Chapter 52
Deep Battle
General Peng crossed over into Russia in his command vehicle, well behind the first regiment of heavy tanks. He thought of using a helicopter, but his operations staff warned him that the air battle was not going as well as the featherheads in the PLAAF had told him to expect. He felt uneasy, crossing the river in an armored vehicle on a floating bridge—like a brick tied to a balloon—but he did so, listening as his operations officer briefed him on the progress to this point.
“The Americans have surged a number of fighter aircraft forward, and along with them their E-3 airborne radar fighter-control aircraft. These are formidable, and difficult to counter, though our air force colleagues say that they have tactics to deal with them. I will believe that when I see it,” Colonel Wa observed. “But that is the only bad news so far. We are several hours ahead of schedule. Russian resistance is lighter than I expected. The prisoners we’ve taken are very disheartened at their lack of support.”
“Is that a fact?” Peng asked, as they left the ribbon bridge and thumped down on Russian soil.
“Yes, we have ten men captured from their defensive positions—we’ ll see them in a few minutes. They had escape tunnels and personnel carriers set to evacuate the men. They didn’t expect to hold for long,” Colonel Wa went on. “They planned to run away, rather than defend to the last as we expected. I think they lack the heart for combat, Comrade General.”
That information got Peng’s attention. It was important to know the fighting spirit of one’s enemy: “Did any of them stand and fight to the end?”
“Only one of their bunker positions. It cost us thirty men, but we took them out. Perhaps their escape vehicle was destroyed and they had no choice,” the colonel speculated.
“I want to see one of these positions at once,” Peng ordered.
“Of course, Comrade General.” Wa ducked inside and shouted an order to the track driver. The Type 90 armored personnel carrier lurched to the right, surprising the MP who was trying to do traffic control, but he didn’t object. The four tall radio whips told him what sort of track this was. The command carrier moved off the beaten track directly toward an intact Russian bunker.
General Peng got out, ducking his head as he did so, and walked toward the mainly intact old gun turret. The “inverted frying pan” shape told him that this was off an old Stalin-3 tank—a very formidable vehicle, once upon a time, but now an obvious relic. A team of intelligence specialists was there. They snapped to attention when they saw the general approach.
“What did we kill it with?” Peng asked.
“We didn’t, Comrade General. They abandoned it after firing fifteen cannon shots and about three hundred machine gun rounds. They didn’t even destroy it before we captured it,” the intelligence captain reported, waving the general down the tank hatch. “It’s safe. We checked for booby traps.”
Peng climbed down. He saw what appeared to be a comfortable small barracks, shell storage for their big tank gun, ample rounds for their two machine guns. There were empty rounds for both types of guns on the floor, along with wrappers for field rations. It appeared to be a comfortable position, with bunks, shower, toilet, and plenty of food storage. Something worth fighting for, the general thought. “How did they leave?” Peng asked.
“This way,” the young captain said, leading him north into the tunnel. “You see, the Russians planned for everything.” The tunnel led under the crest of the hill to a covered parking pad for—probably for a BTR, it looked like, confirmed by the wheel tracks on the ground immediately off the concrete pad.
“How long did they hold?”
“We took the place just less than three hours after our initial bombardment. So, we had infantry surrounding the main gun emplacement, and soon thereafter, they ran away,” the captain told his army commander.
“I see. Good work by our assault infantry.” Then Peng saw that Colonel Wa had brought his command track over the hill to the end of the escape tunnel, allowing him to hop right aboard.
“Now what?” Wa asked.
“I want to see what we did to their artillery support positions.”
Wa nodded and relayed the orders to the track commander. That took fifteen minutes of bouncing and jostling. The fifteen heavy guns were still there, though the two Peng passed had been knocked over and destroyed by counter-battery fire. The position they visited was mainly intact, though a number of rockets had fallen close aboard, near enough that three bodies were still lying there untended next to their guns, the bodies surrounded by sticky pools of mainly dried blood. More men had survived, probably. Close to each gun was a two-meter-deep narrow trench lined with concrete that the bombardment hadn’t done more than chip. Close by also was a large ammo-storage bunker with rails on which to move the shells and propellant charges to the guns. The door was open.
“How many rounds did they get off?” he asked.
“No more than ten,” another intelligence officer, this one a major, replied. “Our counter-battery fire was superb here. The Russian battery was fifteen guns, total. One of them got off twenty shots, but that was all. We had them out of action in less than ten minutes. The artillery-tracker radars worked brilliantly, Comrade General.”
Peng nodded agreement. “So it would appear. This emplacement would have been fine twenty or thirty years ago—good protection for the gunners and a fine supply of shells, but they did not anticipate an enemy with the ability to pinpoint their guns so rapidly. If it stands still, Wa, you can kill it.” Peng looked around. “Still, the engineers who sited this position and the other one, they were good. It’s just that this sort of thing is out of date. What were our total casualties?”
“Killed, three hundred fifty, thereabouts. Wounded, six hundred twenty,” operations replied. “It was not exactly cheap, but less than we expected. If the Russians had stood and fought, it could have been far worse.”
“Why did they run so soon?” Peng asked. “Do we know?”
“We found a written order in one of the bunkers, authorizing them to leave when they thought things were untenable. That surprised me,” Colonel Wa observed. “Historically, the Russians fight very hard on the defense, as the Germans found. But that was under Stalin. The Russians had discipline then. And courage. Not today, it would seem.”
“Their evacuation was conducted with some skill,” Peng thought out loud. “We ought to have taken more prisoners.”
“They ran too fast, Comrade General,” operations explained.
“He who fights and runs away,” General Peng quoted, “lives to fight another day. Bear that in mind, Colonel.”
“Yes, Comrade General, but he who runs away is not an immediate threat”
“Let’s go,” the general said, heading off to his command track. He wanted to see the front, such as it was.
So?” Bondarenko asked the lieutenant. The youngster had been through a bad day, and being required to stand and make a report to his theater commander made it no better. ”Stand easy, boy. You’re alive. It could have been worse.”
“General, we could have held if we’d been given a little support,” Komanov said, allowing his frustration to appear.
“There was none to give you. Go on.” The general pointed at the map on the wall.
“They crossed here, and came through this saddle, and over this ridge to attack us. Leg infantry, no vehicles that we ever saw. They had man-portable anti-tank weapons, nothing special or unexpected, but they had massive artillery support. There must have been an entire battery concentrated just on my one position. Heavy guns, fifteen-centimeter or more. And artillery rockets that wiped out our artillery support almost immediately.”
“That’s the one surprise they threw at us,” Aliyev confirmed. “They must have a lot more of those fire-finder systems than we expected, and they’re using their Type 83 rockets as dedicated counter-battery weapons, like the Americans did in Saudi. It’s an effective tactic. We’ll have to go after their counter-battery systems first of all, or use self-propelled guns to fire and move after only two or three shots. There’s no way to spoof them that I know of, and jamming radars of that type is extremely difficult.”
“So, we have to work on a way to kill them early on,” Bondarenko said. “We have electronic-intelligence units. Let them seek out those Chink radars and eliminate them with rockets of our own.” He turned. “Go, on. Lieutenant. Tell me about the Chinese infantry.”
“They are not cowards, Comrade General. They take fire and act properly under it. They are well-drilled. My position and the one next to us took down at least two hundred, and they kept coming. Their battle drill is quite good, like a soccer team. If you do this, they do that, almost instantly. For certain, they call in artillery fire with great skill.”
“They had the batteries already lined up, Lieutenant, lined up and waiting,” Aliyev told the junior officer. “It helps if you are following a prepared script. Anything else?”
“We never saw a tank. They had us taken out before they finished their bridges. Their infantry looked well-prepared, well-trained, even eager to move forward. I did not see evidence of flexible thinking, but I did not see much of anything, and as you say, their part of the operation was preplanned, and thoroughly rehearsed.”
“Typically, the Chinese tell their men a good deal about their planned operations beforehand. They don’t believe in secrecy the way we do,” Aliyev said. “Perhaps it makes for comradely solidarity on the battlefield.”
“But things are going their way, Andrey. The measure of an army is how it reacts when things go badly. We haven’t seen that yet, however.” And would they ever? Bondarenko wondered. He shook his head. He had to banish that sort of thinking from his mind. If he had no confidence, how could his men have it? “What about your men, Valeriy Mikhailovich? How did they fight?”
“We fought, Comrade General,” Komanov assured the senior officer. “We killed two hundred, and we would have killed many more with a little artillery support.”
“Will your men fight some more?” Aliyev asked.
“F*ck, yes!” Komanov snarled back. “Those little bastards are invading our country. Give us the right weapons, and we’ll f*cking kill them all!”
“Did you graduate tank school?”
Komanov bobbed his head like a cadet. “Yes, Comrade General, eighth in my class.”
“Give him a company with BOYAR,” the general told his ops officer. “They’re short of officers.”
Major General Marion Diggs was in the third train out of Berlin; it wasn’t his choosing, just the way things worked out. He was thirty minutes behind Angelo Giusti’s cavalry squadron. The Russians were running their trains as closely together as safety allowed, and probably even shading that somewhat. What was working was that the Russian national train system was fully electrified, which meant that the engines accelerated well out of stations and out of the slow orders caused by track problems, which were numerous.
Diggs had grown up in Chicago. His father had been a Pullman porter with the Atcheson, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, working the Super Chief between Chicago and Los Angeles until the passenger service had died in the early 1970s; then, remarkably enough, he’d changed unions to become an engineer. Marion remembered riding with him as a boy, and loving the feel of such a massive piece of equipment under his hands—and so, when he’d gone to West Point, he’d decided to be a tanker, and better yet, a cavalryman. Now he owned a lot of heavy equipment.
It was his first time in Russia, a place he certainly hadn’t expected to see when he’d been in the first half of his uniformed career, when the Russians he’d worried about seeing had been mainly from First Guards Tank and Third Shock armies, those massive formations that had once sat in East Germany, always poised to take a nice little drive to Paris, or so NATO had feared.
But no more, now that Russia was part of NATO, an idea that was like something from a bad science-fiction movie. There was no denying it, however. Looking out the windows of the train car, he could see the onion-topped spires of Russian Orthodox churches, ones that Stalin had evidently failed to tear down. The railyards were pretty familiar. Never the most artistic examples of architecture or city planning, they looked the same as the dreary yards leading into Chicago or any other American city. No, only the train yards that you built under your Christmas tree every year were pretty. But they didn’t have any Christmas trees in evidence here. The train rolled to a stop, probably waiting for a signal to proceed—
—but no, this looked to be some sort of military terminal. Russian tanks were in evidence off to the right, and a lot of sloped concrete ramps—the Russians had probably built this place to ship their own tracked vehicles west, he judged.
“General?” a voice called.
“Yo!”
“Somebody here to see you, sir,” the same voice announced.
Diggs stood and walked back to the sound. It was one of his junior staff officers, a new one fresh from Leavenworth, and behind him was a Russian general officer.
“You are Diggs?” the Russian asked in fair English.
“That’s right.”
“Come with me please.” The Russian walked out onto the platform. The air was fresh, but they were under low, gray clouds this morning.
“You going to tell me how things are going out east?” Diggs asked.
“We wish to fly you and some of your staff to Chabarsovil so that you can see for yourself.”
That made good sense, Diggs thought. “How many?”
“Six, plus you.”
“Okay.” The general nodded and reached for the captain who’d summoned him from his seat. “I want Colonels Masterman, Douglas, Welch, Turner, Major Hurst, and Lieutenant Colonel Garvey.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy disappeared.
“How soon?”
“The transport is waiting for you now.”
One of theirs, Diggs thought. He’d never flown on a Russian aircraft before. How safe would it be? How safe would it be to fly into a war zone? Well, the Army didn’t pay him to stay in safe places.
“Who are you?”
“Nosenko, Valentin Nosenko, general major, Stavka.”
“How bad is it?”
“It is not good, General Diggs. Our main problem will be getting reinforcements to the theater of action. But they have rivers to cross. The difficulties, as you Americans say, should even out.”
Diggs’s main worry was supply. His tanks and Bradleys all had basic ammo loads already aboard, and two and a half additional such loads for each vehicle were on supply trucks sitting on other trains like this one. After that, things got a little worrisome, especially for artillery. But the biggest worry of all was diesel fuel. He had enough to move his division maybe three or four hundred miles. That was a good long way in a straight line, but wars never allowed troops to travel in straight lines. That translated to maybe two hundred miles of actual travel at best, and that was not an impressive number at all. Then there was the question of jet fuel for his organic aircraft. So, his head logistician, Colonel Ted Douglas, was the first guy he needed, after Masterman, his operations brain. The officers started showing up.
“What gives, sir?” Masterman asked.
“We’re flying east to see what’s going on.”
“Okay, let me make sure we have some communications gear.” Masterman disappeared again. He left the train car, along with two enlisted men humping satellite radio equipment.
“Good call, Duke,” LTC Garvey observed. He was communications and electronic intelligence for First Tanks.
“Gentlemen, this is General Nosenko from Stavka. He’s taking us east, I gather?”
“Correct, I am an intelligence officer for Stavka. This way, please.” He led them off, to where four cars were waiting. The drive to a military airport took twenty minutes.
“How are your people taking this?” Diggs asked.
“The civilians, you mean? Too soon to tell. Much disbelief, but some anger. Anger is good,” Nosenko said. “Anger gives courage and determination.”
If the Russians were talking about anger and determination, the situation must be pretty bad, Diggs thought, looking out at the streets of the Moscow suburbs.
“What are you moving east ahead of us?”
“So far, four motor-rifle divisions,” Nosenko answered. “Those are our best-prepared formations. We are assembling other forces.”
“I’ve been out of touch. What else is NATO sending? Anything?” Diggs asked next.
“A British brigade is forming up now, the men based at Hohne. We hope to have them on the way here in two days.”
“No way we’d go into action without at least the Brits to back us up,” Diggs said. “Good, they’re equipped about the same way we are.” And better yet, they trained according to the same doctrine. Hohne, he thought, their 22nd Brigade from Haig Barracks, Brigadier Sam Turner. Drank whiskey like it was Perrier, but a good thinker and a superior tactician. And his brigade was all trained up from some fun and games down at Grafenw?hr. “What about Germans?”
“That’s a political question,” Nosenko admitted.
“Tell your politicians that Hitler’s dead, Valentin. The Germans are pretty good to have on your side. Trust me, buddy. We play with them all the time. They’re down a little from ten years ago, but the German soldier ain’t no dummy, and neither are his officers. Their reconnaissance units are particularly good.”
“Yes, but that is a political question,” Nosenko repeated. And that, Diggs knew, was that, at least for now.
The aircraft waiting was an II-86, known to NATO as the Camber, manifestly the Russian copy of Lockheed’s C-141 Starlifter. This one had Aeroflot commercial markings, but retained the gun position in the tail that the Russians liked to keep on all their tactical aircraft. Diggs didn’t object to it at the moment. They’d scarcely had the chance to sit down and strap in when the aircraft started rolling.
“In a hurry, Valentin?”
“Why wait, General Diggs? There’s a war on,” he reminded his guest.
“Okay, what do we know?”
Nosenko opened the map case he’d been carrying and laid out a large sheet on the floor as the aircraft lifted off. It was of the Chinese-Russian border on the Amur River, with markings already penciled on. The American officers all leaned over to look.
“They came in here, and drove across the river ...”
How fast are they moving?” Bondarenko asked.
“I have a reconnaissance company ahead of them. They report in every fifteen minutes,” Colonel Tolkunov replied. “They are moving in a deliberate manner. Their reconnaissance screen is composed of WZ-501 tracked APCs, heavy on radios, light on weapons. They are on the whole not very enterprising, however. As I said, deliberate. They move by leapfrogging half a kilometer at a bound, depending on terrain. We’re monitoring their radios. They’re not encrypted, though their spoken language is deceptive in terminology. We’re working on that.”
“Speed of advance?”
“Five kilometers in an hour is the fastest we’ve seen, usually slower than that. Their main body is still getting organized, and they haven’t set up a logistics train yet. I’d expect them to attempt no more than thirty kilometers in a day on flat open ground, based on what I’ve seen so far.”
“Interesting.” Bondarenko looked back at his maps. They’d start going north-northwest because that’s what the terrain compelled them to do. At this speed, they’d be at the gold strike in six or seven days.
Theoretically, he could move 265th Motor Rifle to a blocking position ... here ... in two days and make a stand, but by then they’d have at least three, maybe eight, mechanized divisions to attack his one full-strength unit, and he couldn’t gamble on that so soon. The good news was that the Chinese were bypassing his command post—contemptuously? he wondered, or just because there was nothing there to threaten them, and so nothing to squander force
on? No, they’d run as fast and hard as they could, bringing up foot infantry to wall off their line of advance. That was classic tactics, and the reason was because it worked. Everyone did it that way, from Hannibal to Hitler.
So, their lead elements moved deliberately, and they were still forming up their army over the Amur bridgehead.
“What units have we identified?”
“The lead enemy formation is their 34th Red Banner Shock Army, Commanded by Peng Xi-Wang. He is politically reliable and well-regarded in Beijing, an experienced soldier. Expect him to be the operational army group commander. The 34th Army is mainly across the river now. Three more Group A mechanized armies are lined up to cross as well, the 31st, 29th, and 43rd. That’s a total of sixteen mechanized divisions, plus a lot of other attachments. We think the 65th Group B Army will be next across. Four infantry divisions plus a tank brigade. Their job will be to hold the western flank, I would imagine.” That made sense. There was no Russian force east of the breakthrough worthy of the name. A classic operation would also wheel east to Vladivostok on the Pacific Coast, but that would only distract forces from the main objective. So, the turn east would wait for at least a week, probably two or three, with just light screening forces heading that way for the moment.
“What about our civilians?” Bondarenko asked.
“They’re leaving the towns in the Chinese path as best they can, mainly cars and buses. We have MP units trying to keep them organized. So far nothing has happened to interfere with the evacuation,” Tolkunov said. “See, from this it looks as if they’re actually bypassing Belogorsk, just passing east of it with their reconnaissance elements.”
“That’s the smart move, isn’t it?” Bondarenko observed. “Their real objective is far to the north. Why slow down for anything? They don’t want land. They don’t want people. They want oil and gold. Capturing civilians will not make those objectives any easier to accomplish. If I were this Peng fellow, I would be worried about the extent of my drive north. Even unopposed, the natural obstacles are formidable, and defending his line of advance will be a beast of a problem.” Gennady paused. Why have any sympathy for this barbarian? His mission was to kill him and all his men, after all. But how? If even marching that far north was a problem—and it was—then how much harder would it be to strike through the same terrain with less-prepared troops? The tactical problems on both sides were the kind men in his profession did not welcome.
“General Bondarenko?” a foreign voice asked.
“Yes?” He turned to see a man dressed in an American flight suit.
“Sir, my name is Major Dan Tucker. I just flew in with a downlink for our Dark Star UAVs. Where do you want us to set up, sir?”
“Colonel Tolkunov? Major, this is my chief of intelligence.”
The American saluted sloppily, as air force people tended to do. “Howdy, Colonel.”
“How long to set up?”
The American was pleased that this Tolkunov’s English was better than his own Russian. “Less than an hour, sir.”
“This way.” The G-2 led him outside. “How good are your cameras?”
“Colonel, when a guy’s out taking a piss, you can see how big his dick is.”
Tolkunov figured that was typical American braggadocio, but it set him wondering.
Captain Feodor Il’ych Aleksandrov commanded the 265th Motor Rifle’s divisional reconnaissance element—the division was supposed to have a full battalion for this task, but he was all they had—and for that task he had eight of the new BRM reconnaissance tracks. These were evolutionary developments of the standard BMP infantry combat vehicle, upgraded with better automotive gear—more reliable engine and transmission systems—plus the best radios his country made. He reported directly to his divisional commander, and also, it seemed, to the theater intelligence coordinator, some colonel named Tolkunov. That chap, he’d discovered, was very concerned with his personal safety, always urging him to stay close—but not too close—not to be spotted, and to avoid combat of any type. His job, Tolkunov had told him at least once every two hours for the last day and a half, was to stay alive and to keep his eye on the advancing Chinese. He wasn’t supposed to so much as injure one little hair on their cute little Chink heads, just stay close enough that if they mumbled in their sleep, to copy down the names of the girl-friends they f*cked in their dreams.
Aleksandrov was a young captain, only twenty-eight, and rakishly handsome, an athlete who ran for personal pleasure—and running, he told his men, was the best form of exercise for a soldier, especially a reconnaissance specialist. He had a driver, gunner, and radio operator for each of his tracks, plus three infantrymen whom he’d personally trained to be invisible.
The drill was for them to spend about half their time out of their vehicles, usually a good kilometer or so ahead of their Chinese counterparts, either behind trees or on their bellies, reporting back with monosyllabic comments on their portable radios, which were of Japanese manufacture. The men moved light, carrying only their rifles and two spare magazines, because they weren’t supposed to be seen or heard, and the truth was that Aleksandrov would have preferred to send them out unarmed, lest they be tempted to shoot someone out of patriotic anger. However, no soldier would ever stand for being sent out on a battlefield weaponless, and so he’d had to settle for ordering them out with bolts closed on empty chambers. The captain was usually out with his men, their BRM carriers hidden three hundred or so meters away in the trees.
In the past twenty-four hours, they’d become intimately familiar with their Chinese opponents. These were also trained and dedicated reconnaissance specialists, and they were pretty good at their jobs, or certainly appeared to be. They were also moving in tracked vehicles, and also spent a lot of their time on foot, ahead of their tracks, hiding behind trees and peering to the north, looking for Russian forces. The Russians had even started giving them names.
“It’s the gardener,” Sergeant Buikov said. That one liked touching trees and bushes, as though studying them for a college paper or something. The gardener was short and skinny, and looked like a twelve-year-old to the Russians. He seemed competent enough, carrying his rifle slung on his back, and using his binoculars often. He was a Chinese lieutenant, judging by his shoulderboards, probably commander of this platoon. He ordered his people around a lot, but didn’t mind taking the lead. So, he was probably conscientious. He is, therefore, the one we should kill first, Aleksandrov thought. Their BRM reconnaissance track had a fine 30-mm cannon that could reach out and turn the gardener into fertilizer from a thousand meters or so, but Captain Aleksandrov had forbidden it, worse luck, Buikov thought. He was from this area, a woodsman of sorts who’d hunted in the forests many times with his father, a lumber-jack. “We really ought to kill him.”
“Boris Yevgeniyevich, do you wish to alert the enemy to our presence?” Aleksandrov asked his sergeant.
“I suppose not, my captain, but the hunting season is—”
“—closed, Sergeant. The season is closed, and no, he is not a wolf that you can shoot for your own pleasure, and— down,” Aleksandrov ordered. The gardener was looking their way with his field glasses. Their faces were painted, and they had branches tucked into their field clothing to break up their outlines, but he was taking no chances. “They’ll be moving soon. Back to the track.”
The hardest part of their drill was to avoid leaving tracks for the Chinese to spot. Aleksandrov had “discussed” this with his drivers, threatening to shoot anyone who left a trail. (He knew he couldn’t do that, of course, but his men weren’t quite sure.) Their vehicles even had upgraded mufflers to reduce their sound signature. Every so often, the men who designed and built Russian military equipment got things right, and this was such a case. Besides, they didn’t crank their engines until they saw the Chinese doing the same. Aleksandrov looked up. Okay, the gardener was waving to those behind him, the wave that meant to bring their vehicles up. They were doing another leapfrog jump, with one section standing fast and providing over-watch cover for the next move, should something happen. He had no intention of making anything happen, but of course they couldn’t know that. Aleksandrov was surprised that they were maintaining their careful drill into the second day. They weren’t getting sloppy yet. He’d expected that, but it seemed that the Chinese were better drilled even than his expectations, and were assiduously following their written doctrine. Well, so was he.
“Move now, Captain?” Buikov asked.
“No, let’s sit still and watch. They ought to stop at that little ridge with the logging road. I want to see how predictable they are, Boris Yevgeniyevich.” But he did trigger his portable radio. “Stand by, they’re jumping again.”
The other radio just clicked on and off, creating a whisper of static, rather than a spoken reply. Good, his men were adhering to their radio discipline. The second echelon of Chinese tracks moved forward carefully, at about ten-kilometer speed, following this opening in the forest. Interesting, he thought, that they weren’t venturing too far into the adjoining woods. No more than two or three hundred meters. Then he cringed. A helicopter chattered overhead. It was a Gazelle, a Chinese copy of the French military helicopter. But his track was back in the woods, and every time it stopped, the men ran outside to stretch the camo-net around it. His men, also, were well-drilled. And that, he told his men, was why they didn’t dare leave a visible trail if they wanted to live. It wasn’t much of a helicopter, but it did carry rockets—and their BRM was an armored personnel carrier, but it wasn’t that armored.
“What’s he doing?” Buikov asked.
“If he’s looking, he’s not being very careful about it.”
The Chinese were driving up a pathway built ages ago for an unbuilt spur off the Trans-Siberian Railroad. It was wide, in some places five hundred meters, and fairly well-graded. Someone in years past had thought about building this spur to exploit the unsurveyed riches of Siberia—enough to cut down a lot of trees, and they’d barely grown back in the harsh winters. Just saplings in this pathway now, easily ground into splinters by tracked vehicles. Farther north, the work was being continued by army engineers, making a path to the new gold find, and beyond that to the oil discoveries on the Arctic Coast. When they got that far, the Chinese would find a good road, ready-made for a mechanized force to exploit. But it was a narrow one, and the Chinese would have to learn about flank security if they kept this path up.
Aleksandrov remembered a Roman adventure into Germany, a soldier named Quintilius Varus, commanding three legions, who’d ignored his flanks, and lost his army in the process to a German named Armenius. Might the Chinese make a similar mistake? No, everyone knew of the Teutonenberg Forest disaster. It was a textbook lesson in every military academy in the known world. Quintilius Varus had been a political commander, given that command because he’d been beloved of his emperor, Caesar Augustus, obviously not because of his operational skill. It was a lesson probably better remembered by soldiers than by politicians. And the Chinese army was commanded by soldiers, wasn’t it?
“That’s the fox,” Buikov said. This was the other officer in the Chinese unit, probably the subordinate of the gardener. Similar in size, but he had less interest in plants than he had in darting about. As they watched, he disappeared into the tree line to the east, and if he went by the form card, he’d be invisible for five to eight minutes.
“I could use a smoke,” Sergeant Buikov observed.
“That will have to wait, Sergeant.”
“Yes, Comrade Captain. May I have a sip of water, then?” he asked petulantly. It wasn’t water he wanted, of course.
“Yes, I’d like a shot of vodka, too, but I neglected to bring any with me, as, I am sure, you did as well.”
“Regrettably, yes, Comrade Captain. A good slug of vodka helps keep the chill away in these damp woods.”
“And it also dulls the senses, and we need our senses, Boris Yevgeniyevich, unless you enjoy eating rice. Assuming the Chinks take prisoners, which I rather doubt. They do not like us, Sergeant, and they are not a civilized people. Remember that.”
So, they don’t go to the ballet. Neither do I, Sergeant Buikov didn’t say aloud. His captain was a Muscovite, and spoke often of cultural matters. But like his captain, Buikov had no love for the Chinese, and even less now that he was looking at Chinese soldiers on the soil of his country. He only regretted not killing some, but killing was not his job. His job was watching them piss on his country, which somehow only made him angrier.
“Captain, will we ever get to shoot them?” the sergeant asked.
“In due course, yes, it will be our job to eliminate their reconnaissance elements, and yes, Boris, I look forward to that as well.” And, yes, I could use a smoke as well. And I’d love a glass of vodka right now. But he’d settle for some black bread and butter, which he did have in his track, three hundred meters to the north.
Six and a half minutes this time. The fox had at least looked into the woods to the east, probably listened for the sound of diesel engines, but heard nothing but the chirping of birds. Still, this Chink lieutenant was the more conscientious of the two, in Buikov’s opinion. They should kill him first, when the time came, the sergeant thought. Aleksandrov tapped the sergeant on the shoulder. “Our turn to leapfrog, Boris Yevgeniyevich.”
“By your command, Comrade Captain.” And both men moved out, crouching for the first hundred meters, and taking care not to make too much noise, until they heard the Chinese tracks start their engines. In five more minutes, they were back in their BRM and heading north, slowly picking their way through the trees, Aleksandrov buttered some bread and ate it, sipping water as he did so. When they’d traveled a thousand meters, their vehicle stopped, and the captain got on his big radio.
Who is Ingrid?” Tolkunov asked.
“Ingrid Bergman,” Major Tucker replied. “Actress, good-lookin’ babe in her day. All the Dark Stars are named for movie stars, Colonel. The troops did it.” There was a plastic strip on the monitor top to show which Dark Star was up and transmitting. Marilyn Monroe was back at Zhigansk for service, and Grace Kelly was the next one up, scheduled to go in fifteen hours. “Anyway”—he flipped a switch and then played a little with his mouse control—“there’s the Chinese lead elements.”
“Son of a bitch,” Tolkunov said, demonstrating his knowledge of American slang.
Tucker grinned. “Pretty good, ain’t it? Once I sent one over a nudist colony in California—that’s like a private park where people walk around naked all the time. You can tell the difference between the flat-chested ones and the ones with nice tits. Tell the natural blondes from the peroxide ones, too. Anyway, you use this mouse to control the camera—well, somebody else is doing it now up at Zhigansk. Anything in particular that you’re interested in?”
“The bridges on the Amur,” Tolkunov said at once. Tucker picked up a radio microphone.
“This is Major Tucker. We have a tasking request. Slew Camera Three onto the big crossing point.”
“Roger,” the speaker next to the monitor said.
The picture changed immediately, seeming to race across the screen like a ribbon from ten o‘clock down to four o’clock. Then it stabilized. The field of view must have been four kilometers across. It showed a total of what appeared to be eight bridges, each of them approached by what looked like a parade of insects.
“Give me control of Camera Three,” Tucker said next.
“You got it, sir,” the speaker acknowledged.
“Okay.” Tucker played with the mouse more than the keyboard, and the picture zoomed in—“isolated”—on the third bridge from the west. There were three tanks on it at once, moving at about ten kilometers per hour south to north. The display showed a compass rose in case you got disoriented, and it was even in color. Tolkunov asked why.
“No more expensive than black-and-white cameras, and we put it on the system because it sometimes shows you things you don’t get from gray. First time for overheads, even the satellites don’t do color yet,” Tucker explained. Then he frowned. “The angle’s wrong, can’t get the divisional markings on the tanks without moving the platform. Wait.” He picked up the microphone again. “Sergeant, who’s crossing the bridges now?”
“Appears to be their Three-Oh-Second armored division, sir, part of the Twenty-Ninth Group-A Army. The Thirty-Fourth Army is fully across now. We estimate one full regiment of the Three-Oh-Second is across and moving north at this time,” the intel weenie reported, as though relating the baseball scores from yesterday.
“Thanks, Sarge.”
“Roger that, Maj.”
“And they can’t see this drone?” Tolkunov asked.
“Well, on radar it’s pretty stealthy, and there’s another little trick we have on it. Goes back to World War II, called Project Yehudi back then, you put lights on the thing.”
“What?” Tolkunov asked.
“Yeah, you spot airplanes because they’re darker’n the sky, but if you put lightbulbs on ’em, they turn invisible. So, there are lights on the airframe, and a photo sensor dials the brightness automatically. They’re damned near impossible to spot—they cruise at sixty thousand feet, way the hell above contrail level, and they got no infrared signature at all, hardly—even if you know where to look, and they tell me you can’t hardly make an air-to-air missile lock onto one. Pretty cool toy, eh?”
“How long have you had this?”
“I’ve been working on it, oh, about four years now.”
“I’ve heard of Dark Star, but this capability is amazing.”
Tucker nodded. “Yeah, it’s pretty slick. Nice to know what the other guy’s doing. First time we deployed it was over Yugoslavia, and once we learned how to use it, and how to coordinate it with the shooters, well, we learned to make their lives pretty miserable. Tough shit, Joe.”
“Joe?”
“Joe Chink.” Tucker pointed at the screen. “That’s what we mainly call him.” The friendly nickname for Koreans had once been Luke the Gook. “Now, Ingrid doesn’t have it yet, but Grace Kelly does, a laser designator, so you can use these things to clobber targets. The fighter just lofts the bomb in from, oh, maybe twenty miles away, and we guide it into the target. I’ve only done that at Red Flag, and we can’t do it from here with this terminal, but they can up at Zhigansk.”
“Guide bombs from six hundred kilometers away?”
“Yeah. Hell, you can do it from Washington if you want. It all goes over the satellite, y’know?”
“Yob tvoyu maht!”
“Soon we’re going to make the fighter jocks obsolete, Colonel. Another year or so and we’ll be doing terminal guidance on missiles launched from a coupla hundred miles away. Won’t need fighter pilots then. Guess I’ll have to buy me a scarf. So, Colonel, what else do you want to see?”
The 11-86 landed at a rustic fighter base with only a few helicopters on it, Colonel Mitch Turner noted. As divisional intelligence officer, he was taking in a lot of what he saw in Russia, and what he saw wasn’t all that encouraging. Like General Diggs, he’d entered the Army when the USSR had been the main enemy and principal worry for the United States Army, and now he was wondering how many of the intelligence estimates he’d help draft as a young spook officer had been pure fantasy. Either that or the mighty had fallen farther and faster than any nation in history. The Russian army wasn’t even a shadow of what the Red Army had been. The “Rompin’, Stompin’ Russian Red Ass” so feared by NATO was as dead as the stegosaurus toys his son liked to play with, and right now that was not such a good thing. The Russian Federation looked like a rich family of old with no sons to defend it, and the girl kids were getting raped. Not a good thing. The Russians, like America, still had nuclear weapons—bombs, deliverable by bombers and tactical fighters. However, the Chinese had missiles to deliver theirs, and they were targeted at cities, and the Big Question was whether the Russians had the stones to trade a few cities and, say, forty million people for a gold mine and some oil fields. Probably not, Turner figured. Not something a smart man would do. Similarly, they could not afford a war of attrition against a country with nine times as many people and a healthier economy, even over this ground. No, if they were to defeat the Chinese, it had to be with maneuver and agility, but their military was in the shitter, and neither trained nor equipped to play maneuver warfare.
This, Turner thought on reflection, was going to be an interesting war. It was not the sort he wanted to fight. Better to clobber a dumb little enemy than mix it up with a smart powerful one. It might not be glorious, but it was a hell of a lot safer.
“Mitch,” General Diggs said, as they stood to walk off the airplane. “Thoughts?”
“Well, sir, we might have picked a better place to fly to. Way things look, this is going to be a little exciting.”
“Go on,” the general ordered.
“The other side has better cards. More troops, better-trained troops, more equipment. Their task, crossing a lot of nasty country, is not enviable, but neither is the Russian task, defending against it. To win they have to play maneuver warfare. But I don’t see that they have the horsepower to pull it off.”
“Their boss out here, Bondarenko. He’s pretty good.”
“So was Erwin Rommel, sir, but Montgomery whupped his ass.”
There were staff cars lined up to drive them into the Russian command post. The weather was clearer here, and they were close enough to the Chinese that a clear sky wasn’t something to enjoy anymore.