Under Fire

49

It would be only later that Jack would fully realize how well crafted Medzhid’s gambit was. As it was, he was having trouble focusing on anything more than putting one foot in front of the other.

Seth’s gone, Jack thought. In various combinations the phrase kept popping into his head as though on some kind of subconscious timer. Seth’s dead.

The rugged serpentine valley west of Vatan that Medzhid had chosen to confront the approaching border garrison was not only ideal ground for a smaller force to hold off a larger one. It was also, Medzhid had told Jack, the site of one of Dagestan’s most famous battles, Lemmes Nok, where six hundred Avar, Kumyk, and Tsakhur tribesmen had banded together to repel Tahmasp Qoli invaders.

Having secured the local garrison commander’s commitment that morning, Medzhid had to make only a single call to get the four-thousand-man force moving northeast out of the city toward Vatan.

By the time the Ural truck in which Medzhid, Jack, Ysabel, Dom, and Spellman were riding reached the entrance of the canyon, the troops were already in position, standing at attention and formed into eight phalanxes of five hundred men each that blocked the mouth of the canyon, from rock face to rock face. None of them was armed.

It was an impressive spectacle, Jack thought, but useless on a modern battlefield. Of course, Medzhid knew this, as did the city’s garrison commander, and probably every one of the four thousand men. If whatever military vehicles were about to come down this road decided to open fire, many hundreds would be dead within minutes.

Dressed in his formal Ministry of the Interior politsiya uniform, Medzhid climbed down from the truck with his doctor’s help, then made his way up the road, passing through the phalanxes’ ranks as he went. He looked straight ahead, his gait steady. Jack saw no trace of pain on his face, no small feat, given what he must be feeling. His lung was working at half capacity at best, the doctor had told Jack in the truck. And not until they got him into surgery would they know whether there was any hemorrhaging.

Jack and the others followed behind Medzhid until he reached the front of the formation. He stopped to exchange salutes with the garrison commander, then continued on until he was twenty feet ahead of the first rank and standing in the middle of the road.

Jack checked his watch: 5:20.

An earlier reconnaissance report from one of Medzhid’s ERF units had put the lead units of the border garrison three miles away.

Jack felt the approach of the armored personnel carriers at first as shivering of the ground beneath his feet, then as a rumbling as the first vehicles came around the bend three hundred yards up the road.

Jack said to Ysabel, “If they start shooting, I want you to go—”

“You’ll never learn, will you, Jack?” she said, and gave his hand a squeeze.

Upon seeing Medzhid’s blocking force, the leading APC eased left, making room for the trailing vehicles until four of them were moving down the road in a line abreast. One by one, the APCs’ thirty-millimeter cannons swiveled about until they were aimed at Medzhid’s force. They closed to a hundred yards and then ground to a halt.

After a minute or so a GAZ Tigr — the Russian Army’s version of the Humvee — rumbled down the shoulder past the APCs, then eased left into the middle of the road. The Tigr kept coming, its diesel engine echoing off the canyon walls, until it was thirty feet away. It slowly coasted to a stop, and a man in camouflage coveralls and a maroon beret climbed out of the passenger seat and walked forward.

“Good morning, Minister Medzhid,” the man said, saluting.

Medzhid returned the salute. “Colonel Lobanov.”

“May I ask what this is about, Minister? Why are these men blocking the road into the city?”

“The city is quiet, Colonel. There is no need for you to enter.”

“I have orders to the contrary.”

“I have orders from the people of Makhachkala,” Medzhid replied. “You are an Avar Muslim, aren’t you?”

“Pardon me?” Medzhid repeated the question and Colonel Lobanov nodded. “I am.”

“I’m also Avar, but Russian Orthodox. The city’s garrison commander is of mixed heritage, Lak and Chechen. His wife is Azerbaijani.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“There are thirteen different ethnicities that call Dagestan home, Colonel. We all speak Russian and probably a mixture of other dialects. We know one another’s foods and drinks, our various marriage and funeral customs, our religious holidays and festivals. We are Russians, but we are also Dagestanis — Avars, Laks, Chechens, Tsakhurs…

“What you have been sent here to stop isn’t a violent uprising of three million thugs. The only damage that’s been done to Makhachkala has been done by covert forces sent here by President Volodin. The reports of violence you’ve received were not acts committed by people who call Makhachkala home.

“Earlier today, Colonel, I was shot by my own trusted bodyguard, a man working for Moscow. He is also responsible for the deaths of two dear friends. Another man, a sergeant named Pavel Koikov, with whom I served during my early days in the politsiya, was kidnapped from his home. This, too, was done at the behest of Moscow. Three days ago I was accused of having killed sixty-two fellow Dagestanis, burning them alive in a mosque at Almak in 1999.”

Lobanov said, “I know Almak. My father talked about you. I remember reading the news stories. You killed only terrorists.”

“Terrorists who had beheaded nine Russian soldiers,” Medzhid added. “Agents from Moscow took and tried to kill Sergeant Koikov for fear he would tell the truth about Almak.

“My own daughter was kidnapped, Colonel, taken from the university where she is studying to become a doctor. You remember Aminat. You met her four years ago at my birthday party.”

“I remember.”

“They threatened to send her back to my wife and me in pieces.”

“Minister, I am truly sorry that these terrible things have happened, but I have my orders.”

“Orders from where? Moscow? From whom? The same people who ordered done all the things I just told about?”

“I have no choice—”

“You have discretion!” Medzhid shot back. “You’re Dagestan’s military governor. You live here, Colonel, along with your wife and two sons. You’ve called Dagestan home your entire life. Colonel, you’re Russian, you’re Dagestani, you’re Avar, and you’re Muslim, and you live and work beside people who are the same as you, and yet different from you. These are the people Moscow has told you are militants and thugs. That’s the story they want you to believe. But what do you think?”

“Minister, what would you have me do?”

“Turn around, return to the border districts, and tell Moscow all is quiet in Makhachkala.” Medzhid offered Lobanov a smile. “If later you hear otherwise, call me and you can come down and see for yourself.”

Lobanov held Medzhid’s gaze for a long ten seconds, then shook his head and smiled. “Good day, Minister Medzhid.”

“And to you, Colonel. Safe travels.”