Night of the Hawk

THREE

The President of the United States squinted.

The glare of the television-camera lights beating down on him made the large-print cards lying on the podium in front of him hard to read. No TelePrompTers here, this was an “informal” press conference in the East Room of the White House. Usually these gatherings were held in the press room, but shortly after taking office the President privately told his aides that he found that room too hot, too claustrophobic. So they switched him to the much larger, gold-gilded East Room, where Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon had held so many of their televised conferences. It was a beautifully appointed, elegant room that gave the new president, his staff felt, a more commanding presence.

And he certainly needed that presence today, facing his first major international conflict since taking office in January.

“The events last week in Vilnius, Lithuania, underscore this administration’s great concern over the future of the Lithuanian Republic and all of the free Baltic states.” Unlike his predecessor, who was an expert on international relations and policy, this studious-looking chief executive’s expertise was in domestic affairs and the economy, which was why he got elected. Even after the previous administration had presided over the collapse of world Communism, the country’s glaring domestic problems had created an upset in the elections.

But today he was going to have to give foreign affairs his best shot. He even wore a black ribbon pinned to the lapel closest to his heart in memory of Senator Charles Vertunin.

“The loss we have all suffered with the death of Senator Vertunin has shown once again that, even in this era of peace and sweeping embraces of democracy, we must be on guard to combat treachery and oppression.

“At this time, the Joint Military Command of the Commonwealth of Independent States has imposed a temporary flight restriction for all flights, military or civil, through the Baltic states — Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia — without prior permission,” the President went on. Also, the Commonwealth Army appears to be active, especially in Lithuania, with thousands of troops moving across the countryside.

“So far, we see no reason for this obvious aggression in an independent republic, and it is a clear violation of the treaty between the Commonwealth and Lithuania. The reasons for these actions are ones we can only guess at, but they are horribly reminiscent of the actions by Saddam Hussein and the Iraqi Army in the weeks preceding the invasion of Kuwait. The Lithuanians and Estonians are free, law-abiding, peaceful citizens who embrace many of the same ideals as America.

“We want to make clear to all that the United States is prepared to act, with diplomatic means at first, with economic sanctions, and with force if necessary.

“In keeping with our policies in this region, I have ordered Secretary of State Danahall to draft and introduce a resolution in the United Nations Security Council today, calling for the immediate, full and unconditional withdrawal, under United Nations supervision, of all foreign military and paramilitary forces from the Baltic states. I understand the tenuous nature of the situation in the Baltic states in terms of the orderly transition of Commonwealth of Independent States — flag troops out of formerly occupied Lithuania, but this transition must be accomplished by peaceful, non-military means. The United States is ready to assist. We believe this can be handled peaceably.”

Questions flew at the President from the press corps. Since he and his advisers had yet to put together a firm plan of action beyond what he’d just described, he really didn’t want to take questions. But he knew they wouldn’t let him walk out of the East Room without some answers. It was times like this when he wished the podium came equipped with an air bag, anything to survive a head-on with the press. More often than not, the press seemed like characters out of a Clint Eastwood movie — good, bad, and ugly. He winked at his press secretary. A silent signal to cut this off after five minutes.

“Mr. President,” a reporter from CNN asked, “you say this can be handled peacefully, but Belarus is claiming the United States is planning a military operation in Lithuania in retaliation for the attack in Vilnius. Is that true?”

“Ah… I’m calling on the government of Belarus to conduct a full investigation into the attack at the Denerokin nuclear power plant,” the President said, “and an investigation to find those responsible for the death of Senator Vertunin. So far all I’ve heard from Belarus is a lot of posturing and a lot of threats of retaliation. We have no plans to retaliate. But we may be forced to act if the Commonwealth of Independent States does not cooperate with the investigation and insists on sealing off Lithuanian airspace to commercial carriers.”

“Mr. President,” an NBC reporter asked, “you appear to be comparing President Svetlov of Belarus to Saddam Hussein. Do you see Svetlov and Belarus as threats to peace in Europe? If so, what do you expect Svetlov to do and are you prepared to go to war to stop him?”

“Your question has a lot of ‘what-ifs.’ It’s just too speculative,” the President declared. “I repeat — this government and this nation reject any attempt by any foreign power to exert its influence over peace-loving, democratic people. I don’t want to intervene, but no one is being given any other alternatives here.”

“So you do plan on going to war with Belarus or the Commonwealth?” someone from ABC pressed.

The President was beginning to get a little perspiration on his forehead and upper lip, which he quickly dabbed with a handkerchief. Jesus, this room is almost as hot as the press room. He made a mental note to tell his press secretary to keep the goddamned air conditioning way up during these events.

Smiles spread across some of the older reporters’ faces, ones who’d covered a lot of administrations. The East Room setting and the sweating President offered a curious déjà vu very much like the old Nixon days. Some things, a few of them mused, never change.

“I don’t want war. No one does,” the President finally said. “Uh, naturally we’ll be sure to examine all the relevant options. War is certainly far, far down the list.”

More questions flew at him from all directions. The President quickly scanned the faces and raised hands and pointed to a Washington Post reporter.

“Mr. President,” the Post reporter asked, “what about President Svetlov’s reported threat to use nuclear weapons to defend Belarus? Does Belarus have nuclear weapons, and if so, do you believe he’d launch an attack against American forces or against Lithuania?”

The President cleared his throat. “We received assurances in early 1992 that all nuclear weapons belonging to the former Soviet Union were being destroyed or returned to Russia. Now, if Belarus is saying they have nuclear weapons, then they’ve either obtained them from Russia or never returned the ones they originally had. In either case it’s a clear violation of international agreements. I only hope that a threat to use these weapons is nothing more than rhetoric.”

The President’s press secretary stepped forward and put an end to the press conference, claiming an earlier commitment. The President fielded some questions as he backed out of the East Room, made carefully worded replies shaded to avoid details, and left a moment later.

He went directly to the Cabinet Room next door to the Oval Office, where his Cabinet officers from Defense and State, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the National Security Advisor, the Director of Central Intelligence, the Vice President, and their aides had gathered. He motioned everyone to their seats after he took his.

“Excellent press conference, Mr. President,” Secretary of State Dennis Danahall said loud enough to be heard by all in the rather small room. “Quick, to the point, clear and succinct.”

“Thank you,” the President replied, not believing a word of it. Danahall would kiss a little ass after his own had just been put on the griddle before millions of American viewers. To his Chief of Staff he said, “I’ll need details on Vertunin’s memorial service — Arlington, if I’m not mistaken. And he’ll lie in state under the Rotunda, of course.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Good.” Coffee was served in silence. After the stewards left the room and the Secret Service men secured the doors, the President said, “All right, let’s discuss the military option. I’ll tell you right now I’m opposed to it. I still think force won’t work in this situation, at least not as it stands now. But I want to find out about the Americans in Lithuania, what these Byelorussian forces are like, and exactly what military units we have in the area. You first, Ken. What have we got?”

Kenneth Mitchell, the Director of Central Intelligence, or DCI, looked at some notes in front of him. “Mr. President, we’ve got an estimated three hundred and twelve Americans known to be in Lithuania, plus an embassy staff of fifty. The diplomatic corps is at the embassy in Vilnius. All U.S. government employees are accounted for.

“We are trying to gather all the civilians together in the embassy grounds in Vilnius,” Secretary of State Danahall added, ‘just to facilitate communications and make an extraction easier if it came down to it. But the Commonwealth’s military commander, a Byelorussian general named Voshchanka, has warned all foreigners to stay in their registered homes or places of lodging — for their ‘safety,’ he says — and that’s what we’re recommending to them for now. It’s disconcerting, but at least they’re safe.”

“Some of those Americans trapped in Vilnius are the cream of the American business crop,” Vice President Kevin Martindale whispered to the President. “As in rich, as in political contributors and company presidents with lots of voters working for them.”

The President nodded that he understood. Martindale was a young man in his early forties with very high, strong political ambitions himself, but wisely content to work for the real power-brokers until his own political net worth had grown. He was well familiar with the concept of policy influenced by politics, and so far it was working well. Martindale had become a bulldog in the White House and on the Hill, more than willing to engage in the back-room and cloakroom trench warfare to get the President’s proposals heard — and put through — by Congress.

As if confirming the Vice President’s comment, Mitchell continued: “There are a few Americans scattered throughout the country, but all just as influential. The CEO of Navistar International is in Kaunas, where he was about to cut the ribbon on a new joint-venture farm-machinery plant; half the legal staff of Pepsico is in Vilnius negotiating a bottling plant; Kellogg’s is building a cereal plant north of Vilnius … the entire list is in the folder before you.”

The President flipped through the blue-covered folder with the CIA shield on it, then he asked, “The Commonwealth government tells State that they’re not in any danger as long as they don’t travel? What’s your assessment? Are they in any danger?”

“Not yet,” Mitchell replied. “They’re all in hotels or private residences, and so far all are in direct contact with the embassy. They haven’t been approached or restricted in any way. Satellite imagery confirms that small numbers of Commonwealth troops have been on the move in Lithuania, but so far there’s no indication that they’re moving to reinforce or occupy the city.”

“So are they in any danger from any sides?”

Mitchell shrugged, noncommittal. “There’s no way to know, Mr. President. I think things may calm down after a short period.”

“The Pentagon disagrees,” Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Wilbur Curtis chimed in. “The presence of the Byelorussian attack helicopters over Lithuanian airspace, and the movements of Byelorussian troops — operating under the Commonwealth flag, but composed almost entirely of Byelorussian troops — is very worrisome. They’re not large troop movements, at least not right now, but—”

Secretary of State Danahall shook his head. “General, there is a treaty in effect between the Commonwealth and Lithuania that allows the presence of Commonwealth-flag troops in Lithuania.”

“I know that, Dennis,” Curtis said. “But there have been repeated’ violations of the treaty, documented by reports from the Lithuania- Self-Defense Force to the United Nations, and the pattern is disturbing.”:

“What are you getting at, Wilbur?” asked the President.

General Curtis spread his hands and said, “I think there’s a good possibility that Byelorussia, or secretly the Commonwealth, might try to make a grab for Lithuania.”

“Shit,” the President muttered. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not, sir,” Curtis admitted. “But some observations Ken Mitchell briefed us on have me real worried.”

The President turned to Director of Central Intelligence Mitchell, who nodded, saying, “General Curtis’s theory has been borne out by a contact we have in Moscow, someone outside the Commonwealth but with strong connections. The contact is a former KGB bureau chief, a man named Boris Dvornikov. He is as wired as anyone from the old KGB can be. The possibility of a land grab was broached…”

“Why Byelorussia? I don’t get it,” the President said.

“There doesn’t necessarily have to be a connection, sir,” observed Curtis.

“But there is a very strong one,” Mitchell said. “Historically, Byelorussia — what they call Belarus, which is closer to its historical name — was once united with Lithuania. Belarus was even the official language of the court of Lithuania for centuries. Together, Lithuania and Belarus were at one time one of the most powerful nations in Europe.

“You see, Belarus is landlocked and dependent on other countries — Russia, Lithuania, Latvia, Poland — for imports and exports. Belarus has always been dominated by Russia, and now they’re dominated by a Commonwealth that caters more to Russia and the Ukraine, even though Minsk is the capital of the new Commonwealth. Plus, they have a huge military machine sitting around doing nothing — except whatever the Commonwealth orders them to do.”

The President anxiously drummed his fingers on the table. “So this attack by Byelorussian attack helicopters was the prelude to a full-scale invasion?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Mitchell replied. “The Commonwealth is investigating the incident — they haven’t said whether those chopper pilots were acting on orders of the Commonwealth or of Byelorussia. The problem is, they’re the same — Voshchanka. He is the military commander of all Commonwealth forces in the area, and he is also commander of the Home Corps of the Byelorussian Army, based at Smorgon Army Air Base northwest of Minsk. Initial indications I’ve received from our bureau in Minsk say that Voshchanka is to be relieved of duty, so we should know more very soon.”

“What about Voshchanka?” the President asked irritably. “Every time there’s a problem in the region, he’s at the heart of it. Is he another Saddam Hussein in the making?”

“Good analogy, Mr. President,” Curtis said. “He’s probably the most Powerful man in the country next to President Svetlov. He’s been responsible for the rapid buildup of the Byelorussian military since independence — and that makes him very popular in his country. He commands a total of about one hundred and fifty thousand troops and might hold the key to Byelorussia’s nuclear arsenal as well.”

“Nuclear arsenal?” The President sighed. “I thought that reporter was just baiting me. He really does have nuclear weapons? Those reports are true? Didn’t they withdraw them?”

“We don’t think so, sir,” CIA chief Mitchell said. “The intercontinental birds, the SS-25 road-mobile and SS-24 rail-mobile missiles that were garrisoned at Brest were removed — that was verified — but no one could account for the nearly three hundred SS-21 Scarab missiles scattered throughout the Red Army units in Byelorussia. They were supposed to be removed as well, but we believe there are some units still in place.”

“How do you know? Can you see them with satellites?” the President asked, waving his hand as if satellites were in the room.

“Sometimes… especially when the Byelorussians forget to check our overflight schedule. More often, they move the missiles when one of our satellites goes overhead,” Mitchell said. “The SS-21 is a little smaller than the SS-1 SCUD missile, which it replaced in the Soviet Union, and it’s road-mobile. Very easy to conceal. Fortunately they have to move them a lot for training and to align them on pre-surveyed launch points, so as long as we keep the launch points under watch we can spot ‘em. Voshchanka probably has about forty or fifty at Smorgon, of which perhaps half are serviceable.”

The President was thunderstruck. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “We’ve known about this and we haven’t done anything to take those fucking weapons away from them? What are we doing, just sitting around all the time with our thumbs up our asses?”

“The SS-21 is not a threat to anyone except other Commonwealth countries or the Byelorussians themselves, sir,” Mitchell said patiently. “And I’m sure the Commonwealth knows of the missiles’ existence in Byelorussia. They simply choose not to acknowledge it.”

“Well, they’re a threat to us now, aren’t they?” the President grumbled. “If the Byelorussians decide that our forces in Lithuania are a threat, they can lob a few into Vilnius pretty easily, couldn’t they?”

Mitchell looked surprised at that question. “I think that’s pretty unlikely, sir,” he said. “It would not be a factor in a large-scale war.”

“But in a small conflict, especially what this is shaping up to be,” the f President said, “it could be devastating. I need a plan of action on how we’ll deal with those things. If Byelorussia shows any signs of trying to, move against Lithuania, I want to be assured that those things will be neutralized. Is that clear?”

“I’ll have a plan drawn up for presentation by tomorrow morning, sir,” Curtis said, relieved that the President moved a lot faster than his wishy washy predecessor.

“Good. Let’s get back to the problem at hand — the Americans in Lithuania,” the President said. “We’ve determined they’re not in any immediate danger, and they’re not being held against their will, at least not right this minute. Am I right?” A nod from Mitchell, Curtis, Russell, and the others. “All right. If they’re not released or escorted safely to a neutral border, what else do we do? Wilbur?”

“An airlift is still the best way,” General Curtis replied. “If we can get permission to land a few airliners at Vilnius International, and if we can get assurances the planes can land safely, we can get everybody out in one day. If no commercial carrier wants to do it because of liability problems, we can contract with one of the air carriers under the Civil Reserve Air Fleet. The government would then assume the liability.

“Next choice is a military airlift,” Curtis continued. “General Lockhart of our European Command has already briefed me on his proposal. Air Mobility Command can give him six C-130 transports from Rhein-Main Air Base near Frankfurt immediately. What he needs, though, are C-17 Jupiter transports — they don’t require as much ground support and have better passenger and cargo capacity than the C-130. They also don’t require the long runways and special handling of the C-141 Starlifters or C-5 Galaxys. With three C-17s and two crews per plane, Lockhart says he can pull all the Americans out of Lithuania in one day. I’d prefer the commercial carriers because the Commonwealth soldiers probably won’t get as spooked by the sight of a civil jetliner flying overhead. But we can get him the C-17s from McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey within twenty-four hours.”

The short, squat, wide-bodied C-17 Jupiter transport plane, a smaller version of the C-5 Galaxy transport, was some of the best money the American taxpayers ever spent, and one of the best airplanes American industry ever developed. The Jupiter had so much power and was so well constructed that, literally, anything that fit inside it could be taken, and it could take off or land on any surface-sand, snow, dirt, broken pavement, unimproved runways — that could support its nearly half-a-million-pound gross weight. Every theater commander wanted to use them because they gave the commanders almost unheard-of speed and mobility. Theater commanders called the aircraft “Mighty Mouse” because the deceptively small-looking plane could transport an entire two-hundred-person flying squadron, with all its equipment and personnel, anywhere around the world in a matter of hours — even to places that didn’t have runways or airports. It made the commanders look very good whenever they were tasked with a difficult assignment.

“Can you cut the C-17s loose from whatever they’re scheduled to do to have them available for an evacuation?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then do it. Get six of them so we have spares handy, and make sure double crews are available. When we get the word to go, I want the Americans pulled out in less than one day.”

“You got it, sir,” Curtis said, wishing he could light up a cigar, but knowing the President hated smoking.

“And what if they close down the airport?” pressed the President.

“In essence, the airport is already closed down — by orders of General Voshchanka,” Curtis said. “If negotiations fail to reopen it so we can evacuate our people, we look at forcible entry into the country to get them out.”

The President shook his head, wishing he could escape all this. Instead, he listened to Curtis go on.

“We have four military operations to examine sir: an embassy reinforcement operation, an NEO, or non-combatant-evacuation operation, a security operation to open the airport for our aircraft, and possibly an emergency foreign intervention and defense operation.

“But there is one other event driving our recommendations for military action — the REDTAIL HAWK extraction mission.”

“Oh, Christ. I forgot all about that, dammit,” the President muttered. He remembered now that his National Security Advisor, George Russell, and General Curtis had briefed him on it shortly after Russell had approved the mission. He believed in giving people latitude, especially people like Russell, but now he wondered if this thing wasn’t going to come back to haunt them. “When do they go in?” He looked at his watch, made a mental calculation. “Tomorrow night, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Curtis replied. “Conditions are very good for the extraction despite the increased alert status in the country. A pretty good spring storm that’s brewing should ground all Soviet aircraft and reduce radar scanning range to minimum — the Special Forces teams on the grounds will take out the transmission towers and transformers to the Soviet air-defense bases. Won’t shut ‘em down completely, but they’ll disrupt things enough to let our troops slip in. We’ve got the Delta Force Silver team moving toward the research center, ready to do the same thing at the facility. The Special Forces units will be right behind them, soften up the area defenses for the assault team. The SEAL teams are taking out the radar sites along the coast.”

The President’s skepticism was growing. “I really think this one should be canceled, Wilbur, given the—”

“On the contrary, sir, not only should REDTAIL HAWK proceed, but it should be expanded to include the embassy-reinforcement mission,’ Curtis said.

“What are you driving at?” the President asked. “You want to use t terrible incident at Denerokin to help a covert spy mission? So we have two operations going at once? Jesus, the region’s already explosive enough. You’d better rethink this one, Wilbur.”

“The main objective is to move in swiftly and reinforce and secure embassy,” Curtis continued. “We have an advantage right now because we are in contact with the embassy and they know the whereabouts ninety percent of the Americans in Lithuania. It’s important to main that advantage.”

“And at the same time, the plan to rescue Lieutenant Luger from the Fisikous Institute continues — except under the guise of the embassy reinforcement,” National Security Advisor Russell said. “Sir, your main problem with REDTAIL HAWK from the beginning was the use of American troops in a non-hostile environment. Well, things have changed. Now we can cover our use of special-operations troops under the embassy-reinforcement operation.”

The President was silent, feeling increasingly as if things were going to spin out of control. “Let’s keep with the problem at hand, gentlemen, which is the Americans in Lithuania. Wilbur, continue with your briefing. Who do we have in place to spearhead this thing…?” He paused, glancing at his Secretary of State, then added diplomatically, “… if we decide to go in.”

“The main spearhead force involved is still the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit, and they’ve been given the warning order to stand by-they only need the execution message, sent when you sign the executive order, to go into action,” Curtis said. “That’s about sixteen hundred Marines, four hundred Navy personnel, and six ships, including the Marines’ newest amphibious-assault carrier, the Wasp. Two more MEUs, the 20th and 16th, would deploy from the U.S. East Coast upon receipt of a warning order. The recommendation from General Kundert of the Marine Corps is the same as before: we should issue the warning order for the entire Second Marine Expeditionary Brigade and put them on standby alert for deployment to their staging bases in Germany and Norway. This is because this Byelorussian general, Voshchanka, is warning us not to land U.S. military forces in the area.”

“And no one should tell us what to do when the safety of our citizens abroad is concerned,” Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston said. “This is not an internal affair or a civil war, Mr. President. This is an act of aggression against a neighboring country. This is Afghanistan all over again. This is another Kuwait.”

Danahall looked at the National Security Advisor, George Russell. “The situation is close to defusing itself, George, and you know it,” Danahall said. “If you send in troops, we destabilize the entire scenario. Now, we agreed it was best to announce only the U.N. draft resolution.”

“And I agreed,” Russell said. “And you agreed that we go ahead with alerting the 26th MEU. But we can’t move nearly two thousand men and six warships without it going public. We need to start getting the American people behind us.”

“The President hasn’t made a commitment to starting a shooting war in Lithuania,” Danahall said. “We shouldn’t—”

Curtis interrupted, “And remember, there’s REDTAIL HAWK.”

The President turned to Curtis and Russell. “This may affect the status of your REDTAIL HAWK out there, gentlemen. I may have no choice but to cancel the mission.”

“Lieutenant Luger is in danger, Mr. President,” Curtis said firmly. “That much we know from the CIA and ISA contacts that have reported back to us. We have a team moving in, ready to snatch him. The mission has been executed—”

“You can cancel it at any time, General,” Danahall said. “Don’t try to make it seem as if the execution order is irreversible at this stage.”

“That was not my intention, Dennis,” Curtis said. “But timing is critical, and Lieutenant Luger is undoubtedly running out of time. We have to move.”

“The Commonwealth, Byelorussian, and Black Beret armies are obviously alerted,” Danahall said. “The extraction team won’t risk going in now.”

“On the contrary, Dennis, they’ve got the latest information on the attack and the latest info on the Byelorussian troops moving within Lithuania, and they’re ready to go,” Curtis said. “They’ve got the best intelligence data we’ve got, and they say it’s a go.”

“They’ll get mowed down for sure.”

“I and General Kundert disagree,” Curtis said confidently. “The Marine Corps classifies the REDTAIL HAWK rescue mission as a high-risk but high-percentage operation. Until the Byelorussian forces move into Lithuania in greater numbers, their assessment still stands.” He turned to the President, deciding to plead his case directly to the man once again. “Mr. President, you can’t mean to abandon Lieutenant Luger, risk losing that brave airman, simply on the hope that if we do nothing then every-fl thing will be all right …?”

“I think we should give the REDTAIL HAWK mission a try, Mr. President,” Russell interjected. “Our boys won’t get a better opportunity. They can complete their mission to retrieve Luger and then land in the embassy compound in Vilnius to make it look like they’re reinforcing the Marines in the embassy — which they will do, of course.”

“That won’t stand up to scrutiny,” Danahall insisted. “It takes time to move a Marine special-operations force into position to run an operation like this. Certainly the Russians can figure out our timetable. They’ know we didn’t go in to support the embassy.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Russell decided. “Lithuania is a sovereign country, and relations with us are good. We can go in anytime.”

“This situation is special,” Danahall said. “Lithuania may be an independent but they’re still under Commonwealth influence. Any action take could be perceived by the Commonwealth as an act of aggression.”

“Enough, enough,” the President said. He fell silent for a moment, then said, “Look, I want the embassy protected — that’s job number one. But use that mission as a jumping-off point to continue REDTAIL HAWK. Get your man Luger out if you can, but the embassy reinforcement comes first. If your special ops guys get caught in the Fisikous Research Center, understand that I’ll call it an unfortunate error on their part — they got lost, confused, made a mistake, got themselves killed. I’ll take the heat, but I’m going to dump it right back on your Marines and your special ops troops.”

“Yes, sir,” Curtis acknowledged, silently breathing a sigh of relief.

The President continued. “Along with the near-term military response is what we should be thinking about in the longer term, especially in light of the Byelorussians’ buildup and this nuclear arsenal. General Curtis has suggested the possibility of a land grab, and CIA concurs. What do we lose if this comes to pass? Why should we be worried about this? Dennis, what’s your thoughts on this?”

“Lithuania is one of those countries that, because of its strategic position, its climate, its arable soil, and its cultural mixture, will always be subject to whichever neighbor is most powerful,” Secretary of State Danahall replied. “It has seaports that do not freeze over, lots of fertile farmland, lots of potential wealth, a rich history, and strong, well-educated citizens. They also have a very strong national identity and a real desire to become independent, free, capitalistic, and democratic.

“The bottom line: we have an opportunity to help Lithuania grow. I’m not advocating that we occupy the country, but I think it would be in our best interests to help Lithuania resist occupation from outside forces counter to our own. Lithuania is democratic, they have a lot to offer us and the rest of Europe, and we can help them do it.

“There are other motivations for us as well: with the emergence of the European Community and the loss of American markets in unified Europe, Lithuania may become the first real trade toehold we can develop in Europe. The same holds true for the other former Soviet republics.”

“This sounds like stuff we need to discuss later on,” the President said. “But I gather you’re going to tie this in to the present-day situation. What is it?”

Curtis said, “You’re right, sir, this does tie in. We’ve received full overflight permission from President Kapocius of Lithuania, and his government seems pretty amenable to our military operations over there. They’re being threatened by Byelorussia, and the Commonwealth seems to be dragging its collective feet on withdrawing troops. This might be the time to suggest full military assistance to Lithuania. We should request Permission from Kapocius to send transports, fighters, attack helicopters, and antiaircraft missile batteries to Vilnius, Kaunas, and Liepaja, the three main cities.”

“Kapocius has already said he doesn’t want foreign military aircraft near his civilian airfields except in an emergency,” Secretary of State Danahall said. “We’ve got to respect that or we won’t get any more cooperation from him.”

But the President was intrigued. “What is it you’re after, Wilbur?” the President asked.

“A trip wire, Mr. President,” Curtis replied. “A way for the United States to get immediately involved in protecting Lithuania and the other Baltic states, and ensuring that our own interests are protected in the region in case the CIS or Byelorussia tries a quick strike into Lithuania.

“We’d set up a staged approach to sending military assistance and sweeten the pot with economic assistance,” Curtis continued. “My staff’s plan was to form first an evacuation center for Americans, then a relief center for Lithuanians, a civil-and-industrial-assistance center, and finally a military-training and cooperative-defense base, all at Vilnius International Airport. We’d use the Army’s Third Brigade from Germany — their troops, armor, aircraft, and air-defense systems-along with transports from 21st Air Force. The presence of several thousand American troops will certainly deter anyone from further aggression in Lithuania, and of course the hard-currency investment in Lithuania won’t hurt Kapocius or his government.”

“This sounds bad, General,” National Security Advisor Russell interjected. “It sounds like another Beirut ‘peace-keeping’ mission. These trip wire tactics never work — if a conflict breaks out, or if one side resorts to terrorism or fanaticism, our people get clobbered, and public opinion usually forces the Administration to pull forces out, not put more forces in. Soldiers die for no reason. I recommend against such a plan.”

The President considered the suggestion momentarily; then, after no other comments were put forth, said, “Let’s put that one on the back, burner for now, Wilbur. It’s a good idea, but I’m concerned about Kapocius. The man’s really under the gun — he lost his vice president, several foreign diplomats are killed in his capital city, he’s got foreign troops all over his country, he’s got inflation, he’s got shortages — and the last thing he’ll want to hear is our plan for an occupation force. For a near-term, though, what else are we going to need?”

“Right now I think all we need is more reconnaissance assets up,” Secretary of Defense Preston said. “General Curtis and I have discussed putting Special Forces troops on the ground trying to find those nude capable Scarab missiles and destroy them if necessary — I think we should talk about moving that plan forward. We also talked about more recon planes over Lithuania — with overflight privileges granted, we can keep pretty good eye on the Russians and the Byelorussians.”

“What kind of recon planes?”

“Sir, we’ve got pretty good satellite imagery of Lithuania,” Curtis said, “and we’ve got pictures of bases and large concentrations of troops, but not enough electronic-monitoring-and-analysis information and not enough near-real-time targeting-quality imagery, the kind of stuff we’ll need to give to air crews and fire-control computers if we ever have to go out and blow them up. A constellation of small radar satellites, like the NIRTSat system, would be perfect. Also photo-and-electronic-reconnaissance aircraft like an RC-135 RIVET JOINT, TR-l, or TR-2 stealth recon plane. We have a briefing prepared for you whenever you’d like.”

These days the President almost never haggled about sending out reconnaissance forces anywhere in the world. He had seen the value of constant, real-time intelligence during the Gulf War, and he had become a firm supporter of new state-of-the-art technologies in the field of intelligence-gathering. This was no exception: “Pencil in a briefing time on my calendar with Case, but consider your plan approved. Any other trouble so far?”

“Small problem with one of our Intelligence Support Agency units, sir,” Russell interjected. “They’re the ones that we sometimes call on to insert agents into a country when the normal military or CIA channels are being watched. One of the members of that unit, called MADCAP MAGICIAN, might have compromised himself. DoD is conducting an investigation.”

“Then bust him hard,” the Vice President chimed in emphatically. “Keep him incommunicado until this is over with. We don’t need anyone scuttling these operations before they get started. Lives are at stake.”

“The breach occurred at General Elliott’s unit at Dreamland,” Curtis said quickly. “So General Elliott is handling the investigation. If you want the doer scrambled, Mr. Vice President, Brad Elliott’s your man.”

The Vice President nodded in agreement. He and most of the Cabinet members present knew Elliott was one tough son of a bitch with security violators.

“I can brief you on the other Special Forces teams’ progress and the support units at any time,” added Curtis.

“Speaking of Elliott,” the President said, “he’s been very quiet lately. Has he been briefed on the progress of his people and the status of REDTAIL HAWK?”

“He’s not on the list for update briefings, sir,” Curtis said. He glanced at George Russell when he said that — it was Russell who decided that Elliott should be cut out of the information loop. “Do you want that directive modified?”

“Elliott can get the information on his own,” Russell said irritably. “I’ll bet you Elliott’s just as informed as we are — isn’t that right, General Curtis?”

Curtis did a slow burn. “His group designed the aircraft that’ll fly the Special Forces troops into Lithuania,” Curtis said. “He also designed the satellite-reconnaissance and mission-analysis system sitting down in the Situation Room. He’s got four of his top officers, including two men that saved his life, involved in a mission eight thousand miles from home. Now, apart from the fact that he and his unit could be of enormous assistance to us in case this situation blows up in our faces, Mr. Russell, I think the man deserves to be kept apprised of the status of this mission.”

“Okay, okay,” Russell said with resignation. “I didn’t know you two were once joined at the hip. Put him on the damn Priority Two notification list.”

“Let’s get at it, then,” the President said, thankful this meeting was over. “I can see already that this is going to be one hell of a night.”

It was the first funeral of a Knight of the Iron Wolf in over two hundred years — and today, twenty-three Lithuania knights were being buried. In the center of the chapel in the main residence section of Trakai Castle, the, coffins of the dead were draped with the red Grand Duke’s battle flags, the Vytis, and surrounded by tall candles on gleaming gold antique candleholders. As senior officer, Major Kolginov’s casket was at the head of the group, and it was his flag-draped coffin on which the Lithuanian Sword of State had been placed. Four fully armored knights stood guard, each with a long-handled ax in his hands. Slung over their shoulders and hidden, but within easy reach, they also carried AK-47 assault rifles. Tradition and ceremony were still observed in mourning the dead, but the army of Lithuania was on a war footing, even the honor guards.

Mass for the rest of the dead soldiers from the Denerokin massacre had been held earlier in the day, and the final Mass for the knights was scheduled for that evening, at midnight, as were all other rituals of knighthood. It was at the chapel, after the service for the other slain soldiers and citizens, that Anna Kulikauskas found General Dominikas Palcikas, kneeling in the first row of pews in the chapel. She genuflected when she reached the row, then stood silently and waited for Palcikas to look up at her. He was dressed not in his red cassock but in full black “midnight” battle-dress uniform, with a Makarov sidearm and full combat harness. He looked as though he were one minute from going ill battle. An American-style helmet, a walkie-talkie, and a loaded AK-47 were lying on the pew beside him.

“Your guards let me in,’ she said. “They recognized me from the other night.” No response. “I am very sorry for your loss, General.”

“So why are you here? You dislike our ‘perverse’ rituals so much— well, this is just another one of them. Or have you come to prefer charges against me for causing the deaths of these men?”

“Please don’t hate me, Dominikas,” Anna said. “I was in shock out there. I was terrified. You had represented all that was bad, all that was distrustful, in Lithuania. My God, I saw that dead child lying on the ground like a sack of wet garbage … please forgive me, Dominikas. I forgot that I had learned to trust the military … to trust you.”

He nodded, then turned to her and said, “I suspect you had something to do with the testimony before the Commonwealth Council of Ministers regarding the incident. I have you to thank for gathering those witnesses and testifying on my behalf.”

“I tried to identify the soldiers that launched those grenades — I was sure they were Lithuanians,” Anna said. “But after talking with other witnesses and examining photographs of all your men, we realized they were not. I was afraid of what they had done to you. I couldn’t believe they were actually clubbing you and dragging you away — you, a Lithuanian citizen and our highest military officer, being dragged away by foreign troops like a road kill! I had to do something. We took our information to the Commonwealth Council of Ministers and demanded your release.”

The Council of Ministers and the Inter-Republican Council for Security immediately sent representatives to Vilnius to investigate the incident. The Lithuanian government, led by Anna Kulikauskas, argued for Palcikas’ release; their pleas were punctuated by the people of Vilnius themselves, backed up by Self-Defense Force troops, who were ready to take to the streets if Palcikas was not let go. He was released shortly after midnight the following day. “Were you badly treated?”

“I think I would be dead right now if you had delayed any longer — or if you had continued to insist that I had something to do with the attack,” Palcikas said. Anna finally realized that if she had insisted that Palcikas was responsible for the attack, as she first surmised, the Byelorussians or the OMON Black Berets inside Fisikous would have killed Palcikas to “placate” the citizens of Lithuania. She had come very close to assassinating Palcikas herself without ever pulling a trigger.

“I was taken inside Fisikous by the Byelorussian and MSB soldiers. There was no interrogation, only complete isolation. They were looking for. the right opportunity to do away with me. If you hadn’t alerted the rest of the Self-Defense Force and the Parliament after my arrest, I might not have made it out of the stockade at Fisikous.”

“Those bastards! I’m so sorry about what I said, what I thought. I’m 50 fearful of all the bad things a strong military can do in a country that I forget about the good you can do as well. I know I can trust you now. I’m so sorry about Major Kolginov… my God, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that moment.” She paused, unable to continue as the memory of watching Kolginov die before her eyes returned.

“Thank you,” Palcikas said quietly. “Alexei was a good soldier and a good friend — he will not be forgotten.” He touched her hand, and that simple gesture made her smile. The bond between them had finally returned, even amidst the confusion and danger that surrounded them. “We will need your trust, and the trust of all the people and the government, to carry us through the next few days. We need to prepare to defend the country if the Byelorussians continue to insist that this riot was the prelude to full-scale terrorism against the Commonwealth. What have you heard lately, Anna?”

“The Byelorussian Army was conducting a search of the city,” Anna said. “An investigation for the Commonwealth, they called it.”

“It was a good opportunity for them to search for weapons that we might use against them, should they mount a full-scale invasion,” Palcikas said. “Unfortunately, my men have no evidence to link the weapons or the grenades to anyone. The MSB said they found several homes in Vilnius with stockpiles of blister-agent grenades.”

“Obviously planted by the Byelorussians or the MSB.”

“It is only circumstantial evidence, but it points to your organization as the cause of the riot,” Palcikas said. “The end result is that everyone is confused, which will mean the investigation will stall. Nothing will be done to avenge our dead. Meanwhile there are Byelorussian troops all over the countryside, gearing up for war. The time has come to act.”

Anna looked at Palcikas in surprise, her eyes wide and fearful. “What do you mean?”

Families of the dead had begun to file in, so Palcikas crossed himself, stood, and retrieved his helmet, radio, and rifle. “Come with me, Anna,” he said, then left the pew. He stopped to say some comforting words to the families, then departed the chapel and headed to his office.

Anna followed quickly behind.

Palcikas’ office had made a dramatic conversion since Anna had seen them last. Banks of telephones, radios, and computers were set up in the outer office. A large emergency-power generator was standing by in a corner of the outer office — Anna had seen several since coming to the castle — and stacks of small explosive charges could be seen piled everywhere so the staff could easily destroy all the computers and any secret documents if the castle was attacked. Charts of Lithuania, Latvia, eastern Poland, Kalinin, the Baltic Sea region, and northern Byelorussia were everywhere.

Several desks had been set up in Palcikas’ office along with a dozen large charts. Several clerks, all dressed in combat fatigues and wearing telephone headsets, were busy collecting information and entering it into the computers for processing by the General’s staff. An officer that Anna did not recognize threw a black cloth cover over one chart when he saw her enter the office. “Anna Kulikauskas, my new deputy commander, Colonel Vitalis Zukauskas. Colonel, Miss Anna Kulikauskas.” Zukauskas gave the woman a tentative nod, which she returned. “Anything come in, Vitalis?”

“Several items, sir,” Zukauskas replied, handling Palcikas a small handful of notes. He looked at Anna again and said, “I think we’d better ask Miss Kulikauskas to wait outside.”

“No. I brought her here to hear our plans.”

“Do you think that’s wise, sir?” Zukauskas asked, wide-eyed. “If I may speak candidly, Miss Kulikauskas’ antimilitary reputation is very well known.”

“All the more reason for her to hear our plans,” Palcikas said. “We need her support. If we can’t get it, we may have to rethink our plans. Anna, please sit right there. Colonel, if you don’t mind, give us an update on Operation Stronghold.”

Zukauskas still looked skeptical, but he stepped over to the large briefing board beside Palcikas’ desk and removed the black cloth cover. It revealed a chart of Lithuania. Slowly, carefully, he began to explain what Operation Stronghold was all about. …

Five minutes later, when the briefing was finished, Anna sat in shock. “Do you have the authority for an operation like this?” she asked.

“I think I do,” Palcikas said. “I was commissioned to protect this country and that’s precisely what I’m trying to do.”

“What if Parliament decides not to endorse your operation or the foreign assistance your colonel just said you’ll need?”

“If we don’t get foreign aid, we continue the operation anyway,” Palcikas said. “But if we don’t get unanimous approval from Parliament, we will withdraw. I’m not trying to stage a military coup or act without the sanction of the people or the government. If they tell me to stop, I will Stop.”

“What kind of assurances do we have that you will stop?” Anna asked. Palcikas raised his eyebrows over that remark. “Learning to trust me must be so very difficult for you, Anna,” Palcikas said. “What has the military done to you to make you hate us?”

“It’s a legitimate question, General,” Anna said, “and if you take it Personally, that’s your problem. But I’m sure the President and the Prime Minister will want an answer. What is it?”

Palcikas paused for a long moment. It was a legitimate question. The military sometimes could not be trusted. Entire nations have been brought down by corrupt military officers, and the Lithuanian Republic was never so vulnerable as it was right now. “Wait here,” he said, then exited the office at a fast trot.

A few minutes later he returned with an armed soldier at his side. Staring at Anna, he said, “Corporal Manatis, give it to Miss Kulikauskas.”

The young soldier stepped forward. In his hands, partially covered by a red battle flag of the Grand Dukes of Lithuania, was the Lithuanian Sword of State.

Colonel Zukauskas was stunned. “General, what in hell are you doing…?”

“This is my promise, as keeper of the regalia and as a knight and champion of Lithuania,” Palcikas said. “Anna, I give you the Sword of State of Lithuania, and the Vytis from Major Alexei Kolginov’s coffin.” He reached into a pocket of his blouse and withdrew a dark metal bracelet. “This is Alexei’s military I.D. bracelet. I took it from his body just now.” The pale face of the young corporal beside Palcikas told Anna that he was telling the truth. Palcikas snapped the bracelet onto the hilt of the Sword of State so it would not slip off.

“You now have everything in this world I hold dear, Anna — the Sword of State, symbol of the nation that I cherish; the Vytis, the symbol of the heritage and traditions that I follow; and a possession from the body of my closest and dearest friend. There are only two ways you would have gotten these things — if I had given them to you or if you had pried them from my dead fingers. Corporal Manatis has been permanently assigned to look after you and guard these items with his life as long as they are in your possession. I have known Georgi and his family since he was a child, and I trust him with my life — as I now trust you to take care of these things, Anna.

“You will take these things to the President as proof of my pledge to him and to the country that Operation Stronghold is in the best interests of Lithuania and that if I do not receive overwhelming support from the people’s elected representatives in Vilnius, I will terminate the operation, withdraw my forces, and obey whatever legal commands are given me — including an order to resign my commission and be relieved of command if that is their wish. If operational demands allow it, I will repeat my pledge to Parliament, but I anticipate that I will be very busy once Operation Stronghold begins.”

Palcikas covered the sword with the flag, and Manatis wrapped the package in a waterproof canvas duffel bag to protect it. He then stepped closer to Anna, away from the others, and said, “I would give anything to earn your trust… but I’ve given away everything I own of real value. Tell me what I have to do.”

Anna Kulikauskas was close to tears. For the first time in these past few days she felt she finally understood him. He was a rough-cut soldier who seemed out of place in time, but what he really was was a man who truly loved his country and was willing to sacrifice his career, his life, even his soul, to protect it.

“General — I mean, Dominikas — no one… no one has ever trusted me with so much.” She looked at the duffel bag holding the sword, now slung securely over Corporal Georgi Manatis’ shoulder, then looked up into Palcikas’ steel-blue eyes and said, “I do trust you, Dominikas.”

“Then I’ve got all the weapons I’ll need to fight this battle, Anna,” he said, a smile growing on his chiseled face.

“I still don’t believe it, General,” Colonel Paul White said as General Brad Elliott entered the office in which White had been working for the past several days. The office walls were lined with all kinds of charts and satellite photographs of different projections and scales, with prominent landmarks highlighted. “You’ve got a satellite that you can launch within a few hours, and these satellites can locate an object the size of a truck from four hundred miles in space and then transmit that information directly to a B-52, which can hit it with a bomb a few minutes later?”

“Yup,” Elliott replied. White noticed a message form in Elliott’s hand but did not mention it — Elliott would get to it in good time, White surmised. “We’ve been playing around with it in a series of classified situations and it’s worked beautifully. The satellite booster is carried on a modified DC-10 airliner, then dropped and fired off into space. We call ‘em NIRTSats, for Need-It-Right-This-Second Satellites. They’re made by a company called Sky Masters.”

“Well, then, what do you need MADCAP MAGICIAN for?”

“Because the system only works when the area that the satellite is flying over has only bad guys in it,” Elliott explained. “The system has trouble differentiating between a Soviet and an American truck. We need someone on the ground to say, ‘Those are the bad guys there, but stay away from the good guys here.’ Given a clear-fire area, of course, we can easily strike all targets within that area, but there aren’t a lot of battlefields so cleanly delineated that you can just pick any target area and say they’re all bad guys.”

“Gotcha,” White said. “So then these satellites upload the information to your war machines out there, and the crew computes an initial point and target area for the missiles?”

“The bombing computers pick the IP for the crew,” Elliott explained. “The MARS missiles can update their target data base with targeting information from the NIRTSats. We can update that data base right up until seconds before launch, and the missile will take into account the travel time and adjust the target coordinates.”

“Well, what happens if the missile adjusts the target coordinates right on top of a column of good guys?”

“We need to plan this thing so there won’t be any conflict,” Elliott said. “No good guys within ten miles of the ‘basket,’ or the missile might- check that, it will—go after them.”

“That doesn’t leave us too much room,” White said. “Lithuania’s only one hundred and eighty miles wide. With a couple dozen missiles in the air, we might put good guys at risk no matter what we do.”

“Then we decrease the number of missiles,” Elliott said. “But I think we can create a lot of havoc with a small number of MARS missiles overhead, even if we won’t destroy every bad guy. Remember, we also need to deconflict the area with friendly aircraft, since these missiles will be loitering in the area at different altitudes and changeable ground tracks. No fixed- or rotary-wing aircraft in the target basket when MARS missiles are flying.”

“Makes you want to put the ‘man-in-the-loop’ back in again, doesn’t it?”

“The objective is to interdict armor columns at long range, far enough away so the missiles won’t threaten friendly forces or the launch aircraft,” Elliott said. “Remember, MARS was developed for use during the air-campaign portion of DESERT STORM, to face off against four thousand Iraqi armored vehicles with no Coalition ground forces committed yet. Once friendly forces got into the mix, MARS would have been targeted farther north.”

“What a nightmare for our ground forces,” White exclaimed. “Deconflicting air traffic means that troops near a target — the guys that’d be marking targets for the satellites — will lose their air support for several minutes after the MARS missiles are on the way. If the time between target marking and missile-away is too short, they’ll be stuck until the missile clears out. And there’ll be a shitload of MARS missiles in the air — God, there could be dozens of them. We’ll have to restrict all of Lithuania.”

“It shouldn’t be too difficult. Since MARS flies faster than a tilt-rotor aircraft, they can head in toward the target area at the same time if they start from the same IP,” Elliott said. “By the time the missile finishes its attack and re-attack, it’ll be down and the tilt-rotor can extract the ground forces. If we’re careful planning, we can plot a safe ingress route for the tilt-rotors so they can avoid all the target baskets — as soon as one missile goes down, the tilt-rotor moves into that sector. By the time the aircraft makes the pickup and transitions to the next sector, the missile adjacent area should be down.”

“I’m really glad you got all these computers doing the planning for us,” White said. “I never thought a lot about deconfliction before — I always thought the sky was big enough to hold everybody.”

“Not when everybody wants the same piece of sky,” Elliott said. He stepped over to White and handed him the message form. “And it looks like the sky’s going to get a bit more crowded. We just intercepted that from MILSTAR. It looks like the 26th MEU has been activated.”

MILSTAR was the newly established worldwide satellite military-communications network.

White studied the message for a moment. “I think you’re right. We can’t know for sure, General — they change their code words all the time — but it looks like they’ve been activated.”

“But the team that is supposed to rescue Dave was already activated— they got the message while I was at Camp Lejeune,” Elliott said. “This looks like another warning order. It’s got to be for the rest of the MEU, not just the task force going after Dave.”

“It could have something to do with the riot at Denerokin,” White said. “Maybe the White House authorized another operation out there … a show of force or an embassy reinforcement. The Byelorussians and the Commonwealth really cracked down on foreigners in Lithuania, closing the airport and all that — maybe the President wants to show his displeasure. The MEU is the best unit to send in for something like that.”

“They want to send in an entire MEU while Dave is being held at Fisikous?” Elliott asked incredulously. “They can’t do that! They’re sacrificing Luger’s life. If the Soviets in Fisikous see a thousand Marines coming ashore in Lithuania, they’ll dispose of Luger for sure.” He motioned to the message and asked White, “Any idea from that message when they go in?”

“Impossible to say, General. It depends on what the deployment order said. You can pretty much bet it’ll be at night, but which night is anybody’s guess. If this is a warning order, it takes place no less than six hours prior to H-hour, but it could be as much as seven days ahead of time. The mission might not start for weeks.”

Elliott looked depressed. “Christ, I’ve never felt so damned helpless before. Three of my men going in to rescue another one of my men and I’m thousands of miles away and unable to help.”

“I think what we’ve been doing here during this time constitutes help, General,” White said. “I’ve worked with Marines for a couple years now. Don’t you believe any of the ‘dumb lug’ and ‘jarhead’ jokes about these guys — they’re as smart as they are tough. They’ll protect your officers and get Dave, don’t worry.”

“I know they’re good,” Elliott said, remembering Gunny Wohl, “but I’m usually in charge of these kinds of missions. Sitting on the sideline isn’t my idea of fun.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Hell, I’m not going to guess about when the rescue mission starts. We’ve got enough information ready, the crews are ready, we’ve got landing rights and hangars for my planes.”

“Yeah. And I’ll bet they’re thrilled to be deploying to Thule Air Base in Greenland. Didn’t you say it was only a thousand miles from the North Pole?”

“Nine hundred miles to be exact,” Elliott said with a smile. “The base has actually expanded operations in the past few years with the return of Strategic Defense Initiative research, and although there haven’t been any B-52s based there in over twenty years, the facilities are still there and have been taken care of by the U.S. and Danish governments. My organization has authority to use that base, so we’ll stage out of there. The Sky Masters’ NIRTSats network can be launched with only six hours’ warning, and we’ll have around-the-clock access to the satellites within twelve hours. I’m recommending we execute our project.”

“I’m ready, General,” White said enthusiastically. “My boys’ve been ready ever since you came up with the project. They can have the Valley Mistress fueled and stocked by the time I get out there. All we need is clearance from Washington to proceed—” But White stopped when he saw the look on Elliott’s face — it was that sort of dreamy, faraway look visionaries often have. Paul White shook his head, then smiled. “Uh, Brad, you are planning on getting permission from Washington to do this, aren’t you?”

“Paul, you’ve got a hundred highly trained Marines on board that ship of yours,” Elliott said. “You know the Security Facility, part of the Fisikous Institute, as well as the 26th MEU does. Our own intelligence sources say that the Commonwealth troops are on the move — they could be massing for an invasion of their own.”

“You don’t have to convince me, Brad,” White said. “Hell, I came to you with this nutty idea. I was ready to go last week and so were my troops. But I wasn’t flying B-52s and carrying all these smart cruise missiles. I had a good chance of sneaking in and sneaking out again. But this… well, you’re a three-star, Brad, so I shouldn’t tell you your business, but I think we need permission to take this show on the road.”

“Let’s look at it this way, Paul,” Elliott began. “First, the MEU will go in at night — only at night. Right?”

“No question. Everyone fights at night.”

“So the thing kicks off either tonight or tomorrow night.”

“It could be next week, Brad.”

“If that’s true, then we definitely go ASAP,” Elliott said. “In all probability Dave hasn’t got that long to live. The informants in Fisikous report that Ozerov is being sequestered — he’s alive but his whereabouts are unknown. I think our contact in there has been blown.”

“I agree.”

“Okay. So we’re agreed that we need to make our move if we want any chance of rescuing David,” Elliott said. White nodded. “Then we launch and execute our mission tomorrow night. If the MEU goes tonight, we’ll find out about it and turn around. If the MEU goes tomorrow night, we’ll be in a position to assist or we can abort and recover.”

“We go nose-to-nose with our own forces?” White asked incredulously. “I don’t like that idea. If the amphibious-assault ship Wasp sees us coming, they’ll send a Harrier jump-jet after us and shoot us down. Hell, we could end up shooting at each other if MADCAP MAGICIAN and the 26th MEU end up in Fisikous at the same time.”

“We can decide to contact the MEU or Joint Task Force and tell them we’ve arrived,” Elliott suggested. “They’ll tell us to get the hell out of the way or they’ll give us an order. But either way, we should—”

The yellow light on the telephone in Elliott’s private conference room illuminated. Elliott knew that only the most important phone calls would be allowed to go through during their meeting, so he didn’t hesitate to pick it up. “Elliott here.”

“Brad, how the hell are you?” boomed Wilbur Curtis.

White saw Elliott’s face brighten with surprise, and he looked at White with a smile. “Why, General Curtis, we were just talking about you.” Now it was White’s turn to be surprised — just as they were thinking about breaking the law and taking a strike force overseas without permission, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff himself was on the phone.

“I’ll bet you were — my ears were burning.” Curtis laughed. “How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better, sir.”

“Can the sir stuff, Brad. It’s me. Or are you calling me sir to butter me up for something?”

“My, but you’re very suspicious today, Wilbur.”

“Comes from dealing with you all these years.”

“Do you have news about the MEU mission?”

“First briefing on it will be at H minus twelve hours — that’s about an hour from now,” Curtis said. “You’re back on the list. Priority Two.”

Elliott’s heart leaped when he heard that he was being included on the briefing list, but he quickly recovered when he learned it was Priority Two — classified top secret but usually delivered by the Pentagon press Secretary (the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff if he was available) after the National Command Authority and National Security Council. He had about the same status as a senior Congressional committee chairman — high, but not anywhere near the decision-making loop. “What’s the word from the team?”

“Preparations are under way, everyone’s doing fine, everyone’s in place,” Curtis said. “So far, so good. What have you been up to? You’ve been awfully quiet these days. That tends to make, uh, people at 1600 Pennsylvania a little nervous.”

Elliott looked at White with a smile and replied, “Does it now? Well, I’m not up to anything special, Wilbur. Same old stuff.”

“Same old stuff, huh? How’s the investigation going on Colonel White and his group?”

“I was speaking with White when you called. He’s right here.”

“He’s still in Nevada? That’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because my sources say that his ship has left port and is heading east through the Baltic Sea,” Curtis replied.

“Part of the investigation, sir.

“Oh good, we’re back to sir again. That’s probably best,” Curtis noted. “Not only has the Valley Mistress left port, but it has a full contingent of Marines and two, count ‘em, two CV-22 PAVE HAMMER aircraft safely stowed on board. Now would you mind explaining why?”

This was a good time, Elliott decided, to cut the innocent routine. “You know as well as I do what’s going on, sir,” he said. “I wasn’t convinced that the White House was actually going to go through with the mission. If they ran into any trouble, which appears to be the case, I wasn’t convinced they’d follow through. I didn’t know what you had moving in that direction and I wasn’t going to wait until it was too late to find out… Sir.”

“So you set up your own rescue operation, using MADCAP MAGICIAN as your assault team,” Curtis said. “When the White House finds out, they’ll skin you alive, then court-martial you.” There was an exasperated sigh over the secure telephone line; then: “So you cut White loose?”

“Well, White was never really under investigation,” Elliott said. “He brought the news about Dave Luger to me because no one had done anything about Dave for several months. It was White’s contacts in the embassy in Moscow that got things moving. Not Russell. Not the Defense Department. If he hadn’t done anything, Luger might be dead now.”

“So instead of bringing him up on charges of revealing classified information, you decided to work together to rescue Luger? Dammit, I should have known you were going to do this.” There was a pause; then: “You’ haven’t sent any Megafortresses or Black Knight bombers over there, have you?”

“We were just about to start engines.”

“General, I hope you’re kidding,” Curtis said in a low, serious tone, then: …. but I know you’re not. What have you got? What’s your plan?”

“Six EB-52 Megafortresses — four primaries, two spares,” Elliott said. “Air support against the CIS radar sites, antiair units, and base defenses in Fisikous. Two CV-22 PAVE HAMMER aircraft, with fifty Marines.”

“Just amazing. I should have known you weren’t going to sit still and sweat it out with the rest of us. And when were you going to tell me about all this?”

“I wasn’t,” Elliott said. “I was going to go when my team was ready. If the MEU was inbound, I’d turn around or stand by in case they needed my help. If they weren’t going in, I’d continue my mission.”

“With B-52 bombers flying over Lithuania? How did you ever expect to get away with that …?”

“The odds were that my Megafortresses would never be detected,” Elliott explained. “I had enough standoff weapons to grease every long-range surveillance radar and fighter-intercept radar in the region, and my planes have the power to jam all the others. Fighters were not a big concern — at night, with no GCI, and as long as I was no threat to Kaliningrad or Minsk, no enemy fighter jock was going to mess with me at low level. SAM sites, optically guided antiaircraft artillery, and the odd missile-equipped attack helicopter were the big concerns, but we felt confident enough that we could take enough of them out and avoid the rest. Using the EB-52 for the heavy threats and the guns and rockets on the CV-22s, we’d drop White’s Sparrowhawk team in and take that security building.”

“That’s some pretty big ifs there, Brad,” Curtis grumbled. “But if anyone could pull it off, it’s you. Then MADCAP MAGICIAN was going to pull Luger out?”

“Exactly. We’d take him to the embassy if necessary, but our destination was Norway or Belgium or Germany — any friendly territory we could set down. If the tilt-rotors and the EB-52s got out okay, the entire incident could be deniable by the White House—”

“And if one or more of them got shot down, you and White would take the heat yourselves,” Curtis interjected. “But you’d totally embarrass the government and shoot our credibility as a nation to hell for at least ten years!”

“I believed that the White House would just as soon let Dave Luger rot than risk embarrassment,” Elliott said resolutely.

Curtis had to admit that Elliott’s observation was correct — the White House was just looking for an excuse to cancel the REDTAIL HAWK extraction.

“I’m expendable — throughout my entire career I’ve always been expendable,” Elliott said.

Don ‘t give me that martyrdom crap, Brad. The White House doesn’t trust you because you pull shit like this. Now just keep your mouth shut and I’ll tell you what you will do next:

“I’m ordering you to contact the Valley Mistress and tell her to return to port immediately,” Curtis said. “I will contact General Kundert and advise him that two CV-22 PAVE HAMMER aircraft and the Marines on board that cargo ship are available for duty with the 26th MEU if necessary. Your Megafortresses will stand down immediately. All training flights are suspended — if I hear of one EB-52 launch from Dreamland, I’m going to place you under arrest. Is all that clear, Brad?”

“Yes, sir.

“It better be. You and Colonel White sit tight in Dreamland and don’t do a thing. I’ll be in touch when the briefing starts. Listen, but don’t say anything, or I may be forced to tell the White House about your plan. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Elliott’s responses immediately told Curtis that Elliott hadn’t heard one word he was saying. “I’m serious about this, Brad. Don’t launch those bombers or you’ll be raking stones at Fort Leavenworth by week’s end. I’ve never threatened to arrest you before, but this time the threat is real. Sit tight and be good.”

“Yes, sir.”

Orders and threats meant nothing to Brad Elliott, Curtis decided — he was going to do exactly what he wanted anyway. Shit. Well, it was his neck he’d be stretching. Curtis terminated the call.

“You’re smiling, Brad,” Paul White said as Elliott hung up. “What did General Curtis have to say?”

“He said stand down. He ordered us to return the Valley Mistress to port.”

“Oh, terrific. That was our last shot.” White picked up the phone. “Get me a satellite channel to MADCAP MAGICIAN,” he said to the operator. To Elliott, he asked, “How did Curtis find out? Did he discover the Mistress in the Baltic?”

“He didn’t say.” Elliott was staring straight ahead, elbows on the table, fingers massaging his chin. White saw that expression on his face. “Uh, oh… …… what do you have in mind?”

“Order the Mistress to turn around,” Elliott said, “but send it someplace for repairs or refueling-someplace very close. Stockholm, perhaps, or Visby.”

“Both places are too obvious and too far away,” White said. “My favorite place is Ronne, on Bornholm Island. It’s Danish, not Swedish, so we shouldn’t have any difficulties bringing armed aircraft into port. Best of all, it’s only sixty nautical miles from the original staging area.”

“Do it, then,” Elliott said. “I’ve got no choice but to stand down the Mega fortresses, but we’ll keep the Valley Mistress on station as long as we can. Dave Luger’s not out of Lithuania yet, and I’m going to keep this force in operation until he’s back. Fuck ‘em.”

“Jammed weapon… go.”

Patrick McLanahan lowered his M-16 rifle. Bracing the rifle against his right thigh, he used his right hand and slapped upward on the magazine, then pulled the charging handle on the back of the rifle all the way back and inspected the chamber. Finding it clear, he released the charging handle with a loud snap, shoved forward on the bolt-closure assist lever, and raised it once again to firing position.

“No, sir, that’s wrong,” Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl interjected, but not to McLanahan. Wohl was sitting beside John Ormack, carefully watching his actions. Out of a corner of his eye he saw Hal Briggs execute the SPORTS actions for clearing a misfired M-16 in two seconds, which was Marine Corps standards. McLanahan was a bit more deliberate, but his actions were correct. But Ormack still didn’t have it down. “Don’t ease the charging handle back into place, sir. Let it snap back,” Wohl told him. “You can jam another round in the chamber if you don’t let the handle pump that next round in.”

Ormack nodded, but his frustration level was obviously high.

“Try it again, General. Ready? Jammed weapon… go.”

Ormack lowered his weapon, pulled back on the charging lever, checked the chamber, hit the bolt-clearing lever, and raised his rifle.

“Wrong again, sir,” Wohl said. “Slap the bottom of that magazine first before pulling the charging handle. If the magazine’s not in properly, you’ll reseat it — pulling the charging handle will do no good if you’ve got a round jammed in the magazine or a bad magazine. Let’s try again …”

“I’m beat, Gunny. Let’s bag it for tonight.”

Ormack was definitely tired, McLanahan thought — the long plane rides from North Carolina to this isolated Norwegian naval base at the very southern tip of Norway; the jet lag; the endless training and conditioning sessions; and a feeling of utter helplessness had taken their toll. As hard as Ormack tried, he just wasn’t picking up on the routine stuff. “Give me a stick and throttle and I’ll be okay. One lousy rifle and I turn into a blithering idiot.”

“Few more minutes, sir,” Wohl said. “This stuff is important. You’ll jam a weapon about once per fifty rounds, which is almost once every magazine. If you practice this enough, you won’t panic when you pull the trigger and nothing happens. I understand they can make a monkey fly a plane, sir, but no monkey I know of can fire an M-16. Try it again.” His attempt at humor was completely lost on the Air Force one-star general. To McLanahan, Wohl said, “You just fell into a river, sir. Your weapon was submerged. When you reach the shore, you get ambushed. You return fire—”

“Not before clearing the rifle,” McLanahan replied, anticipating Wohl’s characteristic real-life, rapid-fire quiz. “Firing a bullet now can cause the thing to blow up in my face.”

“Very good, sir. Show me the procedures for clearing your weapon.”

Patrick lowered the muzzle of his M-16 and recited, “Point the muzzle down to drain water. Pull charging handle rearward two to three inches. Allow water to drain. Release charging handle and push bolt-assist lever to seat round and lock the bolt. Then clear drainhole in butt and drain water.”

“Why do you pull back on the charging handle?” quizzed Wohl.

“Because a round fully seated in the chamber will prevent all of the water from running out the barrel, like a straw that stays full of water when you put your finger over the top end. Pulling the charging handle will partially unseat the round and allow water to run out.”

“Very good. I’ll make a Marine out of you yet — if you can ever learn to shoot.” To Ormack he said, “Keep practicing, sir. Major Briggs, watch him. Both you guys, listen up while you practice. Colonel, draw your knife.”

They were all wearing a nylon web LC-2 harness secured on their torsos, covering thick black cotton-and-nylon coveralls — with no military uniforms or insignia. The harness had what seemed to be an endless array of things attached to it — ammo pouches, first-aid kits, canteens, flashlights, a compass, a length of rope, a radio, and a holster for a sidearm. On the right-side suspender hung a fifteen-inch Bowie-style knife with a parachute-cord-wrapped handle, a serrated and straight-edge spine, and a thick steel hammerhead pommel. McLanahan flicked off Velcro straps and the knife dropped into his right hand. As he did so, he crouched low and moved his left foot back into a defensive knife-fighter’s stance.

“Good. Keep your left hand farther back so your opponent can’t slash it,” Wohl said. “Now, we didn’t go into knife fighting that much. You’ve got a sidearm and a rifle, so use them. Never discard your weapons. Fill your ammo pouches every chance you get.” Unsaid was the thought, with your dead buddy’s ammo if necessary. “But don’t carry more than normal.

“But if you run out of ammo or lose your weapons, and you’re confronted by an attacker who hasn’t shot you dead yet, draw your knife, attack to kill, and then get the hell away.” Wohl’s knife suddenly appeared in his hands, as quickly and as naturally as he extended a finger. The knife flashed out at McLanahan as he spoke: “Strike at the face, the eyes, the hands, the neck. Every cut weakens him. If your opponent goes down, cut his neck or eyes deep. Don’t try to stab him in the heart or guts. He’s probably wearing a flak vest or layers of clothing that’ll protect him, and even if it penetrates it probably won’t kill him unless you’re lucky and pierce the heart. Even a tiny button can deflect a knife point. Slash his neck or his eyes deep, then get away from the area. You’re not Rambo— you can’t take on an army with just a knife. Use it to escape.

“If you’re confronted by a guy with a knife, my advice is to get the hell away from him. Several reasons why: one, if he’s not within arm’s reach of you, he can’t hurt you; two, he doesn’t have a gun, so he’s just as disadvantaged as you are; and three, if he stays, he’s probably a skilled knife-fighter and will skin you alive if you stay. All three are good reasons not to hang around and fight it out with knives.

“But if you have no choice but to fight, remember three things. One: never fight on equal terms. Use rocks, stones, dirt, sand, water, rope, or noise to distract him and make him lose concentration. Spit, scream, yell, curse, act crazy. Two: commit yourself to kill. Three: attack, then depart. If he comes after you, start the whole process over again. If he doesn’t pursue, you’ve won. Knife fighting is survival, not tactics or strategy or position.”

Wohl paused and looked at his three charges. McLanahan was attentive, but Wohl could tell by reading the young officer’s eyes that he wasn’t thinking about survival or fighting — he was thinking about getting his buddy. Briggs, he knew, understood what he was saying — he had been trained to the point where he could let the mechanics and techniques of martial arts happen naturally. Ormack, although very intelligent and dedicated, was simply not cut out for this line of work. He could probably explain the physics and pneumatics of how an M-16 worked, but the thought of killing someone with it was patently abhorrent to him. Ormack would have to be protected and led — something that a Marine Force Recon unit was not accustomed to doing. But it would have to be done nonetheless.

A few moments later one of Wohl’s NCOs came into the room with a message on a strip of computer paper. He read it, breathed deeply, and handed the message form to Ormack. “We’ve been executed,” Ormack said simply. His throat seemed to go instantly dry, his voice tight and raspy. “Mission begins tomorrow night”

“What that means, gentlemen, is that the National Command Authority has given its permission for us to proceed,” Wohl said immediately. “It is not, I repeat not, an authorization to do something we’re not prepared to do. I’ve trained you all I can in the time I was given. You’ve spent long hours studying, training, rehearsing — but you have the final say on whether you go or not.”

“We go, then,” McLanahan said, sheathing his knife resolutely.

Ormack was on his feet, looking at the message form as if it had eyes and was looking back at him. He did not reply — he was looking at the paper, but Wohl knew that Ormack was really looking inward, at himself. He was faced with the question he didn’t want to answer. When he looked up at the rest of them, he nodded assent, but it was clear that he felt he wasn’t ready — and, Wohl thought, he was right.

Briggs was watching Wohl, who looked with great concern at Ormack. “Do you think we’re ready?” Briggs asked the Marine.

“Do I think you three are ready to participate in an extraction mission with a Marine Force Recon team? No way. It takes months of training and years of practice to do that. Do I think you can keep up with my team on an extraction mission? No. You’re not in shape and you don’t have the skills.

“But do I think my team can lead you into a hostile area? Yes. Do I think that, once we have neutralized opposing forces, you can operate in that hostile area and accomplish your mission? Yes. Do I think my brother Marines can lead you out of the hostile area after you have accomplished your mission? Yes.” He paused, then added, “I suppose it’s all how you look at it. You three showed me a lot in the past few days. But I’m not prepared to risk my life and the lives of my men to save you, just so you can be heroes and get your buddy out of hock. So let me tell you how we are going to do things from now on.

“I will be in command of this mission. Rank disappears as of right now. My word is law, punishable by death.” No one there even raised an’ eyebrow at that last statement, because they all knew it to be true. “You do as I say, when I say it. When I say ‘stay,’ you stay and keep as quit as if you were dead and buried. When I say ‘run,’ you run until you drop. When I say ‘no,’ it means no. You touch nothing unless I say to — that goes for your crew member in hostile territory. What I say and do goes. Do you understand?”

All three Air Force officers nodded.

“All right. You’ve come this far — and the boss says you’ll go— you’re going. Now go get some sleep.”

Ormack handed the message form to McLanahan and hefted his rifle. “I think I’ll practice my procedures with the M-16, Sergeant.”

“I just told you what to do, Ormack,” Wohl snapped. “You will report to your barracks and lights-out. And I am still ‘Gunny’ to you, although you are no longer ‘General’ to me.

“You listen to me good, all of you. The two skills I think you three have learned in this short time with me is how to listen and how to obey orders to the letter. I guarantee that no matter how much high-ranking horsepower you three have, if I go back to my CO and inform him that you cannot take an order from me, this mission will be terminated immediately. Few organizations in the world risk dozens of good men in peacetime to rescue one; my unit is not one of them.

“That is the last time I will repeat an order — next time you’re out on your ear. Ormack, if you don’t know your shit by now, you never will. I’m betting that all these lessons and all the work we’ve done will surface when the shit hits the fan, but if it doesn’t, you and probably a few of us will be dead. Hopefully, some brass somewhere will remember I told ‘em so — I hope one of my brother Marines will carve it on my headstone. But that’s none of your concern — or mine.

“Safe and stow your weapons, then hit the rack. I’ll come get you in the morning and we’ll do a final inspection and dry run before the mass briefing. I know sleeping will be difficult, but try it anyway. And that’s an order, too.”

During the past couple of weeks, especially since the encounter with the orderly in the dining hall, Luger was able to run a few extra dekameters every day; today, he had run a full extra kilometer more than he had just four weeks earlier. His strength was better, and his alertness and attention spans were better. He looked thinner, but his muscles were wiry and tough, like a marathon runner’s. But he was not quite getting along with the rest of the staff, and he was growing irritable and quiet.

It was during Luger’s exercise treadmill one day that Viktor Gabovich’s attention was attracted, and he made the decision to confront Luger.

The reason for the change was eventually found during a routine urine Specimen test — Luger had been given a drug antidote that reacted with an entire spectrum of psychoactive drugs and induced vomiting. It must have been secretly administered by the Lithuanian agent, Gabovich guessed. The antidote had worn off within a week, but by then Luger had developed a severe case of bulimia — alternating food binges with vomiting — and now he was lapsing into anorexia, refusing to eat altogether. Obviously now he distrusted all food, so he was refusing to eat anything that he even thought was tainted. He had lost so much weight from refusing to eat that he was in danger of hospitalizing himself.

Gabovich entered the small one-room gymnasium where Luger trained, just as Luger was finishing his treadmill run. Teresov was behind him and stayed near the door, carefully watching Luger. “I see you are feeling better, Doctor Ozerov,” he said to Luger. No response. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Luger replied in Russian. “Nothing.”

“You must be more forthright with me, Doctor,” Gabovich said, carefully adding a bit more authority to his voice. “You were virtually no assistance to the security units on finding this orderly, who was obviously an intruder. Your safety, as well as the success of your projects, rely on accurate and timely informa—”

“I told you I don’t know anything,” Luger suddenly blurted out in English. He stared at Gabovich for a few moments as if thinking about continuing his tirade, then turned away and toweled off his face. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“What did this man say to you, Doctor?”

“Nothing.”

“You are lying.”

Luger suddenly turned and threw the towel in Gabovich’s direction, but not directly at him. Teresov drew a sidearm from a shoulder rig. That action, Gabovich knew, would bring the security guards running as soon as they saw it on their closed-circuit monitors. No matter. This game was finally at an end.

“You lie to me all the fucking time!” Luger shouted. “You tell me I’m a Russian citizen, that I was born in Russia, but I stay here all the time. I can’t control anything around here! I haven’t seen the damned sun for weeks! I want—”

Three security guards burst into the room, sidearms holstered but batons at the ready. One rushed Luger while the other two stood squarely in front of Gabovich, shielding him. Gabovich pushed them aside slightly so he could watch the other guard restrain Luger.

“I knew this place was bugged,” Luger said, a satisfied sneer on his face — until the guard pinned his arms behind his back, causing a very painful grimace. “I thought I’d give it a try.”

“An interesting notion,” Gabovich said. “Fortunately, you will not have to worry about it any longer. This is the last you’ll see of this room.”

“You think I give a shit?” Luger said. “You think I care about what you do to me? I’m a traitor ten times over. I deserve to die.”

“You will get your wish, then,” Gabovich said with a smile, “but not until we explore the value the United States has placed on your head. Obviously if they expended the time and took the risk of planting an agent inside this facility, they hold you in some regard. They may pay handsomely for you. If not, you will simply answer as many questions as you can about the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center and the Single Integrated Operations Plan.”

“I’m not going to tell you a damned thing,” Luger said. “You’ve already bled me dry. There’s nothing you can do to me that will make me talk to you. Period.”

A smile crept across Gabovich’s face. “Oh, really? Why, I forgot, Lieutenant. You have no recollection of our unique little apparatus for making you talk, do you? You were in a coma when we dragged your battered body out of Siberia, and you are usually sedated before you are placed in the isolation system.

“Well, we have a real treat in store for you today. You will see firsthand the apparatus — designed by myself, I must tell you — before we hook you up in it. And since we no longer need the services of the esteemed Doctor Ozerov, we can leave you connected to the device for an extended period of time. We will have the opportunity to extract every little erg of knowledge from your brain; we will expand our knowledge of sensory deprivation by seeing how long a human being can tolerate a state of complete and total mental isolation; and he will undoubtedly discover what happens to him when he snaps. It will prove very interesting. Take him away.”

General Wilbur Curtis and his Pentagon staff were briefing the President and his Cabinet on the embassy-reinforcement operation and on REDTAIL HAWK.

The briefings were essential because it was important that every government member understand exactly what forces were in place and the reason for their presence. Because military forces usually travel quickly and react to situations autonomously, these briefings had to be frequent and comprehensive — tough to do when the President wanted to maintain a business-as-usual façade while military intrigue was going on in the background.

Before any American military member can cross a foreign border, for whatever reason, he or she must have permission from the National Command Authority — the President and the Secretary of Defense, the Civilian overseers of the American military machine. In the case of the Baltic states, the original order to send troops into Lithuania came months earlier, in the form of an Executive Order authorizing increased surveillance of the Baltic states during the transitional period while Commonwealth forces and foreign nationals were withdrawing from the former Soviet republics. These forces had originally been CIA agents and informants, the same HUMINT (human intelligence) sources used for eons.

The President had authorized the upgrading of HUMINT resources to direct military surveillance several weeks before the Denerokin riot, when it was obvious that something was going on inside Lithuania between the Commonwealth and Byelorussian military forces. This upgrade consisted of increased satellite and aircraft surveillance of the Baltic states and expanding to the nearby republics, with special emphasis on military forces and extra-special emphasis on the location and disposition of nuclear-capable forces.

When the REDTAIL HAWK mission was authorized, the President signed another Executive Order authorizing direct military action within Lithuania, Russia, and Byelorussia, but concentrating on small covert-action groups that would collect information by direct observations. The HUMINT resources took the form of Army Special Forces groups hiding in several locations within Lithuania, operating in concert with the U.S. European Command, the Marines, and U.S. Special Operations Command to provide intelligence information and other forms of support; and by U.S. Navy SEAL teams that would deploy from ships in the Baltic Sea and attack targets near the Lithuanian, Latvian, and Kalinin coast.

Code-named AMOS, these teams had been in place for several days, getting into position to best observe the embassy-reinforcement operation and the rescue mission and to help any way they could.

It was the status of the AMOS teams that Curtis was talking about that afternoon: “We have a total of twenty-four AMOS teams in position, and all are ready to go,” Curtis concluded, an unwrapped and unlit cigar in his right hand. “Most start their actions about six hours before the embassy operation commences.

“Six SEAL teams will take out Soviet radar and surface-to-air missile sites in Latvia, Lithuania, and the Russian city of Kaliningrad. Simultaneously, ten Army Special Forces teams will destroy or disable several key Commonwealth military installations within Lithuania, with special emphasis on air bases and army-aviation bases. There are two Marine Corps and Ranger AMOS teams outside Vilnius who will prepare a marshaling and refueling area for the Marine Corps helicopters coming out of the embassy. Finally, there are six Special Forces teams within the city of Vilnius itself — two stationed in the city in case our forces need help, two keeping watch on the U.S. Embassy, and two keeping an eye on the Fisikous Institute. All teams are in contact with the embassy — it’s not constant contact, considering the situation some of these team members are in, but they can all react fairly quickly if the need arises.”

“What sort of situation do you mean, General?” the President asked.

“Some of the AMOS teams are in hiding near their assigned targets, sir,” Curtis replied. “Two guys have been holed up in the roof of a warehouse. Two teams have been hiding in a cellar. We were lucky enough to have a few go in as tourists — they were in fact real tourists that were given an unexpected mission while on vacation. They are staying in youth hostels and hotels. Others are not so lucky. Some of the talented Army troops are hiding in camouflaged holes in the ground — they call them spider-holes. Very appropriate name — two guys living in an eight-foot-diameter hole. They sometimes dig several such hiding places to avoid detection.”

“Incredible,” the President said. “I’d like to meet these gentlemen after this is all over with. What a sacrifice they’re making.”

“But as you pointed out, General, special operations are important these days,” Vice President Kevin Martindale reiterated. “The victory in the Gulf War would have been impossible without the covert-action groups that were sent into Iraq and Kuwait long before the air war began.”

“Exactly, sir,” Curtis agreed, noting the concurring nod of agreement by the President. Unknown to the President, the Vice President’s remark had been well rehearsed by him and Curtis — they were in collusion on a new development that they both wanted to see put into motion. It was important that the President agree with the Vice President because they were going to have to convince him of something they were sure he wasn’t going to like.

“All of the units are safe and in good shape,” Curtis concluded. “They are standing by for their execution order. When they receive it, they’ll begin moving toward their objectives. The SEAL teams need their order first. They deploy from the amphibious-assault ship Wasp by helicopter until they’re just outside radar range of shore, then they’ll come ashore in rubber boats. They travel less than thirty miles, but it’ll take them nearly four hours to reach their target.”

“But it’s one of the most important targets,” the Vice President said. “Those coastal radar sites can detect incoming aircraft nearly a hundred miles away.”

“I still don’t like the idea of blowing up actual radar sites and missiles,” the President said uneasily. “The radar is used for air-traffic control, I understand, and the missiles are for use against high-speed, high-altitude aircraft at long range. They’re defensive weapons. Why worry about them?”

“They can blow this entire operation, Mr. President,” Martindale explained. “Those radars can practically see our helicopters lifting off the deck of the Wasp and track them all the way to Vilnius. And those missiles are an obscenity. They’re not Lithuanian missiles, and they’re not manned by Lithuanian crews. It would be as if the Russians had a missile base in Norfolk, Virginia. It should have been dismantled — we’re just helping them along.”

The President chuckled, a short, rather nervous laugh, and nodded again. He was convinced, and the Vice President had convinced him, Curtis noted.

Perfect.

The President opened the red-covered folder containing the prepared executive order. The paper document was a formality, a holdover from Revolutionary and Wild West times when orders from the President of the United States really did emanate from the Oval Office and were transmitted via paper documents carried by couriers to soldiers in the field. The actual mission descriptions and orders were contained in several documents, pre-planned mission packages and regulations throughout the U.S. military. The President signed the document, had it witnessed by the White House counsel and by Secretary of Defense Tom Preston, whom he gave it to. “Get the ball rolling, and let’s hope we can defuse this damn thing before everyone gets too nervous or excited. Anything else?”

“There is one other point I’m concerned about, General Curtis,” the Vice President said pointedly. “What if we run into severe opposition from the Commonwealth or from these Byelorussian troops? What other forces do we have in the region? I think we need something to prove to those warlords out there that we mean business.”

Curtis looked taken aback and a little apologetic, which immediately caught the President’s attention. Curtis fiddled with his cigar. The President narrowed his eyes with concern. “Wilbur? What about that?”

“Well, sir, our forces in the area are pretty sparse right at the moment,” Curtis replied. “The 26th MEU in the Baltic Sea is the closest combat unit—”

“That’s it?” the President asked, alarmed. “A thousand Marines a few Harrier jump-jets?”

“Of course, aircraft and troops from Germany can respond… given time,” mumbled Curtis.

“How much time?” the Vice President pressed, staying with the preagreed script.

Curtis shrugged his shoulders, which only made the President that much more concerned and aggravated. “Probably forty-eight hours for an initial response,” said Curtis.

“Forty-eight hours! Two days? That’s unacceptable!” the Vice President retorted. “If they wanted, the Russians could overwhelm the entire city of Vilnius in six hours, including the American Embassy! We’d have another hostage crisis on our hands!”

“We’re trying to keep this crisis as low-key as possible,” said Curtis.

“And meanwhile we lose another embassy, this time to renegade military forces,” the Vice President said. “That is completely unacceptable.” To the President, he said, “Mr. President, I think we need some more firepower in the region — small, unobtrusive, easily recallable, nothing extravagant — but we need them there now. We’re betting a lot on the actions of a handful of Marines against the full might of the Red Army. They need some backstops.”

“But we don’t have time, “the President said irritably. “You heard the General — two days. We’re out of position …”

Now for the telling blow.

After a short period of silence, when the Vice President was looking angry and frustrated and the President was looking worried, Curtis said, “Well … there is one possibility, Mr. President. Some Air Battle Force aircraft from Nevada and South Dakota were scheduled for a deployment to Thule, Greenland, as part of a Rapid Deployment Force contingency exercise. The exercise has been scheduled for months in advance, so it can’t be considered an escalation of forces, and the exercise involves only six strike aircraft plus support aircraft — tankers, radar planes, a transport, that sort of thing. We can divert that group and send them into international airspace over the Baltic Sea, close enough to help out but far enough out so it won’t seem like we’ve got a guillotine blade hanging over the Russians’ heads.”

“What sort of strike aircraft, Wilbur?” asked the President, wishing like hell he were on the tennis courts instead of in this damned briefing.

“They’re B-52s, sir,” Curtis replied. “Modified B-52s, carrying defensive weaponry and antiarmor cruise missiles.”

Modified?

He just bet they were.

It was then that the President figured out that he’d been had — this was General Brad Elliott’s unit. Elliott could have been involved in the real Air Battle Force, the rapid-response composite air-combat group stationed at Ellsworth Air Force Base near Rapid City, South Dakota — but this operation smelled just like Brad Elliott. The President didn’t change his expression, but he nodded thoughtfully and said, “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

The Cabinet meeting was adjourned, but the President asked that Curtis, Preston, the National Security Advisor Russell, and the Vice President stay.

“All right, what the hell kind of game are we playing here — pull the wool over the old man’s eyes? Pretty good acting job, Kevin, until Wilbur mentioned the modified B-52s. You’re talking about Brad Elliott’s hybrid Death Star whatchamacallits right?” He turned to Secretary of Defense Preston. “Tom, did you approve of this operation?”

“I did not,” Preston replied. “The General and I discussed it. I refused to endorse the idea — I didn’t think we needed the Air Battle Force or Elliott’s group. Elliott’s planes should still be in Nevada.”

“They are,” Curtis interjected. “But they are formed up and ready to go.”

“Ready to do what? Go where?” the President thundered.

“Sir, I felt it important to formulate a contingency plan in case things began to get out of hand, as the intelligence summary indicates,” Curtis replied. “We don’t have any heavy striking units closer than two days from Lithuania. If the embassy-reinforcement and REDTAIL HAWK operations proceed, and the Russians or Byelorussians escalate this into a full-scale conflict, they can operate anywhere in Europe completely unopposed. We have drawn down our forces to the point where response times are very, very slow. There is a real danger that nations with democratically elected governments friendly to the United States can be overrun by renegade or adventuristic powers. Brad Elliott’s unit may be able to stop them.”

The President looked at Curtis and the ambitious Vice President with a warning eye. With irritation dripping in his voice, he said, “I don’t like being manipulated by my own fucking advisers. You got something to say to me, say it. But I won’t tolerate any ploys or gimmicks, and I will not tolerate any secret agendas. I run this show. If you don’t like it, run for President and collect fifty percent of the popular vote. See how easy it is.”

The President paused, letting his words sink in a bit, then added: “It so happens that I agree with what Wilbur just said. I do think the Byelorussians are up to something; I think the Commonwealth of Independent States may support it, or at least not oppose it; and I think we have an obligation to not only save our interests in the Baltic states but to assist. And I may not like Brad Elliott personally, but the man does seem to position himself and his forces in just the right place at just the right time, God help us.

“So sit down, all four of you, and let’s walk through this little operation Brad Elliott has concocted. And let’s pray that when the rescue operation starts, we don’t have to use Elliott’s cockamamie mutant warplanes.”

Some of the most beautiful beaches in northern Europe are located in Lithuania near the resort city of Palanga, on the Baltic coast nine miles south of the Latvian border. In summer, tourists from all over the Baltics, the Commonwealth states, and southern Scandinavia flock to a seven-mile strip of white sandy beaches north of the city. An extensive network of sea walls, vacuums, and tidal booms, along with hundreds of workers, were pressed into service to filter the polluted water of the Baltic Sea and to keep as much waste and debris off the beaches as possible, and to restore the former port city to a semblance of its pre-World War II grandeur. As a result, the Palanga Breakwater beaches were some of the purest in the industrialized world. A summer-long circus, an amusement park, folk art and crafts shops, and a glass-blowing factory that produces fine crystal and stained-glass windows enhance the attraction and charm of the small Lithuanian seafront community. It was often called the Riviera of the Baltics, although while under Soviet domination the name hardly seemed appropriate.

But the area was home to still another presence — the Commonwealth military. Drawn by the beaches and attractions as well as the tactical placement, the Soviet Troops of Air Defense built an airstrip, a long-range radar site, and an advanced SA-10 surface-to-air missile site just north of the beaches, on a section of oceanfront land almost as nice as the famous Palanga beaches. Not coincidentally, they also built a lavish resort base for their senior officers. The small base’s manning swelled from just a few dozen in winter to several hundred in the summer as general officers brought their wives and families to “inspect” the air-defense facility. Of course, when the facility reverted to Commonwealth control, it was not shut down or deactivated.

Until late spring, the Palanga Breakwater is deserted, and except for a skeleton caretaker crew, the same holds true for the air-defense site. The pristine white beaches that are choked with people in the summer are raw, cold, sometimes snow-covered, and very empty this time of year. At night, when the bitterly cold winds blow down from Siberia and out across the Baltic, it can feel like the loneliest, most isolated spot on earth…

… Perfect for Petty Officer Brian Delbert and his SEAL demolition team.

The howling wind, which created wind-chill factors well below zero, would also mask the sound of their outboard engine as they approached the shore. A Boston Whaler insertion craft, armed with an M-60 heavy machine gun mounted on a steel frame just forward of the helmsman, carried twelve SEALS and over a thousand pounds of equipment. The team was dropped by a Marine Corps CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter twenty miles offshore to the southwest, just out of range of Palanga’s big radar net. The Boston Whaler had a heavily muffled forty-horsepower outboard motor that propelled the craft at over twenty miles an hour, but the run to shore took almost two hours because they would stop the motor anytime they were near fishing boats or military vessels. There were plenty of patrols, but apparently none that used night-vision devices while on lookout.

Delbert, nicknamed “Command,” was the commander of the raiding team that would go ashore to the objective. The entire group was commanded by a Marine lieutenant, nicknamed Wheel, who would stay with the Boston Whaler and wait for the team to return after dropping them off on the beach.

Every piece of skin on their bodies was covered. All but two SEALs wore thick Mustang suits, with cold-weather fatigues and long underwear underneath, a black insulated balaclava with eye holes big enough for the PVN-5 night-vision goggles they all wore, thick wool gloves with leather shells, and insulated waterproof boots. Two SEALs, in the “swimmer scout” positions, wore black Neoprene wet suits, gloves, and boots under their swimming fins. The SEALs carried their standard assault weapons-Heckler & Koch MP5KA4 9-millimeter submachine guns with thirty-two-round magazines and suppressors; Heckler & Koch P9S 9-millimeter automatic pistols; and a variety of flash-bang, smoke, gas, and incendiary grenades. The swimmer scouts, who would move to the objective on the point position, carried M-37 Ithaca 12-gauge shotguns in waterproof bags. The SEALs also carried six square canvas haversacks resembling Boy Scout camping packs. Each pack was an Mk133 demolition-charge assembly containing eight blocks of M5A1 composition C-4 high-explosive.

Brian Delbert was the oldest and shortest man on the entire team. He was quite different from most of the men who were accepted as Navy SEALs — he was not tall or muscular; he did not look like a triathlete or linebacker. He won his place as SEAL team leader not by physical strength — although he was as powerful as a man fifty pounds heavier— but by brains and resourcefulness. Besides his nickname, he was also known as Weasel, and he preferred that name to any other name or title. Despite his experience — six years as a Navy commando — this was his first team command overseas.

“H-hour is in about two hours,” the Lieutenant announced. Delbert. steering the Boston Whaler, nodded that he understood. The timing was close, but they would be able to make it if their intelligence information was at least close: no opposition, no beach patrols, no perimeter patrols, and only a cursory maintenance patrol around the SA- 10 missiles and the radar. Dogs were a possibility — satellite photos of the installation clearly showed kennels, and a short inner fence had been set up to keep the dogs, away from the taller, motion-sensitive outer fence — but even dogs disliked cold, wet weather. Only U.S. Navy SEALs liked nasty weather.

When within two hundred yards of shore, just outside the surf line, Delbert killed the outboard motor and dispatched the swimmer scouts to check out the beach. The swimmer scouts were the key to the entire operation. They were often the strongest and smartest men on the team as well as being the best swimmers. While the rest of the team used their paddles to maintain position, they waited for the scouts to check the landing area.

The entire assault team used small wireless FM transceivers called “whispermikes” to talk with each other. Whispermikes operated at very low power and at very short ranges, and were taped to the head and ears. The first message came through a few minutes later: “Command, scouts, all clear,” came the report from the scouts. Using flashlights with special lenses that made the light visible only to those wearing night-vision goggles, the scouts directed Delbert onto the beach. Delbert saw that they had picked a pretty good landing zone, or “strongpoint”—between two clusters of rocks, in a narrow sandy inlet that afforded good cover from all sides. Delbert recommended that the scouts’ choice of strongpoint be adopted, and “Wheel” agreed. Word went around to memorize the location of the strongpoint.

As soon as they were in knee-deep water, Delbert and five SEALs jumped out of the small black rubber raft and sprinted for shore, being careful to step in each other’s tracks to try to disguise their number. Establishing the BDP, or Beach Defense Perimeter, was the most critical step in any amphibious landing in enemy territory — the mission could be ruined in seconds if the team was discovered, especially so close to a military installation. Two SEALs joined the two swimmer scouts and acted as flanking guards, two on each side, scanning down the beach for any sign of discovery. Delbert established the center defense position. Three other SEALs, called the “powder train,” carried the Mk133 assemblies onto the beach and took cover behind Delbert. Their weapons were slung on their shoulder straps — their job was not to carry a rifle, but to carry and protect the explosives.

Delbert raised the microphone of his tiny transceiver, to his lips. “Beach team, report.”

“Right flank secure.”

“Left flank secure.”

The two flanking guards had dashed out about seventy-five yards from the strongpoint then separated from each other by about twenty-five yards and set up for overlapping fields of fire on either side. Delbert had to concentrate to find the well-concealed SEALs.

“Copy flanks. Center is secure.” He turned and received hand signals from the three men in the powder train. “Train’s ready. Scouts, move out. Flanks cover.”

The eight-man assault team headed inland, following the dim outlines of the scouts as they checked their maps and compasses and moved toward the air-defense base. Meanwhile, the Lieutenant took the helm of the Boston Whaler, and the last SEAL, called the “cover,” used a rake and a small canvas water bag to erase the footprints on the beach. When that was done, they pushed the Boston Whaler into the surf and motored out away from shore, monitoring the progress of the team and watching for any signs of discovery.

Once they were a few hundred yards outside the base, in a well-concealed position, Delbert gathered the team together and gave them another short briefing. Then one scout, one powder carrier, and one flanker split off from the group. They were the backup team, ready to create diversions, mount a flanking assault on a security team, or if necessary attempt to carry out the mission if the main group was trapped or captured. Delbert and his four-man team continued on to their penetration point on the extreme eastemmost side of the base, while the second team moved northward to the more populated part of the base, where the headquarters and security buildings were located.

Security at the small base was mostly concerned with tourists wandering into the place during the summer months, so the SEALs found nothing too difficult to defeat. Getting into the base itself was absurdly easy — they could hop the two-meter-tall chain-link fence with ease, hiding between conveniently located scrub oak and cypress trees. It was a quarter-mile fast jog between darkened, deserted buildings to the small airfield, where the team split into two again. One two-man team would jog around the runway to set charges at the radar facility, while the last three-man team, led by Delbert, would set charges on the nearby SA-10 surface-to-air missile’s radar and command-control-communications equipment.

The SA-10 “Grumble” surface-to-air missile was the most advanced air-defense missile now deployed outside the Commonwealth. The big missile, resembling an enlarged version of the U.S. Patriot, was stored in a four-round, side-by-side box-launch magazine which was mounted on a trailerable platform. It was capable of destroying both high- and low” altitude aircraft, and its advanced pulse-Doppler tracking system and autonomous radar seeker head made it difficult to jam and almost impossible to evade. Two four-round launchers were set up inside a fenced compound, ringed with sodium-vapor floodlights. Because the missile launchers could be depressed to very shallow angles for use against sea-skimming targets, the compound was clear of any obstructions all the way to the fence. But their objective was not the missiles themselves — it was the plain gray concrete building just outside the fence. Disrupt equipment inside that building, and the eight SA-10 missiles would blind.

Weasel and his men waited in the shadows of a radio air-navigation facility to rest and wait for the rest of the team to get into position. The sounds of the Baltic Sea crashing on shore and the sharp ocean breeze made them feel almost relaxed…. Almost. The sharp, insectlike chirp chirp of Delbert’s miniature tactical transceiver cut that image off right away.

“Team Two’s in position,” he announced. Team Two had run all the way around the base, entering from the north side, and had moved up to within striking distance of the base headquarters building, which conveniently housed the base security office and command post. If they had time and the opportunity, they would set some explosives on vehicles, near doorways, or on communications aerials, trying to disrupt a security response as much as possible. Their objective was not to kill as many soldiers as possible, but to reduce their response effectiveness should the demolition team be discovered before they could set the timed charges.

A few minutes later, a triple chirp was heard, and Delbert reported that Team Three was in position around the radar site. The site had three large white radomes — one held the long-range Echo-band search radar, one a Lima-band missile-guidance radar for the SA-10 missiles, and the last a backup Hotel-band radar for both long-range surveillance and missile guidance. The sites were fully automated, lightly patrolled, and minimally manned. Setting explosives to eliminate them would be easy.

He waited a few more minutes, allowing each team a few precious minutes to recheck their weapons and catch their breath, then swung his microphone to his lips to issue the command to attack..

He was interrupted by a chirp chirp… chirp chirp, the chirp chirp chirp chirp on the whispermike.

All of Delbert’s SEALs froze.

Team Two had issued a warning message and now wanted to talk via voice — only the most serious development could prompt Team Two to break radio silence.

Delbert raised the radio to his lips: “Go.”

“Five trucks, thirty armed soldiers, heavy weapons, headquarters building. Mikey’s on the roof.”

Delbert felt a prickle of sweat start to itch under his collar.

Mike Fontaine one of the four SEALs in Team Two, had made his way up to the roof of the headquarters building — probably to set time-delay charges on the antennae up there — when a large convoy of trucks had unexpectedly pulled up to the building. Now he was surrounded by troops. Their satellite and HUMINT intelligence had said to expect only minimal activity around the headquarters building all night — no more than a few night-duty officers ever went near the place after hours.

Who the hell were these guys?

“Any sign we’ve been discovered?”

“Negative.” There was a pause, then: “Look like six, maybe eight soldiers staying outside, acting as guards. The rest entering the building.”

Twenty soldiers going into the headquarters building? If they were a response team to the SEALs’ infiltration, they weren’t acting too excited. Maybe they’re all getting coffee before hunting down—

“Shots fired — inside the headquarters building!” the Team Two leader suddenly radioed. “I can hear grenades going off … shit, a grenade… two grenades went off inside!”

“Mikey okay?”

“Not directed at Mikey … no one’s going near the roof… hold on… Weasel, we gotta get Mikey off the roof Something serious is going down.”

“Time?”

“A minute. No more.”

“Hold your position,” Delbert said. “In sixty seconds, create a mess and scatter. Copy?”

“Copy.”

To his team, he said, “We got thirty seconds to get inside the missile-control center.” He outlined exactly how he wanted to do it, a slight variation of the plan devised a week ago from satellite photos and diagrams provided by agents and defectors. He took twenty seconds to explain his ideas, then drew his H & K P95, fitted its suppressor in place, and growled, “Let’s go!”

The three-man team split up. One man circled around the perimeter of the control building, out of the glare of floodlights, while Delbert and his partner sprinted for the fence.

The missile-control center was surrounded by a three-meter-high chain-link fence, topped with razor wire and illuminated by floodlights, and there was a thirty-meter clear-fire area from the tall grass and weeds of the runway perimeter to the fence. Delbert took five shots to blow out three nearby floodlights, throwing his section of fence into complete darkness; a few seconds later four more lights soundlessly winked out on, the other side of the building. There was no reaction from the building’s occupants as they raced across the clear-fire area. Five seconds had elapsed.

Delbert reached the fence and withdrew a small, battery-powered metal saw from his knapsack. The saw was about the size of a Thermos, with a powerful three-inch circular blade. One swipe against the fence, with his partner providing cover, and he had cut a gap in the fence big enough t crawl through. Ten seconds total had elapsed, and still no reaction from the building.

They raced across the clear-fire area.

There were several thin gunports around the building, but all were covered with metal grates-odd. No guards, no patrols, no dogs. Delbert carefully went around to the front of the building. There was a large bulletproof glass window in the front, with a large gunport beside it so the guards could pass identification papers in and out, and beside it was the steel-sheathed front door with a thin, heavily scratched Plexiglas booth around it to keep the chill winter air from rushing in when the door was open. Delbert rolled under the window and carefully checked around the side to be sure the third man was in position. He was already at the side door to the control building, crouched down below another closed gun-port.

Delbert gave the signal and the riggers opened the Mk133 packs and broke out the L-shaped hunks of plastic explosive. Each bar weighed forty ounces, and its puttylike consistency made it easy to stuff into the doorframe. Every SEAL qualified in demolitions knew the formulas for determining how much explosives to use — the basic breaching formula (P — R³KC), the conversion factors for a steel door, and the tamping factors for charge placement. A priming adaptor threaded into a hole in each end of the bar, an electric blasting cap pushed into the priming adaptor, and the leg wires from each blasting cap were connected with “Western Union” splices and connected to a standard “hell box” blasting machine with sixty feet of firing wire. The wires from the explosives set on the side door were then led to the rigger and connected to the same hell box. The rigger made a quick continuity check of all wires with a tiny galvanometer circuit-tester and gave Delbert a thumbs-up. Twenty seconds total had elapsed.

When he was ready, Delbert signaled his teammates, and the rigger flipped the safety switch off and threw the “hell handle.” The explosives ripped the thick steel doors out of their frames and threw them inside. Even with earplugs, the sound was jarring — but it was far worse for the building’s occupants Delbert threw his body onto one remnant of a door hinge that hadn’t completely sheared off its frame. It broke free, and Delbert was flat on his stomach, lying atop the shattered door. But he knew what was going to happen next, so he stayed down and covered his eyes and ears with his arms.

Delbert’s partner was right behind him. He tossed in a flash-bang grenade waited for the nova-bright burst of light and the lung-popping booom! then hopped over Delbert and swept the front room with his submachine gun, looking for targets.

The flying front door had caught one soldier from behind, and he was unconscious in the front area. The security guard just inside the door was a shattered mess. There was a narrow hallway past the security area, two doors on the right, one door on the left, and the main control room straight ahead. Delbert’s teammates had entered the control room directly when they blew their door, so Delbert and his partner checked the three other rooms in front before entering it. By the time he finished and joined his teammates in the control room, forty seconds had elapsed — he was ten seconds behind schedule, but they were in without casualties.

Delbert’s teammates had scored big in a very short period of time. Two soldiers were lying unconscious on the floor in the control room, one was attending to his minor wounds from another flying door, while three others were already lining up facing a wall with their hands on their heads, coughing from the smoke that partially filled the room. Delbert’s rigger was pat-searching the men along the wall, shouting, “Meznah! Meznah obay ya kochutnya viznuh!” which was Russian for freeze or he would kill them. The SEAL from the second team was looking around the control room in puzzlement, and Delbert’s flanker began doing the same. “Let’s go, you guys. Set the charges and let’s split.”

“Check this out, Weasel,” the rigger said. He was pointing at one control console. The radarscopes were smashed in and several removable components in the console were lying in twisted, broken heaps on the floor. A sledgehammer was lying nearby — obviously it had been recently used. “These guys looked like they were busting up the place already.” It was hard to believe, but he was right — the control room looked like it had already been effectively destroyed. The place looked like a country-western saloon after a big fistfight. “Set the charges and let’s go,” Delbert repeated. The rigger did as he was ordered. “Johnny, guard the front. I’ll take the side.”

A few minutes later Delbert heard over his whispermike, “I heard an explosion on the other side of the runway. Team Two…

“We’re out of time,” Delbert said. “Set the last charges and let’s move out.” The process was slow because, for safety’s sake, one man only set charges and rigged the leg wires. One of the captives turned his head and said in rather good English, “Who are you? Are you Americans …?”

“Shut him up, Doug.

“Weasel, look,” the SEAL named Doug said. Delbert went over to the men being frisked. “These aren’t Commonwealth or MSB uniforms—”

And then Delbert saw it — the gold, blue, and red flag on the man’s upper-left jacket sleeve. They all had one. Other patches had been ripped’ away, and these little cloth flags sewn on in their place. “Lithuanian flags? They’re wearing Lithuanian flags …?”

“We are Lietuvos,” the soldier said in broken English. “Soldiers from Lietuva. You are Americans …?”

“I don’t care if he’s the king of Sweden,” Delbert said angrily. “Team Two has started breaking out of the headquarters area, and the assault team flies within radar range in less than twenty minutes. Cuff these guys, set the charges, and get them out of here. We’re behind schedule as it is. Move out.”

The initial shock of seeing what appeared to be local militia commandos in a Soviet defense site wore off quickly, and the SEAL team set to work.

In two minutes the rigger had set and programmed over one hundred pounds’ worth of composition C-4 high-explosives in the consoles, electrical-junction boxes, data-transmission cable boxes, and every piece of communications gear they could find, and had wired the whole thing to an electronically controlled hell-box firing trigger. They used the Lithuanian commandos’ own green and black “tiger stripe” combat jackets to secure their arms, and phone cords to gag the prisoners, then led them outside, through the cuts in the fence, and out across the end of the nearby runway and back across the base perimeter.

Ten minutes of hard running later, they were back outside the small base and hiding in a small supply shed in a stand of trees about five hundred meters from the beach. Delbert ordered a rest stop and an equipment check, and got on the whispermike. “Team Two, report.”

“We’re clear of the base,” Team Two’s leader replied. “Moving to the strongpoint.”

“We heard your explosions. Did Mike make it out?” asked Delbert.

“Negative,” the leader reported. Delbert could hear the team leader’s labored breathing as he continued his run to safety, but he could also hear the tension, the frustration in his voice. “That wasn’t us. The guys that stormed the building blew it up. Mike was just making his move when the whole building went up.”

Ah, shit, Delbert thought grimly. You always expect to lose a couple of guys on a mission like this, but when things go smoothly you start believing that everything’s going to be okay. Just when you start thinking that, the shit hits you in the face.

“Copy,” Delbert said. He took a breath, then continued: “We got a bunch of those guys with us. Looks like they’re Lithuanian commandos.”

No reply, just a double chirp on the radios. He obviously had no more Stomach for talk.

Delbert checked in Team Three and coordinated an ETA for the rendezvous and pickup with “Wheel.”

“What are we going to do with these guys?” one of the SEALs asked.

“Leave ‘em here,” Delbert said. “We’re not going to risk discovery by letting them go.” He sat close to the one who appeared the oldest and asked him, “What unit are you from?”

“We are the Grand Duke’s First Dragoons,” the man replied in pretty good English.

Delbert felt a flush of anger heat up his face, but he held it in check. Something was going on here, and beating this guy around wasn’t going to help. “What is that? Is that Troops of the Interior? Border guards? Internal Security …?”

“We are not Soviet,” the man spat. “Not Commonwealth. We are Lithuanians. We are now the Grand Duke’s First Dragoon Guard of the Lithuanian Republic. We are the Iron Wolf Brigade.”

“You mean you’re in the Lithuanian Army?” one of the other SEALs asked.

“Lithuania doesn’t have a fucking army,” Delbert hissed.

The captive smiled, then puffed out his chest with obvious pride. “We do now, my friend,” he said. “We are the first army of the Lithuanian Republic since the glory days of the Grand Dukes. The Iron Wolf Brigade was the finest army in all of Europe. We will repel all invaders and make our republic a proud nation once again.”

The other SEALs were shaking their heads — some in amazement, others in amusement. Delbert was worried about the upcoming mission. “How many men do you have in this First Dragoon Guard?”

It was obvious that the man was hesitant about revealing any more information about his unit. Instead, he tried to put on a jovial tone and said, “You Americans? You can join us. America, land of freedom. You help us drive out Soviets—”

“I asked you — how many men do you have?”

Delbert’s tone of voice was definitely threatening, and the Lithuanians, happy enough to have completed their mission and not to be dead or captured by the Soviets, were in no mood to resist. “Eight thousand, maybe ten thousand men,” the Lithuanian replied. “A few would not join. Russian traitor dogs. But most all do join. We find more in the cities and villages. Find more from the other Commonwealth units. Men all over are proud to join.”

“Who is your commanding officer?”

Another hesitation — but it was obvious again that the pride this man had in his unit and his commander outweighed all other concerns. “Our commander, General Dominikas Palcikas, may God preserve him.”

Delbert did not recognize the name.

“We are fighting men from Lithuania. We follow General Palcikas. We carry the Grand Duke’s war banner and stand for freedom.”

The English language was getting tiresome for this guy, and Delbert thought he was starting to rant. It was almost time to go. Just a few more questions: “Are you a guerrilla army? Guerrilla army?” That term was difficult for the man. “Hide, then strike? Do you have a headquarters? Where is your headquarters?”

The Lithuanian man smiled broadly, then said, “Fisikous.”

Delbert almost dropped over backwards from surprise. “Did you say Fisikous? The Fisikous Institute near Vilnius?”

The man clasped his hands and nodded enthusiastically. “Site of the last slaughter of our people by the Byelorussians will become birthplace of rightful Lithuanian Republic and headquarters for the Grand Duke’s First Dragoon Guard,” the man said proudly. “Even now we are capturing that place and claiming it as our own. We are also destroying other defensive-weapon sites, communications centers, command posts, airfields, supply depots, and barracks. With God’s help we will succeed in freeing our country.”

Delbert shook his head in surprise, then silently ordered his SEALs to pack up and head on out to retrieve the raft — the charges back on the base were set to explode in ten minutes, and they needed to be off the beach and headed out to sea before they blew. “You just might get your wish, my friend,” he said as he stood to depart. “A little help from God — and a lot of help from the United States Marine Corps.