Red Army by Ralph Peters Page A

vehicle might be broken down or mired. But, he realized, it was more likely that they were dead. He was surprised to find that he felt little emotion, and ashamed to experience how swiftly his thoughts turned to the implications the loss of the vehicle and crew had for him.
    “Driver, get on that trail to the right. That one.”
    The vehicle moved sharply now, with the worst effects of the barrage well behind it. Plinnikov’s optics had deteriorated severely. The crack in the outer lens allowed water to seep in.
    “Slow. See the trail into the trees? Slow. Take the trail.”
    The vehicle eased onto a smooth forest trail that appeared very well-maintained. Plinnikov hoped to find a spot to tuck into for a few minutes so they could clean off all of their vision blocks and lenses and tighten the antenna. One barrage had already passed over the forest, and patches of trees had been splintered and blackened. The driver worked the tracks over a small fallen trunk. He drove the vehicle cautiously, with no desire to throw a track in such close proximity to the enemy.
    “Comrade Lieutenant, I can barely see,” the driver said. “Can I pop open my hatch?”
    “No,” Plinnikov said. “Stop right here. I’ll get out and clean the blocks.”
    The vehicle rocked to a standstill. Plinnikov unlatched the safety bolt and pushed up his hatch. The sudden increase in the noise level was striking. The weight of the artillery preparation was incredible, and the fires sounded much closer now. It was difficult to imagine anything surviving such an effort.
    In the wet green woods, fresh forest smells mingled with the stink of blown ordnance. Raindrops worked through the overhanging branches and struck Plinnikov’s nose and cheeks, touching cool at his lips. The hatch ring felt slimy with moisture and dirt.
    Just ahead, another trail crossed the one along which they had moved. The other trail was deeply rutted and black with mud, evidence that several tracked vehicles had passed along it.
    Plinnikov drew himself back down into the turret. “Belonov,” he told the gunner, “make sure the auto-cannon’s ready to go. I don’t think we’re alone.”
    “Comrade Lieutenant, let me check the exterior.”
    “No. You stay on the gun. Just be ready.” Plinnikov stripped off his headset and snaked out of the turret. The deck seemed to slide away under his boots, and he grasped the long, thin barrel of the automatic cannon to steady himself, crouching.
    The armament appeared to be all right, with no metal deformities. But there were numerous spots on the vehicle exterior where the paint had been stripped away and where the bolt-on armor had been gashed or even sheared away. One fender twisted toward the sky. An external stow-box was gone, and the spare track pads were missing. The shovel was gone. The main antenna for the high-powered radio set was nicked, but functionally intact.
    Unidentifiable objects ripped through the foliage, their noises an occasional whisper. Big raindrops burst like shells on his skin. More rain coming. Plinnikov hurriedly cleaned all of the optics with a rag, trying not to smear them too badly.
    He got back into the turret as soon as he reasonably could. “The trail looks clear enough up ahead, but you can’t see very far. The enemy has either passed through these woods or he’s still somewhere in here with us.”
    “Perhaps we should wait here for a while, Comrade Lieutenant. See what the enemy does, you know?” Belonov was clearly frightened. Plinnikov hoped the gunner would be able to work his weapon when the time came.
    Plinnikov twitched his nose, then rubbed at it with his dirty knuckles. “No. We have to get a fix on our location. And if we just sit, the artillery will roll back over us. We’re moving.”
    The truth was, Plinnikov realized, that he was afraid to remain motionless, afraid he couldn’t handle the stress of inactivity.
    “Driver, can you see all right now?”
    “Better, Comrade