World War III

“I am commander of the relief point today,” the major said, shoveling the last spoonful of tuna into his mouth. He wiped a sleeve across his face and stood up. “It will do me good to get away from the column, Alex—” He nodded toward the communications vehicle “—and from our comrade, Colonel Saamaretz. I do not like him much, Alex. He is disruptive. He talks too much to the men. He asks them if any are Christians.”

“I’ll take care of the colonel, Sergei.”

Devenko nodded. He glanced at the sky. “The weather holds, still. That’s good. I think we will have a good day’s march today. The men are rested. We should make sixty miles before dark, my Colonel.”

“Fifty will suit me,” Vorashin said. “It is only ninety-five miles to our objective. I don’t want to push the men too much. I want them alert and ready, not exhausted.” He nodded to himself. “Fifty miles today will be enough as long as this weather holds.”

The communications vehicle started up with a tremendous roar, and the two men moved away.

Vorashin gestured at the patrol that was returning from the point. They were on four snowmobiles, twelve men — four drivers pulling eight soldiers on skis. “Go, Sergei,” Vorashin yelled above the engine noise. “And keep a sharp eye.”

“For wolves and wild bears,” the deputy commander said with a grin. “That is all we have to watch for, I think.”

“Go.”

Devenko waved. He joined his men as they began to fuel the snowmobiles. Vorashin started toward his command car.

That’s when they hit.

A sudden, raking fire of automatic weapons cut down half the men in Devenko’s patrol in the first few seconds. A snowmobile burst into flames. Exploding grenades showered chunks of snow and ice that thudded against the armored vehicles. Vorashin dove behind his command car. All around him men were running for cover. The wounded were screaming. Half a dozen men were already dead.

“Devenko!” Vorashin shouted. A bullet pinged against the metal undercarriage and slapped the snow beside his arm. “Devenko!” He crawled backward, inching his way to the other side of the vehicle. A platoon leader ran to him, sliding to his knees he-hind the protection of the armor.

“An American patrol,” the lieutenant yelled urgently. “Right forward flank!”

“How strong?” Vorashin could see platoons already breaking away from the column, setting up defensive positions on both flanks.

“Twenty… thirty infantry. Light automatic rifles, grenades…”

Another grenade exploded twenty yards away. Vorashin and the lieutenant both ducked their heads from the shower of debris.

“Move these vehicles!” Vorashin shouted. “Don’t let them sit here!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Send Twelfth Company forward! Neutralize that—”

From the opposite direction, another barrage of gunfire opened up. The lieutenant screamed as a bullet pierced his forearm. Vorashin scrambled under the vehicle, pulling the wounded officer with him.

“Bastards!” the colonel barked. “Devenko!” He banged on the floor hatch of the communications van.

“I’m all right, sir.” The lieutenant winced as he rolled onto his side. “I will send the Twelfth immediately, comrade Colonel!” He pulled himself to the trailing edge of the vehicle, got to his knees, then ran for the cover of the rocket-launching craft.

“They came during the night!” Vorashin muttered angrily. He banged on the hatch again. They set up outside the perimeter and moved in this morning, he realized. He should have extended the night flank patrols, even though there was nothing in the vicinity but an undermanned company of the regional militia. He’d broken one of his own commandments: never underestimate the tenacity of your adversary.

The hatch above his head opened and a sergeant, armed with a pistol, poked his head down. “Colonel!”

“Get the vehicles moving!” Vorashin shouted. “All of them! Now! Put the missile arms carrier in the lead and order its commander to shoot anything in its path! This column must move out of a crossfire!”

The sergeant nodded quickly. “Yes, sir!”

“Now, Sergeant, NOW!”

Vorashin crawled out from beneath the vehicle and ran in a crouch to an icy gully, where a major was directing a two-pronged counterattack over his hand radio. Behind him, Vorashin heard the armored vehicles moving out. The rocket-launcher rumbled straight for the first source of gunfire. It fired a missile that exploded in the trees, directly above the Americans.

The major turned quickly to Vorashin. “They’ve stopped firing, sir.”

“Of course they’ve stopped,” Vorashin said. “They’re falling back. They can’t expect to sustain an attack.”

“Shall—”

“Keep after them!” Vorashin shouted. “Track them down and finish it! We cannot let them regroup for another skirmish!”

“Immediately, my Colonel.”

“Have you seen Devenko?”

“No, I…”

“Direct your men! The Americans must not slide away from us.”

Vorashin searched the hills ahead through binoculars. There was nothing to see and he knew it.