Red Storm Rising by Tom Clancy

Vigdis surprised them with her endurance. She kept up with the Marines without faltering or complaining. A true country girl, Edwards thought, she was still benefiting from a childhood of chasing the family sheep around–or whatever it was you did with sheep—and climbing these Goddamned hills.

“Okay, people, take ten,” Edwards called. Immediately everyone looked for a dry spot to collapse. Mainly they found rocks. Rocks in a marsh! Edwards thought. Garcia kept watch with the purloined Russian binoculars. Smith lit up a cigarette. Edwards turned around to see Vigdis sitting down next to him.

“How do you feel?”

“Very tired,” she said with a slight smile. “But not so tired as you.”

“Is that so!” Edwards laughed. “Maybe we should step up the pace.”

“Where we go?”

“We’re going to Hvammsfjordur. They didn’t say why. I figure another four or five days. We want to stay clear of all the roads we can.”

“To protect me, yes?” Edwards shook his head.

“To protect all of us. We don’t want to fight anybody. There’s too many Russians around to play soldier games.”

“So, I don’t hurt-ah, stop you from important things?” Vigdis asked.

“Not at all. We’re all happy to have you with us. Who wouldn’t like a walk in the country with a beautiful girl?” Edwards asked gallantly. Was that a smart thing to say?

She gave him a strange look. “You think I pretty, after-after-”

“Vigdis, if you were hit by a truck-yes, you are very beautiful. No man could change that. What happened to you was not your fault. What ever changes it made are inside, not outside. And I know somebody must like you.”

“My baby, you mean? Mistake. He find another girl. This is not important, all my friends have babies.” She shrugged it off.

That stupid son of a bitch, Edwards thought. He remembered that bastardy carried no stigma on Iceland. Since no one had a surname most of the Icelanders had given names followed by patronyrnics-you couldn’t even tell the difference between the legitimate and illegitimate. Besides which, the Icelanders didn’t seem to give a damn one way or the other. Young unmarried girls had babies, took proper care of them, and that was that. But who would walk away from this girl?

“Well, speaking for myself. Vigdis, I’ve never met a girl prettier than you.”

“Truly?”

Her hair looked like hell, tangled and filthy, Edwards admitted to himself. Her face and clothing were covered with dust and mud. A hot shower could change that in a few minutes, revealing the lovely thing that she was. But beauty comes from within, and he was only beginning to appreciate the person inside. He ran his hand along her cheek.

“Any man who says different is an idiot.” He turned to see Sergeant Smith coming over.

“Time to move, ‘less you want our legs to stiffen up, Lieutenant.”

“Okay. I want to make another eight or ten miles. There’s farms and roads on the far side of this mountain we’re walking around. We’ll want to eyeball that area before we try to cross it. I’ll call in from there, too.”

“You got it, skipper. Rodgers! Take the point and bend it a little west.”

BODENBURG, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY

The ride forward had not been an easy one. Eighth Guards Army moved its forward command post as close behind the leading troops as possible. Its commander, like Alekseyev, believed in having his eyes and ears as close to the front as possible. The trip took forty minutes in armored troop carriers-it was far too dangerous to use helicopters-during which Alekseyev had observed a pair of savage air attacks on Russian columns.

German and Belgian reinforcements had joined the action, and intercepts of radio messages indicated that American and British units were also en route. Alekseyev had called up more Russian units as well.

What had begun as a relatively simple push by one mechanized army was now growing into a major engagement. He took this to be a good sign. NATO would not be reinforcing if they did not regard the situation as dangerous. The Soviet task was to achieve the desired result before reinforcements came into play.

The general commanding 20th Guards Tank Division was in the command post. They’d set it up in a secondary school. A new building, it had lots of space, and until an underground bunker could be prepared, it would have to do. The pace of the advance had slowed, as much because of traffic control difficulties as from the Germans.

“Straight down this road to Sack,” 8th Guards Army told the tanker. “My motor-rifle troops should have it clear by the time you get there.”

“Four more kilometers to Alfeld. Yes, just make sure you can support us when we jump across the river.” The General set his helmet atop his head and moved out the door. It was going to work, Alekseyev thought. This general had done a magnificent job of delivering his unit to the front in nearly perfect order.

The next thing he heard was an explosion. Windows shattered, pieces of ceiling dropped around him. The Devil’s Cross had returned yet again.

Alekseyev raced outside to see a dozen burning armored vehicles. As he watched, the crew bailed out of a brand-new T-80 tank. An instant later the vehicle brewed up: a fire swept through the ammunition racks inside and a pillar of flame rose toward the sky as from a small volcano.

“The general is dead-the General is dead!” a sergeant shouted. He pointed to a BMD infantry carrier from which no one had escaped alive.

Alekseyev found the commander of the 8th Guards Army cursing beside him. “The assistant commander of that tank division is a new colonel.”

Pavel Leonidovich reached a quick and convenient decision. “No, Comrade General. What about me?”

Startled, the commander stared at him, then remembered Alekseyev’s reputation as a tank commander, and his father’s. He made a quick decision of his own. “Twentieth Tanks is yours. You know the mission.”

Another infantry assault carrier rolled up. Alekseyev and Sergetov boarded it, and the driver sped off toward the divisional command post. It took half an hour before they stopped. Alekseyev saw rows of tanks parked inside the treeline. Allied artillery was falling close by, but he ignored it. His regimental commanders were grouped together. The General quickly gave orders for objective and timing. It spoke well of the General not dead an hour that everyone here knew his mission. The division was finely organized, with every part of the assault plan already firmed up. Alekseyev saw at once that he had a good battle staff. He set them to work as his unit commanders rejoined their regiments.

His first battle headquarters was fittingly in the shade of a tall tree. His father could have wished for no better. Alekseyev smiled. He found his divisional intelligence officer. “What’s the situation?”

“A battalion of German tanks is counterattacking on this road leading east from Sack. They should be contained, and in any case our vehicles are moving southwest behind them. The lead motor-rifle troops are just inside the town, and report only minor resistance. Our leading elements are now moving and should be there within the hour.”

“Air Defense Officer?”

“SAMs and mobile antiaircraft guns are just behind the leading echelons. We also have friendly air cover. Two regiments of MiG-21s are on call for air defense, but we haven’t had any ground-attack fighters assigned yet. They took a beating this morning-but so did the other side. We killed twelve NATO aircraft before noon.”

Alekseyev nodded, dividing that number by three, as he had learned.

“Excuse me, Comrade General. I am Colonel Popov, your divisional political officer.”

“Fine, Comrade Colonel. My Party dues are paid to the end of the year, and with luck I will live to pay them again. If you have something important to say, be quick!” If there was anything Alekseyev didn’t need now, it was a zampolit.

“After we capture Alfeld-”

“If we capture Alfeld I will let you have the keys to the city. For the present, let me do my job. Dismissed!” Probably wanted permission to shoot suspected fascists. As a four-star general, Alekseyev could not ignore political officers, but at least he could ignore those under the rank of general. He walked over to the tactical maps. On one side as before, lieutenants showed the advance of his-his!-units. On the other, intelligence officers were assembling what data they had on enemy opposition. He grabbed the shoulder of his operations officer.

“I want that lead regiment right behind the motor-rifle troops. If they need some help, give it to them. I want this breakthrough and I want it today. What artillery do we have set up?”

“Two battalions of heavy guns are ready now.”

“Good. If those infantry have targets for them, find out, and let’s start hitting them now. This is not a time for finesse. NATO knows we’re here, and our worst enemy is time. Time works for them, not for us.” The operations officer and artillery commander got together, and two minutes later his 152mm guns were delivering fire to the front. He’d have to have a medal awarded to the dead commander of 20th Tanks, Alekseyev decided; the man deserved a reward of some kind for the training he saw evident in this staff.

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