Warrior Class

KFOR Headquarters, Camp Bondsteel, Pristina, Kosovo

“The situation is unraveling before our eyes, gentlemen,” General Sir Edmund Willoughby, commander of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization’s Kosovo Force (NATO KFOR), exclaimed. “I have the unfortunate task of advising everyone here this morning that the former Yugoslavian Republic of Macedonia has just declared war on the Republic of Albania, and vice versa.”

The conference theater, once a motion picture screening theater, erupted into a hubbub of shock and anguish. Willoughby was presiding over an early-morning strategy session of all of the KFOR commanders at Camp Bondsteel, the headquarters for all NATO and United Nations peacekeeping forces in Kosovo, set up at a motion picture production studio near Pristina Airport in Kosovo. Also in attendance at Camp Bondsteel was the United Nations Special Envoy of the United Nations Preventative Diplomacy Mission, or UNPREDEP, Ambassador Sune Joelson of Sweden. UNPREDEP was the military-civilian command that had taken over for the United Nations Protection Force in Macedonia in 1995 to try to restore law and order between Albania and Macedonia when border clashes had threatened to escalate to all-out war.

“Have we any information on what touched off this incident?” Oberst (Colonel) Rudolph Messier, the German KFOR commander, asked.

“Nothing,” Willoughby responded. “Eyewitnesses claim that Macedonian artillery units opened fire and destroyed several Albanian observation posts. Macedonia denies this, but claimed that those observation posts were really target spotting units, and they say they intercepted several coded messages broadcast from those posts that they believed were target grid reports.”

“That does not sound like sufficient provocation to open fire,” Colonel Misha Simorov, the Russian KFOR commander who had taken over Colonel Kazakov’s post, said.

“Exactly — and that goes double for Albania,” Air Force Lieutenant-Colonel Timothy Greer, the American KFOR commander, interjected. “Over one hundred and sixty confirmed deaths in Struga so far. Albania hit several historical locations, too.”

“I am sure this was a knee-jerk response to the Macedonian attack against Kukes,” Simorov said. “Two to three times as many died there.”

“I’m not disputing the seriousness of either attack, sir,” Greer said to Simorov. “But why bombard a town with sustained artillery and rocket attacks for almost four hours over some hothead artillery officer lobbing a few across the border?”

“You seem so eager to minimize the danger in this, Colonel,” Simorov said. “Macedonia committed an act of war — a preemptive strike against an observation post along a critical communications and transportation route. It certainly could have been interpreted as a prelude to an invasion.”

“Invasion?” Greer retorted. “Macedonia invading Albania? With what? The Albanian army outnumbers Macedonia’s by two to one; Macedonia has virtually no armor or artillery. That’s a ridiculous notion.”

“Absurd or not, Colonel, an artillery assault—”

“Suspected artillery assault,” General Messier said. “There is no hard evidence yet that Macedonia had any artillery of any kind near Struga.”

“—An artillery assault in that area could easily be construed as the prelude to an invasion,” Simorov went on, despite the interruption. “That highway where the fighting broke out is the main transportation route between the Aegean and Adriatic seas, between Greece and Albania. If Macedonia takes control of it, tanks can be roaring into Tirane within hours. They can encircle Tirane with ease.”

“Encircle Tirane?” Greer again asked incredulously. “Colonel Simorov, this is nonsense. Albania is not being threatened by anyone, especially Macedonia.”

“Then whom, Colonel?” Simorov asked angrily. “Who else would want to slap Albania down?”

“No one is trying to—”

“Macedonia is supported and is being armed by NATO,” Simorov said. “Only NATO benefits by destabilizing Albania and strengthening Macedonia. Perhaps I should inquire to the NATO secretary-general what he has in store for Albania?”

“Colonel Simorov, as the KFOR commander and a deputy chief of staff of the NATO High Command, I assure you NATO has no designs on Albania,” Willoughby said. “Quite the contrary, NATO and all of Europe would benefit greatly by forging closer ties with Albania. Macedonia is a friend and prospective member of the Alliance, but they are not being armed by NATO, nor are they acting as a NATO military surrogate.”

“Sir, only NATO and Macedonia stand to gain if an invasion of Albania is successful,” Simorov said. “Macedonia wants to cut off all arms and drug smuggling across its borders, and it wants to be able to eject ethnic Albanians from its territory at will. What better way to topple the Albanian government and create a safe, secure outlet to the Adriatic Sea than by committing mysterious hit-and-run attacks in Albania, along the main corridor linking two seas, and then letting NATO make excuses and apologies for its actions?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Colonel,” General Sir Willoughby said seriously, “but if you please, let us hear some constructive suggestions rather than wild speculation. What should we do now? Both the United Nations and the European Union are waiting for recommendations.”

“Obviously it is in all of our best interests to keep the fighting from escalating, ja?” Colonel Messier said. He turned to Ambassador Joelson and went on, “With all due respect, sir, UNPREDEP has been a dismal failure. I almost wish we had kept the Protection Force in place. Even Swedish peacekeepers are ineffective in this situation. We need an armed military force in place in both Albania and Macedonia to prevent this conflict from reigniting a general Balkan and possibly even a European war.”

“I agree: The United Nations Protection Force was, with all due respect, a failure,” Colonel Simorov said, nodding toward the Italian force commander. Italy had supplied most of the peacekeeping force in UNPROFOR-Albania about eight years earlier. “Besides, Italy has all but withdrawn from NATO peacekeeping efforts in the Balkans anyway.”

“Italy finds it is safer and better for ourselves to patrol and police our own borders,” the Italian colonel said. “Perhaps it might be better if Macedonia did the same.” He turned to look at Lieutenant-Colonel Greer and said with a sneer, “Of course, the Americans would certainly provide a credible force — if the American president would ever agree to provide more than a token air base and logistics force to assist. Just when Europe seems to be on the brink of all-out war, the Americans decide to become conscientious objectors.”

“The United States is willing to do its part to provide protection forces for NATO member nations,” Colonel Greer said. “The United States is not divorcing itself from any potential crisis situations—”

“Certainly not divorce — it is more like frigidity! “ the Italian commander shouted. That got a chuckle from most of the KFOR commanders — all except Greer, of course.

“Very funny, sir,” Greer said, with a smile that he hoped would disarm the growing tension in the room. “I disagree with Colonel Simorov — the Italian peacekeepers were most effective in Albania, as has been UNPREDEP in Macedonia. I can’t explain this sudden outbreak of hostilities. Macedonia and KFOR have been relatively successful in reducing arms smuggling into Kosovo through Macedonia. Weapons are still getting through Albania. But we trace much of the instability in the region to the Kosovo Liberation Army’s activities. KFOR needs time to work to be effective until we find a political solution.”

“Easy for you to say, Colonel — your commander was not skinned and burned alive in the streets of Prizren,” Simorov said acidly. “The Russians have suffered half of all KFOR casualties in Kosovo at the hands of Muslim rebels. The incidents of violence increase every day. Obviously, our presence in Kosovo is not enough — we must cut off and flush out the source of weapons and guerrillas. That means. stationing peacekeepers in Albania. And since Macedonia appears unwilling or unable to stop this flow of Muslim freedom-fighters and weapons into Kosovo, someone must set up border security forces in Macedonia.”

“And the United States disagrees,” Greer said. “I don’t understand this sudden need to expand the peacekeeping operation’s scope of involvement. Two small-scale border skirmishes don’t signal a complete deterioration in the political situation. Let’s not act too hastily.”

“Pardon me, Colonel,” Simorov said, “but I think the United States has forfeited its right to comment on how KFOR deploys its forces or accomplishes its mission. Contributing a few cargo planes and reconnaissance satellites doesn’t add up to a peacekeeping force with equal responsibility.”

“Let us stop wasting time with squabbling,” Colonel Messier said. “If the Americans and Italians refuse to participate, others must step in to help quickly stabilize the situation. Pending approval from my government, I can deploy my forces south from Pec, Kosovo, into Albania. We’ve received a certain amount of relative goodwill from the Albanian government in the past — I think the United Nations and NATO can convince the Albanian government to allow German peacekeeping forces into the region. We can limit our movements, say, from the Bigorski Monastery southward to the Lake Ohrid area, restricted to north of the Elbasan-Thessaloniki Highway. Naturally, if the Albanian government allows us to do so, we can cover and patrol more extensively throughout Albania.” He stood up and pointed to a large map against a wall. “With permission, we can even perhaps cover both sides of the border.”

“German troops moving into both Albania and Macedonia?” Colonel Simorov retorted. “Pardon me, Oberst, but I would very much like to see a more balanced force in place. The Russian contingent is by far the largest force still remaining in the region, except for Germany and perhaps Britain. I will propose to my government that Russia move a portion of its peacekeeping forces south from Prizren to the Lake Ohrid area, perhaps headquartering in Bitola. That way we’re close enough to assist if there’s an outbreak of hostilities, but we’re not breathing down anyone’s neck either.” He nodded to Messier and added, “Next to the Germans perhaps, the Russians enjoy the worst reputation in this part of the world.”

“I think that honor is now reserved for the Americans,” the Italian commander said. Many of the commanders laughed — but the Italian colonel was serious.

“The English and French can maintain their positions in Kosovo,” the German commander summarized. “With assistance from the other nations involved, I believe Germany can maintain a sufficient presence in Albania to quell any violence, and certainly with the Russians across the border in Macedonia, we can calm the situation dramatically. We stay out of sight unless there’s fighting or unless we see signs of illegal activity, such as arms smuggling. It is a workable interim solution until the diplomats can find a more lasting mechanism for keeping the peace.”

There were no other nations willing or able to offer a better solution, so the resolution passed unanimously. At that, with a simple voice vote, the Balkans were carved up once again.

Government House, Skopje, Republic of Maccedonia

“Tell that rat bastard Kazakov to get the hell out of Skopje — his visa is to be revoked immediately!” Branco Nikolov, the prime minister of the Republic of Macedonia, shouted. “I am canceling my appointments with him now and to eternity!”

Nikolov hated gangsters like Kazakov, and the reason was simple: Macedonia was one of seven nations in the world legally authorized to cultivate, store, sell, and ship pharmaceutical opium. While it was a very lucrative enterprise, perfectly suited for a mostly agricultural country like Macedonia, the nation had to endure constant scrutiny and immense challenges to make sure the opium was not getting into the hands of illegal-drug makers. Macedonia expended quite a bit of its gross national product on internal and border security to combat the evil influences of men like Kazakov.

It didn’t make any difference that Kazakov wanted to talk about something else entirely — getting licenses and leases to build a huge pipeline across Macedonia from Bulgaria to Albania. It didn’t matter. Kazakov was scum.

Just then, the phone rang. Nikolov picked it up and listened. His assistant saw his shoulders droop and his jaw drop open. “Sir?”

Nikolov looked up at his assistant, surprise and disbelief etched across his face. His eyes again fell to the desk. “Get Kazakov … no, ask Comrade Kazakov to come in.”

“Sir?” the assistant gasped. “I thought you said …?”

“Just do it,” Nikolov said in a low, panicked voice. “That was the President. The United Nations Security Council is voting later this morning on a resolution to send Russian peacekeepers into Macedonia from Kosovo.”

“What? Russian troops in Macedonia? It cannot be!”

“They are on the move right now,” Nikolov said. “The resolution is expected to pass by the end of the day. Three thousand Russian troops from Prizren, another five thousand troops expected to fly into the capital by next week and move to Bitola to set up observation posts along the Albanian border. The Germans will be patrolling the Albanian side. The goddamned Germans—”

“But … but what about Kazakov? what does he have to do about this?”

“I don’t know, but I feel his fingers pulling some strings in all this,” Nikolov said ominously.

“How so, sir?”

“Don’t you see? The Russian troops from Prizren will be following a route exactly identical to the routing Kazakov’s proposed pipeline will take. Kazakov will practically have Russian troops guarding every centimeter of his proposed pipeline.”

“But that’s got to be a coincidence, sir,” the assistant said. “The duplicity falls apart at the Albanian border. Kazakov will never get approval from Albania to extend his pipeline project into Albania.”

Nikolov looked worried enough to chew a fingernail, something his assistant had never before seen him do. “But if he does do it, if he does get permission, there’s nothing we could do about it with Russian troops occupying half our country,” he said. “Better to make a deal with Kazakov now — the fewer enemies we have, the better.”

Near Resen, Republic of Macedonia

“C’mon, kids, let’s get going!” Chief Master Sergeant Ed Lewis, NCOIC of the 158th Fighter Wing, Vermont Air National Guard, shouted through the mess tent door. “It’s a beautiful day outside, we’re having a great time, and breakfast was exceptionally good today! Let’s move it!” The Chief greeted his troops like this every day at 0645. He was usually the first one in line when the chow hall opened up at 0600, but he had already led PT at 0530 and had conducted an informal first sergeant’s meeting at the breakfast table.

Inside the tent, his troops made a few raucous comments as they got up from the picnic bench-style tables, policed up their trays and areas, and headed outside. Lewis spoke a little Macedonian and greeted every Macedonian soldier in his own language, which he knew sounded funny as hell in his thick New England accent. The weather was miserable, the conditions were poor most times, the workdays were long and hard, the food was plentiful but bland, and they were six thousand miles from home — but Ed Lewis and his Green Mountain Boys loved every minute of it.

For the second year in a row, members of the Vermont Air National Guard were participating in a Partnership For Peace program called Cornerstone, where NATO and Macedonian military units worked side by side, shared equipment, learned about each other’s capabilities, trained together, and did some good work for the locals at the same time. For Cornerstone 2001-3, the encampment was in a rural area fifteen miles north of Resen in south-central Macedonia. Spring flooding had decimated a number of villages in the area, so construction units of the U.S. Navy Seabees and U.S. Marine Corps, led by units of the 158th Fighter Wing “Green Mountain Boys” of the Vermont Air National Guard, had been sent in to rebuild roads, schools, bridges, and other buildings, help the local utilities restore and restart service, and supply drinking water to the citizens.

This was the second time that Chief Master Sergeant Ed Lewis, first sergeant of the 158th Fighter Wing of the Vermont Air National Guard, had been in Macedonia during his training rotation. To tell the absolute truth, he enjoyed the hell out of it. Southern Macedonia was very much like his native Milton, Vermont — rural, rugged, isolated, lush, a little backward, wet, sometimes cold and gray, other times sunny and spectacularly beautiful. The people were friendly and very hospitable. Most everyone spoke English, at least much better than Lewis spoke Macedonian or Greek, which was a real benefit to Lewis and his contingent of one hundred Guardsmen and the other American service members here.

The troops were treated like neighbors here. If a soldier paused longer than normal on the street, a woman would come out of a nearby house and invite him inside to rest, or offer him or her coffee, cakes, or delicacies such as lamb’s head soup. They never gave directions to anyone — the locals would always escort a lost soldier to his destination, no matter how far out of their way it was. If an American did the simplest courtesy for a Macedonian, even as trivial as stepping aside to let him or her pass, or holding a door open, the next time you’d meet that civilian, he or she would offer to launder your uniform, take you for a drive around town to see the sights, or have you meet every one of his relatives. Although living in the field was tough on all of them, the locals did everything they could to make the foreigners seem welcome.

The latest and biggest project by Cornerstone 2001 was restoring a flooded school campus. The combined elementary, middle, and high school complex, which also served as a local medical clinic, day-care center, farmer’s market, veterinary clinic, and vocational-technical school, had been badly damaged when the nearby Czur River had spilled over its banks in the springtime rains and runoff, and nearby damage and contamination to wells and water-treatment facilities had left the area without any sanitary facilities or healthy water supplies. It was Lewis’s job to coordinate the activities of the Green Mountain Boys, along with a few soldiers from other NATO countries, Macedonian Army conscripts, and local paramilitaries and townspeople into an effective construction unit.

The first task was organizing this mishmash of foreigners, soldiers of different branches, and locals, but that’s where Lewis really shined. He had been organizing things all his life, starting with his baseball card collection, his Little League team, his senior class in high school as class president, and yard stock in the lumber yard where he had worked as the dayshift foreman for the past ten years. He used an effective combination of communication skills, cajoling, horse trading, force, and his keen powers of observation to identify leaders, followers, or slackers, and put them in the right place. After fifteen years in the Air Guard, including two months in Saudi Arabia during Desert Storm, he also knew a lot about taking a bunch of kids — the conscripts in the Macedonian Army were all between eighteen and twenty years old — matching them up with the veterans, and letting the old farts lead.

Once the job for today was outlined for the groups, they launched off on their own. The job was to pump out standing water from the campus, strip out water-damaged walls and floors, inspect the structure for signs of weakness or damage, repair or replace the foundations and structures, rehabilitate the grounds, and then get them ready to refurnish. About half of the campus was still under water, some of it as much as two feet high, so they had big trailer-mounted pumps ready to go. But before anyone stepped into even a quarter-inch of water, Lewis had the 158th Medical Services Squadron and the 158th Civil Engineering Squadron, Environmental Control, come in and test the soil and water for signs of contamination. This part of Macedonia was fairly pristine, and there were few villages upstream, but Macedonia did quite a bit of cattle farming in the highlands, and cattle waste and disease caused all sorts of problems, not to mention the real hazards if they found any dead cattle carcasses or corpses. So nobody touched anything unless it was signed off on by the medical and environmental guys.

Lewis’s troops were just fanning out to begin work when he heard choppers in the distance. It was not unusual at all — the international airport at Ohrid just a few miles to the west had a military facility where most of the United Nations troops were stationed; and being fairly close to the border and to the two-millennium-old historical sites of southern Macedonia, the area was very heavily patrolled — but Lewis stopped to search for them and watch them approach. Macedonia had a few American surplus UH-1 Hueys and a few old ex-Soviet Mil-17 transport helicopters, but these choppers sounded even bigger — and it sounded like a lot of them inbound.

There were. Popping up from a low-level high-speed inbound approach to the schoolyard was a formation of three Mil Mi-24V “Hind-E” helicopter gunships in a wide V formation. The big armored choppers zoomed in at treetop level, and as soon as they cleared the tree line, their noses lowered again, rapidly picking up speed. He could even see the big gun turret in the front under the nose sweeping back and forth, looking for targets, locking on and tracking any large vehicle or military-looking building — he swore the lead choppers gunner locked on to him and had him dead in his sights. Lewis had seen plenty of Russian helicopters throughout the Balkans in his years here, but all of them had been unarmed. These were armed to the teeth with rocket pods, anti-armor missiles, bombs, mines, even air-to-air missiles filling every attach point on their weapon pylons. That was a major violation of NATO and United Nations directives — but even more than that, they were scary as hell.

Lewis had never seen a Russian helicopter on an attack run before, but he imagined this was exactly what it looked like. He withdrew his walkie-talkie from its belt holster and keyed the mike button: “Cornerstone Alpha, this is Cornerstone One.” Alpha was the unit’s commanding officer, Colonel Andrew Toutin, the commander of the 158th Fighter Wing, currently located. at the Cornerstone operation headquarters in Skopje.

“Go ahead, Chief.”

“Sir, I’ve got an eyeball on three big Russian helicopter gunships ready to overfly the Resen school grounds, and they are armed. Repeat, they are armed to the teeth.”

“What?” Toutin shouted. “What in hell was that? Armed? Are you saying you clearly observe weapons on board these helicopters?”

“Affirmative, sir. Many weapons. Many weapons.”

He could imagine his boss swearing long and loud off-air — the boss, a salty old veteran fighter pilot with over twenty years’ active duty service and over ten years in the Vermont Air Guard, usually used expletives frequently and often creatively in everyday conversation. “I’ll call it in to NATO headquarters here, Chief,” Toutin said. “Contact the Macedonian security NCO and make sure they keep their weapons out of sight. If the choppers try to land, keep the civilians away from them.”

“Roger all, sir,” Lewis responded. “Break, break, Seven, this is One.”

“This is Seven,” the Macedonian noncommissioned officer in charge of the security forces for Cornerstone responded in broken but passable English. “I see the Russians too, Chief. I copy Alpha, we keep our weapons out of sight, and I will order the police chief to get the civilians indoors. I will initiate a security checkpoint report and verify orders. Stand by.”

The Russian gunships completed their low pass over the campus, then split up and disappeared over the horizon, flying so low they were hidden by trees almost immediately. The thunderous roar of the Hinds masked the sound of more helicopters coming in. These were Mil Mi-8T troop transport helicopters, huge twin-turboshaft monsters carrying fuel in external pylons instead of weapons. Lewis saw six of them dart in toward the school from three different directions, all from treetop level and at maximum forward speed. Spreading out across the campus, the helicopters suddenly pitched up to quickly slow their forward speed, then settled rapidly to the ground in three pairs spread out about three hundred yards apart. Seconds after the transports hit the ground, heavily armed Russian soldiers in dark green camouflage BDUs and with camouflaged faces and weapons spread out to guard the helicopters and took cover positions behind nearby buildings. As the transport helicopters departed, the Hind-E gunships cruised nearby, ready to pounce if any enemy activity popped up.

Pretty damned efficient, Lewis thought grimly. Everywhere he looked on the campus, there was a Russian infantryman. They were probably not outnumbered, but they were clearly outgunned.

One of the Russian soldiers set up a smoke-wind direction torch on the parking lot, and moments later a lone Mi-8 transport arrived. This one was a little different: it off-loaded only eight security troops, and it was festooned with antennae all over its fuselage. Along with the security forces, an officer with full battle gear stepped off the helicopter, flanked by a few aides, staff officers, and a civilian. Aha, Lewis guessed, the boss has just arrived.

Somehow, for some reason, Lewis had a bad feeling about this. He knew about the border skirmish between Albania and Macedonia, the declaration of war between them, and the decision by NATO to allow Russian peacekeepers into Macedonia, but he’d never expected this. The Russians were supposed to be arriving at Ohrid International Airport, about forty miles west, and setting up patrol lines north and south along the Albanian-Macedonian border. What were they doing here? And why the airborne assault — why not just drive in?

He knew the proper procedure would be to let Toutin handle this — but instead, Lewis holstered his walkie-talkie and headed out to where the Russian officer had just alighted. “Chief, where are you going?” one of his clerks asked.

“To talk.”

“But shouldn’t we go get the colonel?”

“It’ll take him an hour to get here.”

“What about the major?” The on-site commander of the Cornerstone detachment in Resen was the wing intel officer, Major Bruce Kramer. To put it mildly, Kramer hated Macedonia. As far as anyone knew, Kramer spent all his time in his tent, writing letters to his congressman asking to get him the hell out of the Balkans.

“Forget about him,” Lewis said. “I’m going out to talk with them. If the colonel calls, tell him the Russians have landed and it looks like they’re taking over the joint.” Lewis wished he had his Kevlar and his web gear. Although the Green Mountain Boys were indeed a combat unit and had seen plenty of action over the years, here in Macedonia they had no capability to fight anyone, especially Russians. At least he hoped to act the part of a field combat noncom, even if he couldn’t look like one.

The Russian security guards let him approach, keeping one eye on him and another on their field of fire. All weapons were at port arms or raised upward — none were aimed at NATO or Macedonian troops. Encouraging sign, at least. When he was about five paces from the commanding officer, a stem look and a half-turn to the left by one of the officer’s security guards, which would have allowed him just to lower his rifle to shoot, stopped Lewis cold. No question of his desires or intentions if he did not comply.

Lewis saluted, but did not wait for a return salute before lowering his. The Russian did not return the salute. He had to shout over the roar of the Mi-8, which was idling but had not shut down. “Who are you and what do you want?”

One of the aides shouted a translation into his commander’s ear, received the reply, then passed the word to the other soldiers nearby. “Captain Rokov is in charge,” the aide said. “He has ordered that all NATO and Macedonian forces stationed here are to be gathered here immediately.”

Lewis noted that the colonel never wanted to know who Lewis was or desire to see the commanding officer — obviously he didn’t care who he or anyone else was. “Why, sir?” Lewis asked.

“You will do as you are ordered, Sergeant,” the aide repeated.

“I have not been instructed to follow your orders, sir,” Lewis replied. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until I receive orders from my commanding officer.”

“Where is your commanding officer, Sergeant?”

“I am the commander of this detail,” replied Lewis. Not technically correct, but he was in charge at this moment. “I am in direct communication with KFOR and NATO commanders in Skopje. If I am instructed to do so, I will carry out your orders, but until then, I am respectfully asking you to withdraw your men from my AOR. We have our orders, and I intend to see they are carried out.”

“What are your orders, Sergeant?” the aide asked. “What is your currently assigned area of responsibility?”

“That’s ‘Chief Master Sergeant’ or ‘Chief’ to you, sir,” Lewis admonished him. “I am not at liberty to discuss my orders with you. My AOR extends throughout Bitola province, but you may ask NATO headquarters in Skopje for the exact boundaries. You may contact NATO headquarters in Skopje and inquire there. Now please move your troops off the school campus. They’re interfering with our work and scaring the locals. I suggest bringing your choppers back here and helocasting your troops to Ohrid International Airport. You’ll find much better accommodations there anyway.”

“Perhaps you will accept some help from our men?” the aide asked, after making the translation and listening to the colonel’s reply. “Tell us what you would like to do, and Captain Rokov will assign some of his men to assist, in the spirit of cooperation.”

“Tell the captain no thanks, but we have things well under control.”

At that moment, there was a shout behind him. Two Russian soldiers were dragging Major Kramer out of one of the school buildings. He had been badly beaten up, and a line of blood was coming out one of the soldier’s nostrils.

“Shto teebye?” The civilian that had exited the Mi-8 helicopter with Rokov stepped forward toward the captured officer.

“Hey! Leave him alone!” Lewis shouted. Two soldiers stepped in front of Lewis, rifles raised.

The civilian grabbed Kramer by the hair and lifted his face up, screaming something at him. The soldiers that were carrying Kramer shouted something to Rokov. The aide translating for the Russian commander said, “They say he was hiding in one of the condemned buildings with a radio, calling in an air strike against our position.”

“That’s bullshit!” Lewis shouted. “We are a construction unit, helping the Macedonians rebuild this school campus.”

The civilian continued to yell at Kramer, but the American looked like he was only half conscious. The civilian then pulled a pistol out of his coat and aimed it at Kramer.

“No!” Lewis shouted. He managed to knock over the soldiers blocking his path and started to run toward Kramer. Captain Rokov pulled his side arm from its holster, jacked a round into the chamber, and put two bullets into Chief Master Sergeant Lewis’s back from less than fifteen feet away. He was dead before he hit the ground. The civilian holding Kramer smiled, turned to the dazed American, and put two bullets into his head from point-blank range.

“Hold your fire! All units, hold your fire!” Rokov screamed. The civilian let go of Kramer, wiping blood and bits of brains off his coat and pants. The soldiers let him drop, unsure of what to do. “Order the troops to spread out, find the rest of the NATO and Macedonian soldiers. Capture them if possible, kill them if necessary,” Rokov ordered, holstering his pistol. “As soon as this site is secure, bring in the second and third waves of troops and start moving south toward the main highway. I want the highway in both directions secure before noon.” Aides hurried off to relay his orders.

The captain turned, stooped down, and looked at the man he had killed. It was his first kill. The last way he ever wanted to do it was to shoot a man in the back. Worse, the man was unarmed. He had shot an unarmed soldier in the back. He would never live that truth down.

Rokov tore a patch off Lewis’s BDU jacket and handed it to another of his officers, his intelligence officer. “What is it?”

“It’s … it is the One-fifty-eighth Fighter Wing, as expected, sir,” the aide said nervously, obviously frightened by the double murders. “An F-16A Air Defense Fighter unit based in the province of Vermont, northeastern United States, part of the American Air National Guard reserve forces. Responsible for continental air defense. Sometimes deploys to Iceland or Canada.”

Rokov had to struggle to drag his consciousness to the present. Two unarmed American soldiers were dead. What in hell had they done? But it was too late to fret over it. “An American air defense fighter unit deployed out here? Why?”

“I do not believe they are a real fighter unit, sir,” the intel officer said. “I believe they were sent out here as an advance unit, setting up air defense and surveillance operations in southern Macedonia.”

“But why down here in this river valley?” Rokov asked. “Why not in the highlands themselves, or a few kilometers farther east where they have a clear unobstructed view of the frontier? This is the worst place they could have picked if they were going to set up any kind of radar or line-of-sight communications system.”

“I still believe this is an intelligence-gathering unit, sir,” the Russian intel officer said resolutely, although the confusion and uncertainty was evident in his eyes. “They have set up this site as a listening post, disguised as some sort of humanitarian aid project.”

“Well, dammit, find the officers, find the equipment, and find the crypto gear, and do it quickly!” Rokov ordered, snatching the dead NCO’s patch away from the confused intel officer. “The main body of the Fifty-first Airborne Regiment will be moving through here tonight, and I don’t want any sort of recon groups or intelligence-gathering devices to be operating when they do. Now get going.” The aide hurried off, glad to be out of range of the captain’s rising anger.

Rokov stuffed the patch in his BDU jacket pocket. Gunfire started to erupt nearby, along with shouts in Russian to stop, more shooting, the sounds of terrified men and women screaming. More shooting, more screaming — this time, the sounds of screaming children, lots of them.

This just didn’t make sense, he thought. His observer had said the Americans had set up a special forces recon base here in the Czur Valley to monitor Russian troop activities, and his intel staff had confirmed the report. Then some reports had come in saying the group was not a special forces or recon team, but a civil aid project team called Cornerstone. The intel staff maintains they are a recon group, merely disguised as a civil aid project. Then he receives a report saying the Americans were part of an F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter unit, which raises all sorts of new suspicions.

Rokov turned to the civilian passenger beside him and asked, “Well, Comrade Kazakov? I see no signs of American special forces or recon teams here. This place has no helicopters, no communications outlets, and is located in the worst possible location.”

“Did you expect the Americans to be standing out here in the open waving in welcome as you flew in?” Pavel Kazakov asked derisively. He was taking some rough survey shots with a portable laser/GPS transit, measuring elevations and distances from the school to the river, making mental calculations on exactly where he was going to lay his pipeline. It was never a good idea to build a big pipeline too close to the main highway, but it still had to be accessible. This was a perfect spot for a pumping and metering station. The flooding concerned him, so he had to find where the mean water level had been, so he could update the flood charts and make calculations on the water table. “It sounds like your men are digging the real enemy troops out right now.”

“I see no evidence a battalion-size force ever has been here,” Rokov observed. “I see no evidence of armor, weapons concentrations, antiaircraft weaponry, fuel storage, or marshaling yards. Where is all this heavy military equipment you reported?”

“You have been on the ground five minutes, Rokov — did you expect all the answers to just pop out at you so quickly?”

Rokov looked at Kazakov suspiciously. “I find it interesting, Comrade,” he said warily, “that with all the resistance we were told to expect here, with all the danger requiring a heliborne assault by an entire airborne infantry company, that you decided to come along. It was a very large risk. It makes me wonder if there were any heavy forces here at all.”

“Were you hoping for a firefight, Captain? Anxious to win some more medals?”

“All I’m looking for are some straight answers—”

“I’m not here to answer questions for you, Captain,” Kazakov snapped. “I’ve been authorized to accompany you on this operation, and that’s all you need to know. It is your job to secure this location and then move south to secure the stretch of highway near Resen to prepare for the Fifty-first Airborne Regiment to move up from their positions near Bitola.”

Captain Rokov turned to Kazakov in some surprise. “And how did you know about the Fifty-first’s jumping-off point near Bitola?” he asked. “I learned about it in a top-secret briefing just before we mounted up for this assault.”

“More stupid questions,” Kazakov scoffed, ignoring the question. He anchored a measuring tape to a stake and started to walk. “I’ve got my work, Captain, and you have yours.”

“Wait one minute, Kazakov—”

“That’s Mr. Kazakov to you, Captain!” Pavel snapped. “I warn you — do not try me. Go about your business, now.”

“Or what, Mr. Kazakov?”

“You suddenly think you’re so tough, Captain Rokov?” Kazakov spat. “You’re the one who shot an unarmed American noncommissioned officer in the back. Your career is over.”

“That is a failure of discipline and a personal shame that I will live with for the rest of my life,” Rokov said. “But what of you? What is your interest in all of this?”

“None of your business.”

“Perhaps the rumors are true, Comrade — you are letting the army obtain and secure land for your oil pipeline through the Balkans,” Rokov said. “You make up a fantasy story about American spies and Macedonian saboteurs in order to get a recon company to land you on this site, then you busy yourself surveying it. What’s next? Will you order a Mi-28 to carry in your bulldozers and cranes?”

“What I would concern myself about, Captain,” Kazakov hissed in a low voice, stepping nose to nose with the Russian infantry officer, “is your fiancée and her four-year-old daughter in Rostov at her new job at the Zil plant. She just got moved to the graveyard shift so she can work while her daughter is in bed, I understand. It would be a shame to hear that she was hurt coming home after a long night at work.”

“How in hell could you possibly know …?” And then Rokov stopped short. Kazakov knew about his fiancée and her daughter the same way he knew about the Fifty-first doing an airborne assault tonight — he had either powerful connections or well-informed spies, and either way he could not hope to fight him.

“I see we now understand each other,” Kazakov said, nodding and putting on a sly, knowing grin. “You did a fine job this morning, Captain. The assault was swift, accurate, precise, and well-executed. My suggestion to you: report that these filthy American spies attacked you after your men discovered their spy network, and you had no choice but to defend yourselves. You may even take credit for killing both spies. I’m sure your men can devise a way to make it appear as if the shootings were in self-defense — maybe take these corpses out to the forest and put some bullet holes in their bodies that are going in and out in the proper direction. Let’s not have any more cross words between us. I will stay out of your way—”

“And you had better stay out of mine, Kazakov,” Rokov said.

“Zamyechateel’niy, “Kazakov said. “Very good. I see we understand each other perfectly.”

Rokov maintained eye contact with Kazakov for a long moment, but eventually stepped away to supervise the mopping-up operation. Minutes later, more troops started to arrive; already, the first few American soldiers were being herded into the parking lot, hands on top of their heads like captured prisoners of war.

Yes, the operation was indeed going quite well. Kazakov could easily envision the pumping and transfer station right here. The terrain climbed rather steeply just west of here on its way into the Lake Ohrid area, and a pumping station was necessary to get it up and over. Knock a few of these rotting flooded-out buildings down, use the rubble to raise and grade the elevation, and it would work out perfectly. What did these peasants need with a school here? Resen was only fifteen miles away — they had plenty of schools there they could attend.

With luck, he was back on schedule and marching forward nicely to completion. No use in letting a few Americans get in the way.

Coronado, California

His son’s eyes lit up like on Christmas morning as Patrick pulled the suit from its hanging bag. The overhead lights made the stars on the shoulders and the wings on the left breast pocket sparkle. “Woo-oo,” Brad said. “You got a nice suit there, Daddy.”

“Thanks, big guy,” Patrick said.

He pointed at the command navigator wings, a pair of Air Force silver eagle’s wings with the rampart crest in the center shield and a wreathed star on top. “You going fly-ning?” Bradley asked.

“They’re going to fly me to Washington.”

“You going to meetings? You going to give a bree-fling?” Bradley didn’t wait for the answer, having decided that when Daddy brought the blue suit instead of the green, that it was going to be meetings and briefings. He grabbed one of Patrick’s Corfrarn shoes and pretended it was an airplane, zooming it up and down the uniform and across the Rollaboard suitcase Patrick was packing. “Time to give a bree-fling again!”

“What are you going to do while I’m in Washington?” Patrick asked. “What are your standing orders while I’m gone?”

“Take care of Mommy, do as Mommy says, be a good boy, and … and …”

“One more. And think—”

“And think about Daddy!” Bradley said triumphantly. “Very good, big guy,” Patrick said. “High five.” Patrick held up a hand, and Bradley slapped it.

The little boy dropped the shoe he had been playing with onto his father’s left foot and wrapped his arms around Patrick’s leg. “I love you, Daddy,” he said, except it sounded more like, “I wuv you, Daddy.”

Patrick picked up his son and hugged him tightly — he knew exactly what he had said. “And Daddy loves you, son,” he replied.

“You do good in Wash-ton,” Bradley said, punctuating his suggestion with an upraised index finger.

Patrick tried to sound upbeat. He smiled and said, “I’ll do good, big guy.”

Bradley wriggled out of his dad’s arms, picked up the shoe, then rubbed his eye with his free hand and gave the shoe to Patrick. “I’m really tired,” he said, leading the way to his bedroom. “Maybe it’s time for bed.”

“Good idea, tiger.” Patrick followed his son into his bedroom and watched as his son lowered his pull-up diapers so he could check to see if they were wet, climbed up on the stool next to the sink for a drink of water, then carried his stool over to the bed so he could climb in. Patrick tried to put him under the covers without his tattered old blanket, but his son automatically curled up atop the covers with his blanket underneath him and his butt in the air.

He pushed away from the bed long enough to give his father a kiss good-night, then plopped back down. “You do good tomorrow, Daddy,” Bradley said. “And turn out the light, please.”

“Good night, big guy.” Bradley peeked at his father over the safety rail to his bed, then smiled and giggled as his father turned back and gave his son a thumbs-up just before he shut off the lights.

Do good tomorrow, Daddy, he said. Yeah, right, Patrick thought.

Patrick joined Wendy in the living room of their high-rise condo overlooking the city of San Diego. Wendy Tork McLanahan had dimmed the lights so that the only illumination in the room was from the city lights filtering through a thin marine layer that had crept over San Diego Bay. She had poured two glasses of Silver Oak Cabernet Sauvignon and had loosened her wavy brunette hair and let it cascade over one of his Sacramento Kings basketball team jerseys — Patrick noticed with a grin that the jersey and a smile was all she wore. He went to her, handed her a glass, and sat beside her. Their glasses touched, and then their lips.

“Bradley blows me away with how much he seems to know and realize,” Patrick said. “I think he’s psychic sometimes.”

“He’s our son — what did you expect?” Wendy said with a warm smile. She had been a civilian electronic warfare engineer when she’d met Patrick McLanahan at Dreamland, and since that day their lives had been tightly intertwined — with each other, and with the top-secret research facility in the Nevada desert. If predicted that Bradley would someday be the next Edison or Bill Gates, most folks who knew Bradley’s parents would not disagree. “The little monster actually sent an e-mail to your mother the other day.”

“He what?”

“He sent an e-mail,” Wendy said. “No kidding. I know he’s watched me send messages and reports to Jon on the computer a thousand times, but I thought he was only waiting until he could play ‘Freddie Fish’ or ‘Pajama Sam’ or some other game. He absorbed all he needed to know and sent your mother a page of gibberish — with a ‘Classified’ cover page on it.”

“That’s my boy,” Patrick said proudly. He took a sip, of wine and tried to relax.

“Did you talk with Dr. Canfield today?” she asked.

“Yes — twice,” Patrick said. Colonel Bruce Canfield was the Director of Aviation Neuropsychology at Brooks Air Force Base near San Antonio, Texas, the center in charge of evaluating David Luger following his incident at Dreamland. “David is still undergoing tests, but he thinks it’s a case of something called delayed adjustment disorder. David’s memory of past incidents while in the Soviet Union — probably first activated by the Ukrainian crews we’ve been working with, then cued up again by Samson telling him he might be unbalanced and needing psychological help-activated a stress defense mechanism in his mind. He was able to shut off all external sensory inputs to free him from physical, emotional, and psychological damage.”

“My God, it sounds horrible. Does he think he’ll be all right?”

“Too early to say,” Patrick said. “Adjustment disorder is usually treated by medication at first, which disqualifies Dave from flying and laboratory work. But he also said that adjustment disorders are one of the few conditions that don’t automatically keep a person from resuming his duties once the treatment has concluded, and that includes flying. It’s a relatively common condition, especially among the military, and Canfield says counseling and treatment are usually very successful. Patients have an excellent chance of recovery.”

“That’s good news.” Wendy kept silent for a few long moments, then leaned back against him and wrapped his arm around her body. “I did some checking — there’s room on that flight for me and Brad,” Wendy said.

“I just put him to bed, sweetheart.”

“Bradley would be overjoyed to fly along with you no matter what time it was,” Wendy reminded him. “The Sky Masters apartment in Crystal City is available, too. I’m ready to go. What do you say?”

“Sweetheart, this thing could either be over in a day, or it’ll have just begun, in which case I’ll be right back home,” Patrick said. “There’s no use dragging you away from work and Brad away from preschool to spend two entire days on a plane. Let me meet with the Area Defense Counsel, do the preliminaries, and find out where I stand.”

“Jon called again and offered his entire legal staff to help you,” Wendy added. “I’m sure the chief Area Defense Counsel of the Air Force is good, but Jon can have a dozen of the best litigators and legal researchers at your side with one phone call. Why not at least talk to them?”

Patrick shook his head. “You know I’m not allowed to talk with contractors about Air Force matters outside of their contracts, or accept any gifts or favors,” he said. “Staying in the Sky Masters condo, even if you accompanied me there, would look pretty suspicious. Our relationship with Jon and Sky Masters is too cozy already, without him sending in his legal sharks to help me work over the Air Force.”

“That is not what would happen, and that’s not what Jon’s offering.”

“I know, I know. But still … I don’t know, Wendy. Something’s happening here. Things are changing.”

“What do you mean, Patrick?”

He searched his feelings for several long moments, then took another sip of wine and shrugged. “Wendy, I did what I always do — I’m faced with a problem, a crisis, and I did something about it the best way I knew how with the resources I had. Ten years ago, that was okay. Today, I’m being court-martialed for it. Things have changed. I have a feeling that either I need to change with it, or I’ll … cease to exist.” He put on his faraway look, his “thousand-yard stare,” as if silently querying the faces of his dead friends for help in finding answers. “I’m not sure if I want to fight the court-martial and retire, or fight it and win, or fight it and go to prison.”

Wendy looked truly surprised. “Why in hell not?”

“Because it feels to me like there’s an alternative life out there, a path opening up for me, and I’ll miss it if I do what everyone expects and fight it. If I allow whatever happens to happen, I think I’ll be happier.”

“This doesn’t sound like the Patrick McLanahan I know.”

“It doesn’t sound like him to me either,” Patrick said honestly. “I know I have friends, and I think I have friends I don’t know, enough to take on even the Pentagon. But if I can’t see the path I’m meant to take, I don’t think starting a brushfire will help me find it.” He held Wendy tighter. “I know I’m supposed to be talking to you about what I’ll say once I get to Washington, that we should discuss and decide this as a family. I also know that I’m supposed to have a plan, an idea of what I want out of my own career and my own life. But truthfully, I have no idea what I’ll do. All I’m sure about is that I don’t want to march into the Pentagon with a bunch of civilian lawyers and try to engage the brass in combat. I’m not afraid of losing — I’m afraid of creating so much smoke and confusion that I won’t see the path I want.” Wendy’s body appeared tense, and the fingers stroking his thighs seemed stiff and aimless. “What is it, sweetie?”

“I have a feeling you’re … tired, that’s all,” Wendy said. “You’re tired of the bureaucracy, tired of the fighting, tired of jeopardizing your life over and over again in secret. I wish you could rest, but I know you’re not ready to rest. All I see is the good you’ve done and the contribution to national security you could make, a contribution that doesn’t include having your friends turn on you.” She turned to face him. “Terrill offered you a chance to retire, an honorable discharge with your current rank and time in service, and have your record expunged. I know he gave you a deadline, but I think with your record of achievements and service to the country, that the offer will stand a while longer. I think you should take it.”

“And come to work for you, Jon, and Helen?”

“You’d be a vice president of a major high-tech firm again, getting paid twice what you earn as a one-star general, with better benefits, and with stock options that would double in value every two years,” Wendy said. “Jon tells me six times a day he wants you back — he’s got an office, a car, a plane, your e-mail mailbox, and a locker in the gym ready for you. He’s even given you a staff and projects to get started on, in anticipation. Yes, I’d say he wants you back in the worst way.” Wendy lowered her eyes, as if considering her words carefully, then looked at her husband again. “I know you’re not a prideful man, Patrick, but I can’t help feeling that part of this has to do with you feeling you were right to turn around and fly back to Russia to protect Annie and Dev, that you shouldn’t be getting punished for doing what you did. I think you’re fighting this to protect your principles.”

“Do you think I was wrong?”

“Don’t you see, Patrick?” Wendy asked, almost pleading. “It doesn’t matter. You did it and saved your friends. That’s all that matters. You tell me a dozen times a year that Congress or the Air Force could close down Dreamland at any time and give all of you involuntary retirements. You tell me one slip-up, one crash, one more security breach, and you’d all be gone. Half of our salary goes into mutual funds and money market accounts every month because you anticipate everything ending suddenly. When Thomas Thorn got into the White House, you thought your dismissal was imminent.”

“So?”

“So all that time, you were emotionally and mentally prepared for a sudden, perhaps unhappy end. Now, all of a sudden, you’re not ready. You’re fighting it. Why? It’s not your family — you’ve prepared us well for the day you’d leave the service, or the day you would never come home from a mission. Now, you’re not ready. What changed?” Patrick took another sip of wine, then angrily drained the glass and got to his feet. Wendy saw the stem look in his face, and knew she had hit on the source of his anger. “Terrill Samson, right? You feel betrayed by him. He was a student of Brad Elliott, just like you, and he’s in charge of HAWC, and you thought you’d be more ideologically in sync. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Maybe a little,” Patrick said. “I knew from the beginning Terrill didn’t have the fire in his gut that Brad did — hell, who does?”

“You do.”

“But they didn’t make me commander of HAWC — they made him commander,” Patrick said bitterly. “But that’s not who betrayed me.”

“Who is it, then?”

“Thorn — Thomas Nathaniel Thorn, the damned President of the United States,” Patrick replied angrily. “TNT, the Young Turk, the New Age president, the assassin from Desert Storm turned peacenik isolationist. He doesn’t bother to show himself to the American people. Doesn’t show up for his inauguration, doesn’t show for the State of the Union speech. All this crap about doing away with the Army, with not having any troops stationed overseas, with not guaranteeing the security of any foreign nation — it’s driving me crazy. I feel like my country’s going down the toilet and I can’t do a thing about it. Thorn is the one who encourages commanders like Terrill Samson to turn their backs on their friends and get rid of their warriors, just like he’s turning his back on our allies and kicking our soldiers out onto the street.”

“So you think you’re going to Washington to fight the President of the United States?” Wendy asked incredulously. “Patrick, you have got to think a little clearer right now. You can’t go to Washington with a chip on your shoulder. There are too many folks there, wearing too many stars, ready — some eager — to knock that chip off for you, long before you ever reach Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania Avenue. Even Brad Elliott never had the nerve to take on the White House.”

She stood with him, took his hands, and looked deeply into his eyes. “I’m being selfish now, Patrick, but I think I’ve earned the right to say this: think about your family before you say one word there tomorrow. Whatever the reasons you feel right now, I’m telling you, forget your feelings and your anger and think about your son and me. If you lose, you’ll go to prison. Your son will visit you in Leavenworth, along with all the other wrecked military lives, and he’ll see you like he’ll see them. How will you explain that what you were fighting for was right? How long will it take even our intelligent son to understand? You may be justified and you may even truly be right, but you’ll be in prison as surely as if you were wrong. Julius Caesar is a fine heroic play, but it’s still a tragedy, because the hero is destroyed at the end.”

Patrick could not look at her, but he didn’t have to. She embraced him tightly, warmly, then kissed his lips. “You’d better get going,” she said simply, and turned and left for the bedroom.

Nellis AFB, near Las Vegas, Nevada

“Shto bi khaoteeteye? What in hell do you want?” David Luger exclaimed over the phone. “I can’t believe you called me here. Are you trying to make me jump in front of a train or something?”

“Calm yourself, Colonel,” Colonel-General Roman Smoliy, chief of the Ukrainian Air Force, said from his Distinguished Visitors suite at Nellis Air Force Base. “This is important and has nothing to do with you.” He was calling on a secure line set up in his room — if it was tapped by the Americans, it was tapped, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“So what is it?” Luger asked. He plopped down on his bed, almost unable to move but not daring to miss a word either. Luger was in a visiting officers’ room at Brooks Air Force Base near San Antonio, Texas, undergoing a three-day series of tests by the Aeromedical Consultation Services, as a prelude to a full workup by the Aviation Neuropsychiatry Department of the Air Force Hospital, to discover exactly what had caused his sudden paralysis episode. “Shto eta znachyeet?”

“Stop talking Russian to me, damn you, Colonel,” Smoliy snapped. “You are no longer a Soviet prisoner, and I am no longer working for a Soviet research laboratory. I am Ukrainian, and you are American.”

Luger took a deep breath, silently chastising himself for his strange and unexplainable confusion in time and space. “What do you want?”

“I need information,” Smoliy said. “The Turks are hurrying out of here as fast as they can pack up, but I cannot find out a thing. General McLanahan is gone, home I think, and General Samson is not saying a word. This whole place is going upside-down. You are the only high-ranking person I could find.”

“I’m not exactly in the loop right now either, General,” Luger admitted.

“Where are you? Why are you not here?”

Luger was about to tell Smoliy to stuff his questions and his fake concern up his ass, but he was too busy thinking about the situation he had left at Dreamland: Samson on the warpath, Patrick and Rebecca probably on their way to be court-martialed — things were going to hell in a handbasket.

To his own surprise, Luger began running it all down to the Ukrainian general: the spy in Russia, the stealth warplane shed uncovered, the rescue missions, the charges leveled against them, the court-martial, and Luger’s psychoparalytic reaction. “It’s this stealth fighter, General, I know it,” Luger concluded. “Someone is directing these attacks against Albania and Macedonia. The NATO AWACS plane just got in the way. The question is, why?”

To Luger’s double shock, the first thing Smoliy asked was “And how are you doing, Colonel?”

Luger was thunderstruck. Out of all the questions a Ukrainian general could have asked about possible Russian stealth air strikes in Europe, Smoliy asked about him. “I … I’m doing okay,” Luger heard himself say.

“What do the doctors say? What are they doing?”

“Just a bunch of tests,” Luger replied. “It’s a standard battery, and a physical exam to start the medical exploratory process. All the usual stuff, along with a shitload of psychiatric tests.”

“Ah. Psychiatric tests. When I saw you the other night, I thought I noticed a sort of dissociation. I never truly believed you might be suffering from a psychotic condition. Could it be related to what happened at Fisikous and then seeing me again?”

“Possibly.” A strange sensation began to creep into Luger’s brain, starting in a spot in the back of his head. What Smoliy said made more sense than anything else he had heard in years of therapy or hours of tests and questioning here at Brooks. But it made sense-because no one at Brooks knew, or ever would know, of the Fisikous episode, because that might reveal details about the Kavaznya mission, which in turn would reveal details about Dreamland. Smoliy did not know a lot about Dreamland, but he knew everything about Fisikous, and he could certainly make the connection now. The key to whatever was going on inside Luger’s head would be locked away forever. The government would rather have him locked away in a loony bin for the rest of his life than reveal anything about Dreamland.

“Could it be,” Smoliy’s voice caught, cracked, then went on, “that it was what I did to you that has caused this to happen?”

Luger instantly felt sorrow for him — and it was a strange feeling, because it seemed like an eternity since David Luger had felt anything for anyone else. In fact, not since being rescued from Fisikous had David Luger been able to connect on an emotional level with another human being. He had tried to do so with Annie Dewey — but then he had to remind himself that it was Annie who had been trying to connect with him. He had never really contributed much to the relationship.

Annie.

It was as if a thick fog had just lifted from inside his brain. All this time, Annie had been trying to get closer to him — holding his hand, inviting him to meals, spending time with him while he worked on the flight line or in the labs. It was as if he was watching himself on television. He had been ignoring her all this time. Had he ever tried to return her kindness, her warmth? Did he even know how to do it? All this time, he’d been pushing her away with his emotionless attitude. Now Deverill wanted her, and David was watching her depart his life. Why? Did he think that’s what he deserved? Did he want to be alone because he thought he only deserved to be alone, that being alone was the only way he could hide the pain and humiliation of being tortured at Fisikous?

Funny — it finally took one of his chief tormentors talking about his internal pain to show him the source of his own loneliness. Someone else was experiencing the same detachment.

“I … I don’t … no, I don’t think so,” David said. When moments before he had hated this man, wanted to kill him with his bare hands — now he found himself not only feeling sorry for him, but actually apologizing to him! “That was too long ago, General. I’ve been through a lot of stuff since then. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I could not bear to think I have hurt another human being on that level,” Smoliy said. “I am trained to kill the enemy with speed and efficiency, but I would never have thought I could ever mentally hurt someone, cause them mental pain. It is too horrible to comprehend, like trying to think what it was like for a prison guard to exterminate a Jewish prisoner during the Holocaust.”

“Forget it, General … Roman,” Luger said. “I’m the wacko in this group, remember.”

He heard the Ukrainian chuckle, then he had to move the receiver away from his ear to avoid the general’s big, booming laugh. “You Americans, you surprise me,” he said. “You are in a mental hospital, and you make jokes.”

“General, you’ve got to find out what happened out there, find out why the Turks are leaving,” Luger said.

“Things are exploding in the Balkans….”

“I heard that,” Luger said. “Albania declared war on Macedonia. Some kind of border skirmish set them off.”

“But there’s more than that. Russian and German peacekeepers are swarming into Kosovo, Macedonia, and Albania. KFOR has all but disbanded. The British and French are still in Kosovo, but the other major powers are sweeping south. NATO seems to be handing the fate of the Balkans over to Russia and Germany.”

“All this sounds too staged,” Luger said. “Just like that attack on Kukes. A small hot spot that quickly spreads into a major wildfire, and the Russians and the Germans ready and eager on such short notice to push right in.”

“You think there is a puppetmaster at work here? A Russian puppetmaster, to be exact?”

“A Russian puppetmaster with a stealth fighter-bomber,” Luger said. “I’ll lay odds that the Russian stealth fighter has struck again. The Russian—” Luger froze, his words jamming in his throat until all he could exclaim was “Oh, my God …”

“What is it, David?”

“Roman, the spy that was rescued in Russia was working at a facility at Zhukovsky Air Base run by the Metyor Aerospace firm.”

“So you said.”

“Don’t you get it, Roman? Don’t you remember what Metyor used to be?”

“I do not know this. Who—?” Then he stopped, and Luger heard a sharp intake of air even over the scrambled line. “Good God … you mean, Fisikous? Mayor is Fisikous? Are you telling me …?”

“The stealth fighter that launched from Zhukovsky, the one suspected of attacking Kukes — it’s the Fisikous-179,” Luger shouted. “It has to be! There’s no other stealth fighter-bomber that can fly those missions in all of Europe!”

“But the stealth aircraft were destroyed in that attack on Fisikous.”

“They weren’t destroyed, Roman. I took the Fi-170 Tuman! Me and General McLanahan.”

“Neprada!”

“It’s true. He was leading a rescue mission, him and Colonel Briggs, when the CIA discovered I was at Fisikous. But Russia was on its way to destroying Lithuania and rebuilding the Soviet Union, and we had to act. We took the Fisikous-170 and flew it out of there. We flew it to Scotland and dismantled it. But the United States never set out to destroy the facility — they were looking for me. The facility itself was almost untouched.”

“Incredible … unbelievable!” Smoliy breathed. “So it must be the second model, the Fisikous-179.”

“We took the curled-wing flying prototype model, so it must be the forward-swept-wing model,” Luger said. “We started working on an aircraft that had just as great an air-to-air capability as it did an air-to-ground bombing capability. We hadn’t even rolled it out yet — it was still years from its first flight.”

“Maybe whoever bought Fisikous finished the Fi-179 and is now flying it,” Smoliy surmised.

“Fursenko,” Luger said. “Pyotr Fursenko. He was the director of the facility. I think the spy had him on tape, along with Pavel Kazakov.”

“Kazakov? The drug dealer? That scum runs Fisikous?”

“He runs Metyor Aerospace,” Luger said. “And he runs several other companies, too.”

“Tak. He runs construction companies, shipping, banking, petroleum, exporting, mining—”

“Petroleum? I remember something about him building a pipeline from the Caspian Sea to the Black Sea.”

“Yes. That was completed a year or so ago. He pumps almost a million barrels a day from the Caspian and ships it through Azerbaijan and Georgia. Ukraine buys much of it. He—” And then Smoliy stopped and gasped again. “And I heard he wanted to build another pipeline, a huge one, from the Black Sea to Western Europe, to bypass the bottlenecks in the Bosporus Straits and Turkey’s high transit tariffs.”

“Western Europe from the Black Sea,” Luger mused. “That means through Bulgaria—”

“And Macedonia and Albania,” Smoliy said incredulously. “It can’t be,” Luger said. “It can’t be that simple.”

“The word was that Kazakov did not build the pipeline because of the war in Kosovo, the unstable relations between Albania and the West, and the West’s increasing intervention in Macedonia — perhaps even Macedonia to join NATO,” Smoliy said. “But with Thorn wishing to disengage from NATO, and Russia wanting to secure its position in the Balkans, the opportunity presents itself to get the pipeline built….”

“With the help of the Russian army,” Luger said. “Russian ‘peacekeepers’ swarm into the Balkans and secure the region, and Kazakov is free to build the pipeline. And if any governments balk, they find a city or maybe even their national capital under attack.”

“Under attack by a stealth aircraft — unseen, silent, and untraceable,” Smoliy said. “Russia can claim complete ignorance of the attacks, and Western spy satellites have no idea where to look for the stealth aircraft or have any idea where it will strike again.”

“It must have struck in Turkey,” Luger said. “That’s why the Turks are packing up and going home — their country is under attack.”

“There was nothing in the news about an attack on Turkey,” Smoliy said. “But I cannot find out anymore.”

“I think I can,” Luger said. “It might be a problem getting out of here, but I’ll try.”

“Are you a prisoner there?”

“No,” Luger said, “but I’m not free to go, either.”

“Says who, David?” Smoliy asked. “The same people who want to court-martial you? They send you to a hospital because you might be going insane? If you are, they will confine you for the rest of your life, but if you are not, they will court-martial you? What loyalty do you have for these men?”

“Good point,” David said. “But I’ll need to get plugged back into the information network at Dreamland.”

“And I know just the person to set that up for you,” Smoliy said. “Be patient. We will be in touch shortly.”

Dozens of trucks rolled up onto Nellis Air Force Base’s main parking ramp, and crews from many nations were helping load pallets of supplies into two Turkish C-135 military cargo planes. At the same time, crews were busily preflighting the Turkish F-16 fighters, preparing them for immediate takeoff. Crews were also loading weapons aboard the F-16s — all of the Turkish fighters that were fully capable of carrying air-to-air weapons were armed with AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles plus ammunition for the internal guns. The cargo planes were going to have fighter escorts all the way home. All the men and women worked quickly, purposefully, some even feverishly …

… as if they were preparing for war.

Inside, the mass departure briefing had just concluded, and the crews were splitting up into individual flights. The Turks worked swiftly, speaking only Turkish, not willing even to attempt to slow their pace long enough to translate their thoughts into English. American crews simply helped out where they could and stayed out of the way. This time, it was not their fight. Their commander-in-chief said so. Their allies, their fellow air warriors, were going home to prepare to fight the unseen, invisible enemy on their own.

Colonel-General Roman Smoliy, commander of the Ukrainian Air Force, stepped to the door of one of the briefing rooms as the flight briefing finished. Major-General Erdal Sivarek, chief of staff of the Turkish Air Force, was packing up his papers, preparing to depart. “I need to speak with you, sir,” Smoliy said in English.

Sivarek looked at the big Ukrainian. “I am sorry, Colonel-General, but I do not have time.”

“I received a briefing about the incident over the Black Sea,” Smoliy said. “I have information you must hear and I have a proposal—”

“What incident over the Black Sea?” Sivarek asked. “I know of no such incident. I must go.”

“General, I know you lost an F-16 fighter earlier today while it was on a training exercise over the Black Sea,” Smoliy said. “I know your pilots and your ground radar controllers never saw whatever downed your plane. But because you have some of your country’s best fighter pilots here, your government has ordered all of your forces returned to Turkey immediately and to make preparations for war, although you do not know against whom yet — Kurds, Russians, Greeks, Iranians, Iraqis, Syrians, Martians.”

Sivarek’s eyes were wide with disbelief — he knew there was no use in denying it any longer. “How do you know all this, General?”

“Because I briefed him, sir,” Major Nancy Cheshire said. She stepped into the briefing room and closed the door behind her. “I intercepted the satellite feeds and radar data, and combined them with CIA listening post intercepts to piece the incident together. I don’t know why you chose not to brief NATO on what happened—”

“NATO? Why bother with NATO?” Sivarek snorted, scowling at the lady test pilot. “NATO has all but ignored Turkey ever since we were inducted into the organization. We were allowed to be the only non-Christian members of your exclusive European club only because you did not want us falling into the Russian sphere of influence, perhaps even turning communist ourselves. My government appears to have had enough of your weak leadership in NATO, first with your aimless and politically motivated interventions in the Balkans, and now by your insistence in not getting directly involved in affairs that concern your European allies. Turkey will take care of itself, with no help from America.”

“General, I’m not going to say our relations with Turkey have been exemplary,” Cheshire said. “I’m not going to apologize or offer any explanations. But I’m telling you now — we think we know who attacked your F-16 tonight, and we think we have a way to help defend against future attacks.”

“Who was it?”

“We believe it was a stealth fighter-bomber,” Smoliy said. “A Soviet fighter-bomber, built years ago but only recently activated. It is a combination fighter and bomber, with an equally effective air-to-air as well as air-to-ground attack capability. Its stealth technology is second-generation at best, but it is extremely effective against standard air defense systems — including those deployed in my country, and yours.”

“How could you know so much?”

“Because I helped build it,” Smoliy said. “Years ago, in a Soviet research and development facility in Lithuania.” And he quickly, breathlessly explained everything. Sivarek’s eyes were soon wide in complete and utter shock. “We believe this aircraft is responsible for the attacks against Albania, the downing of the NATO AWACS aircraft, and your F-16. We can help you find him.”

“But how? If it is a stealth aircraft, how can such a plane be found, unless you simply stumble over it?”

“Because we know everything involved in its design, construction, testing, and capabilities,” Cheshire replied.

“The general was just a test pilot — he said himself he did not even fly it. How could he possibly know all these things?”

“Because we also have the aircraft’s chief design engineer, sir,” Cheshire replied. “Colonel Luger.”

“Luger? Luger is really a Russian aerospace engineer? I always thought the man was odd.”

“Luger’s an American who was … involuntarily a guest of the Soviet Union,” Cheshire explained. “He was forced to apply his knowledge and expertise into building Soviet warplanes, including the one we believe is flying right now.”

“This … this is extraordinary,” Sivarek breathed. “All this, just so a money-hungry gangster can build a pipeline through the Balkans?”

“What would you do for a hundred million dollars a day, sir?” Cheshire asked. “That’s how much Kazakov can earn if he builds his pipeline. But more important, Russia occupies the Balkans again.”

“And if this plan works, what will stop Russia from moving against other countries so they can build more pipelines and occupy more territory?” Smoliy asked. “You know as well as I that there are two nations in the region that will certainly be prime targets for both this stealth warplane and the Russian army….”

“Turkey and Ukraine,” Sivarek responded. “Neutralize both nations, and the Black Sea belongs to Russia, just as it did in the Soviet era.” Sivarek grew silent, his mind racing. “You are thinking of your homeland, General, no?” Smoliy asked. “You are thinking, who stands with Turkey? Believe me, sir, I have thought of little else regarding my homeland as well. No one stands with Ukraine at all. We are already dependent on the Russian Federation for so much of our raw materials, trade, foreign debt, and political influence. But if we opposed Russian interference in the region, to whom can we turn? We have already been battered to near obliteration by Russian bombs, and we are not yet full members of NATO.”

“Why is your president doing this to us?” Sivarek snapped at Cheshire again, running his fingers through his hair in confusion and frustration. “Why has America become so weak? Do you enjoy your prosperity so much that you are willing to see madmen destroy the rest of the world so you will have no more competition?”

“You know that’s not the situation, sir,” Cheshire explained. “I believe our president wants to show the world how strong our country is, not by stationing tens of thousands of troops on foreign soil like the world’s only supreme superpower, but by letting our friends, allies, and adversaries have their own identity, free of American influence and interference.”

Sivarek snorted. “Pretty words … to describe isolationism. Or cowardice.”

“I would call President Thorn a lot of things, but not a coward,” Cheshire said. “He’s the first American president in the last hundred years not to rely on American military power to back up our foreign policy interests. Think about it, General — you’re arguing that America is withdrawing back inside its own borders, while at the same time you’re fearful that another country will march across yours. Do you want foreigners on Turkish soil or not?”

“You understand so little about life in my country, Major,” Sivarek said. “Turkey is surrounded by enemies. We chose to look to the West for the strength to survive. Now we feel the West has turned its back on us. It appears Germany has joined Russia in spreading its influence through Europe — who will join with the Republic of Turkey?”

“Ukraine will, General,” Smoliy said. “I think you are wrong about Thorn. If he wants to bring his troops home, so be it — I would not want Ukrainian troops stationed in any foreign country for any reason. But if you want an ally to stand squarely against the Russian Federation in the Black Sea region, Ukraine will stand with you.”

Sivarek looked at Smoliy with a shocked expression. “An alliance… between Turkey and Ukraine?” he asked. “Is it possible? Can we stand against the might of the Russian army?”

“I have served in the Soviet army and I have seen the Russian army at work, and they are not as imposing as they seem,” Smoliy said confidently. “Do not pay attention to all their propaganda. Besides, we do not think of it as having to take on the entire Russian army — we just need to exert our own influence in the Black Sea region. This gangster Kazakov wants to ship oil across the Black Sea to fill his trans-Balkan pipeline — he will have to do it with our blessing. Any problems from Russia or from this stealth warplane, and those Metyor oil terminals in Bulgaria and Georgia are smoking holes in the ground!”

“What will keep Russia from decimating both our countries if we dare oppose them?”

“Let Russia worry about what they will do first,” Smoliy said. “They are acting very bold and think they are clever because they think no union of nations will oppose them. The only way we can hope to survive a confrontation is to stay together. One nation, even one as large as Ukraine or Turkey, can be swept aside with ease by Russia. But two such nations — that is an entirely different situation.”

Sivarek nodded, looking at Smoliy with a growing realization in his eyes. He suddenly did not feel quite as alone as he had just moments before. He turned to Cheshire and asked, “And what of you, Major? What of the United States?”

“I’m not ready to completely count America out yet, sir,” Nancy replied. “President Thorn is a man of deep personal beliefs and convictions, he’s intelligent, and he has the power of law on his side — he doesn’t play politics. But he’s a young president, too, and perhaps he can be convinced that not all foreign alliances are bad for the United States. Plus, he’s a military man. He understands military threats and military geopolitics.”

“Your confidence and loyalty to your hippie president does not inspire me in the least bit, young pilot,” Sivarek said, with a dark smile. “But he has left my country with very few alternatives.” He turned to Smoliy, straightened his shoulders, crisply bowed his head once, then extended a hand to the big Ukrainian general. “I will be pleased to convey your thoughts and wishes to my government, General. I pledge to you that I will do everything in my power to see to it that both our countries act in complete friendship and mutual security interests. It would be my pleasure and honor to see an alliance between our countries become a reality.”

Smoliy took the Turkish general’s hand in his, then gave him a big bear hug and kissed him on both cheeks. “Z velikim zadovolennyam! This gives me much hope and pleasure, sir! And if we are both wiped off the face of the earth, it is good to know we will bum together!” He turned to Nancy Cheshire. “I will notify the base commander that my forces will be departing soon. But I have a few requests of General Samson before we leave.”

“May I make a suggestion, sir?” Cheshire asked. “Let me give General McLanahan a call first.”

“Oh? A little dissension in the ranks, I see?” Smoliy chuckled. “Or is General McLanahan the real person in charge?”

“No, General Samson is definitely the man in charge,” Nancy said. “But for what you two are cooking up right now, I think Patrick will be the one to help you — as long as he survives his ordeal in Washington first.”