colonel they had sent to report on him and whose sudden death had been so shocking. Obviously, the powers had better things to do.
So that left him with the matter of the saboteurs. He suspected that they were infiltrating his lines from Potsdam and causing the havoc in front of him. Bazarian briefly considered an artillery barrage to remind the Americans that he was still their master and they were effectively his prisoners, but decided not to. The directive to hoard resources was too specific for him to take a chance on disobedience. For the time being, at least, the people in the perimeter were snug and secure and would remain so. He would not attack or bombard, and was unable to do much about the now almost daily flights that had recommenced dropping supplies to the Americans. The flights infuriated him. How could the Americans get supplies and he could not?
So what to do about the saboteurs? First, he had to catch them. Then he would skin them alive and have one of his few scout planes drop the corpses into the perimeter. The thought made him smile. That would get their attention. He recalled that it was how his ancestors dealt with enemies and unwelcome visitors during sieges of castles.
Bazarian’s adjutant approached him and snapped to attention. “So?” Bazarian asked.
The adjutant, a young captain, was glum and nervous. Bazarian’s rages were becoming more and more violent as his frustrations increased. It would not be unusual for Bazarian to lash out and punch or kick someone who gave him news he did not want to hear.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the second guard died of his wounds.”
There had been two guards protecting the tanker. One was the corpse in the vehicle while the second, stabbed in the chest and throat, had been left for dead. While the saboteurs had been preparing to blow up the truck, the remaining guard had regained a level of consciousness and, through superhuman effort, managed to crawl away before passing out again. The saboteurs had probably looked for him to put in the cab with his comrade and given up quickly rather than take time searching and risk discovery.
It had been Bazarian’s fervent hope that the man would shed some light on who his adversaries were and just how they operated. For instance, just how did they manage to overcome two alert and well-armed guards? This was the third time this had happened, and the guards were all on their toes. After all, didn’t their lives depend on it?
“Did he say anything before he died?”
“Yes, General, he did.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Bazarian stared at the young captain. “Do you intend to tell me?”
Bazarian saw that his adjutant was almost trembling. Good God, he thought, what on earth did the now dead guard manage to say, and why does this dolt think I will be angry upon hearing it? Doesn’t the idiot realize that I will be angrier if he persists in this nonsensical silence? Finally, the captain gathered his nerves.
“General, the guard said that the man who attacked him was an NKVD officer.”
Bazarian staggered as if struck by a blow. “Impossible.”
The captain was insistent. “Sir, that’s what he said, and then he died.”
“Are you certain?” Bazarian asked. After all, the creature had his throat sliced pretty badly. Perhaps he had been misunderstood.
The captain shook his head. “Sir, he was pretty hard to understand, but I repeated it and kept asking if that was what he was trying to tell me. He kept nodding yes.”
Bazarian was as superstitious as the next man, and he regarded a person’s deathbed confession or statement as being sacred holy writ. Therefore, the statement stunned him. An NKVD officer? Why?
He dismissed his adjutant, who almost ran in his haste to get away from his temperamental leader.
Why?
He tried to think. First, the guard was doubtless sincere in what he saw, or at least thought he saw. He had to think it really was the NKVD, and that would explain just how the terrorists had managed to get so close to the guards. The NKVD were gods in the army and could do what they wished and go wherever they desired.
That led to the second question: Was it really an NKVD officer? Again, he had to presume yes. Their uniforms were distinctive, and everyone who valued his life knew them. No one would make the mistake. Once they saw the crimson piping on the collar patches and the shield with the vertical sword in a blue oval, they knew that even the most trivial act of perceived disobedience could result in instant death through summary execution, or a frozen eternity spent in Siberia.
Therefore, why was the NKVD doing this to him? Was it revenge for the fool colonel whose name he could no longer even remember, or was it revenge for the failure to take Potsdam in the earlier assault? While attractive as motives, neither seemed credible. It had to be something deeper.
Of course. The explanation was clear and simple.
The Russian command wanted him to fail. He was one of the few non-Russians in a position of authority and he had been entrusted with the ultimate conquest of Potsdam. He knew that the siege was being given a high degree of publicity in the capitalist press and even in Moscow, and was a key part of Operation Red Inferno. If he succeeded, he would be a hero and probably even be promoted to lieutenant general, a rank he felt he richly deserved. If he succeeded, Stavka would be practically forced to recognize his efforts, and all Armenia would bathe in his glory.
But what if he failed?
Well, people would simply shrug and say, “What did you expect from some black-ass from the south, an Armenian, no less?” His disgrace would result in his loss of command and banishment to protecting some obscure border with a nation more despicable than Romania. If he failed, he would be replaced and his army removed so the Russians, the golden boys, could take the city and reap the renown.
It was so obvious. But what could he do? First, he would have to prove it was the NKVD. He would have to catch their man and then he would decide how to handle it. But what to use as bait?
Platoon Sergeant Bailey lowered his binoculars and wiped his sweaty brow with a dirty cloth. He, Logan, and a handful of others were in a small fortified observation post dug into the ground just past the road from which the Russians had launched their earlier assault. General Miller had decided to extend the perimeter to provide earlier warning of the next Russian attack. Even though the Reds had been quiet for some time, everyone considered the resumption of the battle as inevitable. Thus, they had spent much of their time improving their already formidable defenses.
“Lieutenant, are sieges always this boring?”
Logan laughed and shifted the still unfamiliar weight of his Luger, which was holstered on his waist. Like many Americans, he had taken to carrying extra weapons from the liberated German stores. “Now just what makes you think I would know? And what makes you think this is boring? Why not consider it a vacation from reality?”
Bailey grinned. They had been friends before Logan’s promotion. “Because now you’re an officer and supposed to know all these things. Besides, I thought the army was a vacation from reality in the first place.” Logan genially punched him on the arm and returned to watching the inactive and invisible Russians.
They had been on the outpost line for two days and were just about ready to rotate back to the main defense lines through the myriad of tunnels and deep trenches that made movement along the defensive lines fairly safe.
As he shifted, Logan felt the rustle of paper in his pocket. It was the letter from Elisabeth. He had read it a score of times and would read it again tonight. It was a very sensitive and eloquent statement of just how fond she was of him. At no time, he noted, had it mentioned the word love. They were both aware that their situation was both too sudden and too precarious for two very logical people to let their emotions run rampant. It wasn’t easy, however.
On a number of occasions, Logan had tried to sort out his feelings for her. His first thought was that she wasn’t what he’d always thought of as his type of woman. Mary Fran Collins had filled that bill. Larger-bosomed and taller, the naked Mary Fran was a lusty delight and they had reveled in each other’s bodies in those frantic days before he shipped out. Lis, on the other hand, was petite.
Mary Fran had not been the first girl he’d had sex with; she was the second. That distinction went to a girl in high school-her name was Florence Something-or-other-and getting her in the sack was no great trick. Instead, it was more of a rite of passage. Short and plump, she had screwed just about half the boys in his senior class. “Just tell her you love her,” one of his friends had instructed him, “and she’ll hurt herself trying to get out of her
