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know beyond any doubt that they were there to fight. He coolly began to seek fresh targets, awaiting the fatal enemy round that would finish him off and give the enemy the crossroads.

But the enemy pulled back. They had been so close. Zirinsky could not understand it. The enemy's losses had been minimal in comparison to his own.

Then they came again. Zirinsky had found a good fighting position, tucked as closely as the heat would allow behind the smoldering wreck of one of his own tanks. Again, the enemy delivered artillery in his vicinity.

But this time it seemed little more than a drizzle in contrast to the earlier storm.

The enemy tanks dashed forward in bounds. Zirinsky waited, holding back his gunner until the targets were properly illuminated by the infrared searchlight. He identified three enemy tanks that could not get away if he did his work properly. They were obviously searching for him.

He waited.

At the last possible moment, Zirinsky engaged the enemy tanks in quick succession, methodically destroying all three. Now it seemed as though the enemy could not even see him, as though he were a ghost.

They fired in his general direction, but the rounds went wild, exploding along the treeline.

Zirinsky had already shot up half of his on-board ammunition in the series of engagements. He was especially low on high-velocity sabot now, the best tank killer. He tried his dead radio again, aching to communicate. It seemed to him that holding the crossroads was the most important thing on earth now, and he could not believe that no one had come to reinforce him.

The battlefield glowed with the light of slow-burning hulks, like random campfires. Zirinsky believed that he could count nine enemy tanks that had been put out of action.

The enemy tried a new tactic. A tank platoon raced at full speed down the road off to Zirinsky's left flank, firing smoke grenades out into the darkness. Soon, the familiar accompaniment of artillery came back to search for Zirinsky's lone tank. He ordered his driver to back up in order to reposition for a better range of shots.

The tank surged and heaved. But it could not break free of the earth.

They were stuck.

Hurriedly, Zirinsky sought the lead tank of the enemy platoon before it reached the dead space behind the hulk that also served as Zirinsky's protection.

His first shot missed.

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And Malinsky saw that Anton had escaped his grasp. The boy slid away from him, sleighing helplessly down the steep slope, falling backward, skidding out of control, looking up at the old man with reproachful eyes.

Malinsky ran, tumbling, after the child.

His son. His only son.

The dark crowds watched with no evidence of emotion.

Malinsky struggled to run, losing his balance, tripping again and again.

He chased madly after the boy, who always remained just out of his grasp. They were going so fast, there was no way to stop. Momentum drew Malinsky into a headlong, out-of-control downhill run.

"I'm old. Paulina, I'm too old," Malinsky called out. Yet he could not understand how it had come to be. He could make no sense of it.

He grabbed at the child, never quite reaching the boy's delicate limbs.

Ahead, somehow, somewhere, he knew there was a precipice. There was a great precipice, and there were only moments before they would reach it and topple into space, and still the dark crowds watched in silence, unwilling to help him save his child.

"Help me," Malinsky shouted, half an order, half a plea. "For the love of god, help me. It's my son."

But the boy slithered away in silence, skating down the icy mountainside on his back, flailing his small arms as he sought to stop himself.

Malinsky could see Anton's eyes: large, dark, wounded child's eyes. He knew that he had failed the boy, that he would always fail him. Then they were sailing through dark space, beneath a gruesome, spinning golden sky.

"Comrade Front Commander," Chibisov's voice called him back, insisting that he wake. "Comrade Front Commander, wake up."

Malinsky felt Chibisov's small, firm grasp on his forearm. Just before he opened his eyes, Malinsky stirred and clapped his own larger hand over that of the chief of staff, holding it there a moment too long, reassured by its human warmth.

"The Germans are counterattacking Trimenko," Chibisov said. His voice was crisply urgent, but there was no trace of panic. Chibisov at his best, Malinsky thought. "The Dutch are trying to get at him from the north, as well. Dudorov has already identified a fresh German division and at least one Dutch brigade that had not been committed previously.

They're trying to pinch off Trimenko's penetration."

Malinsky regained his faculties. "Only one German division?"

"So far."

Malinsky shook his head. "They think small. They've lost their vision, Pavel Pavlovitch. Did the Sixteenth Tank make it in?"

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