Red Army

"Let's go," Gordunov told his pilot. Moments later, his own aircraft and two others split north, away from the element headed for the landing zone south of town and the southern bridge. The lead element had gone in on the far bank to secure the primary bridge in the north. The plan called for Gordunov, his headquarters element, and two squads from the special assault platoon to jump from a rolling hover onto the roof of a hospital building from which fields of fire commanded the west-bank approaches to the primary bridge, and from where Gordunov could control the initial actions of his battalion. The other special assault troops had been designated to block to the northeast, but they had been lost in flight. Now the main highway from the north on the near bank would be uncovered. And Dukhonin had tanks crossing up there.

131

Ralph Peters

The hospital came up fast, emerging from the gaps between other buildings. Gordunov spotted the river. He fixed the bridge. The burning hulk of an infantry fighting vehicle stood at its eastern approach. Last random traffic crowded in an urgent attempt to reach the western bank.

Gordunov felt the press of events now. He had time for one more brief transmission.

"Hawk, have the gunships clear to the north and west. Don't pull out of here until you've cleared those tactical crossing sites in the north, or I'll kill you myself."

Gordunov unhooked his safety strap, then glanced over his shoulder.

His command party was ready to go. Terrified. Faces all nervous energy and fear in a volatile mixture.

"Slow now. Damn it, slow," he told the pilot.

He stripped off his headset and threw it forward. He pulled on his helmet and unhitched his assault rifle. The helicopter moved in a slow, hovering forward roll along the flat roof of the designated building, just high enough to clear the assortment of vents and fans.

Always a bad moment. No matter how many times you did it.

Miss the vent, watch the vent.

Gordunov jumped through the door, one foot skidding on the wet lip.

As he leapt clear he could already feel the pressure of the next man behind him.

He hit the roof with one foot leading, and the pain toppled him over and jerked him into a curled-up roll. Hell, he thought, furious at his beginner's clumsiness. Right foot. Or the ankle. He couldn't isolate the pain yet.

Now. Now of all possible times.

Gordunov hugged his weapon as if he could squeeze the pain into it, while the slow rain teased his neck below the helmet rim. A blast hurt his ears. He climbed out of his preoccupation with his misfortune. An antitank missile slithered off the launch rails of a nearby helicopter, hunting a target off to the north. In a few seconds, Gordunov heard a clang and a roar.

Just don't be broken, Gordunov told his injury. You can't be broken, damn you. And he forced himself to roll over and cover his field of fire.

The roof was clear to the south. He heard friendly voices now. Shouted names. Yan. Georgi. Misha.

A hand touched Gordunov's back. "Are you all right, Comrade Battalion Commander?"

Gordunov grunted and pushed the hand away. Disorganized small-arms fire sounded from several directions.

132 —

RED ARMY

"First squad reports that the upper floor is clear. No opposition. But the hospital is full."

It was Levin, the deputy commander for political affairs, a little puppy dog who had learned to quote Lenin and the current Party lords.

Gordunov suspected that Levin even believed half of it or more. And he wanted to be a soldier. Well, Captain Levin was about to get his chance.

Gordunov pulled himself up on his knees behind the low wall rimming the roof. The pain was definitely in his ankle now, and it was excruciat-ing. Perhaps it was just a sprain, he thought. Sprains could hurt worse than breaks. He made a deal with his body. He would accept any amount of pain, as long as the ankle was not broken.

"Communications. Bronch," Gordunov shouted. "Comms, damn it. I need to talk."

The soldiers of the command section came scrambling along the roof.

A rifleman swiftly leaned his weapon over the balustrade and fired a burst down into the street. He had not unfolded the stock of the assault rifle, and he had little control of it. But he crouched lower, almost a cartoon of a warrior, and fired a second burst. Then the boy hunkered behind the protective barrier.

Gordunov could tell that the boy had no idea what he was shooting at.

In combat, it made some men feel good just to fire their weapons. And there were others you had to beat with your fists in order to get them to let off a single round.

Sergeant Bronchevitch held a microphone out to him.

"The battalion net is operational, Comrade Commander."

Gordunov grasped the mike. "Now get the long-range burster up," he told his communications specialist. A gunship passed overhead, then another, flying off in echelon.

Where were they going? Gordunov knew the helicopters had not finished their area-clearing mission.