Chain of Command

10

We hiked through the dead, decimated countryside for at least six hours. The jungle still smoldered in spots. The stench of the fire had long since infiltrated our lungs, and I no longer noticed it. Off on the horizon, I could see a vague glimmer of green, probably marking out the extent of the forest fire that had raged through our part of the countryside. However, as far as I could see to the west, the devastation was complete.

With Than gone, the men were oddly silent. I'd expected some protests as to my request that we continue west. A few of the men spoke English, markedly better than they'd let on earlier. They translated for the rest of them. There appeared to be a little disagreement initially, but the majority of them were so stunned by the fire and our narrow escape from it that they fell back as soldiers always do on the original plan. West it was, whether Than was there to supervise the mission or not.

In part, I think it was due to a loss of confidence in their abilities. They were skilled jungle fighters, adept at sensing danger even as it approached and seeking cover within the lush vegetation. In the earlier raid, they'd moved silently through the brush to seek out the guerrillas who were shooting at us, without sound or any other indication that they were even there. I'd admired those skills then. But here, no longer in their accustomed terrain, they moved more slowly. No matter that the going was easier, if you remembered to check for glowing embers under your feet. No matter that they could see further ahead, detect any hostile approach before it got to us. All those things that reassured me left them at a loss, uncertain and tentative, as they moved through the blasted landscape.

Whether it was that further shattering of their world or simply the knot of command in my own voice, we continued on as a group.

I tried to ask about Than, but the men's English disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared upon his departure. Whether they knew something they didn't want to discuss with me or were equally as ignorant, I could not tell. Questions about the radio, the one I was now certain they must have, also were met with stares of blank incomprehension. Frustrated, I gave up trying to communicate and simply walked.

I suppose it would have been reasonable to abort my mission at that time. Now that it was past, the terror of the firestorm was fast fading. It is like that with most life-threatening situations, at least those you survive.

I was content to proceed along ― well, perhaps not content, but at least determined.

It was the second air strike that changed my mind.

I heard them before I saw them, the vague, faint whine that indicates an aircraft at altitude inbound. It gradually grew in strength, and now I was certain that I heard the distinctive rumble of Tomcat engines. It shook me out of the course that I'd charted for us, and brought me back to a realization of what my primary duty was. I was an admiral of the United States Navy, not some New Age truth-seeker at liberty to hike this country for as long as I pleased. Bombing runs, air strikes ― there was no justification for me remaining in country. I knew which countries were doing the fighting ― and which side I belonged on. Knowledge of my father's fate had waited for thirty-some years, it could wait a bit longer.

The Tomcats broke over the ridge in a tight bombing formation, the noise pounding at us, increasing in intensity, then suddenly dropping down to a lower frequency as they passed overhead. I saw them fitted out with ground-attack weapons, dumb iron bombs, and a couple of Sidewinders slung on wing tips just in case. No fighter pilot ever wants to go anywhere without some anti-air weapons in his load-out.

They took no notice of us, proceeding inbound on what I knew was a precision bombing run. They bore in over our firescape, then peeled off one by one as they reached an area of green past the horizon. At that distance, I couldn't see the bombs leave the wings, but I recognized from the maneuvers of the aircraft what had happened.

The dull, muffled thud-thud-whomp that came later was all the confirmation I needed. Bombs going off in the distance ― the sound travels for incredible ranges, and there is no mistaking it once you've heard it.

"We have to go back," I announced, absolute certainty in my voice. "Go back ― now." I pointed back the way we had come.

The man who had taken over lead of the unit in Than's absence shook his head. "West," he said carefully, mouthing the word as though it were unfamiliar. "Go west."

"No, not anymore. Those fighters, see?" I pointed up at the place where the Tomcats had been. "I have to get back to my ship. Now."

I was aware that my voice was becoming insistent, demanding, and tried to moderate it slightly. After all, I was dependent upon their guidance and good graces for surviving in this hostile land.

"Go back to town," I repeated.

With a rough gesture, the man summoned the rest of his troops to him. There was a short, hurried exchange, punctuated by harsh exclamations and angry voices. Finally, he looked up at me. "No. We go."

I turned away from them, and made as though to start back down the track by myself, hoping that they would follow.

They did ― but not for long. Two seized me roughly by the arms and dragged me back to the rest of the squad. The leader gazed at me impassively. He pointed west.

Unarmed, not particularly skilled in surviving in the wilderness, I had few choices. It appeared that these men would use force to insure my compliance. As much as I needed to arrange transport back to Jefferson, it looked like I was going west.

We continued on in silence, the balance of power now subtly shifted back to the men who owned this land. I was in the middle of the pack now, surrounded at all times. Two men stayed close to me, evidently with orders to prevent my leaving again.

Another three hours, and we reached the point at which the fire had evidently burned itself out. The damage was not complete now, and tree trunks still stood erect in places. As we moved further west, there was foliage again, and within a short span of time we were back in the jungle. Only the smell lingered to remind us of what had taken place behind us. Another clearing, and a camp so similar that it could have been built by the same people that had constructed the first one. I dubbed the earlier camp "Horace Greeley" in my mind, just to have someway to refer to it in my notes.

The physical layout was essentially the same, one main building surrounded by three barracks. The wire fence still stood, along with the guard posts.

But there was one, very significant difference that I noticed immediately. This camp was occupied.

"Who?" I asked, pointing at the camp from the cover of brush.

The leader shook his head. "We go down there," he said. He gestured roughly toward the camp. I heard my two guards move closer, ready to insure that I obeyed.

A prison camp ― an occupied one. But from here, I could see no indication of its purpose. Was it still a prison camp of some sort? Surely it couldn't be a POW camp, not after all these years. Every rumor or trace evidence of such camps had been no basis for believing that this might indeed be such a facility.

Furthermore, there truly was no possibility that my father was alive and living in it. None at all. Despite my intellectual understanding of that, hope still beat wildly for a few moments in my chest.

Hope that was quickly dispelled once we entered the camp itself. It appeared to be nothing more than a military garrison, not a place of confinement. I saw no one under duress or chained, or in any way constrained in their movements. Instead, men in uniforms, ill-fitting cheap tunics and pants, went about what looked like the normal duties of soldiers in garrison.

"Was my father here?" I asked the leader. I did not know how much Than had briefed him on, but suspected he might know the purpose of my mission in his country. "Here?"

He shook his head, and refused to say anything. Instead, he proceeded to the main building. My two escorts indicated that I should follow.

He knocked once on the door, and stepped into the main building. The door opened onto a large area to the right. TO the left, there were a series of other doors, most of them closed. The leader walked in, held a short conversation with a sergeant seated at a desk, then walked back to the last office on the left. He rapped softly on the door and waited.

Finally, the door opened. I strained to hear the words of the conversation, but could make out only the tone. Something in the second voice sounded familiar, very familiar. It was clearly not Vietnamese. The accent was wrong, something else ― Slavic.

Seconds later Yuri Kursk stepped out of the room and regarded me across the twenty feet that separated us.

He was just as I remembered him, although it had been several years since we'd last seen each other. He was the Ukrainian admiral who'd been on board Jefferson during our attempt to resolve a crisis in the Mediterranean. I remembered him well ― it had been he who had set me on this path to find my father. His words were as clear as though they were spoken yesterday "I knew your father."

"He was here also, you know," Yuri Kursk now said.

"You knew I'd come." It wasn't a question as much as a statement. "And you knew I was in country now. That whole charade ― why? Did you do it just to torment me?"

Even as I asked the last question, I knew it was more than that. It always was, in the intricate game of cat and mouse that passes for politics within the former Soviet Union.

Kursk nodded slowly. "I was not certain, but I suspected you would come." He shrugged, dismissing the matter. "We've studied you for a number of years, you know. While you're not entirely predictable ― ah, and I wish that you were ― there are some things we know about you. Your attachment to family, your sense of duty. If there were an indication that your father might have survived, I felt relatively certain that you would feel obliged to follow his trail, however cold it might be."

"It was your plan."

He nodded. "There is more tied up in this than you know, Admiral Tombstone Magruder. Your father, problems that have simmered since the last time American armed forces waged war in this country, and even more." His eyes glowed at me, intense and penetrating. "I have some small reputation as a political analyst, Admiral. My own reputation rests on the success of this as well."

"So you win," I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "Some intelligence network bet, I guess. Can the great Yuri Kursk get Admiral Magruder on the ground in Vietnam? So what's the big prize? A two-week vacation on the Crimean Peninsula?"

Yuri shook his head. "That may be the result eventually, but the stakes are much higher than that. Much higher than even you know." A faint look of amusement crossed his Slavic features. "As much as I would like to claim that I engineered this entire thing simply as a demonstration of my political acumen, I had other motives. Good motives."

"Shall we play Twenty Questions, or are you going to tell me?" The conviction that I'd been a pawn in a game I neither understood nor wanted to play in grew on me steadily. Halfway around the world, away from Tomboy and everything I loved, threatened by the fire that could have killed us ― and for what?

"I will have to show you," Yuri said finally. He motioned to a couple of men, barking out a quick command in Vietnamese. One looked stunned, started to protest, and Yuri dismissed him abruptly. He turned back to me. "We will need a vehicle. At least for the first part of the journey. Then we will proceed on foot."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about."

Yuri sighed. He gestured at a small table with two chairs pulled up to it in the center of the room. "Some coffee, something to eat? It will be a few minutes while they make preparations. I will tell you what I can."

"You'll tell me all of it and answer any questions I have or I'm not going anywhere."

"We'll see."

A sergeant produced two mugs of strong, black coffee, along with a serving set containing sugar and cream. A few moments later, plates heaped with steamy stew were brought to the table as well. "It's not fancy, but it is better than field rations," Yuri remarked as he shoveled up a spoonful of stew. "Go ahead, eat."

I glanced back at my Vietnamese contingent. "Feed them too."

Yuri studied me for a moment, then said, "As you wish." His people scurried around to make sure that it happened.

"This all began immediately following America's withdrawal from Vietnam," Yuri began. He broke off a piece of bread from a basket of rolls placed before us, dipped it in the stew, then bit into it. He chewed carefully, his eyes closed and appearing to think, then continued. "It left a power vacuum, you know. For decades, first the French and then the Americans were here, the primary powers within this country. Neither of you were able to accomplish what you wanted." He shook his head gravely, as though contemplating the mistakes of our respective countries. "This area is simply too alien to you, too foreign. It is my theory that peace was never possible here, not in any shape or form. Vietnam is a small country surrounded by more powerful ones, and she must inevitably ally herself with those more geographically close. But nevertheless, the presence of America here, or, I should say, the withdrawal ― worked major changes upon this country."

"How so?" I asked, beginning to eat my own stew. It was a strong, slightly gamy meat, but the rich broth and sustenance were welcome.

"China is the problem, of course," Yuri continued. "She always has been, always will be. At least in this portion of the world. And not just for Vietnam ― for Ukraine as well."

"And Russia?" I asked.

A slow, thoughtful smile spread across his face. "Ah, Russia. An entirely different matter, of course. We are bound together with Russia's future, for better or for worse. Ukraine and Russia are so similar, share so many parts of history, that I doubt that either of us will ever be what you would call a truly independent nation. But for better or for worse, there we are. It is something that Americans do not understand, the imperatives of geography."

"What about China?" I pressed.

"China views Vietnam as her own special protectorate. You may not agree, but it is simply a fact. At least from the Chinese perspective. And you must understand one other thing as well ― China is very, very protective of her own soil. These two facts inevitably lead to one conclusion that any dangerous activities should be conducted in one of her protectorates, not within China's own borders."

"Such as?"

"Such as producing nuclear weapons." Yuri finished that statement and took another bite of stew, giving me time to absorb it.

A Chinese nuclear weapons plan on Vietnam soil. I kept my face expressionless and considered the possibility. It was possible, all too possible.

Since I'd been transferred from South Com and was awaiting a billet at one of the Fleet Commander headquarters, I'd been slightly out of the intelligence loop. It was entirely possible that the U.S. knew about this ― and I didn't. Still, it seemed I would have heard at least some rumors about it, perhaps the barest warnings and hints in intelligence summaries. Yet there had been no word, nothing that I'd seen.

Batman? Did CVIC know about this? I hoped so, because it would surely influence whatever plans he was developing now to cope with this latest crisis. And hell, I didn't even know what the crisis was. All I knew was I saw Tomcats dropping bombs in country.

"What kind of weapons?" I asked finally. "Strategic?"

Kursk shook his head. "When you say strategic, I am assuming that you are referring to long-range missiles," he said. "it makes a difference for America ― but not so much for us. Most areas in Ukraine and Russia are reachable with a shorter-range tactical missile, particularly if such weapons are transported to the Chinese-Russian border. You see, even when we use terms like strategic and tactical, they have entirely different implications for each of our countries."

"So the shorter-range missiles then?" I asked. "Is that what they're making?"

"That's what our sources indicate," Yuri replied. "Ranges of approximately a thousand miles, maybe fifteen hundred. A little bit more, a little bit less ― we're not entirely sure. But we do know that they're making them. And not just for China's use ― we anticipate that these weapons will find their way onto the black market soon enough."

"But why?" I said, shoving the bowl away from me. Faced with the prospect of escalating nuclear conflict, I found the stew no longer appealing. "For hard currency?"

"That and more. As I said, China is a major force in this area. However, she is also paranoid about her border to a degree Westerners would find it difficult to imagine. Remember, the Chinese take a rather broader view of what is Chinese territory than we do. Every time some ancient Chinese prince or princess married a member of a foreign royal house, China claimed that land as theirs. They track these things oh, so carefully. And while you and I may acknowledge that their claims are ridiculous, the Chinese believe fervently in them. Thus, in their minds, their own soil has been invaded and taken from them repeatedly. Vietnam, the Philippines, the Spratly Islands, and more. The Chinese all truly believe that those are Chinese possessions, and they are ready to defend their rights."

He laughed harshly, an expression of bitterness on his face. "Who knows what they would be like today had they had our experiences. One out of ten Ukrainians were killed during World War II, at least. Even today, the echoes of that invasion influence almost everything we do politically. To us, China might seem like a mere spoiled child, arguing about possessions that were never really hers. But she is a very large, very powerful spoiled child, and one that does not listen to reason."

"So why me? Why my father?" I asked.

Yuri leaned back in his chair and sighed. "This problem must be dealt with. And dealt with immediately. Already the first shipments are being readied for export. Whether they will be deployed on China's border and aimed at Russia and Ukraine, or sold to nations in the Middle East, I do not know. But it would seem to be in both of our interests to keep them from going anywhere."

"Your interest in world stability is very laudable," I answered, an ugly suspicion finally dawning. "But why is Ukraine involved? Why not Russia?"

"Be assured that we consult our cousins often on this matter," Yuri said. "However, as we work our way to a good relationship with our northern neighbor, there are certain trade-offs that must be made. Russia seems to feel that much of this problem is our responsibility ― and that we should solve it. They are a proud people, you know, proud to the point of blindness and arrogance. They would not approach you for help ― not in this way. We see it as an opportunity to build closer ties with the United States as well as strengthen our own position with Russia by apparently acceding to their request."

"But why is Ukraine responsible?" I asked, suspecting that I already knew the answer.

"You know why." Yuri's eyes were hard and cold. "Must you make me say it?"

I nodded slowly. "You dragged me halfway around the world to participate in this charade. I think you owe me that much."

"Very well. It seems very probable that the nuclear material contained in those weapons came from Ukraine. You know what the conditions were like immediately following the dissolution of the Soviet Union. The furor over who was to control nuclear weapons, the seizing of the Crimean Peninsula, and the division of the Black Heet ― all was in disarray. Unfortunately, security of the nuclear weapons located on our soil was compromised. We hold the Russians responsible for this, and they us. As I said, matters are not so clear-cut as our cousins would like."

"So somehow, China obtained weapons-grade nuclear material from Ukraine, and is ferrying that into Vietnam into this production facility. And you want our help in putting a stop to it."

"Exactly."

"Why not do it yourselves?"

Yuri sighed. "As much as I would like to say otherwise, we simply do not have the military force at this time, Our economy is still in shambles, and many of our officers have not even been paid for several months. We have the basis to rebuild a strong, potent military, but it will take time. And time is what we do not have. The only solution, since China's growing strength is something that concerns us both, is to bring the Americans in. Quietly, through roundabout channels, through one or two trusted agents."

"Then why did the Vietnamese attack us?" I asked. So far everything he was saying made sense except that.

"Are you so certain that they are Vietnamese?" he asked, watching me closely.

"They were MiGs, of course they ― they were your MiGs?"

Yuri nodded. "Most of them, repainted to resemble those that belong to Vietnam. We have our friends here as well. Senior men who understand the danger that China poses now. And who are willing to work with us to stop it. The government, of course, knows nothing about this. Or if they do, they refuse to admit it." Yuri sighed, a deep sound breaking loose from somewhere inside him. "So you see the dilemma? This action must be carried out outside normal political channels, with all the conflicting loyalties and problems carefully balanced. And it must be done quickly ― another reason to avoid normal political protocol."

"You killed some of my people doing this," I said, cold rage flooding my body. "They died for nothing ― for your charade."

"If we destroy that nuclear weapons facility, their deaths will be more important than you can possibly imagine," Yuri shot back. "I sympathize with the loss of your men, but do you have any conception of how much life will be lost if those weapons are made available to Iraq and Iran? Or, for that matter, Turkey?"

"Now wait a minute. Turkey isn't-"

"We had our reasons for wanting to sever your ties with Turkey and the Mediterranean," Yuri continued as though I had not spoken. "Turkey is a growing regional power, one that threatens our very stability. They are the gateway for the Muslim hordes that would rip Ukraine in two."

"And now who's being paranoid about borders?" I asked.

Yuri looked outraged. Finally, his expression relaxed and he gave me a small smile. "I had known that you were very blunt, Admiral Magruder. I should have remembered that."

"What if I do agree to help you?" I asked. "I don't even know if it's possible, but supposing it is?"

Yuri held up two fingers. "First, you will do what you find most honorable in the world ― stopping wars before they start. While I cannot promise you that your role will ever be publicly known, you will have the eternal gratitude of Ukraine ― and Russia as well. From that new relationship, I think you will find a number of benefits flow."

"You want me to spy for you?" I asked incredulously. Surely Yuri wasn't offering me money to be a paid informant? If he knew anything about me, he knew just how utterly ludicrous that would be.

"No, of course not. Well, actually, we would ― but I would not insult you by making that offer. No, what I had in mind was something far more personal. The truth about your father?"

I sat back, stunned. Was this the deal? My assistance in arranging for the destruction of a nuclear facility in exchange for the truth about my father? The utterly bizarre nature of this exchange was beginning to wear on me.

"Tell me everything. Then I will decide."

Yuri shook his head. "I cannot. First, I do not have all the answers. No one person does. It will be a journey, a matter of piecing together small bits of evidence to obtain a complete picture. However, I think you will find our assistance quite helpful in this regard."

His dark eyes studied me for a moment, as though deciding how much I already knew. "There have been rumors," he continued carefully, "about Russian participation in the debriefing of American prisoners of war in Vietnam. Most of them are false. Some of them are true."

"And my father?"

Yuri spread his hands out before him. "I cannot say for certain," he said bluntly, and there was a ring of truth I recognized in his voice. "I suspect he might have been interrogated here ― in this very camp. In fact, I am almost certain that he was brought here from the first place you visited and held for quite some time. After that, the trail is not entirely clear."

"There were other rumors as well," I said. "That American POWs were taken to Russia for further interrogation. What do you know about that?"

"it is possible. Again, I cannot offer you complete answers. Only our assurances that we will do everything we can, including opening archives so secret that their existence is barely acknowledged." A small, satisfied expression came over his face. "We have intelligence agencies that are quite capable of tracking down information, even when the trail is very, very cold. The GRU, the KGB ― they still exist, although they carry other names now. Their full resources would be placed at your disposal."

"First off," I began, "I have no proof that any of this is true. None at all. Now, I'm not accusing you of lying," I continued, holding up one hand to forestall comment, "but you must admit that this entire scenario is inherently improbable. The story you tell, the promises you make ― on the face of it, there's some degree of plausibility, but you haven't shown me any hard proof."

"Second, you would have to understand that I cannot promise to keep any secrets for your country. My superiors will have to be told the true story ― not all of them, of course, but the ones that matter. Like my uncle. He deserves to know what happened to his brother. I will leave it up to him to decide who else to tell."

Yuri nodded slowly. "I understand the need for proof," he said. "I can supply that ― at least in part measure. The truck they are preparing will take us within surveillance range of this facility I spoke of. You will be able to verify it for yourself, at least to the extent that you can do so while there. I believe if you query your U.S. intelligence assets, you may find that they have other confirmation as well."

He paused for a moment, then continued. "And as to the need for secrecy, while your position is regrettable, I understand it completely. We know we cannot expect any promises on your part. However, when information you have may endanger private citizens or other sources, we will ask you to use your own discretion in disclosing that information to your people. Fair enough?"

I nodded slowly, still overwhelmed by the strategic problem that Yuri had dumped squarely in my lap.

"What's in it for you?" I asked.

Yuri's face was grim. "My country. These weapons must be eliminated. I have a number of reasons for suspecting that Ukraine may be the first target."

"Such as?"

"You know our country somewhat," Yuri said. "The east and the west sectors of Ukraine are radically different. The eastern has more in common with the Middle East, the western with Europe. Until now, we have had more in common with each other than with the outside world, but that might not always be true. Ukraine would form a perfect staging point for Middle Eastern forces to threaten both Russia and Europe. If there is anything in my power to do so, I will not see foreign troops standing on Ukrainian soil again. Not in my generation, and not in my son's. Can you understand how very important that is to us? I doubt it. America is a bastion, protected from land invasion by the oceans that surround her. You have never felt the pounding of enemy bombs on your cities, seen hordes of enemy soldiers flooding into your country. But for us, the prospect is very real ― and not so remote." He eyed me coldly for a moment, then said, "You consider yourself a patriot, Admiral Magruder. I know this about you. Do you find it so unbelievable that a Ukrainian officer would regard himself likewise?"

The question hung in the air, demanding an answer. I knew that there were other men in the world that felt as passionately about their nations as I did about the United States, and often our interests culminated in war. And from my studies in history, I knew what Yuri said was true. Ukraine had every reason to fear tactical nuclear weapons, in a way that America would find hard to understand.

But could I do this? Cooperate with the Ukrainians in order to prevent a war? Or was I trying to rationalize it, a motive born out of the deep-seated need to find out what had happened to my father?

"I'll need to get back to my ship," I said finally. "No promises yet, but I will try to verify what you've told me. And yes, I understand why you've approached me in this way. And you must know how desperately interested I am in the fate of my father. But I can make no promises yet ― not until I know what you say is true."

Yuri stood, scraping the chair back across the concrete floor. "That is all I can ask for. Come, let us see if the truck is ready. I will take you as close as we can get to the Chinese facility, and you can see that part for yourself. Then we will arrange transportation so that you may return to your carrier. After that, I will rely on your word as a military officer. And on your sense of honor. Fair enough?"

I nodded and stood as well. "Let's go."

The two rickety old deuce-and-a-half diesel trucks made enough noise to warn everyone for one hundred miles that we were approaching. Or at least I thought so ― evidently Yuri and his officers had a different opinion. They explained that the jungle muffled sounds, and that we could actually approach to within five miles of the camp without being detected. I doubted it, but kept my reservations to myself.

Too many unbelievable things had happened in the last week for me to start questioning Providence now.

The road was a one-lane rutted path through the jungle, occasionally blocked by fallen trees or other debris. We moved by starts and fits, stopping to clear the path and drag away dead carcasses when we couldn't go around them. After four hours, every bone in my body ached from the continual jolting. Evidently maintaining shock absorbers was not a priority in Ukrainian maintenance practices.

At the indicated point, the driver pulled to a stop, then maneuvered the truck into deep cover. The silence, after so many hours of angry, sputtering diesel noise, was almost overwhelming.

We each took a pack, a small one this time. I noted that the Ukrainians had no compunctions about having their officers carry their own gear, so I shouldered mine myself without comment. It contained a few days' field rations, some water, and a poncho and blanket.

"You know about the jungle now," Yuri said. He gazed thoughtfully at the expanse of trees and undergrowth around us. "It can be your friend ― or your enemy. Stay in the middle, and follow the man in front of you. I have assigned him responsibility for your safekeeping."

I looked at the man he indicated, and saw a broad, Slavic face, high cheekbones topping a surprisingly full mouth, and thin-lidded Asiatic eyes. His hair was coarse, dark, and straight, the same shade as his eyes. A scar disfigured his right cheek.

"He is a Cossack," Yuri continued. "If anybody can keep you alive in rough terrain, it is he."

The Cossacks ― I knew how much influence they'd gained inside the Ukrainian military establishment, and how instrumental they'd been in Russia's rise to power over the Soviet Union. Ukrainians, and in particular Cossacks, had always made up a large portion of the higher echelons of Soviet command, disproportionately so. If they had all returned to Ukraine following the dissolution, I suspected that Russia had another motive in tasking Ukraine with dissolving this problem. Simply put, the Cossacks were one of the most warlike and capable military forces anywhere around.

I could feel the Cossack studying me as well, and wondered what he was thinking. What did he see? A sunburned American, already looking ungainly and out of place in the jungle? Or a new ally, one that he would protect at all costs?

It made no difference, I finally decided. In the long run, we would either make it or we wouldn't. A new fatalism had settled over me since my visit to my father's prison camp.

"We go," Yuri said. He motioned to one grizzled veteran, who took point. We moved off in single file through the brush, making entirely too much noise at first, but then settled into quiet, almost silent progress through the trees.

I watched the man in front of me, marveling at how quietly and quickly he moved. He seemed to anticipate the feel of the ground under his feet, sensing hidden noise-making traps and rough spots before they even were visible. After a while, I began following in his footsteps ― quite literally, having already observed that his choice of path was invariably the best one.

We made good time over the relatively low-rolling hills, and soon Yuri stopped us for a quick, whispered conference. "There are guards from this point on," he explained quietly. He pointed at two of his men. "They will go on ahead ― clear the path." He gazed over at me with a concerned expression on his face. "You realize, if we have to use force to get close enough to observe, it will simply make time all the more critical for your decision. Once alerted, they will begin moving the site, perhaps to some location inside China. That would pose an entirely different set of political problems for both of us."

I nodded, acknowledging his concern. "You've gone to an awful lot of trouble, Commander Kursk," I said. "I'm not sure I agree completely with your reasoning, but I'll try to see that it doesn't go to waste. If what you've said is true, then it's in both of our best interests to put an end to this quickly."

Yuri nodded, apparently satisfied. I had promised him nothing, just a hard, honest look at the facts. He seemed convinced that once I understood what was truly at stake, I would do as he wished. The possibility of learning about my father was just an added bonus in the package.

We moved out low to the ground now, crouched and sometimes crawling, seeking the deepest cover the jungle had to offer. We snaked our way up another hill, now moving at virtually a crawl.

Suddenly, I heard noise off to my left. Two men, moving heavily through the brush, not taking any particular precautions against being observed.

A Chinese patrol? I realized that by asking that question to myself I had already acknowledged the probable truth of what Yuri had explained. Chinese had been the first word that flashed in my mind ― not Vietnamese.

I saw Yuri motion, and two men peeled away from the column toward the noise. Their guns were still slung across their backs, and each carried a large killing knife in his right hand. They disappeared from view quickly as the jungle absorbed them.

I could hear voices now, faintly discernible. I felt as though someone had slammed me in the gut, knocking all the air out of me.

I stood up, oblivious to the protest of the Cossack in front of me. "Stop ― they're American."

A shot rang out, and I heard a shrill yelp of pain. My blood ran cold.

"Damn it, Gator, I told you-" The voice broke off suddenly, but I recognized it.

"Bird Dog?" I shouted. "Damn it all, that can't be you!"

Sudden, deadly silence extended over the jungle. The Cossack soldier was at my side in an instant, his knife out now and gleaming in the sun. We had no language in common, but his intent was unmistakable. He'd arrived at the same conclusion I would have in his position ― that the odd American officer he'd been chaperoning through the jungle had betrayed them. That this was a trap, somehow arranged to lead the Ukrainian-Cossack contingent into a deadly, killing cross fire.

He was ready to die, I saw that in his face. But equally clear there was his grim determination that if he was going, so was I.

"Wait," I said, holding up my hands to show that they were bare. "You don't understand. Those are my people. Americans, yes?"

A look of uncertainty crossed his face. The blade did not waver. Nor did he look behind him. I could see Yuri approaching now, moving quickly and altogether too noisily through the brush. "They're Americans," I repeated. "My people ― I know that man."

Yuri hissed, clearly not believing me. I had to admit that it sounded pretty improbable myself. What were the odds that two Americans, and ones that I knew personally at that, would be in this very same spot in the jungle? Astronomical.

"It's Bird Dog Robinson and Gator Cummings," I said rapidly. "They were on my ship, they're F-14 pilots. Maybe they were shot down, something like that. I don't know why they're here, but I do know I recognize that voice."

Yuri was silent, assessing the possibilities. It was clear that he found my story as improbable as I did, but something in my face must have convinced him. Finally, he turned and muttered to the Cossack something low and unintelligible. The man nodded once, then slipped away quietly. Yuri turned back to me. "I told him to bring them to me," he said. He studied me, searching for any sign of uncertainty. "If they are who you say they are, then there will be more explanations. Immediately."

"I have not betrayed you," I said, as calmly as I could. "How could I have arranged this, do you think? We are not nearly as Byzantinely intricate on our plans as your people are. You know that already."

Yuri nodded, still not looking convinced.

"Who was shot?" I asked. "One of my men?"

Yuri shook his head. "I do not know. But we will find out very shortly."

"Let me talk to them," I urged. "They may try to take cover, fight back. If I let them know I'm here, they won't."

Yuri appeared to consider that for a moment, then he nodded. "Call to them," he said. "Tell them to walk toward the sound of your voice. I have ordered my men not to kill them immediately ― not until we understand what is happening here. You understand, by doing this, you will lead them to us. If this is a trap, they will both die. Before your eyes."

I nodded, accepting the bargain. I took a deep breath, "Bird Dog, Gator ― it's Admiral Magruder. Tombstone."

The silence persisted. I could hear no one moving in the brush, not even my Americans, who were as unskilled as I in the jungle.

Still no answer. "Look, what does it take to convince you?" I shouted. "I'm not under duress ― you know I was on Jefferson, know I left there with an F-14 for the mainland. Maybe you don't know why I came ― maybe that's what's got you worried. They told me there were traces of my father's time in a POW camp here. I've been tracking them down. That's what I'm doing in the jungle, Bird Dog. Gator, talk to him ― make him listen to common sense. You always could do that."

Still no answer.

"What do you want me to do, recite the Chargers starting lineup for you? That only works in the movies, Gator. Bird Dog, remember Callie? Remember how you wangled your way out to Jefferson while you were supposed to be at the War College? And Gator, I know something about you too ― that half the time, you're about ready to strangle that young pilot of yours. He's gotten you into more fixes than anyone else around, and you keep bailing him out. But you love him like a brother, don't you? I know you do ― I can see it in your face.

"Bird Dog, you were popcorn officer back when I was in command on Jefferson. You remember that? You used to come up with the most god-awful concoctions. Like putting pineapple syrup in the popper. I was so glad when you were promoted ― at least we could go back to having decent popcorn in the ready room."

By now, I figured they were convinced that I was who I said I was. The only question remaining in their mind would be whether or not I was under duress, being held under gunpoint by Vietnamese forces simply to lure them out into the open. I turned to Yuri. "I have to go to them," I said. "They're not going to believe that I'm operating under my own free will if I don't. And I need something to convince them." I held out my hand for his rifle.

Yuri scowled. "How do I know this is not a trap?"

I stared back at him levelly. "You don't. All you have is my word ― and the fact that I've trusted you so far. Now give me the rifle."

Finally, after an apparent inner struggle, Yuri handed over his AK-47. I took it in both hands, held it out in front of me, and walked toward the place where I'd last heard the noise. "Bird Dog, Gator ― look. I'm coming toward you. There are some men moving up quietly on you. And I want them to hold still. Tell them, Yuri."

Back behind me, I heard Yuri shout out some commands in Ukrainian. I could discern no change in the bushes, but I was certain that he had told them to halt their advance.

"Look out, you can see me," I called. "I've got a rifle in my hands. Would I have a weapon if I were under duress? Yeah, it could be unloaded ― but it's not." I pointed the weapon up at the sky and pressed the trigger briefly. A small spat of gunfire followed. "See? C'mon out, guys. You have to know that I wouldn't do this, not even if I were under duress, if it meant your lives."

Finally, a noise from ahead, maybe forty feet away. Two figures rose slowly, one propping the other up. I saw the mud-streaked and battered faces of Bird Dog and Gator peering out at me. They were still in their flight suits, but they looked much the worse for wear.

I walked toward them, almost running now. I grabbed both of them in a tight embrace. Gator howled, and I pulled back abruptly. "He's injured?" A flash of rage ― had the Cossacks done this? Had the bullet found Gator's arm?

Bird Dog nodded. "When we punched out ― and his knee. The Vietnamese did something to it, during the interrogation. He's in pretty bad shape, Admiral." Bird Dog looked up at me appealingly, the sheer shock of the circumstances and what he'd been through in the last week on his face. I reached for Gator more carefully now, working my way around his injuries. "C'mon ― we have some medical gear."

I led them back out of the bush and toward the troop of Cossacks. Yuri looked relieved as we approached, although he still scanned the bush around him nervously. "They are yours," he said finally. "But we have a very large problem now, Admiral. That gunfire, it will have alerted the Chinese in the facility. We must leave ― immediately."

"No," I said flatly. "I've come this far, and there's too much at stake. I must see the facility ― I must. Send most of your men back, and have them take Bird Dog and Gator with them. See that this man gets medical treatment ― you can see that he's injured. But you and I, and your Cossack friend, will proceed on. Far enough to at least see this facility, to give me something that I can take back to my people."

Yuri started to protest, and I cut him off. "I don't own weapons on that aircraft carrier now, Yuri," I said. "There are people I have to convince ― a few, at least. Just how important is this to you, Yuri? Are you willing to go as far as I am to stop this now?"

Yuri looked subdued. Then finally he nodded. He barked out a few, harsh, quiet orders in Ukrainian, then motioned to my Cossack escort. "We will see how good you are, Admiral Magruder," he said quietly. "The odds are that we will not return. If so, your men's lives are forfeit, along with those that you have already lost."

I nodded. Bird Dog and Gator held hostage against my good behavior. It was a fair enough trade. "Let's get going then."

Most of Yuri's men formed up around Gator and Bird Dog. One large, massive Cossack swung Gator over his shoulder, the movement oddly gentle. They may not have been from the same nation, they may have been on different sides of too many conflicts in the past, but one-on-one there is something about one fighting man that another recognizes. They moved off into the brush, disappearing, and leaving us alone.

The Cossack grunted, and muttered something sharp. Yuri nodded. "We need to clear out of this area immediately," he said. He pointed off to his right. "There's another path ― a hard one, up the mountain, but it will be more secure. And we will be able to see people approaching us as well."

The Cossack took point, I took the middle position, and Yuri brought up the rear. We moved quickly, as quietly as we could, but concentrating on speed at the expense of some noise. I could already hear shouts and cries from somewhere far off floating in the air, and it was evident that my brief burst of gunfire had aroused some interest from the camp.

A harder course this time, sometimes up virtually sheer rock walls and around massive boulders. We threaded our way along animal tracks, ghosts moving through this land that belonged to none of us. Finally we reached the crest of the hill, and Yuri tugged me into position. He handed me a pair of binoculars.

"See ― there it is." He moved my head slightly in the direction he'd indicated.

I could see a compound, one markedly different from the prison camps I'd inspected earlier. I tweaked the binoculars, bringing the picture into sharper focus. There were men in uniform there, although not the style I recognized as being either Ukrainian or Vietnamese. No, they were different, looser-fitting and darker in color. Many of them carried weapons at the ready, and there was an air of activity and alarm in their movements.

"Hurry," Yuri murmured. "I do not know how much time we will have."

I stared at them again, looking for some indication that this place was what Yuri claimed it was. The faces were undoubtedly Asiatic, probably Chinese. Still, the facial features were well within the range of physiognomy demonstrated by the Vietnamese people. I could not be certain ― not based on their appearance alone.

The sun glinted off something pinned to one man's shirt, and I focused on that, straining to make out the details. It was a badge of Some sort, white and plain. There was no lettering visible on it.

Suddenly, it hit me. I dropped the binoculars, handed them back to Yuri, and said, "Let's go. You're right, Yuri. Get us out of here."

Without wasting time for questions, the Cossack led the way. We moved over hills, the sounds of pursuit faintly audible in the jungle behind us. We were running now, crashing through brush as though there were no need for silence, desperately putting distance between us and the weapons behind us.

I panicked, gasping for breath, swearing that I would make this last run if I would do anything in my life. What I had seen was just too vital, of too critical importance for U.S. interests and stability in this region. The knowledge must not die with me, not when so many good men had already sacrificed their lives to get me here.

Finally, we reached the one remaining truck. We jumped into it, fired it up, and were speeding back down the one-lane trail toward Yuri's garrison.

"What did you see?" Yuri asked finally, as he regained control of his breathing. "All my arguments, all my facts ― what did you see?"

I closed my eyes for a moment, recalling the brief flash of light on that white badge. It seemed odd, out of place in a jungle camp, and that was what had first caught my attention. After looking at it for a moment, some vague memory came back to me, and I remembered the last time I had seen something similar.

It had been on an inspection tour of the engineering spaces on board USS Jefferson. Every engineering technician who works down there is required to have in his or her possession at all times one simple piece of gear. It is their first line of defense, their only indication that something might be going terribly and horribly wrong inside the bowels of the engineering plant.

The Jefferson is a nuclear-powered carrier. And what I had seen on my engineering technicians' coveralls, and on the man on guard duty in the compound, was a dosimeter. A small one, the kind a technician clipped to his clothing to monitor his exposure to radiation.