Red Storm Rising (1986) (113 page)

“You have that right.”

“Tell me, Robinson.” Alekseyev paused, remembering SACEUR’s first name, Eugene; father’s name Stephen. “Tell me, Yevgeni Stepanovich, when we made the breakthrough at Alfeld, how close—”

“Very close. Close enough that even I don’t know for sure. We were down to five days’ of supplies at one point, but a couple of convoys got through nearly intact, and that kept us going.” Robinson stopped walking. “What will you do with your country?”

“I cannot say; I do not know; Comrade Sergetov does not know. But the Party must answer to the people. The leaders must be responsible to someone, we have learned that.”

“I must go. Pavel Leonidovich, I wish you luck. Perhaps later . . .”

“Yes, perhaps later.” They shook hands again.

Alekseyev watched SACEUR summon his aide, who shook hands with his Russian counterpart. Together they boarded the helicopter. The turbine engines whined into life, the four-bladed main rotor turned, and it lifted off from the grass. The Blackhawk circled the field once to give the escorting choppers a chance to form up, then headed west.

You will never know, Robinson.
Alekseyev smiled to himself, standing alone in the field.
You will never know that when Kosov died we were unable to find his personal codes for control of our nuclear weapons. It would have been at least another day until we could have made use of them.
The General and his aide walked to their command vehicle, where Alekseyev made a terse radio broadcast that would be relayed to Moscow.

Colonel Ellington helped Eisly through the trees. Both men had been through escape and evasion training, a course so tough that Ellington once swore that if he had to go through it again, he’d turn in his wings. Which was why he remembered the lessons, he knew. Fourteen hours they’d waited to cross just one damned road. He figured fifteen miles from where they’d crashed to friendly lines. A walk in the country that had turned into a week of hiding, drinking water from streams like animals and moving from tree to tree.

Now they were on the edge of some open ground. It was dark and surprisingly quiet. Had the Russians pulled back here?

“Let’s give it a try, Duke,” Eisly said. His back had gotten worse, and he could walk only with assistance.

“Okay.” They moved forward as quickly as they could. They’d gotten a hundred yards when shadows moved around them.

“Shit!” Eisly whispered. “Sorry, Duke.”

“Me, too,” the colonel agreed. He didn’t even think about reaching for his revolver. He counted at least eight men, and they all seemed to be carrying rifles. They converged quickly on the two Americans.

“Wer sind Sie?”
a voice asked.

“Ich bin Amerikaner,”
Ellington answered.
Thank God
—
they’re Germans.
They weren’t. The shape of the helmets told him that a moment later.

The Russian lieutenant examined his face with a flashlight. Strangely, he didn’t take Ellington’s revolver. Then something even stranger happened. The lieutenant flung his arms around both men and kissed them. He pointed west.

“That way, two kilometer.”

“Don’t argue with the man, Duke,” Eisly whispered. As they walked off, the Russian eyes were a physical weight on their backs. The two flyers reached friendly lines an hour later, where they learned of the cease-fire.

The battle group was heading southwest. In another day they would have been in position to hit the Russian bases around Murmansk, and Toland was going over estimates of Russian fighter and SAM strengths when the recall order came. He closed the folder and tucked it back in the security cabinet, then went below to tell Major Chapayev that they would indeed live to see their families again.

The C-9 Nightingale hospital plane cruised southwest also, heading for Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington, D.C. It was filled with Marine casualties from the last fighting on Iceland, one Air Force lieutenant, and a civilian. The plane’s crew had objected to the civilian until a two-star general of Marines explained to them over the radio that the Corps would take it as a personal matter if
anyone
took the lady away from the lieutenant’s side. Mike was awake most of the time now. His leg needed further surgery—the Achilles tendon was torn—but none of that mattered. In another four and a half months he’d be a father. After that they could plan a child of his, too.

O’Malley had already flown to the beach, taking the reporter with him. Morris hoped the Reuters correspondent would be able to file his last story on the war before he moved on to something else—an after-the-war story, no doubt.
Reuben James
had escorted the damaged
America
to Norfolk for repairs. He looked down from the bridge wing at the harbor he knew so well, mindful of the tide and the wind as he docked his frigate. One part of his mind pondered by itself What It All Meant.

A ship lost, friends gone, the deaths he had caused, and those he had seen himself . . .

“Rudder amidships,” Morris ordered. A puff of southerly wind helped
Reuben James
up to the pier.

Aft, a seaman tossed a messenger line to the men on the pier. The officer in charge of the special sea-detail waved to a petty officer, who keyed the announcing system.

What It All Means, Morris decided, is that it’s over.

A crackle of static emerged, and then the petty officer’s voice.

“Mooring.”