of us, moving north and northeast.”
“Strength?” the general asked.
“Not sure. Analysis of the photos is not complete, but certainly regimental strength, maybe more.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Here, Comrade General.” The intelligence officer unfolded a map and pointed. “They were spotted here, here, and from here to here. The pilot said large numbers of tanks and tracked vehicles.”
“Did they shoot at him?”
“No, he said there was no fire at all.”
“So, they are rushing to where they are going ... racing to get to our flank, or to get ahead of us ... ?” Peng considered this, looking down at the map. “Yes, that’s what I would expect. Any reports from our front?”
“Comrade General, our reconnaissance screen reports that they have seen the tracks of vehicles, but no visual sightings of the enemy at all. They have taken no fire, and seen nothing but civilians.”
Quickly,” Aleksandrov urged.
How the driver and his assistant had gotten the ZIL- 157 to this place was a mystery whose solution didn’t interest the captain. That it had gotten here was enough. His lead BRM at that moment had been Sergeant Grechko’s, and he’d filled up his tanks, and then radioed to the rest of the company, which for the first time broke visual contact with the advancing Chinese and raced north to top off as well. It was dangerous and against doctrine to leave the Chinese unseen, but Aleksandrov couldn’t guarantee that they’d all have a chance to refuel otherwise. Then Sergeant Buikov had a question.
“When do they refuel, Comrade Captain? We haven’t seen them do it, have we?”
That made his captain stop and think. “Why, no, we haven’t. Their tanks must be as empty as ours.”
“They had extra fuel drums the first day, remember? They dropped them off sometime yesterday.”
“Yes, so maybe they have one more day of fuel, maybe only half a day, but then someone must refill them—but who will that be, and how ... ?” the officer wondered. He turned to look. The fuel came out of the portable pump at about forty liters or ten gallons per minute. Grechko had taken his BRM south to reestablish contact with the Chinese. They were still sitting still, between frog-leap bounds, probably half an hour away if they stuck with their drill, from which they hadn’t once deviated. And people had once said that the Red Army was inflexible ...
“There, that’s it,” Aleksandrov’s driver said. He handed the hose back and capped the tank.
“You,” the captain told the driver of the fuel truck. “Go east.”
“To where?” the man asked. “There’s nothing there.”
That stopped his thinking for a few seconds. There had been a sawmill here once, and you could see the wide swaths of saplings left over from when whoever had worked here had cut trees for lumber. It was the closest thing to open ground they’d seen in over a day.
“I came from the west. I can get back there now, with the truck lighter, and it’s only six kilometers to the old logging road.”
“Very well, but do it quickly, Corporal. If they see you, they’ll blast you.”
“Farewell then, Comrade Captain.” The corporal got back into the truck, started up, and turned to the north to loop around.
“I hope someone gives him a drink tonight. He’s earned it,” Buikov said. There was much more to any army than the shooters.
“Grechko, where are you?” Aleksandrov called over his radio.
“Four kilometers south of you. They’re still dismounted, Captain. Their officer seems to be talking on the radio.”
“Very well. You know what to do when they remount.” The captain set the radio microphone down and leaned against his track. This business was getting very old. Buikov lit a smoke and stretched.
“Why can’t we just kill a few of them, Comrade Captain? Would it not be worth it to get some sleep?”
“How many times must I tell you what our fucking mission is, Sergeant!” Aleksandrov nearly screamed at his sergeant.
“Yes, Captain,” Buikov responded meekly.
CHAPTER 56
March to Danger
Lieutenant Colonel Giusti started off in his personal HMMWV, the new incarnation of the venerable jeep. Using a Bradley would have been more comfortable, even more sensible, but overly dramatic, he thought, and there wouldn’t be any contact anytime soon. Besides, the right front seat in this vehicle was better for his back after the endless train ride. In any case, he was following a Russian UAZ-469, which looked like a Russian interpretation of an American SUV, and whose driver knew the way. The Kiowa Warrior helicopter he’d seen at the railyard was up and