Red Army

She was a fine, loving, exuberant chaos of a woman, absolutely inappropriate for the role of an officer's wife. She could never remember the ranks of the other wives' husbands; she was only half-aware that Anton wore a rank himself. If Zena liked her, a lieutenant's child bride was as good as a marshal's dowager. And naturally, since she was married to a Malinsky, the wives from the upper echelons assumed that Zena purposely snubbed them. Zena was an open, honest, naive, hated woman who danced jauntily through it all, never fully aware of the nastiness behind the smiles, singing her little Beatles' songs learned from Western tapes. He played Scriabin, and she listened, curled up like a cat on an old peasant stove. But left to her own devices, she buoyed in and out of 117

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rooms, delighted and frenetic with life, singing in her phonetically memorized English, "Honey Pie, you are making me cra-a-zy . . ."

Tears came to his eyes as he pictured her, straight red hair draping a white throat made for jewels. Jeans and jewels. Zena. He touched his eyes, dreading discovery, and a queasiness that had been nipping at his stomach for the last few hours twisted in him again. He hoped he was not getting sick, even as the beginning of illness soured his mood still further.

He felt now that his entire life had been a masquerade. The brooding, serious officer. It had been all right as long as there wasn't a real war. He had not even had to go to Afghanistan. Instead, he had been shipped off to Cuba, under the protection of General Starukhin, the senior Soviet military representative in Havana. Starukhin was an abusive drunkard, clever and talented enough to survive, and indebted to Anton's father. He had treated Anton carefully. And Cuba had been a good assignment.

Anton had run the motorized rifle troops and several special training programs. But life had been slower in the tropics, and there had always been a little time to live, and he had even been able to take Zena with him. The Cubans had had no interest in socializing with Russians beyond the requirements of official functions. But he and Zena had lived in a world all their own, going down to the beach together when a bit of free time could be scavenged, or spending a rare weekend in Havana, in the splendid, run-down aftermath of decadence. "What fine little capitalists we might have made, darling," Zena had teased him. "Wicked rum and the stars on the water, a casino perhaps, and my Anton in that dreaded capitalist uniform, a dinner jacket."

Now he was here, in Germany, in the mud, and everything was painfully real. The war was real. And he did not know if he could accomplish his assigned tasks, if he could really be his father's son. He knew all of the phrases and the drills, all of the wisdom of the classroom and the training range. But would he be able to lead men into battle?

Would he be able to manage the complexity? Would he be able to do it right when it really mattered? In his heart, he doubted his adequacy.

Perhaps the hard men of the Revolution had been correct. Perhaps the old families were no more than parasites. Useless. Perhaps the Bolsheviks should not have stopped until they had purged every last man, woman, and child.

Anton thought of his father again, and the theory fell apart. His father would pay the Soviets in full for what little they had given him; he would overpay them. But he was not a Soviet man, no matter what he said and no matter what they said. His wonderful Russian father, as great as the 118

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low hills and the endless steppes. As great as summer and winter. Anton smiled. Surely, the old man was in his glory now, as strong as his son was weak. Perhaps this time the plaudits would outstrip those gained at the gates of Plevna. Or the entry into Paris.

Yes. Paris. And Zena. One of their many fantastic dreams. But he had pictured it all a bit differently than this.

His driver came around the trees, plopping through the mud, struggling to balance two steaming cups. Tea. And Chopin. And Zena.

Anton shook his head in wordless sorrow.

"Flight Leader, I have you on my screen. You are cleared for auxiliary runway number two. Don't screw around. We have more hostiles on the way."

"This is Zero-Five-Eight. Roger. Auxiliary number two. Coming straight in."

"Watch for the smoke, Flight Leader. We have burning fuel."

"With me, Fifty-nine?" Sobelev called to his wingman.

"Roger, Fifty-eight."

"You're in first. Number two's longer than it looks, but it comes up suddenly behind the trees. Don't flare early. You'll be just fine."

But Sobelev himself was unprepared for the sight of the airfield. Fuel fires raged, and black smoke rose thickly against the gray sky. Vehicles with warning lights ran along the apron, and planes lifted through what appeared to be great hoops of fire. From several kilometers out, the litter NATO raids had left behind challenged the pilot's confidence.

"Flight Leader, this is Control. I have you visual."