There Will Be War Volume VIII, page 19
“Colonel Fedorin?”
He turned his chair around, his smile fading at the unfamiliar voice, then disappearing at the sight of an equally unfamiliar face. The man before him was thin, with dark brown hair and beard going to grey. His left arm was in a sling, and his left hand was completely bandaged. Despite his own bloodthirsty maunderings, Fedorin could not help but be a little afraid. The stranger wore no badges of rank, but carried himself like an officer.
“Da, I am Fedorin… eh–”
The man held up his good hand. “Excuse me, Colonel. We have not yet had the opportunity to meet. I am not officially a member of Lieutenant Rostov’s unit. I was picked up by his men outside of Moscow. I am Leytenant-Kapitan Renko.” Wrenn paused a moment, then added, “GRU,” in what he hoped was a sufficiently ominous tone. In any nation’s military intelligence branches, ranks were meaningless. A man from the GRU, Soviet military intelligence, could thus be a General for all outsiders knew.
Fedorin was both puzzled and delighted. “But, I thought; that is, the rumor was that the GRU…”
“The rumors of GRU treason were KGB fabrications, meant to allow them free rein in wiping out their opposition in the Soviet Armed Forces.” Wrenn hoped he could keep up the pace of his deception. Zorin had warned him that Fedorin was a simple man, but not a stupid one.
“There are very few of us left, but we are still active. My mission is unknown to Rostov or his men, as is my rank; they think me simply a wounded survivor.’’
He dropped his voice to a more conspiratorial tone and pulled a chair up across from Fedorin. “There is something I would like to do for them, Colonel, but for the sake of my mission I cannot jeopardize my cover. You understand?”
Fedorin nodded, relaxing a little; at least these lads weren’t in any trouble. “Yes, of course, ah—sir?”
Wrenn gave him a noncommittal shrug. “Good. Then, Colonel Fedorin, I would appreciate your assistance in this matter.” Wrenn took a piece of paper from his tunic pocket and handed it to Fedorin.
“This is a list of personnel recommended for promotion by Rostov’s former commander, Colonel Podgorny. As you know, the Colonel was killed a few days ago, before these promotions could be implemented. Field promotion requires an officer of Captain’s rank or above, and since Rostov is only a Lieutenant, the GRU would consider it a favor if you could perform these promotions yourself.’’
Fedorin was shocked. A favor to the GRU! There couldn’t be more than a few hundred GRU left alive in all of Russia, and the KGB had put them all under sentence of death. Fedorin looked the GRU man over closely, and despite himself, he smiled.
“If word ever got out that I had spoken with a GRU operative and not turned him in to the KGB, my life wouldn’t be worth a Liberated Zone ruble.” Fedorin looked the GRU man over closely.
“You are under no obligation to do this, Major.”
Fedorin pocketed the list with a laugh; a hearty peasant’s laugh with a healthy dose of “to hell with the world” in it. “Ah, but Lieutenant-Captain Renko, think of it! It would also put a bug so far up the KGB’s arse, they wouldn’t know whether to squat or go blind!”
Serafimov was disappointed. Drachev’s report laid the blame for the ambush squarely at Grishin’s feet, but merely dishonoring the Major was not what he had hoped for. Still, there was one town yet to be investigated, and Kolinsky still had a great deal of territory to cover before it was safely home.
“You will proceed to the last town on your list, Captain. You are authorized to fire on any operative train your unit encounters. Don’t worry about disabling or taking prisoners. Shoot to destroy.” Even if they didn’t find Podgorny’s men, they might kill a few Ukrainian rebels.
“I remind you, Revenant, that we have lost two of our tanks with their entire crews, and ten infantry effectives. Should we contact the perpetrators of this ‘unauthorized rail activity,’ what sort of resistance might we expect?”
Serafimov smiled at the man’s cheek, and wondered if his authority in PRG One would eventually extend to execution orders. Patience, he told himself.
“Fortunately, Kolinsky, your recent experience should inspire sufficient caution to compensate for your losses. If not, you still have Major Grishin’s expertise available to you, yes? Revenant out.”
Serafimov leaned back and turned his chair to the map table. Steinmann sat on the other side of it, watching him with that faint, maddening smile he always wore. He doesn’t think anything is amusing, Serafimov had decided. It’s just the way he looks. It’s the way any reptile looks.
Serafimov marked the town of Viluk on the map with a green pin, signifying bandit activity, and stifled a smile. Bandits. God save us, it’s right next to the bloody Free Ukrainian Republic. There’s a whole country of bandits there now. He decided he didn’t have enough green pins for this.
Checking Viluk’s position relative to the other towns on Kolinsky’s route, it was unlikely his quarry was in that area at all. This last town, Suschenko, was east of Viluk, even farther from the Alliance forces the Army traitors were presumed to be headed for.
“Not likely your train thieves are there, Colonel.” Steinmann voiced Serafimov’s own thoughts.
“Perhaps you are right, Major,” Serafimov admitted. “What do you suggest?” he asked, putting the responsibility squarely in Steinmann’s lap.
Steinmann only smiled, spreading his hands. “Not my field of expertise, Colonel. I am a combat officer, not a security specialist. But since you asked, we have other units to the north. Have Kolinsky bypass Suschenko and rendezvous with them to augment their strength, then stand to. Should we receive any reports of these bandits, our forces will then be centrally located, and can move out rapidly to cut them off. Of course, it’s just a suggestion.” He restored his smile and folded his arms on the table.
Serafimov picked up the red plastic marker representing Captain Drachev’s unit, the code name “Kolinsky” stamped along the top in gold.
A kolinsky was a race of Siberian weasel, fast, savage, and utterly ruthless in the hunt. Drachev had earned that code name, if the file Serafimov had seen was accurate. He thought a moment, then placed the marker firmly in Suschenko.
“Captain Drachev will go to Suschenko, I think. It will not delay a rendezvous with forces north by more than a day, and even if he finds nothing, we will at least know where they are not.”
And I am covered by my decision to be methodical, Serafimov thought. He caught Steinmann’s eye once more, and this time he smiled back.
We are survivors, the smile said. And if that is rather a hollow compliment, it is still preferable to the alternative.
Three days had passed since their arrival, and with them the elation of having everything work out right for once; now the fatigue Rostov had almost forgotten was returning with a vengeance. At no time since leaving Moscow had the Lieutenant managed more than a few hours’ rest at once, and he was past the point where such catnapping could help him any longer. His temper was fraying, and he was tending toward emotional reactions to unexpected situations.
But it would not be much longer now. When they left, they would have at least eight hours’ travel time to the Ukrainian border, and another two hours after that before they could expect to contact any Alliance forces. Rostov was sure he could be spared for at least half of that time.
The men were securing the last of the equipment taken on in Suschenko while the townspeople were carting off the last of the supplies they’d received. And they are welcome to every dram of it, he thought. Without the willing help of the people of Suschenko, Rostov was sure the unit would be trapped here. He felt a pang of guilt at leaving these townspeople, his fellow countrymen, to the mercies of the KGB and whatever bandits decided to hit the town in the months to come.
But the KGB had no real reason to harm them; Rostov had left forged papers with Fedorin to show that the Rail Security Forces Colonel had thought Rostov’s men cleared by the KGB. And with the extra weapons they were leaving in the town, and the brief training they’d given the citizens in their use, Rostov was sure that the first bandits to hit this town were in for a very unpleasant surprise. And anyway, I can do little else. We can’t very well take them all with us, and they wouldn’t go if we could; this is their home.
Once more he had to remind himself that his first responsibility was to his men. They will have to survive if Russia is to be free one day.
Rostov stopped dead in his tracks. Where the hell had that notion come from? Did he really think he was going to one day return to the Rodina, at the head of some reborn Red Army of liberation, like some twenty-first-century Aleksandr Nevsky? He laughed at himself; he really would have to get some sleep. He was starting to hallucinate.
“Lieutenant Rostov.” Private Ulyarin was standing before him, saluting with one hand and holding out a message with the other. Rostov returned the salute, amazed he had the energy to lift his arm, and took the message. He scanned it briefly, alarmed at its content.
“Did Colonel Fedorin give you this himself, Ulyarin?”
“Yes, sir. He said I was to bring it to you immediately.”
Rostov read it again. It was an officially worded “request” to attend a special meeting in Fedorin’s office, and it required him to bring several of his men with him.
The list was six names long, and Rostov had no idea what to make of it. If Fedorin wanted to betray him, this list would put Rostov and all his best men in the same room together, where one man with an assault rifle could end any hope of escape to the West for the unit. Rostov crushed the envelope and handed the note to Ulyarin.
“Take this list, Private Ulyarin, and have the people on it meet me in the command car. That includes you, by the way.”
Ulyarin blinked. “I’m sorry, sir, but Major Fedorin instructed—ordered me, that is, sir—to bring you directly back. He said the other people on the list were already in attendance.”
Ordered? Fedorin was asserting his rank a little late in the day, it seemed to Rostov. He wondered if following protocol and deferring to the Rail Security officer’s paper rank hadn’t been a mistake after all.
“All right then, Private, let’s get this over with.” He thought a moment, then added: “Bring your weapon.”
Ulyarin was instantly alert. He personally considered Fedorin one of the most harmless men he had ever met, but if the Lieutenant thought caution was warranted, then Ulyarin would be cautious.
Rostov stepped up onto the platform with Ulyarin. Two of Fedorin’s reservists waited beside the station house entrance in full uniforms; clean, if a little worn. Both saluted Rostov smartly as he arrived.
Rostov returned the salute, feeling foolish. They opened the door for him, ushering him and Ulyarin into the office.
Rostov was seized with a sense of unreality. Fedorin was seated behind his desk with the remaining two officers of his command. All were in full-dress uniform. On the wall behind them was draped a shiny new flag of the Soviet Union, sharply creased with fold lines acquired during long months in a storage box. The crimson silk shone, the golden hammer and sickle and open star gleamed.
“Lieutenant Rostov. Private Ulyarin.” The Rail Security officer at the door announced them and left. Rostov looked around to see that Sergeant Zorin was already there, along with Corporals Dyatlov and Aliyev, and Junior Sergeant Myakov, their chief mechanic. Still confused, Rostov came to attention and saluted.
What the devil is all this? Were these three old men going to place them under arrest? If so, they must be quite ready to leave this life, for Rostov had no doubts about his unit’s ability to handle a few old reservists and some armed townspeople. After a moment, he found his voice.
“Colonel Fedorin, I have a great many final preparations to make before we can leave Suschenko; may I ask what this is all about?”
He tried to catch Zorin’s eye, but the burly Sergeant was staring straight ahead, in parade-ground attention that would please a martinet. Fine time to start that, Rostov thought.
“Certainly, Lieutenant. As you know, since the integration of all Soviet Defense Forces, we in Rail Security hold equal rank with all other ground force personnel, with equal privileges and equal authority.” He stood up from behind the desk and walked around it to stand before Rostov. Fedorin waited a moment before he spoke again. “You will come to attention, please. Now!”
Rostov couldn’t help himself. Automatically his right foot swung out and back, slamming the heel into the floor next to his left. Simultaneously he snapped his hand to the brim of his cap; his back straightened and his eyes locked on the opposite wall.
Fedorin seemed taken aback at first, then pleased. A moment later he had removed Rostov’s shoulder boards with their three stars of a Senior Lieutenant, and replaced them with the white, four-starred boards of a full Captain of Engineers of the Red Army. As Fedorin grasped his shoulders and performed the traditional Russian accolade, Rostov’s sense of unreality became complete.
“Kapitan Rostov, it is my duty and my pleasure to present you and your men with the promotions which you so richly deserve. The Soviet State, no less than the town of Suschenko, is indebted to you for your skill regarding, and devotion to, your command, your duty, and your nation.”
Fedorin repeated the procedure with each of Rostov’s men present, making Ulyarin a Corporal, Dyatlov and Aliyev full Sergeants, and Myakov a Senior Sergeant. Zorin had stepped back as the promotions were being proffered, and seemed unaware of Fedorin’s approach.
“Senior Sergeant Zorin, it is always a pleasure to elevate an enlisted man to the rank of officer.”
Zorin, who had evidently hoped to avoid just what was about to occur, was obviously uncomfortable, if not outright horrified. “But, Major Fedorin, I–”
“Congratulations, Zorin,” Rostov put in quickly; Fedorin performed the ritual, and Rostov immediately stepped in to bestow his own congratulatory embrace. “Allow me to be the first–” He looked Zorin square in the eye and glared at him in satisfaction. “Lieutenant Zorin.”
For once, Rostov had seen Zorin surprised, and the taste was so sweet he forgot his own discomfort at the absurdity of the situation. He wondered how readily Fedorin would have given these field promotions if he had known Rostov and all his men would soon be permanently resigning from the Soviet Armed Forces. The safety of his men was Rostov’s first concern, but the feeling that he was winking at treason made him distinctly uneasy.
Ulyarin, newly a Corporal, couldn’t have looked happier if he’d been made a Marshal of the Soviet Union. A moment later, Fedorin’s men entered with bottles of vodka, several townspeople crowded in with trays of food, and Fedorin pressed Rostov and his newly promoted men to join them in celebration.
Rostov was hungry enough, but tired as he was, the vodka would have to wait. Fedorin took no offense, seeming to enjoy what he thought was a fine jest he had perpetrated on Rostov, and especially on the former Starshi Serzhant Zorin.
Seeing his comrade-in-arms standing dejectedly in a corner, staring into a glass of vodka, Rostov almost felt sorry for him, but he was struck by a sudden suspicion, and decided to fight his way across the crowded room to his new Lieutenant.
“Oh. Hello, Alek—hello, Captain.”
“Enough of that. Anyway, you’re an officer now, too,” Rostov pointed out, twisting the blade. “You can use my Christian name as much as you like and not go on report for it.”
Zorin remained gloomy. “Hm. Of course, now it won’t be as much fun because of that.”
“No doubt. Well, look on the bright side.”
“Sir?” Zorin grimaced and shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. “I mean, Aleksei.”
Rostov favored him with an icy smile. “Whoever stole Colonel Podgorny’s promotion list did you a favor. At least now when we’re caught, you won’t be sent to some filthy Gulag.” He threw a comradely arm about Zorin’s shoulders. “You’ll be shot with me, like a proper officer.’’
The citizens of Suschenko had lined the tracks to bid them farewell. Up in the roof hatch of the locomotive, Rostov waved along with the rest of his men to the crowds on the platform. The air was chill, but he still doubted he could stay awake if he weren’t standing up.
He looked for the babushka and her little helper, but they were nowhere in sight. Well, no doubt he would see them on the way out. He checked on those of his troops in sight. Most were settled into their watch stations along the train, secure behind newly reinforced walls of passenger cars, or inside firing pits made from steel sheets and welded to the flatcars.
This time, he thought, we’ll be a little better prepared if we run into trouble. We haven’t far to go. A few hours to return to the switchback, then west to the Ukraine and the Alliance forces, God willing before the KGB catches up with us.
The race was truly on again. Tired as Rostov was, he felt he had prepared for most contingencies. Podgorny had always warned him that it was the little things, more often than not, that would defeat you in the end.
The train began backing slowly out of the town. Down the line, around a gentle curve in the track and so just out of Rostov’s line of sight, the rearmost car emerged slowly from between the buildings that surrounded them, into the low rays of the late morning sun.
A half mile southeast across the fields, Captain Drachev’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Only his training let him keep his field glasses in place as he watched a flatcar emerge from the town of Suschenko.
“A train. Mother of God, it’s actually a train.”
He waved to Grishin in the turret of the light tank three vehicles away in their line of deployment. “Grishin! It’s there! It looks like they’re leaving; take your force over to the far side of the town and hit the engine from behind. We’ll sweep across this end and lay a crossfire over the tracks.”
Grishin acknowledged with a nod and a wave. Seconds later, the four light tanks under his command roared up from their idling power levels and began churning the grassy earth with their treads. Drachev tapped the shoulder of his driver with his foot. “Move out!”
