Alekseyev scanned the list. He recognized the names of three men who had served with distinction in battalion and regimental commands... one good staff officer and one terrible one. Even when my men fight a war for the Motherland, they are under suspicion!

"I'm supposed to formulate my attack plan before I return to the front. I will be at Army Headquarters."

"Good luck, Pavel Leonidovich."

"And to you, Mikhail Eduardovich." The General watched father and son embrace. He wondered what his own father would think of this. To whom do I turn for guidance?

KEFLAVIK, ICELAND

"Good afternoon, I am Major General William Emerson. This is Colonel Lowe. He will act as interpreter.

"General Major Andreyev. I speak English."

"Do you propose a surrender?" Emerson asked.

"I propose that we negotiate," Andreyev answered.

"I require that your forces cease hostilities at once and surrender their weapons."

"And what will become of my troops?"

"They will be interned as prisoners of war. Your wounded will receive proper medical attention and your men will be treated in accordance with the usual international conventions."

"How do I know you speak truly?"

"You do not."

Andreyev noted the blunt, honest answer. But what choice do I have?

"I propose a cease-fire"-he checked his watch-"at fifteen hours."

"Agreed."

"How long?" SACEUR asked.

"Three days. We'll be able to attack with four divisions."

What's left off our divisions, SACEUR thought. We've stopped then all right, but what do we have to drive them back with?

They did have confidence. NATO had begun the war with an advantage only in its technology, which was even more pronounced now. The Russian stocks of new tanks and guns had been ravaged, and the divisions coming into the line now had twenty-year-old castoffs. They still had numbers, though, and any offensive SACEUR planned would have to be carefully planned and executed. Only in the air did he have an important advantage, and air power had never won a war. The Germans were pushing hard for a counterstrike. Too much of their land, and too many of their citizens, were on the wrong side of the line. Already the Bundeswehr was probing aggressively on several fronts, but they'd have to wait. The German Army was not strong enough to push forward alone. They'd taken too many losses in their prime role of stopping the Soviet advance.

KAZAN, R.S.F.S.R.

The youngsters were too excited to sleep. The older men were too worried to sleep. Conditions didn't help. The men of the 77th Motor-Rifle Division were crammed into passenger cars, and while all had seats, it was at the cost of rubbing against their comrades even as they breathed. The troop trains moved along at a speed of a hundred kilometers per hour. The tracks were set in the Russian way, with the rail segments ending together instead of offset; so, instead of the clickity-click familiar to Western riders, the men of this C division heard only a series of thuds. It tested nerves already raw.

The interval between the jarring sounds slowed. A few soldiers looked out to see that their train was stopping at Kazan. The officers were surprised. They weren't supposed to stop until they got to Moscow. The mystery was soon solved. No sooner had the twenty-car train stopped than new men filed into the carriages.

"Attention," called one loud voice. "Combat soldiers arriving!"

Though they had been issued new uniforms, their boots showed the weeks of abuse. Their swagger marked them as veterans. About twenty got onto each passenger car, and rapidly secured comfortable seating for themselves. Those displaced would have to stand. There were officers, too, and they found their counterparts. The officers of the 77th began to get firsthand information of NATO doctrine and tactics, what worked and what didn't work, all the lessons paid for in blood by the soldiers who did not join the division at Kazan. The enlisted men got no such lessons. They watched men who were able to sleep even as they rode to the fighting front.

FASLANE, SCOTLAND

Chicago was alongside the pier, loading torpedoes and missiles for her next mission. Half her crew was ashore stretching their legs and buying drinks for the crew of Torbay.

Their boat had acquired quite a reputation for her work in the Barents Sea, enough so that they'd be heading back as soon as she was ready, to escort the carrier battle groups now in the Norwegian Sea, heading for the Soviet bases on the Kola Peninsula.

McCafferty sat alone in his stateroom, wondering why a mission that had ended in disaster was considered successful, hoping that he wouldn't be sent out again-but knowing that he would...

"Good news, Comrade General!" A colonel stuck his head in the office Alekseyev had taken for himself. "Your people were able to join up with the 77th at Kazan."

"Thank you." Alekseyev's head went back to his maps when the colonel withdrew.

"It's amazing."

"What's that, Vanya?"

"The men you selected for the 77th, the paperwork, the orders-they went through just like that!"

"A routine transfer of personnel-why shouldn't it go through?" the General asked. "The Politburo approved the procedure."

"But this is the only group of men flown out."

"They had the farthest to go." Alekseyev held up a message form he'd just filled out. Captain-no, now he was Major Arkady Semyonovich Sorokin of the 76th Guards Airborne Division was ordered to report to Moscow immediately. He would fly also. A pity he could not have the captain bring some of his men along, but they were where no Soviet general could reach.

"So, Mikhail Eduardovich, what does General Alekseyev plan?"

Sergetov handed over some notes. Kosov leafed through the pages in a few minutes.

"If be succeeds, at least an Order of Lenin from us, yes?" That general is overly smart. Too bad for him.

"We are far from that point. What about the timing? We depend on you to set the stage."

"I have a colonel who specializes in this sort of thing."

"I'm sure."

"One other thing we should do," Kosov said. He explained for several minutes before taking his leave. Sergetov shredded the notes he had from Alekseyev and had Vitaly bum them.

The trouble light and buzzer caught the dispatcher's attention at once. Something was wrong with the trackage on the Elektrozavodskaya Bridge, three kilometers east of Kazan Station.

"Get an inspector out there."

"There's a train half a kilometer away," his assistant warned.

"Tell it to stop at once!" The dispatcher flipped the switch controlling the tower signal.

The deputy dispatcher lifted his radiotelephone. "Train eleven ninety-one, this is Kazan Central Dispatch. Trouble on the bridge ahead, stop immediately!"

"I see the signal! Stopping now," the engineer replied. "We won't make it!"

And he couldn't. Eleven ninety-one was a hundred-car unit, flatcars loaded with armored vehicles and boxcars loaded with munitions. Sparks flew in the pre-dawn light as the engineer applied the brakes on every car, but he needed more than a few hundred meters to halt the train. He peered ahead looking for the problem-a bad signal, he hoped.

No! A track was loose just at the west side of the bridge. The engineer shouted a warning to his crew and cringed. The locomotive jumped the track and ground sideways to a halt. This could not prevent the three engines behind it and eight flatcars from surging forward. They too jumped off the track, and only the bridge's steel framework prevented them from spilling into the Yauza River. The track inspector arrived a minute later. He cursed all the way to the telephone box.