"Comrade Commander," the political officer said now, enunciating the antique title in his eternally officious voice, "I've brought the chief of signals. We're picking up a broadcast from headquarters."
Babryshkin turned directly to Lazarsky. He had not recognized the communications officer in the darkness, away from his bank of radios.
"What do they say? What's happening? I thought the secure nets were all being jammed off the air?"
"Comrade Commander," Lazarsky said, "the message is coming in code groups over the unencrypted net. I believe they're broadcasting from an airborne platform. They're repeating it over and over."
Babryshkin stared at the two silhouettes before him. "Well, for God's sake, what does it say?"
"We're to withdraw to the north," Gurevich cut in. "Immediately. It's a blanket message for all units and subunits that have been out of contact with their superior staffs. All units are to withdraw to a line just south of Petropavlovsk."
Babryshkin was stunned. That couldn't be right. "My God, that's over a hundred kilometers from here. At least." He shifted his eyes from one shadow to the other. "There must be some mistake."
"I checked the code groups myself," Gurevich said. Lazarsky shrugged. "We've been out of contact. The war's been moving on without us."
The only thing Babryshkin could detect in the signal officer's voice was weariness, resignation. But he suspected that Gurevich, despite all of his political demagoguery, did not mind resuming the withdrawal in the least. Instinctively, Babryshkin glanced back at the human river flowing along the road.
The order was impossible. It would leave countless thousands of refugees undefended. In any case, the road was so completely blocked up that the brigade would have to move across country, at a creeping pace. It was a journey beyond the capability of much of the unit's battered equipment. Besides, he was not even certain all of the vehicles had sufficient fuel to cover the distance.
Babryshkin could not believe that anyone who really understood the situation would issue such an order.
"Can we reach headquarters?" Babryshkin demanded. "Can we talk back to whoever's broadcasting?"
Gurevich cut off the commo officer's response, saying, "We can only receive — and that's faint. As soon as we try to call anyone, we're jammed off the air. If we continue with these vain attempts, we risk revealing our position. Such actions are irresponsible. And an order is an order."
"But, damnit," Babryshkin said, raising his voice, waving his right hand toward the road, "what about them?"
"Orders…" Gurevich stuttered.
Babryshkin's anger continued to rise. It was a sharp, general anger, aimed not only at the fool who had issued such an order but at all of his comrades and countrymen who had brought things to such a pass.
"How do we know it isn't a ruse?" he said, his voice changing pitch with excitement, with bitter vigor. "If we can't call back to verify the order, how do we know it isn't a trick, some sort of imitative deception? It could be the enemy ordering us to pull back. How the hell do we know?"
"The code groups…" the political officer said, "… it was all in code."
"But, for God's sake, we haven't received new code books since… since when? Since we pulled out of Tselinograd. You think the bastards haven't captured any code books?"
"It's a possibility," Lazarsky said matter-of-factly. The debate was of no deep interest to him. His was a world of radios, of antennae and cables, of microwaves and relays.
Gurevich would not respond directly to the question. Instead, he simply said, "The situation… is clearly irregular. But we are not in a position to question authority."
Babryshkin felt the weight of command bearing down upon him. It was important, he knew, to think clearly, to avoid emotionalizing. But he did not want to believe that the Soviet forces had been thrown back all the way to Petropavlovsk, the last major city on the northern edge of Kazakhstan, bordering on Western Siberia — and astride the best east-west lines of communication. The very thought was an admission of defeat, and despite the experience of battlefield failures one after the other, Babryshkin was not ready to admit that he had been beaten. Down in his depths, he believed that the Soviet forces would somehow pull off a miracle, first stemming the enemy advance, then beginning to reverse it. He knew that such imaginings had far more to do with emotion than with any reason or logic. But, just as there were certain thoughts he refused to think about Valya, he could not accept any situation in which these grumbling, spiteful, terribly frightened refugees would simply be abandoned.
"Maxim Antonovich," Babryshkin said to the chief of signals, "try to raise headquarters. Just try it one more time." Then his voice subtly altered its target, not really a conscious change, speaking now to the political officer. "I can't just leave them. We can't just turn our backs and go. And this is a good position. We can fight from here."
Sensing a weakness in Babryshkin's voice, Gurevich attacked. "We need to bear in mind the larger picture. Surely higher headquarters has a plan. We cannot be blinded by local conditions. This is all part of a greater whole. After all, winning the war is ultimately more important than any number of… of…"
"Damnit, what do you think this wars about?" Babryshkin demanded. Again, he gestured toward the miserable parade staggering northward. "It's about them, for God's sake."
But, even as he spoke, he knew he was lying to himself. Guilty of subjectivism, emotionalism. He knew that the war was about greater things: minerals, gas, oil. The riches of Central Asia. And the far greater wealth of Western Siberia beyond.
"Comrade Commander," Gurevich said, slipping into the lecturing tone with which he was so comfortable, "the war… is about the integrity of the Soviet Union. About people, surely. But the state as a collective is greater than individual fates. No one wants to sacrifice a single precious life. But we must bear in mind the greater aim."
You bastard, Babryshkin thought. Walk over and look at them. Let them beg you for a few crackers. Then listen to them curse you. But they're not really cursing you, or me. They're cursing what we represent. The failure at the end of all the promises, at the end of all their sacrifices. Go, damn you. Join that parade for a few minutes.
"I am the commander," Babryshkin said, regaining control of his voice. "The decision rests with me. And I do not accept the validity of the message. I believe it to be an enemy ruse. We will stay in these positions and fight, until we receive a message that can be verified directing us to do otherwise. Or until the position becomes untenable or impractical. Or until I decide it's time to move. Let the decision be on my shoulders."