Arc Light (77 page)

In the background, the news footage was of burned tanks along a road in western Russia and of U.S. and British army troops standing atop one with their rifles raised high in a cheer.

“Just a second,” Melissa said as time stood still. She put the telephone down and picked up the remote control, muting the announcer's glowing description of the capture of Lesozavodsk in the Far East.

Moving mechanically, she put the remote down, wiped her free hand on her blue jeans, and reached for the phone. Closing her eyes, she thought,
Oh, God, please, God, please no, God.
“I'm . . . I'm Melissa Chandler—Mrs. David Chandler,” she said, finishing the last just before the tears choked her.

“This is the Department of the Army, Mrs. Chandler,” the woman said. “There's a problem, and we need to let you know about it.”

Suddenly, she was acutely aware of everything around her. The sucking sounds of Matthew. The whine of rushing water as the ice maker filled itself. She was making all new ice despite the denials by city authorities that any radioactivity contaminated L.A.'s water supply.

“There was a foul-up with your husband's pay last month,” the woman said in a tone barely polite. “We're gonna have to cut a check ‘cause when they changed pay grades they put in the wrong account number for the direct deposit and it's too late to fix it.”

Melissa listened in complete confusion. The woman read off her home address and asked if it was correct. “You mean . . . this is about some stupid check? David's army pay?”

“Yes, ma'am. Is that your correct address?”

“Well . . . yes,” Melissa said. “Look, where is my husband now?”

“Well, uh, I don' know,” the woman said as if it was the strangest question in the world.

“You are talking about David Chandler, right?” Melissa asked. “You got his address right, so it's David Winston Chandler?”

“David W. Chandler,” the woman said, obviously reading, “Two thirty-one West—”

“If they're paying him,” Melissa interrupted, “then he must be alive—isn't that right?”

“Well, not ‘zactly,” the woman said, and Melissa's soaring hopes plummeted to earth. “They keep payin' the widow for ninety days.” There was silence, and then the woman said, “But I guess they wouldn't be promotin' him if he was kilt.”

“What do you mean?” Melissa asked. “What are you talking about. David got a promotion?”

“Yes, ma'am,” the woman said, “0-4 to 0-5. It's on account of the change in pay grade that they screwed up the—”

“What's an 0-4?” Melissa asked.

“An officer,” the woman said. “A major.”

Melissa waited, and then rolled her eyes and asked, “And an 0-5? What's an 0-5?”

“Lieutenant colonel,” the woman said. “Anyways, the check'll be a coupla weeks late. If you haven't received it by—”

“Do you know anything else?” Melissa asked. “Anything, anything at all? Where he is? What unit he's with? Anything?”

There was a pause. Finally, the woman said, “Well, I'm not really s'posed to—”

“Please,” Melissa said. “Oh, please. I don't know anything. I haven't heard from him since the war started, and nobody can tell me where he went, what unit, or anything.”

“Well,” the woman said, and then lowered her voice to a whisper, “all I know is that the Pay Grade Change Run—the computer printout we get showin' all the changes, you know—well, the one fer yer husband was from Seventh Army.”

“And they're”—Melissa thought back to the hundreds of hours of news coverage that she'd watched and the magazines and newspapers she'd read—“they're in Europe. Isn't that right?”

“Heh!” The woman laughed. “They ain't in Europe—they's halfway through Russia ‘bout now, God bless 'em.” She laughed again.

Melissa broke into a smile, and she laughed through the tears that resumed flowing. “Thank you,” Melissa said, “oh, thank you so very much.”

“It'll be all right, ma'am,” the woman said. “I got two boys over there my own self. Jus' trust in the Lord Jesus—it's all gonna be okay,” she said, and then she hung up.

Melissa jumped in the air and screamed, “Yes! Yes! He's alive, Matthew. Daddy's alive!”

Matthew, who had almost finished his bottle, let go of the nipple and broke into what almost looked like a smile. He burped loudly, and Melissa rapidly dialed the number for David's parents.

Filipov knocked on Razov's door. “Enter,” he heard, the groggy sound of a man whose sleep was interrupted regularly in the same manner.

Filipov's eyes were not adjusted to the darkened quarters, and he stared generally in the direction of the cot in which he knew Razov must lie. Razov switched the desk lamp on. He sat in his swivel chair in the dark behind his desk.

“What is it, Pavel?” he asked, and Filipov closed his mouth, managing a neutral expression on his face. On the desk next to Razov was his pistol.

“There has been a raid by U.S. forces in the far north—on the Kola Peninsula.”

“Where?”

“Murmashi, the bridges across the Tuloma. And east of Murmashi at the bridges across the Kola.”

“Were the bridges destroyed?”

“No . . . no, sir. Captured. Initial intelligence is that the unit is from the Americans' 82nd Airborne Division.”

Razov was out of his chair immediately and heading toward the map. By the time Filipov joined him, following his finger to the map as it rested on the town fifty kilometers inland directly south of Murmansk, Razov was already cursing under his breath.

“Goddamn them.
Goddamn
them.”

“It was a raid in force. The Murmansk Garrison commander sent out a regimental-strength team to counterattack, and they were ambushed seven kilometers from their objective. Admiral Strelov is probing now for the edges of the Americans' forces.”

“They're coming in,” Razov said, turning away from the map. “A third front—they're going to open a third front in Karelia.”

Filipov was shocked at the suggestion. He followed Razov back to his desk arguing, “But what for? They've already destroyed practically all of our facilities at Murmansk. And Polyarnyy was obliterated in the nuclear exchange.” Razov picked up the phone and said, “Get me Mishin.” “And they've just begun to work Arkhangelsk over with carrier aircraft attacks,” Filipov continued, hoping to save his boss the embarrassment of a grossly inaccurate assessment. “There is practically nothing left of strategic value on the Kola Peninsula for them to—”

“General Mishin,” Razov said, “the Americans are landing on the Kola Peninsula, and I want you to give me all the air assets available
to you for one massive strike at their landing ships before they put ashore.”

He listened for a moment and then burst, “It's not Kola they're after!” He was speaking to Mishin but looking at Filipov. “It's St. Petersburg! They intend to come in behind our defenses!”

But the distances,
Filipov thought.

“I know it's a thousand kilometers, but we have all our St. Petersburg defenses to the south and southwest of the city. We have practically nothing to the north! I'm going to shift everybody I can, but we have almost no transport available for them.”

He listened again, again growing impatient. “We're using horses now to transport food and provisions! It will take a month just for the move from the Baltics, and then a couple of weeks to prepare defensive works. Do you know how far the Americans can go riding atop tracked vehicles in six weeks? To tell you the truth, I cannot tell you standing here right now who will get to St. Petersburg first—the Americans, who have to fight their way a thousand kilometers, or our own troops, who are practically on foot three hundred kilometers away!”

He slammed the phone down with a crash. In the silence that followed, Filipov contemplated the American move. It still made no sense. They had their main forces out of Poland and Slovakia poised, it seemed, to cut the roads between Moscow and St. Petersburg, dividing Russian forces in Europe in half. What now would their heavy armies in the south do?

Filipov looked down at Razov, whose bloodshot eyes rose to meet his. It was not like this before, Filipov thought, in the last Chinese war. They had been down, but always Razov had exhibited confidence. When the Chinese had shattered a front-line division with wave after wave of infantry, opening a major hole in their lines and threatening envelopment of an entire army group, Razov had slapped him on the back and said, “Opportunities, Pavel! Now it gets interesting!” His exuberance had infected even the cautious General Thomas, who was always there, always getting supplies through from the ports despite the bitter winter weather. It was the same cautious General Thomas who had just invaded Russia from the north, from the Arctic Circle, in what to Filipov seemed a foolhardy gamble.
What are they going to do when winter comes?
The problems posed for winter operations in Karelia, for their own forces as well as the Americans, were too many to consider, and only one answer came. They intend to finish this before winter.

“Uh, one more thing, sir,” Filipov said as Razov's eyes darted across the papers on his desk in seemingly random fashion, his lips
and nose hidden behind hands clasped in front of his face. “The Lvov Garrison in Ukraine.” Razov looked up at him. “They have informed us that they will surrender today.”

“ ‘Informed'
us?” Razov said, sitting up and dropping his hands to grasp the front edge of his desk, his knuckles immediately growing white from the force of his grip. “Informed us? Since when do we get informed that army groups are surrendering to the enemy?”

“The commanding general of the garrison reported that . . . that . . . ”

“Spit it out, dammit!”

“The commanding general is being held under arrest. It appears that some of the junior officers, divisional commanders and below, were in disagreement with your . . . with
STAVKA'S
orders to continue resistance, and they went to Army Group Headquarters and arrested him. They allowed him to inform
STAVKA
of their intentions, which are to parley with the Americans for an immediate surrender.”

Razov's face was white, and Filipov grew suddenly chilled. Razov looked frightened, and it had been mere words, words from Filipov's mouth, that had caused his fright. Razov swallowed and licked his lips, his jaw setting then as he issued orders through teeth almost clenched shut. “I want the names of those mutineers, I want a court-martial, and I want an order issued for their arrest and execution. I also want an order prepared for
STAVKA
approval at today's meeting for the summary execution of
any”
—he slammed his hand down on his desk, then regained a greater measure of composure, a cooler tone to his voice—“any soldier exhibiting insubordination. And I want those executions publicized, beginning today.”

Filipov was jotting down notes, and when he came to “today,” he was at a loss. “What do you mean by ‘today,' sir?” He asked the question in a low voice, afraid of this new Razov. Not afraid for himself, but afraid that his mentor, his idol, would crumble further in front of his very eyes. “It will take some time for arrests, then trials, then—”

“Zorin,” Razov said in a tired voice. “Execute Zorin and his men, and put the tapes on television.” Razov seemed thoroughly deflated, and Filipov took the orders as his cue to leave. “And Pavel,” Razov said, “start making contacts with the American news media. I will speak to them tomorrow.”

Filipov stared slack-jawed at Razov, whose eyes were red and had lost their focus. “See to it Mishin's Long-Range Aviation is ready to go.” Filipov nodded slowly and turned to leave. As he opened the door, he heard the click of the desk lamp and turned to
look once more into the darkness of the underground room, at the sleepless Razov, sitting at his desk in the dark with a pistol lying ready at his side.

Zorin heard the crunching footsteps, his ears attuned to every sound.

“Get that thing off my face!” he heard Captain Melnikov yell.

The footsteps crunched on, receding farther down the line. “Yes, please,” he heard another of the men on his last security detail say quietly, making the same choice as Zorin.

The footsteps sounded again, this time a long, extended march away from Zorin. The fabric of the cloth hood was sucked into his mouth by his next breath, and he gasped for the air it seemed to deny him. He felt alive, every sound tingling nerve endings all over his body. Somewhere way off he could hear the faint rumble of a train, and when the footsteps came to a crunching stop and turn, he heard the sound of a faint whimper from one of the others in quaking spasms poorly controlled.

“Tselsya!”
the army officer commanded, and Zorin heard the rattle of rifles in unison.

Suddenly, Zorin heard no sounds but those from the prison courtyard. He took a deep breath, bowed out his chest and raised his chin from within the black sack covering his head.
“Ple-e-e-e-el”
was shouted from the distant officer. Terror gripped him for an instant before the sledgehammer blows hammered his chest, abdomen, and cheek. Consciousness drained from him, and he was gone.

The President's breakfast was laid out before him on his desk with the propriety of a four-star restaurant service. Lambert's mood was upbeat—the first good day since . . . He shut it from his mind.

“Okay,” the President said with his mouth full, wiping his lips with a thick linen napkin, “shoot. How goes Operation White Knight?”