World War III

It was the command vehicle. Caffey recognized the pennant. He inched away from the crest. On his walkie-talkie he called to his marksman in a low, anxious voice. “Cable? Come in, Cable.”

For several seconds there was no response, then: “This is Cable, sir.” The private’s voice was strained in the static. “They’re coming, sir.”

“Don’t fire until they’re in the choke point, Cable. You understand? Wait until they’re all the way in.

Right?”

“Yes, sir. Wait for the flare. I know.”

“Good boy.” Caffey turned to Parsons. He nodded toward the helicopters. “The moment the flare goes, I want those birds turning. We’re not going to have a lot of time once the fireworks begin. I want to get the hell out — fast.”

Parsons nodded. “They’ll be ready.”

“Good.” Caffey pointed to a clump of trees about twenty feet away. “Take two men and the machine gun there for a—”

“Colonel! Colonel Caffey!” It was Captain Cordobes on the walkie-talkie. He was in a panic.

Caffey grabbed the radio. “For chrissakes, Captain, keep it down!” he whispered.

But the captain wouldn’t be put off. Caffey looked up the hill about fifty yards away where Cordobes was pointing vigorously at the column. “Look, sir,” the voice on the radio was saying urgently. “Look!”

Caffey and Parsons scrambled to the crest and looked down. The strike force was about half out of the fog, the vehicles leading the troops. Four vehicles.

“Oh, Jesus!” Caffey breathed. He grabbed the binoculars, quickly adjusting the focus as he trained on the third vehicle in the line. The sides were scorched black from the fire, it was missing its cold-weather shield and there was only one launch platform instead of four, but the missile carrier was intact, its single rocket bouncing on its mount and aimed in the general direction of Caffey’s position.

“Shit!” Caffey pounded a gloved fist in the snow. “The sonofabitches fixed the carrier!”

“They couldn’t have, sir. We—”

“There it goddamn is, Lieutenant!” Caffey snapped. “Shit!”

“What do we do?”

Caffey studied the column as it moved slowly toward his trap. “We pray the sonofabitch drives over one of those fuel drums,” he said grimly. “That’s what we do, Parsons. And pray Cable is as good a shot as he says he is.”

Vorashin was out of his command vehicle, walking ahead of the column with the forward platoon. It had been a rotten day so far. Two of the wounded had died in the night and they’d buried them without ceremony before moving out at dawn. Also, the men’s impatience was showing. There had been a fight this morning between a private and an NCO over some triviality. The NCO was now a private and the private was assigned permanent point duty. It was crucial to maintain discipline, Vorashin knew. From discipline came obedience and order. But it was difficult to maintain discipline when the rhythm of the march was constantly being interrupted. When the column was stopped, the men had time to complain.

They were cold, or hungry, or tired, or bored… but Vorashin couldn’t take the risk not to stop.

Somewhere ahead, he knew, the American commander and his ragtag band of deadly zealots were waiting. They might be anywhere, even here. So the interruptions continued while the point patrol searched every possible ambush site for signs of a trap.

“Colonel Vorashin. Colonel Vorashin, wait a moment, please.”

There was another problem he would have to deal with soon. Vorashin glanced over his shoulder to see Major Saamaretz hurrying toward him.

“Yes, Major. What is it?”

“I’d like to speak to you.”

“So speak,” Vorashin said. He continued walking. “I will listen.”

“It’s this pace,” Saamaretz said impatiently. “We’ve traveled only eleven miles since dawn. We must move faster, Colonel. This moving and halting and moving and halting — it accomplishes nothing.”

“We will reach our objective on time, Major. That’s all that matters.”

“I don’t think the Americans are coming back, Colonel.” Saamaretz skipped a step to keep up. “They haven’t showed themselves since yesterday at dawn. I think it is because our soldiers proved that they cannot be intimidated. I think it is because-the Americans haven’t enough audacity to try another ambush. They know we outnumber them twenty to one. I think it is because—”

“It is because he is intelligent,” Vorashin interrupted angrily. He stopped abruptly and Saamaretz nearly ran into him. “The American commander isn’t a fool, my dear Major. He knows we must be cautious.

He is planning on our slowed march to make his move. He’ll come, Major. I promise you he will come.”

“When?”

“Soon,” Vorashin said. “Before dark.”

“And we will continue this game?”

“What do you suggest, comrade Major?”

“It is your command,” Saamaretz replied quickly. “I would not interfere with your judgment at this time. However…”

Vorashin glanced at him icily. “However, what?”