"Is the American navy attacking us?" Luo asked.

"It appears that they are, yes," General Wei answered, choosing his words with care. "We estimate four of their aircraft carriers, judging by the number of aircraft involved. As I said, reports are that we handled them roughly, but our losses were severe as well."

"What are their intentions?" the minister asked.

"Unclear. They've done serious damage to a number of bases, and I doubt we have a single surface ship surviving at sea. Our navy personnel have not had a good day," Wei concluded. "But that is not really a matter of importance."

"The attack on the missile submarine is," Luo replied. "That is an attack on a strategic a.s.set. That is something we must consider." He paused. "Go on, what else?"

"General Qi of Sixty-fifth Army is missing and presumed dead, along with all of his senior staff. We've made repeated attempts to raise him by radio, with no result. The 191st Infantry Division was attacked last night by heavy forces of unknown ident.i.ty. They sustained heavy losses due to artillery and aircraft, but two of their regiments report that they are holding their positions. The 735th Guards Infantry Regiment evidently took the brunt of the attack, and reports from there are fragmentary.

"The most serious news is from Harbin and Bei'an. Enemy aircraft attacked all of the railroad bridges in both cities, and all of them took damage. Rail traffic north has been interrupted. We're trying now to determine how quickly it might be reestablished."

"Is there any good news?" Marshal Luo asked.

"Yes, Comrade Minister. General Peng and his forces are getting ready now to resume their attack. We expect to have the Russian goldfield in our control by midday," Wei answered, inwardly glad that he didn't have to say what had happened to the logistical train behind Peng and his 34th Shock Army. Too much bad news could get the messenger killed, and he was the messenger.

"I want to talk to Peng. Get him on the phone," Luo ordered.

"Telephone lines have been interrupted briefly, but we do have radio contact with him," Wei told his superior.

"Then get me Peng on the radio," Luo repeated his order.

What is it, Wa?" Peng asked. Couldn't he even take a p.i.s.s without interruption?

"Radio, it's the Defense Minister," his operations officer told him.

"Wonderful," the general groused, heading back to his command track as he b.u.t.toned his fly. He ducked to get inside and lifted the microphone. "This is General Peng."

"This is Marshal Luo. What is your situation?" the voice asked through the static.

"Comrade Marshal, we will be setting off in ten minutes. We have still not made contact with the enemy, and our reconnaissance has seen no sizable enemy formations in our area. Have you developed any intelligence we can use?"

"Be advised we have aerial photography of Russian mechanized units to your west, probably division strength. I would advise you to keep your mechanized forces together, and guard your left flank."

"Yes, Comrade Marshal, I am doing that," Peng a.s.sured him. The real reason he stopped every day was to allow his divisions to close up, keeping his fist tight. Better yet, 29th Type A Group Army was right behind his if he needed support. "I recommend that 43rd Army be tasked to flank guard."

"I will give the order," Luo promised. "How far will you go today?"

"Comrade Marshal, I will send a truckload of gold back to you this very evening. Question: What is this I've heard about damage to our line of supply?"

"There was an attack last night on some railroad bridges in Harbin and Bei'an, but nothing we can't fix."

"Very well. Comrade Marshal, I must see to my dispositions."

"Carry on, then. Out."

Peng set the microphone back in its holder. "Nothing he can't fix, he says."

"You know what those bridges are like. You'd need a nuclear weapon to hurt them," Colonel Wa Cheng-Gong observed confidently.

"Yes, I would agree with that." Peng stood, b.u.t.toned his tunic, and reached for a mug of morning tea. "Tell the advance guard to prepare to move out. I'm going up front this morning, Wa. I want to see this gold mine for myself."

"How far up front?" the operations officer asked.

"With the lead elements. A good officer leads from the front, and I want to see how our people move. Our reconnaissance screen hasn't detected anything, has it?"

"Well, no, Comrade General, but-"

"But what?" Peng demanded.

"But a prudent commander leaves leading to lieutenants and captains," Wa pointed out.

"Wa, sometimes you talk like an old woman," Peng chided.

There," Yefremov said. "They took the bait."

It was just after midnight in Moscow, and the emba.s.sy of the People's Republic of China had most of its lights off, 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 c.h.i.n.k 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 emba.s.sy, 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 wh.o.r.e. 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 sh.e.l.ls over that time, more than any of them had ever shot on active duty, but the Never Depot had been well stocked with sh.e.l.ls. Officers a.s.signed 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 militarypolice 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 wellnamed 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. But an officer, those were the ones who directed the killing of my comrades, and when you got one of them, you confused the enemy."

"How many?"

"Lieutenants, eighteen. Captains, twelve. Only three majors, but nine colonels. I decapitated nine Fritz regiments. Then, of course, sergeants and machine-gun crews, but I don't remember them as well as the colonels. I can still see every one of those, my boy," Gogol said, tapping the side of his head.

"Did they ever try to shoot at you?"

"Mainly with artillery," Pasha answered. "A sniper affects the morale of a unit. Men do not like being hunted like game. But the Germans didn't use snipers as skillfully as we did, and so they answered me with field guns. That," he admitted, "could be frightening, but it really told me how much the Fritzes feared me," Pavel Petrovich concluded with a cruel smile.

"There!" Buikov pointed. Just off the trees to the left.

"Ahh," Gogol said, looking through his gunsight. "Ahh, yes."

Aleksandrov laid his binoculars on the fleeting shape. It was the vertical steel side on a Chinese infantry carrier, one of those he'd been watching for some days now. He lifted his radio. "This is GREEN WOLF ONE. Enemy in sight, map reference two-eight-five, nine-zero-six. One infantry track coming north. Will advise."

"Understood, GREEN WOLF," the radio crackled back.

"Now, we must just be patient," Fedor Il'ych said. He stretched, touching the camouflage net that he'd ordered set up the moment they'd arrived in this place. To anyone more than three hundred meters away, he and his men were just part of the hill crest. Next to him, Sergeant Buikov lit a cigarette, blowing out the smoke.

"That is bad for us," Gogol advised. "It alerts the game."

"They have little noses," Buikov replied.

"Yes, and the wind is in our favor," the old hunter conceded.

Lordy, Lordy," Major Tucker observed. "They've bunched up some."

It was Grace Kelly again, looking down on the battlefield-to-be like Pallas Athena looking down on the plains of Troy. And about as pitilessly. The ground had opened up a little, and the corridor they moved across was a good three kilometers wide, enough for a battalion of tanks to travel line-abreast, a regiment in columns of battalions, three lines of thirty-five tanks each with tracked infantry carriers interspersed with them. Colonels Aliyev and Tolkunov stood behind him, speaking in Russian over their individual telephones to the 265th Motor Rifle's command post. In the night, the entire 201st had finally arrived, plus leading elements of the 80th and 44th. There were now nearly three divisions to meet the advancing Chinese, and included in that were three full divisional artillery sets, plus, Tucker saw for the first time, a s.h.i.tload of attack helicopters sitting on the ground thirty kilometers back from the point of expected contact. Joe c.h.i.n.k was driving into a motherf.u.c.ker of an ambush. Then a shadow crossed under Grace Kelly, out of focus, but something moving fast.

It was two squadrons of F-16C fighter-bombers, and they were armed with Smart Pigs.

That was the nickname for J-SOW, the Joint Stand-Off Weapon. The night before, other F-16s, the CG version, the new and somewhat downsized version of the F-4G Wild Weasel, had gone into China and struck at the line of border radar transmitters, hitting them with HARM antiradar missiles and knocking most of them off the air. That denied the Chinese foreknowledge of the inbound strike. They had been guided by two E-3B Sentry aircraft, and protected by three squadrons of F-15C Eagle air-superiority fighters in the event some Chinese fighters appeared again to die, but there had been little such fighter activity in the past thirty-six hours. The Chinese fighter regiments had paid a b.l.o.o.d.y price for their pride, and were staying close to home in what appeared to be a defense mode-on the principle that if you weren't attacking, then you were defending. In fact they were doing little but flying standing patrols over their own bases-that's how thoroughly they had been whipped by American and Russian fighters-and that left the air in American and Russian control, which was going to be bad news for the People's Liberation Army.

The F-16s were at thirty thousand feet, holding to the east. They were several minutes early for the mission, and circled while awaiting word to attack. Some concertmaster was stage-managing this, they all thought. They hoped he didn't break his little baton-stick-thing.

Getting closer," Pasha observed with studied nonchalance.

"Range?" Aleksandrov asked the men down below in the track.

"Twenty-one hundred meters, within range," Buikov reported from inside the gun turret. "The fox and the gardener approach, Comrade Captain."

"Leave them be for the moment, Boris Yevgeniyevich."

"As you say, Comrade Captain." Buikov was comfortable with the no-shoot rule, for once.

How much farther to the reconnaissance screen?" Peng asked.

"Two more kilometers," Ge replied over the radio. "But that might not be a good idea."

"Ge, have you turned into an old woman?" Peng asked lightly.

"Comrade, it is the job of lieutenants to find the enemy, not the job of senior generals," the division commander replied in a reasonable voice.

"Is there any reason to believe the enemy is nearby?"

"We are in Russia, Peng. They're here somewhere."

"He is correct, Comrade General," Colonel Wa Cheng-gong pointed out to his commander.

"Rubbish. Go forward. Tell the reconnaissance element to stop and await us," Peng ordered. "A good commander leads from the front!" he announced over the radio.

"Oh, s.h.i.t," Ge observed in his tank. "Peng wants to show off his ji-ji. Move out," he ordered his driver, a captain (his entire crew was made of officers). "Let's lead the emperor to the recon screen."

The brand-new T-98 tank surged forward, throwing up two rooster tails of dirt as it accelerated. General Ge was in the commander's hatch, with a major acting as gunner, a duty he practiced diligently because it was his job to keep his general alive in the event of contact with the enemy. For the moment, it meant going ahead of the senior general with blood in his eye.

Why did they stop?" Buikov asked. The PLA tracks had suddenly halted nine hundred meters off, all five of them, and now the crews dismounted, manifestly to take a stretch, and five of them lit up smokes.

"They must be waiting for something," the captain thought aloud. Then he got on the radio. "GREEN WOLF here, the enemy has halted about a kilometer south of us. They're just sitting still."

"Have they seen you?"

"No, they've dismounted to take a p.i.s.s, looks like, just standing there. We have them in range, but I don't want to shoot until they're closer," Aleksandrov reported.

"Very well, take your time. There's no hurry here. They're walking into the parlor very nicely."

"Understood. Out." He set the mike down. "Is it time for morning break?"

"They haven't been doing that the last four days, Comrade Captain," Buikov reminded his boss.

"They appear relaxed enough."

"I could kill any of them now," Gogol said, "but they're all privates, except for that one . . ."

"That's the fox. He's a lieutenant, likes to run around a lot. The other officer's the gardener. He likes playing with plants," Buikov told the old man.

"Killing a lieutenant's not much better than killing a corporal," Gogol observed. "There's too many of them."

"What's this?" Buikov said from his gunner's seat. "Tank, enemy tank coming around the left edge, range five thousand."

"I see it!" Aleksandrov reported. ". . . Just one? Only one tank-oh, all right, there's a carrier with it-"

"It's a command track, look at all those antennas!" Buikov called.

The gunner's sight was more powerful than Aleksandrov's binoculars. The captain couldn't confirm that for another minute or so. "Oh, yes, that's a command track, all right. I wonder who's in it. . ."

There they are," the driver called back. "The reconnaissance section, two kilometers ahead, Comrade General."

"Excellent," Peng observed. Standing up to look out of the top of his command track with his binoculars, good j.a.panese ones from Nikon. There was Ge in his command tank, thirty meters off to the right, protecting him as though he were a good dog outside the palace of some ancient n.o.bleman. Peng couldn't see anything to be concerned about. It was a clear day, with some puffy white clouds at three thousand meters or so. If there were American fighters up there, he wasn't going to worry about them. Besides, they'd done no ground-attacking that he'd heard about, except to hit those bridges back at Harbin, and one might as well attack a mountain as those things, Peng was sure. He had to hold on to the sill of the hatch lest the pitching of the vehicle smash him against it-it was a track specially modified for senior officers, but no one had thought to make it safer to stand in, he thought sourly. He wasn't some peasant-private who could smash his head with no consequence . . . Well, in any case, it was a good day to be a soldier, in the field leading his men. A fair day, and no enemy in sight.