There Will Be War Volume VIII, page 17
He waved to the men waiting behind him. They were over the windowsill and into the room like shadows. Zorin remained outside to cover their entry, then followed.
Crossing the room, Zorin flattened himself to the wall beside the door. He could just see Aliyev and his men; they had reached the loading platform, and were moving into cover.
Khoroshiy, Zorin thought. Very good. In a moment Aliyev opened a door across the railbed and gave him the “clear” signal. They now controlled two buildings flanking the tracks and the loading platform. So if the town is occupied, where is the resistance?
“What now, Starshi Serzhant?” The private’s whisper was professional, not fearful; he sounded almost bored.
“More skulking, ryadovoi. If there are hostiles in the town and they haven’t hit us yet, then they will try to ambush the train. The best place to do that from would be the station house, where they could use the track controls to trap the locomotive between these buildings. Then they could deal with the train’s passengers as they wished.”
Zorin looked around at his soldier’s faces, looking for the man who might be too uneasy, might make the mistake that got them all killed; it was seldom the same man twice. Usually Zorin saw him, and would set up a rear guard. Sometimes not, and he could only trust his life and the lives of his men to the Blessed Virgin.
This time, they all looked fit, and it struck him that he couldn’t remember the last time one of them didn’t. Zorin noticed again how young most of them seemed, at least in years. “Let’s go.”
One of the men muttered something, an expression Zorin remembered hearing from the American Captain: “Another day, another dollar.”
Zorin knew exactly what it meant.
Rostov watched, Wrenn watched, and the train moved inexorably forward. Rostov decided that riding the minute hand of a watch would be faster.
“Still no movement in the town,” Wrenn said.
Rostov nodded. “After Zorin takes the station house, I will send in Corporal Dyatlov to reinforce.”
Wrenn grunted. “Dyatlov’s a good man. You should see about promoting him; Aliyev, too. That would give you some more noncoms to take some of the weight off Zorin.”
Rostov shook his head. “I am only a Lieutenant. Field promotion in time of war requires an officer of Major’s rank or above. In any case”—he lowered his glasses slightly and looked at Wrenn over the eyepieces—“I will be resigning my commission within a very few days, if all goes well, yes?”
Wrenn did not look back. “Yes. Let’s hope so.”
Rostov waited for some time to catch Wrenn’s eye, to read the American’s meaning in his face. But Wrenn had resumed watching the town through his own field glasses, and after a moment Rostov did the same.
In the town, Zorin’s forces had reached the station house. Zorin checked the door: unlocked. He turned the knob and threw the door open in one smooth motion. His man kneeling before it threw himself prone into the room, while the man behind him jumped over his comrade and dropped into a crouch, all before the swinging door had hit the wall.
The track control room appeared at first to be empty. Sunlight streamed in through the broad windows onto the panels of switches and track status lights. One chair was before the panel, and as he watched it, Zorin saw a wisp of vapor creep up from it.
“You,” Zorin said quietly, “turn that chair around. Slowly.” The white-haired reservist sitting in the chair obeyed, obviously terrified, revealing a steaming mug gripped in both hands.
“Do’svydanie,” the old man said quietly. “Would you fellows like some tea?”
Rostov grinned broadly at Wrenn. “Is he composed enough to speak to me, Sergeant Zorin?”
“I think so, sir.” There was a moment of silence before a breathless voice came over the radio to Rostov.
“Hello? This is Colonel Fedorin, Railway Security Forces, Suschenko Station… who is this, please?”
“Colonel Fedorin, this is Lieutenant Rostov, Fifth–” He stopped. Podgorny should be making this contact, he thought. This was his unit; all that was left of it. He had kept it alive long enough to get this far. “Fifth Guards Armored Engineers. Under Colonel Podgorny. We require materials and supplies from your repair depot if available, and any general maintenance you can provide.”
The reply was something like a shout. “Absolutely, Comrade Lieutenant! Anything, anything at all! Please bring your train up to the loading dock, I will get my men.”
“How many of you are there?” Rostov asked, signaling Gyrich to bring them into the town.
“Only five in our unit, Lieutenant. And about a hundred townspeople, mostly farmers and a few workers.”
“Very well, Colonel. We will be at the platform in”—he looked down at Gyrich, who held up four fingers—“four minutes. Sergeant Zorin.”
“Yes, Aleksei.”
“Continue your check of the buildings. I’m sending in Corporal Dyatlov’s unit to reinforce and secure.”
“Very well, sir. Zorin out.”
Rostov looked to the American. “More problems, sounds like. And civilians. Do we tell them what we’re about, I wonder? Then they might want to come with us.”
Wrenn seemed preoccupied. “What? Oh, the civilians. Yeah, they’re a consideration, all right. I don’t know what to tell you, Lieutenant.” Wrenn looked at him. “You’re in command.”
Rostov grimaced. “Too true.” He couldn’t read the American’s mind, and in any case he now had more important things to worry about. He went back to watching the image of Suschenko grow in his field glasses.
A colonel, Wrenn was thinking. Perfect.
The train rolled slowly into the town, wreathed in steam and the sweet machine smells of all locomotives. Rostov stood in the roof hatch, thinking that with the Gas Bug loose in the world, the smell of burning diesel was soon to become the rarest perfume on earth. In his childhood, he had been confused by his parents’ concern over exhaust fumes and their effect on the birch groves in and around the parks of Moscow.
There’s no concern of that now, Rostov thought. The birch groves, like his parents, were long gone. He prayed fervently that this Suschenko place might have sealed fuel stocks they could treat with their own supplies of Immunizer. Ah, God; only let us make a little more smog, if you would. Just a few hundred kilometers’ worth.
Despite Fedorin’s eager greeting, or perhaps because of it, Rostov was well aware that they could be riding into a trap. So his men aboard the train peered cautiously from windows broken and windows yet whole. Some stood on platforms between the cars, some knelt on the roofs, and some were positioned on the engine itself, watching the buildings slide by. All were armed, and all were nervous.
As for Rostov himself, standing in the waist-deep roof hatch, he felt like a tank commander in a Revolution Day parade, no less ludicrous and far more vulnerable. Even as he framed the thought, his eye caught furtive movement in a building ahead, and one of his men on the locomotive’s front raised a rifle.
“Nyet!” Rostov shouted. “Stoy! Hold your fire!”
Only fear for Rostov’s life had moved the soldier to such quick action, and only his loyalty to Rostov prevented a near tragedy. The man lowered his rifle, and Rostov’s shoulders sagged in relief. An old woman in clothes that were not quite rags was turning from a doorway where she tugged at something inside. She turned back to the train to favor Rostov with a wave and a toothless smile.
Finally the babushka succeeded in extricating a little girl from her hiding place in the doorway, and the old woman picked the child up and carried her to the platform.
At her grandparent’s urging, from her perch on the old woman’s arm, the child put out a hand and touched the dusty metal of the engine. Soot and grime coated her palm as the massive locomotive passed gently beneath it like a whale passing a swimmer.
While Wrenn maintained a watch from the roof hatch, where his alien uniform was mostly hidden, Rostov descended the ladder into the engineer’s cab, then stepped down onto the platform just as the train came to a stop. His gaze met that of the old woman, and he saw that the babushka’s eyes were filled with tears, her wrinkled face beaming in a smile of welcome.
“Hello, Grandmother,” Rostov said to reassure her. “You and your little one are safe, now. You came out to welcome us, eh?”
The woman began chattering in a thick Ukrainian dialect which left him hopelessly confused; then the child tugged at his sleeve, and bending to look at her, Rostov forgot everything else.
Olive complexion, deep brown eyes, hair with a sheen like the barguzin sables his uncle Yuri had once trapped for the State commissioner. If Lilia and I had had a child… Her resemblance to his wife was enough to make Rostov stifle an urge to cross himself. The child smiled at him, reaching out for his cap, and Rostov handed it to her on reflex. She seemed fascinated by the bright red star of the cap badge and its inlaid hammer and sickle of gold.
“You make friends easily, Lieutenant,” Wrenn called down to him in his flawless Russian. Rostov turned and grinned up at him, impulsively reaching into his tunic pocket and pulling out the snapshot.
“Comrade Captain, you wouldn’t believe this–” Rostov caught himself. He had been about to show Wrenn the picture of himself and Lilia in Leningrad. Why would I show such a thing to the American? he thought. “Well. It’s nothing. Just an interesting coincidence.” He pushed the photo deep into his pocket and retrieved his cap as Zorin approached him from behind.
“That’s our Aleksei, always the favorite of the ladies.” Rostov retrieved his cap and turned to see Sergeant Zorin approaching with five overage reservists, all unshaven, most still pulling on boots or buttoning tunics over their old-men’s chests. Rostov assumed that the most prepared-looking fellow in the lead must be Colonel Fedorin and saluted, not so smartly as to offend the older man’s pride.
“First Lieutenant Rostov, Fifth Guards Armored Division, Third Regiment, Combat Engineers.” He hesitated, unsure if his next words were for their benefit or his: “Colonel Ivan Podgorny commanding.”
Fedorin returned the salute with more enthusiasm than discipline. “Colonel Fedorin, Rail Security Forces, Suschenko.” Fedorin extended his hand impulsively, and Rostov found the breach of protocol oddly reassuring. “It is good to see a friendly face, Lieutenant.”
Rostov could guess the man’s meaning. “I understand, sir; we are not KGB.”
Fedorin nodded happily. “So I hoped when I first saw your Sergeant Zorin here and his men; that they did not shoot me first and interrogate me after… well, that was the giveaway.” He gestured over his shoulder to the station house behind him. “Perhaps we can continue this inside over some tea?”
Rostov’s fatigue had settled over him like a shroud; more than anything else, he simply wanted to get this charade over with. Podgorny’s last orders had been to get the men to safety in the West. To Rostov that now meant getting fuel, if they had any here, securing what supplies might be available, and getting the hell out of the ruins of the Soviet. But Colonel Fedorin seemed determined to drag this out.
Ah, what the hell… Everything else aside, while he hated the idea of deceiving this old fellow, Rostov was touched by Fedorin’s efforts to maintain some civility. The offer of tea was more than simple hospitality; it was a slap in the teeth to the destruction all around them, and Rostov suddenly realized he welcomed the opportunity to do just that.
Colonel Podgorny would have had me flogged if I refused. Besides, the world can fall apart, the KGB can drag the Rodina straight to hell; but I am still an officer of the Red Army. And I still have my manners. He smiled at Fedorin as he adjusted his cap and saluted once more.
“Of course, sir. A cup of tea would be very welcome, and thank you.”
“Captain Drachev! Message coming in!”
Yuri Drachev spat out a mouthful of cold tea and dashed the remnants from his tin cup to the ground. He tossed the empty container to the cook and broke into a trot toward the center of his unit’s bivouac.
Drachev had begun deploying his vehicles like an open-sea convoy when they encamped for the night. In a real war, such deployment would have been laughable, even suicidal against air attacks or sappers with antitank missiles. But the real war had been over for some time now, and Drachev had adapted. Air attacks were a dim memory, antitank missiles were rare, and the threat now came from bandits and raiders with firebombs and knives. And the Devil take any politically reliable ass-kisser who claimed differently.
Drachev passed through the outside perimeter of tank support troops and their BMP armored personnel carriers, all deployed so as to protect his precious LT-200 light tanks. The very center of the camp was reserved for the supply trucks and the communications wagon, their link with Novaya Moskva and the other intact units that remained under its command.
Drachev pulled himself up into the back of the cramped van and closed the door behind him. The communications officer didn’t hear him through his headphones, and Drachev slapped him on the shoulder in greeting. “Source, Piotr?”
“PRG One, Captain. Currently in Moscow.”
Drachev grunted. “The KGB is back in Moscow? They are either being very aggressive or very stupid.” He put on a headset and adjusted the microphone.
Piotr shrugged. “Who knows, sir; perhaps we’ve won the war.”
Drachev gave him a look that accepted the jest without approving of it, then clicked the contact button several times before giving the recognition code names.
“‘Dacha,’ this is ‘Kolinsky,’ come in.”
Dacha responded after the brief delay of a satellite link. “We read you, Kolinsky. Scramble signals and stand by for new orders.”
A moment later, Steinmann’s familiar voice was on the line. “Captain Drachev, this is Steinmann. How are you?”
“We are well, thank you, sir. The unit is fit, all vehicles operational, supply levels sufficient for the remainder of our patrol period.” He didn’t mention that they were still without a political officer. The last one had been killed in a bandit raid a month ago. Drachev had duly reported the casualty, then said no more, wanting to prolong the bliss of life without a Commissar for as long as possible.
“Good. Captain Drachev, your unit is hereby remanded to a new operations officer, code-named ‘Revenant.’ Confirm, please.”
‘‘Kolinsky now an asset for Revenant, confirmed. Standing by.” God save us, can’t we get this nonsense over with? Just give us the damned mission. Probably some half-assed squirrel chase after another pack of counterrevolutionary* nationalists, anyway.*
“Kolinsky, this is Revenant.” The new control’s voice came over the link, and Drachev didn’t like him already. If snakes could talk… he thought.
“Kolinsky, your unit is to search the following areas for any unauthorized rail activity on intact lines. Details follow.”
Unauthorized rail activity? Drachev decided that Revenant was either a total madman or yet another trick to test their loyalty. He finished a deep sigh before replying.
“Understood, Revenant,” Drachev said, gesturing impatiently to Piotr for a map. “Standing by for deployment orders.” As Revenant gave him coordinates, Drachev picked up a grease pencil and drew circles around various small towns on the map. Bodii, Yemadzoy, Viluk, Suschenko…
What a farce, Drachev thought, catching Piotr’s eye as he made the marks.
The young lieutenant grinned, shaking his head.
Back in Moscow, Major Grishin waited until Serafimov was about to terminate communications with Drachev’s force. Steinmann was leaning against the wall, studying Serafimov’s deployment notes on his own map of “Kolinsky’s” operations zone. He looked up as Grishin addressed Serafimov.
“With all due respect, Colonel Serafimov, I believe it would be a mistake to assign Kolinsky to this operation.”
Serafimov’s tone was cool. “How so, Major?”
“Evidently you have not read the status reports on our patrol units in the field; I have. Kolinsky lost its political officer recently, and a new one has not yet been assigned.”
“Stand by, Kolinsky.” Serafimov turned to face Grishin. “And is that a problem?’’
Grishin’s smile was almost sad. “Colonel Serafimov, should Kolinsky make contact with these Army bandits and your stolen train—and frankly, I think this unlikely—what is to guarantee that, bereft of political guidance, they will not be tempted to defect as well?”
Serafimov seemed taken aback by the prospect, but attempted to conceal his shock. “Well—if a political officer is your only worry, Major, I am certainly capable of serving in that role. In fact, I would be willing to rendezvous with Kolinsky myself for that very purpose.”
Grishin cut him off. “Yes, Colonel; I have no doubt you would. But you, my friend, are still under suspicion for complicity in the loss of that train. And we have seen just how capable you are as a combat commander.”
Grishin turned to Steinmann, ignoring the now completely flustered Serafimov. “Major Steinmann, with your permission, I will rendezvous with Kolinsky and serve as pro tem political officer.” He turned back to Serafimov before the Colonel could get his bearings. “This way, Novaya Moskva may be assured of the reliability of at least one officer involved in this operation.”
Serafimov’s jaw clenched at the insult, but he said nothing.
Steinmann nodded. “Agreed. I will so inform Party Central during my next check-in. Colonel Serafimov, inform Kolinsky of Major Grishin’s assignment to their unit.”
“I’ll see to my things.” Grishin saluted Steinmann, unable to resist favoring Serafimov with a look of triumph as he left.
I cannot lose. If we find nothing, Serafimov looks like the fool that he is; if we find the train, I will receive credit for being the officer who apprehends the tekniks and the stolen materiel.
Grishin took his leave, satisfied that his star was in the ascendant.
Back in the van, Serafimov had suddenly regained his composure. He opened his operations folder and removed the current status report on Kolinsky, handing it to a Lieutenant to be returned to the files.
