An extensive flotilla of fishing boats, skiffs, and little better than planks floated down the Orhon Gol. It was composed of hundreds of tiny ships, because they were far more inconspicuous than even a small number of large, modern ships. They were wrapped up in a thick and all consuming mist, not unlike in appearance to water clouded by mud.
"Govno, they must've seen us by now," complained Major Yurii Marchenko.
Govno is a Russian word which, if translated into english, would rhyme with "grit" and have just as many letters.
"Shut up, Marchenko!" exclaimed Boris Nemov, "The fog will protect us. Just trust in it. I've got to concentrate."
For the moment the junior officer satisfied himself with that and became silent. He shivered slightly, and clenched his teeth to prevent them from chattering. It was a bleak night and the moon came through the fog like a watery apparition. It was frigidly cold. Marchenko and Nemov were from far warmer climes, but they had grown used to the icy grip of both the weather and death from being on the front.
Nemov looked over his shoulder at the fleet of tiny craft, and noticed each breath froze once it left his mouth. Each craft held a single tank with crew, and a few infantry soldiers. Armor was infinitely more important than infantry in the proposed offensive on Sühbaatar. He had one - count it, one - leaper. It represented a large percentage of the total number of leapers in Russia at the moment. The government must have determined that this was a very important attack to let him have a leaper.
Suddenly Marchenko gasped and said, "Iron Man, look!"
The major was pointing off through the foggy distance. Nemov followed his finger, grumbling slightly at the nickname. During the Battle of Angarsk when one new private had been told about Nemov at Irkutsk, the soldier exclaimed, "My God, colonel, you must be made of iron!" The name had stuck, but Nemov for some reason did not like it.
The colonel saw what his subordinate had been pointing at.
"Sühbaatar," he whispered with icy blue lips.
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