Eisly singled out the SA-11 search/acquisition radar. Ellington headed towards it at four hundred knots, using a road to travel below the trees until he was two miles away. Another Sidearm dropped off the airframe and rocketed toward the radar transmitter. At the same moment, two missiles came their way. The Duke applied maximum power and turned hard to the east, dropping chaff and flares as he did so. One missile went for the chaff and exploded harmlessly. The other locked onto the fuzzy radar signal reflected from the Frisbee and wouldn't let go. Ellington jinked up hard, then pulled the aircraft into a maximum-g turn in hope of outmaneuvering the missile. But the SA-11 was too fast. It exploded a hundred feet behind the Frisbee. The two crewmen ejected from the disintegrating aircraft a moment later, their parachutes opening a scarce four hundred feet off the ground.
Ellington landed at the edge of a small clearing. He quickly detached himself from the chute and activated his rescue radio before drawing his revolver. He caught a glimpse of Eisly's chute dropping into the trees and ran in that direction.
"Fuckin' trees!" Eisly said. His feet were dangling off the ground. Ellington climbed up and cut him down. The major's face was bleeding.
Explosions thundered to the north.
"They got it!" Ellington said.
"Yeah, but who's got us?" Eisly said. "I hurt my back."
"Can you move, Don?"
"Hell, yes!"
STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC
The dispersal of fuel reserves into small depots had reduced NATO attacks on them nearly to zero. The resulting sense of security had lasted nearly a month. The attacks on tank columns and munitions stores were serious, but there were plenty of replacements for both. Fuel was a different story.
"Comrade General, NATO has changed its pattern of air attacks."
Alekseyev turned from the map display to listen to his air-intelligence officer. Five minutes later, his supply chief came in.
"How bad is it?"
"Overall, perhaps as much as ten percent of our forward supplies. In the Alfeld sector, over thirty percent."
The phone rang next. It was the general whose divisions were to attack Alfeld in five hours.
"My fuel is gone! The convoy was attacked and destroyed twenty kilometers from here."
"Can you attack with what you have?" Alekseyev asked.
"I can, but I won't be able to maneuver my units worth a damn!"
"You must attack with what you have."
"But-"
"There are four divisions of Soviet soldiers who will die if you do not relieve them. The attack will go as scheduled!" Alekseyev set the phone down. Beregovoy was also short on fuel. A tank could have enough fuel to drive three hundred kilometers in a straight line, but they almost never traveled in a straight line, and despite orders, the crews invariably left the engines running when sitting still. The time needed to start their diesels could mean death if a sudden air attack fell on them. Beregovoy had been forced to give all of his reserve fuel to his eastbound tanks so that they could hit Alfeld in conjunction with the westbound C divisions. The two divisions on the left bank of the Weser were essentially immobilized. Alekseyev was gambling the offensive on his ability to reestablish his supply routes. He told his supply chief to get more fuel. If his attack succeeded he'd need more still.
The transition was ridiculous-less than two hours from Stendal to Moscow by jet, from war to peace, from danger to safety. His father's chauffeur, Vitaly, met him at the military airport and drove at once to the Minister's official dacha in the birch forests outside the capital. He entered the front room to see a stranger with his father.
"So this is the famous Ivan Mikhailovich Sergetov, Major of the Soviet Army."
"Excuse me, Comrade, but I do not think we have met before."
"Vanya, this is Boris Kosov."
The young officer's face betrayed just a fraction of his emotions on being introduced to the Director of the KGB. He leaned back into the easy chair and observed the man who had ordered the bombing of the Kremlin-after arranging for children to be there. It was two in the morning. KGB troops loyal-thought to be loyal, Minister Sergetov corrected himself-to Kosov patrolled outside to keep this meeting a secret.
"Ivan Mikhailovich," Kosov said genially, "what is your assessment of the situation at the front?"
The young officer suppressed a desire to look to his father for guidance. "The success or failure of the operation hangs in the balance-remember that I am a junior officer and I lack the expertise for a reliable evaluation. But as I see things, the campaign could now go either way. NATO is short on manpower but they've had a sudden infusion of supplies."
"About two weeks' worth."
"Probably less," Sergetov said. "One thing we've learned at the front is that supplies get used up much faster than expected. Fuel, ordnance, everything seems almost to evaporate. So our friends in the Navy must keep hitting the convoys."
