The Russian Woman

Chapter 20

Two days after the Russians crossed the Euphrates, Anya and her mother were watching television. All three major channels were reporting on the operations in Syria. All the channels carried the same commentary, glowing accounts of an unstoppable Russian advance.

Anya was worried. She knew the truth behind the propaganda spewing from the TV. The Kurds were putting up stiff resistance, more than had been anticipated. It was only the end of the second day, and the advance was already slowing down. Russian casualties were heavy, far surpassing estimates. Even though Kurdish forces had been siphoned off to fight the Turks, a determined contingent had remained behind to protect the oil.

What was supposed to be a quick and painless victory had turned into a savage, bloody, battle with no holds barred. The tanks had proved vulnerable to suicidal Kurds armed with courage and the latest American antitank weapons. Every building, even the smallest shack, was heavily defended. The Kurds had sophisticated antiaircraft weapons, a gift from the Americans. They hadn't stopped attacks from the air, but they had made them costly. One SU-35 cost the equivalent of eighty-five million American dollars. Six had already been shot down.

The outcome of the operation was not in doubt. In the end, control of the oilfields would pass to Moscow, but President Tarasov wasn't getting the quick and popular victory he had counted on.

Russian forces had steered clear of the American troops in the area, but Anya worried that someone might make a mistake and trigger a much larger war. As far as she was concerned, nothing short of a direct attack on the Motherland could justify that.

There had been times during her career when Anya had wondered why she had been ordered to do something. Even so, she'd never questioned the necessity for what she was asked to do. She had always assumed there were good reasons for those orders, even if she didn't know what they were. But this adventure in Syria was different. It bothered her.

Russia had plenty of oil. What was happening in Syria was political, a chess move on the world stage. It wasn't about defending the Motherland, no matter what the television announcers said. The Kurds were no threat to the Federation. Her countrymen were dying because of politics.

It felt wrong, more than wrong. She wished she could do something about it, but that wasn't possible.

On screen, a well-known Moscow TV anchor stood by the side of a highway somewhere East of the Euphrates, facing the camera. He wore a helmet that was too small for him and a vest that made him look like someone playing soldier. Smoke rose in the distance, over ancient land that might once have been the biblical Garden of Eden. A stream of Russian vehicles rolled by behind him, throwing up clouds of dust. His prideful commentary made it clear the Russians were there at the request of their staunch ally, President Khaleem-al-Khali, to help drive out the Kurdish occupiers who were plundering Syria's vast oil reserves.

"Elements of the 22nd Special Purpose Brigade and the 12th Motorized Rifle Brigade have been engaged since the beginning of operations to ensure the security of our nation. Our troops are advancing at a steady pace. Some resistance has been reported, but the enemy had better watch out! Our brave soldiers will soon make short work of them!"

Yulia put her hand to her mouth. "Grigori is in the 22nd. Did you know about this, Anya?"

EAGLE was no longer a secret. There was no reason to hide her knowledge.

"Yes, mother. I knew about it."

"Why didn't you tell me? What if something happens to Grigori?"

"I didn't want to worry you. Besides, I wasn't allowed to tell you."

"That's no excuse. You should have told me."

"I wasn't allowed to," Anya said again. "The operation was secret."

"Your father was always keeping secrets," Yulia said, her voice unhappy.

A knock came at the door. Anya rose from the couch.

"I'll get it."

"It's late. Why is anyone coming here now?"

She went to the door and opened it. Two officers in dress uniform stood there, one of them a woman. Anya had a sudden, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was only one reason why these people would be here this late at night.

"Colonel Volkova?"

Her mouth was dry.

"Yes. I am Colonel Volkova."

"I am Captain Brezhinski. It is my sad duty to inform you that your brother, Captain Grigori Volkov, has fallen in battle."

The words paralyzed her. Anya stood rooted to the floor, unable to move.

Yulia's voice came from the other room.

"Anya, what is it?"

He can't be dead. It must be a mistake. I talked to him a week ago.

"Colonel Volkova? Are you all right?"

He can't be. They've made a mistake.

Her heart began pounding. A wave of dizziness swept over her. Anya put her hand on her chest, feeling as though she might faint. Then it passed. She looked at Captain Brezhinski.

"You are certain? There's no possibility of a mistake?"

"I am very sorry, Colonel."

"How...what happened?"

"Captain Volkov's vehicle was disabled by a rocket attack. Your brother is a hero, Colonel. He was under continuous fire and severely wounded. He disregarded his wounds and managed to get his crew to safety before he succumbed. You can be proud of him. Please accept the condolences of the nation for his death. He died for the Motherland."

Died for the Motherland.

The words echoed in her mind. Grigori was dead.

Dead.

"Anya?"

Her mother had come into the hall. She saw the two officers.

"Anya? What do they want?"

Anya took a deep breath.

"It's Grigori, mother."

"Grigori? Is he all right?"

"Mother..."

Yulia looked at the two officers standing in the hallway. The blood drained from her face.

"No," she said.

She clasped her chest and fell to the floor.

"Shit," the Captain said.

He pushed his way past Anya and knelt down. Yulia's face was an odd color, her breathing harsh and labored.

"Lieutenant Peshkov, call an ambulance."

Anya felt like she was standing outside of herself, as if she were in a bad dream and couldn't wake up. Sound faded. She saw the Lieutenant call for help without understanding the words. She saw Captain Brezhinski pushing on her mother's chest. All she could think about was what he'd said.

Died for the Motherland.

She realized Lieutenant Peshkov was saying something.

"What did you say?"

"I said, an ambulance is on the way, Colonel."

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Yes."

Grigori is gone. My sweet brother is gone. For what? For nothing.

Then, I helped make it happen.

She wanted to strike out, to scream at Brezhinski. Of course she couldn't do that. It wasn't his fault. Someone was to blame, but it wasn't him.

It was too soon to feel grief, but she knew it would come. She was aware of something else building inside her, demanding to get out.

Demanding to be heard.

Anger. No, something more intense than that, something more primal.

Rage.