“I’ll get over it. Right now, the military situation demands my full attention.
You know my rule: Duty first and last.”
Like any good soldier given an order, Polyakov had nodded and obeyed.
What else could he do? But now, looking at his leader, he was beginning to think he should have pushed harder to try to get the older man to seek medical attention.
“And do we believe our good Russian friends and neighbors, Aleksandr?” the tank division commander asked wryly. “About these so-called antiterrorist measures?”
Marchuk shrugged. Even that small movement seemed to take an effort.
“Terrorism is a serious threat. The Chechens and others will strike at Moscow and its interests whenever and wherever they can. We all know that.” He coughed hoarsely, paused for a moment to catch his breath, and then forced himself to carry on. “But I have not seen any information?either from our own government or from the Russians themselves?that would justify so much military activity on so large a scale.”
“Then what should we do?” one of the other officers murmured.
“We will take precautions of our own,” Marchuk said grimly. “To keep ‘Czar Viktor’ and his cronies in Moscow honest, if nothing else. A little show of force on our part should go a long way toward deterring any idiocy by the Kremlin.” He pushed himself to his feet and stood facing the map. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. His face was gray. He swayed once.
Polvakov started forward, but the general waved him back. “I’m fine, Dmitry,” he muttered. “Just a little light-headed, that’s all.”
His subordinates exchanged worried glances.
Marchuk forced a ragged smile. “What’s the matter, gentlemen? Never seen anyone with the flu before?” He coughed again, this time a prolonged, hacking cough that left him head down and panting for air. He looked up with another faint smile. “Don’t worry. I promise not to breathe on any of you.”
That drew a nervous laugh.
Recovering slightly, the general leaned forward, supporting himself with his hands. “Now, listen carefully,” he told them, plainly fighting for every word. “Starting later tonight, I want all Read}’ Force divisions and brigades brought to a higher alert status. All personnel leaves must be canceled. All officers away from their units for an}’ reason should be recalled?at once. And by dawn tomorrow morning, I want ever}’ operational tank, infantry fighting vehicle, and self-propelled gun in this command fitted out with a full load of ammunition and fuel. The same goes for ever}’ transport and combat helicopter fit to fly. Once that is done, your units will begin moving to their wartime deployment areas to conduct special winter maneuvers.”
“Bringing so many troops to full combat readiness will be expensive,” his chief of staff pointed out quietly. “Extremely expensive. Parliament will ask serious questions. The defense budget this year is very tight.”
“Screw the budget!” Marchuk snapped, straightening up in irritation. “And screw the politicians in Kiev! Our job is to defend the homeland; not worry about budgets.” Abruptly, his face grew grayer still and he swayed again. He shuddered visibly, plainly wracked by a wave of terrible pain, and then folded slowly forward, collapsing facedown across the conference table. An ashtray crashed to the floor, spilling soot and cigarette butts across the frayed carpet.
Stunned officers jumped to their feet, crowding around their fallen commander.
Polyakov pushed through them, heedless of rank. The major touched Marchuk’s shoulder gently and then felt his forehead. He yanked his hand away. His eyes opened wide in shock. “Mother of God,” he whispered. “The general is burning up.”
“Turn him over onto his back,” someone suggested. “And loosen his tie and collar. Give him room to breathe.”
Working quickly, Polyakov and another junior aide obeyed, tearing open shirt and jacket buttons in their haste. There were gasps from around the crowded room when parts of Marchuk’s neck and chest came into view. Almost even inch of his skin seemed covered in raw, bleeding sores.
Polyakov swallowed convulsively, fighting against the urge to throw up. He swung away. “Fetch a doctor!” he yelled, horror-stricken by what he had seen.
“For God’s sake, someone fetch a doctor now!”
Hours later, Major Dmitry Polyakov sat slumped forward on a bench in the hallway just outside the intensive care unit of the Oblast Clinic Hospital.
Bleary-eyed and depressed, he stared down at the cracked tile floor, ignoring the muffled, incomprehensible squawks of the PA system periodically summoning various doctors and nurses to different sections of the building.
A single pair of gleaming, highly polished boots intruded on Polyakov’s view. Sighing, the major looked up and saw a dour, thin-faced officer staring down at him with evident disapproval. For an instant he bristled, but then he caught sight of the twin gold stars of a lieutenant general on the other man’s white-and red-embroidered shoulder boards and jumped to his feet. He threw his shoulders back, and lifted his chin high, standing braced at attention.
“You must be Polyakov, Marchuk’s senior aide,” the other man snapped. It was not a question.
The major nodded stiffly, still at attention. “Yes, sir.”
“My name is Tymoshenko,” the much shorter, thin-faced officer told him coldly. “Lieutenant General Fduard Tymoshenko. I’ve been sent from Kiev to assume command here, by order of both the defense minister and the president himself.”
Polvakov struggled to hide his dismay. Tymoshenko was known throughout the army’s officer corps as a political hack, one of hundreds left over from the days before the Ukraine regained its independence from the disintegrat-ing Soviet Union. His reputation as a field commander was dismal. Those who had endured his leadership spoke bitterly of a man more concerned with mindless spit-and-polish than with real combat readiness. These days he spent most of his time in various posts inside the Defense Ministry, energetically shuffling papers from one side of his desk to the other while making sure that influential politicians regarded him as indispensable.
“What is General Marchuk’s present condition?” Tymoshenko demanded.
“The general is still unconscious, sir,” Polyakov reported reluctantly. “And according to the doctors, his vital signs are deteriorating rapidly. So far, he is not responding to any’ treatment.”
“I see.” Tymoshenko sniffed, turning his head to stare contemptuously at the drearv surroundings. After a moment, he looked back at the younger man.
“And the cause of this unfortunate illness? I heard some nonsense about radiation poisoning just before leaving Kiev.”
“No one knows yet,” Polvakov admitted. “The hospital is running a complete battery of tests, but the results may not come back for hours, perhaps even days.”
Tymoshenko arched a single gray eyebroyv. “In that case, Major, may I suggest there is no longer any purpose to be served by haunting these corridors like some little lost lapdog? General Marchuk will live ?or he will die. And I am quite confident that he will do so with or yvithout your presence.” He smiled thinly. “In the meantime, it seems that I need an aide myself, at least until I can locate a more efficient and deserving young officer.”
Polyakov did his best to ignore the insult. Instead, he simply nodded expressionlessly. “Yes, sir. I will do my best.”
“Good.” Tymoshenko nodded toward the exit. “My staff car is waiting outside. You can ride back to headquarters with me. And once yve’re there, I want you to arrange temporary quarters for me. Something comfortable, I trust.
You can clear out Marchuk’s billet bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“But?” Polyakov began.
The dour little general stared up at him. “Yes?” he snapped. “What is it, Major?”
“What about the Russians? And the border situation?” Polyakov asked, not bothering to conceal his surprise. “General Marchuk intended to deploy the Command’s fighting formations to their maneuver areas at first light tomorrow.”
Tymoshenko frowned. “So I understand.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Naturally, I canceled those orders as soon as I arrived.” He shook his head derisively. “Full-scale maneuvers in the dead of yvinter? With all the
