Ralph Peters (51 page)

"
Merry,
"
Taylor said,
"
I want you to call up our Russian friends. Get Kozlov. Or, better yet, go straight to old Ivanov. Ask them ... ask them if they would please send a detail out to the staging area. See if there's anything . . . see if . . . damn it, you know what I mean.
"

The bodies. Anything identifiable. To bury in their native soil.

"
Yes, sir,
"
Meredith said.

"
Parker?
"

"
Yes, sir?
"
the assistant S-3 replied.

"
What's your first name?
"

"
Horace, sir.
"

"
No. I mean, what do people call you?
"

"
Hank.
"

"
Okay, Hank. While Merry's calling our Russian brethren, you can start reprogramming our route. Just get us to the AA Silver as quickly as possible. Head straight for Orsk.
"

"
Do you think they're lying?
"
General Ivanov asked.

"
No, sir,
"
Kozlov said.
"
The picture's still a bit muddy—
we've got so many gaps in our coverage—but it's evident that the Iranians think they've just been struck by the wrath of God. Their communications discipline has fallen apart completely, and they're cursing the Japanese for all they're worth.
"
Kozlov touched a dead tooth with his tongue.
"
It almost sounds as though the Japanese are going to have a mutiny on their hands. If they can't manage to pull things back together in short order.
"

"
And the Japanese themselves?
"

"
Harder to tell.
"

General Ivanov paced across the room. He stopped in front of a wall that bore cheaply framed prints of the heroes of Russia's bygone wars with Islam in the Caucasus and Central Asia. Suvorov, Yermolov, Paskevich, and half a dozen others. Kozlov could feel a deep sadness in the general as his illustrious predecessors confronted him with his failures from a remove of two centuries.

"
Incredible,
"
Ivanov said, turning back to Kozlov.
"
Simply incredible. Even if the Americans are exaggerating the numbers twice over. It's virtually unthinkable.
"

"
It provides us with a real opportunity,
"
Kozlov said. Ivanov lowered his eyebrows. The expression on the general's face did not make sense to Kozlov under the circumstances.

"
I mean, in order to mount local counterattacks, sir,
"
Kozlov continued.
"
To stabilize the lines. And then—well, who knows? If the Americans have really—
"

"
Stop talking nonsense, Kozlov.
"

A diseased tooth telegraphed a message of startling pain throughout Kozlov's jaw.

"
There are things of which you know nothing,
"
General Ivanov said bluntly.
"
The situation is more complex than you imagine. I want you to get the staff moving. Draw up hasty plans that specify the maximum troop dispersion that the integrity of the defense will permit. And don't waste a minute. Send out preliminary orders immediately.
"

"
But...
we promised the Americans that we'd support them, that we would attack
...
"

"
The situation does not permit it.
"

"
But—
"

The Americans were having a splendid day, covering themselves in glory. Their only setback appeared to be a minor air strike on the tail end of their support establishment out at the industrial complex. But, for Kozlov, things were going from bad to worse. There were rumors of extraordinary KGB activities in Moscow, including a wave of arrests without precedent since the long period of turmoil in the wake of the Gorbachev era. The security services had already run out of control in the rear of the combat zone, executing
"
traitors,
"
while the front collapsed into ever greater chaos. Now, on top of everything else, it appeared that there was a significant secret about which he knew nothing. He had served with Ivanov since their days together in Baku, in the reoccupation army, and it stunned him to be so little trusted. He realized that the secret must be a very important one indeed.

His teeth ached unmercifully. He worried that he would have to have them removed. All of them.

"
Comrade General,
"
Kozlov began again,
"
can you please tell me what's going on? How can I direct the staff? How can I plan effectively when I don't know what's happening?
"

Ivanov had turned away again, positioning himself before the lithograph of Suvorov's old greyhound face.
"
Simply do as you're told, Viktor Sergeyevich. Disperse our forces to the maximum extent compatible with the maintenance of the defense and unit integrity.
"

What defense? The little islands of half-frozen units stranded on the steppes, unsure of which way to point their empty weapons? And what unit integrity? The fantasies of the wall charts in headquarters where the latest information was three battles old? The true unit designators of regiments and divisions that had been slaughtered, forgotten by everyone but God and a few obscure staff officers?

The lessons of Russian history were clear to Kozlov. When the heavens were collapsing overhead, the only thing left to do was to counterattack. With bayonets. With stones and fists, if necessary. The Americans had shown them the way. And now it appeared that it was all for nothing.

"
There is little time,
"
Ivanov said, with despair suddenly evident in his voice.

"
Yes, sir,
"
Kozlov responded. He turned to leave and carry out the general's order.

"
Viktor Sergeyevich?
"
Ivanov called out after his subordinate. The practiced severity of his voice relented slightly, reminding Kozlov of better days when they had served together under clear blue skies.
"
Don't be too impatient with me. You'll understand soon enough. Too soon, perhaps.
"
The general moved wearily toward the plush chair behind his oversize desk. But he did not sit down. Instead, he braced himself with an old man's hand on the back of the chair and stared past the younger officer.

"
You see, it's like a game,
"
Ivanov said,
"
in which we are now merely interested spectators. First, the Japanese underestimated the Americans. And now the Americans are terribly underestimating the Japanese.
"

18

3 November 2020

Scrambled eggs. Pale, overcooked, then left sitting
too long on a serving tray, they were by no means the finest scrambled eggs Ryder had ever encountered. Liberally dusted with salt and pepper, they tasted of little more than pepper and salt. Further tormented with several hearty splats of the Louisiana Hot Sauce one of Ryder's fellow warrant officers carried with him everywhere in the world, the eggs finally took on a hint of flavor reminiscent of the dehydrated atrocities served up on maneuvers. The portion was meager, the texture resilient, and Ryder had to remove a short black hair from the margarine-colored clump. These were, at best, imperfect scrambled eggs. But Ryder was wordlessly grateful for them, just as he was grateful for the woman.

Breakfast in the threadbare Moscow hotel was always unpredictable in its details. The detachment of staff personnel from the Tenth Cavalry, waiting grumpily in their civilian clothes, received whatever happened to be available on that particular day in the capital of all the Russias. There was always bread-—occasionally stale—or a bit of pastry dripping with weary cream. Sometimes cheese appeared, or even carefully apportioned slivers of ham. On days when the inadequacies of the system decided to assert themselves, the yawning waiters presented formless, nameless, sickness-scented constructions few of the Americans were brave enough or sufficiently hungry to eat.

Once, shredded cardboard fish in gelatin had been lurking in wait for the early risers—the waiters had been uncharacteristically animated, insisting that the fish was a great delicacy. The sole saving grace of the meal was the scalding gray coffee, which, blessedly, never seemed to run out.

And so, presented with this sudden gift of scrambled eggs, delivered straight from heaven with only the briefest of layovers in the Russian countryside, Ryder felt as though his life had accelerated into a realm of fresh possibilities, as though Christmas had come unexpectedly early along with this withered mound of cholesterol.

The woman was primarily responsible for this bloom of optimism, of course. The eggs were merely a gracious answer to the real physical appetite his night with Valya had excited in him. He could not remember the last time he had been this hungry, and despite the little sleep he had managed, he did everything with alacrity, whether spreading the slightly rancid butter on his bread, drinking the burning coffee, or thinking about the future.

He would see her again. In the sweat-stale morning she had jarred him by bolting from the bed, jabbering in Russian. He had finally reached the stout fortress walls of real sleep, and the first moments of waking had an aura of madness about them. Torn away from him, the girl spit words into the darkness as she noisily tried to find her way. The brain behind his forehead had gone to lead. He turned on the bedside lamp and saw Valya wrestling her slip down over her head and shoulders. It looked as if a white silken animal were attacking her. The instant froze in his memory—the still visible breasts suggesting themselves from the thin chest, the flat white belly, and the trove of low hair glinting like sprung copper wires. Patches of glaze topped her thighs. Then the white cloth fell down like a curtain, and the eyes of a smart animal took his measure.

"
I'm late,
"
she told him, speaking English.

"
What?
"

"
I'm late. It's terrible. I must go.
"

"
What? Go where? What's the matter?
"

With an unbroken series of movements, she scooped up her stockings, turned about, and dropped her bottom on the side of the bed, then leaned back and kissed him over her shoulder. It was the kind of noisy, quick kiss offered a child. She leaned forward and began working her panty hose over her toes.

"
But I have told you. I am a schoolteacher. I must go to the class.
"

"
Valya,
"
he said, trying the name in the light.
"
Valya . . .
"
He reached out toward her, capturing the paucity of a breast in his hand.

She offered him a little moan, half sex and half impatience.

"
But you must understand,
"
she said, going about the merciless business of dressing as she spoke,
"
even if I want to stay, I must go. For the children.
"

He trailed his hand downward from the breast he had kissed raw, tracing her frailness beneath the fabric.
"
Valya ... I'm glad about what happened last night.
"
She looked at him quizzically, panty hose stalled below her knees.

"
I mean,
"
he went on,
"
I'm glad you stayed. That you
stayed with me.
"

"
Oh, yes,
"
she said.
"
Everything is nice.
"
And she bounced to her feet to draw the hose over her slender thighs. Her slip rose on the back of her hands, and he wanted terribly to pull her back down, to lift the fabric a little higher still and to plunge back inside her, without the least further preparation. He felt as though he wanted her more fiercely now than he had at any time during the night, when he had only to turn her to him and briefly warn her with his hand.

"
Can I see you again?
"
he asked carefully.
"
Will you have dinner with me again tonight?
"

She looked at him as though he had surprised her utterly. Then she smiled: