It was all a long time ago now. Before the worldwide nuclear ban. The last Mideast war, launched by a fanatic coalition who saw their chance, with the United States beaten in Africa and seemingly helpless. It was a madman's war, begun by an alliance ultimately willing to trade Damascus for Tel Aviv in a war of extermination. Taylor had been so ill during the brief conflict that he had viewed the events at a passionless remove, and he had not recuperated sufficiently to take part in the evacuation of the surviving Israelis from a land poisoned by nuclear and chemical weapons.
Taylor curled one side of his mouth up into the jigsaw puzzle of his face. "Our Russian friends give any reason for their tardiness, David?"
The Israeli shook his head adamantly. "Nothing. A promise to explain. I spoke to Kozlov's alter ego — you know, the one who gestures all the time. Afraid to tell me anything. You know how they are. He claims that Kozlov will explain everything in person." Heifetz paused, considering. "All of them are frantic about something. I don't like it."
"Neither do I," Taylor said. "We haven't got a hell of a lot of margin on this one." He cocked an eyebrow. "Merry have anything new?"
"Just more of the same. From bad to worse. The question is which of their many crises the Soviets find so threatening at the moment. And why. At times, I find their logic difficult."
"You're thinking in purely military terms," Taylor said. "But for them… well, it's their country. It's the emotional triggers we've got to watch out for now."
Heifetz backed off slightly, as if Taylor had seriously admonished him. For a man who showed the world such a hard, uncompromising mask, Lucky Dave could be remarkably vulnerable. Of course, Taylor thought, out of all of us he's the one who really understands threatened homelands and emotional triggers. He's just fighting it.
"I was thinking, David," Taylor said. "You're a long way from home."
"Which home?" Heifetz asked, a bit of the twilight chill flavoring his voice.
"Israel, I suppose. Anyway, that s what I meant.
"I carry Israel with me. But the Army is my home." Yes, Taylor thought. If not this army, then another. The eternal soldier.
"Anything new down in the squadrons? Taylor asked, changing the subject.
Heifetz relaxed at the impersonal turn in the conversation.
"They're simply young soldiers. Fine young soldiers. Ready to fight, even though they're not entirely certain against whom, or even where. No change in systems readiness rates."
"You think we're ready?" It was the sort of question that might have been merely bantering. But Taylor let it be serious.
Heifetz looked at him soberly through the near darkness. "Half of the support base hasn't arrived. Fifteen percent of our crews aren't even range qualified. We've got half a dozen birds down for maintenance, three of them serious…" Suddenly, Heifetz smiled. It was a surprising, generous, confident smile. A gift to Taylor. "But we can fight," Heifetz said. "God willing, we're ready to fight.
Taylor smiled too. "Yeah, Dave. That's just about how I figure it. Now I guess it's up to the goddamned Russians.
Taylor was not about to succumb to Meredith's affection for things Russian. But neither did he wish to be too hard on his new allies. He was looking for a rational, functional middle ground. And the Russians had been very good at some things. Even as the fabric of their world was ripping apart, they had done a magnificent job on the deception plan, covering the secret — and hurried — deployment of the big heavy-cavalry regiment, first on the ships supposedly loaded with grain, then by rail across European Russia the Volga, the Urals, and on into this industrial wasteland buried in a natural wasteland. And there had not been one single indication that the enemy had detected the operation. Even the fine Japanese strategic collection systems appeared to have been lulled to sleep. Meredith had joked that the Soviets were so good at deception because they had practiced self-deception for so long.
The work hall door opened again. This time the footsteps came almost at a run. It was Manny Martinez.
"They're on their way in, sir." He sounded almost out of breath. The cold was very hard on him. "Checkpoint Delta called in on the landline. I've got the sergeant major rounding up the staff and the liaison officers. Merry's going to hang on in the bubble for another minute or two. He's got something hot."
As the supply officer spoke, Taylor could begin to hear the vehicles. Now that the wait was almost over, he finally realized how cold it was. It would be a fine thing to get into one of the little range cars with the heater turned up. If nothing else, you could say that much for the Soviet vehicles: the heaters were kept in good repair.
Taylor had already gotten to know the Soviet range cars with unwelcome thoroughness. Given the volume of heavy equipment his regiment had needed to deploy in secret, it had been agreed with the Soviets that the U.S. forces would leave their light support vehicles behind, relying on Soviet trucks and range cars. It also made good sense in terms of operations security. And the Soviets had been very good about providing vehicles and drivers on request. But the system was cumbersome, with a built-in delay that took the accustomed crispness out of routine ops. The Soviets were reluctant to turn the vehicles over outright, however, pleading insupportable shortages.
Perhaps they were being honest. Every one of Merry's statistics indicated that the Soviets really were in a bad way. But Taylor also suspected it was their method of controlling the whereabouts of the Americans and of ensuring that the Americans did not prematurely compromise their own presence by joyriding around Western Siberia and Central Asia. Taylor had let it go, out of respect for the brilliance and efficiency with which the Soviets had designed and carried out the deception plan, and there had been no major problems. Until today.
He listened as the hum of the vehicles slowly increased in volume while they worked their way through the junkyard maze with their lights blacked out. The pitch dropped abruptly. That would be the halt at the inner perimeter, where young boys from Arkansas or Pennsylvania in uncomfortable Soviet uniforms would carefully check the identities of the genuine article. Taylor imagined his boys, accustomed to their comfortable cavalry combat uniforms, cursing the antique wool tunics and trousers of their old adversaries.
The pitch of the vehicles climbed again, and Taylor could distinctly hear the shifting of gears. He felt like an old Indian scout, at the job too long. It was too easy to gauge the speed, to judge the range. One of the vehicles in the little convoy needed a tune-up. They were riding light, coming in nearly empty.
A small task force of officers slowly gathered around Taylor. The men who made a plan fit, who worked for the men who made the plan go. Taylor suspected it was going to be a long night's work with the Russians. Even if the news they brought turned out to be miraculously good. The time for contemplation was over. Mars was in the heavens.
Merry Meredith came up beside him. Sir, he whispered, "it's bad. Jesus Christ, it's bad. They've lost control of it entirely."
Taylor hushed the younger man. I know, he said. The lead range car pulled up very close to the work hall, stopping just a few feet away from the group of American officers. Immediately a bundled figure jumped from the passenger's side and hastened toward the human shadows. Taylor recognized Colonel Viktor Kozlov by the silhouette of his permanently slumped shoulders. Kozlov was Taylor's intermediary with the Soviet front commander, General Ivanov.