Red Army

"Your father is on the secure radio. He wants to speak to you. Can you talk to him?"

His father. Anton rose quickly, a bit too quickly. As though he had been caught committing an indiscretion. Letting his father down.

The chief of staff helped him across the command post to the vehicle containing the secure radio sets. An operator pulled up a stool for Anton.

But Anton would not sit. Not in the presence of his father.

"Your call sign is 'Firebird,'" the operator said. "The front commander is 'Blizzard.'"

Firebird. Blizzard. Anton took the microphone, steeling himself.

"Blizzard, this is Firebird."

His father's voice came to him, instantly recognizable even through the disturbed airways. "This is Blizzard. Report your situation."

Anton sought to order his thoughts. "This is Firebird . . ." he began.

"We are in heavy combat. Enemy units have penetrated . . ." He forced his speech to behave, to conform to military standards. It required an 312

RED ARMY

enormous effort, the greatest of his life. "We have been penetrated by American armored forces attacking on a minimum of two axes. We have suffered heavy casualties, especially to enemy attack helicopters. Our current course of action involves the establishment of a series of local defenses, oriented on retaining control of vital intersections. We are attempting to channel and slow the enemy's attack."

The voice at the other end was slow in responding. Did I make a mistake? Anton wondered. Did I get something wrong? He stared out through the open rear of the vehicle, straining to read the situation map's details from an impossible distance, desperate to offer his father whatever he wanted.

"Firebird, this is Blizzard. Your decision is approved. Continue local defensive actions. Do all that you can to break the enemy's tempo of attack and to disrupt his plan." The voice paused, and Anton thought for a moment that the transmission had come to an end. He nearly panicked.

He wanted to tell his father . . . he wasn't certain . . . but he knew there were important things to say. Yet how was he to say them now, using this means? The officers and technical specialists around him stared. The hull of the vehicle had grown very still, as had the entire command post. They were all listening. Only the irregular sputterings of fire off in the distance offered any covering noise at all.

"You must hold out," the voice came back, and Anton imagined that he could detect a note of human warmth in it now. He realized with perfect lucidity what such a breach in his rigorous personal discipline must have cost the old man. "You must hold out. We will support you.

We will support you with every available sortie of attack aircraft. You may expect relief by our ground forces in twelve to eighteen hours . . ."

Again, the voice paused. "Can you hold on?"

Anton straightened his back. "Blizzard, this is Firebird. We will do our duty."

"I know you will do your duty," the distant voice said. "I know that all of your soldiers will do their duty. And you will have all the support the Motherland has to give you. Good luck." And his father formally ended the transmission.

Anton stood still. He felt as though a critical link had been severed, not just in a military context, but in his life. He wanted to hear his father's voice a little longer. Anything not to let go of the old man.

Voices picked up around him, calling in nervous haste. The chief of staff yelled for the ranking forward air controller. Yes, sorties. Aircraft.

We'll hang on, Anton thought.

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Ralph Peters

His stomach rebelled. The pang hit him so violently that it bent him over the radio set, and he feared he would lose all control on the spot. He hurried for the entrance flap in the canvas.

The chief of staff* touched him. "Comrade Commander, can I help you?"

"I'm all right," Anton said, pushing by. "I'm all right. I'll be back in a moment."

He blundered at the tentage, extricating himself with difficulty.

Outside, he had to step carefully across deep ruts cut by the vehicles as they positioned themselves between the trees. He looked around, trying to spot the perimeter guards. He did not want anyone to see him.

His intestines bit him again, struggling to empty themselves. Anton staggered. He decided that he could not worry who saw him. He touched a tree trunk for stability and caught himself around an antenna line. He broke free in an angry fit, charging past the tethers. Bushes caught his trousers.

He forced himself to march a little longer, to put a few low shrubs between his act and the field command post. Then he tore at his clothing, stripping down. He lowered himself against the trunk of a tree in his agony, straining to crouch on burning calves.

He knew he had failed. He had failed at everything for which he had spent his lifetime preparing. Now his father was trying to rescue him. He had even corrupted his father.