The Great Game

“A very good suggestion Sir Martyn, thank you. Your ships will return here after their current cruise?”

“I think the timing would work well. Madam Ambassador, what are your thoughts?”

“Sadly my country does not have any great ability to fight at sea. But we will be very pleased to see your troop convoy arrive safely. But my guess must be that the Japanese will be displeased in equal measure.

“There is one other thing I would suggest. Before moving troops around the world it would be wise for us to speak with the Americans, When unusual things happen, the Americans get worried and when they get worried they bomb people. Keeping their government briefed would be a wise thing.

“Also, I have had word from them, they have learned some things from the Russians in the last few hours that they think we should know. Sir Martyn, perhaps Sir Eric should accompany me on a trip to the United States?”

Chapter Six Blocking Actions.

Office of President Cherniakhovskii, New Kremlin, Moscow, Russia

There was no doubt about it, the New Kremlin building was a great improvement on the old one. The Germans had helped of course, during their occupation of Moscow the original Kremlin had been destroyed so thoroughly that even the foundations had been dug up and dismantled. It must have been a temptation to try and rebuild the structure but any plans to reconstruct the old building had been vetoed by President Cherniakhovskii. There was no need to go back to the bad old days of Tsars and Commissars, he'd said. Russia needed to look forward, not backwards.

So the New Kremlin was designed from the start as a Government headquarters building with all the latest facilities a government could need. The building was also pleasant and airy with large windows and wide corridors, giving it an open and relaxed feel. Of course the windows were bullet and blast-proof and the corridors meant guards could move quickly from one point to the next. The walls weren't quite what they appeared to be either. Steel reinforcement webs and the best fireproofing money could buy were just two of the secrets hidden within them.

Doctor Wijnand followed his escort into the waiting room outside President Cherniakhovskii's office. The red light over the door was on but it switched to green almost immediately. Wijnand's escort spoke into the intercom then ushered him through the door. At 53, President Cherniakhovskii was the youngest Marshal of the Russian Army in many, many years and the abilities that had gained him military success had also made him Zhukov's designated heir. On becoming President, he'd summarized Russian policy in a single sentence. “There are two groups of people a good Russian never forgets: his friends and his enemies.” He didn't rise as Wijnand entered his office but he did wave his visitor to one of the seats in front of his desk.

'it is always a pleasure to see the Head of the International Commission of the Red Cross, Doctor Wijnand. How are things in Europe?”

Wijnand grasped the implication of the greeting immediately. President Cherniakhovskii had the time and inclination to speak with the Head of the ICRC, he had neither the time nor the desire to speak with a European politician. He was expected to frame his words accordingly.

“Good Morning Mr. President. It is always a pleasure to visit Russia and see the speed with which your country is recovering from the devastation of war. I only wish that the recovery of Europe could take place at the same speed. Although the Great Famine is a thing of the past now, our farmers still have far to go before their productivity reaches pre-war levels. It is thought that there are long-term effects from the American bombing of Germany that nobody fully understands.”

“I doubt that Doctor Wijnand. I doubt that very much. I believe instead that God has withdrawn His Grace from Europe and turned His Face against Europeans. I believe that Hitler was an Antichrist and Europe failed to oppose him when he was weak and powerless. In that failure of will, the countries of Europe betrayed both God and the rest of humanity. “Now Europe, having failed in its duties as a great power, is given just enough to survive but not enough to be of any great consequence in the scheme of things. Russia also failed in those years but our struggle, aided by God and our American allies, redeemed us and God smiles upon us again. For you, now your privations must redeem you. But that is past now and we must look to the future.”

Wijnand listened to the rebuke impassively. Since the disappearance of communism, there had been a void in Russian life that the Eastern Orthodox Church had returned to fill. In its new form, it was a taciturn and gloomy religion, given to the presumption of a strict and demanding deity that rewarded good and punished sin with the same merciless diligence. The concept of hating sin but not the sinner didn't figure in this equation; both were due the same pitiless retribution just as virtues and those who practiced them gained abundant rewards. Sinners had to earn redemption for their sins by suffering both in this life and the next, those who were redeemed gained earthly success as well as rewards in the hereafter.

Viewed in that context, President Cherniakhovskii's comments could be understood - and Wijnand had an uneasy feeling he could be right. And the pointed remark about European insignificance was correct as well. Wijnand had seen the film from the battlefield north of the Don; the Second Ukrainians were deploying more military force than the whole of Europe put together and they were just one of the five (or was it eight, the numbers were confused and contradictory) Fronts involved. Then again, Europe didn't have American Marshall Aid dollars bankrolling its military or its industrial recovery.

“This is so and it is the future that the Red Cross wishes to discuss with you and the rest of the Russian Government.”

That was a polite fiction; Wijnand was speaking to the only part of the Russian Government that was of any significance. “The attack on New Schwabia...” It was a mistake and Wijnand knew it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. President Cherniakhovskii voice was a lash that cut across the room.

“I think you mean our liberation of Kalmykia, the Kuban and Georgia presently occupied by Nazis?”

Wijnand cursed himself. It was easy to forget that the President was also the toughest, most ruthless General Russia had produced in a generation of senior officers noted for their toughness and ruthlessness. And he was a Russian patriot.

“My apologies President Cherniakhovskii, I merely used the name as a general term for the area occupied by fascists. It is, of course, certain that the areas in question will indeed be liberated by the Russian Army. May I ask what you intend to do with the surviving Germans who are in the area after liberation.”

“Certainly you may ask Doctor. We intend to kill them. Every man, every woman, every child.”

The stark, uncompromising statement hit Wijnand in the pit of his stomach. This was what he and the rest of the ICRC had guessed but hearing it spoken so coldly and with such certainty was vastly different. This was what they had feared and what he had come to Moscow to prevent. Somehow,

“President Cherniakhovskii, there is another way. Europe is prepared to take these people in, to absorb them, to help resettle them. Germany is a shattered wreck, a mere shadow of itself and one that will never threaten anybody again. Even so, President Herrick will take these people in, allow them to try and rebuild what, if anything, can be rebuilt in Germany. All we ask is to be given the chance. Mr. President, if you do this terrible thing how are you different from the Fascists? How will history look back on you?”

Wijnand braced himself for the explosion. It didn't come. Instead, Cherniakhovskii spoke quietly.

“We did not go to other countries and massacre their civilians Doctor. We did not launch a Europe-wide witch-hunt aimed at exterminating entire races of people. We kill our enemies; those invade our country and who fight against us. We do not kill people because we think they have the wrong shape to their nose or the wrong color in their eyes.

“Do you know what has been happening in the occupied territory since it was occupied by the fascists? Of the slave labor camps and the extermination of anybody the Germans regard as inferior? Did you know that Russian men have been massacred so that Germans can take their women? That Russian sons are castrated at birth or slaughtered but daughters spared to become brood-mares for Germans? What, exactly, is the ICRC position on forced pregnancy, Doctor Wijnand? Perhaps before pleading the cause of such people, you should read a little on who they are. Perhaps you may want such people as your neighbors, we do not.”

He deposited a thick file onto the desk in front of Wijnand. The Doctor started reading it, then started to go white. By the time he was a few pages in, he was sweating and his stomach heaving. Cherniakhovskii was watching impassively. When he judged the time was right, he simply said “Door on the left”

Wijnand made a run for the Presidential private bathroom and just made it to the toilet before he lost control of his stomach contents. President Cherniakhovskii listened to the sounds and thought carefully. The German question had been tormenting him and his advisors. How could they slaughter people without becoming what they detested, but how could they not slaughter such people? Surely they were beyond redemption, their sins were so great there could be no way they would find their way back into grace.

Suddenly a great light dawned on him, an inspiration he attributed to his stern and judgmental God. This could be turned to Russian advantage, to Russia's very great advantage. It could even save the lives of his poor Frontniki. Some of them, anyway. He made a quick telephone call to his chief assistant. A small but important matter to be arranged quickly.

Doctor Wijnand was back now. He'd washed his face and recovered his composure. Knowing about such things, reading about them was one thing, seeing pictures was another. Still he had to keep trying, whatever these people were, whatever they had done, he had to try and save lives whenever he could. “My apologies Mr. President, I have tried to clean up the mess. But you cannot blame a whole people for the crimes of their leaders. Please, at least let us take in the women and children.”

“There is something to what you say Doctor, perhaps you may be right.” Cherniakhovskii spoke thoughtfully “Perhaps there is room for redemption in the Germans. Perhaps they should be given the chance to show there is some hope for their humanity. Listen well Doctor. Our offensive on the Don Front is proceeding according to plan. Soon we will be reaching the Don River itself. There, we face the main line of German resistance. We believe that the Germans will use chemical weapons against our troops when they start the assault crossing of the Don. If they do so, we will strike back with chemical weapons of our own, and our biologicals.

“We will ask our American allies to drop some of their nuclear weapons as well. Military casualties on both sides will be dreadful but the sufferings of the civilians will be terrible beyond description. We will liberate our territory but what we retake will be a burned and poisoned wasteland. Better a burned and poisoned wasteland than our land occupied by fascists. Better yet for neither to happen.

“We will allow the Germans to judge themselves. We will let them pass verdict upon themselves. The fate of the Germans in Kalmykia, in the Kuban and in Georgia will be decided by their own actions. If they use chemical weapons or any other weapons of mass destruction against our troops then we will see there is no hope for them and we will exterminate them, root and branch. But, if they refrain from doing so, if they fail to use such weapons against us then we will know that there is hope of redemption for at least some of them. The men we will hold for trial as war criminals but their women and children we will release to you. For deportation of course.”

President Cherniakhovskii leaned back in his seat. Holding the German women and children hostage against the German use of chemical weapons was the best way out of an awkward situation. The attack had been planned so that the left hook over the Volga would break through into the German rear and cause a situation where enemy units could be overrun before chemical weapons could be used.

But, breakthroughs were chimeras; often sought, rarely achieved. This gambit might help prevent the chemical holocaust he and his commanders feared. If it didn't, killing the hostages would divert and absorb the explosion of rage and hatred that would follow the devastation. It was now down to Dr Wijnand and his ICRC. If he could get word that the German women and children were being held hostage against the use of chemical weapons, if he could persuade Model to refrain from using such weapons then that would be good. Even if he could not, it was one more bit of maskirovka, one more item of deception to persuade the Germans that an assault crossing of the Don was coming.

After Doctor Wijnand left, Cherniakhovskii took off his uniform before going into his private bathroom. There were no mirrors in his office but there were in his bathroom and he would not stand in front of a mirror wearing his uniform. In uniform he was Cherniakhovskii the president, without it he was Chemiakhovskii the man. And Cherniakhovskii the man hated Cherniakhovskii the president to the point where he couldn't stand to look at him.

National Security Council Building, Washington D. C.

The entrances to government buildings, Sir Eric Hoahao reflected, represented the character and mind-set of their occupants. The Vice-regal palace in New Delhi was an economist's dream, lean, aseptic and cost-effective yet lacking humanity. Supreme Command Headquarters in Bangkok had an opulent and hedonistic face masking a modern and efficient interior. The Elyseé Palace was rich in pomposity and arrogance but short on signs of real power. He'd never been in the new German government building but he assumed whatever was there glowed in the dark.

Even allowing for that, the NSC building was unusual. The centerpiece of the reception lobby was a 15 foot tall statue of Death, complete with cowl and scythe, and mounted on a skeletal horse. It was modeled and positioned so as visitors entered through the glass doors, the lighting made the eyes of the statue appear to glow and be fastened on them. Visitors inevitably felt a chill when entering the reception area, partly from the statue, partly from the fact the area was kept cool enough to induce that effect. It helped to emphasize the point. This building was the Headquarters of the National Security Council; it was where the Targeteers planned their nuclear wars.

Sir Eric and the Ambassador had arrived by limousine from their respective Embassies. They'd been met by representatives and conducted through security and into the offices. Now, they were being taken up to the top floor, where they would meet with the National Security Advisor. The Ambassador hadn't said much on the trip over and was still keeping her own counsel. That did not bode well for somebody.

'Sir Eric Hoahao, thank you for coming. Please take a seat.” The NSA rose from behind his desk and shook Sir Eric's hand. Then he turned to the Ambassador, his voice notably softer. “Hi, Snake, it’s been a long time. How are you?”

“Good Morning Seer, it has indeed been too long. One day you must come to Bangkok again. You would be surprised by how the city has changed. Few of our old favorites are left now.”

“You two know each other?” Somehow, Sir Eric was perturbed by the discovery; it was like discovering a trusted guard-dog was friends with the local contract assassin.

“Certainly Sir Eric, Snake and I have been friends for years. From long before The Big One. May I offer you a cup of coffee? It would have to be black I'm afraid, milk goes sour almost immediately in this building. I have some Johnny Walker Blue Label for you, Snake. Now tell me what brings you both to our fair city?”

“I would prefer a small glass of that excellent whisky if I may sir. For some months now, the senior leadership of the Triple Alliance has been increasingly concerned by the spread of lawlessness and insurgency in some of our territories. The problem is most serious in Burma, Northern Thailand, and the Northern Provinces of India. However, we also have a lesser level of difficulty in the Philippines and Indonesia. You will notice the pattern of course. There are some strange aspects to this situation, some of the insurgent movements appear to be highly trained in a tactical sense, others are not. The Ambassador will be able to give you more professional assessments of that side of things. Returning to the political background.....”

For the next hour. Sir Eric outlined the developing situation in the Far East and the activities facing the Triple Alliance. He'd had a long briefing document prepared that covered the same ground, when The Seer picked it up, it seemed to Sir Eric that the paper yellowed and aged. Probably just his imagination, he thought. The Seer had a habit of looking straight at the person speaking, one that made concentration slightly difficult. By the time he got to the end he was feeling uneasy and uncertain, what seemed to be hard certainties once now appeared less convincing.

“So we intend to move at least one division of Australian troops by sea to Burma in about three months time for peacekeeping duties.”

“Thank you Sir Eric. Now, can you tell me why that should be of interest to the Government of the United States? The Sea is an open highway, free for the use of all. As long as you do not threaten others using that highway we have little interest in what you move where. As far as I am aware, Burma remains an Indian protectorate and how the Triple Alliance deploys its forces is an internal matter for you alone. If you chose to move them by sea, then that is your decision. The United States of America puts great importance on the freedom of the seas, indeed our navy is deployed to guarantee just that. America is a trading country and maintaining free access for all to the trade routes is a vital national interest of ours.

“On another matter, we have received intelligence from our Russian allies that may directly concern you. It may also explain some of the military problems that Snake has described. As you are doubtless aware, for almost a week now, the Russians have been crushing German defenses North of the Don River and East of the Volga. In doing so they have taken a number of prisoners, many of whom have come from Middle Eastern and other Islamic countries.

“Upon, ahhh, vigorous interrogation they have revealed that they are only the latest groups of what has been a continuous stream of such people through the ranks of German forces in the area. In effect, it appears that, for some years at least, the German forces in occupied Russia have been acting as a training school for a variety of the elements whose activities concern you. This may well explain the tactical skills that you refer to in your briefing.

“The Russians have also captured significant amounts of Japanese-produced war materials, much of it quite recent origin. It therefore appears that there are strong linkages between the Islamic terrorism that you face in the Triple Alliance and the German forces in Occupied Russia. It also appears there are links between Japan, China and those forces. How everything fits together is something we would wish to determine. However, I would also point out that insurgencies are your internal affair also; the United States only involves itself in situations where its vital national interests and those of its close allies are directly affected.

“I have a small request though. As you know, the Philippines was once a US trust territory and, although it is now an independent country, we still feel great affection for the people. We would like to send some aircraft on a goodwill visit to Luzon, I believe the Navy would like to send a PB5Y unit, VPB-33, to Clark Field on such a visit.”

“VPB-33?” The Ambassador's eyes opened wide “That patrol group has 72 aircraft on strength, that's a lot of aircraft for a goodwill visit.”

“What can I say Snake? We have a lot of goodwill to show the Philippines. We'd also like to send a small detachment to U-Thapao for a visit. About a dozen B-60s and a few RB-58Cs. I do hope that such a visit would be acceptable to your country?”

“Certainly Seer, we would be happy to extend some true hospitality to your pilots and their crews.”

“Good, that's settled then. I'm sure the movement orders will be in place when the units are ready. Sir Eric, I think it would be advisable if the current commander of SAC, General Dedmon, was to visit India. We fly bombers worldwide and we always like to have access to divert fields in case of technical problems. Perhaps we could arrange an agreement with India for such facilities. Snake, you going straight back to Bangkok?”

“No, I have been asked to stay on here for a while; there are some problems my Government wishes me to resolve. Perhaps we can have dinner one evening? Tomorrow?” The Ambassador nodded. The Seer pressed a button on his desk set “Lilith, honey, book me a table for two for tomorrow night, find somewhere that has really good cheesecake. Charge it to Uncle Sam.”

A few minutes later, Sir Eric and the Ambassador were on their way out. “Well, Sir Eric that went very well indeed.”

“How so ma'am? I was under the impression that apart from some pleasantries and a gesture of friendship, the Americans promised nothing.”

“Sir Eric, you must listen to what people say. Freedom of the seas was defined as a vital American interest and our right to move troops by sea were described as an example of that interest. The Seer told us that America would not get involved unless its vital interests were involved - which says that they would get involved if they were. So if anybody interferes with our troop movement, the Americans will intervene — and they are moving one of their maritime attack bomber groups to allow them the option of doing so. Furthermore, they have moved nuclear-capable bombers to act as a deterrent against an invasion of our territory. Although I do not think they have nuclear strikes in mind yet. They are sending B-60s rather than B-52s.”

“I'm sorry Ma'am, my Oxford Degree was in the classics. I know they are both big bombers but the significance you allude to escapes me.”

“The B-52 is a much more modern aircraft than the B-60, it is much faster, flies higher and has much better electronic warfare capability. The B-60 is a dated design, it is just a jet version of the old B-36, but it has one great advantage, it was designed in the days when the mark of a bomber was its ability to carry very large loads. The B-60 carries more than three times the bombload of a B-52.

“The Americans call using their strategic bombers to support ground troops an ARC - Army Reinforcement Capability — operation. When those bombers drop atomic bombs on ground forces it is called ARC-Heavy. When they drop conventional bombs, it is called ARC-Light. I think The Seer has just offered us an ARC-Light capability in case of a Japanese invasion. And a strategic reconnaissance detachment to find out what is going on and open the way for the B-60s. Yes, Sir Eric, it was a most satisfactory meeting.”

Chapter Seven Breaking Through

Chernyy Yan, River Volga. Forward Headquarters, First Byelorussian Front

Early morning, just before the light of pre-dawn was a fine time, a great time. The darkness still almost absolute but just beginning to purple with the coming day. The sounds of the night had faded but those of the day had yet to be born. The result was a strange tranquility that rested the soul and revived the spirit. Soon, as the east began to lighten, the birds would start to sing their chorus to the dawn and the day would begin on a note of beauty.

Yes, thought Colonel-General Andrei Mikhailovich Taffkowski, a fine time. But this was better, the sky slashed apart by a howling gale of multi-colored tracers as eight divisions and six independent brigades of anti-aircraft guns started pouring fire into the German defenses across the Volga. The guns were mostly twin 37 millimeter guns with a number of the single-barrel 57 millimeters that had started to arrive and some 85s. Every round a tracer, ripping at the sky in a blinding array of light and the ground shaking and the ears shattering with the roaring scream as the massed guns raved at the enemy. The whole anti-aircraft firepower of two Fronts was firing flat trajectory across the river that was the spiritual heart of the Russian people.

Flat trajectory, that was the secret. The big guns, the 122s, 130s and 152s were silent. When they fired, their shells were tossed at the enemy, high in the air and, in doing so, they would endanger what was already happening. Also they wouldn't do the job that the anti-aircraft guns were doing now. The First and Second Ukrainians had learned that heavy artillery was almost ineffective against the German bunkers; they were too small to be hit except by blind chance. The hail of smaller-caliber fire from the anti-aircraft would help keep the bunkers suppressed but those guns had another role, one not obvious from the ground. From the air, though, it was different.

From above, the streams of tracer fire formed giant arrows pointing at the landing zones for the first wave of the assault crossing of the Volga. The Fifth Guards Airborne Division would be making its approach now. In the slowly lightening sky, Taffkowski saw the silent dark shapes winging overhead. Gliders. Paratroopers were all very well but try to do a night drop and they ended up too dispersed to do much against an organized defense. But gliders landed their troops in organized formations with their equipment and weapons. Using gliders in daylight was only slightly short of murder, they stood so little chance of survival, but at night, and supported by this mass of fire they could still get in. Oh, some would go down from German fire, others would be hit by the Russian barrage but most would get in. Fifth Guards Airborne here. Sixth Guards Airborne to the north at Verkniyh Baskunchak, Ninth Guards Airborne to the south at Nikolskoye.

The radar fire control on the anti-aircraft guns would be tracking the gliders in. At the last possible moment they would order the guns to cease fire so they could drop into their landing zones. That was when some guns didn't get the message or the crews elected to unload via the barrel and Russians would die from Russian fire. The chop when it came was sudden and brutal; after the vicious snarls of the guns, the silence was positively painful. Then, across the Volga, Taffkowski could hear the crackle of small-arms fire as the paratroopers started to engage the defenses.

Behind him, the sky was gray now as the sun edged nearer the horizon. Then, the leading edge peaked over the hills and the second assault wave started. A Regiment of Russian Marines had been brought down from Petrograd and they were crossing the river in their amphibious vehicles. Some of them were old lend-lease American DUKWs, others were GMTs, the Russian version of the DUKW obtained under MSDAP. Others were PT-76 amphibious tanks.

It would take them at least eight minutes to cross the river and, under normal circumstances, they would be wiped out by the German gunners. But, two things gave them a chance. The German defenses were under attack from the paratroopers and the German gunners were having to stare directly into the rising sun. It bought some chance but it was still going to be bad for the Marines in their thin-skinned vehicles. Even as Taffkowski watched, fountains rose around them, the drops of water sparkling and forming vivid rainbows in the dawn sunlight. In the midst of them, a GMT burst into flames and started to sink.

The Airborne and the Marines were buying time for the third wave, the assault crossing itself. At two selected areas of river bank a line of Kraz cross-country trucks backed up to waterline and stopped sharply. The pontoons slid from the back of the vehicles and splashed into the water, automatically unfolding as they did so. The locking catches slammed shut and the pioneers ran forward, boarding each pontoon, turning them around and bringing them into position. Sledgehammers swung, slamming the connecting clamps into place.

Taffkowski couldn't see it but he knew that fingers were already being lost and hands crushed in the desperate struggle to get the bridge ready. The Pioneers had been told the truth, that the Paratroopers were fighting steel and concrete fortifications with light infantry weapons and Marines were burning and drowning in the river to buy the time the Pioneers needed to get the bridges built. Every minute that was wasted meant more of their lives were lost.

36 sections of pontoon bridge had to be assembled to give the first 225-meter span that was already taking shape along the shore. Further down, a second unit was assembling their pontoons into a square powered raft. That would act as the first waypoint on the bridge over the Volga.

Eighteen minutes in, two minutes ahead of schedule. What was left of the Marine Regiment had long since made it to the other side now, leaving the river surface scarred with its wrecks. The first span of bridge was ready and the BMK bridging boats got to work. One end of the bridge was cast loose and the current took it, swinging it out into the river. The BMKs took control and brought it into position, vertically out from the bank. By the time it was in properly in position, the shoreside end was already secured and the shore access panels laid.

Out on the river, Taffkowski could see smoke rising from the diesels on the BMKs as they fought the current in order to hold the bridge steady. The big raft was already on its way out, its own engines and the BMKs trying to keep it aligned properly. They had it roughly into place but through his binoculars Taffkowski could see the Pioneers fighting to get the connecting bolts into place. Minutes were racking up and couldn't be recovered, if the defenses opposite overwhelmed the Paratroopers and Marines assaulting them, the Germans could concentrate their fire on the bridge and wipe it out. . Already the second span and second raft were being assembled on the river bank and the first raft had to be secured by then. Then, he heard the “Urrah” from the raft; the connecters were driven home at last.

Not before time, the second span was almost ready and the BMK bridging boats were racing back to collect it. They had to ferry it out from the shore then pivot it in mid-river. They had to get it out parallel to the shore, if they swung it so the river current struck the 225 meter length of the span rather than its 3.25 meter width too early, that current would carry it away. It was on its way now, he saw the BMKs fussing around, pushing it out while more prevented the current from taking it downstream. 36 minutes in, the second span was starting its pivot, its upstream end swinging down to match with the first raft while the downstream end was held steady. Then the BMKs pushed and the whole bridge shook as the span slammed into place. The Pioneers swarmed over it, hammering the connectors home.

Meanwhile the second raft was already making its way out while a third group of trucks had dumped its pontoons into the river. The bank was chewed up now and a few of the trucks had bogged down. Didn't matter, this was the last span, “Urrah” came floating across the river, the second span had locked into place and the raft to match up with it was arriving. Closer into shore the Pioneers from the first span were threading cables through their pontoons, powerful winches would put them under tension and help to take the load on the bridge.

40 minutes now, the Pioneers were linking the second raft to the central span of the bridge. Looked like it was going easier than the first one. Obviously a solution had been found to whatever had caused the problem when linking the first raft. The sounds of the infantry assault on the fortifications the other side of the river were still floating across, if only the Paratroopers and Marines could hold on for a few more minutes. Just a few. Fifty five minutes and the last span started its way out and across.

Taffkowski watched as the BMKs herded it across and spun it into alignment. It was too far away now to see details but on the third span Pioneers were surging around the connectors while more ran to the shoreside end. They were under fire from the shore now, through his binoculars, Taffkowski could see men falling as they worked on unfolding the shore ramps.

At long, long last, 62 minutes after the first trucks had started to unload, there was an “Urrah!” that echoed up and down the Volga and a red flare shot into the sky from the left bank. More cheers from both banks, from the waiting troops, from the exhausted Pioneers, from the brutally hurt Paratrooper and Marine units.

As the cheers subsided, the first of the waiting T-55s edged into the bridge and started its way across, tankriders crouched behind its turret. Behind it followed the rest of its platoon, then its company, then its regiment. The heavy tanks, the T-10s and JS-3s would follow, the SU-130 tank destroyers, the JSU-152 assault guns. The mechanized infantry in their carriers, Taffkowski felt a message being pressed into his hand, it confirmed that the unit he had been watching had beaten the next fastest division by a clear five minutes in completing its bridge.

His jeep pulled up at the bridge. Some of the Pioneers were extracting the bogged-down vehicles, others were getting the tensioning cable system into place. Others were just too exhausted to move. As Taffkowski had feared, medics were treating men with crushed hands and feet. Wounded were being brought back from the left bank; the dead were left where they had fallen. In the middle, the divisional commander was supervising the clear-up of the worksite. He saw Colonel-General Taffkowski and sprang to attention.

“Major General Vladimir Ivanovich Surov. You are no longer commander of the 254th Engineer Division.” Taffkowski saw his shock, Ok so the first bridge junction hadn't gone well, but they'd picked up the time. Surely the days when minor setbacks sent men to the Gulag had gone? “The 254th Engineer Division will now be renamed the First Guards Engineer Division with the Honorific “Volga” and, Lieutenant General Surov, you are its commander.”

There was a surge of pride in the exhausted men, and a ragged series of cheers, there would be other Guards Engineer Divisions but there would never be another First Guards Engineers. They would have bragging rights for as long as there was a Russian Army.

Taffkowski swung his finger along the line of bridging boats, watching Surov out of the corner of his eyes. When his finger reached a BMK commanded by a grizzled Sergeant, Surov nodded slightly. “You, Sergeant. I was watching you. What is your name?”

“Boris Alexandrovich Dick, Gospodin Colonel-General”

“You handled your boat with great skill. You are a Hero of the Russian People and I have that medal here for you. Remember you hold it in trust for all your crew. Bratischka, I have something else you may appreciate even more.” Taffkowski's driver handed him a bottle of vodka. Taffkowski read the label then gave the bottle to the Sergeant. “Good vodka for a good man. Russia thanks you, Boris Alexandrovich.”

Behind them, Russian armor of the 57th Mechanized Army, First Byelorussian Front, was pouring across the bridge over the Volga.

Baronial Hall, Walthersburg, New Schwabia

The fortifications had done their job, Model could see that. The Russian assault had been ferocious and three of his nine infantry divisions had been destroyed but he'd expected that. He'd positioned his weakest three divisions north of the Don and east of the Volga. The divisions north of the Don had taken the full force of the First and Second Ukrainian Fronts. The first day, some of the defenders had abandoned their bunkers and run but there had been a cure for that. Behind the German lines were the Einsatzgruppen, waiting for deserters. Those they'd caught had been hanged from the nearest convenient object. After that, the infantry in the bunkers had got the message, it was safer to stay where they were and fight.

It had taken the Russians a week to chew through the defenses north of the Don, and that was the easy part. The Don Line itself was defended by three of his better infantry divisions in heavy fortifications, ones that made the bunkers north of the Don look feeble. His three best infantry divisions were north of Walthersburg that was the one sector not protected by a serious water obstacle. Instead it was solid concrete, minefields and wire.

A messenger came in, bearing a sealed envelope. Model glanced at it, it was from the International Committee of the Red Cross. They were probably whining again about the treatment of Russian civilians in New Schwabia. Spineless old women, complaining about a few hardships on peasants while he was trying to build a country. He waved the message away, it was put in his in-tray with the rest of the mail.

So the next stage would be the assault over the Don. The Ivans would try to break through there and swing around to take Walthersburg from the south while the three fronts massed north of the city, the Second Byelorussian and the First and Second Moldovian Fronts tried to crush the defenses. He could hold them, he was sure of it. Crossing the Don would be a nightmare under the best of circumstances and he had Sarin and Tabun shells moved up to make sure it was far, far worse than that.

He'd also moved XXXXIIth Panzer Corps with the 3rd Panzer, 11th Panzer, 14th Panzer and the 10th Panzer Grenadier divisions up behind the Don to counter-attack any break-throughs. He had a second Panzer Corps behind Walthersburg, ready to counterattack there. That left him stretched very thin, he only had the SS Wiking Division left in reserve. The 2nd Fallschirmjaeger division was spread out along the hills on the left bank of the Volga. The Ivans had tried a feint there, the First Khazak Front had driven in the defenses east of the river but Model wasn't biting. The parachutists were the best infantry he had, they would contain any minor raids the Russians launched across the river. The Volga itself was the best defense.

A messenger came in, dirty, his uniform torn and stained.

Model reflected that if he'd been in a war film, he would have berated the man for his condition but this was reality not drama. Any man who came into a military headquarters in that condition had a very good reason for doing so. The man was weaving on his feet; he'd come far and fast.

“Sit down, son. Gather yourself, a few seconds more won't matter. Orderlies, get this man some coffee and schnapps. And some food. What unit are you from?”

“Fallschirmjaeger sir, from the Volga. The Russians have crossed in strength. In great strength here.” The courier pushed a dispatch bag to Model. The seal was broken and Model raised an eyebrow. “Einsatzgruppen sir. They thought I was deserting, they were going to hang me, they broke open the case to see what was inside. When they saw it was for you they let me go. It wasted half an hour sir I'm sorry.”

Model wondered briefly how many more vital messages were hanging by a roadside. He opened the message bag and started to read. As he did so, he went white. The report had obviously been written by the commander of a unit in the last stages of destruction. Three bridges over the Volga. More being built. Heavy armor over. Units identified, First Byelorussian Front., 57th Mechanized Army, 5th Guards Tank Army, 1st Mechanized Corps, 2nd Mechanized Corps, 20th Tank Corps. All units that were supposed to be North of Walthersburg. The defenses on the left bank of the Volga overrun. 2nd Fallschirmjaeger Division overrun and destroyed. What was left was falling back to Sadovoye. Where was Sadovoye?

Model went over to the map and looked. “SCHEISSE.”

The exclamation made everybody look up. Model took a breath. There was no need to panic, panic was a worse enemy than the Russians. The Ivans hadn't got that far, it was just the German survivors of the Volga defense line were falling back to there. Keep calm, he ordered himself. Disasters happen in wars, that is why they are called wars. Armies get routed in wars and the art is to put the pieces back together again. He heard his old instructor from Staff College talking. “Always remember the feint you ignore is the enemy's main thrust.” It sounded like a joke or something a cynic would say but it was true. And he'd forgotten the lesson and fallen into the trap.

So it was time to plan. Another memory from his old instructor “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, victory will be yours.”

The Russians were across the Volga. How had they done it? An assault crossing of the Volga was impossible, it was too wide. It would take days to build bridges over the river and even his this screen of paratroopers would be able to hold them off. It had to be the Americans. Had to be. They weren't satisfied with their damned Hellburners and loathsome jellygas, they'd invented a way of letting their troops walk on water. No, that was absurd.

The Americans weren't gods, although it was about time somebody made them aware of that.

The answer was obvious, it had to be their Marines. They'd built a six-division Marine Corps for the invasion of Europe but never used it. Postwar, they'd kept it and now they'd used it. They'd done the crossing of the Volga and opened the way up for the Russians. The Russians would be advancing, the American's ridiculous Pentomic Divisions couldn't fight their way through a paper bag.

Now, what to do? The Ivans were over the river on a, what was it, a 30 kilometer front? Say 30 kilometers. They must be planning to race across New Schwabia behind his lines and take his Don fortifications from the rear. They'd cut Walthersburg off from the rest of the country as well. Then they could mop the south of the country up at their leisure while besieging the fortresses along “Northern edge. But, the way to eliminate a bridgehead was to hit the flanks. Pinch it off from the river, surround it and destroy it.

By sheer blind luck LII Panzer Corps was in the right place. It had 2nd, 12th and 13th Panzer divisions and the 8th Panzer Grenadier Division. They were almost in the right place anyway and they would have to change their facing but that was routine staff work. The SS Wiking Division was at Volgodonsk, most certainly not the right place. It would have to move fast. To Sadovoye. To link up with the other troops there. And a division from Walthersburg itself, he would have to strip one from the city defenses. They were the three best divisions he had and the 106th Infantry, well, it was the best of the best. They, and the survivors of 2nd Fallschirmjaeger could form a stop line.

Now to beef it up a bit. There had to be troops around there. Service unit, truck units, fuel depots. Get to work, get the officers to sweep up anybody wearing a uniform. And anybody who wasn't but looked like he should be. Or could be. There was a penal battalion not far away, at Malyye Derbetyy. They'd do as well. He would issue the orders but in truth it wasn't necessary. Every officer would already be gathering up whatever men he could find and forming them into combat units. They'd be holding out where they could, pulling back and trying to link up where they couldn't.

This was one thing the German Army had down to a fine art; making defenses out of nothing. Time and again, the Russians had learned that what appeared to be a gaping hole in the German lines was nothing of the sort. There would always be something there, tenuous, thin, ill-supplied but they'd hold until reinforcements arrived. Now, they would have to do it again.

One thing was obvious, he couldn't command from here. He'd have to go south, to join the forces there. He's co-locate with the SS Wiking Division, he could rely on his Wehrmacht units to keep a calm head on their shoulders but the SS tended to get distracted by irrelevancies and target fixated. And, truth be told, they may have the best equipment and the best manpower but their officers weren't Wehrmacht standard. He'd have to keep a closer eye on them. Talking about keeping an eye on things. The courier who'd arrived was drinking coffee now and picking at some black bread and jam. He was probably in shock, coming within seconds of being hanged as a deserter tended to do that.

“What is your name Lieutenant?” The courier looked up nervously.

“Martin Sir. Willi Martin.”

“You did a good job getting here Lieutenant Martin, I can use men like you on my staff. A good courier is hard to find.” Model reached out, an aide had anticipated the request and put a badge in his hand. “You got here without one of these, but in future, this will make your work much easier. If the Einsatzgruppen stop you again, show them this then they will apologize for delaying you while polishing your boots with their tongues.”

Model started rapping out a string of orders, moving some units, getting word out to others. Getting his own staff to prepare a shift to the new forward headquarters. He reflected that, with a gaping hole in his front, a Russian tank army or two loose in his rear areas, no reserves left, nowhere to retreat to, it was quite like old times. Reassuringly familiar in fact. The Russians had pulled a coup, a superb stroke that had cracked the whole situation wide open. Now, it was up to him to glue the pieces back together. In the organized chaos of his headquarters, the urgent letter from the International Committee of the Red Cross sat in the in-tray, unread and forgotten.

Primary Debriefing Room, United States Air Force Air Warfare Center, Nellis AFB, Nevada

The glaring wave of resentment hit Captain Kozlowski as soon as he stepped into the debriefing theater. A montage of images involving a rioting mob, being ridden out of the base on a rail, tarring and feathering, lynching and some enthusiastic application of chainsaws flooded his mind. There was no doubt about it; the Fighter Mafia were taking what had happened very badly.

It was a relief to join the ranks of the Bomber Barons. The B-52 crews were on their feet applauding the crews of Marisol and Tiger Lily, slapping their backs and cheering. General Montana, commander of the 100th Bomb Group actually rose to his feet to salute the RB-58 pilots. The RB-58C had made its first appearance at Red Sun and this, the results, threatened to reduce the debriefing session to utter chaos.

Captain John Paul Martin walked up on the Podium and banged his gavel. There was almost instant silence. Amongst his many responsibilities, Martin had to organize the search and rescue exercises, the SAREXs that paralleled Red Sun. Crews would be assigned the roles of shot-down airmen while the Combat Search and Rescue, CSAR, teams tried to find and extract them. Of course, the crews got to practice their desert survival skills while waiting for the rescue.

Any pilot who argued with Martin's judgments as range officer had their objections carefully evaluated, the relevant range tapes called up for inspection and the situation explained in detail. His objections answered, next day, the pilot in question would find himself sitting in the desert, waiting to be rescued and watching the Rattlesnakes, Sidewinders and Gila Monsters edging closer. It was not for nothing that Captain Martin was also known as Captain Sarex and old-timers at Red Sun did not argue with him.

“Gentlemen, welcome to the first debriefing session of the 1959 Red Sun National Air Warfare Evaluation Exercises. After the events of this morning I am sure you will all agree that we all have much to learn. I would like to start by welcoming the crews of Marisol and Tiger Lily from the 305th Strategic Reconnaissance Group following their - explosive - entry to Red Sun. To recap, this morning's exercise was a small-scale operation that was intended as a warming up and systems check mission prior to the start of the main sessions tomorrow. However, as you all well know, that wasn't how it ended.

Earlier That Day, Range Administration Hut, United States Air Force Air Warfare Center, Nellis AFB, Nevada

It wasn't a hut of course, the description of the buildings as “huts” stemmed from the early days of Red Sun when the range had been thrown together using whatever could be found. Now, the “Hut” was the center of an elaborate network of visual, radar and other sensors that provided the range administration officers with complete coverage of everything that was going on. Not only that, it recorded them so that the track charts, conversations and events could be played back and examined to determine exactly what had happened and when. Sometimes, when aircraft had crashed, that had been of more than operational importance. The purpose of the morning exercise was primarily to test that network.

The basic plan was simple, there was a target on the ground, representing an enemy force that had allegedly invaded the United States and it was to be attacked by a cell of SACs heavy bombers. The target was defended by three Ajax missile batteries, 12 F-101B Voodoo interceptors from the 60th Interceptor Squadron at Otis AFB in Massachusetts and four F-104A Starfighters from the 83rd Fighter Interceptor Squadron at Hamilton AFB in California.

From the range data, Martin could see they'd set up a fairly standard defense. The Ajax batteries were positioned to provide an initial salvo at the attacking formations, the B-52s would probably be able to evade them but their formation would be broken up by the effort and that would degrade their bombing and leave them open to the fighters. The long-range F-101s were already up, orbiting behind and to either side of the target area. Once the bomber formation started to break up they would close in and pick off the bombers. Finally, the four F-104s were waiting on the ground, as soon as the bomber formation they'd take off, climb to altitude and pick off any bombers that had leaked through.

It was the US defense system in miniature. Missiles providing long-range defense and breaking up the attacking formations, long-range fighters to destroy the bulk of the attackers and short-range point defense interceptors to finish off the survivors. It was beginning to work now; the bombers were finding it harder and harder to get to their targets and were taking increasing losses in the process.

This year, the defending fighters had a few wrinkles added, including the MB-1 rocket. Martin was wondering how the SAC bombers would cope with that. He'd find out soon. The leading edge of the SAC formation was appearing on the radar scope now. A main formation of four B-52Ds, and way out in front a pair of RB-52Bs. That was standard; the RB-52s would use their electronic suites to find the SAM batteries and jam them then try to snarl up the fighter operations by jamming and deception. That would open the way for the bombers. Fundamentally, it was the same way SAC had breached German defenses in The Big One and it was getting old. The attack pattern here seemed almost the same as in the comparable operation the year before, the only difference was that the RB-52 element was a bit further out in front- perhaps that was because of the MB-1s.

The defensive forces were already beginning to react to the approaching attack force. The search radars on the Ajax batteries were lighting up and the F-101s were adjusting their position, at this time they were hanging back to clear the field for the Ajax missiles. The F-104s on hot-pad alert were spooling up ready for take-off. The F-104 was a controversial aircraft, Martin had heard that the Thai Air Force had taken delivery of a batch and wondered if they'd found all the things that were wrong with it yet.

“Ye Gods what is THAT”. The monitor terminals in the Range Instrumentation section had two sections. The big one was from the range instrumentation sets, the small overhead ones were the repeater sets from the defense air search radars. The latter could be - and usually were -jammed as part of the exercises. The range instrumentation radars operated on rigidly defined frequencies that were prohibited to everybody else and could not be. There were seven defensive radars in use, the three volume search and three target tracking radars for the Ajax missiles and the fighter control radar. They'd all exploded into jagged pinwheels and masses of drifting electronic fuss. However, the range instrumentation was still clear. The two “RB-52” aircraft had accelerated and were now doing over 1,600 mph - and had started to climb. This, thought Captain Martin, had every promise of turning into an interesting day. He mentally wrestled with the picture of a B-52 doing 1,600 miles per hour, then asked himself the critical question. Just what was going on up there?

Defense Systems Operator's Position, RB-58C “Marisol”

“Time to go guys. Get ready for defended area penetration”

“Air-to-air and Air to ground modes engaged.” “Defensive Systems up running and ready.” “Andale, let's dance.”

Xavier Dravar checked the defense systems in front of him. The ALR-12 display was showing seven threat radars operating. There'd be more but the Red Sun range instrumentation radars were filtered out. For the last hour he'd had the ALQ-6 blip enhancer working, modifying the radar image of the RB-58C so that it resembled the larger and slower RB-52B. That bluff wasn't going to hold any longer. As Marisol had said, it was time to dance. He flipped the ALQ-16 from “stand-by” to “barrage transmit”.

Now, the system was picking up the radar frequency energy from the threat radars and using it to generate a mass of contradictory and deceptive signals, giving the receiving radars the electronic equivalent of a hissy fit. And the same time he felt the punch in his back as The Boss up front firewalled the throttles and the afterburners cut in. Out of the tiny window in the side of his position he saw the other RB-58, Tiger Lily fall back a fraction and then accelerate with Marisol. Her pilot, Captain Joel Mitchell, had worked with them before. That cut down on communications, at these speeds there was no time for all that. His rudimentary flight instrumentation gave him speed and altitude only, all he needed for his job. 1,620 miles per hour, 66,500 feet up.

On the ALR-12 display, he could see the icons for the Ajax missile batteries flickering. The operators would have seen the jamming, they couldn't help but see it, their screens must be glowing white-hot with all the energy he was pumping out. They were flipping frequencies, trying to get through the jamming. They were also rippling their transmissions from one to the next, hoping to hide their positions. Too late, he thought, far, far too late. We had you before the dance even began. Now all that was left was to finish them, he flipped another switch and transferred the information from his emitter location system to the navigator/bombardier station in front of him.

Range Administration Hut, United States Air Force Air Warfare Center, Nellis AFB, Nevada

Martin watched the maneuver with fascination. They had to be SACs new RB-58Cs, nothing else in the inventory performed like that. They'd soared straight through the Ajax battery's engagement zone while the radar operators were still trying to cope with the jamming and then peeled over.

“Papa-November, Papa-November.” That was Lieutenant Wu from Tiger Lily. The message was accompanied by the burst transmission of the target co-ordinates. “Papa-November.” That was Korrina in Marisol, also with his target co-ordinates. Three GAM-83B missiles were arcing downwards towards their targets. Now, it was range instrumentation's job to work out the impact points of the missiles. Although given the “November” bit of the launch code, it didn't matter very much.

The range operators were flipping slide rules to calculate the real impact points, the GAM-83 had a known CEP so it was just straightforward maths. Sure enough, all three radars were within the radius of total destruction for the warheads. Martin cut the transmissions to the Ajax radar operators and watched them jump as their screens went black.

“Ajax sites 19/78, 17/25 and 18/03 you may stand down now. You have been destroyed.”

Then Martin did a double take at the display screens. There really were dragons, the check really was in the mail and politicians spoke the truth. Or, in the crazy universe that had obviously crept up on them, they would from now on. Because, in the sky over the Red Sun test range, the bombers were attacking the fighters.

Bombardier-Navigator's Position, RB-5HC “Marisol”

Display management was another art that had been introduced with the RB-58C. Eddie Korrina was playing his displays like a master. He'd had the input from the ASQ-42 radar bombing system on his main scope with the repeat from Xav's emitter location system on the left-hand secondary screen and the air-to-air input from the ASG-18 on the right hand secondary. That had allowed him to keep an eye on the Voodoos but they were too far back and out of position. It looked like the sheer speed of the attack had completely thrown the defenses.

Now to deal with the fighters, he toggled the displays so the air-to-air picture took center stage. The F-101s were heading in and the distance was closing fast but he had them locked. The ASG-18 was track-while-scan and could paint two targets simultaneously whole continuing to search for more. He had the Voodoo formations on the left and ahead dialed in; Tiger Lily would be taking the formation over on the right.

“Fox-November, Fox-November”

Now, if this was for real, two GAR-9s would be streaking out in front of Marisol accelerating up to Mach 6 and climbing up to top out at over 150,000 feet. Then, they would plunge on the formation beneath and initiate their nuclear warhead in its middle. The data package attached to the GAR-9 launch rail was transmitting target and course data to the range instrumentation center that was simulating the missile launch, Korrina looked, the right hand Voodoo was flying straight and level - that made them dead meat but...” Break left, break left. MB-1 inbound.”

Marisol did a barrel roll, changing altitude by 15,000 feet and breaking left by 90 degrees. Tiger Lily did the same breaking right. Now, they'd hear from Range Instrumentation if it was enough.

Range Administration Hut, United States Air Force Air Warfare Center, Nellis AFB, Nevada

“Jeez, will you look at that.” The range observer's voice was hushed with awe, fighters maneuvered radically in these exercises but nobody had ever seen a double-sonic barrel roll before let alone one performed by a bomber. “Won't that break their radar lock's sir?”

“Doesn't matter.” Martin's voice was awed also, even after five years at Red Sun; he'd never seen anything like this before. SAC had sprung a major strategic surprise on the defending forces. Certainly, the missile crews and fighter pilots knew the performance details of the RB-58 and were aware the aircraft were coming this year but it was one thing to read figures, another to see what they meant in the sky. Another demonstration of the old military maxim “surprise exists in the mind of the enemy.”

It wasn't as if Marisol and Tiger Lily were maneuvering hard or were exceptionally agile, Martin would have to inspect the tapes later but he doubted if either aircraft had exceeded one g. It was the sheer blinding speed with which they were shifting from one maneuver to another and flipping between targets and weapons that were decisive. They were way inside the decision-making curve of the defenses, to the point where it seemed that the defensive aircraft and missiles were co-operating in their own destruction.

“The GAR-9 is an active radar homing missile; it’s got its own guidance radar. The MB-1s are unguided. Have we got results on them?”

The analysis team were frantically working to get the results of the launches calculated. There were rumors that computers were being developed that would take over this role but it seemed unlikely, Computers were big, expensive and unwieldy, even now, there were engineers going around with baskets of spares replacing blown valves. Until that happened, the analysis team would make do with slip-sticks and pie-cutters.

“MB-1s clean miss. Not even close. GAR-9s direct hits on formation centers. Wipe out, small chance of some of the fighters surviving but not much - and if they did, they aren't gonna be doing anything useful.”

“Marisol, Tiger Lily, nuclear explosions behind you. No threat. Vampire One, Vampire Two and Vampire Three return to base. You have been shot down. Say again, you are nuclear fission products, return to base.”

Martin looked at the situation display again. The four F-104s, Sierra-One, were climbing towards the battle area but they were already late. The RB-58s were above and on either side of them and were already swooping down for the kill. Looking at the screen, Martin was reminded of the days he'd watched hawks hunting for prey. Same devastating precision.

Pilot's Position, RB-58C “Marisol”

Captain Mike Kozlowski focused on the F-104s below him and to his left. His inlets were cooling off now, the barrel role had taken them to 102 percent of safe operating temperatures. That meant the ground crews would have to check the panels overnight for distortion. If he'd gone over 105 percent, Marisol would have been grounded for a thorough inspection. Now, he was diving on the F-104s at just over 1,620 miles per hour. He'd be going behind and below them any second now. “Tiger Lily, extend.”

The second RB-58 leveled off and accelerated away from the F-104s. The Starfighter was a point defense interceptor, very fast, with a superb rate of climb but its radar had a very narrow tracking scan while the pilot had poor vision aft. Their radar warner would pick up a lock-on but Korrina would be scanning only. He wouldn't lock until the last second. The situation now was a sandwich with the F-104s in the middle. Marisol was closing in below and behind them while Tiger Lily was ahead and climbing away. Kozlowski grinned and selected his GAR-8s. He framed the central F-104 and waiting until the annunciator growled. It would be a perfect GAR-8 shot, point-blank range against a target perfectly framed. “Fox-One.”

It took only a second for range instrumentation to get back. “Kill confirmed. Sierra one-one, break off, return to base. You have been killed.”

“Sheee-it.” It was Sierra One-two who, very correctly, believed that a second GAR-8 was already locking onto his tailpipe. The F-104 formation broke up, the leader diving away to return to Nellis, Sierra one-two trying to turn and climb into the sun to duck the inevitable missile. Sierra one-three and one-four were breaking left, hoping to scissors and sandwich the RB-58 between them, the way the RB-58s had trapped them a few seconds earlier. The problem was that while their radars had a narrow scan cone, the ASG-18 did not. Tiger Lily was already turning and bringing her missile armament to bear. All she needed was enough separation to fire safely.

“Fox-One” From Marisol, “Miss” from Range Instrumentation. Kozlowski swore and started to lock his third GAR-8 on. He'd been afraid of that, the sun was too strong an IR source. In the rear seat, Dravar was locking his 20 millimeter cannon onto one of the two F-104s now behind them. A long, long way behind them

“Fox-November” from Tiger Lily. A pause then “Sierra one-three and Sierra one-four. Break off and return to base, You're history.”

Ahead of Marisol the last F-104 was running out of energy; the long climb up to the battle area had left the little fighter short to start with and the climb into the sun had bled off what was left. In contrast, Marisol had dived into action and her weight gave her an energy reserve that was still undepleted. The F-104 ran out first and rolled out of its climb. In doing so, its afterburner made a perfect target

“Fox-One”

“That's a hit, Sierra One-Two; go home, it’s all over.” The two RB-58s formed up and, still on full afterburner, exited the target area leaving the defenses a (simulated) smoking shambles. Behind them, the B-52s split up for their own bombing runs.

Primary Debriefing Room, United States Air Force Air Warfare Center, Nellis AFB, Nevada

“Gentlemen, that concludes the mission review. Marisol is credited with one Ajax site, eight F-101 Voodoos and two F-104s. Tiger Lily is credited with two Ajax sites, four F-101s and two F-104s. Much more importantly, the B-52s were able to make their bombing runs unmolested. Captain Kozlowski, would you take the podium first please to answer any questions?”

Kozlowski looked down on the audience. During the account and video trackfilms of the wild furball over the exercise area, the resentment of the fighter pilots and triumphalism of the bomber crews had gone, to be replaced by hard professional interest in the mechanics of the fight. The implications of what had happened were quite clear, the bombers had taken the fight to the interceptor and missile defenses and won decisively. That meant somebody else who had the same equipment could have done the same and an American city could pay the price.

“Captain Kozlowski.” It was the pilot of Vampire One-one “How close to the envelope edge were you pushing your aircraft. Did you have much performance in hand?”

“We went slightly over the edge ducking your MB-1 shots. By the way, it’s very obvious when you are lining up for those; the radar picture shows it clearly. Frankly, I don't think you should rely on MB-1s, they are fine against B-52s but we're fast and agile enough to see them coming and get clear.

“We went to 102 percent on inlet temperature and 99.8 on leading edge and canopy. That means the aircraft have to go in for a check-up. It was a transient, not sustained, so no harm done. We're getting new inlets and cockpit canopy materials that will ease the limitations a bit. We're told we'll be cleared to 1,700 mph when they arrive. We're limited to 1,660 tops at the moment.”

The Voodoo pilot nodded. What he was about to say would get him ridiculed but professionalism demanded he ask. “Captain, I'll be honest, you wiped the floor with us. How did you do it, and from your perspective what could we have done to stop you?”

Kozlowski thought carefully “Our big edge is that we have three people in the crew. Lieutenant Dravar was defending us jamming your radars and the ground sets, leaving Lieutenant Korrina to concentrate on attacking the defenses. That left me clear to fly. Another big edge is fuel. We can fly on full afterburner an hour or more.” That caused an intake of breath from the Fighter Mafia.

“If all else fails we can just run you out of fuel and energy. Or, if that fails, just run. You can't catch us and, to be honest, in a tail chase, I don't think your missiles can. We're scheduled to fly against the new F-106 a little later. That may be different. As for what would have made our lives harder?” There was laughter and a stir of interest.

“Get in close; we rely on nuclear weapons to take you out. We can't use them if you're right beside us. Don't forget our tail gun though. And spread out so we don't take whole formations out with single shots.”

Other pilots, fighter and bomber were rising with questions. Kozlowski realized that it was going to be a long, long session. Ruefully he thought that if he'd wanted an early night he should have lost the battle, But there were lessons to be learned and learning lessons was what Red Sun was all about.

Ban Rom Phuoc, Thai-Burmese Border

Name of a name, they were all crying again. Who would believe that a creaky drama series could have this effect? It was called Path of Virtue and was centered around a rich family living in Bangkok. The hero was their son who had fallen in love with the heroine, a girl from a poor family. His parents had opposed the match and done everything possible to break the couple up - even to the extent of making false accusations against the heroine. Then, the wealthy wife had been in a serious accident and been taken to hospital. There, her husband had seen the girl they had condemned was a nurse and was working her hardest to save his wife, even though they'd done so much to harm her.

Stricken with guilt at their cruelty and injustice, the rich parents had approved the son's marriage and the father had become a Monk to make amends for all his wrongdoings. But now an evil Japanese company man also had designs on the heroine and, deciding if he couldn't have her, nobody would, had poisoned her wedding meal. The heroine was just to eat when the black-and-white image had faded and the credits had roiled. Tune in again next week.

Phong Nguyen reflected on the power that box had. It was incredible; it could manipulate people’s feelings and their whole outlook. Path of Virtue was brilliant propaganda, entertaining and enjoyable with its messages carefully presented so they didn't jar. No matter how hard the trials, no matter how great the injustices, the young hero and heroine always overcame them by their honesty and integrity. The guilty were always found and punished, those who behaved bravely and decently were rewarded.

Suddenly he realized something very profound. This one box could revolutionize the whole art of insurgency. The riskiest part of running an insurgency was the initial stages, sending cadres out to spread the word. As the Chipanese were finding out, this was a hard, hard task and the risks were great. But use this box, and the whole thing could be done centrally, Work the revolutionary message into the scripts and an insurgency could be started without sending the cadres in. The groundwork could be done without risking those valuable assets. That box, sitting in the corner of the communal hut, could do it all.

Even here it had done so much already. After the night of the attack, Army engineers had arrived and installed a diesel-powered electricity generator. It powered lights in the village hut, ran a radio and operated a few simple machines. Then, the box had arrived. It was said that a wealthy man, who owned the factory that made them, had heard of the courageous fight put up by the village and sent them the box to show his respect. The television set head been set up in the hut and a couple of men from the Army had helped tune it into the television transmitter. First night they'd switched it on and their whole world had changed.

It wasn't just the drama shows. There was a program for fanners just before dawn that gave them a weather forecast and advice on crops and livestock. The same program also gave the prices that were being paid in Bangkok for rice and eggs and meat, all the products that earned the village its money. With that information, they'd been able to make the merchant who bought their crops pay the village farmers a much better price for their produce.

So the television was made to work for an hour in the morning for the farmers and for another hour in the evening so the women could watch their drama and the men the news. That was another astonishing thing. There was a world out there, different countries, different people and so much was happening. The national news was on now, followed by the world news. The first international item was from Australia. Everybody in the hut chorused “G'Day Nudge”. Nudge had been the Australian who had brought some young water buffalo to replace the one killed during the night of the attack. He'd stayed for a few days to get the animals established and taught people a few words of English. Now, whenever Australia was on the news, everybody would greet him, as if the box would take their picture to him.

Fighting, a lot of it. From a place called Russia. Phong Nguyen watched with the eyes of a professional. This wasn't insurgency, this was regular war. And, by what these films showed, this one was a bloodbath. Grim, he could see the steel tanks forcing their way forward through what appeared to be a heavily-fortified position. Apparently the Russians, had done something quite remarkable and now some sort of great battle was expected. If the great battle was expected, what was this? He noted a lot of the Tahan Pran were watching with the same interested professionalism. They were coming on well.

They'd stopped being a defensive force now and were taking the battle to the Chipanese over the border. Their main attack defeated, the Chipanese had started sniping at villagers while they worked. A couple of villagers had been hit, none killed mercifully, so Phong Nguyen had taken some of the most skilled Tahan Pran volunteers out and set up an ambush. They'd picked up a sniper and left his head on a stake as warning.

From then on, the patrols and ambushes had become more ambitious. The villagers had learned they couldn't just sit behind barbed wire; they had to control the countryside around them. So they'd started patrolling and sending out night ambush groups. Then some Army specialists had come and given a little expert advice. Now the village was becoming a center for offensive operations against the Chipanese insurgents in Burma next door.

It was becoming a center in another way as well. About a third of the people in the room were from surrounding villages, come to enjoy the electric light and marvel at the wonder of the television set. They would go back home tonight and ask why it was that their village couldn't have such things. And the answer would be that if they supported the government as bravely as Ban Rom Phuoc had, they would have them. Loyalty and bravery were virtues and virtues were rewarded.

There was another incentive as well. Some of the visitors were men who'd come here hoping to catch a girl they could take home as a wife, But many of the girls here wore the black overalls of the Tahan Pran and carried their AKs slung over their shoulders. Their attitude was simple. If their suitor was not Tahan Pran, he was wasting his time. The hopeful suitors had been given an unambiguous message,

“Go home, boy. If you wish me consider you a man, you must prove it. Join the Tahan Pran.” It was the same for visiting women, hoping to catch husbands they saw that eligible men looked first to the Tahan Pran women when courting.

That was reasonable, for it was the wife's duty to protect the family home - and what better way was there to prove they could do that than to join the militia? And so other villages were forming their own militia units - and when they did so, they committed themselves to the government. It was a classic insurgency but turned on its head, the techniques used to subvert and bring down a government instead serving to support and defend it.

The television had a picture of the Bangkok skyline - that meant a Government message coming. The spokesman was a young man who gave out a grave warning to the villagers. There were men around who were going to villages, offering to give young women well-paid jobs in the city. But they were a fraud for the women would be taken to Chipan to act as comfort women for Chipanese soldiers. Any women who went with those men would not be seen again. So if such men come to your village, seize them and hand them over to the Authorities for punishment. And send your Tahan Pran to other villages that cannot hear this warning, tell them too of this danger. And that was another thing that was happening, the village militias were becoming a communication system, spreading word and messages through the countryside.

He felt a touch on his arm, it was Lin bringing him a bowl of her Pad Thai noodles. He thanked her gracefully and started in on his dinner, feeling the other men in the room envy him. He and Lin were accepted as a couple now, it was assumed they would soon be married. And that would mean nobody else would get to try her superb Pad Thai.

Later that evening he was taking a patrol out, the Tahan Pran had been asked if they could take a Chipanese insurgent prisoner and bring him in alive. It was the sort of thing the Tahan Pran did well, they knew the area so intimately, in the ways no regular army could, that they could find the insurgents no matter how well they'd thought they'd hidden themselves. He'd be back by dawn, just in time to check the prices on eggs and chickens.

Flag Bridge, HIJMS Musashi, South China Sea

Armed forces never changed. Their operating principles had remained constant for centuries. Hurry up and wait then get the job done by yesterday. After months of swinging around their anchors, getting one set of movement orders after another issued then cancelled, they'd suddenly got the word, make maximum speed for Burma and screen the transport group that carried the Special Naval Landing Force. Now, his bows were heaving and his ships had bones between their teeth as they hurried to make up lost time.

It was raining, quite badly as it happened but the visibility was still good enough to see the rest of his task group around him. Behind was the Yamato, and there were two cruisers, one on each flank. Tone and Chikuma. Old ships now but they had their sterns cleared for aircraft operations. Once they had carried floatplanes, now Kayaba Ka-5 ASW helicopters. Japan had been the first country ever to deploy ASW helicopters, Soriva remembered the little K.a-1 with affection, and it was one of the few areas where Japan's Navy was still supreme.

Good question he asked himself, how could the K.a-5s cope with the American's new nuclear-powered submarines? He'd heard their latest boats, the Skipjacks, could do 35 knots underwater and hold that speed for months if necessary. If true, that was a terrifying threat. Down there, underwater, the submarines wouldn't be affected by weather, they could run at full speed undisturbed. In the old days, keeping speed high was a sure defense against submarine attack. The slow boats would probably be in the wrong position to launch and, even if they were in luck, they got one shot and no more.

But if the rumors about the Skipjack were true, then they had more than seven knots on his battleships. That made them deadly threats. They could run ahead, get a firing position, shoot, then run again and reload. In fact, they could simply outrun the destroyers, in this weather none of his ships could get close to 35 knots.

That was a scaring thought; his four destroyers were virtually useless against such submarines. In truth, they'd be hard-pushed to deal with a diesel-electric submarine. They were the Akitsuki class, built as anti-aircraft destroyers in the 1940s. They'd been good ships for their day with four twin high-velocity 100 millimeter guns and four torpedo tubes. Now, though, their guns were virtually useless against aircraft. The destroyers screening the transport group were from a different class, Kageros, but were equally old and their capabilities equally dubious. They'd been rebuilt as submarine hunters but the changes were minimal, a turret and four torpedo tubes removed, depth charge throwers added.

The only really good destroyers were with the carrier group. Agano class destroyers, built in the late 1940s and early 1950s. Originally they had been designed as light cruisers but the class had been re-modeled and rearmed. Now they had two twin 100 millimeter guns forward and anti-aircraft missiles aft. They could carry K.a-5 helicopters as well. It was well they were around. That carrier group was vital. In a very real sense, the whole operation depended on two carriers with 108 aircraft between them and their screen of six Aganos.

Of course, it didn't matter if the Americans took a hand. Not only did they have more aircraft, they had better ones and they had nuclear weapons with no inhibitions about using them. An American task group would throw more than 500 aircraft, Crusaders, Skyhawks and Skywarriors.

Individually the aircraft had an edge over anything on the Japanese decks, well, perhaps that was too pessimistic, they could match the old F2J Dragon. The Japanese Navy was still struggling to get supersonics to sea and their current fighter, the A7W-2 was, at best, transonic. Their strike aircraft, the turboprop powered 88A Ryusets was an impressive load-lifter, most people believed it superior to the US Navy's Skyraiders. But they were slow compared with the jets.

If, however, the Americans didn't take a hand, then things were different. Both the Australians and the Indians had bought a US Navy lightweight Fighter for their carriers, the Grumman Tiger, and Skyhawks for strike but, like the carriers, they were taking their time about getting them operational. Neither the carriers nor the air groups had been cleared for service yet. Even some mediocre aircraft were better than none and so the Japanese carriers had things their own way.

They might need it as well. The reason for the haste was on his signals desk. Intelligence had reported that an Australian troop convoy was forming up and it was reported they were heading for Burma. Admiral Soriva had his orders. Get the STMLF to Rangoon first by whatever means necessary, the only restriction being the obvious one. Don't get us destroyed by the Americans. Projecting time, course and speed, assuming that the Australian Convoy would set sail as soon as Hood and her escorts had refueled, it was going to be very, very tight.

So, he had his fleet arranged. His own battle group out in front, clearing the way. Behind him was the troop convoy with its merchant ships. Then, bringing up the rear, the carrier group. The problem was that troop convoy, merchant ships were faster now than they'd been when Admiral Soriva had been a youngster but they were still painfully slow. His fleet could hold the speed of the slowest ships and the merchies could do 12 knots sustained at best.

He'd routed his formations so that they would keep clear of land based aircraft, assuming that the Australians deployed their carrier groups from land bases. But his eyes kept going to Clark Field in the Philippines. If anybody had long-range bombers there, it would put him in a critical position. It was fortunate nobody in the Triple Alliance had them.

Captain's Bridge, INS Hood, Perth, Australia

The crew had turned to with a vengeance. Hood had pulled into Perth almost out of fuel and supplies after her high-speed run across the Pacific. She'd finished her tour and got back on schedule but it had been tight. Her tired engines shouldn't have been capable of holding that speed so long but they had and they were still in good condition. There was something ominous in the way her engines had been making the ship tremble and in the way her bows cut the water. Captain Jim Ladone could feel that the old ship was furious at the insult to her honor and wanted her chance to get back at those responsible.

The crew certainly were. There was suppressed rage at the cowardly bombing on her quarterdeck. The stern area itself was now sacred ground, the teak planking still ripped and scarred from the bomb, memorial tablets placed to honor the dead. Well, all but one of the dead. The rage and humiliation of the crew hadn't, thank God, resulted in deaths on board Hood but there had been a mysterious spate of “accidents” on board the two destroyers. All the victims had been Moslem crew members. All the deaths had been investigated as far as the law and the circumstances allowed but nothing had come up to show that they were anything other than accidents.

It wouldn't. The crews of the ships, Moslem and Hindu, had kept their mouths welded firmly shut. The trouble was that, following an “accident” on Rana, the locker of the victim had been searched. And there had been bomb-making equipment inside. Equipment that hadn't been there when the ship was searched after the bombing on Hood. Had it been on the ship and moved ready for another attack? Or brought on board at one of the many port stays? Or even planted by other crew members to justify a killing or stir up more trouble? Nobody knew, everybody had a theory, everybody worried.

Now, the primary task in hand was getting the ships to sea. With a little luck, everybody was working to hard and getting too tired to worry over such things. There was so much to be done before the ship was ready to put to sea again. Stores were being replenished, magazines topped off. Somehow, the Australian Navy had even managed to find some 15 inch shells for her guns. The oil hoses were throbbing as Hood sucked in the bunker oil that was her life blood. It was a crash job to get her ready for sea again, the Australian troop convoy was almost ready to leave.

Across the way, the two old carriers, Sydney and Melbourne had loaded up with vehicles and heavy equipment. Like Captain Ladone, they'd been Royal Navy once, Illustrious and Victorious, but it would have been too costly to convert them for modern aircraft. They made excellent heavy transports though; fast and their flight and hangar decks allowed even the heaviest vehicles to be stowed.

Beyond them, there were the liners that had been requisitioned as troop transports. It was going to be a fast convoy; they should be able to hold 20 knots all the way to Rangoon. One day, they would be able to airbridge formations like this. In fact on paper they already could, Quantas had a fleet of Cloudliners that could transport the personnel, it was carrying the heavy equipment that was impossible, One day there would be aircraft that would lift tanks and self-propelled artillery but until then, the big stuff would have to go by sea.

It was going to have to be a fast run. The Chipanese already had a troop convoy at sea and it was reported to be heading for Rangoon also. If they got there first, they'd be able to install a new government that favored the demands of the insurgents in the north of the country. On the other hand, if the Australian division got there first, they could support the existing government. The Chipanese squadron was nearer but the Australian squadron was faster.

There was one problem, at the moment a small one but one that could only grow. When Ladone projected the Japanese Fleet's course and speed then superimposed the Triple Alliance fleet's equivalent plans, the two plot's coincided. In fact, not only did they cross, but the two groups of ships would be in the same area at the same time. And that did not bode well.

The Australian troopships had an escort of course, the three Indian ships, two Australian cruisers and four more destroyers but that was barely adequate. !n addition to the surface ships, they had air cover from an Australian Navy air group based at Darwin, 36 Grumman F11F-2 Tigers and 24 A4D-7 Skyhawks and another group had been moved up to Java.

Once they were close to Thailand, they'd have land-based air support from there. That was good, the Thai Air Force was small but it had the latest aircraft money could buy. Perhaps too recent, there were stories that the new aircraft were proving hard to keep operational. It wouldn't matter though; the problem was, in the most likely area of confrontation, all the available aircraft would be operating at the edge of their range. If there was going to be a confrontation, the ships would be on their own, without air support.

Ladone fingered his orders. They were very clear, very explicit. The Australian troop convoy had to get to Rangoon. No if, buts or maybes. If it cost the entire escort to get the troopships through, then so be it. It was one of those last man and last bullet type situations. The problem was that, as usual, the people who gave the orders were neither the last men nor did they have the last bullet in their possession.

Chapter Eight Gaining Ground

Cockpit of Su-7 “For Maria Chermatova” over Malyye Derbety

It was quite like old times and it was nothing like old times. Charging through the tree-tops on his way for a ground attack strike at the Germans, it was almost like being back in his old F2G over France. Until he looked out of the cockpit of course. Then, instead of seeing Scott Brim's dark blue Dominatrix on his right there was a green and brown splotched Su-7, For Ivan Fedeev flown by his wing man Mikhail Boroda. The Su-7 was nothing like the F2G, in fact Colonel Tony Evans would have preferred his old mount over the new Russian aircraft. The old F2G had long legs by comparison with the fuel-guzzling jet.

But, the Su-7 had virtues all of its own, It was fast, even low down, and as solid as a rock. It kept going, and it fought hard for its pilot. He'd seen other Su-7s come back with damage that would have downed less solid aircraft and the ground crews had fixed them and sent them back to battle the next day. It could lift loads as well, he had two 2200 pound capacity hard points under the belly, and four 1100 pound hard points, two under each wing. Total theoretical load almost 9,000 pounds. Of course, if he carried that much, his tactical radius would equal his take-off run.

Still, he had napalm tanks under his belly and four 20-round S-8 rocket packs under his wings. And his two 30 millimeter cannon. His aircraft's name said it all. He was carrying the load For Maria Chermatova.

After The Big One, he'd flown F2H Banshees, then been sent to Russian language school for a while, then back to ground attack units. He'd flown the North American F2J-4 Dragon from carriers for a while, working his way up the command chain. Then, a little over a year ago, he'd been offered a 3-year tour of duty flying as an exchange officer with Russian Frontal Aviation. Bored with peacetime flying, he'd jumped at the chance. He'd done the three-month conversion course for the Su-7 then joined the 16th Guards Fighter Division. A proud unit that had been fighting the Germans since 1941. They'd made their names flying American aircraft, P-39 Airacobras, now they were back where they'd started, in the skies of the Kuban, it had been a long, long journey and the price paid had been frightful.

One thing had puzzled him when he came to Russia. Go down a street in any American town, and soon you'd see a house with a gold star hanging in one window, indicating a son or husband killed in the Second World War. He'd never seen anything like that in Russia. At first he'd wondered why, then as he knew more Russians, he'd found out. Every family in Russia had lost not one but many members during the long war. In fact, during his stay he hadn't found a single family that didn't have a long list of the dead to remember. Nobody knew what the total casualties were, some figures suggested more than a third of the population had died.

One sign was the shortage of men. Women were everywhere in the armed forces, maintaining aircraft and vehicles, when the pilots slept, the women were refueling and repairing their birds, taking oil samples for analysis, reloading guns and hanging ordnance from the racks. Those women were quietly desperate to find husbands and, in their hearts, most knew they would not. The best they could hope for was a temporary relationship, a “Campaign Wife” as the Russians called it. Prior to being sent to Russia, the American exchange officers had been given a quiet, private briefing.

“Because of the situation and the shortage of men, there are a lot of Russian women seeking partners. That means you. If you choose to enter such a relationship, you may do so but expect your assignment to Russia to be made permanent. We're in their country help them rebuild, to give, not to take.”

When Evans had met his ground crew, he'd learned that Maria Chermatova had been the grandmother of the armorer responsible for maintaining his cannon and loading the proper ordnance for the strikes. During the occupation of Nizhny Novgorod, the Germans had murdered the old woman and her entire family. His armorer was the only survivor; Evans didn't have any Russian relations so, when he had heard the story, he'd asked if he could name his aircraft for the old lady. The gesture had gone down well with the unit, it had marked the acceptance of the American Marine into the Russian Fighter Division. Ever since then, he'd fired his rockets and dropped his napalm “for Maria Chermatova”.

Now he was off to do it again. The Germans were moving a heavy armored force south on the Volzhskiy Road. It was threatening the northern flank of the Volga breakthrough that was taking back the last piece of Russian ground occupied by the Germans. Overhead, he could see MiG-19s were flying top cover for the heavily-laden Su-7s skimming through the treetops. The Germans had started the battle with few aircraft and most of what they'd had were gone now. Still, there was no need to take chances. He nestled the Su-7 closer to the ground, the old lessons still held good. Low and fast meant life. He'd shared those lessons with the Russian pilots and listened to theirs in his turn. One good thing about the Su-7 was its speed low down, he was holding just over 600 miles per hour. With a tactical radius of 200 miles, that meant each mission lasted less than an hour. Of course the down side was that they all flew two or three missions per day.

The Su-7 was bumping and jolting, something he'd noted in the old F2G days but the extra speed was making it worse. Some of the jolts were almost bad enough to tear the stick out of his hands. He spent every evening trying to ease the bruises out of his back but nothing much worked. Speed had another effect as well, he had a harder job staying ahead of the aircraft. The trees flashing underneath him gave precious little warning of sudden rises in the ground or obstructions lost in the haze. Tracers floated past his cockpit, he'd had even less warning of that. The two aircraft following behind him would deal with the gunner whoever he was.

There were clouds of smoke off to his left, that would be other fighters striking at the German movement. Evans had something different in mind. He'd noticed that the Russian pilots tended to strike at the head of a convoy. It was sensible, hit the leading vehicles, stop them moving and the rest of the convoy would pile up. Trouble was, they did it too often, so Evans was taking his section parallel to the German movement, he'd swing in and hit the rear of the convoy. With luck all the soft skins and command vehicles would be back there and the anti-aircraft guns up front.

More bumping and pounding, there was the wreckage of an old railway line under him now. Getting close to the time to swing around and in. The F2G had been no ballet dancer but the ponderous Sukhoi made his memories of trying to maneuver the vicious Super-Corsair a pleasant thought. The Sukhoi also had spanwise drift problems on its sharply-swept wings. They'd been fitted with wing fences but it was barely a partial solution. It meant that in a turn, a wrong move could cause the outer section of the wing to stall. That threw the aircraft into a flat spin and, down here, recovering from that just didn't happen. He was keeping the columns of smoke on his left roughly level with his shoulder, assuming the troop convoy was the standard length, the swing should bring them around just behind its tail.

Just over to the right, a column of black smoke interlaced with red flame shot into the sky. A ground attack bird, probably an Su-7 had gone in. The Germans didn't have an air force to speak of anymore but they'd never been short of flak. Further to his right he could see the road approaching, the swing in was working perfectly. Glory be he had been right, there were a mass of soft-skins stationary in front of him. He could see the figures running backwards and forwards as they saw the ground attack aircraft boring in. drivers were diving out of the cabs of the trucks.

Another thing from the past, Evans wasn't aware he'd pressed the firing button but his cannon were thumping, sending tracers arcing down to the traffic jam beneath. More chaos underneath now, trucks backing, trying to get away. Wouldn't do them any good. Evans lined his sight up with the rearmost trucks and squeezed the firing button. The packs were set to ripple off the rockets so salvos of four would land at closely-spaced intervals along the flight path. Air-to-ground rockets had come a long way since the old days,

Evans' particular favorite was the huge 450 millimeter S-20s, lie could only carry six of them but each had the hitting power of a thousand pound bomb. But the little S-8s he was carrying today were doing their job. They were a mix of explosive, fragmentation and incendiaries, turning the target into a sea of flames and explosions. For Ivan Fedeev was adding the fury of its rockets to the hell developing underneath the racing jets. Evans punched the centerline racks release, dropping his two napalm tanks to bounce across the stalled trucks in front of him, then curved away. That was it, back home.

Only it wasn't it. As his Su-7 arced away from the inferno, Evans felt a heavy thump in the belly of For Maria Chermatova and the instrument panel erupted into a kaleidoscope of warning lights. The controls, always heavy on the Sukhoi, felt like they'd been set in concrete and a thick trail of black smoke erupted behind his aircraft. He'd been hit by something heavy, perhaps even an 88. “Comrade, you have a flame” It was Boroda, radioing over the bad news. There was a time when being called “Comrade” by a Russian would have set Evans teeth on edge but not now. Now, Russians had reverted to the traditional Grazhdanin as a form of address and Comrade meant again what it should.

Boroda hadn't mentioned bailing out when they had been swapping lessons. Both Russians and Americans had agreed on one thing at least, you don't bail out near troops you've just bombed and strafed. They tend to be resentful. Anyway For Maria Chermatova was still flying even if she was one very sick aircraft. Evans had some limited control and he knew where he was. It was about 70 kilometers to the Volga and safety. He just had to keep flying east, towards the sun. Those were the good things, the bad news was he was running out of speed, running out of altitude, running out of energy , running out of fuel and running out of ideas.

The Lyulka turbojet was banging and thumping, grumbling, spitting and coughing but it wouldn't quit. The vibration was getting worse as well, whatever was wrong under there was getting worse. The fuel gauge was slumping down much too quickly, his fuel tanks had been punctured. Just another addition, in fact losing his fuel may even work for him. He was only five minutes out from the Volga, if the aircraft would just hold together long enough. It was crabbing, trying to turn into its wounds, if he let it continue spanwise drift would spin her in. He fought the controls, sweat trickling into his eyes so at first he didn't see the streak of blue in front of him.

There were two bridges, one of the original assault bridges and a new heavy capacity pontoon. Tanks were using the latter one now, the lighter assault bridge had been devoted to trucks and their cargoes. For Maria Chermatova skimmed over the left bank of the Volga and kissed the water between the two bridges. Evans slammed into his harness, banging his forehead on the sharp screws that held the Perspex of the cockpit to the metal frame. They were supposed to be covered by rubber washers but the Russian rubber hardened and fell off.

The Su-7 was skimming across the river towards the right bank, huge arcs of water spraying into the air,. Across the river, he could see men were running towards the anticipated crash site. Evans braced himself and there was a sickening crash as his aircraft hit the right bank of the river, caught one wing on a tree spun and smashed through a stone wall. A group of pioneers were running up to the aircraft and started hacking the cockpit open with their pick-axes. Evans felt himself being grabbed and hauled through the shattered Perspex and metal to the grass outside. For Maria Chermatova was already starting to bum and there was enough explosives still on board to create a small scale disaster. Everybody was getting clear now, the aircraft was gone and everybody knew it, there was going to be nothing left to save.

“Hey American!” The sergeant in charge of the pioneers who'd pulled him out of the wreckage was calling him. An old, grizzled Sergeant with a brand-new Hero of the Russian People medal pinned to his uniform. In his hand he held a bottle of expensive Vodka with one good gulp left in it. Better yet, he was offering it to Evans. There were, Evans reflected, times when some gifts were beyond any achievable measure of gratitude.

German Forward Headquarters, Obil 'noye, Kalmykia, Russia

The Russian advance was swinging further south than he'd expected, they were using the marshes of the Caspian Depression to guard their left flank. It appeared the largely infantry groups of the First Khazak Front were working their way through the marshes towards Astrakhan. The Don and Volga-Don Canal lines were still holding, in truth they weren't under that much pressure. The Russians had cleared the areas north of the defense lines, advanced to the bank of the river and then stopped. They were pounding the right bank defenses with artillery but that was it. Obviously, it was the heavy armor of the First Byelorussians that was the primary thrust.

It all came down to those bridges. He'd been trying to take those damned bridges out. He'd tried air strikes and lost his last aircraft in an attempted raid that had been a disastrous failure. They'd been shot down before even getting close. Long-range artillery had failed as well. The guns were tiring a few shots then moving. So far they'd dodged the Russian fighter-bombers that were swarming over the battlefield but their luck wouldn't hold forever. And their chances of hitting the bridges were negligible.

Model shook his head, the southern swing of the Russian armor was disrupting his plans. Not disastrously but enough to make a difficult situation critical. He'd hoped the Russian advance would bring their northern flank onto LII Panzer Corps allowing them to fight as a cohesive whole. Instead LII had to move south and had been hammered by air attack all the way. The Russian aircraft had been all over them. They hadn't lost much armor but the Sturmoviks had crucified their supply vehicles and softskins. The open-topped half-tracks had suffered as well, hurt badly from the jellygas. LII Panzer wasn't out of the fight but it was hurt.

Without its supply vehicles it was going to have its work cut out staying in battle. That was another thing that British moron Fuller had forgotten about. Very fond of talking about penetrating long distances and getting into enemy rear areas and chewing up whatever they found there, but tanks burn fuel and they can only go as far as their fuel lasts. Without trucks to bring more fuel, the tanks stopped.

On the other hand, the head of the Russian advance was closing on SS Wiking's position. He'd thought it was SS-Wiking that would have to move and get pounded by the Sturmoviks but it wasn't going to be that way. The Russian advance was orientated south of Sadovoye and that would bring their lead tank army head-on into SS-Wiking's existing positions. There was going to be a tank battle there, one that would be worthy of the history books. The tanks of SS-Wiking were preparing positions, backed up by anti-tank guns.

They were using the hills for cover so the Russian armor would have to roll over open country towards them. Whatever happened, however much the battle deserved that recognition, it still wouldn't make those history books. Even if it did make it, it would be only as a footnote. His little country and its fight to survive were little more than a footnote itself, a small residue of unfinished business from World War Two. He knew well that most of the world regarded him as a little more than a bandit, a pretentious local warlord. Model knew it and resented it. Why should he be condemned so cavalierly when nobody condemned the Americans who had burned an entire country to death?

Model kept staring at the map. If SS-Wiking couldn't stop the avalanche of Russian armor, where to go? What to do? There were two options open. Most of his army was in the North, he could try and form a defense position south of the Don Line using the existing fortifications as one frontier and doing what he could with the other. But that was just buying time. He couldn't build new fortifications, his port would be gone, his oil supply gone. The Russians would pause, gather their forces and strike again. And he would be isolated, the rump he could secure in the North would be cut off from the sea, from any hope of help.

The other option would be to head south. He could take the infantry divisions out of Walthersburg and strip the Don Line. Those units could move more easily than the heavy armor, they weren't road-bound. Who knew? XXXXVIIth Panzer Corps might be able to make it out as well. Even if they couldn't, if the air attacks were too heavy, they could be the rearguard for the retreating infantry. If they could retreat south, down towards Chechnya and Georgia, they could hold out in the mountains. And his back would be towards friendly territory, Iran. When everything finally fell apart, he and the survivors could get out to there.

Or perhaps swing more towards the Black Sea? Reform behind the Kuban river, with the mountains guarding his flanks. Northern flank at Novorossisk, southern at Sokhumi. He'd have his back to the sea but he'd have two small ports for supplies and a small oil supply. Even if the Russians caved his front in again, he and his people could get out by sea to Turkey. And he had another card to play. If Walthersburg fell, no be truthful, when Walthersburg fell, he'd lose his chemical factories, the ones that supplied him with Sarin and Tabun. The supply was at Proletarsk now, along with the specialists needed to use it. That was a key card, it needed to be protected. It had to be shifted. If the supplies were shifted to Armavit, it would be easy to shift to wherever he decided to make his final stand.

Because it was going to have to be one of the two southern options. The northern option was a death sentence. The armored units would have to do what they could. Buy time for the rest of the Army to get out of the trap. But that was a move that could wait. The critical issue now was whether SS-Wiking could hold the Russians. If they could, it opened up new options.

On Board USS Skipjack SSN-585, At Sea, Pacific Ocean.

Not for the first time, Captain Donald Runken felt that he would cheerfully kill his father. It simply was not fair that parents should indulge their twisted sense of humors at the expense of their children. At school he'd been the “Drunken Student” who'd become the “Drunken Sailor” when he'd enlisted. In fact “What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor' had been the anthem of his Academy class. He still winced whenever he heard it. Which seemed to be often. As a young lieutenant, his first love had been Daisy Garfield. She'd turned him down because she didn't want to spend the rest of her life as “The Drunken Wife”. Now, he was technically, Captain Donald Runken, Officer Commanding USS Skipjack, the US Navy's latest, fastest and most deadly submarine. In reality (except to his face), he was the “Drunken Submariner”. Killing his father was too quick, he ought to torture him a little first.

That would have to wait though. He had a mission to perform, one that would require skill, deviousness and total sobriety. He slipped that in just before anybody else could. As far as the world was concerned, he was taking Skipjack out for one more in a series of her interminable machinery and handling trials. It wasn't just that she was nuclear-powered, Nautilus, Seawolf and the Skate class had proved that technology. She did have a new reactor design, the S5W, but it was an incremental improvement on the earlier ones. It gave a bit more power and it had a lot longer core life than the ones in Nautilus and Skate.

It was her hull design that was different, the earlier SSNs had modified diesel-electric hulls but Skipjack had the new “body of revolution” design that made her handle underwater in ways that resembled aircraft rather than older submarines. She was truly capable of maneuvering in three dimensions. The crew were having to explore all the operational implications of that maneuverability.

That wasn't the task at hand now though. That would exploit another one of Skipjack's revolutionary capabilities. The same hull form that made her so agile underwater made her a pig on the surface. Capable of 16 knots in theory, more like 12 in any sort of sea. Slower than most diesel-electrics. However, there was a profound truth about the nuclear submarines that was slowly percolating through the fleet and awing those who thought about it. Nuclear-powered submarines didn't have to surface. They left port, dived and that was it until they returned home. If they returned home. How they handled on the surface was irrelevant, they were never there. What mattered was how they handled underwater. There, Skipjack had no equal. She'd topped out at 35 knots on her full-power trials and her nuclear powerplant meant she could hold that speed for unprecedented times. She would be doing so now, a speed run across the Pacific.

Runken flipped to his orders. There was a Chipanese task group at sea, its position was known but he had to intercept and tail it. He had to report its exact position daily to Clark Field where the information would be passed to VPB-33. The Batwings were a PB5Y group. The catch was the Chipanese task group was split into three smaller forces and he was supposed to track all three and keep the Batwings aware of what was happening. And, he wasn't to be detected in the process. That, he thought, was going to be a challenge. The Chipanese force was in three sections, a battleship group out front, a troop convoy in the middle and an aircraft carrier group bringing up the rear.

There was a second half to the orders. There was an Australian troop convoy on its way to Rangoon and the Chipanese were thought to have intentions of stopping it. His orders noted that the Freedom of the Seas and Freedom of “Navigation were vital American national interests and he was required to act in defense of those interests. If the Chipanese attempted to interfere with the Australian convoy, then they were to be stopped from doing so. VPB-33 would handle the battleships, Skipjack would handle the carrier group. They'd co-ordinate on scene.

Interesting, combining submarine and air attacks was something quite new. Then deal with the troopships as appropriate. Another interesting thing, detailed instructions on what to do if the Chipanese interfered with the Australians (summarized as “do whatever it takes” ) but not a word on what to do if the Australians tried to interfere with the Chipanese. There was an unspoken message there.

OK, he'd need to get his torpedoes checked out. He had a mix of Mark 14s straight-runners and the new Mark 37 homing torpedoes up forward. Skipjack had no stern tubes, her new hull form didn't allow it. Runken decided to get all the Mark 14s stripped and checked over, he had an ingrained mistrust of his torpedoes, based on too many bad experiences. According to the Torpedo Factory and the NUWC, all the problems had been fixed and the torpedoes were as good as any in the world. The Mark 37s, they were another matter. If they worked, they'd be truly deadly. If. They were new and untested. That had been the next item on the original trials schedule.

Suddenly Runken had an inspiration. One of the Torpedomen was Long Tree, a full-blooded Apache Indian. It was rumored he'd joined the Navy after doing something unimaginably horrible to a man who had abused his sister. When he went down to the torpedo room, he'd consult with Long Tree, get some expert advice on a suitable fate for his father. With that satisfying thought in mind, he gave the orders for the speed run.

Nellis AFB, Nevada. Primary Operating Base of “Red Sun” Combat Training Range

The sun was setting, the cloud-streaked red globe just touching the horizon. The evening was already darkening as the F-106A interceptors flared on final approach and touched down, landing lights shining from the shadowed fighters like stars, the last of the sunlight coloring their drogue chutes a rich crimson. Originally, it had been planned that the first of the F-106 units, the 498th Fighter Interceptor Squadron based at Geiger AFB in Washington would take part on this year's Red Sun but it hadn't happened. Tension was flaring in the Pacific and the powers that be hadn't wanted to move NORADs latest and most capable interceptors from the West Coast. Instead, the second operational F-106 unit, from the Eastern USA, was taking its place.

As the interceptors landed and taxied to their revetments, the base personnel saw the tailcodes and nose art on the aircraft. Word spread like wildfire across Nellis where concessionaires anxiously compared anticipated revenues with likely damage and the base police grimly resigned themselves to a lively few days. The news didn't even hesitate at the base perimeter and howled into Las Vegas, sweeping through the Strip and its associated “entertainment” areas. Bar owners frantically contacted their wholesalers, quadrupling their orders for every alcoholic beverage known to man. The Casinos doubled their staff and put everybody on overtime. The showgirls readied themselves for long shifts and made inquiries about buying new convertibles and fur coats on the anticipated proceeds. The word surged on, spreading across the residential areas that surrounded the Strip. Anxious fathers sat by their front doors with loaded shotguns while their nubile daughters climbed out their bedroom windows and set off for Nellis. The Louisiana Air National Guard 122nd Fighter Interceptor Squadron, better known as The Bayou Militia had arrived.

Nike-Hercules Test and Evaluation Battery, “Red Sun” Combat Training Range

One of the merits of Red Sun was that things happened very fast once the exercises made their necessity clear. The lesson of the first four days of the exercise had been very clear. The old Ajax missiles were hopelessly outclassed by the new high-flying supersonic bombers. Their range was too short and their performance too low, the new RB-58s simply blasted straight through their coverage arcs. By the time the Ajax missiles were off and on their way, the bombers had fired their own weapons at the launching sites - and the projected nuclear explosions left few survivors. That left the Ajax flying ballistic and the bombers ducked them easily. As a result, word had already come down that the Ajax withdrawal was being accelerated and the batteries would all be converted to Here by the end of next year.

Major James and his Ajax battery crews were in the Here control battery facility gaining initial experience with the new missiles. The new missiles were a great advance on the old Ajax, faster, effective up to 100,000 feet and 100 miles range. Even better, they had a nuclear warhead. With a little luck, they would be able to cope with the new aircraft SAC had brought to the battle. Today would be their major trial, already the sky was filling up with aircraft and the cumulative electronic emissions from radar sets and jamming were causing the desert air to sizzle. It was the first of the big, no-holds-barred exercises. It was the Day of the Big Gorilla.

The Big Gorilla was the lineal descendent of the exercises that had started Red Sun. The bombers had to get through by whatever means they could, the defenses had to stop them by any means they could. Nobody was in any doubt that, by the end of the day, they would be counting crashed aircraft and mourning lost pilots and crews. Already, an F-I02 had been lost; its engine had started to suffer power failure on takeoff and the pilot had realized he lacked the thrust to get over the ridge ahead. So he'd ejected. Unfortunately for his professional reputation, the reduction in weight caused by the loss of himself and his seat just allowed the F-102 to clear the ridge before progressive power loss caused it to belly in the other side. It had landed in soft sand and, although written off, was strippable for spares. The initial accident report already concluded that “on this occasion the aircraft did much better without the services of a pilot.”

Mow, the main action of The Big Gorilla was starting. The long range acquisition radars of the Here battery were showing formations of SAC bombers approaching the exercise area. The main body, B-52s and a few B-60s were still far back but a number of smaller groups were racing ahead. Those would be the RB-58Cs that had been the stars of the exercise so far.

The problem they presented was, conceptually, quite simple. The RB-58 moved high and very fast. From the time the long range search radars had picked them up, it would take eight minutes for them to get overhead. That was a great improvement over the Ajax experience, there the batteries had had less than a minute to respond and they had proved incapable of meeting the challenge. Now, could the new Hercs do any better? The flight path of the Here was an up-and-over, peaking out at 100,000 feet and diving on the formation beneath. That had an unexpected advantage, warned of a surface-to-air missile attack, pilots tended to took down to see the threat, not up. The catch was that the missile trajectory had to be such as to bring the target within the lethal radius of the warhead.

James saw that the radar screens had already exploded into a jagged mass of electronic noise and pinwheels, the effects of the Hustlers using jamming to buy time for their attack runs. The Here operators were dancing around with frequencies, adjusting the jitter factors to try and exclude the radar energy being poured into their sets. The Nike radars were tagging their transmissions now, applying specific shifts of frequency and pulse repetition factors to make the genuine transmissions distinct from the white noise that tried to drown them out.

The screens cleared, the radar images showed that the racing RB-58s had already closed much of the gap. The operators initiated launch and James was stunned to see the big Here missiles lifting off their rails as they hurtled downrange. For an insane moment he thought the battery was shooting live rounds and had a nightmare picture of what might be coming back the other way. Then the words “Smoky Sams” forced their way into his mind. The launches were Here boosters with dummy second stages, designed to give the sound and visual signature of the launch without being a danger to the real aircraft overhead.

The game now was to put the missile into the right position for the intercept. That meant a limited footprint that was growing smaller by the second. Once within a set distance of the launchers, the intercept became impossible; by the time the missiles had reached the right target altitude, they would be in a tailchase and their chance of catching the fast-moving Hustlers would be remote.

As James watched he saw the pair of aircraft that had been assigned to their battery split up. One arced left and started to climb, the other dived to the right. Ajax had a problem, given a choice between two targets splitting apart like that, it would fly between them, missing both. It hadn't mattered with the old B-36s and B-60s and even the B-52s lacked the performance to exploit the flaw. The RB-58 did and that factor alone was enough to cause the Ajax to be withdrawn. Here had solved the problem with elegant simplicity; there was a simple random choice routine built in, the guidance radar flipped an electronic coin and took whatever target chance indicated.

The simulated track of the intercepting missiles was arching up and over but the two targets had split wide and were swinging fast. As the operators watched, the targets made barrel roles that reversed their turns and took them inside the projected course of the Hercs. They would pass outside the lethal radius of even the nuclear warheads on the Hercs. The tracks vanished from the scopes and the two targets were diving on the Here battery.

“Marisol and Tiger Lily” grunted the Herc operator. James raised his eyebrows, there was no IFF data on the screens to identify the two aircraft. “It's that balIs-to-the-walI style. Nobody else does it quite like those two.”

The Hercs had scored, at least two RB-58Cs had been judged hit and were returning to base. Suddenly the radar screens blacked out; the Here control room was judged to have been destroyed by the return shots from the two bombers. “Can we have long range surveillance feed restored please. We have trainees here and we'd like them to see the rest of the Big Gorilla?”

“Negative, we'll transmit range surveillance feed instead.”

The screens lit up again. It took a few seconds for the observers to adapt to the changed situation. In those few seconds, Marisol and Tiger Lily had broken through the SAM line and taken out two more Here sites. Other RB-58Cs had flowed through the breach and were rolling up the defenses. However, to the south, a group of fighters was streaking in to restore the situation, coming in much faster than any of the other groups that had been involved to date. James nodded to himself, the Bayou Militia had arrived.

The F-106s were spread right out, in loose pairs at staggered altitudes. That had been another change that Red Sun had brought about. After the first disastrous fight with the RB-58Cs, the fighters had abandoned the traditional tightly-spaced “finger four” and replaced it with the loose pairs of aircraft, a formation already known as “Loose deuce”. It hadn't saved the fighters from the nuclear-tipped radar homing missiles but it had cut the casualties from four per shot to two.

Even as James watched, several of the pairs broke away, presumably deemed to have been killed by nuclear fire from the RB-58s. There was no nuclear counterfire in the situation reports. He guessed the Cajuns had left their nuclear-tipped MB-Is at home, the Genies had proved useless against the fast and agile Hustlers. Later waves of interceptors would carry them, to deal with the lumbering subsonic bombers. Even as he watched, Marisol and Tiger Lily waded into the Bayou Militia.

Pilot's Position, RB-58C “Marisol”

He felt like he had been beaten with baseball bats then fed, feet first, through a mangle. Marisol was fighting like a wildcat, taking down three Here sites and a pair of F-106s already. That left 12 of the new fighters, out of an original 18. The Cajuns were not going to be happy with that. He was literally going head-to-head with another pair of 106s now. From a combat point of view, it was the safest thing to do, at a closing speed of over 3,000 mph, the fire control systems on the two aircraft simply didn't have time to react. The danger was collision, last year an F-101 and a B-52 had gone down in a head-to-head when neither pilot had given way.

It wasn't going to happen this time. Marisol ripped through the gap between the two F-106s, the concussion waves from the three aircraft blending together to give a multi-G thump that hurled him against his straps, adding more injuries to his bruised shoulders. Still, with that pair behind him, he could arch round now to two more on his left. Kozlowski was looking for Tiger Lily but they'd been split up evading the Hercs and had been fighting without mutual support ever since. He could see the two F-106s he'd picked swimming across his view, he'd got them cold, if they broke away, he'd get a perfect tail shot, if they broke towards him, the angles would be wrong for any shots they tried to make and they'd be wide open to Marisol's tail gun when they crossed.

“Fox-two, fox two.” That was the lead F-106, he'd broken towards Marisol and must have fired at the edge of his envelope. “Negative, Charlie five-one, two misses.” Bad angle and Dravar had been pouring radar jamming at the little Falcons. But his own GAR-8s were also hopelessly out of envelope, no shot possible. “Fox Three” That was Dravar with his tail gun. “Negative Marisol

It had been a faint chance anyway, that tail gun was deadly under some circumstances but this wasn't one of them. He pulled Marisol into a steep climb and rolled out at the top, an F-106 had followed him up and tried a Fox-One but the heat-seekers had been decoyed away by flares and the sun.. Another F-106 was below him and he could hear the annunciator growl as the GAR-8 homing head locked on. Constant tone and - “Fox-one”. A pause and then. “Positive hit. Charlie Five-Two, break off and return to base. She got you.”

“Damn it, he's behind us.” It was Korrina, Kozlowski's Bear, reporting that an F-106 had swung in behind them. Unlike the old days, it was a bad, bad angle for an attack, the high speeds involved meant that a missile hit was almost impossible and the fighter behind couldn't close that much for fear of Marisol's tail gun. And if the attack degenerated into a tail chase, the Hustler had more fuel and staying power to out-run and out-last the frustrated fighter jocks. But it meant that he couldn't turn without giving the fighter behind him a good shot and that set him up to be picked off by another fighter. “Got you, bitch” came over the comms system from the F-106 behind.

“You hear what he called me? Mike, beat him, kill him, torture him. Make him listen to Perry Como records” Marisol's voice was outraged. Suddenly there was a terrifying crash and Kozlowski was hurled against his straps again, through the blur of pain he saw his instrument panel light up into a sea of red warning indicators. Their afterburners were off and they were already subsonic, speed dropping fast. Behind him, the fighter's overtaking speed advantage became too much and a break-away turn became necessary to preclude a collision. There was not enough time for the F-106 pilot to react and score a “kill”. However, as he shot past, his afterburner presented a target that even the stunned Kozlowski couldn't resist “Fox One.”

“Kill confirmed. Charlie Nine-One return to base. You're gone.”

“Negative on that range, request assistance from Charlie Nine-One, we've got a problem here.” Kozlowski tried to get his brain working again. “We have had a major on-board explosion and multiple systems failures. Afterburners are out and we're holding only 300 miles per hour. We're losing altitude. Request damage check.”

“Charlie Nine-One here, Shee-it Marisol what did you pull then it was like you stopped dead in mid-air. OK coming around for check underneath. Marisol don't know how to tell you this but your main wheels are down. Looks like you dropped your main undercarriage. Gearwell doors are gone and there's damage to the belly. Nosewheel is still up.”

“Range Administration here. Marisol, We show you as having lowered your undercarriage at over 1,200 miles per hour. We expect severe damage and undercarriage collapse if you try to land. Eject now, we will send helos to pick you up.”

“Negative Range Administration, if we do that we won't find out what went wrong. Anyway, we have a deal up here. We're bringing Marisol in.”

Marisol was shuddering badly as she limped back to Nellis, Charlie Nine-One hovering protectively around her. Oil pressure was sinking fast, Kozlowski had a feel something in the hydraulics had blown and started the problems off. The controls felt like they were set in concrete, there was barely enough movement to keep Marisol under control. If they had fuel stacking problems now, they'd have to eject. They didn't, although an initial effort to lower the nosewheel failed. Kozlowski deployed the Ram Air Turbine and used the backups to get it down.

The long Nellis runway was in front of him now, all he had to hope was that the undercarriage wasn't too badly damaged. There were fire trucks and crash vehicles already lined up. The problem was that the B-58, with its delta wing and unique flying characteristics, required a nose-high attitude on landing. The nose had to be about 12 degrees up on final landing approach. That made it difficult to see over the nose to keep the runway in view, something quite important when trying to land at over two hundred miles per hour with a screwed-up undercarriage.

Kozlowski guessed the sink rate was critical, too much and Marisol's damaged undercarriage would collapse. He kept the nose up on the way in, using aerodynamic braking to slow the aircraft down. Then, as the main wheels touched, he gently lowered the nose for the final rollout. Drag chute out, lift the nose a little and then come to a stop.

“Thanks Marisol. “

“Hey we had a deal you didn't bail on me so I didn't on you.” Marisol's voice was weak and shaking. “Oh Mike Tm hurt inside. Get me some help huh?”

The canopies were opening and crew stairs were in place. Two flight line engineers were lifting Dravar out of his seat, he seemed to have been concussed from the terrible slam when Marisol's undercarriage had dropped. A tow truck was already in place to get Marisol to the maintenance shop.

Maintenance Hangar, Nellis Air Force base, Nevada.

“Sir, we've found out what went wrong.” Kozlowski thought it was time, for eight hours he'd been bouncing off the walls waiting for Chief Gibson to report back. “It was hydraulic systems failure, at some point during the battle the primary system went out, probably from shock and the backup was overloaded. It failed and dropped the undercarriage.

“We need to replace the hydraulic system aft, the main gearcovers are gone, blown off, and there is skin damage under both wings. I'm sorry sir, you're out of Red Sun as of now, Marisol is going to in here for at least two weeks.”

General Declan patted him on the shoulder. “Don't worry son, you two have already made your mark here. By the time she's fixed, the Group will be back home, we're basing out of Bunker Hill, Indiana from now on. The 43rd is taking our place at Carswell. We've got a TDY detachment though. As soon as Marisol is repaired you'll be leading an element of four birds to base out of U Thapao in Thailand. Friendly visit.”

General Declan started to leave, then turned. “Oh, the Bayou Militia wants to take you and your crew out for a party tonight. They seem to have been quite impressed. Try not to do too much damage to Las Vegas.”

In Front of Sadovoye Ridge, Kalmykia, Russia

“Rejoice Defenders of the Russian Land!” Major Oleg Leskowitz Ulyanov bowed his head as the prayer echoed across the long line of T-10s. The crews stood in front of the heavy tanks, their heads bowed for the battle today was a sacred duty. More than sacred, it was a day of destiny. Today his heavy tank battalion would be part of the destruction of the last SS division. Once the SS had been the scourge of Europe, the terror of all who opposed tyranny but now, they were almost part of history. Almost, that was the rub. Today they would have to be sent into history. Today, Russia would finally wake from the long nightmare. Today was the day they would destroy SS-Wiking.

Behind him, there was a reminder that it would not be easy. There was a patch of fresh moss-green paint on the glacis plate of his tank as a stark lesson of that. The previous day, his unit had been advancing when they'd come across a ruined farmhouse sitting in the rolling grassland. In front of it was a BTR-40 armored car, burning with the bodies of its crew around it. Other parts of the recon platoon were also around it, some dead or wounded, some pinned down.

As he'd taken in the scene, he'd heard the vicious clang as an armor-piercing shot had bounced off his glacis plate. He'd backed up, spread his tanks out and they'd pummeled the building with fire from their 122 millimeter guns. They'd leveled the building, reduced it to rubble and silenced the anti-tank gun but the defenders had fought on until their position was stormed and silenced. The anti-tank gun had been an ancient 50 millimeter PaK, the defenders cooks from a field kitchen unit. There was a grim joke made about that, they'd had two guns, the PaK and a Goulash-Cannon. But the joke didn't change the fact that a few cooks with an obsolete anti-tank gun had held the advance up for the best part of an hour.

Prayers over, clouds of black smoke as the T-10s started their diesel engines. That would alert the Germans to what was coming. Infantry attacks started with a massed artillery barrage that shattered the defensive positions and stunned the Germans within them but that was not the pattern today. Instead, the attack was being lead by the heavy tanks that would push forward to unmask the enemy defenses.

Already in position were the SU-130 “Battleships”, so called because they were armed with a naval 130 millimeter gun coupled to a cross-hull range finder. The big gun had been designed for use on destroyers, but any hope of building a Russian Navy had long since faded. Instead, they'd been adapted as long-range anti-tank weapons. If German tanks appeared, the SU-130s would pick them off But, that wasn't likely. Not at first. The front line of the German defenses would be anti-tank guns supported by dug-in infantry. The guns would be positioned so that their fields of fire interlocked, any tank turning its heavy frontal armor to face one gun would expose its weaker sides to another. Only when the Russian tanks were entangled with the net of anti-tank guns would the German tanks attack and drive the Russian armor back.

There was an answer to that. As a battalion commander, Ulyanov had two artillery batteries dedicated to him. Both his company commanders had one more each. Each battery had a designated code word to activate its fire. In the sector ahead of his battalion, Ulyanov and his commanders had a series of pre­planned impact points, sited in likely areas of German anti-tank nests. All Ulyanov had to do was give the code word for the battery then the one for the impact point and the shells would be on their way.

When he'd been a young Lieutenant, Ulyanov had seen the Americans fight and marveled at the way they could switch their artillery from target to target, massing and dispersing their fire as the situation required. The Russian system couldn't match that but it was better than nothing. And there were always the Battleships. They had explosive ammunition for their big guns as well as armor piercing bolts.

Ulyanov took a last look round before he crested the ridge and passed the jump-off line. The weather was far from ideal, there was a heavy overcast and the sun was hidden. But, his battalion was moving forward fast, the seven tanks of his first company on the left, the seven tanks of the other on the right. Other T-10 battalions were on either side of him, surging forward to engage the German positions. From above they must look like speedboats racing across the sea, the dust clouds behind the tanks resembling the plumes of spray and the waving grass and bushes, the wake on the sea surface.

Behind the T-10s, Washingtons were getting ready to move forward as well, exploiting the hole that was to be formed in the German positions. Getting them there through the first line of the German defenses was the job of the heavy tanks, it was the T-10s that would have to absorb the first fury of the German defensive fire. Both the T-10s and the T-55s were carrying tankriders, tankodesantniki, who would dismount to kill the SS infantry in their positions.

Now, though, they had a different job, the heavy tanks were surging through overgrown grassland, the tangle of weeds and plants waist-high or more. The tankriders were crouched behind the turret and the auxiliary fuel tanks for cover but their AK-47s were constantly swinging from side to side. The long grass was perfect cover for tank hunters with Panzerfaust rocket launchers.

Once the good, rich black soil had been the finest farmland in Russia, the farms here had been the wheat basket for most of Europe. Then, the Germans had come, they'd killed the farm animals, destroyed the crops and left the people here to starve. Now, the derelict Fields could grow a deadlier crop. Like the one in front, a German soldier had suddenly risen from the grass, Panzerfaust aimed to fire. He never got the chance, Ulyanov's gunner cut him down with the coaxial machinegun. A split second later there was a slight, almost unnoticeable bump as the racing heavy tank ran over the body. Ulyanov though he heard a scream but it was probably just the tracks running over the steel return rollers.

Ahead, a stream of fire came from an almost invisible dip in the ground. A rocket, a big one with four large fins, Ulyanov could see a flare on each fin tip and the missile changing direction as its controller lined it up with its target. All 15 tanks in his battalion opened up with their machineguns at the source of the missile, their guns were loaded with tracer to maximize the effect of the converging cone of fire. “Alexei, Katya”

“On its way” came an emotionless voice. For a brief second, the missile flew normally, then went straight up, stalled and crashed. Before the gunners could launch another there was a roar overhead and a salvo of shells smashed into their position. The system worked then. That was good to know. Lucky the Germans had set up on one of the pre-planned points. The tank raced ahead for a few seconds then lurched as it nosed into the dip where the tank-hunter team had hidden Ulyanov couldn't hear them over the noise of the big diesel but he knew the tankriders would be spraying the position with full-automatic fire from their AKs.

The T-10 hit the other bank of the dip and climbed out, Anya fishtailing it so that the soft underbelly wouldn't be exposed. She'd been a tank driver now for two years, one of three women drivers in the battalion. She was a slightly-built woman but all those months of wrestling with the heavy controls of a T-10 had given her muscles a professional weightlifter would envy. Once, she'd punched out a rear-echelon maggot who had insulted her, breaking his jaw in five places.

Over on the left, a T-10 was staggering, black smoke boiling out of its engine hatches. Through the powerful optics built into his commander's position, Ulyanov could see beyond the damaged tank to a suspicious looking clump of shrubbery-Sure enough, close to the ground a long barrel was swinging to its next target, looking for ail the world like a snake sliding through the grass. He put his cross-hairs. He felt the turret swing as Vitali lined his sight up with the indicator from Ulyanov's command sight.

“Cucumber” “Up”

“Shoot!”

The 122 millimeter crashed, the brass cartridge case ejecting on the floor and the turret filling with acrid smoke. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether he'd fired or been hit. The green-painted high explosive round, called a cucumber by every Russian tankoviki, was already going downrange to the concealed PaK gun. Now was the dangerous moment; while he was dealing with the PaK, an unseen gun could deal with him. But, they were getting away with it, there were four explosions at the position, three other tanks must have spotted the gun and engaged. Then a big secondary and Ulyanov was able to get back watching for threats. They weren't long coming. Another tank, over on the right suddenly staggered and halted. No fires and the tankriders leapt off to form a perimeter around the stalled T-10. The crew were bailing out as well, the tankriders would protect them until the fate of their damaged tank was known. But where was the anti-tank gun that had done the deed?

Ulyanov felt his tank suddenly swerve and stop. An AP shot passed in front of them, so close that he fancied he could feel the wind of its passage through the heavy turret armor. Anya was still backing up, that shot had come from the right, where was that damned gun? Ulyanov scanned frantically, nothing. Then he slammed forward into the eyepiece of his commander's sight, if he lived he'd have a black eye tomorrow. The tank was already pivoting on its tracks, she'd slammed the transmission into neutral then pushed the tiller hard over. The left track had gone full ahead, the right track full reverse, spinning the tank to the right.

A good tank driver went by instinct, not careful thought and Anya had it. Her maneuvers dodged shots she couldn't possibly know were coming. The next had passed the T-10, a few centimeters to the left of the turret, if it hadn't been for the halt and turn it would have ploughed into their main fuel tank. But now Ulyanov had seen where the anti-tank gun was. The Germans were clever, very clever, they'd positioned the gun right back in the bushes so only its muzzle showed. But the same position meant the bushes were disturbed by the muzzle blast and he'd seen them move.

“Pickle”

“Up”

“Shoot!”

“Cucumber”

“Up”

“Shoot!”

The armor piercing bolt had torn into the shrubbery, hurling it away, the follow-up explosive round had blown the concealed gun apart. Ulyanov heard the co-axial machinegun firing as it cut the crew down, then the T-10 was rolling forward again. They were heading uphill now, towards the crest of the first ridge. He'd seen the sand table model of the ground while the plan of attack was being explained. The Sadovoye Ridge looked as if a giant had placed two hands on the table, fingers outstretched and interlocked. The “bodies” of the “hands” were two large hills defended by the SS infantry regiments. They were being pounded by artillery now, prior to an attack by the Frontniki. But the complex mass of ridges between them were the target of the tanks. That's where the German armor was waiting. Destroy that and the mobility of SS-Wiking was gone. That meant the day would be won.

The T-10 was laboring as it climbed the hill, it was a great tank for the fiat plains but its heavy weight of armor and gun meant it was underpowered. Already, Anya would be watching the temperature gauge climbing, she couldn't let the diesel overheat. They had to make it to the top of the first ridge, Phase Line Anatol, where they'd stop and let the heavy tanks cool. The Washingtons would be taking it from there, up to Phase Line Boris at least. So far, they'd only faced a skirmish line, Ulyanov estimated a company of infantry and a battery of anti-tank guns at most. But there would be German tanks on Anatol. Panzers. Or a reasonable imitation thereof.

A vicious clang on the side of the turret and the T-10 rang like a bell from the shock. Ulyanov pitied his tankriders, the spray of metal from the hit must have at least injured some. Up ahead of them, He'd had seen a flash from the ridgeline. His scope saw just the edge of the turret, the tank was hull-down, just the top of the turret and the gun showing. Boxy turret, roof front sloping up to the mid-line then back. Probably a Chipanese Chi-Te. Fast, good gun, a long-barreled 75 same as on the Panther, but very thin armor.

“Pickle”

“Up” “Shoot!”

The ground just to the right of the enemy tank exploded in a shower of dirt and pebbles. Ulyanov cursed “Again” then was flung against the side of the turret as his driver spun the tank on its suspension to dodge another round. That sent the T-10 shot wild . “Again.” That one was short, smacking into the ridge just under the turret. If the enemy tank hadn't been hull down, it would have torn through the glacis plate. But it had sent the German gunner's aim off too. The enemy shot came nowhere close. “Again” and that one was true. The Chi-Te's turret flew into the air on top of an orange fireball as the tank's ammunition and fuel cooked off. A few tens of meters away from it, another Chi-Te exploded in an even more ferocious eruption. Ulyanov saw a roadwheel spinning into the air and bits of the engine compartment flying sideways. A battleship sitting on the ridge behind them must have seen it and picked it off with its big gun.

The laboring tanks made it up to the ridgeline, stopping hull-down. The tankriders leapt off and spread out along the ridge itself, checking for tankhunter teams and enemy tanks on the reverse slope. They waved the T-10s forward urgently, four Chi-Te tanks were destroyed on this section of the ridge but the fifth tank of the platoon was backing frantically, trying to make the next ridge. The tankriders dropped flat and a flash of lightning seemed to pass along the section of front as all the T-10s opened fire simultaneously. The enemy tank erupted under a hail of hits and near misses. If ever a tank had been killed, Ulyanov thought, it was that one.

He looked around, 13 of his 15 tanks had made it to the ridgeline and, even as he watched, another one, the T-10 stalled earlier made it up to the line and joined them. They were holding Phase Line Anatol and the Washingtons were coming up fast behind them. The T-10s would hold this position now while the T-55s moved through them to assault Phase Line Boris. With the Washingtons were resupply vehicles, carrying ammunition reloads and fuel. Plus vodka for the tank crews, although that wouldn't be on the manifest, Ulyanov threw his turret hatch back, allowing the cool air to clear some of the smoke and fumes from the tank.

Around him, the tankriders were securing the area. A couple of German tankers had survived the destruction of their vehicles and tried to surrender. If they'd worn the grey of the Wehrmacht, it might have saved them, for a while anyway, but they wore the black of the SS. The tankriders shot them down then bayoneted the bodies to make sure.

The rest of his crew threw their hatches open. Vitali had his gunner's hatch open, deep in the hull Dmitri was working his way up around the ammunition cases. Anya was already sitting on the edge of her driver's hatch, she was wearing a sleeveless man's cotton undershirt and it was transparent with sweat, her hair was plastered down by her helmet and her khaki pants were black. The white scars on her arms and shoulders, from hot steel fragments and burning oil and the jagged internal fixtures of the T-10 were highlighted by the moisture running over her. The rest of the crew would be bombing up soon, throwing out the empty brass casings and reloading fresh ammunition but Anya, along with the other drivers, was excused that duty. Driving a T-10 was physical punishment enough for anybody.

Their brief rest over, if bombing up could be called a rest, Ulyanov's battalion got back to work. Now they were providing overwatch while the Washingtons assaulted Phase Line Boris. Meanwhile, the battleships would be moving up so that the T-10s could move up themselves, ready for the assault on Phase Line Christian. That was the highest of the ridges and the main line of the German resistance. Once they'd broken that, it would, literally be downhill all the way. The sky was still overcast but the smoke from the shots, explosions and burning vehicles was forming a brownish haze across the battlefield. That was going to make overwatch difficult.

It didn't matter much, the Washingtons took Phase Line Boris without calling on the T-10s and SU-130s although they paid brutally for it. As Ulyanov brought his T-10s forward they passed the burning wrecks of a dozen T-55s, some with the bodies of their tankriders strewn around them, others with survivors sheltering by the wrecks. Some raised a cheer as the T-l Os passed, others even signaled the heavy tanks to slow down so they could scramble on board and continue the tight.

Phase Line Boris itself was a charnel house, the wrecks of the T-55s and German tanks within a few meters of each other. The German tanks, a mixture of Chi-Tes and Panthers, mostly the version with the 88 but a few had the absurdly long 75 millimeter 100 caliber barrels. Smoke from the wrecks permeated everything making it difficult to breath. Still no sun, the heavy clouds were trapping the smoke and haze, creating a growing fog over the battlefield.

“Panzers!”

The alarm cry brought the tired tank crews back up to alert. The Germans were launching their long awaited counter­attack. From the ridge marking Phase Line Christian, a pack of German vehicles moved forward. Uiyanov spotted at least a dozen King Tigers, he guessed some would have 88s and a few of them the 105 the Germans had been introducing just before Germany was burned off the map.

There were half a dozen tank destroyers, Jagdpanther IIs with their 127 millimeters and some Chipanese tank destroyer he'd never seen before. More smaller, lighter tanks. And two dozen half tracks carrying infantry. The Germans didn't use tankriders the way the Russians did, they gave their infantry special armored carriers. Now, the Tankniki would show them why trying to fight from such thinly protected vehicles was a bad idea when tanks ruled the day.

“Turnip”

“Up”

“Shoot!”

It was a slaughter. The armor-piercing high explosive rounds smashed into the halftracks, sending them spiraling backwards, flying apart or just erupting into pyres of greasy black smoke. By the time they'd covered half the ground towards the Russians holding Phase Line Boris the halftracks had gone. The German tanks shot back but they were firing on the move at small targets seen only fleetingly through the fog of smoke and fire. The half-tracks destroyed, the surviving Washingtons and the T-10s started on the German tanks.

Once the half-tracks had gone, the Jagdpanthers were the top priority, they had the best guns and the best fire control. Ulyanov saw his sabot shot bounce off the glacis plate of one. Then a second and a third shot went the same way. Only with the fourth shot did the tank destroyer lurch to a halt and start to burn.

By then the lead German tanks were within a hundred meters. Ulyanov lined up on a King Tiger then saw its turret fly into the air and the hull explode. Unnoticed, a group of SU-130s had moved up to Phase Line Boris and there was no armor a tank could carry that could stop a sabot round from a 70 caliber 130 millimeter at these ranges.

“Drop back, drop back.” Ulyanov shouted into his radio, he didn't have the authority but he was officer on the spot. His T-10s went into reverse backing off the ridgeline, leaving three of their number burning on the crest. Five of the Washingtons had joined them. They backed off the ridge then stopped some 30 meters down.

As the German heavies crossed, none of the lighter vehicles had survived, his command fired a salvo into their midst. Then it was utter chaos, tanks fighting at point-blank range. The tank destroyers, German and Russian, died first, their limited traverse guns being a deadly limitation in this knife-fight. Ulyanov didn't even know how long it lasted, only that he survived when the divisional commander lead his reserve tank battalion into the fight and the 45 Washingtons turned the tide.

“Driver Forward. We're in the lead and by God and Saint Aleksandr we'll lead.” The survivors of Ulyanov's group, six T-10s and two T-55s swept forward, over the ridgeline of Phase Line Boris and down into the valley. Ulyanov still had three turnips, one pickle and four cucumbers on board and he was damned if they would be wasted. Again, some of the Germans tried to surrender but the Russians had no time for them. They crushed them under their tracks.

Down they swept, and up the ridge to Phase Line Christian. By the time they reached the top their T-10 was overheating badly and they'd shot their bolt. Anya maneuvered the tank into a hull-down position and her voice came defiantly over the intercom. “That's it. Overheated. Move another meter and she'll seize up.” In her compartment, she doubled up in her seat, sobbing with the exhaustion that had suddenly caught up with her.

The other T-10s would be the same but it didn't matter for Ulyanov could see something he'd never believed he would. The SS-Wiking Division had broken and was running. Below Phase Line Christian was a mass of vehicles, soft-skins, towed and self-propelled artillery, heading for the ridge marked Phase Line Demeter and, they hoped, safety. Only the Washingtons were already passing through the tine of stalled T-10s to hound and harry the Germans just as Cossack cavalry had once hounded and harried Napoleon's retreating Grande Armée. Ulyanov squeezed off HE round after HE round at the fleeing enemy until his rack was empty. Then it happened.

At last, at long last, the sun broke though the morning overcast. Its light interacted with the smoke of the burning vehicles to fill the battlefield with a sulphurous yet strangely comforting yellow glow, reminding him of a gas-lit window seen through an evening fog.

The sight suddenly filled Ulyanov with inspiration. Standing in the turret of his tank he drew an icon from his pocket, actually a picture of one torn from an American magazine, the National Geographic. It was folded and dog-eared now but he held it up over his head like the priceless relic that, to him, it was. As the Russian armor surged past him, his shout was, somehow, carried on the divisional radio net.

“REJOICE DEFENDERS OF THE RUSSIAN LAND!”

Chapter Nine Scoring Points

Alekszejevka Oblast, south of the Don River, Russia

The previous night had been terrible. The German women had known “it” was coming, ever since the Russian Army had broken through the border defenses but, by an unspoken agreement, had carefully avoided discussing or even mentioning “it”. The Russian women had been more forthright. 'Better raped by a Russian than loved by a German' had been one common phrase. The Russian Army had arrived the previous afternoon, first the heavy tanks and mechanized infantry had passed through Alekszejevka, setting up a defense line for the night to the south and west. Then, the infantry had followed them and they'd stayed in the village.

The actions of the German women had been varied. A few had fought desperately but they'd only succeeded in proving that even a desperate women couldn't fight trained and battle-hardened soldiers. They'd been beaten into submission, now some were dead and the rest were badly injured. Some, most, had tried to divorce themselves from what was happening, tried to isolate their minds in a private place far away and so save their sanity. They'd tried to insulate themselves from the groups of soldiers who'd come for them hour after hour throughout the night.

Elsa, Margrafin of Alekszejevka, had been one who'd tried that. She was hurt inside, bleeding and sick but she had survived. So far. A few other German women had copied the Russians, put bread and salt on the table and waited to accept the inevitable. It hadn't quite saved them but when the first group of Russians had finished, they'd left guards on the doors to make sure these women were not attacked again.

Then, in the morning, the entire population of the village had been herded out into the open. They'd been searched. Men and women with their blood groups tattooed on their arms and any who'd been foolish enough to keep their Nazi Party membership cards were taken away, pushed up against a barn wall and machine-gunned. The bodies were still over there. The Russian villagers had been told to go home but the Germans had been kept out in the open, the men and women separated from each other. Now they were waiting while their homes were looted.

The men were taking machines, clocks, valuables, even light bulbs. The female soldiers were taking the German women’s clothes and other personal things. The Margrafin saw one woman, with a rifle and telescopic sight hanging over her shoulder, struggling with boxes and a pile of clothes taken from her home. She even recognized her own wedding dress, now the property of that female sniper. Elsa, once Margrafin of Alekszejevka, hated her.

Colonel Tony Evans sat in his radio-jeep and tried not to think on what was going on around him. After he'd been shot down, he'd been assigned to forward air controller duty until a new Su-7 was delivered for him. He'd been with the infantry ever since and, although he'd arrived this morning, it was obvious what had happened the night before. Anyway, it didn't take imagination, it had been the same in every village the Russian Army had taken. The authorities even rotated units so that everyone got their chance. He shook his head, the Marines had a motto, “No better friend, no worse enemy” but the Russians took both parts to the ultimate extreme.

He'd seen some of the German women appeal to the Russian female soldiers for protection, only to have the Russian girls laugh in their faces and promise to come and watch next time the men raped them. Yet he couldn't blame them, the war had gone on for seventeen - almost eighteen - years. Two generations had been butchered, their lives stolen by the invaders and the chances for any of the women to have a normal life after this were bleak. It was natural for the women to be bitter towards the invaders who'd stolen their hopes for a family and a future. Anyway, after what he'd seen of how the Germans had treated the Russians it was hard to find any sympathy for them.

“Grazhdanin Sniper-Sergeant, may I offer some assistance?” Evans had seen one of the women soldiers struggling with a bulky pile of loot, her rifle and some boxes.

The Russian Army even provided a special parcel service so that the Frontniki could send loot back to their families. The front newspapers had carried a story about a postal clerk who'd stolen from one such box and had been shot as a result. Even so, the woman was looking at him with suspicion and wariness in case he wanted to take some of her treasures. Evans smiled “Bratischka, please be reassured, I do not look my best in a bra and panties.” The woman laughed and relaxed. She'd seen the American flag on the shoulder of his uniform, everybody knew the Americans were rich and didn't need to loot.

“Thank you Gospodin Colonel. I would be most grateful for some help.” She unloaded the pile on the hood of the jeep and started to unfold the cardboard boxes. The wedding dress was first, obviously it was her prize catch. Another Russian girl hoping against hope that her loot would help her find a husband. Evans stopped her.

“Bratishka, the cardboard is thin and may get damaged. If so, the fabric of your dress may be harmed. Let us put some other things in first so they will pad your dress and protect it.”

The girl smiled her thanks at him and smiled again as she watched the American pack her loot into the boxes, neatly and efficiently. It never occurred to Evans that decades of packing his possessions for transfers and assignments had made him an expert luggage handler. Once he'd finished, they carried the boxes over to the mail truck. Evans looked at the boxes, the address was Petrograd, the name that of a woman.

“Your mother?” he asked.

“My aunt. My mother and sisters died in the siege of the city. They were starving so they tried to make soup out of engine oil. It killed them of course but perhaps it was a quicker death than starvation. Allow me to introduce myself, Gospodin Colonel. My name is Klavdia Efremovna Kalugina, 69th infantry. I forget which part of that unit I am from now, we have been merged and reformed so often since the offensive began.

Evans whistled to himself. He was speaking to a legend. “I have heard much of your skills Klavdia Efremovna. It is an honor to meet you. My name is Tony Evans. I am a pilot with a Sturmovik regiment on exchange from the US Marines. I was shot down a few days ago and, until my new aircraft comes, I am a forward air controller. Now I call in airstrikes. Pilots serve in this role because we understand what our comrades in the air need to know if they are to hit the right targets.”

“Gospodin Tony, you are Sturmoviki? Did you drop napalm on the fascists?”

Odd, thought Tony, that was the question all the Frontniki asked him. And they all glowed with satisfaction when he said that it was his favorite. “Klavdia Efremovna, I just love the smell of napalm in the morning.” It was a corny line, one all the Marine pilots had used for years, but it worked. Sure enough, the girl laughed and looked at him admiringly.

“Gospodin Tony, perhaps you would like to share my lunch?”

Whoa, thought Tony this could get complicated. Still, it was a unselfish offer, Russian rations were adequate rather than generous and it was a real sacrifice to offer somebody else a portion. He had food of his own in his jeep he could offer but he'd have to be careful, if he produced too much, he'd belittle her own offer and cause offense. He did not want to offend anybody who could blow his head off at 1200 meters. They'd reached his jeep now and Klavdia Efremovna produced some black bread, cheese and some canned meat. Spam, Tony noticed.

“Perhaps I can add to our meal?” he asked. He reached into his own pack and got out more black bread, 600 grams as opposed to Klavdia's 900 and that made her beam with pride. She might be only a Sergeant but she got the Frontniki ration of 900 grams whereas the Colonel only got 600. He also produced an onion, some tomato sauce and a field heater so they could make some tea.

That's when inspiration struck “Would you like to try an American dish Klavdia Efremovna?” The girl nodded. Evans slid a metal plate onto the other burner of the field cooker. While it was heating, he cut a thin slice of bread, coated it with the tomato sauce then layered it with some slices of cheese. Finally, he topped it with some thinly-sliced spam and onion and put it on the plate. Then, he put his metal field cup over it to hold the heat in. A couple of minutes later, the cheese had melted and the bread hardened enough to form a soft but firm crust. “Klavdia Efremovna, I present you with - Pizza.”

She took it and tried a tentative bite. Then a startled grin spread over her face and she wolfed down the field-substitute pizza. She licked the grease off her fingers while Evans made more slices. He kept going until all the bread and toppings had gone.

“Pizza is good, Grazhdanin Tony. Thank you for showing me.”

The water was boiling and she started to make the tea. To have hot tea was a real treat. In the field, so often they had to make do with cold tea that had been in the canteens too long. They chatted on over their tea, comparing notes about the fighting and telling gallows-humor jokes. Evans showed Klavdia Efremovna pictures of his old aircraft, “For Maria Chermatova” then had to explain who the old lady was and why he'd named his aircraft for her.

As they talked, he couldn't help thinking that staying on in Russia might not be such a bad idea. After a twenty year hitch in the Marines, he had few ties in America, nobody to go back to and nothing much to do there. But Russia was a wrecked and smashed society that badly needed expert help if it was going to recover. With his pension for capital and a world of opportunities to pick from, he could build a good life here.

There was no need to sever ties with America, the rule was that if he started a relationship with a Russian girl, he would be expected to stay with her and make his home here. There would be no restriction against traveling back to America as often as they wished or having their children in the US, so the kids would benefit from dual American-Russian citizenship. And, he suddenly realized, even without makeup and in the baggy Russian uniform, Klavdia was a very attractive woman.

War had a beautiful symmetry to it, thought Nikolai Fedorovich Lukinov. He'd started this offensive in command of a platoon of around 50 soldiers. Then, he'd made a Captain in command of a composite company of around 50 soldiers. Now, he was a major in command of a composite battalion - of around 50 soldiers. He got a grim feeling that when he finally made President, it would be of a country with around 50 citizens. If that wasn't worrying enough, his best sniper, the legendary Klavdia Efremovna Kalugina was making eyes at an American pilot. Well, if anybody deserved a chance to snag an American, it was her. Lukinov decided it was time to give the gods of love a little helping hand. He went over to the American's jeep and saluted

“Gospodin Colonel Evans, welcome to the 69th. I understand you will be our forward air controller for a week or two. I am required to assign a soldier to you as an escort and bodyguard. Heroic Sniper Klavdia Efremovna Kalugina, I understand that your spotter, Marusia Chikhvintseva, is seriously injured and will not be returning to us for some time. You are therefore assigned to escort Colonel Evans for as long as he is with us. Any questions?”

She snapped to attention and saluted, spilling her tea as she did so. “No, Tovarish Major. And thank you.”

Lukinov returned the salute and stalked off in a good imitation of an officer who'd just had to part with a valuable unit asset for no very good reason. As he went he sneaked a look backwards. Evans and Klavdia Efremovna were grinning broadly at each other. Well, he'd done a good thing today, a selfless thing. He'd given two people a chance to be happy. Doubtless, God would recognize that and reward him. And even if he didn't, Klavdia still deserved her chance. Now he had more important things to organize.

The German men were to be handed over to the security police, SMERSH, for interrogation before being put on trial for war crimes and executed. The women were to be sent to a detention camp where they would kept until their fate was decided. It was being rumored they were being held as hostages against something. Well, that was somebody else's problem. Trucks would be arriving in a few hours to take the women away. Then R&R would be over. His “battalion” would be moving out, keeping up the pursuit of the retreating Germans. The work of the Frontniki was never done.

German Forward Headquarters, Elista, New Schwabia

He'd heard that some animals, once they realized that the trap was sprung and escape impossible, would lie down and die. Baron Walther Model had never thought that was a particularly good or useful idea. Now, he was beginning to understand what might lead to it. The situation facing him was worse than any he had ever handled. All three of his fronts had caved in. In the east, SS-Wiking was dead. It had taken the Russians less than six hours to break through its defense position, their heavy tanks grinding the world's last SS division into history.

There would be no survivors. Oh, some men may still be alive, hiding in woods or ruined buildings but the Russians would hunt them down and kill them. LII Panzer Corps had died also, destroyed in a whirlwind of airstrikes and armored thrusts. But, LII had achieved something that SS-Wiking had not, they'd bought enough time for the three infantry divisions in Stalingrad to escape. Model grimaced, his capital of Walthersburg had fallen almost without a fight and was now Stalingrad again. Those three divisions were out and moving south along the Kotelnikovo Road. They were already south of Proletarsk, heading for the Kuban and Armavit. With them was XXXXVII Panzer Corps, by a miracle, they were out also, damaged certainly but still capable of fighting.

That was the good news, the real disaster was in the north. The blow across the Volga had threatened to take his defense line on the Don River from the rear. He'd had to abandon his painstakingly-built fortifications in an attempt to get the infantry there out and south. Only, once out of their steel and concrete, the three infantry divisions had just melted away. The Russians had realized what was happening and launched a pursuit, overrunning the retreating units and turning their rout into a catastrophe. The decision had been a bad mistake, if he'd known the units would collapse that way, he'd have left them put to fight in their bunkers and die there. But he hadn't and the divisions hadn't even made an effort at fighting. In the west, his port of Rostov had fallen, also pretty well without a fight

Now, all that was standing between the Russian northern units and what was left of his army was the creaking Russian logistics system. The Russian tanks had slowed down, waiting for their fuel convoys to catch up. He had a breathing space now, not much of one for certain but it was a breathing space. If he could reassemble his force south of Armavit, he could cut his way out to the south. It would only be a few tens of kilometers and his troops would be in the Caucasus Mountains. There, they would be safer from the murderous Russian fighter-bombers and any pursuit would be seriously slowed.

He could head through the mountains to Tbilsi in Georgia then south to Yerevan in Armenia. Finally, he could make it over the border into Iran. His friend the Ayatollah had already promised him sanctuary there, sanctuary for him and as many of his people as could make it. Looking at the map, Model knew what he envisaged would be a military epic. If the tale was ever told, it would go down as one of the greatest fighting retreats in history. The survivors of his army would have to move as a wolf pack, non-combatants and soft-skins in the middle, armor and infantry on the outside. More than 40,000 people moving as a column with a little over 300 kilometers to cover before they reached safety.

And there was another problem, the stockpile of war gasses at Proletarsk. He couldn't evacuate it now and the Russians were closing in on the town. Then, inspiration struck. If his engineers just released the gas, it would form a huge cloud. The prevailing winds would carry it north and west into the heavily-populated areas of the Donbass. It would kill thousands for certain, probably tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands.

The Russians would go berserk and chase those responsible with every asset they had. And, he'd order the engineers to make for a port on the Black Sea, Primorsko Akhtarsk would do. That would take the Russians south and west while he was planning to go south and east. The misdirection would cost him his engineers but buy him hours, perhaps a day or more. Each such hour meant his column could be further on its way before the Russians started the real pursuit.

Model wrote the orders out clearly and precisely, then called for a courier. The duty officer was Willi Martin, the paratrooper who'd brought him word of the Russian crossing of the Volga. Model repeated the written orders verbally, explaining that the gas release was to cover the retreat to the Kuban and the Black Sea coast so his army could evacuate by sea to Turkey.

The Road To Proletarsk, Kalmykia, Russia

Willi Martin left Model's headquarters a profoundly troubled man. He might be a junior officer, but he could read a map and what he had been told just didn't make sense. The gas cloud would be militarily inconsequential, oh it would snarl the Russian rear echelon and supply columns up for a while but they'd cope with that. The slaughter of civilians would be unimaginable, horrible to contemplate. And the Russians would be enraged, they'd come after the surviving Germans with everything they had and there would be no mercy for anybody.

Had Model gone mad? Or had he decided that if he was going down, he'd take as many people with him as he could? What was he thinking, why was he doing this?

As Willi Martin drove north, the question continued to plague him. The tires of his Kubelwagen, beating on the road surface seemed to be chanting why? why? why? He was stopped at checkpoints but Model's pass saw him though them without delays. Anyway, the checkpoints were manned by chainhounds, not SS. The Einsatzgruppen who'd been so keen on hanging “deserters” when the front was holding had evaporated now that the Russians had broken through. Perhaps they'd died, fighting heroically as a rearguard, but somehow, Martin doubted it. It was more likely they were running south as fast as their legs would carry them.

And as he drove west, the question in his head was never answered. At the last checkpoint, the chainhound read his pass but stopped him anyway. “Road forks up ahead sir. Left fork leads to Proletarsk, right fork to Orlovskiy. Make sure you take the left fork, there is a Russian mechanized recon battalion in Orlovskiy already.”

The tires were still asking, he still couldn't find an answer when the fork in the road appeared. Martin suddenly realized that the fork really was the question and he had to pick the right answer. It was almost a message and he suddenly understood that the answer was, quite literally staring him in the face. He had to make the right decision. So, he took the right fork in the road.

Orlovskiy, Kalmykia, Russia

Martin had hung his shirt on his radio antenna, it was a poor enough white flag but it would do. As promised, there was indeed a Russian mechanized recon battalion in Orlovskiy, the eight-wheeled armored personnel carriers and SU-76 tank destroyers were parked but ready to move. He swerved his Kubelwagen to a halt and got out, hands raised. Russians were surrounding him, one took his pistol, another his wristwatch.

Then, an officer with the word “SMERSH” on his collar arrived. Martin showed him the dispatch case with Model's crest on the front then broke the seal, opened it and took out the orders. The Russian didn't speak fluent German but he spoke enough and the words “Sarin” and “Tabun” were understood in any language. His eyes widened and he stared at Martin.

“It's wrong.” Martin said “I can't be part of doing that. It's just wrong. It'll be two, perhaps three hours before Field Marshal Model realizes his message didn't get through. You've got that long to stop this. I didn't see much on the road as I came up, a few chainhounds - a few military police. That's all”

The intelligence officer stared at him and nodded. Another officer arrived, obviously the battalion commander. The SMERSH officer showed him the papers and spoke quickly. Martin heard the senior officer's “Borgemoi” and now everybody was staring at him.

Major Yeltsin stared at the German. Was this a trap? Was the Fritz officer luring his unit into an ambush? He looked at the German officer's eyes. Shame, despair, doubt. And anguish. No, this wasn't a trap. Anyway, there was no time to ask permission or follow procedure.

“Get the unit mounted up. We're moving out NOW. We're heading for Proletarsk as fast as we can move.” He looked at the SMERSH officer. “Lieutenant Putin, get this German officer to Colonel-General Taffkowski as fast as you can. Stay with him all the way until you speak to the General yourself. We cannot afford for this man to be shot while trying to escape. We're going to try and seize Proletarsk, its only 15 kilometers down the road, but we'll need back-up and reinforcements. Get a message through to the General's staff, see the General sends anything and everything he has.”

Major Yeltsin saw the intelligence officer bundle the German and his briefcase into a BTR-40 and head off. Then, he swung himself into his command vehicle, a BTR-60K.

“Right, move out. Su-76s in the lead. Don't stop for anything or anybody. If something gets in the way, crash through it and keep going.”

Krasny Kut, Southern Russia. Primary Headquarters, First Byelorussian Front

Although Colonel-General Andrei Mikhailovich Taffkowski was unaware of the fact, he'd made several key decisions and issued a string of orders while his vehicle and its escort were returning from the main headquarters meeting. The situation had cracked wide open, First Ukrainian, Second Ukrainian and First Byelorussian Fronts had broken through the German defenses and were pursuing the broken remnants of the German army south. The news from the Sadovoye Ridge had been even more satisfying. The 18th Guards Tank Division had broken SS-Wiking and were mopping up its fragments. First Khazak Front was wandering off somewhere down towards Astrakhan. All in all, it had been a good meeting.

It was when he got into his command compound that he realized how hard he had been working in his absence. The place was a bustle of activity, people running around, messages being carried. More, there was the suppressed air of excitement that spoke of something major going down. By the time he got to his command caravan, he knew it was important. His staff were working frantically to get something up on running.

“What is it?” he asked testily. He was feeling happy after a good meeting and he didn't want it ruined.

“Colonel-General SIR!” His chief of staff was sagging with relief. “Thank God you're here. Sir, earlier today, a German officer surrendered to a Major Yeltsin, the commander of the 64th Reconnaissance Battalion. He was carrying a series of orders from Field Marshal Model to a number of special engineering units that were stationed in Proletarsk. We were aware of the position of the units but had them designated as motorized infantry and assigned them a relatively low priority. These orders made it clear that the units were those responsible for handling and deploying war-gasses. They had a stockpile of many tonnes of such weapons, mostly Sarin and Tabun but also something called Soman and a lot of old-fashioned mustard gas. The German officer was carrying orders for the engineers to release all that gas then retreat to a port on the Black Sea for evacuation by sea.”

“Borgemoi!” Taffkowski was horrified. The thought of the carnage a cloud of gas would cause as it floated over the densely-populated Donbass was a nightmare to contemplate.

“Major Yeltsin's words, Sir. Exactly. The Major decided that there was no time to waste. Apparently The German courier knew the contents of the orders and decided that his conscience couldn't allow such an atrocity so he defected to our troops. The Major got off his ass and, on his own authority I may add, decided to try and take Proletarsk by coup-de-main before Model realized that something had gone wrong and issued replacement orders.

“Yeltsin did some sort of cavalry charge down the road from his forward positions to Proletarsk. He got through without much of a fight, but there was a brawl in the city where he lost heavily. Major Yeltsin was wounded but he and his men broke through. They found all the war-gasses had been loaded into trucks, apparently the engineers were expecting orders to move the stockpile to the south. Long column of trucks. The Germans didn't get a chance to do anything critical, Yeltsin's men seized the trucks and their cargoes intact. The survivors of the garrison in Proletarsk are their prisoners.”

“What happened to that German Officer? We need to speak with him urgently.”

“Major Yeltsin ordered his field intelligence officer to bring him here. In your absence, Sir, you ordered that their progress be accelerated as much as possible, that they be given every possible assistance and that the intelligence officer, a Senior Lieutenant Putin, be made personally responsible for the safety of the German officer. Your exact words Sir were 'he dies, you die'.

“Anyway, Major Yeltsin is asking for reinforcements and assistance. You have diverted a mechanized regiment of the Fifth Guards Cavalry Corps to Proletarsk. Until it arrives, you have contacted our Frontal Aviation and ordered massive air cover over the city. Several regiments of Su-7s and MiG-17s. You have also ordered the ready regiment of the 7th Guards Airborne Division to drop on Proletarsk and attach themselves to Major Yeltsin's command. The paratroopers won't have arrived as an organized unit but they'll give Yeltsin the troops he needs to hold off any counterattacks until the rest of the reinforcements get there. Oh, one last thing Sir, you also sent an urgent message to President Cherniakhovskii advising him of the capture of the gas. This may be of vital political importance and you got the message out without delay.”

Taffkowski looked at his assembled staff. Suddenly he crashed his fist onto the situation table, sending the counters jumping.

“Incompetence, rank incompetence! I should have expected no better than idiocy from you motherless cretins,” He roared, his face reddened. “All this work, all these orders issued, a critical situation skillfully handled and not one of you saw fit to write yourselves a commendation. Negligence! Criminal Negligence! You will all write yourselves full commendations and have them on my desk within the hour or you will all be shot!”

He let the pretence of rage fade away, his staff were grinning broadly, familiar with their General's idea of humor. With one carefully-rehearsed gesture, they each reached into their breast pockets and pulled out the recommendations Taffkowski had just demanded. The General, looked at his staff, smiling.

“First Byelorussian has always had a reputation for excellent staffwork. I see, in your hands, that reputation is safe. With your help, I continue to surprise even me.”

Taffkowski left the staff room into his private office, and closed the door behind him. From a drawer in his desk, he got out two pictures. One was a normal icon but the other was much more unusual. A battle-scarred, war-torn T-34 towing a plough. Many, many years before, Taffkowski had commanded a tank company. Passing through a recaptured village, they'd seen a group of women trying to plant a field, pulling the plough themselves. The Germans had destroyed the crops and killed the farm animals. He'd stopped his tanks and used them to pull the ploughs. They'd stayed in the village that night and many of his men had promised to return when the war was over. But, none ever would, they were all dead now, some buried in mass graves, others singly. Taffkowski was the only survivor of the day a T-34 had pulled a plough.

He dropped to his knees in front of the pictures and started to pray. It was a miracle and he knew it, a militarily impossible miracle. Model had picked the one courier in his army with a conscience, that courier had defected to the one unit in the Russian Army commanded by an officer with the initiative to react fast. That unit had somehow driven through the German lines without running into one of the scratch defenses the Germans were so good at forming. A lightly-armed recon battalion had won a firefight in a major town and captured a deadly threat that only needed one man to press one button to turn into a catastrophe.

It was a miracle and it was not the only one. At his meeting, Taffkowski had been told the story of the Miracle of Sadovoye Ridge. The Germans had counter-attacked and their heavy armor had broken through the center of the Russian line. Only a single T-10 stood between the Germans and Victory. Instead of firing, the tank commander had stood on his turret and held up an Icon, praying to God for help. And God had filled the battlefield with His light and His arm had struck terror into the hearts of the Germans. Above the battlefield, standing on the clouds were the great heroes of Russian history, Zhukov, Stalin, Peter the Great, Ivan, Prince Vladimir, the Saint Prince Aleksandre Nevski. They'd lead the Russian Army forward with prayers and blessings and singing hymns. The Germans had fled and everywhere they had fled to, the yellow light had found them and driven them out to be killed by the Frontniki.

Colonel-General Andrei Mikhailovich Taffkowski suddenly felt a great peace come over him, peace born of a revelation. These miracles could only mean one thing. At last, at long last, God had forgiven the Russian people. He had restored His grace to them. The dreadful sufferings of the last twenty years had purged the Russians of their guilt for failing to fight the Antichrist Hitler and for all the other follies of the 1930s. At last God had decided the Russians had atoned for their sins. Finally, they had paid the full measure of the terrible price that failure to stand against evil brought upon the weak and now they were forgiven at last.

MFV Snapper, Port of Ban Mab Tapud, Eastern Thailand.

Obviously, Ban Mab Tapud was going to be a lucky port. He would have to come here more often, thought Captain Park Chung-Hee of the Korean motor fishing vessel Snapper. He'd had the standard order from the Japanese company that owned the vessel. Go fishing, sell the catch for hard currency, fish some more and bring the fish back to Pusan. His hold loaded with fish from a catch in the East China Sea, he'd pulled into Ban Mab Tapud to sell it. There. He'd had his first stroke of luck. The local fish cannery had a rush order from America but was short of stock. Deadlines pressing, they'd paid 30 percent over market price for his catch. Even better, they'd recorded the sale at 20 percent over market price and slipped him the rest in cash under the table. And that had been a pretty sum.

Most, he'd invested in consumer goods that he would sell on the black market back in Korea but the rest he'd taken to one of the bars in the town. There, he'd bought out the most attractive of the bar girls and brought her back here. She was lying on his bunk now, sleeping off the night's work. Still it was 0730, time for a good fisherman to be getting ready for sea. Even as he watched the girl opened one eye and looked at the clock.

“Hey, where are you going? You bought me out for twelve hours, You have until ten.” The girl looked slightly offended, Park realized in her line of business, being kicked out of bed two and a half hours early probably was a professional insult. Anyway, she was very good, worth every satang of her fee. And the tide wouldn't be right until mid-afternoon.

“Nowhere Noi, I was just going to order some tea for you. Now what were we doing?”

Two and three quarter hours later, Park watched the girl skip down the gangway, flip her ponytail and wave him a cheerful goodbye. Yes, he liked Ban Mab Tapud. He would definitely be back. He went up to his bridge and stopped dead. Just across the way from him was the largest ship he had ever seen, painted gray with the American flag flying from her stern. Bridge amidships, two very heavy goalpost masts forward, one aft. Helicopter pad by the stern. Small letter E large numbers 23. Park reached into the concealed recess on the bridge and got out his recognition book. That was her, AE-23 USS Nitro.

“Port authority contacted us sir, they regret but due to operational necessities, we cannot leave until high tide tomorrow.” Park frowned then grinned. They'd have to stay an extra night. He left the bridge and went back to main deck. He was in time, the girl was still waiting for her taxi. He walked down the gangway and called her.

“We have been delayed, are you free tonight? At eight? For twelve hours?”

The girl got out a small diary and turned to today's page. “Yes Captain, I am free then. And the American ship will not be staying for shore leave, she is due in the Philippines. Very well. I will write your appointment in. Oh Captain I love you so much. Fifty percent deposit on my fee please.”

The Captain chuckled as the girl's taxi left. Then, he went back to his bridge to watch the ammunition ship, her crew were bustling around on deck, the sort of organized chaos that any seaman recognized. Then the first pallet came out of the cargo hold. Park trained his binoculars on it. The long thin shape was unmistakable, the size was a little harder to estimate. He'd guess it was 250 kilograms, that made it a Mark 82. And there were ten of them on the pallet. The big cranes swung it out and put it onto a truck. There was a big airbase just down the road from Ban Mab Tapud. That must be where the bombs were going. The truck pulled out and another took its place. Another pallet of bombs was already being readied for delivery.

“We'd better count these.” The First Mate grunted and made a check mark on a pad. Then another as the second pallet went ashore. By dusk, Nitro had unloaded more than 3,000 Mark 82s and the work showed no sign of ceasing. Nitro's floodlights were on and the crew were still hard at work. At 19:55 Noi's taxi pulled up and she got some tired but appreciative whistles from the ammunition ship. Captain Park retreated to his cabin with her while Nitro continued to unload her cargo. The call girl and the crew of the ammunition ship had one thing in common, they were both working hard all night.

Office of President Cherniakhovskii, New Kremlin, Moscow, Russia

Even the thick walls of the New Kremlin couldn't quite keep out the sound of the church bells. The city was celebrating a victory, but only a few people knew that the celebration was also for the capture of the German stockpile of dreaded nerve gas. President Cherniakhovskii looked up from his file as Doctor Wijnand was ushered in. The man was nervous, he knew something was up but he had no idea quite what. That was good, let him stew for a few minutes. He waved at a seat, watching Wijnand sit down then finished reading the report.

“My apologies for my rudeness Dr Wijnand, but some things cannot wait. It is a great day is it not?” Wijnand nodded. “Doctor, you may remember that at our last meeting I said that the Germans would judge themselves, that they would determine their own fates? Well, it appears that fate has indeed rendered its verdict. Model gave orders for the nerve gas to be used against our civilian population, his orders would have caused a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions. But a single German officer refused to be part of this terrible crime and risked his life to warn us. As a result, the gas was not released and is now in safe hands. God has undoubtedly passed his verdict and told us of it. And you can see what this is of course?”

President Cherniakhovskii watched Doctor Wijnand squirming in his seat. The poor man didn't know what to say and Cherniakhovskii was thoroughly enjoying his dilemma. In the end, he took mercy on the Doctor.

“Why Doctor Wijnand, I would have thought it was obvious. We have been shown that there is goodness, even in the Germans and it is our duty to save what goodness we can find. But enough of that. I told you that if the Germans did not use their gas, we would release the German women and children into your custody. For whatever reason, the Germans did not use their gas. Therefore, we will hold our part of the bargain true and the women and children will be released. Furthermore, it was our plan to execute all German men as war criminals but God has shown us this is not just or right. We will execute all members of the SS and all members of the Nazi Party. But, for the rest, if no crimes are proved against them, then they too will be released into the custody of the Red Cross.”

Wijnand felt a great load come off his mind. He had hoped that he could save the women and the children but to save some of the men as well was more than he could have expected. Whoever that German officer was, he'd done his people an immense service, much more than he probably would ever know. President Cherniakhovskii continued.

“We will release the people to you, but they take nothing out of Russia. You understand this? They will take nothing. Not a scrap of food, not a shred of clothing, not a child's toy. Nothing. They will be an object lesson that those who come to us in friendship will be welcome to share our last crust of bread in friendship. But those who come as enemies will be very lucky to leave with their lives and as naked as the day they were born. Make your plans to move the people I am entrusting to you Doctor Wijnand. They are your responsibility now.”

President Cherniakhovskii leaned back as Doctor Wijnand left, with preparations to make and arrangements to complete. He picked up the report again. In one sense, he didn't believe in miracles. He'd heard the story of the Miracle of Sadovoye Ridge but he knew it was just a trick of the light and the imagination of desperately tired soldiers who had finally beaten a dreaded enemy. The Miracle of the Gas, well, recon battalions had the most independent and free-thinking officers and this one had moved across the front of the German line, not through it. Not a miracle, just the happenstance of war. But on another level, it was a miracle that two Miracle Stories had come at just the right time to rescue Russia from having to make a terrible decision.

And another thing. When Zhukov had become president, he picked a group of younger men to be groomed as his successor. Over the years, one by one, they'd been found wanting and, one by one, they'd been discarded until only he, Cherniakhovskii, had been left. Cherniakhovskii smiled to himself, on his visits to America, he'd watched television and the game shows the Americans loved. Perhaps there was a game show idea there; get a group of people, give them tests and eliminate them one by one until the last survivor gets the big prize. He shook his head, now peace was finally coming, Russia could think about television and game shows. But, he, Cherniakhovskii, had to start the process of grooming his successor. Perhaps this Major Yeltsin? No, the man deserved better, Colonel Yeltsin would be a good candidate.