7
57 miles south of Delta
“Majeur! We have sighting of Russian military.” Captain René Flérs exclaimed through the window of the command car, jerking Timothy Riordan out of a deep sleep.
After waiting ten beats for his heart to slow, Riordan squinted his eyes and stared at his executive officer. “Are they actually attacking us, René?”
“Non! Perish the very thought. They know nothing of our presence.”
“Then you should have carefully touched my shoulder and spoke in softer tones,” he said softly. Then he screamed, “I nearly crapped myself when you startled me! Ten days of busting ass on the road takes it out of a man!”
“My apologies, Majeur Riordan,” Flérs said as he cringed. “I was merely attempting to notify you in the most expeditious manner at my command.”
Riordan sat up and glanced around. “Don’t worry about it, this time. So what’s the situation?”
“Corporal N’go and Private Kyle report they have made visual contact of a small group of Russian Army vehicles and soldiers. They are at the junction where the road turns north again.”
“Small, how small?”
“Two tanks, six armored personnel carriers and three trucks. No more than forty Russians.”
“Good work, René!” Riordan jumped to his feet and adjusted his uniform. Squaring his beret he flashed René a quick smile.
“We’re going to come out of this better than we are going in.”
René smiled.