being prepared with the correct ordnance packages.
Sobelev led the way down the grimy corridor. He was seriously worried about his ability to keep going without making deadly mistakes. He could accept the fact that the enemy might get him even if he performed perfectly. But he did not want to die because of an error.
He looked at his wingman. The boy looked as though he had been sick for a week. “Feeling all right?”
The lieutenant nodded. “Was it ever this bad in Afghanistan?”
“Not even remotely. No comparison.”
They rang a bell for admittance at the oversized steel door. The special facility was identified only with a number. A lieutenant colonel from the intelligence services opened the door slightly, looked them over, then allowed them inside. Maps and aerial photographs, some of which were impressive blowups, covered the walls of the briefing chamber.
“Sit down, Comrades. I must ask you to remain in this room and only this room. If any of you need to visit the latrine, you’ll have to go back outside. This complex is restricted to intelligence personnel only. Now, can I offer you some tea?”
The pilots declined as a group.
“Well,” the briefer began, “you’re all in luck.” He glanced from face to face, an eager lieutenant colonel, conditioned to the paper reality of staff work. “This ought to be the easiest mission anyone’s had all day.” He turned to the map with his pointer. “This is the city of Lueneburg. Actually, more of a large town. The photos on the walls show the air approaches to the heart of the old town and various key features, such as the town square, the town hall, and so forth. Your mission consists of the destruction by aerial means of certain physical structures within the town. Each of the photographs on the far wall shows a specific target. They’re very clearly identified, as you can see. There are three targets, or target groups. Two planes to a target. The last pair of aircraft — let’s see, that would be… Bronchuk and Ignatov — will take pictures.”
“Just a moment,” one pilot said. “What’s the military value of the target?”
The lieutenant colonel appeared surprised at the question. “The target,” he said, “is just the town itself. Don’t worry, we assess a minimal air defense threat in sector. You’ll be safe. Our own troops are already in the vicinity.”
“But what’s the military purpose? The enemy’s bombing the hell out of our air bases, and we’re attacking little towns nobody’s ever heard of?”
The staff officer’s last hesitant smile disappeared. The exchange was underscored by a series of blasts thudding dully up on the surface.
“You will do as you’re told,” the briefer said. “There is no time — or allowance — for argument. You will all do exactly as you’re told.”
Kryshinin lay on the canvas litter, waiting for the ambulance to begin moving again. He felt inexplicably weak now, tired beyond reason. He kept his eyes closed because it was so much easier. He could not understand why his wound did not hurt any worse. There was only a dull discomfort, an unwillingness on the part of his torso to move. He felt lightheaded, and he was no longer sure that he was conscious without interruption. Over and over again, the scenes of battle played back in his head, and he was vaguely aware of calling instructions, trying to warn his men. Bylov, the air controller, sat on the roof, and the world was in flames, and Bylov was eating his lunch as though unaware of the violence and waste around him.
“Vera,” Kryshinin said. “Vera, I have to explain.” He could not understand where Vera had gone. Only a moment ago, his wife had been beside him. Now he could not remember where she had gone.
His immediate surroundings returned. The grimy interior of a battlefield ambulance, waiting, sickening with exhaust fumes and the smells of ruined bodies. Two medical orderlies chatted with each other between the packed litters.
“This one’s gone.”
“Can’t be helped. Nothing to do. If they want to hold us up for everybody in the army to get past, we’ll lose them all. None of our doing.”
“Have a look. See if it’s still tanks going by.”
“You have a look if you want. I can tell by the sound that it’s tanks.”
“You’re closer to the door.”
They were stuck in a minefield, Kryshinin realized. They needed someone to lead them. He wanted to explain to them how it could be done, but they wouldn’t wait for him. He struggled to speak, muttering, but unable to get the words out in order.
“This one looks bad. He needs a transfusion quick,” an orderly said. “He’s white as snow.”
“Unless piss works, he’s out of luck.”
Kryshinin suddenly realized that they were talking about him. And he wanted to reply. But he did not know what to say, or how to say it now. And it seemed as though it would take an absurd, unreasonable amount of energy to speak.
“Well, to hell with them, anyway. At least they’re officers and they get to die in an ambulance.”
Vera. He knew he had seen her. She had been there a moment before, wearing her green dress that was growing a bit too tight. No.
He had not thought of Vera once during the battle. Perhaps that was a sign of how far apart they had grown. Nothing had worked out as planned. Nothing ever quite worked between them. They fought over trivial things, and he knew he drank too much at the officers’ canteen, but he did it anyway. And Vera carried her resentment in silence until it suddenly exploded into vicious, public anger, for all of the families in the officers’ quarters to hear.
But it could all be mended. Kryshinin felt the warmth of conviction. If only he could see her now, it could all be put right. It was all foolishness. And they must have children. When he found out that Vera had had two abortions without telling him, he had beaten her so badly that she could not go outside for almost two weeks.
But the lieutenant failed to obey the command. He reached to catch an object hurtling through the air, and he burst apart as though his body were the climax of a fireworks display.
“I need support, can you hear me?
Vera surrounded by clouds of black smoke.
“Sounds as if this one had an interesting day,” one of the orderlies said in amusement.
“It just gets on your nerves after a while,” the other replied.
Halfway between the improvised helipad and the concealed forward command post of the Third Shock Army, the range car carrying Lieutenant General Starukhin down the muddy trail backfired once, shook, and sank to a stop. The sudden absence of mechanical noise startled the general. The world seemed to stop inside the big perceived silence, despite the vigor of the rain and the dull, distant sound of the war like a hangover in the ears. Each rustle of uniforms and wet leather straps seemed amplified, and the sour smell of tired men in damp uniforms grew unaccountably sharper.
Overcoming his initial bewilderment and horror, the junior sergeant behind the steering wheel clumsily tried to restart the vehicle, but the engine would not come to life. Instead of waiting for the dispatch of his own vehicle from the headquarters, Starukhin had hurriedly commandeered the immediately available range car, unwilling to lose the extra ten or fifteen minutes. Now he sat heavily in the little vehicle, with no means of communication, still several kilometers from his command post, mocked by the barrage of rain on the canvas roof.
The young driver carefully avoided looking around, fixing his eyes on the dashboard as though his stare might bully the machine back to life. The two aides accompanying Starukhin remained carefully silent. Starukhin listened to the boy’s fumbling for as long as he could bear it, then shouted:
“You can’t
The boy shot out of the vehicle, banging against the door frame with bruising haste. Beyond the rain-smeared windshield, Starukhin could see him fumbling with the engine cover. In the blurred background, the rain seemed to have scoured all of the color out of the sky and landscape.
