Night of the Hawk

FIVE

General Wilbur Curtis’s custom Lincoln Continental staff car — nicknamed the “JokerMobile” because of its gaudy purple leather interior, inch of bulletproof Kevlar plating, and sophisticated communications equipment — skidded to a halt at the entrance of the White House East Wing. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and his aide, Air Force Colonel Andrew Wyatt, were stepping out of the big car before the wheels had even stopped rolling. Through the double doors, past the security station, left down the Lady Bird Hallway, left and up the Grant Staircase, the General and his aide hurried to the “ground floor” of the White House, in the Oval Office anteroom.

Tonight was a “constituents’ evening” photo opportunity, when carefully selected senators were “rewarded” by the President for supporting certain legislation or siding with the President’s party, by bringing constituents in for a brief reception in the White House and pictures with the President in the Oval Office. The Oval Office anteroom was filled with people, all dressed in their Sunday best, looking nervous and excited.

On strict orders of the President’s chief of staff, and to maintain all outward appearances of business as usual, Curtis had to stop and greet the senators and their guests, which he did as politely but as quickly as he could possibly manage. As soon as he could, he broke away from the crowd, hurried past the Cabinet Room, and waved at the Secret Service agents who admitted him immediately into the Oval Office. Wyatt plugged his portable Pentagon command-post transceiver into a wall outlet in a nearby office and waited.

The President was sipping coffee at his desk. His jacket was off and his light-blue silk shirt underneath was wrinkled and tired-looking, but his tie was still straight, his hair was neatly in place, and he looked as perky and energetic as ever. He glanced at his watch when Curtis entered. He and Secretary of defense Preston, along with National Security Advisor Russell, had been briefing the President every thirty minutes on the progress of the Marines’ mission in Lithuania, and Curtis hadn’t been due for another update for a long time — getting an early one could only mean trouble. The President waved at the Oval Office photographers to leave by the door to the Cabinet Room, then asked, “What have you got, Wilbur?”

“Good news and not-so-good news, sir,” Curtis replied. “The embassy staff who evacuated tonight from Vilnius are safely in Polish airspace and have rendezvoused with an Air Force KC-10 tanker for refueling. No sign of pursuit. They have received clearance across Poland for a landing in Warsaw. The embassy staff in Poland is standing by. Bad news, though — one embassy staffer’s wife had a heart attack and died on board one of the choppers. Robert Massey’s wife, Rebecca.”

“Oh, Lord, Rebecca Massey. Jesus … couldn’t anybody do anything? No doctors or medics on board?”

“It was sudden and quick,” Curtis said. “They were jammed into this helicopter like sardines — one Super Stallion broke down, as we told you earlier, so they had to double up. By the time the Marine corpsman reached her, she was gone. Nothing could be done.”

The President nodded, obviously not happy, but realizing there was nothing he could do about it now.

Curtis continued. “A few minor injuries, getting on the helicopters and such, none serious. Otherwise everyone else is fine. I think I’ll have the Marines create a training course for all embassy staffers on helicopter operations during evacuation procedures. A few ladies refused to get on, and others simply had no clue.”

“Evacuation procedures, helicopter operations… sign of the times, eh, Wilbur?”

“Sign of the times, Mr. President.”

The President felt bad about Rebecca Massey — he had known the tempestuous Washington insider for years — but he was also relieved that she was the only casualty. Something had told the President that he might expect dozens of Americans to die in Lithuania tonight. “What news from the embassy? What are the Soviets doing?”

“So far no sign of excitement,” Curtis replied. “I expect you’ll be getting a call from President Kanocius of Lithuania. The wire services are reporting that he will make an announcement about the raid in about an hour. Nothing from the Commonwealth at all. The Marines in the embassy are hunkering down and waiting for trouble.”

“I will call President Kapocius,” the President said. “He should be briefed on the progress of the mission. He took a big chance authorizing our aircraft to fly over Lithuania. I could give President Miriclaw of Poland a hug for all he’s done.”

“I’d wait until you hear what he’d like in return before you hug him,” Curtis said wryly. “Poland has been clamoring for additional farm and industrial credits, including rebuilding that nuclear power plant in Gdynia, which we’ve opposed in the past. Payback may be a bitch on this one.

“Right now he deserves it,” the President said. “Stepping on the Commonwealth’s toes like this isn’t going to be popular in his country or his government. We’ll have to make it up to him.” The President paused, looking at Russell with a wary eye. “Okay, what’s the not-so-good news?” Before Curtis could speak, he said, “The rescue mission to Fisikous? Something went wrong …?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Curtis replied uneasily. “It appears that the Lithuanian Self-Defense Force, of all things, has staged a series of military raids on Byelorussian and Commonwealth military bases in Lithuania. The self-defense force is led by General Dominikas Palcikas. The main thrust of his attack was on the Fisikous Institute of Technology itself—”

“You’re saying that a Lithuanian military unit stormed Fisikous?” he asked in alarm. “Don’t tell me they went in at the same time as the Marines …?

“That appears to be the case, sir.”

“What? They decided to finally toss out the Byelorussian and CIS troops the same night we go in? Jesus,” the President muttered. “Boy, I’ll never play cards again — the long odds are really going against me.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “Well, if the wire services got the news, I’d better drop the all’s-quiet routine.” He buzzed the outer office. “Nancy, cancel all other appointments tonight with my sincere apologies.”

A few moments later the chief of staff, Robert “Case” Timmons, hearing the President’s instructions on the intercom, knocked and entered the Oval Office.

“Case, get the NSC and the White House staff over here, and put a call in to the leadership. Tell them I’ll have news for them in a couple of hours.”

His longtime aide and protégé hurried off to his office to make the calls, leaving the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff alone with the President.

The President poured himself another cup of coffee, then motioned Curtis to a chair. “Might as well be comfortable, Wilbur. This is shaping up to be a very long evening. Details, please, from the beginning.”

“The Special Forces assaults inside Lithuania all went off without a hitch, with the exception of one Navy SEAL,” Curtis said quietly. “He was killed while attempting to cut down some communications antennae on a headquarters building. The building was blown up under him— blown up, it turns out, by the Lithuanian Army. We got one report from a Special Forces team about a strange incident at one air base, but then we lost contact — the Army guys were heading for cover. Then we received the first indications of something happening from the Navy SEAL Gold team, the same one that lost one of its members, when they demolished a radar site and found a small Lithuanian commando unit already trashing the place. Other Special Forces and SEAL units have been encountering what we thought were small Commonwealth patrol units all over the country. But each of these small units was carrying an ancient Lithuanian war flag, which this General Palcikas has adopted as his banner of liberation.”

“What about this Palcikas? What’s the word on him?” the President asked, sipping his coffee.

“Director Mitchell will be giving you a complete briefing on him, sir,” Curtis said. “But in my estimation he’s one of the good guys. He’s Lithuanian-born but educated and trained by the Soviets. Veteran of Afghanistan. He’s powerful, well liked in Lithuania, and he’s enamored of Lithuanian history. He has called his unit the Iron Wolf Brigade, after one of Lithuania’s medieval rulers.”

“He doesn’t think he’s a Lithuanian king, does he?” the President worried.

“I don’t know, sir,” Curtis said. “I think he’s got more on the ball than that. More likely he invokes images of the Grand Duke as a clever marketing ploy to rally popular support to his side.”

“If President Kapocius tells him to disband, do you think he’ll do it?”

“I don’t know, sir. Ken Mitchell and his staff will be prepared to answer that question. A better question for us to consider is what this government should do about Palcikas, and how it affects both the U.S. Embassy reinforcement and the Fisikous extraction.”

“Nothing will affect the embassy reinforcement,” the President said firmly. “Those Marines will stay until all dependents and non-embassy personnel are out of Lithuania and the situation has stabilized. I will not stand for another embassy-siege drama played out on television. We have the right to use military force to protect our embassies, and by God we’re going to use them. There will be no doubt about that.” He paused, and Curtis could see the first hints of hesitation on the President’s face. “We’ll wait and see what President Kapocius does about Palcikas. If he embraces him, we’ll support Kapocius. If he doesn’t, we’ll stay out of it. Now, what’s going on with the REDTAIL HAWK rescue mission? Have the Marines aborted the mission?”

“No, sir,” Curtis replied. “They are continuing to orbit the city, and they requested instructions.”

“You’re sure they’re Lithuanian soldiers involved in those firefights in Fisikous?”

“There’s no way to be positive, sir, without face-to-face contact. They’re heavily armed, much more so than what we thought the Lithuanian Self-Defense Force had, but they have not fired on our aircraft. Radio contact has been made between the Marines and a man claiming to be General Palcikas himself. His forces did battle with the Black Berets in Fisikous. All evidence points to those troops being Lithuanians.”

“What about the Black Berets? How strong are they in Fisikous?”

“Perhaps a few hundred, most concentrated in one section of the base,” Curtis replied. “The Spectre gunship shot them up pretty well. The only ones left are in the design-bureau security facility—”

“The same place as Lieutenant Luger.” The President nodded. “What are the chances Luger is alive?”

The question was obviously painful for Curtis. “Hard to say, sir …”

“Don’t crap out on me now, Wilbur,” the President said. “I trust your judgment — don’t let it be clouded by what you feel for Luger. Do you think he’s still alive?”

Curtis sighed. “I feel it’s a sixty-forty chance he’s still alive, sir. If what our informants and agents said is true, then Luger — who they call Ozerov — was one of the Soviets’ most important engineers. He advanced the Soviet state-of-the-art several years. His value is incalculable. They might try to save him, smuggle him out, something. If not — if the Soviets find out that we’re specifically going after Luger — then they may use him as a bargaining chip to effect their own escape.”

“I disagree, Wilbur,” the President said. “I think the chances are very good that they’d dispose of Luger to hide the fact that he was ever there. If it ever came out that the Russians inside Fisikous were hiding an American flyer for all these years, our invasion would be instantly justified and they’d be finished, shut down. If Luger is not found, we’ve committed an act of war by invading a Commonwealth research facility.”

“I understand that, sir,” Curtis said, “and I must agree with you. But there is one more thing to consider: We owe David Luger this effort. We must try to rescue him. World opinion be damned for once — we know what we’re doing is right.”

The hesitation was longer this time, Curtis observed.

“This parallel operation at Fisikous is different,” the President finally said. “What the Soviets have done to this Air Force flyer is terrible … monstrous … but”—he paused, weighing his words—”I won’t go to war with the Commonwealth to get one man out of there, Wilbur. The Commonwealth is on the verge of cracking apart, and the flying pieces can cripple the entire world. I’m not going to push them to the brink of all-out war, even over your Lieutenant Luger.”

He went on: “I understand that Secretary Preston authorized the’ use of the Spectre gunship to support the rescue operation. That’s fine. But the Marines get one shot at it. If they can’t get Luger on the first try, Wilbur, I don’t want heroics.”

“Mr. President, you know my view on David Luger.” Curtis sighed. “I think the opinions that the NSC staff presented are a bunch of bull. Luger is an American hero. The previous president gave Patrick McLanahan — the man who destroyed the Kavaznya laser site and brought the bomber home safely — the Air Force Cross for what he did on the Old Dog mission. He probably deserved the Medal of Honor. Now it’s time we — uh, you, sir — do something for the man that saved Patrick McLanahan.”

“I understand what you’re saying, and I do sympathize,” the President said. “But Lieutenant Luger is already a dead man — he’s been dead for years. I’m not going to pull punches or spare your feelings here, Wilbur. Luger is already dead. If the Soviets do him in for real, nothing will change. The problem for this administration is not preventing his death, but justifying his existence. Have you thought about what you’ll do if Luger is rescued?”

“Of course, sir …” Curtis replied, somewhat hesitantly, darting his eyes away for a moment.

The President nodded knowingly. “I thought so. You just can’t bring him back, can you? He’s got a grave, a headstone, the works, right? The other crew members of the Old Dog were explainable, accountable — but not Luger. Everyone thought he was dead, so you made up a cause of death — in a plane crash in Alaska — and doctored hundreds of documents, records, and pages of testimony to make it real, all in the attempt to keep the Old Dog mission secret. How do we explain his reappearance? Resurrection? Cloning?”

“We can sequester him until the incident is unclassified,” Curtis said. “The first automatic declassification review of the records is in only six years.”

“I know you can work the problem out, Wilbur,” the President said, and I’m not saying that I’d prefer the man were dead. What I am saying is this — Luger’s life is not worth the lives of dozens of Marines. I would give a lot to get Luger or any American serviceman who was captured by the enemy in the course of his duty — trade, prisoner swap, make a deal, even pay a ransom — but I won’t risk young lives for a man we gave up for dead years ago. I can ‘t. I’d see the faces of those dead Marines in my sleep. And when their wives and mothers ask me why I had to order their husbands and sons to die, what do I tell them?”

“Dave Luger’s life is worth something too, sir,” Curtis replied quietly.

“Yes, it is,” the President agreed, his patience beginning to wear thin, but knowing he was going to have to toss Curtis a bone after the successful embassy evacuation. “Okay, it’s worth a shot—one shot. The Marines get one try at getting Luger. If they withdraw without making contact, they will withdraw to the embassy and stay there. Period.”

Curtis merely nodded his head, signaling that he understood.

“Here they come!” General Palcikas’ radio operator shouted as the message was relayed to him by the Iron Wolf Brigade’s outer security units surrounding the periphery of the Fisikous compound. “Enemy aircraft inbound! All air-defense units, stand by to engage enemy aircraft!”

Four hundred rifles raised toward the bright morning “star,” the planet Venus, which could barely be seen though fast-moving clouds to the east. The sound of an approaching heavy helicopter grew louder and louder. Dominikas Palcikas plugged his left ear with his left index finger and squeezed the radio handset closer to his right ear. He could feel his breathing quicken in anticipation of what was about to appear.

When the sound grew almost intolerable, he ordered into the radio: “Stop your position! Rotate left ninety degrees, decrease altitude to twenty meters, turn on all exterior lights, and translate right until I order you to stop.”

Dust and debris curled up from the ground, and Palcikas could feel the power of the machines approaching him. They were big helicopters, gunships in every sense of the word. They had to be …

“Look! There they are!” Palcikas saw them then as the two war machines slid right toward the spot where he was hiding. The first thing he noticed was the size of the rotors — they were huge, at least eleven or twelve meters in diameter, slow-moving but so broad of chord that they stirred up a tornado of dirt despite their relatively slow speed.

“Hold position!” Palcikas ordered into the radio. The machines stopped and hovered just out of ground effect firmly, without wobbling or swaying, as steady as if set on an invisible shelf. They were like nothing any of them had ever seen. They looked like small cargo planes, like a cantilevered twin-tail Lockheed Hercules, Aeritalia G222, or Soviet Antonov-12 transports, but then there were those two big rotors mounted on the plane’s wingtips, swiveled upwards to act like a helicopter’s rotor. Palcikas saw the weapon pods on the wheel wells on each side, and the sensor dome under the nose with its mechanical eye staring right back at them. “All right, Major Dukitas, what the hell is it?”

“It’s a V-22 Osprey,” Dukitas, Palcikas’ intelligence officer, replied, wearing a broad smile as he watched the extraordinary spectacle of these two machines, as foreign as alien spacecraft, obeying Palcikas’ word. “Tilt — rotor design. Those nacelles can swivel downwards, turning those rotors into propellers.”

“An American aircraft?”

“Yes, sir. Used primarily by the American Marine Corps and Air Force as a covert-operations troop carrier. Twice as fast as a conventional helicopter, large payload, long range, but with vertical takeoff and land capability. Judging by its paint scheme, I would say those are American Marines.”

“Well, this is a strange and pleasant surprise,” Palcikas said. “The Americans appear to want Fisikous as much as we do.”

“What are we going to do, sir?” Zukauskas, Palcikas’ executive officer, asked. “Are they after us or the Soviets? Will they attack …?”

“We will find out right now,” Palcikas said. “Radio to all units: stay clear of the two aircraft over the security building. Continue to your assigned positions and await further orders. All other unidentified aircraft are to be considered hostile except for the two subject aircraft over the design center. They are to be monitored but not interfered with.” On the portable radio, Palcikas said simply: “Proceed as desired, gentlemen. Welcome to Lithuania.”

At that, the two tilt-rotor aircraft wheeled to the right in unison and lifted into the night sky. The first aircraft disappeared from sight while the second accomplished a tight turn around the security building inside the design-center compound.

“Should we monitor the first aircraft’s position, sir?”

“I think both aircraft will stay very close,” Palcikas said. “I want all units to monitor for signs of Soviet counterattack. It will do neither us nor the Americans any good to be caught unaware now. And the Soviets are coming. I can feel it.”

“I don’t fucking believe what we just did,” Gunny Trimble muttered— loud enough to be heard by everyone, but addressing no one except the shades of lucky Marines all throughout the Corps’ history.

McLanahan didn’t dare open his mouth, but inwardly he was beaming. Captain Snyder, the task-force commander aboard Hammer Three, had done what no one expected he would ever do: he had intentionally exposed both MV-22 aircraft to unknown, possibly hostile, forces. He had allowed the voice on the radio who claimed to be a Lithuanian Self-Defense Force general to see both secret special-operations aircraft, and even to position them the way he wanted. Snyder had ordered both SEA HAMMER aircraft to hover right in front of Palcikas and his men, in plain sight, with lights flashing, completely vulnerable to even light ground fire.

And it had worked. When that voice on the radio said, “Proceed as desired, gentlemen. Welcome to Lithuania,” the thrill of anticipation McLanahan felt was unbearable.

Lieutenant Marx was on the command radio talking to Snyder. He lowered the phone, stood, and balanced himself in the aisle so he could speak with everyone in the cargo section. “Listen up. Slight change of plans. The Captain doesn’t want any Hammer aircraft on the ground — too risky with all those troops hanging around. Also, the security building is still heavily occupied with Black Beret troops. The LZ security team will set up on the roof. Gunny Wohl, get your officers ready to fastrope. They’re going on the rooftop.”

“Hoorah,” Wohl yelled, pleased that he was going to see a bit more direct action instead of sitting with the security team near the MV-22. Wohl got to his feet and stood in front of McLanahan, Ormack, and Briggs, and withdrew a large canvas bag from an underseat compartment. “All right, sirs, the one-LT says we’re going on the roof. I showed you how we fastrope, and you’ve all tried it during training.

“Remember the briefing on this rooftop: it’s got only a two-foot rim,” Wohl continued. “Perfect for falling off. Just follow me. You’ll all have night-vision goggles, and the place will be illuminated by infrared lights. Don’t walk under the engine nacelles. If you get confused or disoriented, just drop to one knee and look for me. I’ll be looking for you.” From the canvas bag, Wohl withdrew several sets of thick leather-and-cloth “reactor” gloves, specially made for fastroping.

“Remember, you do everything the jumpmaster tells you — no more, no less,” Wohl said as he watched McLanahan and Ormack suit up. “There will be a Marine jumper on the rope across from you, so just watch him and descend with him. When he slows down, you slow down. If you freeze up, listen for me on the ground for distance calls, but continue your descent or you’ll be hanging from the rope when the aircraft climbs away. Got it?”

“Got it, Gunny,” Briggs replied, all fired up.

“I’m ready. Let’s do it.” McLanahan gave Wohl a thumbs-up, looking Wohl right in the eyes.

Wohl liked that. If there was any fear, Wohl could not see it.

Ormack too made eye contact with the Marine instructor, but he muttered his “Okay.”

“General, you up for this?”

Another slight reply and a nod.

“You better speak up, General, or you’ll be riding instead of jumping.”

Ormack raised his head. His eyes were round with fear, and his expression appeared pained, almost nauseated. But he answered, “Yes, I’m ready.”

Wohl nodded. He knew he should abort Ormack. He knew it. But there was going to be only one jump, and they had come too far for a little anxiety to jeopardize this mission. Wohl said, “Very good, sir. Remember your procedures, take a deep breath. You’ll do fine.”

As Hammer Four departed on a seven-minute orbit around the rural area south of Vilnius, Hammer Three swept around the security building from the east, the side of the building where intelligence reports and photoreconnaissance had shown there were more blocked windows and fewer offices.

For maneuvering and landing, the SEA HAMMER pilots and crew chiefs/door gunners wore a set of improved NVS-13 night-vision goggles, which gave them better depth perception for tricky landings and hard maneuvering. The copilot had control of the PNVS / NTAS system, which projected digital imagery taken from both the FLIR sensor and the attack radar onto his goggles; the copilot could aim the FUR and both the Chain Gun pod and Stinger rocket pod by simply moving his head.

“I’ve got two machine-gun nests on the rooftop!” the copilot shouted. He quickly slaved the steerable M242 Hughes Chain Gun pod to the FUR sensor with the press of a button. “Target!”

The pilot quickly searched the area on either side of the building. No other forces in sight. It would not be wise to have friendly troops nearby when the Chain Gun opened fire. “Jumpers clear the doors. Clear on the sides?”

“Clear left,” the left door gunner replied.

“Clear right.”

“Clear to shoot,” the pilot said. The copilot squeezed the trigger, and a stream of 25-millimeter bullets raked the rooftops, peppering the OMON machine-gun emplacements with pinpoint accuracy. Not expecting an attack from the air, the soldiers manning the nest could not raise their heavy machine guns fast enough to take aim at an aircraft, and they were forced to leap away from the hailstorm of hotdog-sized bullets showering down on them. The gunners on the second nest got off a few shots at the MV-22 with rifle fire, but the SEA HAMMER’s copilot quickly centered the gun on the second machine-gun nest, and it was destroyed seconds later.

“Enemy troops on the rooftop!” one of the door gunners shouted on the interphone as he watched the OMON troops alternately scurrying for cover and taking potshots at the SEA HAMMER in the darkness. “Taking ground fire. Target!”

“Clear to shoot,” the pilot repeated. The Marine door gunners sprayed rounds on the survivors from their door-mounted M134 Miniguns. A single two-second burst from the Minigun sprayed a cloud of one hundred 7.62-millimeter shells on the retreating troops.

The MASTER CAUTION light, a large yellow push-to-reset light in the top center of the instrument panel, snapped on. The big light commanded instant attention. The pilot reset it, then both pilots quickly scanned the instrument panel, looking for the malfunction. Another yellow caution light was illuminated on the center console: it read RT OIL PRESS. The copilot punched buttons on one of his multifunction displays and scanned the graphic engine instrument readouts. “Got it. Oil-pressure drop on the starboard engine,” the copilot announced. “Still in the green band, but two… now five PSI lower than the port engine.”

Another MFD automatically displayed the proper malfunction procedures checklist. The copilot accomplished the first four items-checking other engine indications, turning on auxiliary pumps, and inspecting the engine visually for signs of fire — then got to step number five: “Next item 15 ENGINE SHUTDOWN INFLIGHT checklist, Ken.”

“Flag it,” the pilot replied. “We’ve still got a few minutes before it seizes up. We’ll finish the infiltration, then head for the embassy. Give Jurgensen a holler and tell him to make a ready deck.” On interphone, he said, “Jumpmaster, get your boys on the roof. We’ve got maybe two minutes before we have to bug out.”

Once over the building, the first MV-22 hovered just twenty feet above the rooftop. Four thick ropes were tossed out — two from the cargo ramp between the door gunner just inside the cargo door and one from each port and starboard entry door — and within ten seconds all eighteen Marines had fastroped down to the rooftop. Rappelling was usually too slow for this kind of work — fastroping used no carabiners or lowering devices. It was more akin to sliding down a fire pole; the descent was controlled by hands and feet only, usually resulting in faster descents.

It was soon obvious that the OMON defenders had no night-vision equipment — the troops on the roof were stumbling around blindly, searching for the aircraft overhead, and the Marines now on the roof were able to literally walk right up to the OMON troops. The Marine Building Clearing Team’s MP5 submachine guns made quick work of any surviving OMON soldiers on the rooftop, but not before one Marine was hit in the leg as he slid down his rope.

The MV-22 pilot was about to peel away from the roof and head for the U.S. Embassy when he heard on the assault channel: “Marine down! Marine down! Stand by to medevac!”

But the pilot had his own problems. The oil pressure on the right engine was definitely dropping, and now a fuel-pressure problem was developing on the same engine. “Christ, I knew it!” the pilot cursed. “He might be safer on the roof than with us.” But he clicked on the interphone and yelled, “Guide me down, door gunners, and let’s make it snappy. I didn’t bring my American Express card.”

With the Marine door gunners acting as spotters, the MV-22 settled down to within two feet of the roof, and the wounded Marine was helped up onto the cargo ramp and pulled inside. Thirty seconds after that radio call, the wounded man was being treated by a medical-trained door gunner. The pilot immediately climbed to five thousand feet, as far from any threat of ground fire as he could. By then the oil pressure had dropped to the red line. “Okay, Jim, give me the shutdown checklist,” the pilot said. Following the checklist, the pilot put the MV-22 in full helicopter mode and manually crossed over power from the portside engine to both rotors, allowing the SEA HAMMER to fly on only one engine. Once they were sure that both rotors were under control, they shut down the starboard engine seconds before all oil bled out.

Back on the roof of the Fisikous security building, four Marines set up machine-gun nests and scanned for any sign of counterattack, and Captain Snyder and his executive officer set up a communications link with the Embassy and the other MV-22 orbiting safely over the city. The other eleven Marines disabled the elevator from the roof, then blew the door to the stairwell open and rushed inside.

Floor by floor, the Marine Assault and Building Clearing Team members swept down the stairwell. Stealth and speed were important, so no heavy explosives were used. At each floor, a subsonic round from their suppressed MP5 submachine gun took out the stairwell lights and any guards in the stairwell. In sixty seconds the stairwell on the four above-ground floors was controlled by Marines. With three Marines acting as guards on the stairwell, four two-member Marine clearing teams were poised at each aboveground-floor doorway ready to enter each floor.

With five radio beeps over the whispermikes, the teams on each floor simultaneously began their attack.

The doors on each floor leading from the stairwell were all steel-sheathed fire doors, locked on the inside, so the Marines went in the easy way — two rapid-fire rounds from the Hydra rotary-drum grenade launcher punched man-sized holes in the doors and walls, shorting out most of the lights and creating enough smoke, noise, and debris on each floor to make the OMON soldiers and KGB officers inside bolt in confusion. Several carefully placed shots destroyed the battery-powered emergency lights, and using their night-vision goggles the Marines operated in total darkness.

The target floor was the fourth floor, the floor which had been converted into some sort of bizarre facsimile of an apartment complex. A reception area with couches and solid wood desks was in front, with two pine-paneled hallways left and right. Upon inspection, only one room had actually been converted into an apartment — the rest of the rooms had monitoring equipment, a medical facility, an interrogation center, and a control room. Whoever came up the elevator would see only this reception area and would never know that he was in a military detention facility — it appeared just like a standard Soviet apartment building, right down to the little “floor mother” room down the hall. The prisoner could be kept in this same floor for years and be made to think that he was transported to many different places.

The apartment had a small kitchenette, a small living room, and an even smaller bedroom with a lavatory. It very closely resembled a standard government-built apartment — small, sparsely furnished, cramped but comfortable.

The apartment was empty. It had obviously been empty for some time. The assault-team leader clicked open the radio channel in his VADER helmet: “Hammer Three, this is Assault. Target area empty. Continuing search.” The target was not where intelligence said he would be. Although that was normal — it was too much to expect everything to be where you expected — it only meant more danger for the assault team because now the entire building, including the two below-ground floors, had to be searched.

The third floor, the one below the “apartment-complex” floor, was an office area for the KGB contingent that controlled security at the design center, with only a graveyard shift of workers and perhaps a small Black Beret guard unit expected there. The entire floor had to be sealed as quickly as possible to allow the Marines free access to and from the roof. With one security-team member guarding the stairway door, one assault member would blow a wall or door apart with a grenade round, and the other used his suppressed MP5 submachine gun to neutralize anyone left standing in the room. Using an infrared flashlight, the third team member quickly searched each room, tossed a sleeping-gas canister inside to disable anyone hiding inside, closed and jammed the door shut with a jamming spike, marked it with infrared tape-visible only with night-vision goggles-and the team would move on to the next office. Each room would take about five seconds to search and clear. When an assault-team member would encounter someone in the room or hallways, he would study his face for about two seconds in the light of their infrared flashlights before shooting. Anyone that looked even remotely like Luger was searched more carefully — after he was down.

The OMON security force’s arsenal was on the second floor, which was arranged differently than the other floors. The offices of the officer in charge of the arsenal, his NCOIC, and his clerks flanked the hallway as they entered, but the rest of the floor was divided by a long steel counter-top, with sand-filled weapon-clearing barrels, cleaning-solvent tanks, and gun-cleaning benches along the windows. Beyond the countertop was a brick wall with a single vaultlike door, and beyond that was the arsenal. After leaving two Marines to guard the stairwell in case any enemy soldiers straggled out, seven Marines congregated on the securely locked door to the arsenal and began their assault on this important floor.

This was where the first serious firefight between the Marines and the Black Berets broke out.

Several OMON soldiers had grabbed machine guns, automatic rifles, and shotguns and were hiding behind the counter, ready to take on the invaders. They began firing as soon as the Marines’ grenades punched holes in the door and walls. One Marine was hit in the stomach by heavy AKMS rifle fire as soon as he jumped through the hole they blasted in the wall, the high-velocity round easily piercing his Kevlar vest, and he was dragged back into the stairwell by another Marine while the others provided covering fire.

The Marines could not afford to waste time in a prolonged gun battle with these soldiers. Speed and shock were their only allies, and if they lost those two important elements the entire battle was lost. With these heavily armed soldiers on this level and over fifty more soldiers on the ground floor, the greatly outnumbered Marines could lose the entire building very quickly if they allowed the situation to get out of hand. The two Marines on the ground floor had already begun their assault, but there was return fire already. The Marines had to wrap up this assault quickly.

The decision on how to handle the arsenal floor was made several days earlier. If Luger was being held on this floor, he was going to die. There was nothing the Marines could do about it, because the arsenal and everyone inside had to be neutralized, swiftly and completely, at all costs.

The Marines first shot several CN tear-gas grenades into the room, followed by a volley of six fragmentation grenades, and then two Marines entered the room. A few shots rang out, but none were aimed at them — they heard nothing but coughing and screams of pain from the wounded. The three front offices were searched and sealed, and slowly the Marines approached the counter behind a cloud of slowly dissipating tear gas …

Suddenly an OMON soldier popped up from behind the counter.

It was obvious he’d been close to one of the exploding grenades, because he was covered with blood, and the right side of his face and neck looked like the remnants of a fresh road kill. The Soviet soldier screamed and opened fire, spraying the entire room with full-automatic fire. With his unprotected eyes closed and burning from the gas, he still did not miss. Two Marines were riddled before the others finally silenced the last survivor.

The rest of the bodies behind the counter were searched and then the vault door to the arsenal was checked. It was thankfully unlocked — they were not carrying enough explosives to blow a thick steel door and destroy the arsenal. Two Marines quickly checked for booby traps, then cleared the rest to proceed.

“Command, Assault. Great arsenal they got here, sir,” one of the Marines radioed to his commander on the roof. At the same time two Marines carried the bodies of their dead comrades upstairs to the rooftop.

“Follow the plan, Murphy,” Snyder, the overall task-force commander, radioed back. “Set the charges, block the doors, bring your casualties up, and do the rest of the building. We’ll blow the arsenal if things get hairy.”

“Roger. Three casualties coming your way. Target not yet found. Proceeding to ground floor and subfloors. Out.” After the explosives were set, the remaining eleven Marines rushed downstairs to continue their assault.

The stiffest resistance for the Marines was on the ground floor, but by that time — only four minutes since they first blew the stairwell-roof door off — the lights were out all over the building and the explosions in the upper floors had created a panic. Half of the men on the ground floor were trying to get a clean shot off at their attackers in the darkness, and the other half were trying to surrender. Most of the Black Beret soldiers were armed with rifles or handguns and taking cover in the doorways of offices along the long central hallway on the ground floor.

The Marines first shot in tear-gas canisters to make the soldiers pull back out of the hallway, then used their rifles to shoot out the emergency lights that illuminated the hallway. But it was still too dangerous to go into the hallway to start clearing out the offices, so the Marines did the next-best thing — they re-entered the stairwell, used their grenade launchers to blow holes in the walls, then rushed into the adjacent offices. One by one they cleared a room and then, instead of going down the hallway and through the office’s front door, simply blew holes through the connecting walls into the next office.

Watching a man through night-vision goggles as he tried to do something in total darkness was a painful, horrifying experience — it was akin to watching a young blind child in an unfamiliar room and not lifting a hand to help. Every sound was an enemy to him, and many of them took shots at every creak and groan in the place, often hitting one of their comrades, and the screams of those accidentally shot only served to increase the fear and confusion. Once-familiar surroundings were unseen enemies, ready to trip you up. One Black Beret stuck his hand in a flower pot, turned, and fired four shots from a pistol into his own hand — his screams of terror and pain continued until a Marine was close enough to the man to finish him off. The Marines could see the whites of the men’s eyes, see the terror in their faces, watch their hands trembling, their eyes darting frantically back and forth at every sound, or watch them weep or urinate uncontrollably. When a Marine raised his weapon and fired, he was often just a few inches away from his victim, and the enemy had no sense of his killer’s nearness when he died. The expression of sheer surprise the Marines saw through those night-vision goggles when the Black Beret felt the bullet hit was something none of them would ever forget.

The resistance got stiffer the farther down the hallway they went, but the darkness and the tear gas took their toll quickly on the confused OMON soldiers. In two minutes the three Marines had swept through the entire floor, killing or incapacitating the entire Black Beret contingent.

Snyder and his executive officer were busy dressing one of the Marines wounds — the other two were dead when they were brought up to the roof — when the NCO in charge of the Building Clearing Team radioed up to Snyder: “Command, this is BCT. Upper floors secure and charges set.”

“Copy, BCT,” Snyder replied. He switched channels on his tactical radio, then keyed the mike. “Security, this is Command,” Snyder radioed to the other MV-22. “Upper floors secure. Move in.

On the rear cargo deck, on either side of the MV-22 SEA HAMMER crew chief manning the Minigun, were Hal Briggs and Gunnery Sergeant Wohl. They were holding tight onto one-inch-thick “Marine green” ropes, ready to fastrope to the roof once the MV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft was in position. Two more Marines, one on each door on the port and starboard sides, were ready to go as well. Right behind Briggs was McLanahan, with another Marine corporal ready to fastrope behind Wohl, and right behind McLanahan was Ormack. Lieutenant Marx was standing beside the jumpmaster, ready to fastrope down with Ormack. The jumpmaster would lower Marx’s radio to the roof after everyone else had departed.

Through his night-vision goggles, McLanahan could see other Marines already on the roof of the design center, using axes and wire cutters to chop down radio antennae that might be tall enough to hit the tilt-rotor aircraft. Three-man SAW security teams manning heavy M249 machine guns and M203 grenade launchers were on each corner of the roof. Most of the Security Team members from Hammer Four had already fastroped to the roof, jumping down as soon as word was received from the Building Clearing Team that it was safe to occupy the upper floors.

When McLanahan flipped his NVG out of his eyes, everything disappeared in the blackness. He could see nothing outside — no roof, no men, no machine-gun nests. The feeling of vertigo was very real and gut-wrenching, so he put the NVGs back in position real fast. For safety and security reasons, the MV-22 had changed positions on the roof after unloading the first twelve Marines on board, because an enemy could have easily drawn a bead on the hovering aircraft. Now Hammer Four was maneuvering back into position to off-load the three Air Force officers and the rest of the Marines in the security-team platoon.

“We’re going to approach the roof tail-in,” Wohl said to his three Air Force officers, “so remember, when you get off the rope, turn immediately towards the center of the roof. It’s real easy to get confused when you leave the chopper, so if you get disoriented, just step clear of the rope and drop to one knee. I will grab you and tell you where to go. Don’t get confused and run off the edge of the roof. Remember to step clear of the rope because the next Marine will be coming down right on top of you. Look before you move.”

The MV-22 stopped its forward motion, swung left so the nose was facing out away from the building, and translated backwards until the cargo ramp, and then the crew doors, were over the edge of the roof. Spotter/gunners in each door guided the pilot to the proper position.

When the MV-22 was positioned properly and stabilized in a hover, the jumpmaster yelled, “Jumpers, go!”

Wohl and Briggs pulled themselves onto their ropes. Like the hot dog he was, Briggs held on to the rope with one hand and gave McLanahan a thumbs-up and a big smile, then disappeared below the edge of the cargo ramp.

The jumpmaster yelled, “Jumpers, ready on the rope!”

McLanahan shuffled forward onto the cargo ramp, careful not to cross his feet in case the motion of the MV-22 caused him to trip. He reached out and grabbed the thick, soft nylon rope. Someone down below was holding the bottom, and the tension against him made McLanahan feel as if he were going to be pulled off the cargo ramp, so his grip involuntarily tightened. This was it. The noise was almost unbearable. McLanahan was afraid he wouldn’t hear the commands because of the rotor noise and the roar of the blood pounding in his ears, but three seconds later, the jumpmaster yelled, “Jumpers, g—”

The SEA HAMMER tilt-rotor suddenly heeled upwards so hard that McLanahan’s knees buckled. The aircraft then swung hard left, lifting up some more, swung hard right, and then the 25-millimeter Hughes Chain Gun pod on the left-side sponson opened fire. McLanahan’s feet left the deck, and he found himself hanging for dear life on to the rope, dangling away from the cargo ramp, being swung so violently that he could not reach the ramp.

The MV-22 flew away from the rooftop, picking up speed and altitude fast to fight off a sudden attack.

“Patrick!” General Ormack yelled. He was on his hands and knees on the cargo deck, being pulled back against the web troop seats by a Marine. The Marine on the other fastrope on the cargo ramp was nowhere to be seen-McLanahan realized with a thrill of terror that he probably fell off the rope when the SEA HAMMER made that violent swerve. That tightened his grip on the rope even more.

The jumpmaster, who was secured by a safety line, edged his way to the back of the cargo deck. He motioned with his hands to his ankles. McLanahan immediately understood. Holding on tightly with his hands, he wrapped his left leg around the thick rope, letting it twist around his leg and rest against the inside of his left sole, then pressed down on it with all his might with his right foot. The rope and his left foot formed a firm step that McLanahan could use to relax his hands and take some of the press …

A streak of yellow fire suddenly arced away from the aircraft hangars to the right. The MV-22 made a sharp left turn, but the streak of fire was too fast and hit the right engine nacelle. The nacelle exploded in a ball of fire, showering McLanahan with flying pieces of metal and white-hot flame. A shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile, probably a Soviet-made SA-7 or SA- 11, had hit the right engine.

They were going down.

The MV-22 swiveled to the left. Still dangling on the rope, McLanahan had no sense of up or down anymore. His knuckles and cheeks were flushed with pain from the burning right engine. He hit the side of the cargo door as the SEA HAMMER nosed up. When the nose suddenly came back down, the whipcrack was too much.

McLanahan was thrown off the rope like a pellet from a slingshot.

The explosion from the Marines’ three simultaneous attacks from the stairwell nearly threw Vadim Teresov, who was rushing down that same stairwell to the second subfloor, off his feet. Damn them! he cursed. That was close! Bits of concrete and insulation dust dropped from somewhere above him, and the lights flickered, then went out completely.

Teresov found himself leaning in a corner of the stairwell against a wall, shaking his head to clear the ringing. The emergency light over the last door below him snapped on. He took a few moments to let his head clear, then gripped the Makarov tightly and headed toward the light. At first he swung the pistol overhead, aiming it at the stairs, deciding that he was going to shoot anyone who appeared — if they were attackers they were his enemies, and if they were Soviets they were cowards, and both had to die. But when he reached the door to the second subfloor, he found all his concentration swinging toward the grim task at hand, and he forgot about all else.

Teresov looked through the wire-reinforced window in the door. The guard’s desk near the door was unmanned, the door locked. He quickly unlocked the thick gray-steel fire door with his pass key, closed it behind him with a dull echo, and locked it again. The basement of the security building was a maze of heating ducts, machinery, leaking pipes, and sounds of all kinds. Only a few emergency lights were on down here, so Teresov unclipped the light from its bracket over the doorway and used it as a flashlight to find Luger’s cell.

The Marine Corps pilot of the stricken MV-22 SEA HAMMER tilt-rotor aircraft had by force of habit lifted the nose to gain altitude when the missile hit the starboard engine. That was a mistake that he almost did not live to regret: when you suddenly have no flying speed left, you don’t raise the nose, which bleeds off more airspeed — you dump the nose to try to regain airspeed. Realizing his error, he immediately dumped the nose and stomped on the right yaw-control pedal to counteract the spin to the left. Without forward airspeed of 60 knots or more, the SEA HAMMER wasn’t going to autorotate no matter how perfect his procedures were, but with a few extra knots of airspeed in the fall, he might have enough speed to keep the aircraft upright in the crash landing. A V-22 must crash-land upright and level — anything else would mean serious fuselage stress, rupture, and fire.

The V-22 has a system that can apply power from one engine to both rotors at the same time, and in most conditions the aircraft can stay controllable; the crossover was supposed to happen automatically, but the third item in the bold print (must-be-committed-to-memory) checklist for engine failure inflight, after POWER-MAX and AIRSPEED-60 KIAS, is EMERGENCY CROSSOVER — CHECK XOVER.

“Check emergency crossover!” the pilot shouted to the copilot.

The copilot had immediately run the same checklist in his head, so he was on the same step as the pilot, looking at the illuminated status light. “Linkage shows crossover!” the copilot yelled back. That interchange took one-half second. They had another five seconds before they’d hit the ground.

The explosion had momentarily cut off all power to the instruments, so the pilot couldn’t see his airspeed gauge, but he knew he didn’t have flying speed. Time for a new bold-print emergency checklist — crash landing: “Fire T-handles, pull!” he shouted. There was no time to complete the rest of the bold-print items because the MV-22 hit the ground at that instant.

But the pilot did just as he had hoped. When the MV-22 hit the ground just a few seconds later, he had enough airspeed built up to lift the nose and prevent his aircraft from burrowing the nose, or “augering in.” The MV-22 hit the ground at nearly 40 miles an hour, in a nearly level pancake crash. The extra weight on the left wing threatened to flip the aircraft upside down, but luckily it stayed upright.

On the end of the thirty-foot-long rope, Patrick McLanahan was flung through the sky for several seconds like a leaf fluttering in the wind, until that final snap when the MV-22’s nose came down and he could no longer hold on. But the aircraft was only a few feet above ground, so his ballistic trip through the air was short but spectacular. McLanahan landed several dozen feet away from the MV-22’s impact area, hitting on his left side and cartwheeling along the ground several more yards.

Dazed and confused, McLanahan picked himself up off the ground and checked himself over. His night-vision goggles were history, twisted pieces of the instrument hanging off his helmet, so he unstrapped the helmet and tossed it aside. His left shoulder felt wrenched where he had landed on it, but it did not appear broken or separated. His feet and ankles were working.

The only light nearby was from the slowly burning wreckage of the MV-22’s right wing. McLanahan ran over to check on the crew. He could feel something snapping along the ground near him, digging up patches of asphalt and grass — was it his Marines shooting at him or was it the enemy? He had no way to find out. But he made it safely to the rear cargo hatch of the stricken MV-22 and yelled, “Hey! Marines! Anybody in here …?”

“Patrick!” It was John Ormack. He was bending over another Marine — the jumpmaster, Patrick realized — checking his wounds. “My God, I don’t believe it! I never thought I’d ever see you alive again! Are you all right? Where’s your helmet?”

It’s funny what an excited man will say sometimes, McLanahan thought — John Ormack saw McLanahan flung off into space from the back of an aircraft, and he wanted to know about his helmet! “I trashed it. Are you all right?”

“I’m not sure,” Ormack said. “Hey, nice fastrope job. You made it down safe and sound.”

“Gunny Wohl will be pissed. My one real try at fastroping and I screw it up.”

Ormack laughed, then pulled up in pain. “Dammit, Patrick, don’t make me laugh. I think I cracked a rib.” He motioned toward the front of the aircraft. “The jumpmaster is hurt real bad. He pushed me onto the web seats, then got flipped around the cargo hold. Lieutenant Marx.” He pointed to the soldier lying in the web troop seats along the fuselage, the one that was supposed to jump with Ormack. “Goes in and out — he might have a concussion. I’ll drag these guys out. Check the cockpit!”

The MV-22 had landed slightly nose-low, crumpling the left-front portion of the nose. In the glow of cabin emergency lights, it appeared that the copilot’s harness had failed or he had taken it off to activate a switch, because the copilot was dead, his body smashed against the left forward windscreen.

He had seen to the dead — now to see to the living. His first concern was the stricken V-22. Fortunately, McLanahan had a lot of experience with V-22-series aircraft at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, developing the weapons suite for Air Force and Border Security Force versions, so working in the dark cockpit was easy for him. McLanahan averted his eyes from the corpse, reached over, and made sure that both fire T-handles on the top of the instrument panel had been pulled. He found the battery switches on the overhead console and shut those off as well, then retarded the power control to IDLE, released the idle latch, and moved the power control to CUTOFF. It was easy to retrieve the semiconscious pilot from the right side of the cockpit and drag him out, just as it was awful to drag the dead copilot out.

“The copilot didn’t make it,” McLanahan told Ormack when he reached the cargo hold.

“Dammit,” Ormack muttered. “Let’s get the others out of here.” Ormack tried to drag the jumpmaster out while helping Lieutenant Marx to his feet, but his ribs creaked and he moaned in pain.

“You help Marx to the security building,” McLanahan told him. “I’ll get the jumpmaster and the pilots.”

As Ormack assisted the semi-lucid Marine out, McLanahan grabbed the two unconscious Marines by the backs of their jackets and unceremoniously dragged them across the pavement and bits of frozen lawn to the side of the design-center security building. Ormack had found a side door and had placed Marx beside it.

“Try the door,” McLanahan said.

Ormack did — it was locked.

“I’ll get the copilot. Shoot the lock off if you have to.” McLanahan ran off to the stricken MV-22, which had crashed about fifty meters away from the building, between it and the aircraft hangars.

McLanahan was breathing heavily and had slowed down to a trot when he felt, rather than heard, gunshots hitting the ground near his feet. He didn’t know if it was friendly fire, or the Lithuanians, or the Black Berets, but whoever it was definitely was getting a bead on him. With a surge of adrenaline, he sprinted for the MV-22, dodging every time he heard the pop! of gunfire.

Back in the cargo section, McLanahan was about to grab the dead copilot by the jacket and drag the body to the security building, but the shooting outside gave him a better idea. He went to the forward part of the cargo bay and grabbed two MP5s and two web belts full of ammunition from the crew chiefs gun rack. He clipped one ammo pack to his own ALICE harness. Instinctively McLanahan immediately opened the bolt of one of the rifles, checked it in the dim glare of an emergency light, pulled out a magazine, tapped it, inserted it into the breech, slapped the bottom to seat it properly, then flipped the bolt closed. The actions seemed so natural, so fluid, that McLanahan surprised even himself. McLanahan put the weapon on three-shot semiautomatic and, with the gun in his right hand and dragging the dead copilot with his left, began his dangerous trek back to the security building.

This time he could tell that the shots aimed at him were coming from the aircraft hangars. McLanahan moved as fast as he could, not daring to take a rest, and firing at every muzzle flash he saw. Halfway along he had to stop to reload and rest his left arm. This time the enemy fire seemed closer, and he thought he saw movement near the burning MV-22. No clear targets presented themselves, so he grabbed the dead copilot and began dragging him …

… when suddenly two soldiers appeared around the back of the MV-22’s rear cargo door, aiming what looked like AK-47s with long, banana-shaped magazines at him. Their outlines were clearly seen in the glow of the burning left engine, and Patrick realized that he must be easy to see as well. Shots rang out, and McLanahan instinctively dropped to the ground, using the corpse as a shield in front of him. But the enemy soldiers were only a few dozen yards away — they couldn’t miss.

Teresov had to walk across half the length of the building to reach the 3-by-3-meter concrete-block cells that had been constructed by the KGB many years ago. The guard post here was deserted as well — Luger could have been alone down here ever since the alarm was sounded. No matter. He would—

Another explosion, this one dozens of times more powerful than the first three combined, made Teresov drop the flashlight in terror. Was that the arsenal? Three hundred weapons and thousands of rounds of ammunition were undoubtedly gone in that one. Two major explosions in just the time it took Teresov to walk from the door to Luger’s cell. Whoever it was, Marines or devils, they were moving fast.

Thankfully, the emergency flashlight hadn’t broken when he dropped it, and there were other emergency lights on nearby, so the entire subfloor itself wasn’t completely dark. He made his way to the proper cell door, opened the shutter, and, holding the emergency light up to the opening, peered inside.

The cell was empty. The shadows were thick because the light was too weak to illuminate the entire cell, but Luger could not be seen. The bed was empty, the computerized vital-signs monitor and environmental regulator were off. Luger was free but nowhere to be found.

Teresov felt a chill of panic. What condition would Luger be in — was he deranged or dead? Teresov needed help. He tried the phones on the guard desk in front of the cells — all dead. No walkie-talkie. He was alone. No lights except for the one he held in his hand and another farther down in the subfloor. Searching the desk, he found no tear gas, stun guns, or anything else he could use to subdue the prisoner singlehandedly. Well, he decided, a lie was as good as anything else.

Teresov returned to the cell and, hefting the big Makarov PM pistol, said in English, “Lieutenant Luger, this is Major Vadim Teresov, General Gabovich’s aide. I have been directed to take you upstairs. Come out so I can see you. Immediately.”

No response.

From somewhere overhead, a series of loud booms reverberated throughout the building — two, four, maybe ten of them, all in a loud, terrifying string, like massive firecrackers going off. Teresov felt moisture on his palms, and he dried his hand on his pants before tightly gripping the pistol again. “Do you hear that, Lieutenant? We have been ordered by an American Marine Corps rescue detail to destroy our weapons and bring you to the ground floor for a prisoner exchange. If you do not comply with my request, the Marines will assume you are dead and destroy this building. You and everyone inside will die. So close to rescue, do you want to risk dying? But I do not want to risk dying either. Come out where I can see you and I will escort you upstairs.

Still no response.

Luger flattened himself against the door to the cell, staying as far out of sight as possible. No more passive, drugged-out, mind-fucked prisoner, Luger told himself. Teresov is here to kill you. Fight with everything you have left, Dave, because there won’t be a second chance.

Luger knew there was one dead-bolt lock and two sliding cylinder bolts on the door. The door would withstand an impact with two of the three bolts in place, but with only one he might be able to break it. He started to summon all his power, all his courage, all his being into concentrating on what Teresov was doing out there. He would have only one chance.

Shots rang out and McLanahan’s body jumped at each burst — but they were not from in front, they were from behind! John Ormack, still wearing his helmet and night-vision goggles, had run up beside McLanahan, firing away with his 9-millimeter automatic.

“Those sons of bitches,” huffed Ormack. Patrick heard the loud, dull click! as the slide locked open — Ormack had run out of ammo.

As Ormack hurriedly reloaded he shouted, “Patrick! Run!”

The two enemy soldiers had ducked behind the fuselage of the MV-22, so McLanahan took the opportunity, scrambled to his feet, and dragged the corpse back to the building. McLanahan heard Ormack eject a spent magazine, snap a new one in place, and begin firing again.

Ormack used several shots from his Beretta to break open the lock on the door, and then closed it behind them. The hallway was completely dark. McLanahan used the grisly, broken body of the Marine copilot to barricade the door. “Jesus, John, you came along just in time,” McLanahan said, breathing heavily. “I owe you one.”

“Forget it,” Ormack said. He examined the copilot through his night-vision equipment. “Yeah, he’s dead, poor bastard.” He lowered him gently to the floor in front of the steel door, then withdrew his FM radio from his ALICE harness. Ormack tried several times to raise someone, with no luck. “Try your radio, Patrick.” But it was obvious the instant he withdrew it from his harness that the radio was shattered.

“What do you see around here?” McLanahan asked. “Where are we?”

Ormack withdrew an infrared chemical light stick from a pouch, bent it until a vial inside the soft plastic tube cracked, and shook it. McLanahan could see nothing at all, not even his hand in front of his face — to him, it was pitch black. But to Ormack, with his night-vision goggles, the hall and stairwell were brightly illuminated. “There’s no other door here — this entrance only leads to the subfloors,” Ormack said, peering around them with the goggles. “There’s only a staircase that leads down.”

“Well, we can’t stay here. Those jokers outside may be coming after us,” McLanahan said.

“Let’s leave the copilot here — we’ve done all we can for him, and I’ll need help with the injured,” Ormack said grimly. “Let’s head down with the others and find a place where we can cover the stairwell and lower floors at the same time until help arrives.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” McLanahan said. “Lead on.” McLanahan first withdrew a door-jamming spike from the semiconscious Marine’s ALICE harness pack and hammered it into the doorframe with the shattered remains of his FM radio. Anyone trying to open the door would have to break it open, and they would hear it and be ready. He also applied a small strip of infrared tape with his element number and the date-time group on it to the doorframe, and rubbed it with his gloves to night-vision goggles — hopefully, the other Marines in the assault force and not the Black Berets — would see the otherwise invisible tape and know who had been there and when. McLanahan then hoisted the unconscious jumpmaster onto his shoulders, and with Ormack painfully helping the other semiconscious Marine, they made their way downstairs.

Damn you to hell, Luger! Teresov raged inside. But Teresov was really angry at himself. Why didn’t I think of bringing a soldier down here, or a grenade, or some tear gas? Teresov opened the magazine on the Makarov and counted the rounds — seven, with one in the chamber. I didn‘t even think to bring extra magazines.

His anger boiling over, Teresov snapped the magazine back into the gun, stuck the muzzle into the shutter, and fired four rounds blindly into the tiny concrete cell. He was rewarded after the second shot with a blood-curdling scream, like a badger caught in a trap.

Well, well, Teresov thought with relief.

The screaming continued unabated — Luger barely had time to draw breath before another scream echoed throughout the subfloor. Teresov had heard men scream before — in pain, in fear, in sheer terror, when they know death is only a fraction of a second away — and Luger’s scream was real. A ricocheting bullet must have hit him in a serious but obviously nonlethal place.

Teresov eased the bolts off the door, leaving one in place, then flashed the light inside the cell. He could see a foot at the very bottom of the shutter — Luger must have been hiding directly underneath the shutter. The foot was trembling uncontrollably, as if in death throes. Perfect. Teresov inserted the key into the lock. No hurry now. Let Luger become weak from loss of blood.

When he opened the door, Luger would fall right into his waiting arms.

The first subfloor door was locked. Their intelligence briefing said that this floor had some offices but was mostly file and furniture storage. They decided not to shoot it open, for fear of attracting the attention of any enemy soldiers that might be nearby, so McLanahan applied another jamming spike and infrared tape to the doorframe and they made their way downstairs to the last subfloor.

The door here was locked as well. There was no other way out — it was either through the door or back upstairs. Their intelligence briefing said that the second subfloor was heating and cooling equipment, incinerators, and water heaters. No reason to enter that floor either. “We’ll hide back in the corner so we can cover the stairs and the door,” McLanahan said, handing a submachine gun to Ormack. “I’ll go upstairs and check to see if any Marines have—”

Suddenly they heard four shots, followed by the most bone-chilling scream either of them had ever heard. The screaming continued, increasing in pitch and intensity. It was coming from inside the door to the last subfloor.

“Christ, what was that?” Ormack whispered.

McLanahan’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “It’s Dave,” he said. “That was Dave!”

“What? Are you sure?”

“I’ve heard him scream like that before — when we got hit by the missile, on the Old Dog,” McLanahan said. “It nearly blew his right leg off. He screamed just like that. It’s him! He’s in there!” He raised his MP5, set it to single-shot semiautomatic, and aimed it at the door handle …

“Wait, Patrick. What are you going to do?”

“Get Dave, that’s what. Step back.”

“But you don’t—”

“I said step back, John, goddammit!”

Ormack dragged the two Marines away from the door just as McLanahan fired several shots at the handle. After several seconds of frantically pulling at the hot metal, the door wrenched free. McLanahan snapped a fresh magazine into the submachine gun and made ready to go through the door.

“Wait, I’m going with you,” Ormack said.

McLanahan was about to argue, but he changed his mind — he knew he needed the backup.

“Here.” Ormack removed his helmet with the NVG-9 night-vision goggles and gave it to McLanahan, who strapped it tightly on his head. “You’re better at this infantry shit than me.” But when Ormack handed him the infrared light stick, McLanahan refused it.

“If his guard’s got night-vision equipment, I’ll be a good target for him,” said. “There’s supposed to be boilers and incinerators down there — I should have enough light. Leave it here but bring a few more new ones.”

Ormack picked up the second MP5 submachine gun, checked the magazine, set it to single-shot semiautomatic as well, and nodded to McLanahan.

With Ormack behind him, McLanahan crouched down and slowly pulled the steel-sheathed door open. No sign of response. He slowly moved it all the way open and applied the doorstop to keep it open. There was a small ledge just inside the door, a small staircase leading down, and a dark maze of pipes, conduits, and huge pieces of equipment inside. The screaming had subsided somewhat. Judging by the sounds, the person was not too far away. McLanahan crouched, partially shielded by the steel railing surrounding the ledge, and carefully scanned the entire sub-floor, watching for any movement that might reveal Luger’s captors. Nothing. There was a small light far off in the distance, toward the source of the screams, and McLanahan thought he saw the light move.

McLanahan figured that David Luger’s captor obviously knew they were there, so all chances of surprise were gone. McLanahan filled his lungs with air, then yelled, “United States Marines! You are surrounded! Surrender!” Then, switching to Russian — hastily taught by Wohl and the other Marines back at Camp Lejeune — he yelled, “Stoy! United States Marines! Pahsloshightye myenyah! Bistrah!”

The screaming stopped abruptly. McLanahan’s heart was in his throat — he thought Luger’s captors had killed him. McLanahan gripped the gun, ready to rush toward the light—

— but a distinct voice cried out, “PATRICK! I’M DOWN HERE! HELP ME!”

Damn, damn, damn it! Teresov swore.

American Marines were invading Fisikous — and they were here! Worse, Luger — that shit — was still alive! He had to finish him off before they arrived. He would put a bullet in Luger’s head, then wound himself, get rid of the gun, and pretend that he was a prisoner along with Luger. Perhaps the Marines wouldn’t kill him right away if they saw he was wounded. Hefting the gun, Teresov snapped open the last bolt on the door and—

— the door suddenly burst open, and David Luger came flying out and landed on top of him.

The presence of the Marines, along with seeing Luger’s foot flopping around and hearing him scream like a wounded cat, made Teresov sloppy, made him think only of himself and not of his captive.

Luger was not injured, and now he was fighting for his life.

The emergency flashlight went flying under the desk. Luger had hit Teresov low, right around the knees. Teresov crashed back against the guard’s desk but stayed upright. Luger was a wild man, his bony fingers digging into Teresov’s flesh, screaming like an animal, writhing and snarling. He had grabbed on to Teresov’s right wrist and was squeezing like a man possessed. A hand raked across Teresov’s eyes, into his nostrils, pulling at his ears. First a fist, then an elbow, then another fist hammered his face.

But none of his blows caused any pain — Luger was simply too weak, too emaciated, to hurt anyone. Teresov’s right arm broke free of Luger’s grasp, the Makarov in Teresov’s right hand came down hard on Luger’s skull, and the American officer crumpled. Teresov swung with his left arm, and the skinny, half-naked body flew across the basement, hitting hard against the open cell door.

Luger dropped to one knee, dazed, but he raised his head — and Teresov freaked. Even in the dim glow of the emergency light he had never seen such wild, murderous eyes before in his life. They were wide open, spinning, gleaming and terrible. Luger’s lips were pulled back in an animal-like snarl, his brown teeth bared. Blood flowed from a head wound, covering Luger’s hideous death-mask of a face with rivulets of bright-red blood. Teresov knew what it was like to have just cornered an injured wild animal. There was nothing human about that skinny, disheveled figure before him.

That made it that much easier for him. Teresov raised the Makarov, aimed, and—

“NOOOO!” someone screamed behind him.

Teresov jerked his head around, saw a dark figure running out of the shadows, carrying a submachine gun. Teresov squeezed off two shots at Luger without aiming — at this distance, he could not miss — and turned to face his new assailant.

Three shots rang out from an automatic weapon. Teresov could feel the slugs whiz by him, walking up from about waist level to well over his head, could feel the shock and heat of the muzzle blast, but he was unhurt. A clean miss, at very close range — sloppy work for one of the legendary U.S. Marines. He whipped around toward the gunblast and fired the last round from his Makarov. A figure leaped out of the darkness, tackling Teresov and shoving him hard down the hallway in front of the other concrete-block cells. Teresov let his body go limp, cushioning his head with his left arm as he hit the concrete floor.

To his surprise, however, the figure was off him immediately. Teresov could see a solidly built man in dark-green baggy fatigues, wearing a bulky “Third Reich”-style Kevlar helmet with boxy fittings attached to it — night-vision equipment, Teresov guessed — crawling over to where Luger had collapsed. He seemed to have forgotten all about him. Scrambling to his feet, Teresov wheeled around and kicked as hard as he could into the newcomer’s midsection.

The soldier grunted, the air popping out of his lungs in one great whoosh, but he crawled to his hands and knees and got to his feet …

… just as Teresov kicked again, using a snapping karate side kick.

Teresov saw that the Marine was festooned with weapons and hardware — a big sidearm, a thick flak vest, a knife in a shoulder harness, pouches and utility bags filled and attached all over his body, and an MP5 submachine gun carelessly tossed aside — but he seemed to have forgotten about all of them. Who was this guy? The Americans actually sent an untrained, unskilled boob to rescue Luger! Teresov’s kick landed squarely on the Marine’s head, bowling the guy over and dropping him. But the big guy was up again, struggling to his feet, almost as wild and possessed as Luger. The Marine’s helmet was nearly turned sideways on his head from the force of the kick, and he pulled it off, revealing a mop of short blond hair and a round, almost boyish face. Teresov guessed his age at forty-something, well-exercised and big-shouldered but not hard and lean. A pretty soft-looking Marine.

Teresov danced easily around the lumbering Marine. “They should have sent a better-skilled soldier to do the job, pretty boy,” he said gaily in English. He made another whirling roundhouse kick to the right side of the Marine’s head, and the guy slumped to his knees. This was fun!

Seeing his opportunity, Teresov stepped forward, reached into the Marine’s holster, and pulled out his sidearm. He recognized it instantly — a 9-millimeter Beretta automatic, standard issue from the U.S. Marine Corps. He cocked it, held the Marine’s head steadily with his left hand, and pointed the big pistol at the helpless Marine. “Doh svedanya, Master Marine…

A shot rang out, a booming, heavy explosion, very close. Teresov jumped, dropped to one knee, taking cover behind McLanahan, and pointed the pistol toward its source. He should have guessed there might be another Marine down here, but if he was as incompetent as the first he should have no trouble dispatching him.

The first shot, and now a second shot, both missed, flying well overhead. Teresov looked up and saw the second Marine, a short, goofy-looking man with no helmet, short brown hair, aiming a pistol unsteadily at him. He simply emerged from the shadows, now about forty feet away, not bothering to take cover. The second Marine took a third shot, and that one missed as well.

This is ridiculous! Teresov aimed his captured weapon at the second Marine and fired, hitting him squarely in the chest and dropping him easily. Two down and one to go …

But he had ignored his other captive far too long.

McLanahan grasped Teresov’s left hand with his own left hand, twisting him around so the Russian was facing the floor, then he reached up to his left shoulder with his right hand, withdrew his KaBar infantry knife, and plunged it into Teresov’s belly, thrusting upwards with so much power that the point of the big knife protruded from the Russian’s back.

Teresov stiffened, all feeling and breath draining from his entire body, and dropped the gun.

McLanahan tossed the dying man away from him and left him lying in a pool of his own dark, warm blood.

McLanahan crawled over to the inert form lying against the thick cell door. “Dave? Dave?”

It was him, all right.

He was thinner than he’d ever imagined, and his head and chest were covered with blood — but it was warm, red blood, not dried blood, which meant that Luger’s heart was still beating. McLanahan felt around Luger’s bloody chest, and finally found the wound, high on the left side. One shot had missed, and Luger’s clavicle had deflected the other bullet up and away from his chest. A quarter of an inch lower and it would have deflected into his heart. While pressing his left hand hard into the finger-sized wound, McLanahan retrieved his first-aid kit from his ALICE harness and withdrew a thick combat dressing pad. When he pressed it into the wound, a low moan escaped from Dave Luger’s crusty lips.

“Dave? It’s me, man — Patrick. Wake up!”

Luger’s eyes fluttered, strained to focus in the dim light. He blinked, eyes scanning the bloodied, exhausted face before him. “Shto?” Luger asked in Russian. “Kto tam…?”

“Dave, it’s me, Patrick,” McLanahan said. “You’re okay. It’s me. Your partner — Patrick.”

Luger’s eyes opened wider, and Patrick was surprised to feel a hand on his face, brushing away bloodstained hair. “Pa… Patrick? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Dave,” McLanahan said, his heart so full of joy that he almost burst out crying. “Yeah, it’s me …”

“How very touching,” a weak voice said. Behind Patrick, Vadim Teresov had somehow gotten to his feet, the 9-millimeter automatic in his hand. The KaBar infantry knife was still sticking in his stomach, the blood-covered, parachute-cord-wrapped handle protruding from his belly like some sort of hideous organism. “So… you two are old friends, eh?” Teresov gasped in English. “Well, you can join me in hell.” He raised the pistol in shaky hands and aimed it at the back of McLanahan’s head. “Good-bye …”

“Good-bye to you, motherfucker,” General John Ormack said. He leveled his MP5 at Teresov and pulled the trigger. Thirty-two rounds of 9-millimeter death on full automatic took about three seconds to empty into Teresov’s body, and this time when he fell, he was dead. He did not have the luxury of a thick Kevlar flak vest to protect him, as Ormack had had when Teresov’s earlier shot had hit him.

“And good riddance,” Ormack said. “Who says I can’t hit the broad side of a barn?” He dropped the spent weapon and knelt at Luger’s side. “Luger, is that you? Are you all right, Lieutenant?”

The burst of automatic gunfire seemed to have fully revived Luger, because his eyes widened in shock and disbelief when he turned to face Ormack. “Colonel … Colonel Ormack, is that you? You’re here too …?” It was like a dream from long ago and far away.

“You bet I am,” Ormack said proudly. “And you can call me General, son.”

“Right,” Luger said with a weak smile. “Right. General. I should have known that. Patrick?”

“Right here, Dave.”

Ormack handed over his first-aid kit and Patrick applied it to the exit wound in Luger’s back.

“Are we going home now?”

McLanahan didn’t have a chance to answer. He heard a footstep in the shadows. Quickly he reached for the fallen automatic, turned, and aimed it into the shadows.

“Nice move, Colonel,” Gunnery Sergeant Wohl said as he stepped into the light. Instantly, the area was filled with three other Marines. Wohl raised his night-vision goggles and said with a hint of a smile, “For a second there I thought these goggles were defective — you looked like a real Marine there for a second.” He motioned to Luger and said, “Who is this? Is this REDTAIL HAWK?” He then saw Teresov’s body, a mangled heap of tissue a few feet away, and shook his head. “I hope that wasn’t him—”

“Shot?” Luger asked.

“Oh, great. You bagged a Russian …”

“No, this is him,” McLanahan insisted. “Gunnery Sergeant Wohl, meet First Lieutenant David Luger, U.S. Air Force. Dave, Gunny Wohl. I need some help with this chest wound.”

“Rourke, front and center,” Wohl said, motioning to a Marine carrying a green canvas medical bag. Wohl stooped down and patted Luger on the leg, giving him a nod and a reassuring smile. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. I’m glad McLanahan and Ormack found you — and I’m glad we found all of you alive.” Wohl then looked at Ormack, who was lying against the cell wall trying to massage away the pain of the bullet impact on his chest, and added, “Sheesh, General, Luger’s even skinnier than you are! What is it with you Air Force pukes, anyway? You have an aversion to pumping some iron?”

Hal Briggs suddenly appeared beside Luger, and he shook Luger’s shoulders and his hands until Luger rolled his eyes in pain. “Dave Luger! Goddamn it, Luger, you’re alive… I mean, damn, man — it’s good to see you!”

“Hal … Hal Briggs? God, I don’t believe it. You’re here, too?” He looked at McLanahan and said, “Can I see Wendy and Angelina now?”

“Not for a while, partner,” McLanahan said, thinking Luger looked like a kid at Christmas. “We’ve got a long way to go yet.”

“You got that right, Colonel,” Wohl said.

Luger looked at McLanahan. “Colonel? You made colonel?”

“Quit gabbing and save your questions until later, Lieutenant,” Wohl said. “We ain’t out of this shithole yet.”

Luger’s face turned very tight and grim, and he leaned his head back as if resigned to die — as he always thought he would.

“Don’t let him get to you, Dave,” Briggs said with a smile. “He’s a Marine. He has that effect on everyone.”

“You can button it too, Briggs.” Wohl watched as the corpsman finished his work, then asked, “Is he okay to move?” The corpsman nodded, then turned to examine Luger’s head. “Then let’s get the hell outta here, boys.”

McLanahan and Ormack first led two Marines to where the injured jumpmaster and the last Marine security team member were, then made their way upstairs to the ground floor.

Gunnery Sergeant Trimble was with the radioman when he saw the group emerge from the subfloors. He stood as they approached him and said, “Report, Wohl.”

“Second squad and I, along with Captain Briggs, made a search of the first subfloor, as you directed,” Wohl replied. “During our search we found a door-jamming spike and activated infrared tape with Colonel McLanahan’s ID number on it. We tracked McLanahan down to the second subfloor and found McLanahan and General Ormack with this individual, whom they’ve identified as REDTAIL HAWK.”

“Well, no shit,” the big Marine exclaimed. Trimble stepped over to where Luger was lying on the floor beside the other injured Marines. “Your name?” he asked.

“Myeenya zahvoot Ivan Sergeiovich… I mean, my name is Luger, David,” Luger replied. He turned, smiled still in disbelief at Patrick McLanahan, then added, “United States Air Force.”

“Why is this man speaking Russian? Are you sure you got the right man, McLanahan?” snapped Trimble.

“He’s the right one,” McLanahan said. “He’s been brainwashed into thinking he’s some Russian scientist.”

Trimble looked completely unconvinced. “Right. We’ll interrogate him later. Search him for weapons or transmitters.”

“Search him?” McLanahan asked. “He’s not wearing anything but a pair of torn-up trousers, Trimble.”

“I don’t care if he’s buck naked. He’s a foreign unidentified individual until an intelligence team tells me otherwise. Search him, handcuff him, and post a guard. And that’s the last outburst I’ll tolerate from you.” Trimble turned away from McLanahan and checked Lieutenant Marx. “What’s the one-L-T’s condition?”

“Looks like a severe head injury, Gunny,” the corpsman replied. “He needs to be medevaced immediately. Sergeant McCall will be okay. Major Cook has a broken left leg and head injuries also.” He motioned to the copilot, whose face was being covered by someone’s fatigue jacket. “Captain Brandt was KIA.”

McLanahan looked down the corridor and saw another four covered faces and three more wounded. Out of a total of forty-eight Marines on this mission, including the air-crew members, eight were dead and eight were injured badly enough to place them out of commission. He could see several others, perhaps a dozen, with bandages wrapping head, hand, leg, and shoulder wounds.

“We sure took a beating just for one Russian-speaking flyboy,” Trimble said, shaking his head angrily. He glanced at McLanahan and Ormack and added, “At least you went back and got the injured.” That was all the thank you they were likely to get. “All right, children, we’ve got thirty-two Marines to hold this building until our pickup arrives. I’ve got four SAW squads and a Stinger squad on the roof. I want two in the stairwell. I want the subfloor door sealed and booby-trapped. I’ll set up a four-man patrol to check floor to floor. The rest will be on station on the ground floor. We’ll set up SAW squads on each side of the hallway and in front of the main entrance.

“You three,” he said to Briggs, Ormack, and McLanahan, “will go through each and every desk and each and every file cabinet in this building, upper floors only. You will have one B-4 bag each, and you will report to me when your bag is full. That bag becomes your responsibility, and it adopts a higher priority than yourselves — if there’s no room on the chopper, you stay and the bag comes with us. If we have to sacrifice Marines to get you in there, dammit, you’re going to make it worth our while.”

Briggs was ready to chew on Trimble for those remarks — speaking like that to an officer, even a noncombatant, was far, far out of line — but he held his anger in check. Trying hard to keep his temper, Ormack asked, “How long do we have until the Sea Hammer comes back?”

“Hammer Two landed in the embassy grounds for fuel and some repairs,” Trimble said. “They are scheduled to be back over the roof in fifteen minutes. Since we’ve lost one SEA HAMMER, he’ll need to make two trips — the first will be for the wounded and dead and for the BCT, and the second for the security team. You should have about thirty minutes altogether.”

“Thirty minutes!”

“What the hell did you think, sir?” Trimble retorted. “Did you think the MSB and the Commonwealth were going to give us a week or two to go through their shit? We’ll be lucky if you get ten minutes. My Marines aren’t accustomed to sticking around when a job is done, especially when the bad guys know we’re here — we kick ass, then split. But not tonight. Now we have to wait on you three. Now get moving, sir. You will collect important data on this Soviet stealth bomber until I order you to cease activities and report back to the roof for evacuation. Is that clear, sir?”

“When do we go to the aircraft hangars?” McLanahan asked. “The bomber itself is supposed to be—”

“If you want to go there right now, sir, be my guest,” Trimble interrupted, maintaining his version of military decorum by remembering to append “sir” to most of his sentences. “You may get your ass blown off, but you’d have your adventure. This complex has not been secured.”

“But the aircraft itself is the real target,” Ormack said. “If we get pictures of the Soviet stealth bomber, it’ll be the biggest intelligence coup—”

“Besides, this is just the security facility,” McLanahan interjected. “They may have some documents in storage here, but they’re bound to be outdated or useless to us. The stuff we need to see is in the offices in the hangars. We need to—”

“Dammit, sir, I’m not interested in your coups or what you think is the real target,” Trimble growled. “Your opinions don’t mean shit to me — can’t you officers get that into your thick skulls? My orders were to rescue REDTAIL HAWK and allow you time to search for records pertaining to this experimental aircraft. No one said a word to me about taking pictures or seeing a stealth bomber, and they did not specify how long I had to stay to allow you to rifle through desks. They left that decision to Captain Snyder and me. Now move. When I call you upstairs to get on the chopper, your bags should be as full as Santa Claus leaving the North Pole.”

General Anton Osipovich Voshchanka hung on to a leather strap bolted on to the interior of his Zil staff car as the driver negotiated a tight turn in the streets of Kaliningrad. It was about four-thirty in the morning, and already the streets seemed more crowded than usual. People that were out stopped and pointed at the large, dark-blue sedan, as if they could see its occupant. Do the citizens know? Voshchanka thought to himself. News, especially bad news, usually travels very fast. The big military car, sealed and armored on all sides and weighing several hundred kilos more than a regular automobile, fishtailed a bit on the icy streets. Voshchanka tightened his safety belt and tried to pay attention to his executive officer briefing him:

“… No more than a series of hit-and-run strikes,” his exec was saying, “but the Lithuanians knew where to strike. They went after power transformers, radars, communications facilities — not just the easy stuff like the antennas or transmission lines, but the relays and control centers. They also blew up several key rail and highway bridges. Very little loss of life, but damage was extensive and complete. Entire bases are still out of direct radio or telephone contact, and it’s been over an hour since the first attacks.”

“Has a general alert been broadcast?” Voshchanka grumbled.

“Yes, sir, but we’ve received acknowledgment from only thirty of the largest bases and installations,” the executive officer replied. “Small installations and outposts have not reported in. Of the ones that did acknowledge the alert, all but three say they were under attack or had already suffered some damage.”

“Palcikas is going to pay for this,” Voshchanka said under his breath. “God, I am going to make him pay! Who does he think he’s playing with? I want his location, and I want him placed under arrest—”

“General Palcikas is believed to be in the Fisikous Research Institute.”

Voshchanka’s mouth dropped open in surprise: “Fisikous was attacked?”

“Not just attacked, sir,” the exec replied. “It has been taken. It is the only installation where Lithuanian troops have invaded and then occupied. They have an estimated four to five thousand troops inside the facility itself and on the airport, plus another one to two thousand patrolling the capital.”

“You said that American Marines were over the city and in Fisikous,” Voshchanka said. “So the Marines are working with the Lithuanians to attack our bases and facilities?”

“It is not known yet what the link is between the Lithuanians and the Americans,” the executive officer replied. “But it is too much of an extraordinary coincidence. They’ve got to be working together.”

“Any word from the Americans? Anything on television or from Minsk?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Incredible,” Voshchanka mused. “America attacks Commonwealth and Byelorussian bases and facilities without a declaration of war — and does it hiding behind little Lithuania’s skirts!” Despite his bravado, Voshchanka was worried — if the Americans were involved, he stood a very good chance of losing his command, not to mention his life. He’d almost lost his command a few weeks ago after Palcikas had complained to the Lithuanian President. But he’d convinced the Commonwealth Council of Ministers to keep him on — and after the riot at Denerokin they were glad they had. They would never know of his involvement in promoting the massacre. The Americans were proven to be tenacious, punishing fighters. “Are they still using the embassy as a base of operations?”

“Yes, sir. There are at least two small attack helicopters, identified as Marine Corps AH-l Sea Cobras, both fully armed, and one supply helicopter, a Super Stallion, that appears to be damaged or under repair. A contingent of at least one hundred Marines landed in the embassy, which would bring the total contingent to about one hundred and fifty. Three Super Stallion helicopters airlifted civilians out of the embassy grounds.”

A security officer in the front seat, acting as radio operator as well, handed the executive officer a message.

“Another aircraft sighted in the embassy, sir, identified as a Marine Corps MV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft, nicknamed the Sea Hammer. It too appears damaged. Four casualties were observed being taken off the aircraft.”

“Did it come from Fisikous?” asked Voshchanka.

“Yes, sir. This would seem to confirm the identification of the aircraft that was shot down inside the Fisikous Institute as a V-22 tilt-rotor. A modern Marine Corps composite helicopter squadron usually has six to eight such aircraft, along with the Sea Cobra and Super Stallion helicopters.”

“Any firm estimate on how many Marines are in Fisikous?”

“None, sir. The Commonwealth’s MSB had some forces still inside the facility with a radio, giving some intelligence information on the forces inside, but they were routed out by the Lithuanians. But each MV-22 aircraft holds up to twenty combat troops plus a crew of six.”

“So we may assume that there are at least thirty-six Marines still inside,” Voshchanka said. “A pitifully small force.”

“There has been no word from the MSB forces inside Fisikous,” the executive officer reminded his superior, “and there were several hundred troops there. That may mean that those forty Marines defeated ten times their number when they took Fisikous.”

“With help from the Lithuanians,” Voshchanka said, shaking his head. “What a debacle! This must be the worst defeat Soviet troops have suffered since Afghanistan.”

The executive officer had taken another message from the radioman in the front seat, and he interrupted Voshchanka with it: “Sir, General Gabovich of the MSB is on line one.”

“Gabovich? How did he get this number?” But there was no use asking that — he was KGB, after all. He probably had the President of the United States’ bedroom phone number in his coat pocket. Voshchanka hit the line button and picked up the phone: “General Voshchanka here.”

“What in blazes are you doing, Voshchanka?” Gabovich asked in Russian. “What in hell is going on? Are you on duty or aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about, Gabovich?”

“General Palcikas and his street-gang members have raided the Fisikous Institute,” Gabovich raged. “There are helicopters all over the city. I have lost contact with my aide and my military commanders in Fisikous — I think they’ve all been slaughtered by Palcikas.”

“They’ve been attacked by American Marines,” Voshchanka said.

“What? Marines? In Lithuania …?” On the other end, Gabovich wondered if Voshchanka had been drinking.

Quickly, and without too much detail, Voshchanka told Gabovich about the series of raids all throughout Lithuania, and some details about the embassy reinforcement and the raid on Fisikous. Why he did this, he himself wondered. “So,” Voshchanka said, after finishing his short briefing, “this seems to destroy your little plan for dealing with the Lithuanians, doesn’t it?”

There was silence.

Voshchanka was considering hanging up on the pretentious Russian.

Gabovich finally said, “No, General, this is the perfect opportunity. You must launch your attacks now. Move your forces from Kalinin and Byelorussia now. There will be no better time.”

‘Now see here, Gabovich—” But Voshchanka froze, realizing Gabovich was right. With all the confusion over the raids, Voshchanka, as commander of all Commonwealth forces in Lithuania, could — no, was expected—to respond in order to safeguard lives and property. These were obviously terrorists operating in Lithuania. The word was that they were Lithuanian soldiers, but there was no word from the Lithuanian government about the threat of such attacks. Perhaps they were not under government control — Palcikas could have gone insane or was operating independently. Maybe he was trying to stage a coup or take over the high-tech weapons in Fisikous for his own use! Yes, perhaps that was it. Or at least what he would tell the Council of Ministers if he had to.

In any case this was the perfect time to move. With the communications infrastructure in Lithuania disrupted, news of his troop movements would be delayed, perhaps by hours, even in daylight. In that time his troops could take over the entire country. He felt his face flush with anticipation.

But was he ready to do it? Where was Gabovich and the MSB going to be when the shooting started? He wondered… maybe it would be best to wait. “What if the Americans are assisting the Lithuanians?” Voshchanka asked. “The Americans could retaliate with force. I need time to mobilize my troops.”

“Your troops should have been ready to move, General,” Gabovich hissed. “I’m willing to bet they’re ready — it’s you who are hesitating. I’ve seen your forces maneuver for best position over the past few days, barely within the constraints of the treaty. Your aviation units must have updated their data base of landmarks, assault locations, rally points, and landing spots — I have seen their activity across the border more and more.

“The time is now, General Voshchanka. You know it is. Quit vacillating. This opportunity may not come along again in years.” There was a pause, Voshchanka still having second thoughts, when Gabovich added, “You must also attack the American aircraft on the embassy grounds.”

“Attack the American Embassy?” gasped Voshchanka.

“Well, you say there are three, perhaps more, attack helicopters on the embassy grounds. They must be destroyed, General, before our troop movements are detected. You must also demonstrate to the Americans that we will deal harshly with any military force that tries to interfere with our plans.”

Voshchanka should have known that Gabovich was manipulating him, saying “our” and “we” when it would clearly be only Voshchanka’s troops on the firing line-but in his excitement, Voshchanka ignored the real impact of Gabovich’s words. It was a delicious opportunity. Far better than even he had expected. If it worked, it would ensure Voshchanka of the chance to create a new, stronger empire. One in which he would have to answer to no man or council… and he would rule with an iron fist. Without another word, he handed the receiver back to his radioman. He thought for a long moment, then turned to his aide. “Get me Colonel Tsvirko at the Fifty-first Air Army. I want to speak with him immediately. Have the Order of Battle for the Fifth and Seventh armies ready for me when I arrive at the office. And use the siren to clear that traffic out there, driver, or I will pull out a rifle and start clearing them away myself.”

“Here it is,” Ormack shouted. “I got something!” He was poring over a file-cabinet safe full of materials that Briggs and one of the Marines had broken into with a small piece of C4 explosive. McLanahan and Briggs ran over to him. “Look — it looks like a briefing package, as if the scientists were going to brief government officials on the project. I got slides, videotapes, handouts, cost projections, the works.”

“I got something, too,” Briggs said. “Looks like a security — inventory logbook, with lists of publications and documents and which drawers they’re in. I’ll get Sergeant Haskell to translate it for us.” The Marine Special Purpose Force such as the one that invaded the Fisikous Research Institute usually carried at least one man who was very familiar with the local language. The assault team’s man was Andrew Haskell, one of the Marines patrolling the stairwell.

As McLanahan and Ormack piled files and videotapes into their green canvas bag, McLanahan said, “Christ, John, can you believe we’re doing this? In a top-secret Soviet research lab, trashing the place? And we found Dave. I just can’t believe it.”

“Me either,” Ormack huffed. “I just wish we’d get out of here. If we can’t get into the aircraft hangars, what’s the use? We got Dave and he’s okay. Let’s get the hell out.”

“Yeah — but wouldn’t you love to get a look at that bomber?”

“Look at this,” Ormack said, ignoring the question. “This is a briefing slide on… man, this is a slide on a test flight for the bomber! It even has a date on it… hey! That’s only a week and a half from today! That thing must be ready to fly!”

“Let’s ask Captain Snyder for permission to go over there,” McLanahan insisted. “I hate going over Trimble’s head, but his head has been up and locked this entire night. These Marines are tough sons of bitches, John, but if it’s not in the game plan, they won’t allow it.”

“Look, I’m not gonna argue with their game plan, Patrick, because they got us in here alive,” Ormack said. McLanahan nodded his assent. “But I don’t have any trouble going to Snyder. We’ve got a job to do, and Snyder runs this show, not Trimble.”

They packed all the documents they had collected into one B-4 bag, then went out to the main stairwell where the guards got clearance for them to head upstairs to the roof. A cold drizzle had started to fall in the pre-dawn hours, which only served to heighten the feeling of nervousness and dread.

Ormack dropped the stuffed green canvas bag near the elevator-shaft door under an overhang, which would provide a bit of protection from the rain.

Captain Edward “Breaker” Snyder was huddled under a low poncho tent, sitting beside a suitcase-sized portable radio, a headset in one ear. His executive officer was flipping through a small notebook, reading. Occasionally Snyder would raise a pair of night-vision binoculars and scan the nearby buildings and the aircraft hangars. He lowered the binoculars when Ormack and McLanahan approached.

“You gentlemen done already?” Snyder asked. In the pre-dawn light, Ormack could see the exhaustion and worry on Snyder’s face. Ormack didn’t know if this was Snyder’s first actual assault, or if he had done dozens of them in the past, but from his stooped shoulders and sagging mouth, the pressure was definitely affecting him.

“There was nothing on any floor except for the third floor,” Ormack replied. “We’ve gone through the file cabinets and safes, and we got everything there is.”

“Then go through the desks and the lockers on the first floor,” Snyder said. “You have some time.”

“What we’d like to do is go over to the aircraft hangars,” Ormack said.

Snyder took a deep, exasperated breath. Before he could speak, Ormack interjected, “Captain, the plane is over there. The tech orders are over there. We need to—”

“Captain, vehicles approaching from the south!” the executive officer shouted. Snyder jumped at the announcement, whipped off the headset, then crawled over to the south edge of the roof and peered over. The two Air Force officers did the same.

An armored troop carrier was slowly rumbling down the ramp area in front of the aircraft hangars, heading toward the security building. Atop the APC was a large red flag, the Vytis, fluttering on a radio mast. There was also a white flag tied to the muzzle end of an AK-47, being held aloft by a soldier in the cupola of the vehicle.

“Radio message coming in from that vehicle, sir,” the executive officer said. “On the emergency channel. Unsecure.” Snyder crawled back to the radio tent and held the headset up to his ear:

“Attention please, American Marines. Attention please,” came the heavily accented voice. “I speak on behalf of General Dominikas Palcikas, commander in chief of Lithuanian Self-Defense Forces. The General sends you greeting and would like to inform you that all Soviet security forces have been removed from Fisikous. I repeat, all Soviet OMON troops have been captured or killed inside Fisikous. My commander requests to speak with the commander of your forces, please.”

The APC was still moving forward toward the security building. Snyder clicked on the radio: “Armored vehicle with the Lithuanian flag, hold your position.” He lowered the handset. “Range from the APC to the building?”

“Fifty meters,” one of the SAW squad members shouted back. “Vehicle has stopped.”

“Weapons visible?”

“Only the rifle,” the squad member shouted back. “Four. five… six gun ports closed… machine-gun mount empty.”

Snyder picked up another handset. “Trimble, I want a SAW squad on that APC. If it moves any closer to the building, blow it away. You got that?”

“Trimble copies,” came the reply.

Snyder and his executive officer dragged the radio over toward the edge of the roof so he could watch and talk at the same time. A tall, beefy soldier had emerged from the rear of the APC, accompanied by a younger man with a portable radio slung over his shoulder. After the two dismounted, the vehicle backed up about twenty meters. The soldiers were alone, with only sidearms visible. The big soldier boldly stepped right up to the front door of the security building; the radioman was a bit less determined, but he kept up with the big strides of his partner. Ignoring the guns, barricades, and determined Marines challenging him, he walked right up to the shattered front door of the facility, a cocky smile on his face.

“That’s far enough,” Trimble challenged them. “Step aside so I can see your APC.” The radioman translated for the other man, and with an amused smile on his face, the two soldiers complied.

“My name General Dominikas Palcikas, commander of military forces of Lietuvos, “the big man said in halting English. “I wish speak with your commander, please.” He apparently recognized that Trimble was not the leader of this unit.

“Captain, the guy says he’s General Palcikas,” Trimble radioed up to Snyder. “Wants to talk with you.”

“He wants to talk?” Snyder repeated incredulously. Ormack and McLanahan could see the crushing strain on Snyder’s face — the guy looked like he was having a heart attack. “Take them into custody. If they resist, kill them. If that APC moves, blow it away. I’ll be down there in a minute.”

“You’re going to arrest the commander of the Lithuanian military?” McLanahan asked. “Why?”

“How do I know he’s really Palcikas? How do I know he’s with the Lithuanian Army? Lithuania isn’t supposed to have an army — only a militia, a bunch of rough, ill-equipped volunteers. This group has got tanks and antiaircraft weapons.” Snyder took a drink from his canteen, water spilling out the side of his mouth. He turned to Ormack and continued: “I don’t give a shit about arresting anybody. But I’m going to follow procedures. Lots of spies have just walked into a camp waving a white flag. I’m going to secure him, isolate the two individuals, and interrogate them, just like Trimble and Haskell did with Luger.

“But what I really care about, sir, is getting off this fucking roof. The Soviets are going to dump on us any minute, and we’re standing around with our thumbs up our asses, about to have a tea party with the locals.” He dropped the FM radio handset and picked up the UHF command radio. “Dockside, Dockside, this is Hammer. Status of our transport. Over.”

“Hammer, this is Dockside, estimate ten mike for your ride. Over.”

“Copy ten mike,” Snyder acknowledged, swearing to himself again. He glanced at his watch. In their coded phraseology, “ten mike,” or ten minutes, needed to be multiplied by whatever number the minute hand was pointing on at the time of the transmission. In this case, he needed to multiply by two — they were estimating twenty minutes before the MV-22 would be back to pick them up. He put the handset back in the radio. “We’re going to lose daylight at this rate — the chopper won’t be back for at least twenty minutes.”

“I know you got a lot on your mind, Captain,” Ormack said, “but this is a great opportunity for us. The Lithuanians down there seem to have control of the entire facility, and the SEA HAMMER’s been delayed. “We don’t need any other Marines to help us.”

“Oh, is that so?” Snyder asked derisively. “So now you guys are experts in securing buildings, huh?”

“I’m not trying to tell you your business, Captain,” Ormack insisted. “I’m trying to say we’re willing to take the risk. You’ve got the important data from this building in a bag right there, and you’ve got REDTAIL HAWK downstairs in custody.”

“So you think you can go trotting off anywhere you please, and I’m not responsible for you and I shouldn’t care what happens to you, right?” Snyder asked, clearly distraught. For the first time, the two Air Force officers saw real concern in the Marine captain’s eyes. He really felt exposed, unprotected, completely alone out here, his thirty-some Marines against the full might of the Commonwealth Army that might be bearing down on him at any moment. “Well, I am responsible for you, dammit. I’m responsible for all the men here. It’s my ass if I get anybody killed on this mission.

He removed his helmet, scratched his head irritably, sprinkled a bit of water on his head, and strapped the helmet back in place. Taking a deep breath, he gave Ormack and McLanahan an icy stare; then: “Look, just finish up your search of this building — collect any data you can. Hopefully by the time you finish, the SEA HAMMER will be back and we can get the hell out of here. With the Lithuanians in charge, maybe you’ll get invited back to get the rest of the data. But I’m more concerned about this assault team. With only twenty-eight combat-ready troops here, we’re sitting ducks for any sort of counterattack. Hell, one bomb can take us all out.” He turned over control of the radios to his executive officer and headed downstairs.

Ormack and McLanahan followed.

The two Lithuanians were seated on small wooden chairs in the main ground-floor hallway. Their wrists and ankles were bound by plastic handcuffs. They wore no hoods, blindfolds, or gags, but they were seated facing a blank wall, separated from each other by a few feet. One Marine was examining the radio, copying down all the frequencies and channel numbers imprinted on it. Sergeant Haskell was standing by, ready to help translate; he also carried a black-and-green leather pouch that contained the unit’s intelligence records — the photos and briefing notes used by the unit for reference during the mission. Gunnery Sergeant Trimble was examining the two soldiers’ identification papers; he handed them over to Snyder as the three officers approached. “Haskell?”

“We don’t have a photo of Palcikas, sir,” Haskell said. “I’d like to request the embassy fax us a copy from their files.”

Snyder picked up his portable radio: “Bob, get on the horn to the embassy and tell them to fax us a picture of General Dominikas Palcikas of the Lithuanian Self-Defense Force. Out.” The PRC-ll8ED UHF radio had a built-in fax modem on which documents could be printed out and transmitted from across town or, via satellite, around the world. “You got anything on him?” Snyder asked Haskell.

“Nothing on Palcikas himself except for his name, rank, and age. I got his unit’s approximate troop strength, headquarters, staff… not much more than that,” Haskell replied. “General word is that Lithuania’s not supposed to have an army. Total strength of about two thousand, small arms, some APCs. No aircraft, heavy armor, artillery, or air-defense weapons. Border guards, ceremonial, government security only.”

Snyder nodded to Trimble, and a guard swiveled Palcikas’ chair around so he faced into the hallway. He wore a slight smile on his dirty, tired-looking face. “Do you understand English, sir?”

“Yes. Little,” Palcikas replied. He noticed the dark-blue bars on Snyder’s collar, looked at Snyder’s face, and his smile broadened a bit. “You are commander here?”

Snyder ignored the question. “Sir, how many troops do you have here in the Fisikous Institute?” he asked.

“You say ‘sir’ with very little respect in your voice, young captain,” Palcikas said. “You must be American Marines.” Palcikas had trouble with his English, but the other Lithuanian, still facing the wall, translated the question into Lithuanian and helped his superior with his translation: “I had four battalions here, about three thousand five hundred men. Two battalions, no more. Organized three battalions, each eight hundred men.”

“Jesus,” Snyder said. He had lost a third of his forces, as had Snyder, but this man had lost a hundred times more souls. “And I thought I lost a few men.”

Palcikas looked at Snyder and nodded, as if he could see the fear and pain that the young Marine captain was trying to hide. “War is a difficult thing, is it not, Captain?” Snyder made no reply. “You are very young to command American Marines, are you not? But then, some of my officers are very young as well.”

“What is your objective here?”

“Fisikous will be headquarters for my troops during attacks,” Palcikas explained with help from his radioman. “My headquarters in Trakai not good against air attacks. Fisikous very good, very strong.”

“But what is your objective? Why are you doing this? Why are you attacking Fisikous?”

“To drive foreign troops out of my country,” the man replied. “I destroy communications centers, missile bases, power plants, and airfields — now I take my stronghold and plan my next offensive. Fisikous now belongs to Lithuania.” He paused, scanning Snyder carefully, then asked, “And what is your objective here, Captain?”

“That’s classified, sir.” Haskell handed Snyder a printout. It was the fax from the Embassy with a recent photo of Palcikas. It matched. Snyder showed Trimble the printout, then showed it to Palcikas. “Release him — but don’t give him back his weapons until they’re ready to leave.”

Palcikas smiled at that extra bit of caution. He had a chance to look around after he was cut free and his equipment, minus his weapons, were returned to him: “Ah. Secret invasion. Small force, limited objective, few casualties. Hostage rescue? You steal secret formulas, like in James Bond movies?” He looked at the other men around him, his eyes falling on Ormack, McLanahan, and Briggs. “These men not Marines. CIA? You spies?” He shook his head, deciding they were not. Then he stared at Ormack and nodded his head. “No, not spies. But you are main man. You are commander here? You look like commander.”

Snyder gave Ormack a warning glance — no names, we’re not even supposed to be here — and Ormack nodded that he understood. “Perhaps someday we can be formally introduced,” Ormack said, extending a hand. Palcikas grasped it in his huge hand. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you, and I’ve admired you ever since you left the Red Army and returned to Lithuania. You are an inspiration for a lot of people in America.”

“You smart guy!” Palcikas said with a laugh, a broad grin on his face. “I first think you general like me, but you too smart for general — maybe gunnery sergeant, no?” The Americans around him laughed aloud — Palcikas’ charisma was infectious. “No names, classified mission, and you know of me — maybe you all spies.” He shrugged nonchalantly, then added, “No matter. You shoot the right soldiers — you shoot OMON Black Berets here in Fisikous. I thank you for assisting me. What are your intentions?”

“Right now, my intention is to get out of here,” Snyder said.

“Easy,” Palcikas said, clapping Snyder and Ormack on the shoulder. “You go. We take you. You go to embassy? City of Progress? Yes, we take you to embassy. Heavy guard, hide in trucks, you stay secret. Okay?”

Snyder was about to say, “No, we’re waiting for our people to come get us,” but he paused and thought about the officer. A SEA HAMMER or Super Stallion would have to make at least two trips to retrieve all the Marines trapped inside Fisikous, in broad daylight; each trip would be a hundred times more perilous than the previous one. Plus they would ruin any chance they had of keeping this mission into Fisikous a secret. He turned to Trimble and together they stepped away. “What do you think, Gunny? I hate putting our lives in the hands of people we don’t know, but they are locals. Enlisting the assistance of locals is part of the SOP. And if the Echos or the Hammers come get us, they’ll be under the gun the whole way.

“I think any way we look at it, sir,” Trimble said, “the faster we can get out of Fisikous, the better. We’ve accomplished our mission — we got the zoomie and we got the classified stuff. Let’s split.”

“I’m all for that,” Snyder said. He turned to Palcikas and said, “We accept your offer, General. We’d like a few conditions: I want to know the route of travel we’ll take, no one is blindfolded or restrained, we have full access to our weapons, and we have an equal number of Americans and Lithuanians in each vehicle.”

The radioman translated Snyder’s words, and Palcikas nodded. “Very cautious of you, Captain, but I approve of your caution. Your conditions we will meet.”

“Good. Perhaps you can use some of the weapons on the second floor of this building — they have enough ammunition and weapons for a battalion.”

“We can always use more bullets, young captain,” Palcikas said with a smile. “If you will allow it, I will bring troops to carry it out.”

“When we depart, you can have all of it,” Snyder said. “Not until.”

“You very cautious man. I like. Very well. You don’t blow up. I take when you leave. Good.” He issued orders to his radioman, then turned to Ormack and the other Air Force officers. “And what of you three unnamed spies? Will you go with Marines to the embassy or do you wish to see the rest of the facility? I have not been there yet, but I am told a fantastic and beautiful bird lives in the east hangar out there. I make a guess and say that was your objective, no?”

Ormack couldn’t hide his excitement from Palcikas, but Snyder, who was already on his walkie-talkie to his executive officer on the roof, said, “No, General, they will be accompanying us,” with emphasis, for Ormack’s benefit, on “will.”

Palcikas nodded and issued orders to his radioman, then said to Ormack, “Do not worry, General — and I know you are a general, despite taking orders from young captain — I will take good care of the bird, and my staff will take nice pictures. Perhaps you will see the pictures in Aviation Week and Space Technology next week, no?”

When a call from overseas comes into the White House Communications Center and is accepted by the President of the United States, he is not the only one who picks up the phone and says “Hello.” An incoming call is usually delayed a few minutes, no more than three or four, while an entire army of people gets on the line.

On this call from the Byelorussian capital of Minsk, two interpreters were quickly put on undetectable “dead extensions”—a Russian interpreter and, in this case, a Byelorussian interpreter. The Russian interpreter, a naval officer assigned to the White House, was on permanent assignment to the President’s National Security Advisor and ordered to stand by when the embassy reinforcement commenced; the Byelorussian interpreter, a civilian State Department employee born in the former Soviet republic, had been summoned shortly before the operation began, when it was obvious who might be calling.

Along with the interpreters, there were engineers who would use sophisticated computers to analyze the line and would determine the origin of the call and how many ears might be listening on the other end; there were psychologists who would analyze the stress in the voice of the caller and determine if he was being truthful, or sincere, or desperate, or ready to concede, or to identify any attempts by the caller to use tricks like hypnosis or autosuggestion; there were intelligence officers and engineers who would identify the caller by his voice and also try to identify any other voices or sounds in the background that might give a clue as to the caller’s real intent; and of course there were the President’s advisers, in this case several members of the National Security Council, listening in on “dead extensions” so as to not be heard or detected themselves.

When his staff indicated that everyone was ready, the President punched the line button and introduced himself …

… and no sooner had he done so than the president of Byelorussia, Pavel Borisovich Svetlov, shouted in the telephone in his native tongue. The volume was electronically toned down a bit, and the female voice of the interpreter said almost simultaneously, “Mr. President, why are you aiding these Lithuanian terrorists? Why do you have American Marines in Vilnius?”

On the left side of a computer screen on the President’s desk was the near-real-time translation and transcription of the conversation, with the staff’s comments on the other side. “He’s going to play the terrorist gambit,” one of the psychologists typed on a computer screen in front of the President. Another wrote, “Might be slightly intoxicated.” A CIA staffer wrote, “He was briefed to say ‘terrorist.’ Briefed by whom?”

“If you are referring to the action over the American Embassy, President Svetlov,” the President of the United States said, “we received permission from President Kapocius to fly our aircraft over his country several days ago. The Council of Ministers of the Commonwealth of Independent States was notified by telegram of our overflight request.” That was a slight stretch of the truth — in fact, the telegram had been sent only a few minutes before the phone conversation, along with copies to most other countries in Europe. “I am not aware of any terrorist actions in Lithuania.

“Several Commonwealth bases were attacked last night, resulting in the deaths of several hundred soldiers, most of whom were from my country,” Svetlov thundered.

A staffer immediately wrote, “Clear casualty inflation.” The interpreter went on: “We have information that bands of Lithuanian terrorist guerrillas perpetrated these raids. Is the United States a party to these terrorist activities?”

The President released the “dead man” button on the phone, which cut off the mouthpiece so he could confer in private: “Has President Kapocius made his statement on the attacks yet?”

Someone replied, “Yes.”

“When?”

“About ten minutes ago.

“He says Lithuanian troops are involved?”

“Yes.”

“And General Palcikas? Did he mention Palcikas?”

“Yes, sir. The General received a full endorsement.”

“Good.” The President pushed the dead man button: “President Svetlov, President Kapocius of Lithuania announced just ten minutes ago that he ordered Lithuanian Self-Defense Force troops to strike those bases. General Palcikas is taking his orders from President Kapocius. That is not an act of terrorism.”

It was hard enough to talk on the phone with the typical two-second delay in the overseas phone line, but when one party decides to interrupt, it makes it even worse — before the President could finish, Svetlov was talking, and the interpreter was saying, “I have been charged by the Council of Ministers of the Commonwealth of Independent States to maintain law and order in the Baltic states during the transition period specified in the Treaty of Cooperation. Your interference and your support of this terrorist insurrection threatens the peace and security of not only Lithuania, but of the Commonwealth of Independent States and of Belarus.”

Immediately, comments like “Sounds very serious” and “Prelude to something????” appeared on the screen.

“Stick with your policy, Mr. President,” George Russell, the National Security Advisor, said aloud. “We’re evacuating Americans and reinforcing the embassy against civil unrest. Everything else can be handled by the U.N.”

“Don’t put up with his shit, either, Mr. President,” Vice President Martindale inelegantly added.

The President nodded his assent to both those suggestions. “Mr. President, I will not sit here and listen to threats,” the President of the United States said to Svetlov. “You will allow our embassy-reinforcement operation and noncombatant operation to continue unimpeded. As far as the attacks on Commonwealth bases, that is best handled in the United Nations. All sides in this matter have suffered legitimate wrongs. The United States will not use military force to harm Commonwealth noncombatant forces unless our forces are fired upon first. I urge you not to respond with military force within Lithuania.”

“I will not stand by while the United States and Lithuania destroy my volunteer army and the peace that we have tried to achieve,” Svetlov huffed. “Belarus is dependent on the peace and security of the Commonwealth of Independent States for trade and necessary goods. We have an important interest in the affairs of Lithuania, and its terrorist guerrilla army—”

One CIA analyst typed, “Key phrases! Dependent on Lithuania … important interest in Lithuania … prelude to war!?”

Svetlov continued. “—and I tell you, Mr. President, my government is prepared to act if these attacks do not stop. Peace must be restored.” His voice was more agitated, his tone rising in anger. “We will use all resources to establish peace in the Baltic region. All resources. Leave Lithuania and do not interfere or your people will suffer the consequences.”

At that, the line was disconnected.

The computer immediately displayed a word-count and call-duration, followed by a stream of analysis from all those technicians listening in.

Without even reviewing the CIA and psychologists’ evaluations, Secretary of Defense Thomas Preston said, “I think he means business. I think he’s going to move against Lithuania.”

“It’s got all the elements, Mr. President,” National Security Advisor George Russell added. “He’s painted a no-way-out picture — terrorist guerrillas, peace is threatened, his country is dependent on Lithuania, his country has special interests in Lithuania — it’s all there. He can take the transcript of this conversation and go on television to explain his actions.”

“But his only authority for his military presence in Lithuania is from the Commonwealth,” the President said. “What will the Commonwealth say? What will they do …?”

“I don’t think it matters anymore, sir,” Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Wilbur Curtis said, chomping on his cigar. “He mentioned the Commonwealth once, but after that it was all Belarus. I think he’s prepared to act without the Commonwealth’s sanction.”

Heads nodded at that — everyone seemed to agree.

The President felt a deepening knot growing in the pit of his stomach. He could feel events beginning to spin out of his control — there was nothing he could do to stop Svetlov from moving against Lithuania if that’s what he was going to do. “All right,” he said, collecting his thoughts. “What will he do? Where will he move first?”

In a flash Curtis had a notebook open to his stall’s research notes. “Our analysis reveals three likely striking points, based on the deployment of his forces at the present time:

“The primary thrust will come from Smorgon Army Air Base in northwestern Byelorussia, with one armor brigade of fifteen thousand troops and two hundred tanks, one air brigade with about sixty attack aircraft, and one infantry brigade, with about fifteen thousand troops. They are all within two hours’ travel time of Vilnius, with the exception of the attack helicopters, which can be over the capital in less than thirty minutes and a few fixed-wing attack aircraft that can strike within ten minutes.

“The secondary strike will be within Lithuania itself. Byelorussia has approximately ten thousand troops stationed throughout Lithuania. Depending on the extent of the disruption of communications caused by our raids and the Lithuanian raids, they can be mobilized in as little as one hour.

“The third strike will come from the territory of Kalinin, the little slice of Russia southwest of Lithuania,” Curtis continued. “Most troops there are Byelorussian, under direct Russian supervision. The Byelorussians have been reinforcing their base at Chernyakhovsk, in the center of Kalinin — they now have at least a full air brigade stationed there, with at least a hundred fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft, and they’ve been swapping out their usual light transports with attack and troop assault helicopters. They can strike the city of Kaunas and the port city of Klaipeda in about thirty minutes. This unit has a very small infantry group with it, but they can do considerable damage from air strikes and then reconfigure for parachute drops and troop transport.”

“So in less than an hour,” the Vice President calculated, “the Byelorussian troops can be on the move all throughout Lithuania, and in just a couple of hours they can be attacking them in force?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. President.”

There was silence in the Oval Office.

The very event that all of them had feared from the beginning was happening — Lithuania was under attack.

“Case, get President Kapocius on the phone for me right away,” the President ordered.

“We’re trying,” Timmons, the chief of staff, reported. “Lines have been disrupted. We’re patching through the U.S. Embassy, but things are pretty scrambled there, too.”

“He may have evacuated the capital as well,” Secretary of State Dana-hall offered.

“I want to talk to Kapocius,” the President repeated. “I need his direction. Jesus, I can’t make this decision for him…

“You have to respond, Mr. President,” the Vice President said. “Gintarus Kapocius authorized American military aircraft to overfly his country. He was counting on us not only to rescue our own people, but to protect his country. We have the authority.”

“I want to hear it from him, “the President snapped. “I’m not going to start a war on his soil without full and unequivocal permission. Especially with the threat of a damned nuclear release! Christ, what a fucking mess.”

“Sir, we’ve got a contingency plan for this,” Curtis interjected. “General Lockhart of U.S. European Command would gain the Twenty-sixth Marines, the Seventh Fleet detachment in the Baltic Sea, the Third Army, and Seventeenth and Third Air Force — we can put all those units on full alert immediately, along with the Air Battle Force in South Dakota. That’s twenty thousand troops, two thousand Marines, four fighter wings, six light and medium bomber wings, electronic-warfare support, communications, transportation—”

“For God’s sakes, General, hold on a minute,” the President ordered. “I know you have a contingency plan. I need to think.” Everyone fell silent. The President rose from his chair, paced the Oval Office for a few minutes, and stopped at the doors leading to the Rose Garden. He stared at his own reflection in one of the bullet-resistant polycarbonate windows and then returned to his desk but did not sit. “With our forces in Germany, how long would a mobilization take?” the President asked.

“We can begin limited air operations — reconnaissance and limited air strikes — over Lithuania in about ten to twelve hours,” Curtis replied. “However, realistically we’d have to wait until tomorrow night, since we couldn’t have anything put together tonight and we’d have a much tougher time in daytime operations. In three days we can begin full air operations.

“Ground operations are tougher unless we get permission to cross the Polish border into Lithuania, and that’s very unlikely. It’ll take the Marines’ Second Marine Expeditionary Force, about forty thousand Marines, at least a week to set up for an amphibious assault.”

“So at least ten hours for any combat air operations, and possibly not for another twenty-four to seventy-two hours,” the President summarized. “And the Byelorussians, if they decided to invade now, would use all tomorrow to drive across Lithuania. They could take the capital before we’d get one plane off the ground.”

“We could run air operations in the daytime, sir,” Curtis said. “I don’t have a current weather report, but if the weather is poor we’d stand a better chance. But casualties will increase in daylight operations until we take control of the skies. Without forward bases or overflight privileges over countries like Poland or Latvia, neither of which I think we could get, our aircraft and helicopters would have to fly hundreds of miles overwater from Denmark, Norway, or Germany.”

“And that’s if those countries will allow us to stage combat forces from their territories,” Danahall interjected. “They very well may wait several days, or wait for a United Nations Security Council resolution, before allowing us to launch strike aircraft from bases in their countries.

The President looked at Curtis, and for the first time Curtis saw the strain of the situation in the President’s eyes. “You mean we could very well watch the Byelorussians or the Commonwealth of Independent States overrun Lithuania — and there’s nothing we could do about it?”

“I don’t think that’s realistic, Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Preston said. “I think all those countries would support us if we decided to go ahead — England and Germany, certainly, considering what the Soviets and Byelorussians did to the ambassador from Iceland and the Vice President of Lithuania — not to mention one of our own senators — during that so-called riot at Denerokin.”

“The distances may be too great for helicopters right away,” Curtis added, extinguishing his cigar, “but F-111 bombers from England, A-10 and F-16s configured with Maverick antitank missiles from Germany and Denmark have plenty of striking power and range to do the job. It’d take several days to deploy F-117 stealth bombers and F-15E bombers from the mainland. The Air Battle Force can be tasked to launch within a day, but we’d need forward basing for them to make them effective.”

This was the telling moment when he had to decide whether to send young men off to fight, perhaps to die, in a foreign country, the President realized. Before, it was just a handful of Marines to reinforce the American Embassy in Vilnius and a few more to find an American. Sneak in, sneak out. Both noble goals, both low numbers of men, both in darkness, both low-risk operations. This new scenario was shaping up differently — now he had to send more men, more equipment, and all in daylight, with the enemy troops fully alerted.

“I need better options, General,” the President decided. “I need better direction from all the parties involved. I need to know what President Svetlov has in mind. I need to know what President Kapocius wants. I need to know exactly what we’re facing. Otherwise I’d be throwing away American lives in a conflict, and that I will not do.”

Curtis remained silent for a moment, running through his own list of options — and, every time, he came up with the very same answer:

“Sir, even if you decide to begin air operations over Lithuania immediately, it’ll take time for our European units to organize effectively for a heavy enough strike,” he said.

The President looked at him with wary, accusing eyes. The President knew what he was going to suggest.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs thought, Well, might as well get it out…. “As I said, the Air Battle Force from Ellsworth will need at least twenty-four hours to deploy, and then would require substantial forward basing, in Norway or England for example. But, as it happens, we have one unit ready to deploy immediately and that has a plan of action developed for precisely this contingency—”

“Elliott,” National Security Advisor Russell said in disgust. Obviously, everyone had been dreading — or hoping? — the same thing. “Brad Elliott’s unit, right?”

“I spoke with General Elliott shortly before the reinforcement operation began,” Curtis explained, “after he was granted priority-B notification status. He was, you’ll recall, being unusually quiet for a man who had four of his top officers involved in this mission. Upon further inquiry, General Elliott briefed me on an operation he had devised as a backup to the REDTAIL HAWK mission. Should that one fail or get canceled, General Elliott’s group, along with an Intelligence Support Agency operations unit called MADCAP MAGICIAN, was going to go and attempt a rescue.”

“On whose authority?” the President thundered.

When Curtis did not answer promptly, the President’s eyes widened in understanding and aggravation. “I see. No one’s authority. Elliott was going to launch this mission by himself, right …?”

“I ordered him, upon penalty of immediate imprisonment, to stand down his operation and return his forces to base,” Curtis said. The President’s question was answered without explanation, which only made him angrier. Curtis continued. “His units have complied—”

Russell was shaking his head. “Is he crazy? Has he gone off the deep end? Who in the hell does Elliott think he is? He shouldn’t be imprisoned — he should be taken out and shot …!”

“Perhaps.” Curtis nodded. “Except for one thing, George — he’s the best we’ve got right now. What he’s done is assemble an incredible air, sea, and ground assault force that is completely covert, deniable, stealthy, and powerful. He’s got a hundred Marines, two tilt-rotor assault aircraft, and six modified B-52 bombers that don’t exist on the books. He’s briefed me on a plan to destroy half of Byelorussia’s invasion force in one night and to yank the remaining Marines out of Fisikous and into the embassy or out of Lithuania. My staff has studied his operation, and we’ve concluded that with a little luck and some help by the Lithuanian militia he can do it. Not only that, he can do it in about fourteen hours.”

“Fourteen hours!” the President said in disbelief. “But I thought you said it would take a minimum of twenty-four to seventy-two hours to get a full air operation into motion.”

“Sir, General Elliott has already mobilized his forces,” Curtis explained. “Within HAWC, he commands a group of highly skilled flyers, engineers, and scientists, along with an arsenal of high-tech experimental aircraft and weapons. Elliott has run that place for years — he’s the heart and soul of the people who work there. The Old Dog mission was their greatest triumph. When he told his people he wanted to save the hero of that mission from imprisonment in Lithuania, his people responded. On a wartime footing, his research center becomes just as powerful, perhaps even more so, than any other combat unit in the United States.

“By early tomorrow evening Lithuania time — by three P.M. tomorrow afternoon, Washington time — we can have a heavy strike force over Lithuania,” Curtis concluded. “I’d like to brief you and the staff on his proposed operation, and I recommend that we authorize his aircraft to launch from Nevada and deploy to its staging point over the Baltic Sea. If the situation improves, we can recall his unit or deploy them to a forward base — England, or his planned deployment base at Thule, Greenland.”

Curtis paused and assessed the mood of the President and the rest of his advisers. The President appeared dubious, angry, and ready to chew on steel and spit nails — but he was quiet, not railing against Elliott as Curtis expected. Everyone else had been quiet, waiting for a decision from the President on how to proceed — now, faced with this very real, very tangible option, they were both conflicted and hopeful, but still afraid to side with such a bold but potentially dangerous crackpot like Bradley James Elliott.

“Dammit, General,” the President cursed, shaking his head in total exasperation, “how does Elliott get away with this shit? And please don’t tell me we need guys like Elliott — he does nothing but give me nightmares.”

Curtis didn’t dare answer that one.

The President ran a hand across his face, trying to wipe away the tension he felt in his eyes and neck, then said with a sigh, “Get Elliott in here ASAP. And this better be good.”

Major Jurgensen looked at the AV-22 SEA HAMMER and shook his head in disgust. The starboard engine nacelle looked like a dead flower— its rotors folded, the nacelle turned horizontally, and access covers pulled off the nacelle, the doors hanging like bark stripped from a tree by a beaver. The once immaculately groomed lawn outside the embassy was stained and mushy from hydraulic fluid, oil, and boot prints. “All that damage from small-arms fire, Sergeant?”

The Marine plane captain in charge of the damaged aircraft cursed silently and said, “The golden BB theory is still running true to form, sir. It’s not the massive assault that’ll get you — it’s the one lucky shot. He couldn’t have placed that round any better if he tried. It’s as if he knew exactly which line would be the hardest to replace in the field, and hit it deliberately.”

“Did you try swapping parts with the Echo?” Jurgensen asked, nodding toward the damaged CH-53E Super Stallion. Its crew had abandoned it several minutes ago, watching with dismay as parts were pulled off to go into the MV-22. Jurgensen had made the decision to cannibalize the Super Stallion to fix the SEA HAMMER because it would be better suited for evacuating the recovered Air Force officer and the classified materials all the way out of Lithuania — the tilt-rotor aircraft could go farther than the Super Stallion with the small amount of fuel they had left in the embassy.

“We did that,” the plane captain replied. “There’s not many parts in common between the two, but fortunately hoses are pretty common. The Hammer will be as good as new when it’s finished, sir — this is no temporary fix.” The captain frowned at the engine, then added, “You know, sir, we should submit a suggestion to Patuxent River to consider putting some Kevlar on these engine shrouds near critical points.”

“Later, Sergeant. I want to know how long before we can pick up the assault team.”

“It should only be a few more minutes, sir, and we’ll start buttoning it up and doing a ground check. After that we need to reinstall the weapons — that should only take a few minutes. Say another ten to fifteen minutes.”

Jurgensen had already figured out that a more reasonable number might be twenty to thirty minutes, especially after seeing the numbers of panels and cowlings open on that engine nacelle. “Advise me when you’re ready to crank,” Jurgensen said. “We’ll forgo the weapons pods and launch the Sea Cobras for air support. Do it.” Jurgensen was then summoned back to the scrambled UHF radio station set up just inside the back entrance to the embassy. “What have you got?”

“Encoded message from the BCT, sir,” the radioman replied, handing Jurgensen the decoded message form.

Jurgensen’s eyes lit up when he read the message. “Outstanding, Breaker,” Jurgensen exclaimed aloud, as if the Building Clearing Team leader could hear him. To the radioman, he ordered: “Reply to the BCT in code: ‘Your idea approved, send transfer plan and route soonest, revised ETIC to Hammer launch twenty mike. End.’ “He turned and saw Ambassador Reynolds. “Excuse me, Mr. Ambassador. My assault team over at Fisikous has made contact with General Palcikas of the Lithuanian Self-Defense Force. Palcikas has apparently offered to escort the Marines secretly to the embassy. They may be ready to move within fifteen minutes. Do you see any problems?”

The ambassador thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, Major, I don’t. Your men must wear their uniforms at all times, and they must avoid offensive actions. That is very important. If we want to be able to prove to the world that we are not an invasion force, your men must keep their fingers off the triggers. We have to do everything we can to prove this is a defensive mission. Having Palcikas’ cooperation is excellent, but if he’s in charge, let his men do the fighting. Of course your men can defend themselves.”

“I understand,” Jurgensen said. “I’ll need a detailed map of the city, or a large-scale photograph if you have—”

“Choppers!” someone screamed. “Heavy choppers inbound from the east!”

Jurgensen dashed outside and picked up a pair of binoculars, scanning the horizon, checking around the area of the rising sun first. Sure enough, there they were — four Mil-24 helicopter gunships, NATO nickname Hind, coming in out of the sun. They were distinctive with their stub weapon pylons, resembling short slanted wings, carrying what could easily be seen as an enormous amount of weaponry, and of course by their incredible low rhythmic beat, like a thousand African war drums bearing down on you, loud enough now that the sound seemed to interfere with the beating of your heart.

Jurgensen was on his walkie-talkie in a flash. “All crews, all crews, air-raid procedures, air-raid procedures. All noncombatants, get into the basement shelters. Scan for flankers — I don’t want everybody fixating on the Hinds and letting a smaller gunship sneak in from behind. Rattlers, prepare for takeoff! Stinger crews, sing out when you acquire—”

“Major, you can’t attack those helicopters!” Ambassador Reynolds said, placing a hand on Jurgensen’s shoulder.

“Say again?”

“You cannot fire on those helicopters from this embassy.”

The roar of engines firing up on the AH-lW Sea Cobra gunships echoed in Jurgensen’s ears, making him shake his head as if he had not heard Reynolds’ incredible statement. “You have got to be joking, Mr. Ambassador.”

“I am deadly serious, Major,” Reynolds said earnestly. “Don’t you understand? We enjoy diplomatic protection here in this compound only because we maintain a purely defensive posture and we protect the lives of our own citizens here. Furthermore, we have not received permission from Washington or from the President of Lithuania to conduct any offensive acts.”

“Those helicopters are a threat to my troops.”

“Helicopters in flight are not legally a threat to anyone until they attack, Major,” Reynolds said. “You have no choice — you cannot fire unless we are fired upon first. An attack on the embassy is considered a declaration of war, according to executive order, but an attack staged from an embassy in peacetime is a serious violation of international law.”

“So what do you expect me to do? Just stand here and watch them attack …?”

“You have no choice,” Reynolds said. “You can only prepare to defend the embassy and pray they aren’t foolish enough to attack.”

“I am not going to sit around and wait for an attack!”

“I don’t know if I have any more influence over you, Major, but as U.S. ambassador to Lithuania and senior government officer in charge of this facility, I order you not to fire on those helicopters unless we come under attack ourselves.”

Jurgensen was shocked speechless. The Hinds were getting closer — Jurgensen could now see that they were older Hind-D gunships, with a 12.7-millimeter Gatling-style gun in a steerable nose turret, two 32-round 57-millimeter rocket pods, and at least four antitank or antiaircraft missiles. The Hinds had moved into staggered trail position, one behind the other, with the first and third helicopters a bit higher than the others — it was a classic head-on attack formation, in which the first and third helicopters act as spotters and the second and fourth act as shooters, Presenting the smallest possible profile to guard against missile attack.

“It’s a rocket-and..strafing..attack formation, Ambassador,” Jurgensen said. “We’ve got to do something!”

“You cannot attack, Major,” Reynolds said, almost pleading. “I understand what you’re feeling — I’m a lawyer and an ambassador now, but I was a Marine. If those helicopters goad you into attacking first, they can slaughter everyone inside this compound and reduce this embassy to rubble — and they would be entirely within their rights to do so, acting in self-defense. Legally, you cannot even raise those Stinger missiles at them — that can be construed as an act of war in itself! If they photographed you doing that and published the photos, we would all be out of a job.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The Marine major had never felt so hamstrung in his entire life. “I am not taking my Stinger crews off watch — I don’t care what happens to me, but those Stingers are our only hope against helicopter gunships.”

The Hinds were in optimal Stinger-missile range — it was now or never. Jurgensen got on the radio. “All units, now set condition green. Do not attack. No one opens fire unless I give the order. Repeat, no one opens fire unless I give the order.” To Reynolds, he said, “There’s nothing that says I can’t launch my Sea Cobras, is there?”

“We have permission to overfly Lithuania, Major,” Reynolds said. “You can do whatever you want with the Cobras. But the same rules apply — no one can fire unless fired upon. I would, uh, recommend that you follow international aviation rules as well.” Reynolds couched that last warning in less definite tones, because those Soviet-made helicopters were getting real close real fast, and Reynolds didn’t want to risk talking Jurgensen out of not launching the Sea Cobra gunships.

No danger of that right now. “I’m sick of following rules right now, Ambassador,” Jurgensen said. On the radio, he ordered: “Rattlers only, repeat, Rattlers only, now set condition yellow and launch. I want you to tail those Hinds. Do not attack unless fired upon first. Repeat, do not open fire unless fired on first. “Jurgensen studied the inbound attack helicopters I with his binoculars, then handed the binoculars to Reynolds. “Sir, tell me if you can make out that flag on the second helicopter. It looks like a tricolor, but I can’t make it out.”

Reynolds took the binoculars and peered intently at the gunships. “I can’t see the colors yet. All of the republics’ flags except Moldova and Georgia have horizontal bars, but I can’t tell if this is from Russia or—”

“Please keep looking. We have to identify them.” Reynolds was more than happy to be asked to participate — it was just like the old days in Vietnam.

The Sea Cobras, which had just completed engine start, were beginning to spin their rotors up to lift-off speed when someone shouted, “Missiles in the air! Missiles in the air!”

Jurgensen’s worst fears had come true.

The number-two Hind-D gunship had fired two fast-moving missiles toward the embassy — not the laser-guided AT-6 “Spiral” or radio-controlled AT-3 “Sagger” antitank missiles that he was expecting, but smaller, faster SA-7 “Grail” heat-seeking missiles. One Sea Cobra helicopter lifted off and skidded right, and a missile missed it by several yards, but the second Sea Cobra was still on the ground, not yet up to lift-off speed, when the SA-7 missile slammed into the rotor and exploded. The helicopter ripped apart like a burst balloon, the blast and fireball so intense that Jurgensen and Reynolds, both at least four hundred feet away, could feel the heat.

“All units, open fire! Now set condition red and open fire!” Jurgensen screamed into his radio as he and the ambassador dove for cover behind a thick concrete planter box. “All units, open fire!”

The first salvo of Stinger missiles launched by the embassy Marines took several seconds to react, but at about a half-mile range, two missiles screamed into the sky.

Seconds after they were launched, the Hind helicopters let loose a salvo of 57-millimeter rocket fire on those same positions, uprooting trees and blasting the embassy wall apart.

One Stinger missile hit, blowing out an engine in the number-two Hind-D, and the huge machine wobbled, spun nearly in a complete circle, and descended rapidly, but managed to keep on flying until it landed with an incredible crash and a cartwheel onto the embassy grounds, finally coming to rest in a fiery ball near the broken Super Stallion helicopter. The fire from the Hind immediately threatened to set the CH-53E on fire, but all Jurgensen’s Marines were occupied with the air raid and could not put it out.

The second Stinger launched did not hit, but was decoyed away by bright magnesium flares dropped from the Soviet-made helicopters.

The number-four Hind-D gunship had one target only — the Super Stallion and SEA HAMMER aircraft. With rockets and cannon fire, both aircraft disappeared in blinding bursts of fire. The gunners did not waste one rocket or one shell — every round hit home with pinpoint accuracy.

The number-one and number-three Hind-D helicopters immediately peeled left and pursued the AH-1 Sea Cobra. Although the Sea Cobra was faster and more maneuverable, it could not get into proper attack position before one of the eight SA-7 missiles launched from the two Hind-Ds hit. Jurgensen did not see the hit — he saw the Hinds move away, saw the missiles fly, and lost contact with Rattler Four. After that all he saw was a column of black smoke several miles away.

The attack was over almost as soon as it began. The other two Stinger missile crews never got clean shots off at the attackers before they disappeared, so they saved their weapons for the next attack. The first two Soviet attackers were obviously under strict orders not to attack the embassy structure itself, because except for the rocket attack against the two Stinger positions and the attacks against the helicopters on the ground, nothing else was struck.

In the space of thirty seconds, four aircraft had been destroyed, with a loss to the Soviets of only one helicopter.

Jurgensen and Reynolds both looked at the devastation around them with stunned expressions. Where once they were surrounded by well-groomed, shady trees, and green grass, it was all obscured by clouds of thick, oily smoke and debris. The cries of “Help! Over here!” and “Medic! Corpsman!” shook Jurgensen out of his stupor. On his walkie-talkie, he ordered, “Radio, send a priority-one message to the Twenty-sixth and advise them that the embassy came under attack by four Hind-D helicopter gunships. Casualties unknown but light. Moderate damage to embassy. Four Marine helicopters destroyed. One Soviet helicopter down—”

“Make that a Byelorussian helicopter,” Ambassador Reynolds interjected.

“Stand by, Radio,” Jurgensen said. To Reynolds, he asked, “Are you sure, Mr. Ambassador?”

“I got a good look at the two that chased the Cobra,” Reynolds said. “I’m positive — the bastards that did this were from Byelorussia. The Byelorussian flag is the only one that has a vertical bar on the staff side as well as horizontal bars.”

“How can you tell if they were Byelorussian or representing the Commonwealth?”

“Commonwealth aircraft from the various republics, except for Russia, have a large white diamond painted around their national flags or insignia,” Reynolds said. “That allows easy identification from the air and ground, and allows aircraft to freely fly over foreign airspace. There wasn’t a white diamond around those flags. They could be Russian, but the glimpses of the colors in the insignia said they weren’t. They were Byelorussian. I’m positive.”

“Radio, append to message: identification of helicopter gunships verified by Ambassador Reynolds to be from Byelorussia, repeat, Byelorussia. One gunship crashed in the embassy compound; we will examine the wreckage to verify country of origin. Send it.”

Jurgensen was on his way down to direct his Marines to extinguish the fire around the downed Hind when his walkie-talkie buzzed again. “Sir, message in the clear from Amos One-Zero.” Amos was the call sign of the Army Special Forces troops scattered throughout Lithuania in support of, this embassy-evacuation-and-reinforcement operation. “They report troops on the move, at least a brigade, traveling west at high speed from the Byelorussian military base at Smorgon.” Smorgon, an Army Aviation base in northwestern Byelorussia, was only thirty nautical miles from the Lithuanian border and only fifty-five miles from Vilnius. “Transmission ended during report of precise troop strength. Amos Ten reported fourteen rotary-win aircraft inbound before transmission terminated.”

“Copy all,” Jurgensen replied. Jesus fucking Christ — the Byelorussians are going to do it — they are going to invade Lithuania. All the troop movements, the reinforcements, the maneuvering we ‘ye seen and had been reported was all a prelude to this. Of all the fucking days, they had to choose this day to roll their armies across Lithuania.

“Clear a direct scrambled priority channel to the Twenty-sixth MEU, urgent, and radio a warning message to the Assault team over at Fisikous. Looks like their ride’s been canceled. Advise them of the air activity inbound. Tell them to hotfoot it over to the embassy as fast as they can, by whatever means possible. Send it.”

General Wilbur Curtis was surprised to see Brad Elliott dressed in a flight suit when he walked into the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center. “We going flying, Brad?” Curtis asked slyly.

Elliott respectfully stood when Curtis entered the room, but did not reply. His features were taut, his jaw and lips firm. Curtis thought Elliott was in pain but knew better — he was angry. Really angry.

Curtis found the three-star chief of HAWC in the Support Section of the Command Center, the large, auditorium-like conference room where the Joint Chiefs of Staff and their staffs managed combat operations around the world. The Support Section was a soundproof, glass-enclosed balcony overlooking the main Command Section, used by observers and secondary staff members as necessary; it could be isolated from the main floor by closing the remote-controlled shutters. Right now the Support Section’s window shutters were open, so Elliott could see the Big Board, the Command Display System, a set of eight huge digital-computer screens on which the whole spectrum of information, from real-time satellite imagery to checklists to television to digitized charts, could be displayed. The board was displaying a few charts of the Baltic Sea region, Lithuania, the capital city of Vilnius, and some weather depictions.

Curtis waved Elliott back to his seat and dismissed the one command-center staff officer assigned to escort Elliott. “How you doing, Brad?” he asked.

“I’ve done better,” Elliott admitted tightly.

“You didn’t check in for the last few situation updates. I guess I know why now. You should tell me when you’re on your way to Washington.”

“We need to cut the small talk here, sir.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ Brad,” Curtis said, still trying to inject a little humor into the situation. “You know better.” Elliott only scowled at his superior officer. This was the showdown that he had been dreading, Curtis thought. Might as well get it over with … “What do you do, Brad, when a man you thought you knew for years isn’t the same guy anymore? I’ve seen men change — war, promotion, demotion, disillusionment, anger, joy — but some guys you think are old enough or experienced enough to never change.

“I’m not sure if I know you at all, sir,” Elliott said bitterly. “Suddenly it seems as if the whole military establishment is just shuffling its feet.”

“Not really, Brad …” offered Curtis.

“What is it, General Curtis? Is it the end of the Cold War? The peace dividend? Has the military’s will been cut along with its budget? No one seems to have any sense of what’s right or what’s wrong. I get the feeling you’re just letting my people hang in the wind out there in Lithuania. No support. No backup. No options. I trusted Lockhart and Kundert — I trusted you—to protect them.”

“They’re being protected, Brad,” Curtis said patiently. “The Twenty-sixth MEU is the best special-operations-capable unit in the Marine Corps. Your officers will be just fine.”

“While Lithuania burns down around them,” Elliott said. “I get MILSTAR data just like the other units in the field do, Wilbur. The team’s in trouble. They lost one SEA HAMMER and the other one’s damaged. I saw something else about President Svetlov on the board, so I assume he knows about the operation and very well might be responding.”

“Good observations,” Curtis said, “and all true.”

“Then what in hell are you doing about it?” Elliott exploded. “I haven’t seen any other mobilizations since this operation began. Have you sent in the rest of the Twenty-sixth MEU? I’ve heard nothing from the First Marine Expeditionary Force, nothing from Third Army, nothing from the Air Battle Force. What will the President do if something blows up in Lithuania, Wilbur? If something happens, it’ll take hours until a sizable force can react. You guys are just sitting on your hands.”

“In fact, something has happened,” Curtis said. “We’ve detected the Byelorussians moving on Vilnius. At least a brigade from the east and perhaps two or three battalions from the south.”

“Shit. I knew it,” Elliott cursed. He waved at the National Command Center down below — except for a few staffers and some maintenance personnel, the place was empty. “You haven’t called in the battle staff? Who’s running this show — announcers in the booth at RFK Stadium?” He paused, then narrowed his eyes at Curtis. “From the east? Smorgon? The Byelorussian Home Brigade has activated?”

“You know about the Home Brigade?”

“Dammit, Wilbur, of course I know!” Elliott said angrily. “It was one of our major targets. MADCAP MAGICIAN was going to send two platoons to take out the headquarters building and the command-and-control facility. My Megafortresses were going to make the building secondary targets. They have to be taken out if there’s any threat of the Byelorussians getting involved, Wilbur — the rumor is that they’ve got nuclear-tipped Scarab missiles at Smorgon. I didn’t want to go over the border, but if there’s any possibility that they’d use those missiles, they have to be neutralized. Two SLAM cruise missiles against the power facility near the town, two more against the buildings themselves-”

“Christ, Brad.” Curtis shook his head at Elliott’s words. “You were going to have yourself a big day, weren’t you? Billions of dollars’ worth of destruction, all on your say-so.”

“The employment of air power is an essential part of our national security,” Elliott argued, “and it’s part of my job as director of HAWC to plan, organize, and execute highly dangerous missions in order to safeguard—”

“Get off it, Brad. You’ve never used jingoistic prattle to justify yourself before, so don’t start now,” Curtis said. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs shook his head and said, “Jesus, Brad, I never thought even you would have the audacity to invade another country without even notifying or clearing your operation with me or the White House.”

“Hey, I briefed you on my plan, and I canceled it when you said no-go,” Elliott said. “My hesitation will probably get Luger killed. You’ve left it wide open for the Byelorussians to attack Lithuania, but I’m doing as you ordered.”

“In case you forgot, Brad, that’s the way it’s supposed to work,” Curtis said. “We’re supposed to give you orders, and you carry them out. Having military officers plan and execute military missions without government approval is what they do in military dictatorships and coups d’état, not in constitutional democracies.

“And our military leaders in Washington are not supposed to abandon American servicemen being tortured and imprisoned in foreign countries while in the service of their country,” Elliott retorted, “unless the military leaders in charge have turned into political ass-kissers!”

“You can call me names all you want, you old fart,” Curtis said. “You know I won’t fire you — I’ll leave that to the President, who’s ready to do it at any moment now. But you can’t just go off and build a brand-new Old Dog mission whenever you feel like it.”

“Don’t bring up that mission, Wilbur,” Elliott said angrily. “You know the reason I did the Old Dog mission, along with the fact that I had the greatest crew a pilot could want, is that I thought we had seen the beginning of a new era. The new military. We were finally going to shoulder the responsibility that God gave us — protectors of freedom and democracy in the world. Libya, Grenada, the Middle East, the Philippines — things were changing. We were finally snapping out of our Vietnam funk. But then you abandon Dave Luger. You send a handful of troops into hostile territory to rescue him. Now you’re abandoning Lithuania, and possibly the rest of the Baltic states.”

“Everyone wishes they could simply launch a bunch of high-tech B-52s and bomb the bad guys,” Curtis said. “Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. The civilian leadership in this country has more to account for than one man’s guilt and ego.”

“Guilt? Ego? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you, Brad,” Curtis said. “You wear the Old Dog mission on your chest like a medal. It’s a chip on your shoulder that you dare everyone to knock off. Your artificial leg is some kind of monument to a mission that you screwed up.”

“I didn’t screw up a thing, Curtis! We accomplished the mission! We got Kavaznya!”

“You bombed the target because you had professionals like McLanahan and Luger and Tork and Pereira and Ormack on board,” Curtis said. “You were out of it: in pain and shock for most of the mission, half-unconscious during the bomb run, and completely unconscious after you left Anadyr. You weren’t even at the controls after the refueling at Anadyr — McLanahan, an untrained radar navigator, brought that bomber home! You didn’t contribute to the mission — in fact you nearly killed everyone on that mission and started World War Three yourself”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Elliott said, so angry, so flustered, that he could barely respond. “You weren’t there …”

“I reread the Defense Intelligence Agency’s analysis of the mission, Brad,” Curtis went on. “I reread the testimony from the other crew members. Everyone on that crew, everyone, thought the mission should have been aborted because of the damage to the aircraft and because of your worsening condition. You had no charts, no helmets, no classified documents, no safety equipment. The mission should have been aborted. But you said ‘go’ …”

“We made that decision together, as a crew.”

“What did you expect your crew to say, Brad? Did you really expect them to quit? McLanahan, the best bombardier in the whole damned world? Luger, probably the best navigator in the world? Ormack, a deskbound frustrated war hero? No way, Brad. None of them would quit.

“It was up to you to abort the mission. As aircraft commander and mission commander, it was your responsibility. But there’s no glory in quitting, is there? You don’t get any respect by turning back.”

“You’re dreaming, Curtis. That’s not how it was.”

“What would you get if you turned back? Nothing. Dreamland was blown wide open after the terrorist attack. They would have closed it forever. You’d be out of a job and probably forced to retire. If you went ahead and got killed during the mission, you’d be a hero-a dead hero, but still a hero. But if you succeeded, you’d be set for life. You’d be the one who fought off the Soviets and won. Beginning of the end of the Cold War. Champion of democracy over communism. Defender of the faith. Unfortunately you didn’t think about your crew. What if they got killed? You didn’t care what happened to them — you only thought about yourself”

“Bullshit…” Elliott said in almost a whisper. His eyes no longer bored into Curtis’s, but were vacant, far away.

“You killed Dave Luger, Brad,” Curtis said. “You put the crew into a situation where one man had to sacrifice his life to save yours. Your fault. No one else’s. Did you ever wonder why you never got a decoration after the Old Dog mission, why McLanahan, an O-3 senior navigator, got the Air Force Cross, while you, an O-9 command pilot, got a Distinguished Service Medal?” The sudden pain in Elliott’s face told Curtis that he had just hit a very big, very painful nerve with him. Good… “It’s because your role as commander of the Old Dog mission didn’t stand up to scrutiny. There were too many questions about your judgment, your leadership.

“And look at what you’re doing now. Six EB-52s ready to launch. MADCAP MAGICIAN, which I ordered you to stand down, is missing somewhere in the Baltic Sea. You’re in your flight suit, trying to prove to me and to the White House that you mean business. You’re not medically cleared for aviation duties, so there’s no reason for you to be in a flight suit. Furthermore, you know as well as I that utility uniforms are not allowed to be worn in the Pentagon. But here you are, wearing a flight suit. It’s nothing but a clown’s costume you’re wearing, Brad. It’s pitiful. It’s the mark of a tired old man afraid to die alone and unrecognized.

“You don’t care about the consequences — war in Europe, a nuclear exchange between us, Byelorussia, and the Commonwealth. You don’t care whose lives you waste as long as you get your chance to save the man that saved your ass. You probably have Wendy Tork and Angelina Pereira in one of those EB-52s, don’t you?”

“I… they said they wanted to serve, wanted to go …”

“You sonofabitch,” Curtis exploded. “How dare you risk their lives again like that? What would you do if they died on this mission? Or didn’t that matter to you? As long as you got Dave, as long as you tried to get Dave, your conscience would be clear. You’d go to the funerals, say a few words, toss in the first handfuls of dirt into the grave, then congratulate yourself on staying alive.”

“Is that what you think I do?” Elliott retorted, his eyes suddenly shiny in the light of the Support Section. “Do you think I lie awake all these years since that mission, congratulating myself because I made it out alive? Those faces haunt me, Wilbur.”

“So you think taking your flight suit and your crews and your Megafortresses and going off to war, with or without permission from the government, is going to help you sleep at night, Brad? Think about it, dammit. Think about what’s gnawing at you. Success or failure isn’t the issue. You have always been a success. But you’ve always been alone, also. You’re a loner afraid of being alone. You’re a warrior afraid of dying.

“Look at what’s happening here, Brad. General Voshchanka of the Byelorussian Army Home Brigade is ready to occupy Lithuania, on his own authority. No permission from his government — he just fucking decided he was going to do it. Svetlov had no choice but to agree to the operation. Svetlov now has to be spoon-fed by Voshchanka on what to say and how to act, or Voshchanka has, I’m sure, threatened to take over the capital.

“Now, just about the same time we decry that action and think about countering Voshchanka’s aggression, here we’ve got you doing the very same damned thing,” Curtis went on. “What’s the President supposed to do? How’s he supposed to react? When I tell the President that I have control and you will calm down and do as you’re ordered, what sort of guarantees does he have that you’ll behave? None, that’s what!”

“My job is not to behave, General,” Elliott said. “My job is to plan, prepare, and execute—”

“Your job is to follow orders and obey the law!”

“All right, Wilbur, all right. If you think it’s necessary, I’ll admit that I assembled an assault team without consulting the Pentagon and I was going to execute a military operation without permission. Let the legal weasels decide if it was legal or not. But let’s not waste time arguing that. Let’s do something to get Ormack, Briggs, McLanahan, Luger, and those Marines out of Lithuania — right now.”

“What you will do, General Elliott,” Curtis said angrily, “is tell me the precise location of each and every element of your assault team — especially MADCAP MAGICIAN. Since I gave you an order to recover that vessel to port, it hasn’t been seen or heard from.”

“I ordered that ship to withdraw, and it did.”

“You stretched the meaning of my orders to you,” Curtis said, “and I’ll bet you told Colonel White to lay low someplace in the Baltic, within striking range of Vilnius. Just another example of your blatant disregard for my orders.

“You will sit down on the MILSTAR channel with representatives of European Command in Germany and with the Twenty-sixth MEU aboard the USS Wasp and describe your mission, reveal where the SS Valley Mistress is located, and explain in detail exactly what you intended to do with MADCAP MAGICIAN. And you’d better be truthful and up front with me and with everyone in my chain of command. I think it’s about time you stopped playing lone wolf and started acting like a true United States military officer, General, or by God I’ll put you in hack myself.”

“Don’t Dave Luger and the others mean anything to you, Wilbur?” Elliott asked. His eyes were softer, his voice pleading. “I have the ability to help. I have the capability to hold off a Byelorussian invasion. I have a deniable, powerful, stealthy assault team ready to roll, and I have my neck on the chopping block stretched to the maximum. Doesn’t any of that matter to you?”

“Yes, it does.” Curtis sighed. “You have a lot to contribute. Everyone recognizes your potential, even the President. But no one likes a loose cannon. Your plan is to be implemented immediately, and your aircraft will be directed to launch and execute their assigned mission. But I’ll be the one giving the orders, with the full sanction of the National Command Authority.”

“My plan — what?”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you ever since I pinned on your third star, Brad,” Curtis said. “You can be a real asset to this government and to the country, but you’ve got serious internal conflicts that need to be resolved. I used to think it was just a huge chip on your shoulder, but now I think it’s more… you really walk on the edge.

“Now you’ve got the only small, heavy attack group that’s mobilized and ready to act. You’re out of the picture, but your team’s been activated. The Megafortresses launch immediately. They’ve got full MILSTAR and NIRTSat access, and MADCAP MAGICIAN is cleared in-country. You and I will watch from the Command Center here and pray we’re not too late.”

Elliott couldn’t believe it. After this major ass-chewing, the National Command Authority — the President — was actually sanctioning his mission!

“Choppers inbound”‘ the radioman shouted. “Take cover!”

A small convoy of trucks and armored vehicles were at the Denerokin gate to the Fisikous compound, heading out to evacuate the Marines to the embassy across town when someone in the truck’s cab shouted the warning. Hal Briggs and John Ormack, flanking Dave Luger in the back of a Yugoslavian-made truck, were nearly knocked to the ground when the alarm was sounded and Marines started jumping off the truck and scattering — they didn’t even wait for the trucks to come to a stop. The Air Force officers followed. With Luger between them, Ormack and Briggs dashed a few hundred yards clear of the twenty-vehicle convoy, toward the relative safety of a line of low wood-and-brick storage sheds. McLanahan and Gunnery Sergeant Wohl were right behind them, carrying four heavy canvas sacks filled with classified manuals and other documents taken from the design-center security building.

“For a minute I actually thought we were going to make it,” Luger said, sounding defeated. But at least he was looking better the closer they got to the gate and freedom. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, his skin devoid of any healthy color, and his arms and legs shook from pain and weariness, but otherwise he was acting stronger and moving with very little help.

“We will make it, bro,” Briggs said. “You just hang in there.” Briggs was carrying an M-16, and he had it raised to the gradually dawning sky along with the other Marines surrounding them — as with the others, he assumed any aerial assault would come at them from the east, with the sun at the backs of the attacking pilots. McLanahan and Ormack carried only sidearms and knives — they were still not allowed to carry any weapons that might harm a nearby Marine if used improperly.

They saw the Marines’ response before they saw the threat — a flash of light and a streak of smoke arced toward the horizon as a Marine, one of six still on the roof of the design-center security facility building, fired a man-portable Stinger at the incoming enemy helicopters. Their eyes followed the missile’s smoke trail, and they saw three huge Soviet-made helicopters, now in steep bank turns, ejecting missile-decoying flares.

“Shit,” Wohl cursed, “who told that guy to launch a missile? Snyder must be getting antsy. Now those things will be after us like stink on shit.”

“They look like Mil-24 Hind-Ds,” McLanahan said. “Rocket pods and antitank or heat-seeking missiles.”

“Just keep your heads down and don’t fire that rifle,” Gunnery Sergeant Wohl said. “If they see the muzzle flash, we’re all dead meat.”

“What do we do? Run?”

“We make like we’re not here,” Wohl said. “If they don’t find any more resistance, they’ll go after the trucks and hopefully leave after reconnoitering the area. If they try to land or unload paratroopers or infantry, we’ll go after them then — those things are very vulnerable on the ground. Otherwise we’re no match for attack helicopters.” Wohl was already thinking attack even as the big assault helicopters moved closer, their array of weapons hanging from the winglike weapons pylons now clearly visible.

Sure enough, all three Hind-Ds managed to evade the Stinger fired at them and continued their run toward the Institute. They opened fire at about five hundred yards’ range with rockets and machine-gun fire, one after another, slicing the truck convoy apart with ease. “They didn’t go after the Marines on the roof,” Briggs observed.

“They must have orders not to shoot the place up, to pick their targets carefully,” Wohl said. “Now I hope Snyder attacks—”

Sure enough, a few seconds later the Marines launched a second Stinger at the trailing helicopter, and this time the tiny missile flew straight into an engine exhaust baffle and exploded. The helicopter’s huge rotor simply stopped turning when the missile hit, engulfing the entire fuselage with fire, and the machine dropped out of the air like a poorly punted football wobbling through the air. It crashed just a few hundred yards outside the Denerokin security gate, near the railroad yards.

“Got one!” Briggs shouted.

“That was our last Stinger,” Wohl said. “Those flyboys will be pissed now. Get ready to run if they come after us. Try to find a cellar or an open door. Stay out of the open.”

The first two helicopters swooped in over the base, and the destruction really started.

Despite their enormous size, the Soviet-made helicopters wheeled and moved with incredible speed and agility. These older-model helicopters had a Gatling-style gun in a chin turret, and the gun seemed to move in every direction at once. Every time a man moved, the turret turned in his direction and let loose with a one- or two-second burst. The flimsy wood-and-brick buildings they were hiding behind were barely enough to protect them.

The Byelorussian crews saved their 57-millimeter rockets for the armored vehicles and heavy trucks, and they rarely missed — every long, low whoosh! was followed a split second later by a powerful explosion and the crunch of steel. Trying to return fire with rifles was as fruitless as it was dangerous — the big helicopters moved like prizefighters, darting up and down, wheeling and spinning and darting back and forth, exposing first a door gunner, then the chin turret, then a rocket pod, then another door gunner to threats.

The crews aboard those enemy choppers were good — very good.

The Lithuanian soldiers kept the situation from turning into a bloodbath. Just one of their ZSU-23-4 antiaircraft-artillery units was operational, and it had only a small amount of ammunition remaining, but a single two-second burst of fire from the deadly weapon was enough. The burst from the Lithuanians’ ZSU-23-4 hit the hub of the lead Mil-24’s tail rotor, causing smoke to stream from the tail. It had obviously hit something vital, because the Hind-D did not tiy to attack the ZSU-23-4—it wheeled away and climbed, escaping while it could still fly.

A Lithuanian soldier was sprinting across the road near where Wohl, Briggs, McLanahan, Ormack, and Luger were hiding. McLanahan stepped forward away from the building they were hiding behind and yelled, “Hey! Over here!”

Gunnery Sergeant Wohl grabbed McLanahan by the jacket and dragged him back to cover. “Get back here, McLanahan!”

But Wohl’s warning was too late. The second Hind-D spotted the soldier, and the Gatling gun chattered. The soldier’s entire torso exploded like a rotting pumpkin hit by a baseball bat.

The helicopter wheeled to the left and took aim at the maintenance building. Like kicking down a sand castle a bit at a time, the maintenance shed the five men were hiding behind began to disintegrate around them under a sudden barrage of gunfire.

Wohl grabbed the three officers and yelled at them over the roar of the helicopter’s rotors, “Run!”

McLanahan, by force of habit, automatically picked up the two canvas bags full of documents, but Wohl knocked them out of his hands and with surprising strength, fueled by fear, pushed McLanahan away from the building and yelled, “Leave the damn bags and run!”

Their brief but intense Marine Corps training paid off, because none of those three healthy Air Force officers could remember running faster in their lives, even carrying Luger between them.

The maintenance shed disappeared in a blinding cloud of smoke and flying wood seconds after they darted away. The rotor wash of the second chopper started to tug at their clothing — it was as if the big attack helicopter were hovering right over them, sucking them into cannon range, ready to pluck them off their feet. Bullets flew past their heads, snapped at their feet, churned up dirt directly in front of them as they zigzagged away, not knowing or caring where they were running. It was as if the gunners were toying with them, playing a deadly cat-and-mouse game. When they tired of the game, they would simply pick a weapon and do away with them.

Their headlong run to find shelter was short because they ran right into a deep, wide concrete ditch that surrounded the base just inside the tall perimeter fence. Half-tripping, half-tumbling, they threw themselves down into the ditch, their fall cushioned only by a few inches of mud and water. On the other side of the twenty-foot-wide ditch was the twelve-foot-high concrete-reinforced perimeter fence: trapped.

The big Hind-D headed right for them, no more than twenty or thirty feet high, and at a relatively slow speed.

The door gunners could not miss …

“No!” Briggs shouted. As the Hind cruised overhead, he raised his rifle, squinted against the rotor wash and flying debris, and fired. The star-board-side door gunner clutched his chest, flew backwards into the helicopter, and then lurched forward again, hanging dead from his safety harness in the slipstream.

The helicopter careened overhead, the sound so deafening and so tremendous that it seemed to suck the air right out of their lungs.

Briggs kept on firing, trying to hit the tail rotor, the engines, something vital.

The helicopter banked left, rolled out, and banked again as if it were unsure about what to do; then it banked slightly right and headed eastward. The other stricken helicopter followed a few moments later, and together they retreated off toward the gradually brightening dawn.

The group spent a few minutes just catching their breath and waiting for their pounding hearts to calm down before attempting to move. Finally they began to show signs of life. “Jesus … Oh, Jesus,” Briggs gasped. “Man, that was close.”

“Good shooting, Briggs,” Wohl said. “That took guts. You can fire when you feel it’s necessary from now on, okay?”

Briggs was shaking too badly from their close call to respond.

“Everybody else okay?” asked Wohl. No one had suffered anything more than a twisted ankle or banged elbow, and they were on their feet and moving. “All right. Let’s get back to the security building as fast as we can and-”

“Stoy!” a voice behind them shouted in Russian. “Nyee dveghighi’yes! Nyee dveghightyes!”

Dave Luger froze immediately and placed his hands on top of his head.

“What did he say?” Ormack asked. “Who is it?”

“He said ‘stop’ and ‘don’t move,’ “ Wohl said. “Briggs, drop the rifle. Raise your hands.”

“All right — who the hell are you guys?” The voice had changed from a gruff, deep-throated warning tone with a Russian accent into a relaxed, old-fashioned Brooklyn accent. The five men turned around to find a single man, dressed in dark-blue coveralls, carrying a short automatic pistol that resembled an Uzi with a long, thick suppressor attached.

“Wohl, Chris R.”

“Marines?”

Wohl nodded and the man lowered, the gun. “Gladden, Edward G., U.S. Army. Welcome to Lithuania. Having fun yet?”

Luger found himself giggling so hard from the stress that he could not stop until Briggs patted him on the back. “Has the Army invaded Lithuania?” Ormack asked.

“I’m part of one of the A-Teams, stationed here to observe and assist,” Gladden replied. “We were moving towards your convoy to see if we could hitch a ride out of here when the helicopters attacked. That fucking Hind almost crashed on top of my hiding place in the railyard. I figured with a downed chopper nearby that there were going to be too many soldiers snooping around, so I thought it was a good time to join the real world and maybe hitch a ride home. My partner is watching the airport side.” He motioned toward the Air Force officers. “Who are you guys? You don’t look like Marines.”

“That’s classified,” Wohl said immediately. “They belong to me. How many more Special Forces guys out there?”

“Maybe a company altogether, scattered between Kaunas and the Byelorussian border,” Gladden replied, pulling a cigarette from a pocket and lighting it. McLanahan could practically taste the acid in the smoke of the Russian cigarette from ten feet away. “Let’s go talk to your CO about getting out of here.”

“You have a plan?”

“We always got a plan,” Gladden said proudly. “Lead on.” As they headed back toward the security building, Luger asked Gladden a question in Russian. Gladden smiled, nodded, and responded in easy, fluent Russian.

“Button it,” Wohl warned Luger. To Gladden, he asked, “What was that all about?”

“Your friend said that my parents must’ve had a real sense of humor to give their son initials like ‘E.G.G.’” Gladden said. “I agreed. They teach you Marines pretty good Russian.”

“He’s not a Marine,” Wohl said, “and I’d appreciate your not talking to them.”

“Are they your prisoners?”

“They’re pains in the ass, is what they are.” But Wohl’s smile made the Army Special Forces soldier even more confused.

“Through the sewers?” Snyder asked incredulously. “That’s your big plan? You want us to get out through the sewers?”

Gladden was stuffing his face with Lithuanian black bread and brown honey, given to him by some of Palcikas’ men, as if it were the first real food he had eaten in days — which it was. “Yes, sir, that’s right,” he mumbled between bites. “We discovered the link a few days ago, in preparation for your mission; we reported it to U.S. European Command, but I guess the word never got to you Marines. There’s almost a direct line that runs under the city from Fisikous, downhill all the way, and comes out on the south side of the Neris River, right near the Vilniaus Bridge. You sneak across the bridge on the service catwalk — it’s not lighted and very lightly patrolled after two A.M. or so — and you’re in the City of Progress. One mile west on Okmerges Avenue and you’re at the embassy. Or just jump in the river and swim towards the other side — it’s only a thousand meters wide. By the time you make it across, the current has taken you right to the embassy docks opposite Tartybu Street.”

“Is it safe down in the sewers?” Trimble asked. “What about untreated waste or chemicals?” The thought of swimming in shit or nuclear waste made him wince.

“Bastards that run Fisikous have probably been dumping contaminated water down that line for years, but we tested it and there’s no harmful radioactivity,” Gladden continued. “Most of the really bad sewers are farther west — we just have to contend with shit from the railroad yard, but that dilutes out after a few blocks. It’s slippery, it smells like shit, and sewage is ankle-deep in some places, but you have plenty of chances to get fresh air through storm drains, so it’s not too bad. Best of all, it’s safe and fast.”

“Is it big enough for us to carry wounded down there?”

“It’s a tight squeeze for about twenty blocks north of Fisikous until we get to Traky Avenue — a single sixty-inch main, hunchback city for about three miles-but north of there to the river it’s at least an eighty-inch main, and under Gedimino Boulevard it’s practically Grand Central Station. My partner and I ride bicycles down there to get around, and we’ve taken shopping carts and little wagons down there to move our gear—”

“Okay, okay, Sergeant,” Snyder interrupted. This guy’s been down in the sewer too long, Snyder thought. “We’ve got wounded and dead to evacuate. Still think it’s practical?”

“It’ll take you a long time, sir, maybe three or four hours, until you can carry your wounded upright,” Gladden said. “It’s clean with all the winter runoff, and it’s not flooded, but if you can wrap your wounded in plastic and blankets or a body bag it’d be better. But, yes, sir, I’d say it’s double.”

“All right,” Snyder said. He thought about it for a moment. He had a momentary fear when he thought about traveling across the city in a small, dark, confining tube several yards underground, but the thought of facing those attack helicopters wasn’t very appealing either. “We’ll take the sewers, but not everybody’s going to go that way,” Snyder said. “The enemy will be expecting us to make a break for the embassy, and if they don’t see activity in the streets they’ll start looking for us in other places. I don’t want to get caught in a firefight in the damned sewers.

“We’ll split up. The dead, the seriously wounded, and some of the team will go by truck. Some team members will go by separate vehicles by parallel routes to cover the trucks. We’ll take the walking wounded and the rest through the sewers, including the zoomies and the documents.” He turned to General Palcikas, who had been receiving a report from his radioman — a new one, Snyder saw. The other man was nowhere to be seen. “Sir, where is your other radioman?”

“Dead,” Palcikas replied. “He shielded me with his body during air raid.”

“I’m very sorry, sir,” Snyder said. It was hard for Snyder to express any real emotions right now — he had seen more death that day than he had ever thought he would in a lifetime. “We will try again to take a convoy out of the Fisikous compound, but this time I’d like three separate convoys, taking parallel routes to guard each other’s flank.”

“I agree,” the Lithuanian general said. “We have been in contact with many people … citizens … who will help now.

“Excellent,” Snyder said. “What are your intentions, sir?”

“We will stay,” Palcikas replied. “We will begin taking the ammunition from the security building and taking it to our underground cells in the city. I am in contact with my units across the country now, so I can direct defense from here. I deploy one battalion to oppose Commonwealth infantry base at Darguziai to south — they threaten capital first. One, maybe two companies to protect parliament building and communications center in capital. Then we fight the Byelorussian helicopters and infantry from Smorgon. Big battle tomorrow morning.”

“I wish you luck, sir,” Snyder said. “I will relay any requests you have to the U.S. Embassy, along with my full report on how you helped my unit.”

“Pas deschaz,” Palcikas said, waving a hand. “You help, I help. You good soldier. Good luck to you too.”

“Thank you, sir.” He turned to Gunny Trimble and said, “Pull out the maps and—”

“Captain, we’re not going with you,” John Ormack said.

Snyder turned toward the Air Force officers and flashed Ormack an angry glare, but acted as if he didn’t hear what Ormack had said. “You’re going with me, Ormack.”

“That’s General Ormack, Captain,” Ormack said. Several of the Marines had encircled the group, wanting to hear more, and even Palcikas focused his attention on Ormack, a slightly amused smile on his face. Snyder turned and looked at Ormack in surprise and disbelief. “And I told you, Captain, we’re not going back to the embassy with you. Not yet.”

Now Snyder was really angry, and Trimble looked twice as angry as his superior. “You have no choice in the matter, General. You are assigned to my unit. You have no authority to make decisions.”

“I’m taking the authority right now,” Ormack said. “Your orders were to break inside Fisikous, find REDTAIL HAWK, and allow us to examine the classified material in this place. Well, REDTAIL HAWK’s been located, but we haven’t seen what we want to see yet. As long as General Palcikas stays here at Fisikous, we’re staying. We want to examine Tuman, the Fisikous-170 stealth bomber.”

“You are trying to tell me what my orders are?” Snyder asked incredulously. “No goddamned way, Ormack. I am in charge of this detail. I make the decisions. If I say you go, you will go. If I have to put you in handcuffs and hogtie you, I’ll do it. You can squawk all you want to the brass after we get home, but if I accomplish my mission successfully, nobody will say boo to me. Now I want you to pick up your damned classified and get ready to move out.”

“For the last time, Snyder — we’re not leaving,” Ormack said finally. He motioned to McLanahan, Briggs, and Luger, and they stepped away from the circle of troops and headed for the parking-ramp area and aircraft hangars. “We’ll be in the third hangar examining the bomber—”

“Gunny Trimble, put those four men in irons,” Snyder said. “Drag them to the sewer manhole if you have to.” Trimble was moving before Snyder finished speaking. He was smart — he reached for Hal Briggs first. Hal was ready for him. With a twist and a swing of his right arm, Briggs threw off Trimble’s grasp. With a low cry, Trimble leaped on Briggs, trying to drive him to the ground …

Suddenly a hand clutched his jacket, and Trimble found himself being lifted away from Briggs as if hooked on to a hydraulic crane …

It was General Dominikas Palcikas who had hold of Gunnery Sergeant Trimble. The big Lithuanian officer had no difficulty restraining Trimble. The other four or five Marines in the group were too stunned to move, hesitant to gang up on any officer, including a foreigner on his own soil.

“I think that is enough,” Palcikas said. As if he were separating two squabbling children, he firmly but gently shoved Trimble away. “You may not do this.”

“General Palcikas, what in hell are you doing?” Snyder said. One hand slipped down to his holster. Palcikas saw the move, but only smiled. Snyder changed his mind. “Gunny, carry out your order.”

Trimble tried to push past Palcikas, but the Lithuanian general stepped in between him and the Air Force officers. It was obvious from Trimble’s eyes that he was deciding the best way to take out Palcikas, but instead of reacting he shouted, “Out of my way, son of a bitch!”

“This general has given you your orders, Sergeant.”

“I don’t take orders from him!” Trimble shouted. At that moment Trimble reached into his holster to draw his .45 …

… And Palcikas’ Makarov was in his face long before his fingers touched the leather, the muzzle barely three inches from his forehead. A few Marines surrounding the group began to unsling rifles from their shoulders or draw pistols, but the Lithuanian soldiers with them already had their AK-47s at the ready — they were not aiming them at the Marines, but held them at port arms, fingers on the trigger guards. The threat was clear.

“Enough,” Palcikas said sternly. He raised the muzzle of his pistol and released the hammer. It had grown quiet enough around that spot that the click of the hammer being lowered was clearly audible. None of the other Lithuanians moved; neither did the Marines.

“General Palcikas, what do you think you’re doing?” Snyder asked. “I gave an order. These men belong to me.”

“My English poor,” Palcikas said, “but this man”—he pointed to Ormack with his Makarov pistol before holstering it—”is general officer, no? He gives orders. You obey.”

“Not in this operation,” Snyder said. “In this operation, I’m in command.”

“You in command of Marines. These men not Marines. You in command because he say you in command, because you kvaliflzsiravany rabochiv, spitsialistaf commando soldier. Now, he gives orders. He superior officer, direktaram. You obey.”

“Listen, Snyder,” Ormack said. “You’re trying to get out because you’re afraid of getting clobbered here. I understand that. You guys are special ops, and you got no odds in your favor so the best thing for you is to get the hell out. Well, we’re not commandos like you. We’re scientists and engineers and crew dogs. We’ve got to see that bomber.”

“You’re not safe here,” Snyder insisted. “Can’t you bastards see that? The Soviets can overrun this base in an instant.”

“Yes, they can,” McLanahan said, “but they haven’t. They want this facility intact. General Palcikas said that ground units from Darguziai and Smorgon are on the way, and tonight or tomorrow the battle will be on. That means we have time to examine that stealth bomber.”

“My orders are to take REDTAIL HAWK and the classified material.”

“I know what your orders say, Captain,” Ormack said, “but this is totally different. I’m amending your orders. I’m a general, and I say Briggs, McLanahan, Luger, and I stay and examine the bomber—”

“And I say you will follow my direction or—”

“I’m giving you a legal order, Captain,” Ormack said sternly. “I’m a brigadier general of the United States Air Force. You’re a captain in the United States Marine Corps. I’m giving you an order.”

“You are not authorized to issue orders, Ormack,” Snyder said. “And keep your voice down. You can’t reveal any names here.”

“You will not speak to me like that, Captain,” Ormack said in a loud voice.

McLanahan looked on with complete surprise — they had never seen or even imagined John Ormack throwing his rank around like this!

“You will address me as ‘sirs or ‘general’ from now on, and you will obey my orders or I’ll prefer charges against you upon our return. You may think otherwise, but if you try to disobey my orders I’ll see to it that you spend the next ten years in prison.”

Snyder was too shocked to say anything for several seconds. He tried his best to think of something, anything, to retain his control of this operation, but nothing was happening. Ormack was a general, despite being nothing more than a passenger on this mission from day one. Snyder and his men could risk their lives getting them out, only to have their careers ruined in a court-martial. “What are you doing, General?” Snyder asked, hopelessly frustrated. “Why are you doing this …?”

“The damned Marine Corps has done a good job making me feel like a second-class citizen in the past few weeks,” Ormack went on angrily. “I know I can’t run twenty miles, shoot an M-16, run obstacle courses, or kill someone with my bare hands like you guys can. In that time you made me feel inferior, even unworthy to wear a uniform. But all that doesn’t mean that we suspend military discipline, the Constitution of the United States, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Your insubordination will end right here, right now.”

“Insubordination!” gasped Snyder.

“Captain Snyder, I order you to take your men, your casualties, and those four bags of classified material and make your way via the fastest and the safest way you can devise back to the American Embassy,” Ormack said, “where you will report to Ambassador Lewis Reynolds and give him a full report on your assigned mission and our activities here. Now, what’s it going to be? Are you going to obey my orders or are you going to disobey them?”

“I can make a call to the embassy,” Snyder said. “They can patch me in to General Kundert or General Lockhart.”

“Then do it if you think you have the time,” Ormack said. “In the meantime I’ve given you your orders. Carry them out.”

Captain Edward Snyder, USMC, was practically dizzy from the confusion and surprise. Like a fistful of fine sand slipping through his fingers, it seemed as if his entire world was slipping out of his grasp. Gunnery Sergeant Trimble could not believe it when Snyder hesitated without saying a word. “Captain, you are in charge of this mission!” he said. “Tell these guys to get in line or I’ll—”

“Oh, shut up. Gunny,” Snyder said. He looked at Ormack with pure hatred in his eyes. “I’ve got my damned orders from the General here.”

“I can call the embassy, sir. We’ll get orders from headquarters — hell, we’ll get the Commandant himself on the line.”

“No, I said. We’re going to follow orders. Mount up and let’s get out of here.”

“But, sir—”

“I said mount up, Gunny,” Snyder snapped. He stepped toward Or-mack, glared at Briggs and McLanahan, then stared Ormack directly in the face and said disgustedly, “I’m sick of you three. I’m tired of dragging you halfway around the world and risking my life so you three can play hero. I have just one request. A lot of good Marines risked their lives so you can come out here and play army. If you make it back alive, you will attend their funerals, kiss their widows and mothers, and pay your respects to them. No celebrating, no partying. All three of you. You say thank you to the Marines who got you here.”

“We’ll be there, Captain,” Ormack said, staring dead-on at Snyder. “Now get out of here.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Snyder replied, his voice dripping with disgust. He saluted Ormack, his lips drawn into a tight grimace, his left fist balled at his side. Ormack did not return the salute. Snyder turned and walked away, his men falling in behind him.

The place felt very empty and quiet as the group of Marines headed off — until General Palcikas unexpectedly slapped Ormack on the shoulder and said with a broad smile, “Good job, General! I knew you be good leader! Generals must take command. Good job! We go look at strange Soviet bird now.”

“We can do more than that,” Luger said. “We can fly it out of here.” Heads turned toward Luger in surprise. McLanahan asked, “What? Is that true? Will it fly …?”

“I’ve flown Tuman at least eight times… uh, that I can remember,” Luger replied. “Sure, it’ll fly.” He looked at Snyder, then at Ormack, then at his friend and longtime partner, Patrick McLanahan, and grinned. “If they got any weapons still stashed here, we can even launch a few missiles and drop a few bombs.”

“Then let’s get over there,” Ormack said, rubbing his hands together. “It’s about time that we get out of these infantry duds and get our asses back into the air.”