but not all; more to the point, three windows had their lights on, and their shades fully open, and they were all in a row. It was just as perfect as what the Americans called a “sting” operation. He’d stood over Suvorov’s shoulder as he’d typed the message: I have the pieces in place now. I have the pieces in place now. If you wish for me to carry out the operation, leave three windows in a row with the lights on and the windows fully open. Yefremov had even had a television camera record the event, down to the point where the traitor Suvarov had tapped the ENTER key to send the letter to his Chink controller. And he’d gotten a TV news crew to record the event as well, because the Russian people seemed to trust the semi-independent media more than their government now, for some reason or other. Good, now they had proof positive that the Chinese government was conspiring to kill President Grushavoy. That would play well in the international press. And it wasn’t an accident. The windows all belonged to the Chief of Mission in the PRC embassy, and he was, right now, asleep in his bed. They’d made sure of that by calling him on the phone ten minutes earlier.
“So, what do we do now?”
“We tell the President, and then, I expect, we tell the TV newspeople. And we probably spare Suvarov’s life. I hope he likes it in the labor camp.”
“What about the killings?”
Yefremov shrugged. “He only killed a pimp and a whore. No great loss, is it?”
Senior Lieutenant Komanov had not exactly enjoyed his last four days, but at least they’d been spent profitably, training his men to shoot. The reservists, now known as BOYAR FORCE, had spent them doing gunnery, and they’d fired four basic loads of shells over that time, more than any of them had ever shot on active duty, but the Never Depot had been well stocked with shells. Officers assigned to the formation by Far East Command told them that the Americans had moved by to their south the previous day, and that their mission was to slide north of them, and do it today. Only thirty kilometers stood between them and the Chinese, and he and his men were ready to pay them a visit. The throaty rumble of his own diesel engine was answered by the thunder of two hundred others, and BOYAR started moving northeast through the hills.
Peng and his command section raced forward, calling ahead on their radios to clear the way, and the military-police troops doing traffic control waved them through. Soon they reached the command section of the 302nd Armored, his leading “fist” formation, commanded by Major General Ge Li, a squat officer whose incipient corpulence made him look rather like one of his tanks.
“Are you ready, Ge?” Peng asked. The man was well-named for his task. “Ge” had the primary meaning of “spear.”
“We are ready,” the tanker replied. “My leading regiments are turning over and straining at the leash.”
“Well, shall we observe from the front together?”
“Yes!” Ge jumped aboard his own command tank—he preferred this to a personnel carrier, despite the poorer radios, and led the way forward. Peng immediately established a direct radio connection with his subordinate.
“How far to the front?”
“Three kilometers. The reconnaissance people are moving now, and they are another two kilometers ahead.”
“Lead on, Ge,” Peng urged. “I want to see that gold mine.”
It was a good spot, Aleksandrov thought, unless the enemy got his artillery set up sooner than expected, and he hadn’t seen or heard Chinese artillery yet. He was on the fairly steep reverse side of an open slope that faced south, rather like a lengthy ramp, perhaps three kilometers in length, not unlike a practice shooting range at a regimental base. The sun was starting to crest the eastern horizon, and they could see now, which always made soldiers happy. Pasha had stolen a spare coat and laid his rifle across it, standing in the open top hatch of the BRM, looking through the telescopic sight of his rifle.
“So, what was it like to be a sniper against the Germans?” Aleksandrov asked once he’d settled himself in.
“It was good hunting. I tried to stick to killing officers. You have more effect on them that way,” Gogol explained. “A German private—well, he was just a man—an enemy, of course, but he probably had no more wish to be on a battlefield than I did.