Red Army

"I'm rolling out. My wingman's coming in first."

"Roger. Do you need assistance on the ground?"

"Negative. Not unless we bugger it up."

"Your runway."

The lieutenant, Sobelev's wingman, took his aircraft in cleanly.

Sobelev remained surprised that they had made it this far, that they were still alive. For at least one more mission. He came around and followed his wingman in, bouncing on the runway.

"Talk to me, Control. Where am I going?"

"Proceed onto taxiway four. Move out. Hard hangars, crescent B."

"Numbers?"

"Just take the first open bay. This is war, my distinguished Comrade Aviator."

Sobelev guided his plane through the trailing smoke and the wreckage 119

Ralph Peters

of planes that had been caught on the ground. It struck him that all of this was an incredible waste, but now that he was on the ground, he realized that the focus of his life was to get to a latrine.

Sobelev's legs quivered as he stood on the concrete of the hangar floor, and his thighs felt spongy as he walked to the tunnel and collected his wingman. After a latrine stop, they reported to the mission room, deep underground. Muffled blasts sounded through the layers of earth, steel, and concrete. The enemy aircraft had returned.

As Sobelev and his wingman entered the mission room, the occupants went silent, and each face turned to see who had made it back. Several men offered greetings, but their voices were hollow with the knowledge that their survival might only be a temporary affair. Sobelev drew himself a cup of dark, steaming tea from the samovar. Conversations resumed, but the mood was serious, almost somber, unlike the swaggering tone of peacetime exercises. Now there was no question about who had passed and who had failed. Sobelev took a chair, listening to the patchwork dialogues of the other men and trying to calm his insides. His lieutenant took a seat close by, as though they were still in the air and he still required shepherding. There was one basic subject to which all of the talk returned.

"Sasha's down over Guetersloh. I couldn't see a chute."

"It's hard to see anything in this weather."

"Has anybody seen Profirov?"

"Profirov went deep."

"Vasaryan got clean, though. Good canopy opening."

"He'll come out all right. Luck of the Armenians."

"Couldn't even see what was shooting at us. The visibility was some of the worst I've ever flown in."

"And this forward air controller was absolutely worthless. Couldn't locate the enemy, couldn't get a fix on me . . ."

Sobelev began to grow conscious of less dramatic physical sensations now. His flight suit felt greasy and cold on his skin, stinking with the sweat of fear. The strong tea burned his empty stomach.

"How many more sorties do you think we'll run today?"

"They're not going to try to do this at night, are they? With these planes? In this weather?"

"Is there anything to eat around here? Any biscuits?"

The entrance of a staff officer interrupted the pilots' conversations.

The outsider strode to the blackboard, positioned himself for authority, and began to call names. Several times, the selected names met no 120

RED ARMY

response, and Sobelev realized that the staff did not have a firm grasp on which pilots were available at this point.

At the end of the grim roll call, Sobelev, his wingman, and six other pilots were ordered to report to a special top-security briefing room. The major could not tell them anything about their mission, only that their aircraft were 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.