“It changes nothing,” Alex said.
“The odds are longer now,” Baron Oleg said, and looked to Prince Leon for confirmation.
Count Anatol Markov said, “For once I agree with Oleg. We should have had more planes.”
“I asked the Americans for six. They said it was out of the question. We were lucky to get three. Actually I was prepared to accept two-the third bomber was always a backup plane. The operational plan calls for two aircraft-one to interdict the railway tracks and halt the train, the second to hit the troop carriages and gun cars before anyone can get out of them.”
“Then we had better not lose either of the remaining bombers, had we,” Anatol said drily.
Their accommodations in the Finnish encampment were primitive: the troops were billeted in field tents with portable coal stoves; there was a mess kitchen but the men had to eat outdoors or carry their meals back to their tents, by which time the food had gone cold. The command echelon was billeted barrack-style in what were ordinarily the pilots’ quarters of a Finnish air squadron. For a full week the temperature did not rise more than two degrees above freezing and most of the time it was well below. Alex and his men were used to it but some of the politicals had become too accustomed to their Mediterranean habitats; Anatol and General Savinov were forever complaining of the cold.
On the crisp nights they could hear the guns from the front thirty miles away. Alex and Corporal Cooper used the air-tower radio equipment to maintain contact with Vlasov in Moscow. There were brief nightly exchanges that could not settle Alex’s unease. He was ready for it-they all were-and the waiting ate away at him like acid even though they kept up a punishing training regimen. His nerves twanged with vibration and he was snappish with Irina, brusque with the politicals, authoritarian with the members of his command, noncommunicative with Cosgrove and Buckner. John Spaight chewed him out for it but he barked right back at his American friend and Spaight went away fuming: they were all on edge-all except ground-crew chief Calhoun who fussed maternally over his remaining airplanes and kept working on them when it seemed clear there was no work left to do. Then on Wednesday Calhoun came to Alex and said, “You’ve got a bad propeller on one of those C-47S, General.”
“What do you mean a bad propeller?”
“Metal fatigue. There’s a hairline crack in one of the blades. It could bust off any time.”
“Can you do anything about it?” Sudden alarm: they’d already lost one aircraft; they couldn’t do without one of the precious transports.
“Sure,” Calhoun drawled. “That’s essentially the same Wright Cyclone engine they’ve got on the B-17S. I already told my boys to take a prop off that one that wrecked in the trees. We’ll have it bolted on by this afternoon. But I thought I’d better tell you about it.”
“Next time see if you can give me the news without inducing cardiac arrest, will you Calhoun?”
On December fourth a daring Russian counterattack broke through the German lines to Shimki and halted the Wehrmacht’s advance on Moscow.
That night it snowed more heavily than before. The Germans were still falling back under attack by fresh Siberian regiments. Radio news broadcasts from Moscow were hearty with gusto: the announcers could not keep the excitement from their voices and there was no doubt this victory was more than mere propaganda.
But the signal that came from Vlasov at half-past eleven that night-when Alex’s transports were filling with troops-was to say that the tank trials had been put off.
A major storm was tracking northeast across Europe at twenty-five knots. It was expected to blow for the next three days in the Moscow area.
The tank trials had been postponed to Monday morning.