Arakal, partly upright on the cot, heard the rustle of cloth, and then another sound—a faint creaking from several directions around him. He was able to identify this second sound, but the sliding murmur of cloth and the perfume were something else. Carefully, he folded back the blankets, groped along the frame of the cot, felt the hard curve of wire he was searching for, unhooked it, held it out to the side and up, and squeezed the handles.
In the flicker of the spark-light, against the background of fitted logs that formed the walls of the bunker, stood a girl, her skin milk-white, her hair golden, her figure accentuated by the clinging brief dark net that she wore, her face frozen in shock as she blinked around at the dozen or so men, their faces in shadow, some of whom sat up on cots or peered out of bedrolls on the floor, some halfway to their feet, two partway to her, their hands gripping weapons unrecognizable in the brief light.
Arakal squeezed the handles again, saw the girl's look change to horror, recognized her face, and said, "I think this is supposed to be a nurse. But how did she get in here?"
In a cot to Arakal's left, the division commander, a burly muscular man with head shaped in flat planes suggestive of a gun turret, stared at the girl, then bawled, "Guards!"
From above came a thud, a shout, a sound of boots.
To Arakal's right, someone lighted a lamp, and its intense white light lit up the girl, the room of watching men, and the startled guard who appeared at the door.
"Sir!" the guard saluted.
His commanding officer said dryly, "You're the one who let this in?"
"I—sir, I let a nurse in here about five minutes ago." He stared at the paralyzed girl. "She said she was here to give the chief some medicine. I said this was the right place, and to go down and light the lamp in the hall before going in. She sure wasn't dressed like that when I saw her."
"There are some clothes on the floor over there. See if there's a weapon with them."
The girl looked up, startled, but said nothing. She bowed her head, clasped her arms across her breasts.
"No weapons here, sir," said the guard. "A couple of pill boxes, and a brown bottle. That's—"
From outside came a muffled crash. The room jumped. The light flickered. The girl shut her eyes.
The guard raised his voice. "Nothing in the line of a weapon, sir. Unless it's on the girl herself."
"Give her those clothes to put on, and take her to the chief of nurses to be searched. Now get out of here." He turned to Arakal, and gave a fleeting smile. "Sorry to interfere with medical treatment, sir."
Arakal, listening to the crash and roar, nodded with an absent smile. As the guard led the girl out of the room, he and his officers got up, and hurriedly reached for their clothes.
The bombardment abruptly ended.
Arakal was trying to ignore the soreness of his left leg as he dressed. Around him, the room was alternately light and dark as men stepped in front of the lamp, then stepped aside, and their huge shadows leaped across the walls and ceiling. There were the sounds of cloth, leather, the stamping of boots, the snapping of holster flaps—and all sounded loud in the sudden quiet.
In the hall outside, someone lit the lamp.
Arakal adjusted the shoulder strap that supported his sword, and then they went up the stairs, stumbled on a loose step, and pushed past a heavy hanging made of overlapping metal scales sewn onto a leather backing. The air outside was fresh and chill, the wind blowing from them toward the Russ. The sky was dark, with no stars in sight. Around them, in the quiet, there was a faint stir and creak as men and officers tried to guess what might happen next.
The silence stretched out.
Then there was a squelching of boots in mud, the stamp of feet on wood, and a shadowy figure approached, paused, and a deep voice said, "General Mason?"
Beside Arakal, the division commander said, "Here."
"Corporal Givens, sir, from Watch. We've got word from all the listening posts. There isn't a damned thing moving over there, sir."
"The Russ are quiet?"
"Like a graveyard."
Mason turned to Arakal. "Shall we send them a little something, sir?"
"Save it until we can see them," said Arakal. "If they want to waste ammunition, that's their business."
"Right. They always were a little prodigal of it."
Nothing further developing, they went back to bed, though a few muttered exclamations preceded the sleep.
The bunker jumped.
A muffled crash and roar reached them, slightly louder now and then as something struck nearby. An acrid odor came down the vent shaft. Across the room, a protesting voice said, "I liked the way we got woken up the last time."
Arakal lay still, waiting.
Mason swore.
The bombardment stopped.
A little later, there was a sound of feet on the steps, a bang, and a low curse.
Mason's voice said, "Watch?"
"Sir. Givens. Same damned thing as the last time."
"All right. Watch it on those steps. The second slab from the bottom is loose."
"I already found it, sir."
There was the sound of feet retreating up the steps, and Mason turned to Arakal. "If you want, sir, we can wait half an hour and open up the sky. I have the impression they don't appreciate our guns yet."
"Let them waste their own ammunition. We have to bring ours further."
There was another sound of approaching feet on the steps, and, this time, a dim light. A lantern appeared, casting its glow on the floor and the smooth log walls. The lantern lit the uniform of an officer whose face was unrecognizable in the shadow cast upward by the rain-shield of the lantern. A male voice said, "Wait right there. I'll check."
To Arakal's left, General Mason spoke sharply.
"We're all awake here. Who is it?"
"Rabeck, sir, Colonel, B Regiment. And the chief of nurses, sir. I offered to bring her over."
"Sorry, Rabeck. I didn't recognize your voice."
"We're all a little deaf tonight, sir."
"What does the chief of nurses have for us?"
A slender, dark-haired woman, her facial expression severe, stepped into the edge of the lantern light. "Possibly what I say should be said only to the king."
Arakal said, "There's no time for that. Just go ahead."
"The girl claims you arranged for a meeting with her."
"When did I do this?"
"After the surgeon left, when your wounds had been dressed."
"I suppose I had the chance, when the surgeon went out to get General Slagiron. I'm afraid I didn't think of it. What else?"
"There's a considerable amount, which I don't want to repeat."
"What's the substance of it?"
"She claims that you assaulted her, to condense a long detailed account."
"What else?"
"That is the substance of it."
"Now, Chief Nurse, perhaps you can explain something to me."
"Sir?"
"Where did this girl come from? I never saw her before. If I'm not mistaken, it's your responsibility to have trustworthy nurses."
"I—she volunteered in Cherbourg. She said she was from Old Brunswick, in Cherbourg for a visit. I thought we would need extra nurses, and gladly took her on. She worked hard. She seems capable."
"You think a nurse is capable who tells a story that a wounded man just out from under the anesthetic, unable to sit up, was chasing her around the tent?"
"Well, I—She didn't say that."
"The details were different?"
"Well . . . men . . . everybody knows—"
"Take her over to Jinks," said Arakal shortly, "and find out what's behind this. Tell Jinks not to destroy her looks if he can avoid it. As for you, Chief Nurse, if any more volunteer nurses show up, report the matter, and see to it there is some part of their uniform that at least shows us they are not our own people."
The chief nurse said stubbornly, "I don't think Captain Jinks should be allowed—"
Arakal sat up, vaguely conscious of the sudden silence, where before there had been low murmurs, and an occasional ribald comment.
Arakal's voice grated. "Captain Jinks has the ability to listen to a liar, and not be angry. Where I or one of my officers might forget ourselves, and later regret it, the captain shakes his head and cautiously increases the pain. She is much safer telling lies to him than to me. Now get out of here. And if that pretty liar is not delivered by you to Captain Jinks, you will answer for it with your head!"
The chief nurse drew in her breath. "Yes, sir."
General Mason said, "Light her way, Rabeck."
"Yes, sir."
Arakal settled back. His leg throbbed, his head was swimming. His muscles were sore, and he felt as if he had been gone over with coarse sandpaper, all over his chest and back. But in the mind of the chief nurse, he was a man, men were unreliable, and that concluded the matter.
To the right of his cot, over near the wall, someone was laughing in a low voice about the chief nurse being an old maid, and delivering unutterable comments about this fact, and the reason for it, and suddenly the accumulated exhaustion outweighed Arakal's irritation, and he was falling into a darkness that swallowed him, removing the blonde girl, the chief nurse, the Russ, and all else around him, so that there was nothing left but the soft deep blackness.
There was a roar, a heavy smash, an explosion that lifted, then dropped him. There was, interlaced with this, a faint whine, somehow muffled, that grew slowly louder like an approaching mosquito, then blew up in his face. Arakal opened his eyes in the darkness.
The bombardment ended.
Mason's voice said quietly, "Sir?"
Arakal growled, "What?"
"We can teach these people something."
"We'll use our own method when we do it, not theirs."
Someone murmured to a snarling neighbor, "Don't move around, just keep your eyes shut, and you can go right back to sleep."
Arakal, with the same thought, was lying back on the cot. He felt himself begin to drift off.
The bunker shook to a heavy crash.
Arakal sat up carefully.
Now everything was quiet.
There came the sound of footsteps running down into the bunker.
General Mason snarled, "Watch?"
"Yes, sir. Givens. It's the same thing again. Except I got thrown about fifteen feet by that last one. I wasn't expecting that one."
"You hurt?"
"No, sir. There was stuff whining past pretty close, that's all."
"The bastards think they're cute. Good luck going back."
"Thank you, sir."
"Watch that step."
There was a thud, and Givens snarled, "Damn it! Yes, sir."
Arakal lay back, felt the room seem to swirl around him, and then there was a heavy crash, a whine, a sound as of fast trains thundering closer on an iron road built in the sky, and then there was a crash that shook the earth—and then there was silence. The silence stretched out, and then vanished in a bombardment heavier than what had gone before. At last, that came to an end.
Arakal rolled over and went back to sleep.
During the night, which seemed to go on forever, he came awake from time to time, conscious of noise and shock, and then fell asleep again. Eventually he woke with someone shaking him gently.
"Four-thirty, sir."
Arakal came wide awake. His leg hurt, and he was sore more or less everywhere. But he felt as if he had had part of a night's rest. He remembered with pleasure that he was with the First Division.
"Where," he asked, "is the washroom?"
"Out the door and to your right, sir."
Arakal gathered his clothes together, and limped off to get washed. Behind him, in order of rank, the other officers were being woken up. In the washroom, the incredible luxury of a bucket of hot water and soap, with fresh towels, was waiting. In the Groundmole Division, no one had to wash out of a helmet.
Arakal had a hot breakfast, and thirty minutes later, he, Slagiron, and Casey were in the headquarters bunker, hunched over a map with the three corps commanders.
S-One, still a little sleepy, but with a good breakfast inside of him, entered his suite of offices the back way, walked down the hall past a guard who snapped to attention, and entered his own office. The window was up, to admit the pleasant morning air of the courtyard. The desk and all the furniture had been dusted, and the room had been cleaned till it shone. S-One settled comfortably into his chair, then looked with foreboding at the display across the room.
So far, nothing seemed to have happened. The bridgehead appeared as it had been, the position on the near side of the river looked the same, and the position held by Arakal and his men seemed as it had the last time he had seen it. The only sign of motion was a train, symbolized by a blue rectangle, that backed away down the black line representing the track.
S-One caught himself breathing a sigh of relief. It came to him that the mental domination that had been inflicted on Brusilov had, to no small degree, also begun to affect him. Frowning, S-One considered this, then remembered that he had invited Brusilov to be here this morning. He glanced at the clock on the wall. A little after seven-thirty. He glanced at the display, where the small figures read "0531." He had that advantage. He had a longer time to sleep. And, he thought, smiling slightly, he had slept better.
He glanced across the room again at the display, and, at that moment, S-Two informed him that General Brusilov had arrived.
"Send him in," said S-One.
Brusilov, looking as if he had slept badly, came in.
S-One smiled, "Now, General, we will see how this Arakal of yours performs against a force superior in artillery."
Brusilov looked at the display, and winced.
S-One frowned. "What's wrong?"
"The bridgehead still isn't deep enough."
"That's a minor point. The main thing is the artillery. There is a dis—" S-One paused, staring at the display. He had been about to say that there was a disproportion between the artillery on both sides such that any minor element in the positions of the two forces was completely outweighed, and besides, the position of the forces in the bridgehead, and behind the river, struck him as superior to Arakal's position. But before he could complete the sentence, the display lit up dazzlingly.
Brusilov said, "How is this controlled?"
S-One, leaning forward, watched the flashes amongst the artillery positions on the near or easternmost side of the river. Evidently, Arakal's artillery was firing, firing with a murderous incredible rapidity, and these flashes represented the result of the firing. Suddenly, he saw the point of Brusilov's question, and called in S-Two.
"Sir?"
"How is this display controlled? For instance, we see flashes of light. They represent explosions, isn't that correct?"
S-Two blinked at the display.
"Yes, sir."
"All right. Now, how is this done? Do we have people attached to the various units, who report the attack? Obviously—"
S-Two shook his head.
"No, sir. That was true in the case of the Normandy Citadel. Our agents reported what happened, and it was shown on the display as a change of color, representing a change in the occupying power. But it is not true here. In the height of battle, those arrangements for reporting the outcome of the fight could easily be hit."
"That is my point. How do we know that this picture is accurate? What method is used?"
"This particular display is controlled by a remnant of what used to be known as the Satellite Battle Reporting System. The details are highly technical. But the idea is that satellites overhead detect heat and light, or other electromagnetic impulses, report them by what is left of the communications network to the Battle Reporting Computer, which interprets the data furnished to it, and shows it on this display."
S-One glanced at the display, then at Brusilov. Brusilov was looking wide-eyed at the display.
S-One turned to S-Two. "This is from before the war?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do the Americans have any such system as this?"
"To the best of our knowledge, the ground part of their system was completely destroyed. The satellite part may still be functional. As far as we know, Arakal has no access to any such system as this. But the Americans were a capable technological people, and of course realized the force of the attack that their system might be subject to. We can never be sure that, somewhere, there may not be a ground display station, heavily protected, that is still functional. We have often felt concern lest Arakal stumble on some formidable weapon left over from that war, and still functional, and it could happen."
"But Arakal, so far as we know, could not have any such device as this with him?"
"No, sir."
S-One nodded, and turned, frowning, to look back at the display.
Brusilov tore his gaze from the screen. "What if there should be a heavy overcast. Will this still work?"
S-Two replied, "There is a sort of mist-like appearance on the surface of the display; through this the visual representation appears more or less blurred. This is to indicate some decline in reliability. A legend appears to the side of the display to explain the cause of the blurring."
"What we see now, when the display is clear, is an actual visual representation of what is happening?"
"In effect, sir. But it is actually a computer reconstruction of signals picked up by satellite. It is therefore theoretically subject to error in the satellite detection, the transmission, or the computer reconstruction."
"But these errors are infrequent?"
"So far as we know, very infrequent."
After S-Two had left the room, Brusilov stared at the display, which now showed many flashes on both sides of the river. After a moment, Brusilov looked up, frowning.
"Who is in charge?"
"General Andronov."
"Andronov? I don't know him."
"He is one of ours," said S-One. "He is a security officer."
Brusilov stared at S-One, then looked back at the display. "He is getting beaten. We have underestimated Arakal's artillery."
"Surely," said S-One, "it is too early to know that."
"It is altogether too early to know it. But now that we understand that this display is not just a stylized representation, already we can see the outlines. Look at the fire of the two sides. Who is being hit the heaviest?"
The display showed an almost continuous overlapping series of flashes on the eastern side of the display, across the river from Arakal's army. On the side of Arakal's army, the number of flashes was dwindling. And now, as they watched, the flashes began to shift, very slowly but clearly, increasingly hitting the bridgehead. These flashes, the visible signs of hits by Arakal's artillery, continued heavy, while the opposing artillery fire became lighter and lighter; though never dying out entirely, it was clearly dominated by Arakal's artillery. Now a sort of blue shading began to move forward, against the northern edge of the bridgehead, which was outlined in red. As if it were a lump of sugar dissolving in warm water, the red swirled, faded, and dissolved, and the blue moved in. The intense flashing was now almost all on the west side of the river, in the bridgehead. Now, as they watched, a red shading began to move across the bridge, flowing into the bridgehead.
"Ah," said S-One, in a tone of relief, "at last. Reinforcements."
Brusilov straightened. His right hand gripped the edge of his chair. A flash appeared on the railroad bridge, where some of the red shading was coming across. A flash appeared on the highway bridge, where a heavier shading of red was crossing into the bridgehead. The flashes increased in intensity. Still, the red shading came on. Time passed. Now the flashes striking Arakal's position increased. Abruptly, the fire on the bridges and into the bridgehead ceased, there was a brief delay, then suddenly the east bank of the river lit up in bright flashes, not uniformly spaced, but rapid retreating flashes centered on the same or nearly the same points.
S-One stared. Brusilov came halfway up out of his chair.
The brilliant display ended, leaving an impression of blackness on certain points of the screen, by contrast. Now, again, the flashes lit the two bridges, and began walking across the bridgehead. Brusilov came to his feet.
"This is murder. You must end it."
"I don't understand."
"What we are watching is the destruction of our army."
"That is too strong a statement. There are very heavy forces not in this fight."
"Comrade, there is such a thing as inertia in warfare. You may not believe it, and I don't claim to understand it; but if you let Andronov's army be smashed by Arakal, then the only hope is to unite our reserves, put the Marshal in charge, and turn the whole control over to him. There is a psychic element in war—"
"You mean psychological."
"I don't know what word is right. But if Arakal wins this as he is winning it, strength will flow from us to him—or something will happen that will have the same effect. He will become the champion. We will hesitate to strike. He will act. Our position will dissolve. He is a kind man, and I am sure there will be no vengeance. But if you want to hold the position you have now, I tell you everything is now in the balance. This battle has got to be turned over to someone who understands war. The Marshal is our best, and he has the—"
S-One, watching the display, felt a sudden quickening of the pulse, a tightness of breath. The blue shading had bitten into the northern flank of the bridgehead, all the way to the railroad bridge. Now what? To his astonishment, the blue moved out on the bridge, preceded by flashes that crossed to the other side, and then the blue was on the other side, too. Now what? This was suicide, wasn't it? How had they gotten across so soon? On the highway bridge, the red was still crossing from east to west, while on the railroad bridge, the blue was crossing from west to east. S-One suddenly found himself unable to think, to draw conclusions from what he was seeing.
Brusilov, seeing the expression on S-One's face, turned, looked at the display, swore, and turned back to S-One.
"My God, man! Don't stand there! Send for the Marshal!"
S-One was thinking, "Is this panic? I can't think. So this is what panic is?" He drew a deep breath, and blanked his face. Above all, he had to maintain an appearance of control. One who gave that up, who was seen to lose control—how could such a person ever live down the knowledge in the minds of others that he had lost control? Abruptly S-One could think again. He made a gesture of the hand. "This has all been allowed for in the plan."
Brusilov stared at him.
S-One said, "But what I don't understand is, why do they cross the river? They are in as bad a position as we. In a worse position! Their bridgehead has no depth. Why do they cross?"
Brusilov looked at the display, where the red shade was falling back, crowding now at the west end of the highway bridge. It was a rapid movement for the scale of the display and they could see it happen like a flow of molasses across a tilted plate, a streaming motion that continued with no visible rational object except to coalesce at the west end of the bridge.
Brusilov spoke in disgust. "Do you think this display gives any real idea what those men are going through? All this shows us is certain geometrical aspects of what is happening. Do you think that is all there is to war?"
"Why do our men crowd at the end of the bridge?"
"Because word has no doubt reached them that the enemy has gotten to the other side of the river. Their retreat is being cut off. They feel trapped."
S-One nodded, understanding the point.
Brusilov shook his head.
"For the last time, Comrade! Will you call the Marshal?"
S-One sat down. He shook his head. "There is no need for panic, General. All this has been allowed for, in the plan."
Brusilov made no motion. His face became expressionless, as if the nerves controlling the facial muscles had been switched off. Then he looked alert, as if he were listening.
S-One frowned, and sat up. Now he heard it, too.
Outside, there was a tramping, a shot, a fusillade of shots, a yell.
The interoffice phone buzzed. S-One picked it up, and his deputy's voice rang in his ear:
"Sir! Troops are forcing their way in!"
"Under whose command?"
"I don't know yet!"
On S-One's desk, the outside phone rang. S-One scooped it up. "Hello?"
The Head of Government's voice said, "Any resistance will be futile."
S-One looked up, to see General Brusilov holding a pistol in his hand, holding it very steadily so that S-One could almost look down the barrel.
S-One shook his head, and spoke into the phone. "Don't be silly. Of course there will be no resistance. Do as you will." He rested the phone on the table, setting it down without hanging it up. "S-Two?"
"Sir?"
"Signal the guard detachments that there is to be no further resistance. They will lay down their arms if the army units demand it."
"Sir, the corridor is mined. We can very easily leave. I can disembarrass you of your problem, if you say the word."
"No. General Brusilov is doubtless acting on valid orders. Turn on the public address system. They can hear my voice form this phone, can't they, if you connect it in the circuit?"
"If you say so, sir."
"Turn it on."
"It is on, sir."
S-One spoke carefully.
"This is S-One speaking. General Brusilov and I are coming out down the main corridor. Stay where you are. General Brusilov and I are coming out together."
S-One glanced at the blank-faced Brusilov. "Well, let's go. What are we waiting for?" As Brusilov began to put the gun away, S-One said, "No, keep that in your hand. It explains the situation, so the troops can feel easy."
At the door, S-One paused, and looked back.
"I will miss the flowers," he said.