podgorny noted that not all the gray in it was stone dust. After a long while, Wrenn spoke again: “The Soviet government announced its capitulation what, two months ago?”
“Three,” Rostov answered, his voice flat.
Wrenn nodded, went on. “Three months ago. That would be in June. Then the KGB took over, established control of the armed forces with provisional commanders and let go with the Gas Bug. So much for the Alliance counteroffensive. By the time we sealed our stocks of refined fuel, we found out the organism had mutated and could metabolize crude as well.” Wrenn spread the fingers of both hands in a helpless gesture. “And it all stopped. The Alliance held on in Europe and Russia for as long as it could, evacuating what units could get to the ports, get aboard the nuclear-powered ships of the fleets. But there are still a lot of Soviet attack subs out there. Most of them nuclear, and immune to the Gas Bug.” Wrenn’s voice trailed off. He spoke by rote now.
“It has become common knowledge that with the collapse of the world’s governments, the seas no longer know any law. Captains of many vessels of many nations are no better than pirates now. They work together, or hunt one another down. Their loyalty to the nations that gave them their commands has been supplanted by loyalty to their crews. What the hell—who can blame them?”
“I can, Captain Wrenn,” Podgorny said quietly. “I am a career army officer. I have watched a similar deterioration of the Soviet land forces.” Podgorny went to his desk and poured himself a drink. “Soldiers often go bad. We even have something of a reputation for it. When our countries no longer need us, we sometimes have turned to mercenaries, even bandits. But navies… navies have stood for something different since the Battle of Salamis.” Podgorny tossed down his drink, poured another. “You have my sympathy.”
Podgorny crossed the room, handed the glass to Wrenn. “Go on, please, Captain. About Zimyanski, if you will.”
Wrenn took the glass, did not drink. “My unit was ordered to pull back to an Alliance air evacuation point near Kiev.” Rostov’s grip on his rifle tightened slightly, but Wrenn didn’t seem to notice. “Halfway there, we ran into Zimyanski and his men, foraging in the ruins of a small village. The townspeople were all dead, but we didn’t put two and two together until afterward. Zimyanski approached my unit, asking us for help in defecting.” Wrenn’s tone had become cautious, but if he expected a protest of Zimyanski’s patriotism, he was disappointed. These men all knew the black marketeer too well. “Before we could reach the evac point, one of your armored columns overran us with those new steam-powered light tanks. Not much good against real armor, but of course, we didn’t have any real armor by then. The Gas Bug had taken care of that.”
“But your tanks are turbine-powered, yes?” Blaustein asked, almost hopeful.
“True. So we run—ran—them on high-octane aviation fuels. The Gas Bug microorganism ruins fuel so fast that I’ve seen tanks with sealed fuel compartments come to dead stops right in the middle of battles. The Gas Bug metabolizes so fast, you can see it eating the fuel, for chrissakes.” Wrenn put the drink down, reached into his pockets, frowned. Podgorny handed him a paper-filtered Russian cigarette. “Anyway, the minute Zimyanski saw the tide turn, he and his gang engaged my largely unarmed staff in a ‘pitched battle.’ My men were slaughtered and I was ‘heroically’ captured in fierce hand-to-hand fighting.”
Rostov shook his head in disgust. “That is Zimyanski exactly.”
“It would seem, though, that I was a problem for Zimyanski. The armored unit was KGB, not regular army. The commander was a General Morevno. He made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t going to make Zimyanski a hero of the Soviet Union for bringing me in. Not once he found out what my duties were.”
Podgorny shook his head. “Not likely. Zimyanski has long had a reputation as a black marketeer, living at the whim of the KGB. He has been tolerated because he keeps tabs on what few cohesive units are left amid the chaos; he even lends a crude sense of order to the whole farce we have been playing for the past few months, that things are bad, but really no different from before. But his presence in a unit like yours with a man of your duties would not be regarded as serendipitous.”
Wrenn nodded. “Which puts me right back where I started. And brings up the most important question I have: where does it put you, Colonel Podgorny?”
Podgorny walked slowly back to his desk, his arms folded, his head bowed in concentration. “Normally, Captain Wrenn, I would have to surrender you to my superior officer. But, as he is now KGB, I refuse to do that.” Podgorny gave the American a wintry smile. “Professional animosities, you see. From a full regiment, my command has shrunk to a company, and that is very closely watched, reporting as we do directly to a provisionalcommander in Moscow.”
“Which commander would have us all shot dead for having harbored an enemy invader. An American at that,” Rostov added.
Podgorny shook his head. “Captain Wrenn, United States Naval Intelligence. God save us, you might as well be CIA.” The colonel almost hissed the initials.
“Zimyanski traded you for petrol,” Rostov said, “no doubt to escape from the Moscow area in some stolen staff car. It’s doubtful he’ll make it, but then, he has made many friends over the past few years. He probably wanted us to have you because we’re the only unit that would look more suspicious with you in our custody than he would. If we tried to link you to him, he could make up any story he liked.”
Wrenn frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand; what’s so special about your unit?”
“We are Soviet Combat Engineers, Captain Wrenn,” Podgorny said quietly. “And whatever else you might think of us, that means the best. We enjoy the status of elites in the armed forces, which instantly makes us suspect in the eyes of the KGB, who now rule the U.S.S.R. Our only preservation is the fact that we alone have the access and expertise necessary for the formulation of immunizers against Binary Biological Agent Yo-Devyatnatsat.”
“The Gas Bug,” Wrenn said. Podgorny nodded. “Colonel, why do I get the feeling that you’re about to say something else to me?”
Rostov pointed his rifle at the tent overhead and pulled the trigger. There was only a flat click. Podgorny looked at Wrenn. “Perhaps you are psychic, Captain Wrenn. We take such things very seriously here in Russia. My officers and I have been discussing this possibility for many months; since the KGB takeover and the purges began. We have been awaiting only an opportunity. You are that opportunity. We wish to defect to the Alliance.”
“It all seems a rather interesting coincidence, my coming here,” Wrenn said quietly. He downed the drink Podgorny had poured for him earlier.
Across the room, Surgeon Blaustein spoke quietly: “Coincidence is God being anonymous.”
Wrenn spent the next several hours meeting with the remaining tekniks. None of them dissented with Podgorny’s decision. More important, none seemed to be KGB plants. All were of the opinion that the KGB decision to loose the Gas Bug on the world was a major catastrophe, one which might reduce the world to a barbarism in which neither the Soviet Union nor the nations of the Alliance would survive. And every one of them wanted to know from this American, this enemy in their midst, if the Legend of Kiev were indeed true. To such questions, Wrenn demurred. No point in fanning those flames right now. Interestingly, he found the only man not interested in the rumor was Lieutenant Rostov.
By the time he had met and briefed all the Russian combat engineer troops, it was late night. Weary, Wrenn accompanied Rostov back to the command tent. Despite his fatigue, Wrenn was intrigued by the young officer. He seemed to have no enthusiasm for what was about to happen, but neither did he resent it. He did not move like the automaton his attitude might suggest. He performed his duties very well, and was highly re
spected and well liked by the men in his command. He just didn’t seem to give a damn about anything.
Wrenn watched as Rostov set up a cot for their guest. The young Russian’s motions were precise, correct; automatic. His conduct toward Wrenn had been likewise, along with his execution of his duties during this first day of planning for the operation. Still, Wrenn felt more comfortable when these things were motivated more through enthusiasm than obedience.
Rostov finished making up the cot, turned, and saluted, preparing to leave. Wrenn held a piece of paper out to him. Frowning, Rostov took it and turned it over. It was a photograph of Wrenn, his wife and son. The boy looked about eleven years old. The background was some castle Rostov judged to be Bavarian.
“Your family,” Rostov said. “This is your first son?”
“My only child. He’d be almost fifteen, now.” Wrenn lit another of Podgorny’s Russian cigarettes, took back the photo. “You have children of your own?”
Rostov shook his head. He made no motion of leaving, but Wrenn sensed he was uncomfortable. “I only ask because I see you have a wedding ring. I didn’t mean to pry.”
The young Russian grinned. “Of course you meant to pry. But it’s all right.” The grin faded. “Now you want to know when I saw my wife last, and I will ask you the same, and we will talk, have a little vodka, and our tongues will wag a bit more, and as a skillful interrogator, you will find out everything about me you wish to know. And through me, you will find out everything I know about our unit, eh?” Rostov picked up his rifle, slung it over his shoulder. “I will save you some time, Captain Wrenn. There is nothing to know about me. And everything there is to know about the unit can be seen by taking a look around, or even in the simple fact that we are defecting with you en masse to the west. To that end, I will aid you to the limits of my capacities, Captain.” He went to the door in the tent frame, not turning as he finished: “But my self, I keep to myself.”
Wrenn waited a few minutes, then stepped outside. The night held stars, but no moon yet. The camp around him was quiet, but like any military unit on bivouac, did not really sleep. Two troopers on guard looked at him in open curiosity as they passed by on their rounds. One nodded, smiled. Wrenn smiled back. He heard someone in the compound cursing some piece of equipment; farther away was a sputtering sound Wrenn guessed to be an arc welder. Life went on, he thought. Or to be more accurate, survival continued.
Wrenn doubted that he could much improve the quality of that survival for these men by getting them to what might be only imagined safety in the West. But at least they would be beyond the reach of the KGB. That was certainly worth something.
“Good evening, Captain Wrenn.” The large noncom, Zorin, saluted as he approached from the direction of the mess tent. He carried two steaming mugs of tea with the finger and thumb of one of his large hands. Wrenn took one when offered, thanked the man.
“I am checking the guard for the first watch. I thought I would check to be sure you were comfortable.”
“Yes, thank you, Sergeant. Lieutenant Rostov saw to my quarters a few minutes ago.”
Zorin nodded, satisfied. “Very good, sir. Is there anything else?”
Wrenn sensed Zorin had the gift common to sergeants the world over; the ability to perceive an officer’s desires without directly being told. He nodded. “If you don’t feel it a breach of command, Sergeant, I’d like to know a little about Lieutenant Rostov.”
Zorin shrugged. “He is my lieutenant, sir. Is there some problem?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me. I seem to rub him the wrong way. I’m not so sensitive to care one way or the other about being liked; but Lieutenant Rostov and I will have to work pretty closely if this thing is going to work, and if he has a problem with that, I think I should know about it for the good of everyone.”
Zorin nodded, took a sip of tea. When he spoke, it sounded the way Wrenn might imagine Zorin to be telling his children a sad old Russian fairy tale. “Lieutenant Rostov was married, Captain Wrenn. If the type appeals to you, you could say she was a great beauty. Certainly Rostov thought so. But Lilia Rostov was also an officer, a lieutenant in the Seventy-third Mechanized Artillery division. After the Soviet offensives had ended, when the U.S.S.R. had gone on the defensive against your avenging Alliance, Lieutenant Rostov’s unit was one of those charged with the defense of Kiev. They were attached to the Third Army, Group of Soviet Forces, formerly stationed in East Germany.”
Wrenn recognized the units Zorin mentioned. “The main armored concentrations of the Soviet Army in Europe. The ones…”
Zorin nodded. “The ones that tried to desert to the West in a massive surrender. The government called it the single greatest betrayal in Russia’s history. The KGB used it as an example that the army could not be trusted, murdered the general staff and took over command of the country’s defense. And brought about what has come to be known as the ‘Legend of Kiev’ among the Russian people.”
Wrenn was quiet, and Zorin looked directly at him. “You may have heard of this legend, Captain. It goes this way: Our own leaders, KGB though they were, targeted nuclear missiles on the GSPG and the city of Kiev, and launched them in a punitive strike. And your Alliance allowed it to happen. Your highly sophisticated and very effective Star Shield defense network, which had so efficiently protected your own homeland, and those of your Allies, turned its back on people who looked to you as saviors, even deliverers.” Zorin waited a moment, then lit a cigarette. “But, of course, it’s just a legend. These things get twisted around in the retelling.
“Anyway, whether Rostov’s wife was a willing participant in that defection or not, she undoubtedly died with the rest. Personally, I doubt that Lilia Rostov would have done anything that separated her from Aleksei Aleksandrovitch. Christus, I’ve never seen two people so loved by each other. I met her, once, before her unit left for Kiev. Lieutenant Rostov insisted upon it. I didn’t care much for her looks, but there was something about the two of them. Like neither was complete without the other, if you take my meaning.” Zorin finished the stubby cigarette and ground it under his heel.
“So Rostov blames the Alliance in general and Americans in particular for his wife’s death?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Not really. You and I got to see a bit of the world before it got torn up. The lieutenant is at least ten years younger than either of us. He’s twenty-six. He’s a widower who can’t admit his wife is gone; he still wears his wedding ring on his left hand. He’s a soldier on the losing side who’s smart enough to know it’s losing because it started the whole mess. He’s had to become a dealer with black marketeers and a man who shoots his own countrymen at a moment’s notice. Now he’s about to become a man without a country. He doesn’t blame anybody, sir, not really. He’s just too many things at once.”
Wrenn was silent a moment. “For the record, Sergeant. I don’t know why the Soviet missiles targeted on Kiev weren’t shot down. Maybe the warning time wasn’t long enough. Most likely the people who saw it didn’t believe what was happening until it was too late to do anything about it. And as for the efficiency of the Star Shield—well, we had over a hundred stations in orbit and twice that on the ground. If they had all survived the initial surprise attacks, there might have been no war at all. But quite a few Soviet missiles got through to our allies and our own homeland as well. Enough to make a great many widows. And widowers.”
Zorin listened closely at Wrenn’s tone, bitter, cold.
“Shall I tell you the rest of the Legend of Kiev, sir? I’d like to, because the rest is really my favorite part.”
“What do you mean?”
“The rest of the ‘Legend of Kiev’ says that even though the strike proved the KGB now in charge of Russia still had nuclear weapons, the Alliance refused to use their own such weapons against us, either in retaliation or even tactically. If that is true, especially in light of what you have just said, your people showed admirable restraint.” Zorin watched Wrenn
for a long time before he spoke again. “So. It is true. You did not strike back. You are a strange people, you Americans. You will fight back if attacked, you will kill, but only to survive. You will battle savagely to redress a wrong, but never to exact revenge.”
“Perhaps it’s because we are a young people, Sergeant. America is barely two hundred years old. Children ourselves, we know that bad children require chastisement, not execution.”
Zorin nodded. “And all mankind are yet children.”
At Wrenn’s suggestion, guards had been posted to prevent anyone from leaving the camp during the night and possibly informing any nearby KGB units of their situation. Colonel Podgoray was relieved when morning roll call showed all his troops present or accounted for.
But Wrenn could not be so easily pleased. Having all the men in agreement on the defection would be of great help, but the real problem was still how to get them all out of Russia to the Alliance territories in the West. If the Alliance even existed any longer.
Rostov was escorting him from the morning meal. Along the way they passed a gang of troopers clustered around a truck, some under the hood, some on the ground beneath the body, and a few onlookers making encouraging noises.
“What’s the problem?” Rostov asked one of the idlers.
“Transmission’s gone, sir. Myakov thinks he can fix it, but, well…” The man left little doubt as to his opinion of Myakov’s mechanical aptitude by giving a shrug and a doubtful scowl. He threw in a hand waggle for emphasis.
Rostov turned to Wrenn. “Every Russian considers himself a top flight mechanic, you know. They try to prove it at every opportunity.” He and Wrenn watched the men for a moment more before he shrugged and added, “Of course, in the Engineers, it happens to be true.”
Wrenn smiled. “Of course.” We Americans used to think of ourselves that way, he thought. When did we stop?
As they went through the camp, they took stock of the operational vehicles, counting seventeen altogether. The mix included personnel carriers, reconnaissance vehicles the size of American Hummers, fuel trucks, cargo carriers, an APC, and a light tank. Twenty more vehicles were judged beyond repair, even with cannibalizing parts from one another. Six of those were fuel trucks.
There Will Be War Volume VII Page 23