Night of the Hawk

FOUR

Vadim Teresov had only one goal in life — make a man powerful. Be a kingmaker. He had no desire to be the King, but he wanted to make himself indispensable to the King, to be the one who saw to it that the King stayed in power. The perquisites were there, with none of the responsibility.

In Lithuania, and soon in Moscow, the King of the MSB, the Commonwealth’s Inter-Republican Council for Security, was Viktor Gabovich. Gabovich was an obsessive micromanager, a stickler for details. Everything had to run just right. The fewer surprises Teresov could lay at Gabovich’s feet, the better he liked it.

Gabovich was to arrive at the Fisikous Research Center at six A.M. to interview the chief designers of the Fisikous-170 stealth bomber. The Fi-170 was only a few weeks away from its maiden flight, and Gabovich wanted everything to be perfect — and he wanted to brief them on the deal he had struck with General Voshchanka of the Byelorussian Army. In exchange for supplying weapons, the researchers at Fisikous were going to be allowed to continue working, at full salary and benefits, for as long as they desired.

Teresov had called a meeting at five A.M. to conduct a pre-interview of the entire design team. Any problems would be aired then, the serious problems worked out, the not-so-serious ones discarded, and everyone carefully rehearsed in what they were going to say. No surprises. And for a five A.M. meeting to take place, Teresov had to be in his office at four and on the phone at four-thirty, reminding all of the usually scatterbrained scientists to be on time. He had plenty of leverage with them all — as the man who controlled what Gabovich saw and heard. Many of these scientists realized early on that it was in their own best interests to make Teresov happy.

Teresov was about five miles from the Denerokin gate to the facility when he came upon a long line of military vehicles with MSB marking on them. Most of the vehicles were light- or medium-duty trucks, perhaps carrying troops or supplies, but the tail-end vehicles carried old, nearly obsolescent T-62 main battle tanks and combat-engineering vehicles — big vehicles that looked like tanks but carried short-range demolition cannons, dozer blades, and cranes. The convoy was moving at a very rapid clip, nearly fifty kilometers per hour. Although Teresov was the aide for the commander of all MSB units in Lithuania, he did not recognize any of the vehicles in this column.

Security patrolmen on motorbikes — a few with sidecars with PKM machine guns mounted on them — zipped in and out of the convoy, examining side roads and stopping traffic. Several times a security policeman would drive beside Teresov’s car, and the soldier in the sidecar would shine a flashlight inside. Teresov would flash his MSB identification card and the soldier would salute and speed off. A security policeman would then return to escort Teresov’s car around trucks when it was safe to pass.

By the time Teresov passed through the middle of the convoy, his eyes grew wide in surprise: he saw his first ZSU-23-4 mobile antiaircraft-artillery vehicle.

The squat, beetlelike vehicle looked like a small tank, but instead of one big howitzer cannon the ZSU-23-4 carried four small antiaircraft artillery guns in a quad mount on the forward part of the long, flat turret. On the back of the turret was a radar disk that looked like a large inverted saucepan. Even rolling down the highway, the thing looked lethal. But seeing such an awesome weapon so close to Fisikous made Teresov think back, and to his recollection he had not been briefed on any scheduled troop movements. Were ali these vehicles headed for Fisikous? Unlikely — he had heard nothing about reinforcing the one-thousand-man Black Beret garrison there. The Commonwealth Army base at Darguziai was thirty kilometers south of Vilnius,i and this road would take them there in about an hour. Was it their destination …?

Better to find out than to sit idly trying to guess the answer. He picked up his UHF radio microphone: “Control, this is Unit Four-One-One, priority three call. Over.”

There was a slight delay, then: “This is control. Stand by, Four-One-One.”

Teresov waited.

The convoy passed the last major turnoff for Highway 11 to Darguziai — they were headed for the Fisikous Institute, no doubt about it. Something was definitely wrong here, and the size of this convoy made it imperative that Teresov find out what was going on. Gabovich would certainly want to know. “Control, Four-One-One, priority two.” Using priority two was permitted for him, but only for extremely urgent requests. The chance had to be taken …

“Go ahead with your priority-two call, Four-One-One.”

“Requesting security-clearance records on reinforced infantry unit, perhaps a battalion, traveling down the Sziechesi Highway toward the Fisikous Research Institute. Commanding officer’s name, date of request, commander reporting to, and name of approving authority.”

“Four-One-One, we cannot comply at this time,” the radio-net controller responded. “All channels are tied up with military traffic. Expect a ten-to-twenty-minute delay.”

“What’s the reason for the delay?” Teresov demanded before stopping himself — he knew what the answer would be.

“That information cannot be released on an unsecured line, Four-One-One,” the voice sneered. Whatever pull being Gabovich’s assistant and using Gabovich’s radio call sign had, went out the window when he made that technical blunder — he would be lucky to get the time of day from them now. “Make your request later or on a secure landline. Control clear.”

Damn them, Teresov thought. First this huge convoy of MSB vehicles rolling down the highway, then suddenly all the radiotelephone lines are jammed by the military. What in the hell was going on? And why hadn’t he been briefed?

The first opportunity he had, he raced around the last remaining vehicles and zoomed to the head of the convoy. He saw several MSB officers in a large camouflaged van in the front, and for an instant Teresov considered ordering the driver to stop and interrogate the commanding officer for his orders. Finally he saw a face he recognized — Colonel Igor Murzuriev, the chief of logistics for the Inter-Republican Council for Security, based in Kaliningrad. What in hell was that paper-pusher out here for? Murzuriev was famous for nothing but his aversion to any sort of hard work. He still considered stopping the van and asking Murzuriev what he was doing — if for no other reason than to find out who or what could have prompted this lardass to get out of bed at this hour and drive all the way across Lithuania to lead this column of equipment.

But he needed to get to the Institute, and being reproached by the radiotelephone operator on a security question that he should know like his own name had taken the fight out of him.

Teresov roared on ahead of the column.

The answers would come soon enough.

The KC- 10 Extender aerial-refueling tanker aircraft dropped off its four receivers sixty miles off the coast of Lithuania after giving the planes — two fixed-wing and two hybrid tilt-rotor — a final fill-up. The refuelings were all accomplished at low altitude — about one thousand feet above the Baltic — because they had to try to avoid the dozens of air-defense radars scanning the skies all around them, from long-range search radars to patrol boats with sea-scanning radars; and they had to fly well below any commercial and military aircraft approaching Riga, Klaipeda, or Kaliningrad.

The KC-10—a huge, modified DC-10 airliner carrying almost enough fuel to take the four aircraft all the way back to the United States-was uniquely suited for this mission, not only because of its massive fuel-transfer capability, but because it could service two different kinds of receiver aircraft on the same mission. The KC-10 had a boom-type refueling probe, a fast, high-volume system standard for larger Air Force aircraft, in which a nozzle at the end of a long boom is inserted into a receptacle in the receiver, and it also had a drogue-type refueling system, common on carrier-based aircraft and helicopters, where a nozzle on the receiver aircraft is inserted into a lighted, basketlike drogue on the end of a long, four-inch-diameter hose reeled out by the tanker.

The Extender accomplished a gentle turn to the north, headed toward Stockholm and away from its four charges, then began a steep climb. As the assault aircraft moved inland, an Air Force E-3C AWACS Airborne Warning and Control System radar plane that had been flying at thirty thousand feet over the Baltic moved along with them, scanning the skies for any sign of attackers or conflicting aircraft in the tanker’s path and keeping the Marine assault package advised of any hostile aircraft nearby as it crossed the Lithuanian coastline. The long-range APY-2 radar on the AWACS plane could maintain radar contact with the Marine Corps aircraft throughout their mission inside Lithuania.

Patrick McLanahan, flying in one of the tilt-rotor assault aircraft, could see the tankers turn away from the formation out the starboard side windows. There was always this feeling of impending doom every time strike aircraft left their tanker, as if the tanker were the last thin string from order to chaos, from peace to war. When the aircraft you rode in did not turn with the tanker, as it sometimes did during training missions, you knew you were heading off into battle…

Before this mission, that usually just meant flying toward a simulated target, wrapped in a fast-moving jet aircraft with stealth hardware and electronic jammers and other crew dogs with their eyes and ears open, scanning for the enemy. It usually meant that McLanahan had his hands on the controls — if not on the flying controls, at least on the controls to a whole planeload of sophisticated attack avionics. Right now all he had his sweaty, clammy hands on was his lap, trying as best he could not to show the others that they were trembling.

Of course, McLanahan had been in combat before. That was how they lost Dave Luger. But putting your life on the line in a high-tech B-52 bomber, skimming the earth at eight miles per minute, was a lot different from going face-to-face with a guy with a rifle. In air combat, nerve was something you needed just to get into the aircraft, or to keep your aircraft flying and fighting when your equipment was going to hell on you. Nerve was something a fighter pilot needed for a split second to try that one last maneuver or one last jink — if it didn’t work, he bugged out and the fight was over.

Nerve was what had earned McLanahan his reputation as the best bombardier in the United States, a fact demonstrated time and time again by long lines of trophies he’d received in navigational and bombing exercises as a B-52 crew member. Pretty good for a guy who wasn’t an Air Force Academy grad, or an engineer, or a test pilot. Unlike most of the pilots at HAWC, who were usually flashy, cocky, and swaggering, McLanahan was quiet, efficient, and totally professional. But a hell of a crew dog. His prowess with the B-52, lovingly called the BUFF (for Big Ugly Fat Fucker) was what had originally brought him to the attention of HAWC’s commander, Brad Elliott, who was developing the Megafortress.

But out here, exposed and vulnerable, McLanahan was finally beginning to realize that nerve was something the infantryman needed every second. It sustained you, protected you, gave you the energy and conviction to go forward. There was no fibersteel skin, no speed, no electronics to protect you out here. Once you were on the ground, you were alone.

But McLanahan wasn’t going in alone — the United States Marines never did anything alone. This assault package contained some of the world’s most sophisticated war machines, all preparing to converge on the capital city of Lithuania.

The lead aircraft in the assault package was an Air Force MC-130H COMBAT TALON II. It was on the books as a cargo aircraft, a typical “trash hauler,” but it was anything but typical. It was fitted with the world’s most sophisticated airborne navigation, terrain, and weather-avoidance systems, along with special target sensors, worldwide communications capability, electronic-warfare jammers and decoys, and special support equipment that allowed it to fly into very heavily defended areas and deliver supplies or insert (or retrieve) personnel. It carried twenty thousand pounds of supplies, mostly for the special-operations troops on this mission, but some were destined for the American Embassy personnel in Vilnius.

The number-two aircraft in the formation was an AC-130U Spectre gunship. The Spectre carried three big guns — one 25-millimeter high first-rate cannon for ground troops and light vehicles, a 40-millimeter cannon for use against light armored vehicles, and a huge 105-millimeter bunker-buster howitzer for buildings and heavy armor, all firing out the left side. The guns were remotely aimed by sensor operators using heat-seeking sensors, telescopic low-light television cameras, and all-weather high-resolution radars. Orbiting over a target area, the Spectre could rain death and destruction on hostile forces with great precision, in any weather. It also carried twelve Hellfire laser-guided rockets, six on each wing on pylons near the wingtips, that could destroy tanks and other targets at much longer range than the cannons.

The last two aircraft, call signs Hammer Three and Four, were not technically part of the assault team, and would not show up on the roster of “Congo” aircraft or crews involved in the mission. Spread out on the right trailing position of the assault formation were two Marine Corps MV-22A SEA HAMMER tilt-rotor aircraft. The MV-22 was the Marine Corps version of the Air Force CV-22 PAVE HAMMER, and the replacement for the venerable CH-46 Sea Knight troop-transport helicopter, which was slated for retirement. Based at Cherry Point Naval Air Station and used extensively on Marine Corps amphibious-assault carriers like the USS Wasp, the MV-22 could take off and land vertically like a helicopter but had the speed, range, and cargo-carrying capability of a turboprop fixed-wing airplane. These two aircraft were modified for low-altitude, terrain-following navigation, precision airdrops, electronic war-fare, and fire suppression.

Unlike their Air Force brothers, these SEA HAMMER aircraft had far more weapons aboard, to provide more close air support for the Marines they carried along. Along with the 20-millimeter Hughes Chain Gun cannon pod on the portside sponson and one twelve-round Stinger heat-seeking missile pod on the starboard-side sponson, which were targeted by a PNVS/NTAS (Pilot’s Night Vision System/Navigation Targeting, Attack System) imaging infrared sensor aimed by a head-pointing fire-control system, the MV-22 also had one 7.62-millimeter Minigun in the’ starboard-side entry door and one Minigun centered in the rear cargo ramp, all to support the Marines.

The first SEA HAMMER carried eighteen Marines, part of the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit (Special Operations Capable), members of the Marines’ elite Assault and Building Clearing Units; the “Hammer” assault team leader, Marine Corps Captain Brian Snyder, his radioman, and his executive officer were riding in the first MV-22. They would command the overall strike on the Fisikous Research Center from the SEA HAMMER aircraft. These Marines were specially trained to enter and search a building. Back at Camp Lejeune, they had trained for over a week on a building similar to the target building in the Fisikous compound. Instead of standard combat BDUs and Corcoran jump boots, they wore black flashsuits with Kevlar body-armor vests and lightweight HiTech sneakers. They wore the new INVADER helmet, nicknamed “Darth Vader” or simply “Vader,” a helmet resembling a bug-eyed pilot’s helmet and oxygen mask. The Vader helmet combined a set of removable night-vision goggles, a gas mask, and a tiny VHF whispermike communications set in a single bug-eyed bulletproof Kevlar helmet.

Their standard weapons were MP5SD 9-millimeter assault submachine guns with infrared flashlights and sound suppressors, and .45-caliber Colt Government Model 1911 Al automatic pistols-Special Operations Capable forces were the only Marines that carried the old “slabsides” .45 automatic. Four Marines carried Hydra automatic grenade launchers, a weapon with a large twenty-round rotary drum that contained high-explosive and fragmentation grenades-the desired-type grenade could be selected and launched with a simple flick of a switch. All of the Marines carried “flash-bang” stun grenades, fragmentation grenades, and CS tear-gas canisters.

Riding in the number-two MV-22 aircraft were another eighteen Marines who composed the landing-zone security team for the Fisikous operation. It was their job to set up a secure landing pad for the two MV-22s. The individual weapons were heavier, designed for better, more sustained hitting power — M-16A2 rifles, 9-millimeter M9 Beretta automatic pistols, 5.56-millimeter M249 FN Minimi Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW) machine guns, LAW antitank rockets, shoulder-fired Stinger antiaircraft missiles, and M79 and M203 40-millimeter grenade launchers.

Under the direct supervision of Marine Gunnery Sergeant Wohl, Patrick McLanahan, John Ormack, and Hal Briggs were assigned to this platoon. It would be their job to identify Dave Luger when the assault team brought him out, and then once the building was cleaned out they would go back in to get any files they could find on the Fi-170 Soviet stealth bomber until things got too hot for the small team. The three officers were also assigned to carry extra grenades and cans of extra ammunition for the SAW machine-gun teams.

As part of the landing-zone security team, the three Air Force officers were armed like any other Marine on their team. They all carried 9-millimeter automatics as sidearms, and Briggs and McLanahan carried M-16 rifles. But because Ormack could never work out the intricacies of the standard infantry rifle, he was given an MP5 9-millimeter submachine gun with thirty-two-round magazines instead — the German-made weapon was virtually soldierproof, very jam-resistant, and easy to operate.

Each officer also had a standard Kevlar infantry helmet, painted black, with infrared I.D. tape on the back, strapped down tightly on his head. An NVG-9 night-vision goggle assembly was attached to the helmet on a swivel mount, with the battery cable leading around the helmet and down the back of the neck to the battery pack on the back of the ALICE harness. Their ALICE harness contained first-aid kids, a KaBar knife, water canteens, extra ammunition, infrared chemical light sticks and tape, and minimal survival gear. Standard-issue Marine Corps fatigues, boots, and gloves — along with carefully applied camouflage makeup — completed their outfit. Like the Building Clearing Team troops, the three Air Force officers wore full Kevlar body armor, front and back. The SAW Security Team Marines wore only lightweight flak vests for protection against flying debris or shrapnel.

Briggs couldn’t wait to get into the action, and he looked it — he seemed to wear the gear comfortably, almost casually. But McLanahan and Ormack were unaccustomed to going into a fight with so much shit strapped to their bodies, and they had trouble making even simple movements like climbing an aircraft boarding ladder or adjusting a lap belt.

Gunnery Sergeant Wohl noticed all this, and the more he noticed the more worried he became.

The infantry company commander in charge of the Fisikous security team, an impossibly young-looking Marine first lieutenant, was on board as well. Wohl and the company commander had been speaking for quite some time when Wohl finally squeezed between the Marines jammed in the cabin and sat down next to the three Air Force officers.

“I thought about this for a long time, sirs,” Wohl said to Ormack and the others after refueling was completed. “I finally spoke with the platoon sergeant and the one-LT.”

Patrick glanced over at the commander of Alpha Company, 2–5 Marines, First Lieutenant William Marx. The guy looked like he was about sixteen years old, with a Kevlar helmet that appeared three sizes too big for him and wearing a .45-caliber Colt automatic on his hip that looked too heavy for him to heft. But he commanded one of only three infantry companies in the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit that had qualified as special operations capable, which was one of the greatest achievements a young commander could aspire to in the Corps. If Wohl, a fifteen-year veteran of the Marine Corps, showed obvious respect for the man, McLanahan had to be impressed. The platoon sergeant, a huge, somber, mean-looking black gunnery sergeant by the name of Trimble, hadn’t spoken two words to the three Air Force officers the entire time they were together.

“The one-LT agreed with my decision,” Wohl continued. “I hate to do this to you, but you two”—he pointed at Ormack and McLanahan—“are not carrying a rifle.”

McLanahan couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. It was as if Wohl had just insulted him. And worse, McLanahan had just started getting used to the thing, although he was far from a master or even qualifying with it. Not being allowed to carry it hurt. But there was no argument— everyone had learned well not to argue with Wohl.

Ormack picked up his MP5, removed the magazine, opened the breech so Wohl could double-check that no round was in the chamber, and handed it over.

McLanahan did the same with his M-16.

Wohl gave the weapons to an Air Force crew chief, who stowed them in a rack within easy reach of the MV-22’s door gunner. “You’ve got your sidearm, and you tested pretty good with it. Captain Briggs will help you guys out.”

McLanahan had the feeling that Wohl was silently saying, And I pray you losers will never have to draw it.

“I didn’t want to carry the damn thing anyway,” Ormack said as he began to unclip the ammo pouches from his ALICE harness and handed the stuff over to Wohl to redistribute through the platoon. “Never got used to it.” His voice seemed distant and hollow.

Hearing Ormack scared McLanahan a bit. Would his own voice sound that way if he spoke right now? He didn’t want to find out, but he had to talk about it. McLanahan nodded toward the other camouflage-suited Marines around them and said to Ormack, “Let those guys handle the shooting. We’ll keep our heads down and get Dave.”

Ormack seemed to like the logic in that, although his averted eyes and hesitant nod showed how many doubts the man really was carrying around inside of him.

The MV-22 made a steep turn and seemed to settle even closer to the ground. Patrick, who was accustomed to flying big aircraft at very low altitudes, didn’t think they could get any closer to the ground, but they did, The winds were gusting and the ride was bumpy, and for the first time in his career he felt the odd queasiness of airsickness.

Hal Briggs seemed to notice it right away, even in the dim red light of the crew cabin. “You’re lookin’ a little green, Muck,” the Air Force security officer said. “Think of eating a lemon — that always helps me.”

‘I’m used to flying low, at night, and in shitty weather,” McLanahan said, “but I’m usually at the controls, or at least I can see outside. Being chauffeured like this isn’t fun. I need a window.”

“I can tell you barf stories that would curl your hair,” Briggs said with a smile, “but that won’t help your stomach. Think of Dave. We’ll see him soon.”

That was their small group’s battle cry over these past few weeks. Whenever they felt like quitting, or were getting frustrated from lack of knowledge, or couldn’t perform some task or feat, to themselves or to one of the others they would say: Think of Dave.

Sometimes, McLanahan thought, life takes truly strange courses. Three weeks ago he was working on modifications to the B-2 stealth bomber they had received in Dreamland. Two weeks ago he had learned that Dave Luger was alive, and hours later he was shooting an M-16 rifle for the first time-the very first time. One week ago he was up to his knees in mud being screamed at by some deranged Marine gunnery sergeant. Now he was sitting in a web seat on a special operations aircraft, wearing a knife and camouflage paint on his face and a big 9-millimeter automatic pistol at his side, flying into Lithuania.

A strange course of events, indeed.

And now he didn’t have the damned rifle anymore. Whether that was an improvement or not, he wasn’t sure.

A few moments later Lieutenant Marx got to his feet and faced the rear of the SEA HAMMER. Holding on to handrails on the cabin ceiling against the constant sway and chopping motion of the plane, he shouted, “Third platoon!”

The Marines responded with an animal-like growl — even the three Air Force officers could not help but let out a yell. After being with the Marines for two weeks, everything about this elite group of warriors rubbed off on them.

“We’re about ten minutes out. Gunny Wohl will go over last-minute instructions. Our mission is simple: go in, locate and secure the zoomie, and control the situation while these three Air Force officers rifle some desks. Fifteen minutes on the ground and then we’ll be off and outta here.”

McLanahan’s ears burned when he heard Marx refer to Dave as the zoomie, but other Marines made it very clear that Luger was little more than a target, a guy to be located and “secured.” But their first priority was to look out for themselves and their buddies. A Marine would risk his life to accomplish the mission, but he would not sacrifice it.

“The Soviets in this research facility hold an American Air Force officer, and they have imprisoned and tortured this officer for many years. The Soviets have denied the existence of this man, but we know he is there. We have been ordered to locate him and retrieve him. Once inside the facility your actions will be swift decisive, powerful, and deadly. We will enter their facility, destroy all opposition, take what is ours, and leave. Above all, use your heads. Think. Stay aware of the situation around you. Communicate. Act. Is that clear?”

There was another loud animal-like growl from the squads.

“What are your questions?” There were none.

“Gunny Trimble, continue the briefing and prepare your men to attack.”

The four-aircraft assault formation was not the only mission going on that night-in fact, it was not even the largest or the primary one. The reinforcement and resupply of the U.S. Embassy in Vilnius was the primary mission, and that had been under way long before the two Marine Corps and two Air Force fast-movers crossed into Lithuanian airspace. The attack on Vilnius had actually started hours before the four aircraft finished their refuelings.

Launching off the Marine amphibious-assault ship Wasp, on station in the Baltic Sea and guarded by six Navy escorts, was the main body of the assault package: eight Marine Corps helicopters. The two Air Force and one Marine Corps fixed-wing aircraft would sweep in over the Lithuanian capital several minutes ahead of the helicopters, making a vital airdrop of supplies into the embassy grounds and countering any ground defenses. Then, when the Marines in the embassy compound were resupplied and ready, the eight-helicopter Marine embassy-reinforcement task force would make their assault.

The armed-escort duties of the Marine-helicopter assault package were handled by four Bell Helicopter-Textron AH-1W Sea Cobra helicopters. The AH-1W was the standard Marine Corps tactical assault-escort helicopter, armed with a steerable 20-millimeter gun in a nose turret, four laser-guided Hellfire air-to-ground missiles for use against heavily armored vehicles, and two AIM-9L Sidewinder heat-seeking air-to-air missiles. These Sea Cobras, call sign Rattler, were also equipped with two external fuel tanks to help extend their range for the long flight through Lithuania.

The primary troop carriers for the assault package were four Marine Corps CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters, call sign Manta. Two of the four huge forty-thousand-pound machines, nicknamed Echoes, carried fifty Marines — two reinforced fire-team companies — and a crew of six, including two pilots, a flight engineer, and three door gunners armed with 7.62-millimeter Miniguns for ground-fire suppression. Instead of troops the third Echo carried thirty thousand pounds of supplies, all for the Marines who would be reinforcing the embassy, plus logistical equipment; and the fourth Super Stallion carried three large, round, rollable fuel bladders, each containing sixteen hundred gallons of jet fuel. Each Super Stallion could be refueled inflight, even at very low altitude or while under attack, by Marine Corps KC-130 tanker aircraft launched out of Germany.

The commander of the entire operation, Marine Corps Major Richard “Boxer” Jurgensen, and three members of his senior staff, rode in the number-one Super Stallion. After years of leading amphibious assault teams, Jurgensen, a tall, lanky, fifteen-year Marine Corps veteran, was leading his first heliborne assault. He was not a tremendous advocate of the Marine special operations concept, and his only concern was that the secret operation over Fisikous not interfere with what he perceived as his number-one priority — the embassy-reinforcement operation.

The five fast-moving aircraft arrived over the city about ten minutes before the helicopters. The AC-130 Spectre gunship arrived over the embassy grounds first and set up an immediate attack orbit five miles in diameter, centered on the embassy, which was in the northwest corner of the city. Bounded by Vytauto Avenue, Tarybu Avenue, Ziugzdos Avenue, and the Neris River, the embassy grounds were easy to spot on radar — especially since the Marines already in the compound put large radar reflectors and infrared beacons on the embassy rooftops to direct the assault formation. The sensor operators on the AC-130 began tracking all known Commonwealth and Byelorussian troop concentrations, storing each discovered weapon and vehicle location into the fire-control computer. With a huge data base of targets already prestored in the computer, gathered from satellite surveillance of the area, the weapons operator could begin his attack by hitting a single button.

Force timing was perfect — as soon as the two armed aircraft set up their defensive orbits, the MC-13 °COMBAT TALON was ready to begin its run. It came in from the northwest, turned, and headed east after crossing Paribio Avenue and the complex of thirty 20-story apartment buildings that overlooked the city and continued east away from the embassy. This was an attempt to fool any pursuers that their target was not the embassy. But there was no pursuit. The COMBAT TALON aircraft headed out another seven miles, paralleling the Neris River, which ran through the northern part of the city, until they passed the Sports Palace and were abeam. Gediminas Tower — the medieval castle built by the Grand Duke — before making a sharp 180-degree left turn and heading for the embassy. Intelligence photos taken by KH-12 satellites showed that Commonwealth troops had lined Dzerzinsky Avenue, the main north-south street in and out of the city, so the COMBAT TALON crews hoped that flying over those troops’ positions from two different directions would confuse them.

Careening in from the northeast now, the MC-130 swept in over the City of Progress free-trade zone and headed toward the embassy. The embassy was located just outside the southwest corner of the City of Progress, on the banks of the Neris. As it came over Lvovo Avenue, the street that defined the northern boundary of the free-trade zone, the MC-130 opened its cargo doors. At Ukmerges Avenue, the MC-130’s crew began ejecting large, parachute-equipped fiberglass cases of food, supplies, water, and weapons into the embassy. Several cases went into the trees, and a few landed on rooftops, but most of the supplies hit their marks perfectly, impacting in the open park / clear fire zone around the ambassador’s residence. The cases were retrieved and dragged inside immediately.

The Marines and embassy personnel already in the compound went to work next. While the Marines set up an aircraft-defense perimeter around the landing zone, the embassy personnel laid out two sixty-foot landing zones, using infrared chemical illumination sticks staked to the ground. One eight-inch-long chemical light stick, visible only by those wearing night-vision goggles, was enough to illuminate the landing zone. As the other Super Stallions orbited nearby, the first helicopter, carrying fifty Marines, Major Jurgensen, and his command staff, landed on the embassy grounds. Racing off the chopper, he trotted over to the set of stairs leading up from the park toward the ambassador’s residence, where a small crowd of people was waiting. Manta Three landed a few moments later.

“Where’s the ambassador?” Jurgensen shouted over the roar of the helicopter.

“Here!” a voice replied. Ambassador Lewis K. Reynolds, a short, mustachioed black man with short salt-and-pepper hair, and glasses, went over to the Marine. “Glad to have you here. You are Major Jurgensen…?”

“Yes, sir, I am. Is everything set up as I requested?”

“Main communications center has been moved to the roof, as you asked,” Reynolds replied. “The Marines set up another desk with radios downstairs, right inside that door.” He pointed toward his residence. “They will act as your flow control for the evacuation.”

Just then, Major Jurgensen’s executive officer came up to him and said, “Sir, Manta Three is down.” Manta Three was the CH-53E that carried the fuel bladders “Hydraulic leak.”

Jurgensen cursed softly. They always planned on losing a certain number of aircraft in every operation, usually every one in four, but when it actually happens it gets frustrating and it always feels as if it’s totally unexpected “They got an ETIC for me?”

“Two hours’ minimum.”

“Crap.” Jurgensen glanced at the stricken helicopter, then at Reynolds. “Is everyone ready to go?”

“Yes, Major. The embassy lieutenant has the list of people going, and here’s the list of people staying. It’s been approved by the State Department.”

“How many to go altogether?”

“Two hundred and three.”

Jurgensen frowned. “That’s about sixty more than they told me about, Ambassador.”

“More civilians showed up than we were told at first,” Reynolds replied. “All women and children. No men.”

Jurgensen paused for a moment, then said, “Well, we just lost one of our evacuation helicopters, so it’s going to be a very tight fit, but we can take them. No one brings any luggage. No carry-ons at all, just themselves.”

“I told them that already,” Reynolds said. “I was in the Marine Corps, back in Vietnam. I know the cargo capacity of the Sea Stallion.”

“Very well. We’ll take sixty-eight per Echo. As soon as we off-load our gear, we’ll start loading up the helicopters.” To his executive officer, he said, “Fold the rotors on Manta Three and get it off the landing pad so we can get the other choppers on the ground. Move.”

Using Jeeps and trucks from the embassy parking lot, the stricken Super Stallion chopper was unceremoniously dragged off between a few trees to make room for other helicopters, its refueling equipment hastily unloaded. The second Super Stallion was refueled, and it lifted off to make room for another bird. Soon the third Super Stallion was on the ground off-loading Marines, and the fourth chopper landed on the second pad and immediately began unloading equipment and supplies. The second helicopter made random orbits over the area, searching for any sign of hostile action. So far, nothing.

When refueling was completed, they began loading civilians onto the helicopters. People had to double up on seat belts and hold on to children, and Marines unceremoniously grabbed large bags and briefcases from staffers ignoring the ambassador’s instructions not to take carry-on luggage, and tossed them onto the embassy grounds. A few staffers and civilians refused to go on the crowded helicopter, and they were removed and a man put in their place. The last helicopter swooped in after the first two lifted off, refueled, another sixty-eight Americans were loaded aboard one of them, and the three helicopters with civilians on board lifted off and headed southwest, being careful to stay away from the Fisikous Institute and the airport on the south side of the city.

“Super Stallions are at the rendezvous point,” Jurgensen’s executive officer reported. “Good. Bring ‘em in,” Jurgensen ordered.

The three Super Stallions would wait in a large clearing far northwest of the city, a spot already selected by satellite reconnaissance and patrolled by Army Special Forces troops on the ground. The AC-130 gun-ship would set up a protective orbit over this spot, destroying any ground vehicles that looked as if they might be a threat. Once the Sea Cobras were refueled, the rotary-wing aircraft would all form a massive air convoy and head for the Polish border, where the unarmed aircraft had already received permission from the Polish government to land. Because the Polish government would not allow any foreign armed aircraft to cross into its airspace, the Sea Cobras and Spectre gunship would continue out to the Baltic Sea, and the AT- 1 Ws would land on the USS Wasp. The AC-130 gunship would return to the embassy to search for any hostile forces moving toward the embassy, then continue on to Rhein-Main, Germany, for recovery. One by one the fuel-starved Sea Cobra attack helicopters came in for refueling.

Jurgensen asked, “What’s the status of the Hammer assault team?”

“Still a go,” the executive officer replied. “All birds in the green.”

“Then be sure to leave enough fuel for them, at least three thousand pounds per,” Jurgensen said. “Reduce the number of Sea Cobra escorts if you have to. Washington wants those Marines and their stuff out of the country.”

The Marines had enough fuel left over to completely top off only two Cobras, so the other two helicopters took reduced fuel loads only. Those two Cobras that were fully fueled would launch and escort the Super Stallions back to friendly airspace. The others were made ready to launch from the embassy grounds, awaiting orders from the White House for any other missions they might be given.

The evacuation had attracted the attention of a large crowd of Lithuanians outside the gates of the embassy, who watched with fascination as the women and children were flown out. They waved gaily at the Sea Cobras flitting overhead, and they cheered as the last Super Stallion lifted off. A few Lithuanian Self-Defense Force soldiers had appeared, but they cheered just as loudly as the rest, looking on with admiration and envy at the well-disciplined Marines at work.

Within forty minutes after the first chopper hit the ground, and without firing a shot, over two hundred American civilians — all of the embassy personnel dependents and a few civilians and staffers — were being flown to freedom. Escorted by the MC-13 °COMBAT TALON aircraft and two AH-1W Sea Cobra attack helicopters, the three Super Stallions immediately headed southwest to the Polish border city of Suwalki, only ninety miles away.

When the embassy assault package turned north to begin its southwesterly run on the embassy grounds, two aircraft — the two Marine Corps MV-22 SEA HAMMER tilt-rotors — peeled off to the south and headed through the center of the city itself. With Gediminas Castle and the wispy, delicate-looking spires of St. Anne’s Church on the right and the hulking twin towers of the Church of Saints Peter and Paul to the left, the two aircraft sped just thirty feet above the apartment buildings, churches, and office buildings of downtown Vilnius. Past Iron Wolf Hill, the birthplace of the capital city of Lithuania, the SEA HAMMER aircraft sped above the Lithuanian Art Museum and the State Youth Theater of Lithuania building, two prominent landmarks, before picking up the railroad tracks in the southern part of the city.

A few minutes later the pilots could see the three huge buildings and hourglass-shaped cooling towers that made up the Denerokin Nuclear Research Facility. “Two minutes to first drop,” they reported.

The announcement surprised McLanahan — in the darkened cargo; hold of the SEA HAMMER aircraft, being tossed, turned, and tilted so’ often, he completely lost all sense of time. He checked that his shoulder harness and lap belts were tight — no need to check his rifle on SAFE anymore, since he wasn’t carrying one — and he gave his Kevlar helmet strap another tug.

Less than sixty seconds to go …

He was really doing it.

They were going to invade …

A few seconds later the rear cargo ramp began to motor down, an McLanahan got his first glimpse of Lithuania — and his first realization of exactly how damned low they were! Their forward velocity ha slowed a bit, but that only served to increase their vertical velocity as the pilots dodged power lines, buildings, and floodlight towers. The noise was incredible. His memory flashed back to a visit of Niagara Falls as a kid, and the sound from the SEA HAMMER’s twin turboprops was very similar to the roar of the falls. A railroad-yard light tower flashed by not twenty feet away, and in the glare of the sudden illumination he could see John Ormack staring straight ahead, his eyes glassy, his left index finger twitching on his lap. McLanahan looked Briggs, and even without the light he could see a shit-eating grin across his face. Hal Briggs was enjoying the hell out of this. Hal Briggs was made for this kind of action.

Hal gave McLanahan a thumbs-up and another grin. Patrick noticed that Hal’s right index finger was already exposed through the tiny shooter’s slit in the glove’s finger — they hadn’t even hit the ground yet and he was ready to pull the trigger.

Teresov stood before the incredible monstrosity and shook his head with an absolute feeling of awe. Yes, he thought, I can see why some men would kill another human being to see this thing fly.

He was standing before the Fisikous-170 Tuman stealth bomber. “Tuman” means “fog,” and the name was appropriate — it looked like a huge gray fog bank. The bottom of the fuselage was well over five meters above ground, and the huge, gracefully curving body stood on tall, thick, landing gears. It was almost sixty-one meters wide, far larger than the American B-52 Stratofortress or B-2 Black Knight stealth bomber, and it had 50 percent more weapons payload capability than the B-2. The manta ray-like body looked thick and not very aerodynamic, but on closer inspection one could see that the fuselage, except along the center, was very thin. The wingtips curled down in a sexy arc, making it appear that the manta ray was flapping its undulating wings.

Teresov smiled, thinking that what was even more surprising than the machine itself was the fact that for the past ten years it was constructed in total secrecy. There had not been, he thought smugly, one word about it in the Western press or in the reports that were sometimes intercepted from Western intelligence agencies on new Soviet equipment. There had been lots of speculation about what was going on inside the three Fisikous hangars, naturally, but nothing else. Even during the political upheavals in Lithuania, the lid had always stayed screwed down tight on Fisikous. It was a testimonial, he thought, to the extraordinary security measures instituted by Viktor Gabovich. Gabovich had his fingers in every government organization in the ex-Soviet Union — anything that had to do with Fisikous, from any branch of the government, went across his desk for review and approval.

Of course, the minute they rolled out the monster from its lair, the secrecy would be over. But with the American B-2 stealth bomber project stalled at only fifteen planes — one squadron, a laughable amount for so advanced a warplane — and numerous other aircraft and weapons programs canceled, the Fi-170 would be a tremendous shock to the world. When they realized that it was truly as effective as it looked, it would throw the Soviet Union — or the Commonwealth of Independent States, or the Belarus Republic, whomever Gabovich and the scientists at Fisikous decided to support — right back into the forefront of modern military technical leadership.

Teresov sensed the approach of the security force commander, Colonel Nikita Kortyshkov. “What did you find out, Colonel?” Teresov asked without taking his eyes off the magnificent machine before him.

“The radios are jammed with traffic,” Kortyshkov replied. “Some breakdown in communications between several outlying bases. Partisan guerrillas may be involved.”

That was a better explanation than others he’d heard — solar flares, a Baltic Sea Fleet exercise, a few others. The people of Lithuania were getting restless. They needed to be taken down another peg, starting with their hometown hero, Dominikas Palcikas. General Voshchanka had to make an example of Palcikas. “I’m interested in that convoy, Kortyshkov, not in the radios.”

“I could not find any specific details on the convoy you saw, sir,’ Kortyshkov said. “But there is a general Commonwealth mobilization under way in the northwest parts of the country, so they may have been deployed very recently.”

“Why has a Commonwealth mobilization been called?” Teresov asked. He still did not know the identity of the MSB troops heading toward Fisikous, but they must be part of whatever was happening tonight. “I was not informed.”

“As I said, sir, the radios are messed up. Several bases are not reporting, and the command network has been disrupted. There’s quite a bit confusion out there. I think the central telecommunications facility in Kaunas has probably had an overload—”

“I’m not interested in your speculation,” Teresov said impatiently “I need concrete data. You can get it for me or you can stand before General Gabovich and try to give him lame excuses and useless speculation. Now about that convoy: did you at least discover if it is destined f Fisikous?”

“Yes, sir. They are approaching the Denerokin gate right now.”

Teresov was already running late — Gabovich would be arriving in a little more than an hour and he hadn’t met with the chief engineers yet. Well, the deployment of MSB troops wasn’t Teresov’s concern right now. No one would get inside Fisikous without proper orders. Teresov would see to it that Gabovich was not delayed w he arrived.

“I want you to personally see to it that whoever commands that convoy has proper orders before he brings one truck inside the gate,” Teresov said. “I will accept nothing less than General Gabovich’s signature on orders. In the meantime make sure that the road is clear for General Gabovich’s arrival. And double the guards around the Tuman until situation with the radios has been resolved.”

The Commonwealth security radio command net was buzzing with orders, queries, and general confusion. “What in hell is going on?” one MSB corporal asked his supervisor.

“They keep on saying there are helicopters over the city, but they’re not sure where or how many,” the sergeant in charge of the security detail, Sergeant Vladimir Mikheyev, replied. “First they say over the Sports Palace, then over the parliament building, then over the City of Progress — wait a minute… now they’re saying four helicopters over the City of Progress and a big fixed-wing over the parliament building. Hell, who knows?”

“Should we ask for confirmation?”

“We already did that and they told us to stay off the air,” the sergeant replied. “No aircraft have been reported south of Traky Avenue, so we don’t go into stage-two alert.”

“Is it the Commonwealth Army? Is it the Byelorussians? What are they doing over the city …?” asked the corporal.

“They never tell us anything anyway — why should they tell us now?” He was interrupted by a telephone call from the outer security gate near the highway. “Sergeant Mikheyev… what? Reinforcements? Yes, that peacock — Major Teresov did mention the convoy. How many trucks…? What do you mean, you don’t know? At least thirty… with a tank and antiaircraft artillery? Led by a colonel? Colonel who? Logistics commander… Murzuriev? Yes, Teresov authorized it, if he’s got orders from Gabovich. Yes, send him on in. Does he want to bring every truck in? Yes? Why doesn’t he bring them in through the south gate…? Don’t be a smartass, Simikov… no, I don’t need to talk to him. I’ll check his orders here. Just remind him we’ll have to check each vehicle individually and it may take a while… yes, you tell him. Out.”

Mikheyev replaced the handset. “Well, something’s going on. Headquarters is sending in a reinforcement company and a colonel, Murzuriev, to deploy around Denerokin. Get me Murzuriev’s access badge.”

The corporal turned to a cabinet with row after row of plastic-laminated restricted-entry badges with small black-and-white photos on them. Anyone wishing entry to the Denerokin facility would have to produce a matching I.D. card and exchange it for the badge. The guards inside the security compound would examine the badges to be sure they matched, then compare the photo to the bearer. The corporal pulled Murzuriev’s photo badge. “I’ve never met Murzuriev before. Wonder what he’s like.”

“He’s a staff weenie that was probably the only one sober enough to do this job when they called,” Mikheyev said. “Just alert the rest of the compound that we’ve got a headquarters colonel coming in. Then call Teresov and tell him the convoy has arrived. We’ll have to secure an area for them to bring their stuff in until the entire crew is checked out.”

Used only by engineers and technicians assigned to the nuclear power plant itself, the northeast Denerokin gate was nonetheless the most heavily guarded entrance to the entire facility. Once past the outer guard post, vehicles entering the plant were stopped inside a large entrapment area, where the occupants were removed and the vehicle searched from top to bottom. The entrapment area ensured that at least one heavy gate was closed at all times on both personnel and vehicles.

A few minutes later the lead truck stopped outside the outer entrapment area gate. An officer dressed in standard green fatigues, wearing a large infantry helmet with MSB insignia, walked to the smaller personnel entry gate. Because he wore the stars of a colonel, he and four other officers — five was the most persons allowed in the badge-check area at one time — were admitted immediately to the entrapment area, but t outer gate remained closed.

The sergeant inside the security bunker saw that the officer wore a thick gray scarf around his neck, partially covering his chin, and the helmet w pulled down low over his eyes, so he couldn’t readily recognize the man — he had the same general height and build of Colonel Murzuriev, and had Murzuriev’s thin little mustache, but it was still hard to be sure. The Colonel stepped up to the large thick bulletproof glass wall in front of the security bunker and said, “Sergeant, Colonel Murzuriev with the reinforcement company from headquarters. Start admitting my trucks immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant opened a small “ticket-door” opening in glass. “Your badge, please.”

“We’re in a hurry, Sergeant,” Murzuriev said. He had removed black leather gloves, placed them on the sill in front of the window, was fishing around in his fatigue jacket pockets for his I.D. card. “You should have been notified of our arrival by headquarters ten minutes ago.

“The radio net is jammed with traffic, sir,” Mikheyev said. “We W ordered to stay off the net. If a message came in, we did not hear it. It take some time to admit all your vehicles.” Just then Mikheyev noticed that all four of Murzuriev’s officers accompanying him were crowd around the bulletproof window, watching what was going on. “Sir, pl remind your staff to stand behind the yellow line. One person at a time near the window.”

Murzuriev motioned for his men to step back. He seemed to be surprised at the news Teresov told him. “What radio traffic? What’s going on?”

“Seems to be helicopters over the city, sir,” Mikheyev replied. “We can’t get any details.”

Murzuriev’s eyes were narrowed in confusion, but he quickly shook it off when he noticed Teresov staring at him. He slipped his photo I.D. card into the ticket-window slot. “I’m not sure what’s happening, either,” he said, “but it probably has to do with why we’ve been called out here. Hurry it up, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” Great, Mikheyev thought. Even a headquarters commander hasn’t a clue as to what’s going on. Mikheyev examined the I.D. card and Murzuriev — they matched. He then put the I.D. card and the restricted-area entry badge together to compare the photos.

They did not match.

The photo ID. and the restricted-area entry badge had been made at the same time, with copies of the same photo to ensure security. Something was wrong here. Not only did the photos not match, they weren’t even relatively close to being similar. Mikheyev couldn’t see the man’s eye color, but the shape of the face was wrong, and the Murzuriev in the restricted-area badge was chubby and soft. This man was big-boned, square, and hard as a rock, although the mustache was similar.

Don’t panic, Mikheyev. the security sergeant told himself. It’s probably a screw-up, or it could be a security test. Headquarters pulls this stuff all the time. Mikheyev could see the man’s sidearm, a Makarov pistol, plus an AK-47 slung over his shoulder — unusual for a battalion commander to be carrying a rifle, Mikheyev thought — but if the stranger was afraid of being discovered, he was making no move for either weapon. They were older weapons, not currently issued or made, but they all looked serviceable.

Mikheyev reached for the alarm button under the table, felt for it, and flipped off its safety cover, but did not press it. If this was a true screw-up, blowing the facility-wide alert horn would be the kiss of death for his career. Better try one more tack to fix this problem — call for a supervisor. “Sir, there seems to be something wrong here,” Mikheyev said, trying to get his young corporal’s attention — it wouldn’t look good for the corporal s back to be turned if this was a test. “Did you have your ID. card changed recently?” It looked fairly new, and Murzuriev hardly ever came to Denerokin.

“Yes, I have, Sergeant.” If this was an intruder, Mikheyev thought, he was as cool as an icicle. Not one twitch, not one nervous swallow, not one millimeter’s move toward a weapon. Murzuriev continued. “Everyone his badge changed every year-you know that. Now let’s get going. I have to report in to headquarters in three minutes.”

“Your restricted-area entry badge was not replaced when your photo ID. card was changed, sir,” Mikheyev said. “I’ll have to call my shift supervisor. Please stand by.”

“This is ridiculous, Sergeant.” Murzuriev motioned to the line of trucks outside the entrapment area. “I’ve got an entire battalion waiting.”

“This will only take a minute, sir. I only need approval from my superior — there will be no delay.” The four officers accompanying Murzuriev had stepped back away from the window, back almost to the outer gate, ten meters away. Why had they done that? Mikheyev wondered. Then he looked outside the tall fence and saw over a hundred soldiers from four of the trucks outside the entrapment area quickly jumping out of their trucks, rifles in hand. They tried to hide behind the trucks, out of view of the security cameras, but not all of them succeeded.

A surge of panic seized Mikheyev. Momentarily forgetting about the alarm button, he looked at Murzuriev inquisitively. “Excuse me, sir, but what are your men—”

“Is there something wrong, Sergeant?” the Colonel asked.

“No, sir. Please stand by.” The phone was a few meters away from the desk. Hit the alarm button or call the duty officer? Mikheyev opted for the latter. But when he tried to close the “ticket” window, he found that Murzuriev had placed the fingers of his black leather gloves in the slot; preventing the metal door from completely closing. “Sir, please remove your gloves from the slot…”

Instead, Murzuriev stuck a large knife in the slot, jamming it completely open. Before Mikheyev could pull his sidearm or hit the ala button, Murzuriev had rolled a tear-gas canister inside the slot. The g instantly filled the security bunker with a blinding yellow fog. He then withdrew his knife to prevent any of the gas from escaping. In fifteen seconds, unable to see or breathe, the two OMON guards had no choice but to open the door — but not before sounding the alarm.

Dominikas Palcikas, who had disguised himself as Murzuriev, turned to the four officers behind him and said in Lithuanian, “Now.”

Simultaneously, snipers arranged along the outer fence shot out security cameras inside the fence that scanned the entrapment area. At the same instant, explosives were stuck onto the remote-controlled locks on the gates, and seconds later the entrapment area was wide open. Trucks began rolling into the compound immediately.

Palcikas cut open the locking mechanism to the steel turnstilelike gate to the inner driveway beside the security bunker, then used a small amount of composition C4 explosive and blew the lock on the door to security bunker. He rushed inside just as the direct phone to the security headquarters building near the aircraft-design area rang. With his over his nose to block the gas, he picked it up and said, “East gate. Sergeant Mikheyev.”

“Mikheyev?” The person on the other end immediately questioned the voice he heard, but he was obviously too excited to pursue his doubts. “We lost contact with five of your forward surveillance cameras, and the status indications on your gates all show red. What’s going on?”

“All under control here. Inadvertent alarm. I’ve got video on my monitors, and all my lights are green. I’ve got all gates closed and one truck in the entrapment area. Must be a circuit problem at your end. Should I hold Colonel Murzuriev’s detail outside until you get it checked?”

“Of course. That is the proper procedure. Stand by for authentication.”

“East gate standing by.” Palcikas knew that each guard detail had a code that was changed every shift, and it was simple enough to be memorized. Mikheyev wouldn’t have written it down — he was too experienced for that. The young corporal might have written it down, but there was no time to search for it. Palcikas dashed out of the bunker just as the last truck was rumbling inside. He withdrew a radio from a coat pocket: “Battalion two, report.”

“Main gate secure,” came the reply. “Minimal resistance.”

“Battalion three, report.”

“Southwest gate secure. No resistance. Rail yard secure.”

“Battalion four, report.”

“West gate secure. Still moving in.” Battalion four’s target was the Fisikous aircraft-design facility; because this was guarded even more heavily than Denerokin, Battalion four had an extra five hundred men along, which slowed them up considerably. But they were armed more heavily than any other strike unit and outnumbered the Black Beret troops stationed there at least three to one.

“BTR incoming!” someone screamed. Palcikas whirled around. The breach in the entrapment-area gate brought an immediate response — a BTR-60PB armored personnel carrier careened down the main road from Its Position watching the gate and opened fire on the trucks rushing through the gate.

The first truck, carrying sixty Lithuanian soldiers, was raked with 12.7-millimeter cannon fire.

Palcikas’ security teams opened fire with their heaviest antitank weapon an antitank grenade propelled from an AK-47 by firing a bullet which ignited the grenade’s rocket motor, but the projectiles all missed or the gunners were cut down by machine-gun fire before they could get into position.

“Move the T-62 up here. Now!” Palcikas ordered. “Take it through the fence!”

Palcikas’ troops had already unloaded the T-62 tank from its flatbed trailer. It was an older, less capable version of the Soviet Union’s main battle tank, and in a pitched battle with other tanks it would come out the loser; but in urban warfare, with room to maneuver, it was a devastating weapon. The T-62 rumbled off its flatbed, wheeled left, and plunged through the twelve-foot-high chain-link fence as if it were made of pine pickets. The main cannon of the BTR-60 swung around and began peppering the T-62 with shells, which allowed the Lithuanian gunners to surround the BTR, refine their aim, and make a few direct hits on it. The armored personnel carrier unloaded ten Black Beret soldiers just as the T-62 opened fire with a single high-explosive round, which blew the BTR-60 over in a spectacular backwards cartwheel.

Bent on revenge, Palcikas’ men made short work of the Black Beret soldiers who tried to find cover.

Palcikas tried not to look, but his eyes were drawn to the truck that had been hit by gunfire from the BTR. He saw at least ten dead and all the rest wounded, some horribly so. So far the task he had set out for himself and his men had seemed relatively easy. They had captured dozens of communications centers, armories, air bases, supply depots, and garrisons that night, with only minor casualties — but now the full force of what he was doing began to hit home. Lithuanians, mostly seasoned troops but some just wide-eyed boys, were dying and being maimed in large numbers that night. And for what? For his own revenge? For some unattainable dream? What right did he have to do this …?

But his men answered that question for him. Despite their first horrible.. taste of battle, despite their sudden, shocking losses, the men began to cheer as the Vytis, the war banner of the Grand Duke of Lithuania, was hoisted above the security bunker. This was what they were fighting for, Palcikas reminded himself. Lithuania would never be free until the people threw off the tyrants that invaded their homeland, until they developed: the strength to fight off their enemies. That was what he was doing. He was driven by revenge, by the urge to punish the Soviets for holding his people hostage and murdering them indiscriminately. But he was doing this for Lithuania’s future. Nothing more.

“All right,” Palcikas shouted to his officers, “they’re going to sound the alarm any second. Battalion four is not in position yet, but we can’t wait for them. Take your positions and get ready to repel enemy forces. I want—”

Just then, Palcikas’ radioman reported, “Helicopters approaching, sir No I.D. made yet, but definitely heading toward Fisikous. Not scouts — full-sized choppers. Five minutes out, no more.”

“All right. Alpha Company continues to the security headquarters building at top speed,” Palcikas ordered. “Bravo Company splits up into platoons and surrounds the power plant on the north, east, and west sides. Charlie Company sets up right here, right now. Air-defense batteries first, then antiarmor stuff. Let’s move it — time is running out.”

Just outside the northeast gate of the Fisikous complex, atop the low railroad-yard warehouses on Dariaus Avenue, two figures dressed in ordinary worker’s blue coveralls lay in a tiny crawlspace in the attic of one of the older, abandoned warehouses.

But they were not workers.

“Shit the bed, looks like half a battalion going in the Denerokin gate,” Sergeant Charles Beaker said. He was peering through a large StarLight night-vision telescope at the scene at the northeast gate, furiously writing down everything he saw on a thick pad of paper.

“I need numbers and I.D., Beak, not your damned commentary,” Sergeant First Class Ed Gladden said. He and his partner were members of a Special Forces “A-Team,” part of a U.S. Army Special Forces Group scattered throughout Lithuania, Latvia, Russia, and Byelorussia and assigned to various places to conduct surveillance on key parts of the city and the surrounding area. They and almost one hundred other Special Forces members had been camped out in various hellholes like that warehouse crawlspace, reporting everything they saw to U.S. Special Operations Command headquarters in Germany via satellite uplink.

In preparation for the assault on the Fisikous facility and the embassy reinforcement, several Special Forces A-Teams — fluent in Russian and Lithuanian and specially trained in intelligence, engineering, and covert reconnaissance — had been sent into Vilnius to prep the area for the American troops’ arrival by reporting on Soviet troop movements and positioning. Gladden was preparing another report on the appearance of troop-carrying trucks at the Denerokin security gate. “Whatcha got?”

“Thirty-four vehicles, Sarge,” Beaker replied. “One Jeep with the commander, one two-ton van that looks like a radio or command post van, three tracked vehicles that look like… Jesus, they look like Zeus-23s.”

“Get off it, Beaker.”

“That’s what they look like to me, Sarge. Like a ZSU-23-4 gun. There’s a ten-ton truck following behind that looks like it could be the ammo truck.”

Gladden was beginning to get very, very nervous. Beaker was excitable, but he was trained and disciplined to be accurate as well. The ZSU-23-4, nicknamed Zeus, was a Soviet tank that had four 23-millimeter cannons mounted on its turret. Guided by radar or heat-seeking sensors, it could fire a lethal cloud of bullets out to two miles and was a threat to any aircraft flying below twelve thousand feet. Zeus was standard armament for a Commonwealth Army infantry battalion. Why would the MSB— the interior security forces, consisting mostly of ex-KGB and Soviet Troops of the Interior soldiers — have such a weapon?

Beaker continued. “Four ten-tonners that could be power generators or ammo trucks, nineteen five-ton troop carriers, a couple water trucks, a fuel truck, a flatbed with a bulldozer, and a flatbed with a T-62 tank. They all got MSB markings on them.”

Gladden was encoding the data as quickly as he could — Beaker could help, but he had to keep on watching the gate. The MSB, the newly formed Inter-Republican Council of Security, was the Commonwealth organization that had replaced the Soviet Troops of the Interior, the KGB, and GRU, or military intelligence. Their responsibility was mostly internal and institutional security. But because of their violent, repressive heritage, the MSB’s activities in the Commonwealth had been severely curtailed, and in independent Lithuania they had been all but outlawed. Now this MSB unit had heavy infantry weapons. How? Why …? “A tank, troops out the wazoo, and air-defense guns? Sounds like an invasion force,” grumbled Gladden.

“No, we’re the invasion force,” Beaker said. “Looks like the Commonwealth found out about us. This is the stuff I’d send to fight off a Marine Expeditionary Unit invasion.”

Beaker was right on, but something still nagged at Gladden’s mind. “But the other squads tracked this convoy coming out of the south barracks and out of the Nemencine reserve barracks to the northeast, not the central barracks,” Gladden mused, remembering the coded messages received earlier from the other Special Forces units. “If there was an alert, why wouldn’t we have heard from our unit covering the central Vilnius barracks before now?”

“You got me,” Beaker said. “Maybe they’re saving the central corps for something else.”

“There is nothing else more important than Fisikous and Denerokin,” Gladden said. “The Commonwealth would order the MSB to protect Fisikous at all costs. What gives?”

“A little disorganized, that’s all,” Beaker offered. “They’re still responding, with really heavy shit, and responding pretty damned fast. This is going to be … holy shit!”

“What?”

“Riflemen coming out of the trucks … trying to get a count … ten, maybe a dozen … but they’re aiming into the security compound!”

Gladden resisted the urge to tell Beaker to move aside so he could look through the StarLight telescope — Beaker was trained at observation and grabbing the ‘scope would waste time. “Are the Marines over the compound yet?”

“No, no sign of them,” Beaker replied. “They … damn, they’re shooting! They’re shooting out the security cameras!”

Gladden immediately wrote a PAUSE, then a STBY ACTION message in code and sent what he had already coded. The U.S. Embassy would receive the transmission, and their computers would automatically relay it to other units and to U.S. European Command headquarters in Germany. The STBY ACTION phrase would let them know that something else was happening and that important details would follow. “What do you got, Beak?”

“Something’s happening at the guard bunker … I can barely see it, but… I see flashes of light near the gate. There might be a firefight going down, or small explosives… gate’s opening… outer gate is open … inside gate is open too. Trucks are rolling inside.”

“That’s a major breach of security,” Gladden said. “We’ve never seen both gates open at once like that.”

“Guys are just running in and heading off towards the power plant,” Beaker said. “Trucks are rolling in fast. No I.D. checks, no badge swaps — they’re just barreling in as fast as they can move. They… holy shit, the newcomers are getting hosed by an armored personnel carrier! A BTR from inside the compound is shooting at the newcomers! What in hell is going on?”

“What else is going—”

“Oh, man, the T-62 engaged…” Gladden heard a tremendous boom! followed by a crash of steel on steel and a thundering explosion. “Christ, the T-62 just blew the BTR away. Man, that was awesome … the newcomers are mopping up the crew from the BTR. Who are those guys?”

Gladden was considering breaking cover and trying to get closer to the gate — a foolish idea, but under the circumstances it might be necessary— when the PRC-118 command radio crackled to life. It was the first time either of them had heard uncoded voice messages on that radio: “All units, this is Yellow, I’ve got at least a battalion entering the west gate near the hangars. Two T-62s, several combat tractors, and what appears to be antiaircraft-artillery vehicles. Firefights inside the facility. The newcomers have raised some kind of Lithuanian flag and are attacking the guard posts and MSB positions.”

No one ever wanted to be the first to break radio silence, but once it was broken, it was best to get your info out as fast and as orderly as possible, then strive to regain radio silence. Gladden found the microphone and began: “All’ units, this is Blue. I’ve got at least a half battalion entering Denerokin gate. Thirty-four vehicles, estimated one thousand troops. Heavy fighting between defense forces and unidentified newcomers. I’ve also got a T-62 and four ZSU-23-4 antiaircraft-artillery batteries moving into the compound. I say again, antiaircraft-artillery batteries inside the compound…”

“Hey, he’s right — they raised a flag,” Beaker called out excitedly. “It’s not a Lithuanian flag, but it’s that other one — what do they call it? — the red one with the knight on a charging horse?”

“A Vytis,” Gladden told Beaker. “Shit, this looks like a civil war busting out.” He keyed his microphone: “I concur with observations— these newcomers appear to be Lithuanian partisans engaging MSB troops. God help us.”

The lights flickered momentarily, then brightened, then dimmed, then went out for several seconds. Emergency battery-powered lights snapped on. Over the building-wide public address system came the announcement: “All personnel, report to briefing room. All personnel, report to briefing room immediately.”

The lone guard outside Luger’s cell leaped to his feet at the announcement. What in hell was going on? PA announcements were never heard in the Zulu area-this must be a real emergency. He picked up his AK-74 rifle, then went over to the locked cell where the prisoner was being held and opened up the eye-level shutter to check on him. What the guard saw in that miserable little cell made him sick despite himself.

It was not really a cell, only a ten-by-ten windowless room hastily built with concrete blocks along one wall of the lowest subfloor of the building’s basement. It had no heat, no lights, no water, nothing-four smooth walls, a low smooth ceiling, and a steel door that swung outward. The prisoner — the guard did not know who he was, but heard that he was one of the scientists assigned to Fisikous — was lying on a waterbed, with only thin Velcro restraints across his chest and arms. His eyes and nostrils were taped closed, a pair of headphones were taped to his ear, and a large plastic. tube was taped into his wide-open mouth. A strange electronic contraption intravenously pumped liquids from plastic bags into his body — amphetamines or some other psychoactive drugs, the guard surmised, because he thought the prisoner was never allowed to sleep. The electronic device also controlled the cassette tape recorder, and the guard guessed that the device had been pre-programmed to administer drugs, noise, and propaganda to the prisoner. Occasionally the guard could hear faint sounds from the headphones, a cacophony of loud music, voices, sounds of violence and death, and then nothing.

Whatever the drugs and the music were, it was making the prisoner’s body twist in sheer agony, but he had no strength to break free of his bonds. His head would thrash about from the pain, and sometimes the convulsions that racked his body were severe enough to double him up, but he never rolled off the bed. The prisoner was rail-thin, gaunt, with horribly sunken eyes, a thin neck, and crusted and swollen lips. He shivered constantly. The prisoner was never given any solid food, so the guard never recalled seeing the KGB medics cleaning up after him.

“Attention, all duty personnel, report to the first-level ready room immediately!” the announcement repeated. “All special-duty personnel, report to the third-floor director’s office.” The guard was sure there was trouble now — he had to report to Gabovich’s office. He shook his head and snapped the inspection shutter closed, silently praying that he would never do anything so dumb or screw up so badly that General Gabovich would ever subject him to torture like that.

What the guard failed to notice, however, was that when the lights went out briefly in the subfloor of the Fisikous Design Center Security Building, the computerized monitoring device turned itself off, and it failed to automatically come back on when the power came back.

For the first time in many days, the barrage of electronically delivered noise in David Luger’s head stopped.

David Luger was awake — in fact, he had not been allowed to sleep since he was brought down to that chamber of horrors. When the noise would stop and he would drift off into sleep, the voices would speak to him, softly and slowly at first and then louder and faster, until he would be awakened, screaming, to unrecognizable sounds of chaos. The pattern would repeat itself over and over. His mouth was dry from breathing through the tube. He could feel restraints on his chest and wrists, but they felt incredibly heavy, like huge steel manacles.

But now, there was an unearthly silence, and he was awake. Luger consciously forced himself to breathe easier and try to relax. After several long minutes — even noticing the passage of time was an incredible relief — he was able to poll his own body and take stock of himself. His muscles trembled as if he were on a severe caffeine buzz, but his fingers and toes seemed to respond. He was not blind — his eyes were covered, as were his ears. He strained against one of the restraints on his wrists and heard the familiar rip of Velcro. In seconds, with happiness and a surge of power flooding through his head, he ripped his restraints free, and moments later Luger was free. He ripped the headphones and eye coverings loose, then carefully withdrew the intravenous needle from his right arm.

He had never heard a public-address loudspeaker announcement down here in his cell. Except for the Russian language — now as understandable to him as English after all these years — it sounded…

… Exactly like the announcements he used to hear at the B-52 alert facility back at Ford Air Force Base in Sacramento.

God, he thought, that seemed like another lifetime ago. What was that announcement about? It must be serious, because Luger had never heard any others until now.

Luger allowed himself the luxury of a little hope. Was it a rescue attempt? Would they find him down here? He had no way of signaling anyone, no tools or devices to make noise against the eight-inch-thick concrete. It was hopeless. There had to be hundreds of troops in this building. It would take a full-scale infantry assault to breach the security here, and the United States would never attempt such a thing to rescue one long-lost man whom they probably suspected of being a traitor, or worse, had simply forgotten all about.

Luger shook his head, trying to remain positive. Stuck in isolation, in the dark, in these conditions, it was easy to let supposition and negative thoughts overwhelm you, but he was determined that it wouldn’t happen to him. He remembered his POW training, and held fast to the tenets of survival that he’d learned then. He’d been down for so long now, the only way to go emotionally was up. After the Lithuanian agent had made contact with him — God, how many weeks ago was that? — Luger had stopped eating the tainted food Gabovich had put in his diet and the drugs had finally washed themselves out of his body. They had obviously been drugging him again — he could feel the amphetamines coursing through his body, making his eyelids and fingers twitch — but physically he felt all right. It was important to guard his mental health now. Whatever was happening now, whatever was in store for him later, Luger knew he had an opportunity — now was the time to take it.

The primary thing he had been telling himself was not to let his own fears condemn him. Survival was primary. Survival was everything. He had to concentrate on preparing himself for rescue. When the rescue attempt came — and he had a feeling it would be soon — he had to make sure he would not burden his rescuers. If they had to carry him out, it could mean death for all of them.

Luger struggled out of the waterbed and stumbled to his feet. His legs felt rubbery and weak, but he was standing upright and he could feel that shakiness slowly leaving his tortured body. He even attempted a few simple stretching exercises, and found his back and his arms wobbly but strong. But the most important exercise was the one going on in side him, the one that said over and over: Don’t Give Up. Don’t Give Up. Don ‘t Give Up.

The number-one MV-22 SEA HAMMER aircraft, carrying the Marine First and Second platoons, raced across the railroad yards northeast of the Fisikous compound, across the northeast gate, just north of the Denerokin nuclear research facility, and arced south toward the three large buildings on the west side — the two aircraft hangars and the engineering center that made up the Fisikous Aircraft-Design Bureau. Just to the northeast side of the fenced-in compound was the security force headquarters, including the Fisikous security detail’s arsenal, communications center, and detainment facility. This was the assault team’s target.

“Hammer flight, Congo Two,” the AC-130 Spectre gunship radioed to the second MV-22. “I’m showing several columns of vehicles surrounding your target area. Be advised, I think your PZ may be hot. Repeat, your PZ may be hot…

“Message from Congo Two, sir,” the radioman passed along to Lieutenant William Marx, the commander of Alpha Company in Hammer Four. “Clear-text messages from field units. He’s tracking several columns of vehicles surrounding the Fisikous target area. He thinks the pickup zone may be hot. Vehicles include a ZSU-23-4 air-defense artillery.”

Patrick McLanahan’s ears pricked up when he heard that—every flyer in the world knew about the ZSU-23-4’s murderous reputation.

First Lieutenant Marx shook his head in disbelief. “Where the hell did all these extra vehicles come from?” he murmured.

It was the most agitated McLanahan had ever seen the young officer. Special operations with small, lightly armed forcei relied solely on two things to ensure success: scrupulous intelligence and precise knowledge of the objective, and speed. Having a large, as yet unidentified force suddenly show up right under your nose, especially with such a devastating weapon as the ZSU-23-4, which was usually not deployed inside the Fisikous compound, is a special ops commander’s worst nightmare. “Satellite photos don’t show a thing except for the regular Commonwealth garrisons in the city. He got a count yet?”

“Just coming in. He’s saying one, perhaps two battalions, sir. Over a hundred vehicles on all sides. Some already in the facility.”

“Two battalions? That’s impossible. The Commonwealth had only two battalions in the entire country twelve hours ago! I can’t believe it, but it looks like the Soviets might have moved the Byelorussian Army in on us. That’s the only army that could have mobilized and moved into the area so fast.”

“But how?” Gunnery Sergeant Wohl asked. “It takes time to move that many troops from the frontiers into the city. The embassy would have reported something, and sure as hell our satellite imagery would have spotted them.”

“Well, they didn’t,” Marx said irritably. “The old heads keep on telling me not to trust the ‘birds’ for Intel, and I’m starting to believe them.” He thought for a moment, then turned to Trimble and Wohl and asked, “Well, Snyder’s going to call any second. What do you want to do?”

“We got no choice,” Trimble said, his voice ringing with authority even over the noise in the SEA HAMMER’s cabin. “The gig is blown. Let’s land in the embassy, get reports from the Special Forces guy in the city, and replan.”

“But Luger dies in the meantime,” Patrick McLanahan interjected.

Marx riveted McLanahan with an exasperated glance and said, “This doesn’t concern you, McLanahan.”

“Like hell, Lieutenant, McLanahan said. He was unaccustomed to pulling rank on anybody, but Patrick thought this was a good time to try it even though he had felt vastly inferior to everyone he had encountered in the past three weeks. “Your mission is to get David Luger out of that prison.”

“The Lieutenant said button it,” Trimble growled.

“Your rank means nothing here, McLanahan,” Marx said, cutting off his platoon sergeant, “as does your opinion. We’ll decide—”

“An American military officer that has been tortured for years in that place will be executed if we don’t go in there, Lieutenant,” McLanahan shouted over the roar of the wind whistling in the cargo section. “We’ve come too far to turn back. Luger will die.”

“He’s dead already, McLanahan,” Trimble said. “If the Byelorussian Army was ordered into Fisikous, the first thing they’d do is execute all foreign prisoners.”

“You don’t know that,” John Ormack interjected.

“That’s standard operating procedure for them,” Trimble said.

“We’ve got to go in anyway,” McLanahan insisted. “We can’t leave him, not when we’re so close.”

“It doesn’t work that way around here, McLanahan,” Marx said. McLanahan could tell that he hit a nerve with Marx by continually referring to Luger by his human name instead of the “target” and the “objective.” Trimble was completely unaffected. “If there’s any hope for success, it has to be planned to the smallest detail. Men will die if we don’t take everything into account.”

“A man will die if you don’t finish the mission,” McLanahan said angrily. “Send in the AC-130 to suppress fire around the security building — the embassy evacuation and reinforcement should be over by now. Call in your air cover. The AV-8s can be over the city in fifteen minutes!”

“We’re not authorized to use the fighters,” Marx explained. The AV-8B Harrier II ‘jump jets” were deployed on the USS Wasp amphibious assault carrier stationed in the Baltic. The upgraded Harrier attack jets could attack heavily defended targets with pinpoint precision at night or in bad weather, they could take off and land like helicopters, and they could put a lot of bombs and rockets on target with pinpoint precision — they were designed from the start to support Marines during an invasion. “The Harriers are on standby to support the embassy reinforcement only. This is a non-mission, McLanahan, and we can’t just start sending in planes.”

“Then we’ll forget about stealing stuff on the Fi-170 stealth bomber. The building clearing and I.D. is supposed to take seven minutes. Seven minutes to save an American’s life. We can get Dave Luger out and be off before they know what hit them.”

“Shut your mouth, McLanahan,” Trimble ordered. “You don’t know shit about this operation!”

“Let the Colonel talk, Trimble,” Hal Briggs said, rising to his feet and staring down Trimble. Hal did not need to hold on to a handrail or the bulkhead to steady himself — it was as if all turbulence and noise had vanished when he stood.

The challenge was unspoken but obvious. Briggs was as tall but not as big as Trimble, but apparently Briggs’s reputation preceded him — or else it was the surprise of seeing the Air Force officer challenging him. In either case, Trimble hesitated, his eyes briefly wide with surprise, before saying, “You wanna fuck with me, Briggs? Go ahead. Take your best shot.”

It seemed like a ridiculous scene — they were speeding over a foreign and hostile country, enemy soldiers below them, aerial death on the way, noise and vibration so great that it was hard to think straight, mere feet away from hitting a tree or crashing into a five-hundred-year-old castle, and Trimble was trying to goad Briggs into taking a swing at him. But life and death was a serious affair for these Marines, and they didn’t want hassles from three outsiders. Briggs had little chance against a trained killing machine like Trimble, but Trimble’s slight hesitation in front of Briggs spoke more than any threat or action.

Marx defused it: “Shut the fuck up, all of you, right now.” Just then, the radioman handed Marx the radio handset, and Marx took it as Trimble and Briggs glared at each other, practically nose-to-nose in the cramped, soldier-filled compartment. “Hammer Four, go.”

“I’m recommending we abort,” Marx heard Captain Snyder say. Marx looked at McLanahan then at Trimble, thought for a moment. “Hammer Four, you there?” asked Snyder.

“Affirmative… I recommend we proceed. Our pax want to proceed as well. Suggest we bring in Congo Two over the target for fire support.”

“We’re showing a battalion of hostiles rushing into the facility, Hammer Four. We’ve lost touch with the situation.”

Marx could tell that Snyder wanted to continue as well — the Captain was never this indecisive unless logic and the book were conflicting with his gut feeling. If he really wanted to abort, he would have just ordered Hammer Three to turn around — Hammer Four would have followed, and the mission would be over. Marx said, “Our timeline is still intact as long as the newcomers don’t storm the target building. With Congo Two We can keep the bad guys away until we get the target. I recommend we proceed.”

The pause was only momentary this time: “Stand by.” There was dead air for about fifteen seconds; then: “Hammer Four, we’ll take one extra turn around the city to let Congo Two in. I’ll be on the horn with home base. Stand by.”

The five-hundred-man Black Beret security force on duty at the headquarters was prepared for all sorts of emergencies, especially after the riot at the Denerokin facility. They had contingency plans for saboteurs, terrorists, accidents, natural disasters, civil disturbance, even a hostile occupation by well-armed left-wing radicals — everything but a full-scale military invasion force. Fisikous was supposed to be impenetrable. Who would dare try to take the base? Even without the pledge of support from the Byelorussian Army — which was supposed to begin an invasion of Lithuania — the security forces under General Gabovich and Colonel Kortyshkov were ready for any eventuality…

… But they weren’t ready for an invasion by the Lithuanian Self-Defense Force under its charismatic Soviet-trained leader, General Dominikas Palcikas.

Palcikas didn’t want a bloodbath in Fisikous, but with unknown and potentially hostile aircraft on the way, he wasn’t going to play games with the garrison at the Denerokin facility. Third Battalion had joined up with Fourth Battalion, and they were going up against the Black Berets’ heavy armor protecting the Institute. Second Battalion joined up with Palcikas’ First Battalion, and Palcikas quickly surrounded the garrison building. The faster he could capture the Black Berets’ security-force headquarters, the faster the remaining forces would surrender.

Palcikas pulled one of his T-62 main battle tanks up in front of the commander’s front window, lowered the four-and-a-half-inch muzzle, and blew out the entire office and part of the front of the building with a single sabot round. The Soviet security-force commander immediately ordered his men in the garrison to surrender. Good thing they did, because except for a few white phosphorous rounds, the T-62 had no more ammunition.

The siege had lasted only a few short minutes. Palcikas’ men, forgetting caution and procedures in their happy rush toward their objective, rushed the garrison en masse with guns blazing. The sloppy but direct approach worked. A few Lithuanians were wounded, but it was obvious the troops inside were not aching for a fight after being rattled by a T-62 wakeup call, and the OMON Black Beret troops surrendered.

Palcikas soon faced the OMON deputy commander, Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Ivanovich Stepanov, who had been dragged out of a basement backup communications facility. “Greetings, Colonel Stepanov,” Palcikas said when the Black Beret commander was dragged before him. “You and your men will surrender to me immediately.”

Stepanov was so shocked and disoriented that for several moments he could do nothing but gape at Palcikas. After a few moments of stuttering he cried out, “Palcikas, what in hell do you think you are doing?”

“I am in command of this facility now, Colonel,” Palcikas said. “I order you to—”

“You… pompous… strutting… Lithuanian bastard!” Stepanov shouted. The guards tightened their hold on Stepanov’s arms, but he continued. “You will release me and my men and lay down your weapons immediately!”

“No, Colonel. The Black Berets no longer control Fisikous or any of the Soviet defense posts in Lithuania. My men control them.”

Stepanov looked skeptical at first, but seeing the sheer number of men Palcikas had and how well they were armed seemed to slowly convince him.

To Colonel Zukauskas, his second-in-command, Palcikas said, “See to it that all prisoners are strip-searched for weapons and all are handcuffed. Secure the officers in a separate room and post guards inside and out. Colonel Stepanov will be secured by himself in a separate room.” To Stepanov, Palcikas said, “You will be allowed to speak with your men before being separated from them, Colonel. I advise you to tell them not to resist. I will give my men specific instructions to shoot any man, officer or enlisted, who fails to follow orders. If you do not resist, I promise that you will not be harmed, you will be treated fairly, you will be given rations and personal items equal to my own men, you will not be used as hostages or human shields, and at the first opportunity those who wish to leave Lithuania will be safely escorted to the Russian border. If you resist, you will be treated like barnyard animals and caged up. Is that clear?”

“You will be executed by firing squad for this, Palcikas!” Stepanov cried as his hands were secured behind his back by plastic handcuffs. “You will be executed for this!”

“This is not treason — this is a revolution, Colonel,” Palcikas said simply. “We will show you the difference. Now, where is Colonel Kortyshkov? I wish to pay my respects to him as well.”

“Go to hell, Palcikas!”

“No doubt I will see you all there,” Palcikas said. “Where is Kortyshkov?”

“We will not cooperate with you, Palcikas! You’ve never dealt with OMON before. We don’t crack like you Lithuanian tit-suckers.” A deranged smile ran across his face; then: “We don’t bleed like you Lithuanian faggots do, either—”

A lifetime’s worth of rage finally burst from Palcikas’ heart, and before anyone could stop him he had grabbed Stepanov away from his guards, lifted him in his left fist, and had flattened him with a single punch from his right. His nose shattered, dazed and bleeding, Stepanov collapsed onto the floor in a heap.

“Secure him in his own stockade,” Palcikas ordered. “Find who is second in rank and bring him to me.” Stepanov and his officers were led away.

“The arsenal was stocked for World War Three,” one of Palcikas’ officers reported a few minutes later. “We’ll be able to keep the battalion armed for at least three days. We even have a few more rounds for the tank.”

“Have the armorers and ordnance disposal teams check it out before distributing it,” Palcikas warned. “Every captured weapon and round has to be checked — they could have sabotaged it while we were surrounding the place. Get on that right away.

Zukauskas relayed the orders to the unit NCO, then added, “We also have almost a hundred MSB and OMON soldiers that say they want to defect, including two officers. How do you want to handle these men?”

“The same as the others. They can join us if they meet my conditions,” Palcikas replied. “We’ll accept only men with Lithuanian names and who kept their Lithuanian citizenship. If they swear loyalty to me in front of the other captives, we’ll separate them from the others and give them preferential treatment. But we can’t afford to give them a rifle in here— too many chances for cold feet and second thoughts. First chance we get, we’ll bus them out to Trakai and screen them, but in here they’ll have to be locked up.”

“Yes, sir,” Zukauskas said. He relayed that order as well, then commented happily, “It’s even more promising than I imagined, Colonel. Ten, twenty, even thirty percent of every unit we’ve encountered want to join us. I could only pray that we’d ever find this kind of support. There are many that I’d trust with my life right now, men that I know.”

“I know, Vitalis,” Palcikas said. “I recognize many as well — some of the officers captured here are from my hometown, and some had relatives that died during the Denerokin riot. But we can’t be too careful. There will be time to recruit soldiers from the prisoner ranks, but for now we secure our objective and prepare for the Soviet counterattack. Third and’ Fourth battalions still are engaged with Black Beret forces.”

A few moments later another soldier ran up to Palcikas, saluted, and said, “Sir, Charlie Company guards report a single fixed-wing and two heavy rotary-wing aircraft inbound. Negative identification. Alpha and Bravo companies report engaging security patrols but expect to be set up for antiair operations soon. Charlie Company reports ready for antiair and antiarmor action. Our company stationed near the parliament building is reporting considerable air activity near the City of Progress. They are investigating, but they believe it is the Byelorussian Army aviation units, possibly the heavy attack squadrons from Smorgon.”

“Make sure the antiaircraft artillery is deployed as planned as soon as possible,” Palcikas said, remembering the power of the attack helicopters that had slaughtered so many civilians just last week. “I need the report from Third and Fourth battalions as soon as possible. They are the key to this entire operation. If the Soviet helicopters attack before they get into position, we’ll lose our left flank. There won’t be anything to stop the Commonwealth from overrunning our position then.”

Dominikas Palcikas paused, scanning the faces of those around him. They showed shock, apprehension, and fear when they heard “Byelorussian Army.” The horrors of the Denerokin massacre were still too fresh on their minds as well.

“You men listen to me, and listen well,” Palcikas said. “You have done the impossible tonight, but the job isn’t done yet. You have marched a considerable distance through occupied Lithuania; successfully mounted attacks on dozens of Soviet military and Commonwealth bases; and occupied the strongest and most important Commonwealth facility in all of the Baltic besides the Baltic Sea Fleet headquarters itself. Our exploits tonight will go down in history as the most sweeping and successful raid by a Lithuanian army since the siege of Minsk by the Grand Duke Vytautas himself. What the Commonwealth used as a base of operations to slaughter our innocent, peace-loving people, we now control.

“We are not some rabble protest group throwing stones at soldiers and dodging rubber bullets. We are not revolutionary hotheads who want nothing but to see everything burn just for our amusement. We are liberators. We are protectors. We are the right arm of the free Lithuanian people, holding the sword of liberty in defense of our country for the first time in centuries. We are the Grand Duke’s Iron Wolf Brigade, and we have been blessed by God and christened in the fire and blood of the ones that died at Denerokin to carry the sword.

“We anticipated the arrival of the Commonwealth Army. We prepared for it. We occupy or destroyed all the Soviet aviation and infantry-support infrastructure in Lithuania, so when their counterattack comes it will be blunt and cannot be sustained. We knew the aviation units would begin the counterattack; in the same way, we know where the infantry and armor units will begin their counterattack, and we have aligned the Second Regiment against them.”

He paused, staring each one of his officers and senior NCOs in the eye, and concluded, “I don’t want you looking defeated. Look at what we’ve accomplished You all know our operations plan for this evening; you computed the expected losses, recommended where the units be deployed, suggested what equipment to bring. Your estimates were perfect. Our goals for this one evening are being met and exceeded. So it will be with the rest of our plan. Get your heads up, get your men together, and execute the plan that we have prepared. If you truly believe that what you are doing is right, for yourself and for your country, then you will prevail.”

Via MILSTAR, the satellite military communications network, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Wilbur Curtis, National Security Advisor George Russell, CIA Director Kenneth Mitchell, and Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston heard the report from Hammer Three at the same time Colonel Albert Kline, commander of the Amphibious Task Force of the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit aboard USS Wasp, got the message.

“Jesus, what a mess,” Russell said. Despite his outburst, he found himself undecided about what to do. “Tom, what are you going to recommend?”

Preston, the grizzled old veteran of the White House Cabinet, rested his chin on his fist, considered the words, then said, “My impulse is to yank them out of there back to the embassy and see how this thing rinses out. But I hate to leave my boys out there with their dorks hanging out. Wilbur?”

“I agree with you, sir,” Curtis replied instantly. He had a phone to Camp Lejeune cocked in one ear, waiting for General Kundert to get on the line. “I’ve got a call in to Vance to get his opinion, but my impression is to finish the raid on the research institute.”

“I agree,” Mitchell replied, “but I’m sure not for the same reason.”

Curtis turned an angry stare at Mitchell. “I get it,” he said. “You want to be sure Luger’s dead, don’t you? Only the Marines can tell you that. You probably instructed them to bring back evidence — what? His tongue? His vocal cords? His fucking head?”

“Don’t get dramatic, General,” Mitchell said, rolling his eyes. “Business is business.”

“We’re trying to rescue the man, not recover his body,” Curtis said irritably. He knew Mitchell was locked into a different version of this Lithuanian mission, one in which Luger was a heavy liability and worth far more dead than alive. “The forces are in place, Tom,” Curtis said to the Secretary of Defense. “The aircraft are over the target. At least let them give it a try. The on-scene commanders can call the abort if they feel it’s hopeless. The AC-130 gunship has completed its sweep of the Super Stallion loading zone — let’s divert him over Fisikous to help the Marines.”

“I’ll need the President’s okay on that.”

“The tilt-rotors will bingo if they have to stay in the air to wait for word from the President,” Curtis said. “Let’s get them moving toward the objective. Let the on-scene commander call the shots.”

Tom Preston thought for a moment; then: “All right. Let them proceed.” He picked up the direct line to the White House at the same time Curtis gave the orders.

“Move it! Move it!” Colonel Nikita Kortyshkov screamed. The commander of OMON security forces at the Fisikous Aircraft-Design Bureau, brandishing an AK-74, shoved passing soldiers in the back to move faster. Even with five hundred heavily armed soldiers on duty, they were practically defenseless unless they could get into proper position in time. Kortyshkov had screwed up badly, but he told himself it wasn’t his fault. He had heard the first radio reports of a large number of intruders in the base and passed that off as an exercise. The Design-Bureau security force was never involved in any large-scale exercises, but Denerokin and the rest of the base performed security evaluations and realistic invasion exercises all the time. It was never announced as an exercise, but Kortyshkov assumed it was anyway because they were saying that upwards of three battalions were storming the base.

That was ridiculous, or so he thought.

Minutes later, a loud cannon shot rumbled throughout the base. A few frantic radio reports said that a huge enemy force had entered the base, that the base headquarters had been destroyed, that half the security force had been killed, and that soldiers were ready to attack the design bureau. How much was fact and how much was fiction, Kortyshkov couldn’t tell. But at this late stage of the game, he had better assume the worst.

“I want a platoon up on the roof,” he said to his NCO in charge of the security detail, “along with four machine guns. Break out the night-vision equipment in case the lights are taken out. Have communications been restored with the headquarters building or with Stepanov? Why are all these men running around like this …?”

Just then Kortyshkov recognized Vadim Teresov, the assistant to the senior KGB officer on the base. Teresov’s office and that of his superior officer, Gabovich, were on the top floor of the security building, and Teresov was often here many hours before Gabovich arrived at six A.M. Kortyshkov tried to ignore the man, tossing orders left and right, but it was obvious Teresov was looking for him and would not be deterred.

The KGB officer walked over to Kortyshkov and said in a low voice, “I will speak to you, Colonel, right now.”

“Not now, Comrade…

“Right now, Colonel.” Teresov pulled the OMON officer aside into a doorway. “Have you carried out the Zulu directive?”

The Zulu directive stated simply that all prisoners kept in the lowest level of cells in the security facility, called the “Zulu level,” will be executed in case of an attack, riot, or disturbance. The directive was initiated after the Denerokin riot, when it was obvious that had the Black Berets not cracked down on the rioters, the base could have very well been overrun and the politically sensitive prisoners released. The prisoner was to be removed from his cell, killed by a gunshot to the head, and thrown into the incinerator on the same level, two floors down below street level.

Currently, there was only one prisoner in the Zulu level: Dr. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov.

Kortyshkov searched his fading memory; then the realization of what Teresov was talking about hit hard. “The prisoners…!”

“Quiet, you fool,” Teresov said as soldiers rushed past within listening range. “Yes, the damned prisoners. Now carry out the directive immediately.”

“I don’t have time to butcher the pris — to supervise the directive,” I Kortyshkov stammered. It was immediately obvious to Teresov that Kortyshkov was completely unprepared for the assault currently under way, and he was virtually frozen with fear. He looked as if he was about to shoot himself in the face with his AK-47 any second. “I have lost contact with Colonel Stepanov, and my Thirty-second Armored Company is getting ready to engage enemy forces west of the runway.

“You asinine fool, your first responsibility is to the KGB and to General Gabovich!”

Kortyshkov’s eyes widened when Teresov said “KGB — but of course everyone knew that the “old” KGB had never gone away. The new MSB, of which Kortyshkov was a part, was nothing more than a leaner, meaner Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti. This only served to confirm that suspicion. “My first responsibility is to stop those invaders,” Kortyshkov snapped. “Now get out of my way.”

“You idiot! You will be executed for your insubordination if you do not—”

Then Teresov stopped. Kortyshkov had a strange, detached expression on his face. The beleaguered OMON officer was beginning to tune out all voices, all sounds. Some voice in his head was overriding all else, and right now that voice was telling him to remove all blabbering sources of distraction. Kortyshkov actually swung the muzzle of the AK-47 slowly in Teresov’s direction, and Teresov knew that at the slightest provocation — a word, a sudden noise, even a glance — he was going to pull the trigger. Kortyshkov would die for killing a senior KGB official, but that was little comfort because Teresov would be just as dead. The KGB officer stepped back a pace and moved his hands away from the holster under his jacket that he saw Kortyshkov glancing at.

“Leave me alone,” Kortyshkov said in a low, trembling voice. “Leave me alone. I must supervise the base defense. Carry out your directive yourself if you have to, but leave me alone.” Kortyshkov turned and rejoined his executive officer, throwing commands at everyone.

Teresov was left alone in the doorway of a darkened room. Damn him, Teresov cursed silently, thinking about the hell Gabovich would make Kortyshkov pay for his insubordination.

But Teresov’s first responsibility was to his superior officer. Gabovich had to be found and escorted to safety. Holding a KGB general would be an immense victory for whoever was staging this invasion, and Teresov had pledged to lay down his life for his superior officer.

His second responsibility was to see that all of Gabovich’s plans and programs were secure and uncompromised during this emergency, and Gabovich’s most important covert operation was the American, Luger, being held prisoner in the basement. It was obviously too late to get Luger out of the facility and into hiding or across the border to Byelorussia.

The only option was to execute him.

Teresov had developed a comprehensive procedure to be followed for disposing of Luger’s body — burn it in the incinerator on Subfloor 2, the same floor as Luger’s cell. But he never intended on doing the thing himself. Murdering a helpless prisoner was a job for brainless louts, not for officers. More importantly, it was vital that all possible traces of Luger’s presence and death could never be traced back to Viktor Gabovich.

Better get started locating Gabovich, Teresov thought, and hope to hell that the incompetent fool Kortyshkov could hold off whoever it was out there until all traces of First Lieutenant David Luger’s presence here in Fisikous could be properly and efficiently destroyed.

“I say again, your primary target is map coordinate zulu-victor-five-one-four-three, clear an area for one hundred meters around the building,” the AC-130U Spectre gunship’s electronic-warfare officer read, after decoding the updated targeting instructions received from the Marines. “Second target follows. Clear a one-hundred-meter area around grid coordinates bravo-lima-three-seven-seven-zero for pickup zone. Establish security perimeter of two thousand meters around coordinates of primary target. Over.”

In the cockpit, sitting behind the copilot, the AC-130U’s navigator quickly plotted the grid coordinates on his chart, then punched the PRESENT POSITION button on the Global Positioning System satellite navigation computer, plotted the aircraft’s present position, and computed a heading to the target coordinates. “Pilot, give me a heading of one-niner-five, targets at your twelve o’clock, eight miles.”

The navigator immediately transposed the target coordinates onto a detailed map of the Fisikous Research Institute, derived from satellite photography, showing the layout of every building and every landmark in the complex, and passed it to the fire-control officer (FICO) beside him. It was the FICO’s job to locate and identify the target building himself. He had control of the Spectre’s AN/APG-80 high-resolution radar, and he could call up the scene from either the low-light TV or forward-looking infrared scanner. He also controlled the twelve laser-guided Hellfire missiles, and could direct a laser designator beam on any target he saw in his screens.

The Spectre crew had been briefed on the Fisikous Research Institute as a possible target, and the navigator, FICO, and the two sensor operators had spent long hours going over the layout of the complex and the possible targets to hit. “Our objective is the design-center security building,” the FICO announced. “Keep all vehicles away, clear personnel off the roof, and clear an LZ for the Marines.” That was all he needed to brief — the sensor operators would do the rest.

“Sensors copy.” Once they were briefed on the area they needed to secure, and which targets needed to be hit and which did not, the sensor operators went to work locating targets. At six miles’ distance, the forward-looking infrared (FLIR) scanner could pick out individual heat-generating targets, and the fight was on.

It was, as they say, a target-rich environment. The FLIR operator selected several hot targets. “FLIR’s got a column of light armored stuff and maybe tanks,” he reported.

“Copy,” the fire-control officer acknowledged. He called up the FLIR image on his monitor. “Looks like BTRs,” he reported. “Let’s lock it up.” He locked the target in the fire-control computer, which automatically provided steering signals to the pilot so he could set up a left orbit over the area.

“Hey, STV’s got another column of armor,” the second sensor operator reported. “Looks like… hey, these guys are shooting at each other! There’s a firefight going on down there. It looks like two mechanized infantry units slugging it out.”

“What?” the pilot shouted on interphone. “You mean good guys?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, we need to find out,” the pilot said. “E-dub, get on the horn and get the word from headquarters.” The electronic-warfare officer immediately switched to his command radio and relayed the request. “FICO, get back on the primary target and let’s clean it out until we decide who’s who down there.”

Half of the one-thousand-man Black Beret security force at the Fisikous Institute was concentrated on the two-hundred-and-fifty-acre research-and-design center on the west side of the complex. A north-south-oriented runway on the far west side, part of Vilnius International Airport, provided a wide clear-fire area, so it was virtually impossible for the nearly two thousand soldiers of Palcikas’ Battalion Four to sneak in on the base unobserved.

Lieutenant Colonel Antanas Maziulis, commander of Palcikas’ Fourth Battalion of the Iron Wolf Brigade, scanned the area east of the runway with binoculars. He was sitting in an old, Polish-style AFD-23 mobile-command-post vehicle, which was little more than an old rickety Jeep with a tin box in the back with the radio gear. With Maziulis was his executive officer, Major Aras Drunga, plus a radio operator, driver, and observer/gunner/co-driver manning a mounted AKSU machine gun. Maziulis, a father of eight and an old veteran of twenty years in the Soviet Army, including four years in Afghanistan, was one of the first officers to retire from the Soviet Army and join the Lithuanian Self-Defense Force. He was rewarded by being given command of the largest strike force in this very important operation. Maziulis commanded a battalion of over a thousand men and a large array of armored vehicles, a few T-62s, and; combat-engineering vehicles.

“They’re keeping the ballpark lights on,” Maziulis observed. “That must mean no night-vision equipment. Call Dapkiene and have him get sharpshooters or grenade-launcher crews in position to take. out the ballpark lights. If the Black Berets don’t want to fight in the dark, that’s where we want to be.”

“Echo Company reports one of their BTRs has a broken axle,” Major Aras Drunga, Maziulis’s executive officer and deputy, reported. “Echo Company platoon ten unloading, proceeding on foot.”

Maziulis swung his binoculars northward to the very edge of light on the ramp. Sure enough, the Black Berets had spotted the breakdown as well, and were moving a BMP-90 armored combat vehicle opposite the Lithuanian foot soldiers. “Tell Captain Haviastir to get an RPG up front. He’s got company. Get me a report from Third Battalion and find out where the hell they are.”

A few moments later the response came: “Third Battalion is moving into position. Ready in two minutes.”

“Shit. What’s taking them so long? They had a highway to drive on — we made better time and we went cross-country.” Two minutes was far, far too long. The command net had First Battalion streaming in through the northeast gate, and Second Battalion was moving toward the security headquarters. He couldn’t wait any longer. “Radio Third Battalion and tell them to stick it in high gear. We’re attacking. Signal to all units, stand by. Signal to Alpha and Bravo companies, attack.”

“Aircraft inbound!” the radioman reported.

“Aras, get that report,” Maziulis said. He wasn’t going to take his eyes off his spearhead. “C’mon, boys, pop those mortars loose or you’ll get hosed. Radio Bravo Company to get his mortarmen working. Where are my snipers?”

“First Battalion observers say a large fixed-wing aircraft will be over the base in thirty seconds,” Drunga reported. “Identification unknown. Suspected cargo aircraft, possibly carrying paratroopers.”

“Drop paratroopers right in the middle of a battle zone? Let ‘em. We’ll finish them off too. Tell Alpha Company to watch out for those BMPs to the south, they’ve got 73-millimeter guns. Mortars and speed, in that order. That’s what I need.”

Suddenly Maziulis heard the first pwoot! bursts of mortar fire. At the same time, two lines of Lithuanian armored vehicles, led by a line of six T-62 main battle tanks, rushed onto the clear area just to the west of the runway and headed across. “Too early. Mortars haven’t hit yet…”

When the mortar rounds hit, Maziulis nearly leaped out of the truck in shock. Every round landed short, some by dozens of meters. A few landed so short that they came closer to the Lithuanian tanks rumbling across the runway than they did to the Black Beret infantrymen. Maziulis shouldn’t have been too surprised — the men manning some of the heavier infantry-support pieces were young soldiers who’d never fired those kinds of weapons except on the training range. He should have had them pop a few smoke rounds to get their distance, then lob in a few HE rounds. Well, too late now…

“Tell those mortarmen to adjust their aim!” Maziulis screamed. “Charlie and Echo companies! Move! Move! Move! Alpha and Bravo need cover fire! Tell Third Battalion to move at best speed or we’ll lose the west flank!”

“Units on the ground reported Lithuanian partisans trying to attack the Commonwealth troops on the base,” the electronic-warfare officer on board said. “The ground units said that partisans surrounded the base and appear to be converging on the security headquarters building. They are heavily armed, including tanks and Zeus-23s.”

“That doesn’t help us much,” the pilot grumbled. “Who are we supposed to blow away? And—”

“Triple-A search radar, ten o’clock!” the electronic-warfare officer reported. “Another triple-A up … looks like a Zeus-23-4.” The electronic-warfare officer on the Spectre centered a circle cursor on the two “A” antiaircraft-artillery symbols on his radar threat-scope. That action fed position information to the Spectre’s targeting computer and instantly computed the position of the ZSU-23-4 mobile gun. “Target feed on the triple-A coming in.”

“I got it,” the FLIR sensor operator said. The targeting computer slaved both the low-light TV and infrared scanner to the new threat, and the FLIR operator saw the distinctive outline of the quadruple guns on the armored vehicle. “New primary target, FICO.”

“I got it,” the fire-control officer reported. “Laser firing. Range, three miles …”

“Ground forces said the Zeus belongs to the partisans,” the electronic-warfare officer said. “I don’t care if they belong to the goddamned Pope,” the pilot said. “If they try to lock me up on radar, they die. FICO, clear to launch.”

“Missile away,” the fire-control officer reported. At that, he unlocked a red-guarded switch on his control panel and pressed a trigger. One Hellfire missile, this one from the right wingtip, leaped from its rail and streaked earthward. Following the guidance signals from the laser beam, the missile hit dead-on. The crew was rewarded with a spectacular sight in their TV monitors of a deadly antiaircraft-artillery vehicle disappearing in a cloud of fire.

“Sweet kill,” the FICO confirmed. They could hear cheers from the four gunners and the loadmaster / spotter in the back of the aircraft. The fire-control officer hit a button, and all the sensors returned to the target-building area to search for more targets.

“Looks like a column of troops moving in on the security building from the east, another group trying to approach from the west, and a group of defenders on the east side of the runway trying to hold ‘em off the STV sensor operator summarized. “Call it, someone.”

“Our target is the security building,” the fire-control officer reiterated. “The troops defending it must be the bad guys, and the ones attacking it must be the good guys. I say we target the defenders.”

“Agreed,” the navigator said.

“I’ll buy it,” the pilot said. “As long as they all stay away from the security building. Anyone who comes near it, unless they’re U.S. Marines, we hose. Coming left.”

The pilot began a slow, 20-degree bank turn to the left over the security building, then transitioned from his forward HSI to the low-light TV monitor-and-attack-coordinator mounted on the left window. By following the steering cues, the pilot set up an orbit precisely eight thousand feet above ground level.

From this point on, the sensor operators, the navigator, and the fire-control officer picked and attacked targets, with occasional warning messages from the electronic-warfare officer. The two sensor operators had almost complete control of the 25-millimeter cannon, letting loose with one- to two-second bursts at any group of soldiers that might be a field commander or communications crew, heavy-machine-gun nest, mortar crew, or rocket-propelled grenade-launcher crew. The FICO picked targets for the 40-millimeter cannon, alternating control with the sensor operators as they located suitable targets.

The pilot adjusted his orbit over targets designated for the 105-millimeter cannon, attacking tanks and destroying buildings close to the security building that might screen oncoming enemy troops from the Marines. The pilot felt a rush of adrenaline as he watched the incredible sight through his TV monitor. The power unleashed by that simple action of his left thumb was truly amazing. One squeeze of a trigger, and huge armored vehicles thousands of feet below him simply mushroomed into twisted hunks of burning metal. “Target destroyed,” he announced calmly, choking back the urge to cry out an excited “Yes!!!” Instead: “Safeties on. Gun secured, clear for safety check. Gimme the next target.”

“Clear.”

“I got another Zeus-23!” the electronic-warfare officer shouted.

The crew’s attention was diverted instantly — the ZSU-23-4 could easily bring down a Spectre, and the standing order was to destroy or avoid them at all costs. The fire-control officer immediately slaved the sensors to the threat-warning receiver, and four sets of eyes searched for the tiny white dot that might be the deadly tracked weapon. “I can’t see it, dammit, I don’t see it…

Suddenly, a fast deedledeedledeedledeedledeedle! erupted on the intercom, and a flashing AAA LOCK light appeared on every instrument panel in the plane.

The ZSU-23-4 was just off to the right and close — too close.

“Triple-A lock!” the electronic-warfare officer shouted. “Break left!”

The pilot threw the AC-130 gunship in a tight left turn — with the big cannons hanging out the left side of the aircraft, left turns in a Spectre gunship are always tighter than right turns — and the EWO ejected radar-decoying chaff from the right-side ejectors.

“I see it! Continue left turn… roll out!” the copilot cried out as hundreds of winks of light and beads of death curled up from below, heading right for the aircraft. The beads swept across the right wingtip, and the entire aircraft shook as if a giant hand had kicked the plane like a child’s toy. “We took a hit on the Hellfire pylon!” the copilot cried out. Flames and bright bursts of light enveloped the right wingtip. “Jettison right weapon pylon!”

The fire-control officer immediately opened a clear cover over an illuminated button that read RT WPN PYLON FIRE, reached in, and pressed the button. The right Hellfire-missile pylon popped off its hardpoint seconds before one of the missiles cooked off and exploded.

“I can’t roll out,” the pilot said on interphone. “I’ve got a jammed aileron … copilot, get on the controls. Help me straighten out..

Immediately they heard, “Rattler Three cleared in hot, continue your left turn to clear.” One of the four Marine Corps AH-1 Sea Cobras that had stayed behind in the embassy compound had launched from the embassy, rendezvoused with the AC-130, and now dove in on the second ZSU-23-4 mobile gun. With the antiaircraft gunner’s full attention on the bigger target, it was too easy for the Sea Cobra’s weapons officer to find the target from the flash of its four guns, lock on to the target with its laser designator, and fire a single Hellfire, destroying the target instantly. “Target down,” the Cobra pilot reported. “I’ve got a visual on you, Congo Two. I see large sparks on your right wingtip.”

Even a one-second burst from a ZSU-23-4 was menacing — that meant two hundred radar-guided shells as big as a hot dog peppering your aircraft. The murderous fire from the second ZSU-23-4 created a massive fuel leak from the right wing. “Congo Two is hit,” the pilot radioed on the command channel. “No engine fire, but we’re leaking fuel.”

Everyone on the two Hammer aircraft knew what that meant — the Spectre was going home. An AC-130 gunship was too valuable and too high-profile an aircraft to lose over Lithuania.

“Aircraft opening fire on First Battalion artillery units,” Drunga reported. “Heavy cannon fire. One antiaircraft artillery unit destroyed. Rotary-wing aircraft inbound.”

Maziulis felt a flush of fear run through him, but he pushed it away. It was sooner than expected, but they did expect a counterattack. “Where’s Third Battalion …?”

Suddenly the night sky illuminated from the bursts of several large-caliber cannons firing at once, and a few seconds later the ear-shattering reports roiled across the runway. Several T-62 tanks and Lithuanian armored vehicles exploded. The drivers were temporarily blinded and confused as they crossed the path of their own mortars, and the smoke from the mortars screened their gunners from taking aim on the line of Black Beret armored combat vehicles. But as soon as they emerged from the smoke, the Commonwealth gunners had them cold and opened fire.

Many Lithuanian units were killed before they could get a shot off.

Maziulis grabbed the command-net microphone and yelled, “Echo and Foxtrot companies! Fake north, wheel east, and engage! Delta Company, release from the line, stunt circle north, and flank those BMDs!”

He scanned his line with the binoculars. Echo and Foxtrot companies, far to the south, were moving, but Delta Company, located just a few hundred meters away, hadn’t moved backwards yet. Maziulis turned to Drunga and yelled, “Aras, run over to the Rover and have him go over to Delta Company lead and tell him to stunt north and cover Alpha and Bravo. Find out what’s wrong with his radio.”

Drunga threw off his headset, grabbed an AK-47, and jumped off the radio truck and sprinted over to a small four-wheeled vehicle, flagging it down.

He had taken perhaps eight steps away from the radio truck when a scream of compressed air and a terrific explosion threw him off his feet. He flew for perhaps five meters into the air, then was thrown across the ground amidst shards of red-hot metal and waves of superheated air. When he looked back at the radio truck, nothing was there except a blackened metal skeleton with the broken and mutilated bodies of Maziulis and the others scattered around the area like dolls tossed by the wind.

“Congo Two, can you give us some fire support on the Hammer target area against the heavy stuff before you split?” Captain Snyder asked from Hammer Three.

“Can do easy,” the AC-130’s pilot reported. “Our tanker is heading back to join with us, and our fuel loss is minimal right now. There’s no sign of engine fire. We’ve got about five minutes more on station before we bingo.”

“Copy. Hit the heavy armor first, then soften up the area around the two target areas. After that, give us a sparkler and you’re cleared to depart. Open her up, Congo Two.”

“Copy all, Hammer leader. Watch the sky.”

The OMON Black Berets had its front-line men and equipment protecting the research center, including six BTR-6OPB armored personnel carriers, each fitted with two heavy-caliber machine guns and able to transport fourteen soldiers at speeds up to sixty miles per hour; three BMD tracked combat vehicles, fitted with a 73-millimeter cannon and wire-guided AT-3 antitank missiles; and infantry units armed with grenade launchers and RPK and PKM heavy machine guns. This formidable line of vehicles, arrayed against the advancing Lithuanian forces to the west, became easy targets for the Spectre gunship.

No Spectre crew liked to bring back unspent ammo from a live fire’ mission. This crew was determined not to bring back one round. Using the two rapid-fire cannons, the Spectre began chewing into the Black Beret troop positions. The 25-millimeter cannonfire ripped apart smaller armored personnel carriers and Jeeps, while the 40-millimeter cannon destroyed or disabled the larger armored combat vehicles. They were careful to keep the gunfire away from the security building, where Luger was being held, as well as the hangars where the Soviet stealth bomber was supposedly kept. The sensor operators and fire-control officer also tried to stay away from the troops he felt were the “partisans.”

There were enough good targets everywhere below, especially heavy vehicles and armor. A few times the pilot opened up with 105-millimeter howitzer, creating large antivehicle pits around planned pickup zone while being careful to keep fences intact. The crew liberally sprayed the MV-22 landing site with 25-millimeter and 40-millimeter cannonfire in case any troops tried to hunker down in those areas. The Spectre then made another circle over the city, selecting targets C the twelve remaining Hellfire missiles on the left wingtip, destroying heavy armored vehicles identified by the Marines in the embassy compound as threats.

Once again, they headed for the area near the Fisikous Institute to deliver their coup de grâce. …

More cannon fire erupted — the shock waves and ear-splitting noise all around Major Aras Drunga was like an iron-gloved fist, driving him to the ground. Drunga crawled to his hands and knees, trying to move closer to the bodies, to see if any needed help. Then he saw the rows of Black Beret armored combat vehicles begin to move across the aircraft parking ramp toward him. They were less than three hundred meters away, and they were hammering the Lithuanians with volley after volley of cannon fire. The charge was a failure. General Palcikas’ west flank was going to disintegrate.

Suddenly, it looked as if one of the BMD armored combat vehicles simply lifted straight up in the air, like a frog jumping off a rock. When it fell to earth again, flames and burning fuel were spilling out a gaping hole in its turret. A few seconds later, another vehicle, a BTR-60 armored personnel carrier, seemed to split apart like a ripe melon, spilling pieces of Black Beret soldiers who’d been chopped up by artillery fire. The young officer didn’t know what was happening, but whatever it was, it was accurately and effectively wiping out the best of the Black Berets’ offensive punch.

Every Spectre mission-planning session includes a “sparkler,” a target that is so large and filled with so much explosive or flammable material that it provides maximum shock value and disorientation, allowing aircraft to escape, friendly troops to move in, or helps to demoralize the enemy. Even though a sparkler may not be a high-value target or related to the sortie’s main objective, it is kept in the commander’s “hip pocket”—in this case programmed into the targeting computers — and made ready for use at any time.

Now was the time.

The Spectre swung out of its orbit around the Fisikous Institute compound, headed south, and made a left bank around its final target. The sortie’s sparkler was a fuel-storage area a few miles south of the facility near the railroad yard.

The 105-millimeter howitzer found its mark, and as a final parting shot created a spectacular fireball and a terrific rumbling explosion by sending a dozen high-explosive shells into that fuel-tank farm.

The concussion knocked over tank cars and engines on their tracks and shattered windows ten miles away. Then, with two Sea Cobra helicopters acting as escorts, the huge attack plane climbed into the night sky and was clear of the city a few minutes later.

The AC-130 gunship orbiting over Major Aras Drunga destroyed half of the Black Berets’ armor in the few short minutes it orbited over the Fisikous compound. With the former KGB and Soviet Troops of the Interior forces being decimated by the gunship, the surviving elements of the Lithuanians’ Fourth Battalion were able to sweep across the runway and rout the Black Beret security force. The control tower and radar facilities were captured intact, as were the underground fuel-storage tanks and aircraft-refueling facilities.

Dominikas Palcikas led one company each from First and Second battalions in a flanking maneuver to try to disrupt the Black Berets’ resupply routes to the east, but it proved to be unnecessary. Palcikas’ forces had surrounded the design center and security facility before he realized how far and how fast he had moved across the base. He met up with the remnants of the Fourth Battalion streaming in from the northwest. Third Battalion was mopping up the survivors of the gunship attack. “Third Battalion reports several vehicles escaping out the south gate,” the radioman reported. “Lieutenant Colonel Manomaitis is pursuing.”

“Tell him to let all but the heavier vehicles go,” Palcikas said. “Setting up the perimeter defense is more critical than chasing down a few platoons. Tell him to set up his security teams along the south highway and seal it up tight. We’ll get Second Battalion to join up with him to the southeast as soon as possible, but he’s responsible for warning us of an immediate Soviet counterattack from the Darguziai Army Barracks.”

A few moments later a driver brought Major Drunga, the deputy commander of Fourth Battalion, up to Palcikas in a Commonwealth Jeep flying a red Vytis. “Good job, Major. Where’s Colonel Maziulis? We need to set up his security team for that runway.” Then Palcikas realized why the deputy was reporting to him: “What happened, Aras?”

The young officer, barely thirty years old, was covered with blood. His jacket was missing, his hands were trembling uncontrollably, and he was bleeding heavily from a cut on his left temple. “Medic!” Palcikas shouted as he took off his jacket and threw it around Drunga. “Talk to me, Aras.” No reply — only a stunned, vacant expression. Palcikas raised his voice and shouted, “Major Drunga! Report!”

That shook Drunga out of his catatonia. He straightened his back by force of habit and even tried to salute, but Palcikas held his hand down as a corpsman began treating his head wound. “We were hit by a round from one of the BTRs, sir,” Drunga said. “The shell sliced the whole top off the Colonel’s armored car. The Colonel … he lost … the shell took off … my God, the Colonel’s blood was everywhere!”

“What’s the status of Fourth Battalion, Aras? Give me a report.”

“Fourth Battalion … the battalion is heavily decimated but currently on station, sir,” Drunga said shakily. “Alpha Company… Alpha Company was nearly wiped out in the initial assault. Colonel Maziulis ordered Bravo to sweep north to flank the MSB armored line and break it, and they were nearly cut down as well before the aircraft came in. That aircraft saved us, sir. It saved us.”

“Yes, it did, Major,” Palcikas agreed. “Major Knasaite …?”

“Dead, sir. Everyone in Alpha Company … almost everyone … dead.”

“Major Balzaraite?”

“Dead, sir. Captain Meilus commands Bravo Company, but he’s hurt, too … God, he lost his left hand…”

Drunga finally realized that Palcikas was gently coaxing a full report out of him, that he was in effect commander of Fourth Battalion, so he straightened his shoulders a bit as he continued. “Bravo Company is about thirty-five percent manned, sir; they are regrouping to surround the design center and security facility as ordered. Major Astriene of Charlie Company is leading the security team to seal off the south gate. I recommend … I’m sorry, sir, but I recommend that he be placed in charge of Fourth Battalion.”

“Only until you are better, Major Drunga. Only until you are better.” The medic was easing Drunga down and wrapping blankets around him to ward off shock. “Take care of him, and find Captain Meilus and tell him to report to the aid station. Find Lieutenant Dapkiene or Lieutenant Degutis and put them in charge of Bravo Company.” Palcikas rubbed his eyes wearily and turned to Zukauskas. “My God, I’m having to put my lieutenants in charge of entire infantry companies. Three weeks ago their biggest concern was filing a report in the right folder — now they command hundreds of men.”

He paused, willing the numbness and exhaustion away. The officers of Iron Wolf Brigade were the only family he had had in many years, and to see them decimated like this was difficult. He called them by their rank and surname when speaking with his subordinates, but he knew them as Anatoly, or Danas, or Vytautas, or Karoly. He knew their individual quirks, their leadership style; their strengths and weaknesses. Maziulis had eight children back at his home in Siauliai. Drunga was Mister Spit and Polish. Meilus was the ladies’ man, the peacock strutting around the bars and cafes of Kaunas showing off his awards and medals to all the young ladies …

They were all dead now, dead or horribly maimed or shocked into virtual catatonia by a civil war that he, Palcikas, had started. He could do nothing else but replace them with an even younger, probably more scared officer, and when he died he would have to be replaced by someone Younger and even less experienced. When the officers died out, then he would have to promote noncommissioned officers to company grade rank, and the cycle would start again.

“Sir … General Palcikas, Fourth Battalion is awaiting orders. Shall we proceed to the security building in the aircraft-design area?”

“Hold off on the assault on the security building until we get the command straightened out,” Palcikas said. “The building is surrounded — they are not going anywhere.”

“Sir, what was that aircraft? Why did it first attack us, then attack the Black Beret armor?”

“Either it was a Commonwealth Air Force strike aircraft that made a horrible mistake,” Palcikas speculated, “or some other power has gotten itself involved in our battle. I think it detected the ZSU-23-4 because it detected its tracking radar and judged it to be a threat, but then it judged the armored units defending the aircraft-design compound to be a threat as well — it left our armor alone. It doesn’t matter, though. It saved our lives tonight, and we don’t want to anger the powers that control it.

“Now,” Palcikas continued, “I need a report on our antiair-artillery units, and I want a report on the position of that gunship and any other aircraft in the vicinity. But we’ve got to consolidate and reinforce our hold on the complex before the Commonwealth counterattack begins. I want the commanders of—”

“Helicopters inbound!” someone cried out. “From the north!”

Heads swung in that direction, but the night sky revealed nothing. Through the occasional bursts of cannon or gunfire on the base, they could hear the beat of fast helicopter rotors coming closer. “Slow rotors … heavy helicopter — attack, or troop carriers,” Lieutenant Colonel Simas Zobarskas, commander of First Battalion, said. “One, perhaps two. Flying over the aircraft-design compound. Whoever it is, they’re not attacking, at least not yet.”

“All these overflights seem to be concentrating on the aircraft-design center,” Palcikas said, his curiosity up. He pointed toward the huge howitzer craters surrounding the four-meter-high security fence around the design-center compound. “Look at those craters — they are aligned precisely around the fence, but they did not destroy it. They look like tank traps…

“Tank traps?” Zobarskas asked incredulously. “Against our forces …?”

“I don’t know,” Palcikas said, mulling it over. “But if they wanted to stop us or our armor from coming any closer to the compound, they could have done it more efficiently—”

“Namely, by hitting us with those bombs,” Colonel Zukauskas exclaimed.

“It was not done with bombs, Vitalis,” Palcikas said. “I distinctively heard cannon fire during that gunship attack. The same gunship that was firing antitank machine guns at the MSB was shooting a large-caliber cannon-it probably was responsible for the explosions in the fuel depot as well. I know of only one aircraft in the world that has that capability—”

“Company Alpha-Charlie reports heavy rotors inbound, fifteen seconds behind the light helicopter,” a radioman reported. “They are requesting permission to engage.”

“Stand by,” Palcikas said.

Up until now, the means to secure the objective were plain — all military units and equipment not belonging to the First Iron Wolf Brigade were considered hostile. But that was no longer true anymore — or was it? The unidentified fixed-wing gunship attacked only the Commonwealth armor units and the ZSU-23-4 guns that were engaging it — other than the antiaircraft-artillery units, it stayed away from Lithuanian units and concentrated its deadly accurate fire on the Black Berets.

Now more unidentified aircraft were coming.

Could the newcomers be friendlies? If they were unidentified friendlies, Palcikas could be hurting his own cause by attacking them. Would a Commonwealth Air Force gunship have behaved as the unidentified gunship had? Probably not — the Commonwealth armor units were definitely defending the Soviet installation, and the Lithuanians were definitely attacking. There could be no mistake about it — the gunship saw the defenders as the enemy and the Lithuanians as friendlies.

If he was wrong, he could be letting the Byelorussians or Russians reinforce the Soviet defenders here in Fisikous. Even two or three companies inside that design-center compound could wreak havoc on Palcikas’ soldiers. But Palcikas knew something else was going on. The security building was a target for something, or someone, else entirely …

“No,” Palcikas finally answered. “No one will engage without my specific orders. Pass to all units: do not engage any aircraft over the complex without my specific orders. I want a positive identification of the inbound aircraft immediately.”

The only eyes they had on the assault zone now, the two AH-1W Sea Cobra helicopters that had been escorting the Spectre gunship, were departing after only one pass over the aircraft-design research compound. It did not belong with the Hammer aircraft, because on this particular mission the Hammer aircraft did not exist.

The MV-225 had to finish the assault alone.

“Hammer, Rattler, I see ground forces, perhaps two to three hundred, dispersed to the east and south of your LZ,” the gunner on one of the AH-1 Sea Cobras reported on the command network. “Additional forces, perhaps another battalion, converging in light vehicles and trucks from the south. The battalion that was hit by the base defenders is regrouping and is setting up a perimeter defense to the west. I see one Zeus unit on the move, but its guns are raised, repeat, raised, in service position. Over.”

“Well, what the hell does that mean?” Lieutenant Marx asked.

“It means they’re servicing their guns,” Gunnery Sergeant Trimble said impatiently. He was still angry at being taken down by his commanding officer in front of the three outsiders. “A Zeus 23-millimeter cannon has a very short barrel life, perhaps three thousand rounds, which is just a few engagements. The barrels have to be changed frequently. That thing is still alive.”

“We’re not reporting any triple-A signals,” McLanahan said. “The radar is down.”

“That don’t mean shit, either, McLanahan,” Trimble said. “If I was servicing my own rig, I wouldn’t have my radar on either — they know we can home in on their radars by now.”

McLanahan lowered his eyes and did not reply — he knew that what the big Marine said was true. Getting Luger was blinding him to the dangers they faced. He had to face reality: Luger was probably dead.

Trimble turned to Marx. “Sir, the LZ is hot. This is a special ops mission, not a MAGTF mission. This team only has thirty-three members, and there’s at least a battalion down there. We got no choice but to recommend an abort. You can’t risk an entire company for this zoomie—”

McLanahan’s nostrils flared, and Briggs was ready to get in Trimble’s face again, but this time Lieutenant Marx held up a hand quickly and said, “You’re right, Gunny, you’re right.” He turned to McLanahan and Ormack and, feeling guilty enough to offer an explanation, said, “If the Spectre took out more of the triple-A batteries, we could proceed, but there’s still live Zeus-23s down there. The SEA HAMMERs wouldn’t stand a chance over the security building with that thing nearby.” Marx reached for the command net microphone and depressed the mike button: “Hammer Lead, this is Four. Over…

“Hammer units, monitor UHF GUARD channel and stand by,” came Snyder’s call a few seconds later. Up in the cockpit of the second MV-22 SEA HAMMER, the copilot switched the radios so the Marines in the cargo section could hear the universal emergency channel:

“Attention inbound helicopters, attention inbound helicopters, this is General Dominikas Palcikas,” a message came over a few moments later in heavily accented English. “I am the commander of the Grand Duke’s First Iron Wolf Brigade of the Lithuanian Republic. My forces now occupy the Fisikous Research Institute in Vilnius and other defense installations throughout the republic, in the name of the people of Lithuania. The Black Beret troops defending this installation have been removed. I seek only to return the Lithuanian Republic to the people of Lithuania.

“I order you to identify yourself immediately or you will be fired upon without further warning. If you are friendly, and if you will comply immediately, you will not be fired upon. I will repeat this message in Russian. This will be my final warning. Identify yourself immediately.” The message paused, then repeated in the Russian language.

The shock of that short message had quieted everyone in the cargo section of the MV-22. Finally Trimble retorted, “What is this shit? There’s no such thing as the Grand Duke’s Iron Wolf Brigade in Lithuania.”

“Palcikas… Palcikas …” Marx muttered; then, recalling his background intelligence briefings, announced, “Palcikas! Dominikas Palcikas, the commander of the Lithuanian Self-Defense Force!”

“He’s staged a coup,” Wohl said with admiration. “A damned Lithuanian Army general has staged a coup.”

“Not a coup. A military takeover,” Marx said. “If what he says is true, he’s commanding those troops down there.”

“That means we can proceed,” McLanahan said. “We’re Americans. We’re not trying to take over Fisikous.” He hesitated; then, with a shocked expression, he realized what this really meant to their mission. “Jesus … Luger …”

“Looks like Palcikas may have caused the death of the zoomie after all,” Trimble said. “If they had orders to kill their prisoners in case of a rescue attempt, he’s dead.”

“Shut up!” McLanahan shouted, ready to take a swing at Trimble.

“We can’t go down there now,” Trimble said, ignoring McLanahan. “We’ve been blown for sure. This is supposed to be a covert mission. We can’t have a fucking audience watching us touch down on that rooftop.”

“We can’t leave until we get Luger,” Ormack said. “Dead or alive, we’ve got to get him.”

“Like hell.”

“Palcikas is giving us clearance to overfly the compound,” McLanahan ‘insisted. “If we show we’re not hostile to his forces, we can keep going.”

“And what if it’s not this Palcikas character?” Trimble retorted. “What if it’s just the Black Berets trying to lure us down there? Those Zeus-23s will hose us if we get too close. I recommend we abort, Lieutenant. Follow the proper procedures, sir. Let’s get the hell out of here-now!”

“That’s right… you heard what I said!” MSB Major Teresov screamed into the radio microphone. “Fisikous has been surrounded by armed Lithuanian peasants, and some unidentified aircraft has just bombed the base … no, you asshole, this is not an exercise! I don’t care if this is an unsecure channel! I want a fucking helicopter-gunship squadron with antiair support deployed to Fisikous immediately, and I want a full Commonwealth battalion with assault gear and armor sent as well! Alert the Commonwealth Army corps commander in Riga that Fisikous is under attack. Request infantry and security support … yes, Corps headquarters directly, under General Gabovich’s authority.” He knew he was stretching the limits of his authority once again, but this was getting very serious …

“What do you think you’re doing, Teresov?” Colonel Kortyshkov interrupted. A junior NCO had led the design bureau’s security forces commander to where Teresov was talking on the portable UHF transceiver — Teresov made a mental note to have that soldier carry Kortyshkov’s cold-weather gear to Siberia when this was over. “You are not authorized to order air cover or anything from Corps headquarters, and I gave orders that no communications are allowed out of this building without my specific approval.”

“Your approval is the least of my concerns,” Teresov said dismissively. “The defense of this base and the safety of the projects here are my only concern.” He finished his conversation with the radiotelephone operator he had managed to reach, then faced Kortyshkov with a stern glare and asked, “Has General Gabovich been located yet?”

“I am not yet in contact with the south gate or with Colonel Stepanov—”

“Then you have failed again,” Teresov said. “It is imperative that General Gabovich be found and warned to stay away from the base.”

“Then I suggest you run out and find him, Comrade,” Kortyshkov said. “Or are you still debating whether or not to carry out your Zulu directive? Let me help you with both missions.” At that, Kortyshkov reached into his NCO’s holster, withdrew a Makarov PM 9-millimeter automatic pistol, and slapped it into Teresov’s hand. Pointing toward the barricaded front door and then toward the stairwell that led to the two subfloors, Kortyshkov said, “Your general is that way, your helpless victim is that way. Let’s see how well you carry out either mission.”

“I order you to carry out the Zulu directive, Colonel.”

“And I refuse,” Kortyshkov replied. “My men tell me that ‘the man down there is an American military officer. He’s not a traitorous Soviet scientist, but an American! An officer! I have seen filthy pigs kept in better condition! You—” And then Kortyshkov stopped, his eyes wide with fear and realization: “Oh God, those are the Americans outside! They’re probably here to retrieve their officer!”

“Don’t be an idiot! Have you lost all of your senses?” Teresov demanded. He couldn’t wait until Gabovich sent this insubordinating moron to Anadyr or some other hellhole base.

“You think I’m being a fool, Major? Think about it.”

And it was then that Teresov realized, with a growing sense of dread and horror, that Kortyshkov was right. It was the only possible explanation for this cockeyed series of events. The fucking Americans were raiding the Institute! And at the same time they were probably aiding and abetting that Boy Scout army, the Iron Wolf Brigade, to liberate Fisikous. Teresov cursed the heavens, wishing this day had never dawned.

“If you want to kill a defenseless military officer, damn your eyes, then do it yourself! Thanks to your treachery, Major Teresov, I have to defend this installation against an American invasion force!” Kortyshkov then turned and departed, leaving Teresov angry enough to shoot the pompous, weak-livered officer in the back and end his useless existence. But the mission had first priority.

By then, Kortyshkov’s soldiers had closed and locked the ground-floor doors and had placed tables against the windows and in the hallways to provide cover. Teresov realized he was not going to get out of the building. Gabovich had to help himself now — there was nothing more that Teresov could do for him until these Lithuanian rebels were squashed.

That left only Luger to contend with.

Grimly, Teresov tightened his grip on the Makarov and headed for the stairs that led to the subfloor detention center. The first thing Gabovich would want to ensure was that Luger was disposed of — and that was what Teresov had to do right now.