by Tom Clancy
“And who might you be?” The old man was holding a rifle and had a decidedly gimlet eye.
“I am Captain Fedor Il’ych Aleksandrov, and I imagine you are Pavel Petrovich Gogol.”
A nod and a smile. “You like my furs, Comrade Captain?”
“They are unlike anything I have ever seen. We have to take these with us.”
“Take? Take where? I’m not going anywhere,” Pasha said.
“Comrade Gogol, I have my orders—to get you away from here. Those orders come from Headquarters Far East Command, and those orders will be obeyed, Pavel Petrovich.”
“No Chink is going to chase me off my land!” his old voice thundered.
“No, Comrade Gogol, but soldiers of the Russian Army will not leave you here to die. So, that is the rifle you killed Germans with?”
“Yes, many, many Germans,” Gogol confirmed.
“Then come with us, and maybe you can kill some yellow invaders.”
“Who exactly are you?”
“Reconnaissance company commander, Two-Six-Five Motor Rifle Division. We’ve been playing hide-and-seek with the Chinks for four long days, and now we’re ready to do some real fighting. Join us, Pavel Petrovich. You can probably teach us a few things we need to know.” The young handsome captain spoke in his most reasonable and respectful tones, for this old warrior truly deserved it. The tone turned the trick.
“You promise me I will get to take one shot?”
“My word as a Russian officer, comrade,” Aleksandrov pledged, with a bob of his head.
“Then I come.” Gogol was already dressed for it—the heat in his cabin was turned off. He shouldered his old rifle and an ammunition pack containing forty rounds—he’d never gone into the field with more than that—and walked to the door. “Help me with my wolves, boy, will you?”
“Gladly, Grandfather.” Then Aleksandrov found out how heavy they were. But he and Buikov managed to toss them inside their BRM, and the driver headed off.
“Where are they?”
“About ten kilometers back. We’ve been in visual contact with them for days, but they’ve pulled us back. Away from them.”
“Why?”
“To save you, you old fool,” Buikov observed with a laugh. “And to save these pelts. These are too good to drape over the body of some Chinese strumpet!”
“I think, Pasha—I am not sure,” the captain said, “but I think it’s time for our Chinese guests to get a proper Russian welcome.”
“Captain, look!” the driver called.
Aleksandrov lifted his head out the big top hatch and looked forward. A senior officer was waving to him to come forward more quickly. Three minutes later, they halted alongside him.
“You are Aleksandrov?”
“Yes, Comrade General!” the young man confirmed to the senior officer.
“I am General Sinyavskiy. You’ve done well, boy. Come out here and talk to me,” he ordered in a gruff voice that was not, however, unkind.
Aleksandrov had only once seen his senior commander, and then only at a distance. He was not a large man, but you didn’t want him as a physical enemy in a small room. He was chewing on a cigar that had gone out seemingly hours before, and his blue eyes blazed.
“Who is this?” Sinyavskiy demanded. Then his face changed. “Are you the famous Pasha?” he asked more respectfully.
“Senior Sergeant Gogol of the Iron and Steel Division,” the old man said with great dignity, and a salute which Sinyavskiy returned crisply.
“I understand you killed some Germans in your day. How many, Sergeant?”
“Count for yourself, Comrade General,” Gogol said, handing his rifle over.
“Damn,” the general observed, looking at the notches, like those on the pistol of some American cowboy. “I believe you really did it. But combat is a young man’s game, Pavel Petrovich. Let me get you to a place of safety.”
Gogol shook his head. “This captain promised me one shot, or I would not have left my home.”
“Is that a fact?” The commanding general of 265th Motor Rifle looked around. “Captain Aleksandrov, very well, we’ll give our old comrade his one shot.” He pointed to a place on the map before him. “This should be a good spot for you. And when you can, get him the hell away from there,” Sinyavskiy told the young man. “Head back this way to our lines. They’ll be expecting you. Boy, you’ve done a fine job shadowing them all the way up. Your reward will be to see how we greet the bastards.”
“Behind the reconnaissance element is a large force.”
“I know. I’ve been watching them on TV for a day and a half, but our American friends have cut off their supplies. And we will stop them, and we will stop them right here.”
Aleksandrov checked the map reference. It looked like a good spot with a good field of fire, and best of all, an excellent route to run away on. “How long?” he asked.
“Two hours, I should think. Their main body is catching up with the screen. Your first job is to make their screen vehicles disappear.”
“Yes, Comrade General, that we can do for you!” the captain responded with enthusiasm.
Sunrise found Marion Diggs in a strangely bizarre environment. Physically, the surroundings reminded him of Fort Carson, Colorado, with its rolling hills and patchy pine woods, but it was unlike America in its lack of paved roads or civilization, and that explained why the Chinese had invaded here. With little civilian population out here, there was no infrastructure or population base to provide for the area’s defense, and that had made things a lot easier for John Chinaman. Diggs didn’t mind it, either. It was like his experience in the Persian Gulf—no noncombatants to get in the way—and that was good.
But there were a lot of Chinese to get in the way. Mike Francisco’s First Brigade had debauched into the main logistics area for the Chinese advance. The ground was carpeted with trucks and soldiers, but while most of them were armed, few were organized into cohesive tactical units, and that made all the difference. Colonel Miguel Francisco’s brigade of four battalions had been organized for combat with the infantry and tank battalions integrated into unified battalion task groups of mixed tanks and Bradleys, and these were sweeping across the ground like a harvesting machine in Kansas in August. If it was painted green, it was shot.
The monstrous Abrams main-battle tanks moved over the rolling ground like creatures from Jurassic Park—alien, evil, and unstoppable, their gun turrets traversing left and right—but without firing their main guns. The real work was being done by the tank commanders and their M2 .50 machine guns, which could turn any truck into an immobile collection of steel and canvas. Just a short burst into the engine made sure that the pistons would never move again, and the cargo in the back would remain where it was, for inspection by intelligence officers, or destruction by explosives-carrying engineer troops who came behind the tanks in their HMMWVs. Some resistance was offered by the Chinese soldiers, but only by the dumb ones, and never for long. Even those with man-portable anti-tank weapons rarely got close enough to use them, and those few who popped up from Wolfholes only scratched the paint on the tanks, and usually paid for their foolishness with their lives. At one point, a battalion of infantry did launch a deliberate attack, supported by mortars that forced the tank and Bradley crews to button up and reply with organized fire. Five minutes of 155-mm fire and a remorseless advance by the Bradleys, spitting fire from their chain guns and through the firing ports for the mounted infantry inside, made them look like fire-breathing dragons, and these dragons were not a sign of good luck for the Chinese soldiers. That battalion evaporated in twenty minutes, along with its dedicated but doomed commander.
Intact enemy armored vehicles were rarely seen by the advancing First Brigade. Where it went, Apache attack helicopters had gone before, looking for targets for their Hellfire missiles, and killing them before the ground troops could get close. All in all, it was a perfect military operation, totally unfair in the balance of forces. It wasn’t the least
bit sporting, but a battlefield is not an Olympic stadium, and there were no uniformed officials to guard the supposed rules of fair play.
The only exciting thing was the appearance of a Chinese army helicopter, and two Apaches blazed after it and destroyed it with air-to-air missiles, dropping it in the Amur River close to the floating bridges, which were now empty of traffic but not yet destroyed.
What have you learned, Wei?” Marshal Luo asked, when he emerged from the conference room he’d used for his nap.
“The picture is still unclear in some respects, Comrade Minister,” the general answered.
“Then tell me what is clear,” Luo ordered.
“Very well. At sea, we have lost a number of ships. This evidently includes our ballistic missile submarine and its escorting hunter submarine, cause unknown, but their emergency beacons deployed and transmitted their programmed messages starting at about zero-two-hundred hours. Also lost are seven surface warships of various types from our South Sea Fleet. Also, seven fleet bases were attacked by American aircraft, believed to be naval carrier aircraft, along with a number of surface-to-air missile and radar sites on the southeastern coast. We’ve succeeded in shooting down a number of American aircraft, but in a large fighter battle, we took serious losses to our fighter regiments in that region.”
“Is the American navy attacking us?” Luo asked.
“It appears that they are, yes,” General Wei answered, choosing his words with care. “We estimate four of their aircraft carriers, judging by the number of aircraft involved. As I said, reports are that we handled them roughly, but our losses were severe as well.”
“What are their intentions?” the minister asked.
“Unclear. They’ve done serious damage to a number of bases, and I doubt we have a single surface ship surviving at sea. Our navy personnel have not had a good day,” Wei concluded. “But that is not really a matter of importance.”
“The attack on the missile submarine is,” Luo replied. “That is an attack on a strategic asset. That is something we must consider.” He paused. “Go on, what else?”
“General Qi of Sixty-fifth Army is missing and presumed dead, along with all of his senior staff. We’ve made repeated attempts to raise him by radio, with no result. The 191st Infantry Division was attacked last night by heavy forces of unknown identity. They sustained heavy losses due to artillery and aircraft, but two of their regiments report that they are holding their positions. The 735th Guards Infantry Regiment evidently took the brunt of the attack, and reports from there are fragmentary.
“The most serious news is from Harbin and Bei’an. Enemy aircraft attacked all of the railroad bridges in both cities, and all of them took damage. Rail traffic north has been interrupted. We’re trying now to determine how quickly it might be reestablished.”
“Is there any good news?” Marshal Luo asked.
“Yes, Comrade Minister. General Peng and his forces are getting ready now to resume their attack. We expect to have the Russian goldfield in our control by midday,” Wei answered, inwardly glad that he didn’t have to say what had happened to the logistical train behind Peng and his 34th Shock Army. Too much bad news could get the messenger killed, and he was the messenger.
“I want to talk to Peng. Get him on the phone,” Luo ordered.
“Telephone lines have been interrupted briefly, but we do have radio contact with him,” Wei told his superior.
“Then get me Peng on the radio,” Luo repeated his order.
What is it, Wa?” Peng asked. Couldn’t he even take a piss without interruption?
“Radio, it’s the Defense Minister,” his operations officer told him.
“Wonderful,” the general groused, heading back to his command track as he buttoned his fly. He ducked to get inside and lifted the microphone. “This is General Peng.”
“This is Marshal Luo. What is your situation?” the voice asked through the static.
“Comrade Marshal, we will be setting off in ten minutes. We have still not made contact with the enemy, and our reconnaissance has seen no sizable enemy formations in our area. Have you developed any intelligence we can use?”
“Be advised we have aerial photography of Russian mechanized units to your west, probably division strength. I would advise you to keep your mechanized forces together, and guard your left flank.”
“Yes, Comrade Marshal, I am doing that,” Peng assured him. The real reason he stopped every day was to allow his divisions to close up, keeping his fist tight. Better yet, 29th Type A Group Army was right behind his if he needed support. “I recommend that 43rd Army be tasked to Hank guard.”
“I will give the order,” Luo promised. “How far will you go today?”
“Comrade Marshal, I will send a truckload of gold back to you this very evening. Question: What is this I’ve heard about damage to our line of supply?”
“There was an attack last night on some railroad bridges in Harbin and Bei’an, but nothing we can’t fix.”
“Very well. Comrade Marshal, I must see to my dispositions.”
“Carry on, then. Out.”
Peng set the microphone back in its holder. “Nothing he can’t fix, he says.”
“You know what those bridges are like. You’d need a nuclear weapon to hurt them,” Colonel Wa Cheng-Gong observed confidently.
“Yes, I would agree with that.” Peng stood, buttoned his tunic, and reached for a mug of morning tea. “Tell the advance guard to prepare to move out. I’m going up front this morning, Wa. I want to see this gold mine for myself.”
“How far up front?” the operations officer asked.
“With the lead elements. A good officer leads from the front, and I want to see how our people move. Our reconnaissance screen hasn’t detected anything, has it?”
“Well, no, Comrade General, but—”
“But what?” Peng demanded.
“But a prudent commander leaves leading to lieutenants and captains,” Wa pointed out.
“Wa, sometimes you talk like an old woman,” Peng chided.
There,” Yefremov said. ”They took the bait.”
It was just after midnight in Moscow, and the embassy of the People’s Republic of China had most of its lights off, but not all; more to the point, three windows had their lights on, and their shades fully open, and they were all in a row. It was just as perfect as what the Americans called a “sting” operation. He’d stood over Suvorov’s shoulder as he’d typed the message: I have the pieces in place now. I have the pieces in place now. If you wish for me to carry out the operation, leave three windows in a row with the lights on and the windows fully open. Yefremov had even had a television camera record the event, down to the point where the traitor Suvarov had tapped the ENTER key to send the letter to his Chink controller. And he’d gotten a TV news crew to record the event as well, because the Russian people seemed to trust the semi-independent media more than their government now, for some reason or other. Good, now they had proof positive that the Chinese government was conspiring to kill President Grushavoy. That would play well in the international press. And it wasn’t an accident. The windows all belonged to the Chief of Mission in the PRC embassy, and he was, right now, asleep in his bed. They’d made sure of that by calling him on the phone ten minutes earlier.
“So, what do we do now?”
“We tell the President, and then, I expect, we tell the TV newspeople. And we probably spare Suvarov’s life. I hope he likes it in the labor camp.”
“What about the killings?”
Yefremov shrugged. “He only killed a pimp and a whore. No great loss, is it?”
Senior Lieutenant Komanov had not exactly enjoyed his last four days, but at least they’d been spent profitably, training his men to shoot. The reservists, now known as BOYAR FORCE, had spent them doing gunnery, and they’d fired four basic loads of shells over that time, more than any of them had ever shot on active duty, but the Never Depot had been well stocked with shells. Officer
s assigned to the formation by Far East Command told them that the Americans had moved by to their south the previous day, and that their mission was to slide north of them, and do it today. Only thirty kilometers stood between them and the Chinese, and he and his men were ready to pay them a visit. The throaty rumble of his own diesel engine was answered by the thunder of two hundred others, and BOYAR started moving northeast through the hills.
Peng and his command section raced forward, calling ahead on their radios to clear the way, and the military-police troops doing traffic control waved them through. Soon they reached the command section of the 302nd Armored, his leading “fist” formation, commanded by Major General Ge Li, a squat officer whose incipient corpulence made him look rather like one of his tanks.
“Are you ready, Ge?” Peng asked. The man was well-named for his task. “Ge” had the primary meaning of “spear.”
“We are ready,” the tanker replied. “My leading regiments are turning over and straining at the leash.”
“Well, shall we observe from the front together?”
“Yes!” Ge jumped aboard his own command tank—he preferred this to a personnel carrier, despite the poorer radios, and led the way forward. Peng immediately established a direct radio connection with his subordinate.
“How far to the front?”
“Three kilometers. The reconnaissance people are moving now, and they are another two kilometers ahead.”
“Lead on, Ge,” Peng urged. “I want to see that gold mine.”
It was a good spot, Aleksandrov thought, unless the enemy got his artillery set up sooner than expected, and he hadn’t seen or heard Chinese artillery yet. He was on the fairly steep reverse side of an open slope that faced south, rather like a lengthy ramp, perhaps three kilometers in length, not unlike a practice shooting range at a regimental base. The sun was starting to crest the eastern horizon, and they could see now, which always made soldiers happy. Pasha had stolen a spare coat and laid his rifle across it, standing in the open top hatch of the BRM, looking through the telescopic sight of his rifle.