Roberts tossed the microphone back to the operator. “Corporal, you didn’t hear that transmission, so don’t repeat it. I don’t want a rumor started in this command that we’re being invaded by a phantom battalion of the goddamn Soviet Army. Understand?” The radio operator nodded nervously. “Yes, sir.”
Roberts turned to Kate. “Major Breckenridge, I want you to get Division and tell them that the deputy brigade commander reported an unidentified force from the field. Tell them everything he told us except that business about the Ninth Soviet Army. I don’t want to look like a goddamn fool.”
“But—”
“Then, Major, get Captain Devery and deliver him to my office. I want a chopper ready in twenty minutes. We’re going up there.”
“But the weather,” Kate said. “It’s getting worse, General.”
“Screw the goddamn weather.”
“But Colonel Caffey is waiting to hear from you, sir.”
“He’ll hear from me all right,” Roberts said. “Personally.” He stuffed the unlit cigar into his mouth and stomped out.
Kate sighed and shook her head. “Jesus,” she said softly.
Caffey jumped down from the rear of the snowcat. Captain Cordobes was waiting. “Well, Colonel? Did you get an acknowledgment?”
Caffey nodded his head in disgust. “Yeah.”
“So, what do we do?”
“We track and observe until General Roberts decides what he wants to do.”
“Are they sending reinforcements?”
Caffey glanced at the sky. “He didn’t say.”
“But, sir, we can’t watch them indefinitely. They’re bound to see sooner or later.”
“Not if we play our cards right, which is exactly what I intend to do, Captain.”
“But—”
“Assemble the men, Cordobes.”
“You’re not going to tell them, sir?”
“Yes, Captain, that’s what I’m going to do. There are fourteen of us and eight hundred of them. I think they ought to know that.”
“It’ll scare the shit out of them,” Cordobes said. He swallowed.
“I know it will. Soldiers follow orders better when they’re scared shitless, Captain. And we can’t afford any mistakes.” Cordobes nodded. He turned away slightly as a gust of wind blew snow in his face. He wiped a hand over his goggles. “Colonel, I… I think you should know. I’ve never been in a situation like this and—” He licked his lips despite the cold. “I’m scared, too, sir.”
Caffey glanced up at the ridge where he’d posted the sergeant. “So am I,” he said quietly. “So am I.”
PHILIP SMITH RANGE
1510 HRS
3 MILES WEST, JUNIPER CREEK
Colonel Alexander Vorashin’s command vehicle slid to a clanking stop a few feet from where another vehicle had broken down. He climbed down and walked around the icy gully where the crew was working feverishly to replace a broken tread link. He scanned the horizon. The snow was heavier now and visibility was less than half a mile.
“How long?” Vorashin said to the vehicle commander.
“No more than seven minutes, comrade Colonel.”
“It has been ten minutes already.” Vorashin shook his head. “If it isn’t repaired in three, blow it up.”
The officer looked at his men. “Yes, sir.”
“If this column doesn’t move, it dies.”
“It will be repaired.”
Vorashin climbed back into his command car. “The driver of that vehicle should be replaced, Colonel,”
Major Saamaretz said from his seat behind the driver.
Vorashin motioned the driver to go on, then turned back to the KGB man. Saamaretz was making notes in a small book. He’d been making notes all along, and the activity irritated Vorashin though he didn’t mention it. Apparently that’s what KGB men were good at. “Is that what you would do, Major?”
Vorashin spoke without trying to hide his annoyance.
“Yes.”
“It isn’t the way I command my men, Major. It takes time to replace men. I have no time. Anyway, these are good men. The elements and unforeseen mechanical difficulties don’t make them less reliable.” He turned to face forward. “The vehicle will be repaired.”
Outside, Major Devenko was exhorting the men, checking their equipment, moving them along.
Vorashin unlatched his window, folded it down. “Sergei, hold the patrols closer in,” he yelled against the wind. “Put five more men on forward reconnaisance.”
The major raised a gloved hand in acknowledgment. “Done, already,” he yelled back.
Vorashin smiled. “Are you cold, my old friend?”
Devenko blinked back in mock astonishment. “Me, sir? This is only a cloudy day at a Black Sea resort.”
“Good, good.” The strike force commander nodded approvingly. In a more authoritarian tone he said, “Check the front section of the guiders. I don’t want any more breakdowns. Mobility is our best weapon.”
“And the weather, Alex.” Devenko glanced up. “Good weather for our mission. After six weeks of waiting, good weather.”
The radio operator who sat in the back beside Major Saamaretz tapped his commander’s shoulder. “The repairs to the disabled are completed, comrade Colonel,” he said, holding the headphones back from his ear with his other hand.
“Good.” Vorashin checked his watch. To Devenko he yelled, “We move. Inform all platoon leaders that I want five minutes back because of this delay.”
Devenko waved and started toward the rear of the column. Vorashin put the window up.
“Five minutes?” Saamaretz said behind him. “You expect them to make up five minutes?”
“They’ll give me back fifteen,” Vorashin said. He turned slightly to see the KGB man from the corner of his eye. “These are my men, Major.”
“Don’t get too popular, Colonel. I—”
“Comrade Colonel,” the radio operator interrupted. He quickly lifted the headphones from one ear.
“Radar surveillance reports a single rotor aircraft in the vicinity… approximately six miles east, moving in this direction.”
Vorashin opened his door. He stood on the running board, scanning the horizon to the east. He unlaced his hood, pulled it back and listened, squinting against the wind that blew his hair.
Devenko came running.
“Did you hear?” Vorashin asked.
“A helicopter.” Devenko glanced in the direction that Vorashin was staring. “Perhaps it is only passing by,” he yelled.
“In this?” Vorashin shook his head. He tightened the hood back around his face. “Any helicopter up in this area, in this weather, is not here by mistake.” He signaled his driver to stop and jumped down from the vehicle. “Extend the flank patrols, Sergei. Split the left wing in two; leapfrog them every three-quarters of a mile. Post a reinforced platoon on the forward ridge to our eastern flank where they will remain and make contact if necessary.” He’d been watching the ridge in the distance. As his glance moved to Devenko, his face was hard, unyielding. “Let us hope that our intelligence reports are correct, Major — that all we have to fear is a small company of untested militia.”
“If it is an army division, comrade Colonel, we are ready.” Devenko turned and ran back to his men, yelling instructions. The soldiers unaffected by the activity trudged silently on. Vorashin climbed back into his vehicle. He gave an anticipatory look to his radio operator.
“The aircraft is descending, Colonel,” he said. “The air surveillance team is ready to launch.”
“We wait,” Vorashin said. “If the helicopter is here only accidentally, we will know soon enough.”
“Why not fire?” Saamaretz asked anxiously. “If it is an enemy helicopter—”
“Because, Major, we must know where it is going,” Vorashin replied as if he were speaking to a first-day recruit. “If there is a land force, we must know where and what its strength is. That is why. If such a force exists, the helicopter will show us.”