Warrior Class

Blair House, Washington, D.C.

“Well, what the hell are they doing in there?” the chief clerk of the United States Supreme Court whispered excitedly. He knocked again on the door of the Truman Quarters, the master guest suite of Blair House. Behind him waited the chief justice of the Supreme Court, along with several aides, Secret Service agents, and Blair House staff. Who the hell would keep the chief justice and most of the rest of the world waiting like this?

A few moments later, the President-elect himself opened the door. “Come in, please, gentlemen,” he said, his ever-present half-smile on his face. “Welcome. Hope we didn’t keep you too long.”

“Of course not, Governor Thorn,” the chief justice responded, with a faint smile. “Don’t be silly — I’m the one disturbing you. This is your time. Probably the last real peace and quiet you’ll have for a very long time.”

The president-elect shook his head and smiled as if he was completely oblivious to what was going to happen soon. “Nonsense, Your Honor. Peace is a state of mind, not a function of time, place, or sound.”

“Of course.” The chief justice and the clerk looked at each other and exchanged a single silent comment as they entered: Yep, he’s a strange one, all right.

The clerk looked at his watch, then at the chief justice with not a little concern as they were admitted inside. The president- and vice president elect were supposed to be at the west portico of the Capitol in twenty minutes for the start of the inauguration-day ceremonies. The festivities had in fact already started: a military pass-in-review in honor of the outgoing president and vice president, a concert by the Marine Band, the invocation, and various poetry readings celebrating the first peaceful transition of power in the United States of the new millennium.

The vice president — elect would be sworn in first at ten minutes before noon, followed by a song or march of the vice president-elect’s choice while the players on the dais repositioned themselves. The vice president-elect, who happened to be one-half Seminole Indian, had chosen the “John Dunbar theme” by John Barry, from Dances with Wolves, with Michael Tilson Thomas conducting the New World Symphony. The president-elect’s swearing-in was supposed to start at thirty seconds before noon, timed so that at precisely one second after noon, the president-elect should be uttering the words “So help me God.” The swearing-in would be followed by the first playing of “Hail to the Chief’ by the Marine Band, then the President’s inaugural address to the nation, followed by a reception with the congressional leadership, Supreme Court members, and other dignitaries and guests in the Presidential Room of the Capitol.

Then there would be the parade down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House — the newly sworn President and Vice President and their wives were expected to continue the Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter tradition and walk a good portion of the twelve-block parade route. Later tonight, there were inaugural balls scheduled all across Washington — about fifteen in all — and the new President, Vice President, and their wives were expected at least to put in an appearance and take one turn around the dance floor at all of them. Everything was being coordinated down to the second, and there was intense pressure by organizers on everyone — even Supreme Court justices — to keep on schedule.

Thorn extended his hand to the chief justice of the Supreme Court as the latter entered the room. “Chief Justice Thompson, good to see you again,” he said. “Here to do the preliminaries, I presume?”

“Yes, Governor,” the chief justice said, a bit impatiently. “We’re a little pressed for time, so we’d better—”

“Yes, I know, I know. The precious schedule,” the president-elect said, his smile disarming. The room was packed, but everyone was on their absolute best behavior, sitting quietly without fussing or any sign of nervousness. The president-elect had five children, all less than eight years of age, but there was not a peep out of any one of them except for polite whispers — everyone thought they were the most well behaved children on the planet. “We’re ready for you now.”

The dark horse had a name, and it was Thomas Nathaniel Thorn, the former boy-governor of Vermont. Tall, boyishly handsome, his wavy hair thinning but still blond — Thom was only in his mid-forties — with dancing blue eyes and an easy smile, he looked like anything but the fastest-rising star on the American political scene. As the founder and leader of the Jeffersonian Party, Thorn was the first alternative-party candidate since Abraham Lincoln and his fledgling Republican Party to be elected to the presidency.

The vice president-elect, Lester Rawlins Busick, the former six-term senator from Florida, and his wife, Martha, were inside as well, with their two grown children. Busick, a former southern “Reagan” Democrat — fiscally conservative but socially liberal — was an old political pro and very well respected inside the Beltway. But he had parted ways with his party on several issues, and had soon come to realize that his message could better be heard from the forum of the hot new Jeffersonian Party rather than if he were just another veteran senator shouting against the political hurricane. Despite Busick’s strong reputation and sheer physical presence, however, he was practically invisible in the crowded hotel room.

The door was secured, and the onlookers gathered around, with an aide discreetly snapping pictures. The chief justice shook hands with everyone, then said in a rather rushed tone of voice, “As you know, Governor Thorn, the Twentieth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States prescribes the actual moment at which you take office, which is one second after twelve o’clock noon today. Article Two, Section One of the Constitution also mandates that you take the oath of office before assuming your responsibilities as president of the United States.

“Therefore, since there is a big ceremony with a lot of people and a lot of things that can conceivably go wrong between here and the official swearing-in …” he paused slightly — they were very late already, so this was certainly a case of one of “those things that can conceivably go wrong”—”… it is customary to administer the oath of office before the public ceremony, so that at the moment your term of office does officially commence, you will have already been sworn in and we avoid any constitutional questions. I’m confident you will have no objection to taking the oath twice.” Thorn just smiled that peaceful, confident half-smile, the one that helped power him past an incumbent Republican, President Kevin Martindale, and a nationally recognized Democratic front-runner and all the way into the White House. “Very good. You have the Bible, I see, Mrs. Thorn. Let’s proceed.”

Amelia Thorn held out an antique Bible, one that could be traced back to President Thomas Jefferson’s family, in the direction of the chief justice’s voice. Amelia Thorn had been blind since an early age, the result of childhood diabetes, but hers was a true story of perseverance and strength: she was an experienced jurist, a mother of five, and had held a seat on the New Hampshire State Supreme Court before resigning to help in her husband’s presidential campaign. “Please place your left hand on the Bible, Governor Thorn, raise your right hand, and repeat after me: ‘I, Thomas Nathaniel Thorn, do solemnly swear …’ “ Thorn recited the oath of office flawlessly, passionately, with his eyes on his wife, and hers on him, lifted toward the sound of his voice. The task was repeated with Lester Busick, with his wife Martha holding the antique Bible open to a passage in the Book of Isaiah.

“Thank you, Governor Thorn, Senator Busick.” The chief justice could still not legally call them “Mr. President” or “Mr. Vice President” yet, but he shook their hands and congratulated them nonetheless. “I wish you the best of luck and the prayers of a nation. Now, I think we should be on our way, or else the producers and directors choreographing the show today will all be very angry at us.”

“We’re not ready yet,” Thorn said.

The chief justice looked aghast. “Excuse me, Governor?”

“We’re not ready.” Thorn motioned to the seats arranged in front of the huge fireplace in the hotel suite, and quickly but quietly, Busick and his family and Thorn’s family sat down and joined hands. “We have one task to perform before we leave. You are welcome to join us, or you can observe, or you can make your way to the Capitol.” He led his wife to the love seat facing the fireplace, the White House visible across the street through the windows flanking it, then sat down and nodded to those around him. “Close the eyes, please.”

To Chief Justice Thompson’s great surprise, they all closed their eyes and fell silent, hands joined, heads bowed. He looked at his clerk, then at his watch, then at the amazing spectacle before him. “What … what are they doing?” he whispered to a Secret Service agent assigned to the family. “Are they praying?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” the agent replied quietly. “I think they’re meditating.”

“Meditating? Now? The man’s going to be sworn in as president of the United States in less than a half hour! How can he think about meditating at a time like this?”

“They do this twice a day, Your Honor, every day,” the agent said matter-of-factly. “Twenty minutes. Exactly twenty minutes. All of them.”

It was then that the chief justice realized that all the stories he had heard about Thomas Nathaniel Thorn were probably true. This was impossible … unacceptable! “Governor Thorn, please, we should be going.” No response. Thompson raised his voice in his most commanding courtroom tone: “Governor Thorn!”

One of the children opened her eyes, looked at the chief justice, then looked at her mother quizzically, but closed her eyes again when Amelia didn’t react. “You may join us, you can observe, or you may leave,” Thorn said in a very quiet but perturbed voice, keeping his eyes closed, “but you may not disturb us. Thank you.”

Chief Justice Thompson knew his presence was demanded at the Capitol, knew he had to be there — but he couldn’t make himself leave. He stood, transfixed, and watched in amazement as the minutes ticked by and the hour of transition approached. There were several urgent radio and phone calls, all answered by the Secret Service, but the Thorns and the Busicks, could not be disturbed.

Thompson considered saying something, perhaps even ordering them to get their asses in gear and get going because the nation was waiting for them, for God’s sake, but some unexplained force kept him from saying another word. He couldn’t believe the children — even the infant seemed to be resting, and the toddlers didn’t move a muscle. He had never before in his life seen toddlers sit still for so long — his own grandchildren, although very well behaved, seemed to have nanosecond attention spans.

Precisely twenty minutes later, the Thorns opened their eyes — it was as if a silent command had passed between them, because they all did it together. The Busicks, opened their eyes when they detected the Thorns stirring. None of them looked sleepy in the least — in fact, they looked energized, refreshed, ready to power ahead. The older children quickly leapt into action without being told to do so, checking the younger children’s diapers and helping Amelia Thorn pack up. Within moments, they were ready to leave.

“Governor, Senator, we … we’d better hurry,” Chief Justice Thompson stammered, still not believing what he had seen with his own eyes.

“No hurry, Mr. Chief Justice,” Thorn said. “We have lots of time.”

“But it’ll take at least ten minutes to get to the Capitol, even with an escort, and at least ten more minutes to get up to the—”

“We’re not going to the Capitol,” Thorn said. The Busicks and the Thorns were out the door, led by Secret Service agents scrambling to clear the way. They bypassed the elevator and headed right to the ancient stairway.

“You’re … you’re not going to the Capitol?” Thompson asked in shock. But he, too, had to hurry to keep up with the family.

“The ceremony there is to honor President Martindale and Vice President Whiting, Your Honor,” Thorn said. “The people elected me to work for them, not to give speeches or put myself on parade.”

“But … but the Congress, the other dignitaries, the invited guests, hundreds of thousands of citizens from all over the country — they’re all waiting for you at the Capitol. What are they going to say when you don’t show up?”

“Same thing as they would if I did show — maybe kindlier, since they won’t have an inaugural speech to pick apart,” Thorn said. “No matter, Your Honor.”

“You’re not giving an inaugural speech?” Thompson cried in stunned amazement. “You’re joking, of course.” He knew he wasn’t.

“I’ve got work to do. I’ve got a cabinet to get confirmed, several dozen federal judges to appoint, and a government to run. I promised the voters I’d get right to work, and so I shall.”

The Thorns and Busicks marched downstairs, across the ornate lobby of Blair House, and right across Pennsylvania Avenue past the barricades and the District of Columbia Police to the security gate at the White House. The crowds were thin, more than the usual number of tourists and passersby on the pedestrians-only street, but most of them were still along the parade route. In a few moments, however, a small crowd was gathered around them. Thomas Thorn shook a few hands, but he remained purposeful as he and his vice president — elect marched their families up to the security gate.

The Secret Service agents radioed ahead as fast as they could, but the group was still stopped by angry and confused Park Police. “What the hell is going on here?” the guard asked.

“I’m reporting for duty,” Thorn said confidently. “Open up.”

“What?” the guard shouted. “Who the hell are you, bub? Back the—” and his jaw dropped as recognition began to dawn.

The chief justice stepped up.

“I am Joseph Thompson, chief justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. I have just administered the oath of office to these two gentlemen. Governor Thorn and Senator Busick …” The chief justice looked at his watch — it was now twelve-oh-two. I mean, the President and Vice President of the United States wish to enter the White House and begin their work.”

By that time, the Secret Service Presidential Protection Detail had responded, moving the crowd back, clearing the way, and providing the proper authentication to the startled and shocked Park Police and uniformed Secret Service officers. The security guard couldn’t believe it was happening, but he buzzed open the gate and admitted the new President and Vice President of the United States and their families onto the grounds of their new home. “Mr. President, are you sure you want to do this?” Chief Justice Thompson asked again, as urgently as he possibly could. “This is … certainly unprecedented.”

“There is nothing in the Constitution that directs me to have an inauguration ceremony, give a speech, parade through the streets of Washington, or put ourselves or our families on display,” Thorn said. Thompson quickly scanned two decades’ worth of studying and teaching the U.S. Constitution, and he realized Thorn was right: there was no Constitutional mandate or public law that said there had to be any sort of ceremony.

“Our inauguration is not a victory celebration, Mr. Chief Justice,” Thorn went on. “We’ve just been given an important job to do — nothing more, nothing less. There’s nothing to celebrate. I’m disrupting my family life, putting my dreams and aspirations on hold, and opening myself to all sorts of public scrutiny, doubt, and danger — all to do the people’s business. I see no reason to celebrate anything but the peaceful transition of power in the world’s greatest democracy. If anyone should celebrate, it’s the voters who chose to exercise their right to choose their form of government and to choose who should lead it. As for me, I’ll get right to work.”

Chief Justice Thompson could say nothing else. He held out his hand, and Thorn shook it warmly. Thorn and Busick shook a few more hands, and to cheers and chants of “Thorn, Busick! Thorn, Busick! “ led their families forward to the White House and marched into history.

Prizren, Kosovo, Federal Republic of Yugoslavia

Usratta mozhna! That cowardly bastard did not even have the guts to attend his own swearing-in!” Chief Captain Ljubisa Susic, chief of the Prizren Federal Police Force, Kosovo, Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, laughed at the television with glee. He prided himself on his excellent knowledge of Russian, especially obscenities. “At a time when the eyes of the whole world are upon him, he decides to hide in the White House and play with his vice president’s meat pole, on igrayit z dun’kay kulakovay!”

Susic was in his office, staying late so he could watch the satellite TV broadcast available only in the headquarters building. Here in his office he had peace and quiet, the television picture was reliable and relatively clear, he had maraschino — strong, expensive Serbian cherry brandy — and he had his pistol, which he was required to carry while on the base but forbidden to carry outside. That was another example of the idiotic rules he had to follow because of the NATO occupation of Kosovo: he could carry a weapon when he was surrounded by a hundred heavily armed guards, but when he was on his own outside the headquarters compound, he had to be unarmed for fear of inciting unrest and fear in the civilian population — most of whom would gladly put a bullet in his head or a knife in his back.

Prizren, in the southern section of the southern Yugoslavian province of Kosovo, was the headquarters of KFOR MNB (S), or Kosovo Force, Multi-National Brigade — South, the NATO-sponsored, United Nation sanctioned peacekeeping force composed of fifty thousand troops from twenty-eight nations around the world, including the United States, Great Britain, Germany, and Russia. KFOR was set up to patrol Kosovo and attempt to minimize any more ethnic confrontations while the world community tried to find a solution for the problems associated with the disintegration of the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia.

And there were plenty of problems. There was a Republic of Kosovo provisional government, sanctioned and even funded by the United Nations, which was scheduled to become the de facto government of the semi-autonomous republic in.less than four years. No longer illegal, the Kosovo Liberation Army was more active than ever, with a force now estimated at more than fifty thousand men, equaling the size of the NATO, United Nations, and Russian peacekeeping forces combined. The KLA was supposed to have disarmed years ago, but that had never taken place — in fact, they were now reported to have heavy weapons such as antitank rockets and man-portable antiaircraft missiles, supplied by Iran, Saudi Arabia, and other Muslim nations.

The KLA advertised itself as the heart of the soon-to-be independent nation of Kosovo’s self-defense force. It wasn’t true in the least. The KLA was composed mainly of ethnic Albanians, mostly Muslim, and clearly did not treat all Kosovo residents alike. They hated ethnic Serbs and Orthodox Christians, but also discriminated against any foreigner and most other ethnic minorities inside Kosovo, such as gypsies, Romanians, Italians, Jews, and Greeks. Although not sanctioned by the United Nations or NATO, KLA soldiers had begun wearing uniforms and carrying weapons, touting itself as the one and only authentic native Kosovar police force.

In the meantime, Kosovo was still a province of Serbia, supposedly subject to Serbian and Yugoslavian federal law. Susic had the unfortunate task of trying to enforce the laws in a region where lawlessness was the rule rather than the exception. Prizren Airport was still operated by the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia as a national and international airport, and it had to be secured and operated in accordance with Yugoslavian and International Civil Aeronautics Organization law. Its radar installations, power generators, communications links, satellite earth stations, warehouses, and fuel storage depots were also essential to Yugoslavian sovereignty and commerce. No one in NATO or the United Nations had offered to do any of these tasks for Yugoslavia. But the KLA was making that mission almost impossible.

The NATO peacekeeping mission in Kosovo was in complete shambles. NATO allies Italy and Germany still had peacekeepers in-country, but were constantly squabbling over their role: Italy, with its eastern bases overloaded and closer to the fighting, wanted a much lower-profile presence; Germany, fearful of losing dominance over European affairs, wanted a much more active role, including stationing troops in Serbia itself. Greece and Turkey, NATO allies but longtime Mediterranean rivals, had virtually no role in peacekeeping operations, and it was thought that was the best option. Russia also wanted to reassert its presence and authority in eastern European affairs by supporting its Slavic cousins, counterbalancing Germany’s threat.

And then there was the United States of America, the biggest question mark of all. What would the new president do? He was such an enigma that few analysts, American or foreign, could hazard a guess. The United States had twice as many peacekeepers stationed in or around Kosovo as all the other participants combined, easily outgunning both Germany and Russia. But this relegated them to the role of baby-sitter or referee. The Americans seemed less concerned with keeping peace in Kosovo than with reducing hostilities between European powers.

“This new president is either a nut or a coward,” Susic added. The television on the all-news channel showed thousands of people outside the American Capitol milling around, as if undecided about what they should do. “Look at them — standing around with their thumbs up their asses, because their New Age retro-hippie president is back hiding in the safety of the White House.” Other remote camera shots showed presidential advisors — not yet Cabinet members, because the United States Senate had not confirmed them — arriving at the White House to confer with the President. “How embarrassing. Do you not think so, Comrade Colonel?”

“Do not underestimate this man, Captain,” Colonel Gregor Kazakov said, draining his up of brandy, which Susic immediately refilled. “He has the strength of his convictions — he is not a political animal like the others. Never confuse a soft-spoken nature with weakness.”

Susic nodded thoughtfully. If Kazakov thought so … Kazakov was a great soldier, an extraordinarily brave and resourceful warrior. Gregor Kazakov was the commander of the Russian Federation’s four-thousand-man Kosovo peacekeeping mission, charged with trying to maintain order in the Russian sector of this explosive Yugoslavian republic.

He was a hero to Susic because he had exhibited something relatively rare and unusual in a Russian military officer — initiative. It was Gregor Kazakov, then just a major, who, in June of 1999, upon secret orders from Moscow, had taken elements of his famed 331 Airborne battalion in two Antonov-12 transports low-level at night through the dark, forbidding Bosnian highlands, and then parachuted 120 elite Russian commandos, two armored personnel carriers, man-portable antiaircraft weapons, and a few days’ worth of ammunition and supplies onto Pristina Airport, thus yanking away the key position in Kosovo right out from under NATO’s confused, uncoordinated noses. The Russian paratroopers had captured the airport with complete surprise and no resistance. The entire operation, from tasking order to last man on the drop zone, had taken less than twelve hours — again, amazingly fast and efficient for any Russian military maneuver. A small company of British paratroopers, sent in as an advance team to set up for incoming NATO supply flights, had been politely but firmly rolled out of bed by their Russian counterparts and ordered to evacuate the airport.

NATO had E-3 Airborne Warning and Control radar planes above Bosnia, Albania, and Macedonia monitoring air traffic over the entire region, and at one point two U.S. Navy F-14 Tomcats from an aircraft carrier in the Adriatic Sea had been vectored in on them, intercepting them shortly after they’d lifted off from the Russian air base in Bosnia. The F-14s had warned the planes to turn back, and even locked onto them with their missile-guidance radars, threatening to fire if they didn’t reverse course. But Kazakov had ordered the An-12 pilots to continue, and the Americans had eventually backed off without even firing a warning shot. The move had surprised the entire world and briefly touched off fears of NATO retaliation. Instead, Russia had gained in hours what weeks of negotiation had failed to achieve — a role in the peacekeeping efforts inside Kosovo. NATO had not only blinked at Kazakov’s audacity — they’d stepped aside.

Of course, if NATO had wanted to take Pristina Airfield back, they could have done so with ease — Kazakov himself would have readily admitted that. Kazakov’s troops, although elite soldiers and highly motivated, were very poorly equipped, and training was substandard at best. Peacekeeping duty in Bosnia had the lowest funding priority, but the government wanted mobile, elite commandos in place to assure dominance, so Kazakov’s men were woefully unprepared. The assault on Pristina Airport had been the first jump most of the men had made in several weeks, because there was very little jet fuel available for training flights; everything from bullets to bombs to boots was in short supply. But the surprise factor had left the Americans, British, French, and German peacekeepers frozen in shock. One hour, the place was nearly deserted; the next hour, a couple hundred Russian paratroopers were setting up shop.

The mission’s success had sent a surge of patriotic, nationalistic joy throughout Russia. Kazakov had received a promotion to full colonel and the People’s Meritorious Service medal for his audacity and warrior spirit. In the end, the event had marked the beginning of the end of the Yeltsin administration, since it was obvious Yeltsin either had not sanctioned the plan, fearing reprisals from the West, or, more likely, had known nothing about it in the first place. Less than a year later, Yeltsin had resigned, his Social Democratic Party was out, and Valentin Sen’kov and the new Russia-All Fatherland Party, not communist but decidedly nationalistic and anti-West, had surged into the Kremlin and Duma in large numbers.

Kazakov could have been elected premier of Russia if he’d wanted to get into Russian politics-no doubt a much tougher assignment than any other he had ever held. But he was a soldier and commander, and wanted nothing more than to lead Russian soldiers. He’d requested and been authorized to command the Russian presence in all of Yugoslavia, and had chosen to set up his headquarters right in NATO’s face, squarely in the middle of the hornet’s nest that was Kosovo — Prizren, in southern Kosovo, the largest and most dangerous multinational brigade sector. Kazakov commanded two full mechanized infantry battalions, four thousand soldiers, there. He also commanded an eight-hundred-man Tactical Group, composed of a fast helicopter assault force, in the Kosovo Multi-National Brigade — East headquarters at Gnjilane, and was an advisor to the Ukrainian Army’s three-hundred-man contingent there as well.

Now the troops had been in place for almost two years, with only minimal-duty out-rotations, so the men were slack, poorly trained, and poorly motivated. All they received here in Kosovo were constant threats from ethnic Albanian civilians and Kosovo Liberation Army forces — most of whom roamed the streets almost at will, with very little interference from NATO — and increasing cutbacks and inattention from home. The new president of Russia, ex-Communist, ex-KGB officer, and ex-prime president Valentin Sen’kov, promised more money and more prestige for the Russian military, and he was beginning to deliver. But no one, not even President Sen’kov, could squeeze blood from a turnip. There was simply no additional money to invest for the Russian Federation’s huge military.

“The question is,” Susic said, gulping down more brandy, will Thorn continue the American buildup in Kosovo and continue to support revolutionaries, saboteurs, and terrorists in Albania, Montenegro, and Macedonia, like his predecessor? Or will he stop this maddening scheme to break up Yugoslavia and let us fight our own battles?”

“It is hard to tell with this president,” Kazakov said. “He is a military man, that much I know-an army lieutenant in Desert Storm, I believe. He is credited with leading a team of commandos hundreds of miles into Iraq, even into Baghdad itself, and lazing targets for precision-guided bombers.”

“That mealymouthed worm was a commando?” Susic asked incredulously. He hadn’t paid much attention to the American political campaign. “He would not be qualified to shine your boots, let alone be called a commando, like yourself.”

“If it was a lie, I believe the American press would have exposed him in very short order — instead, they verified it,” Kazakov said. “I told you, Captain, do not underestimate him. He knows what it’s like to be a warrior, with a rifle in your hands sneaking into position, with your enemies all around you in the darkness. His outward demeanor may be different from other American presidents’, but they are all pushed and pulled by so many political forces. They can be quite unpredictable.”

“Yes, especially that last one, Martindale,” Susic said. “A real back-stabbing snake.” Kazakov nodded, and Susic felt pleased with himself that he had made an observation that this great warrior agreed with. “The master of glad-handed robbery — shake hands with the right hand, club you over the head with the left.” He started to pour Kazakov more brandy.

But Kazakov held out a hand over the glass and rose to his feet. “I’ve got sentry posts to check,” he said.

“That’s what junior officers are for,” Susic said, filling his glass again. Kazakov glared at him disapprovingly. Susic noticed the stare, ignored the brandy, and got to his feet as well. “Excellent idea, Colonel. I think I’ll join you. Always good to show some brass to the troops.”

The early-evening air was crisp and very cold, but the skies were clear and the moon, nearly full, was out. It was easy to see the perimeter of the headquarters compound and its five-meter-high barbed-wire-topped fence. Crews were busy keeping snow from piling up on the fence, which was wired with motion detectors — they would certainly be deactivated now while they worked. That meant that the guard towers and roving patrols were more important than ever, so Kazakov decided to check those first. Kazakov got clearance from Central Security Control on his portable radio. “Follow me, Chief Captain.”

“Of course, sir,” Susic said, then caught his tongue. To his great surprise, Colonel Kazakov began removing his greatcoat as he headed for the steps to the first security tower. “Where are you going, Colonel?” he asked.

“We are going to climb up and check on our guard towers,” Kazakov said. “We need to get a report from the duty sergeant in charge.”

“Would it not be easier for him to report to us?”

“Let’s go, Captain. A little exercise won’t hurt us.”

“We’re … we’re climbing up there?” Susic asked. He pointed up to the top of the six-story tower. “Without your coat, sir?”

“Your uniform would be soaked clear through with sweat by the time you got up there,” Kazakov pointed out, “and then you’d freeze to death. Take off your coat and let’s go. Leave your hat and gloves on. Let’s not take all day, Captain.” The commando leader began trudging up the steps. Susic had no choice but to follow. Kazakov was already to the second floor by the time Susic even mounted the steps.

The tower cab was not very large or very warm — heaters would fog the windows — but they had good, strong Nicaraguan coffee and German cigarettes, which Kazakov gratefully accepted from the surprised and impressed security force sergeant. Kazakov was careful to hide the glow from the cigarette, cupping it inside his hands — a glowing cigarette inside the dark cab could be seen for miles by a sniper. “Everything all right tonight, Sergeant?” he asked.

The sergeant handed Kazakov his logbook. “Slightly higher passerby count than last night, sir,” he replied. The guards kept a count and a general description of everyone who passed within sight of the towers — since the headquarters was located on one of the main roads to and from the airport, it was generally busy, even at night in bad weather. “Mostly gawkers coming to look at the big bad Russians.”

It was busy because the Russian compound was the scene of almost daily demonstrations by Albanian Kosovars, protesting the Russian presence in their province. Most times, the demonstrations were noisy but small, a few dozen old men and women with whistles and bullhorns chanting “Russians Go Home.” Lately, however, the protests had gotten larger, more hostile, closer to the fence line, and now there were more young men in the crowds — probably Kosovo Liberation Army intelligence-gatherers, probing the Russian perimeter. Kazakov took these new demonstrations very seriously and ordered doubled patrols during them, which further strained his force. But the Kosovars needed to see a large, imposing Russian presence. The moment they detected any weakness, Kazakov was sure they would pounce.

“Your response?”

“Increased patrols — on foot, unfortunately, no more vehicles available from the motor pool — and a request in to the captain of police in Prizren and NATO security office to step up patrols in and out of the city as well.”

“Very well,” Kazakov said. He shot a murderous glance at Susic, still trying to struggle up the steps. He then went over, exchanged places with the sergeant in the cab, and leaned forward to look through the low-light and infrared sentry scope. “Where are the additional foot patrols, Sergeant?” he asked, after scanning for a moment.

The sergeant looked a bit embarrassed. “I … I asked for volunteers first, about thirty minutes ago, from the oncoming shift,” he replied hesitantly. “My men have been pulling overlapping fourteen-hour shifts for the past three weeks, sir. They’re exhausted—”

“I understand, Mikhail, I understand,” Kazakov said, only slightly perturbed. “If you want, I’ll be the bad-ass: I order an extra platoon on foot patrol, beginning immediately. Relay the order. ‘Men get me the commander of the NATO security unit. I don’t want to talk with the duty sergeant or the officer of the day — I want the commander himself, that German major with the Scandinavian name.”

“Johansson. Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, reaching for the field telephone. “What about the chief captain of the police?”

“I will deal with him myself.” Kazakov continued to scan as Susic, huffing and puffing as if he were about to have a heart attack, entered the cab. Despite the cold temperatures, he was still bathed in sweat. “Captain, my sergeant tells me he requested additional police patrols outside the perimeter. He has received no response. What is the delay?”

“I … I will see to it immediately, sir,” Susic panted. “Just … just let me catch my breath.”

“Are you ready to continue our rounds, Captain? Let’s go. I want to inspect every inch of the fence line tonight. You can issue the order from the portable radio.” Kazakov was out the door and heading down the stairs before Susic could say another word.

“Yes … yes, sir,” Susic panted as they headed down the staircase. He was struggling with his coat, not sure whether he should keep it off or put it on. “I’ll be right behind you, Colonel!”

“Let’s go, Captain, let’s go.” Kazakov was trying not to appear hurried, but something, some unknown fear, was driving him forward, faster and faster. Susic could no longer keep up. “As fast as you can.” He hit the bottom and started striding toward the main entrance guard post, about three blocks away.

In the glare of a few streetlights, he could see soldiers running toward the same building, and seconds later the sound of gunfire was heard. What in hell was happening? He pulled out his portable command radio and keyed the mike: “Security One, this is Alpha. Report on disturbance at the front gate.”

“Open channel, Alpha,” the duty sergeant said. “Can you go secure?”

“Negative.” They were lucky if they had any secure communications capability at all, let alone on their portables. “Blue Security, report.”

“Fireworks! More fireworks,” the guard at the front gate reported. “All stations, all stations, noisemakers over the fence only. Blue is secure.”

Kazakov slowed his pace a bit. This was almost a nightly occurrence, and one of the most maddening ploys by the ethnic Albanians to stir up the Russians: throwing small strings of firecrackers across the gate, usually propelled several dozen meters through the air by slings made of sliced-up inner tubes. It was just enough harassment to jangle the nerves of the most experienced, steady veteran fighter, but not enough to warrant a stricter crackdown on fireworks or noisemakers in Prizren.

There was a lot of pent-up frustration venting on the security net by angry guards. Kazakov jabbed his portable’s mike button: “Break, break, break!” he shouted. “Essential communication only!”

“Alpha, this is Hotel.” That was the duty sergeant. “Do you want a security sweep? Over.”

Kazakov considered that for a moment. That was part of the dance they did out here almost every night: the Albanian Kosovars did their demonstrations and popped a few noisemakers off in the compound, the Russians spent most of the night doing a security sweep, finding nothing, and they were exhausted by end of watch. This irritating cycle had to be broken, now! “Negative. I want a full all-stations check and verification.

“Break. Delta, meet me at Blue right away. Out.” Delta was the call sign of his tactical operations chief. If, instead of a security sweep, the Russians did nothing — except secretly send out a few two-man patrols a few hundred meters past the fence — then if the hooligans were bold enough to try launching another volley, maybe they had a chance of nabbing a few of them. It was very illegal to send Russians outside the compound at night, but that was only a KFOR and NATO regulation, and Kazakov didn’t feel too obligated to follow their rules. It was also supposedly illegal for anyone to launch noisemakers into the Russian compound, but NATO obviously wasn’t doing anything about that.

Kazakov turned to Susic, who was trying to appear as if he were tying his boots, when in fact he was breathing heavily and looked like he might pass out. “While you’re resting there, Captain, listen: I have a plan. I’m going to send a few roving patrols out to see if we can catch some of whoever’s launching those noisemakers. I want some of your men to accompany my commandos. Meet me at the security building right away, and be careful.”

“Don’t worry about me, Colonel,” Susic shouted. “I’ll meet up with you right away.” Even though he had been going downstairs, Susic was exhausted — too much deskwork, too little exercise, too much maraschino, Kazakov decided. If they made it through this night, he’d have to—

Kazakov’s attention was diverted to the sound of another string of noisemakers going off — close enough this time to smell the acidy gunpowder. “My God, not again.” He removed his radio from his belt to ask for a report …

… when suddenly he saw a bright yellow flash of light from inside the section of fence just east of the security building. He knew instinctively what it was. “Captain!” he shouted, turning toward Susic, then dodging away. “Move! Move!” But he knew it would be too late — the bullets were probably already in flight.

They were. The entry wound was less than the size of his little finger, but the exit wound tore the back of Susic’s head off.

Kazakov threw his legs out from under himself just as a bullet plowed into the pavement behind him. He rolled and rolled until he landed in the street, then leapt to his feet and dove behind a dark lightpost. A sniper! Probably KLA, but close enough to the fence to get a good shot off at lone figures at night. This was the first time something like this had happened in the Russian compound.

As his mind raced to assemble a plan of action, he found himself thinking the weirdest thoughts, such as: Damn, this sniper is good. The time delay between the bullet hitting Susic in the head and the gunshot sound was considerable, meaning that the shot had been done over a very long distance, at night. Remarkable men, those snipers. Training one took years and perhaps millions of rubles for a really good rifle and …

More fireworks, just a few dozen meters away — he heard them slap the pavement in front of him just before they popped off. Kazakov wished he had his armored staff car just then — that sniper was still out there, using the noisemakers as cover for his attacks. He pulled his radio from his web belt: “Apasna, apasna, this is Alpha, snipers along the fence line east of Blue, all personnel man your duty posts and prepare to repel attackers! Repeat, snipers on the fence line, Charlie is down. Full nighttime challenge. All stations, report status to security control!”

“Alpha, gdye vi? Say position!” It was the duty sergeant. “Take cover! Units will respond to your location. Say position from Blue.”

A tremendous explosion made Kazakov duck. It was a direct antitank rocket hit on the security building near the main gate. He had obviously underestimated these Kosovo Liberation Army thugs — they must have very good weaponry to strike that building from far away.

“Blue has been hit! Blue is hit!” Kazakov shouted into the radio. He swept his AKM-74 assault rifle across the slowly clearing billowing smoke around the security building. There were armed men jumping across the damaged walls and structures, silhouetted against the fog of blasted concrete and dirt, but from fifty meters away Kazakov couldn’t tell if they were Russians or KLA. But they were jumping from the outside in, so Kazakov assumed they were enemy KLA rebels. He fired at a couple of them who were clustered close together, then immediately rolled left several times, got to his feet, and scampered in a low crouch behind a concrete street signpost. It was a good thing he’d moved — seconds later, the spot from where he had fired was cratered with bullets.

There was nothing he could do here, Kazakov thought grimly. He hated the idea of turning his back on any surviving perimeter guards, but the invaders had the upper hand, and he was alone. Better to retreat, find help, and organize a counterassault in force.

Kazakov had just started running back toward the headquarters building when he saw his command car speeding around the corner, a gunner manning the gun turret, its headlight slits in place to mask its approach. He waved, and the vehicle veered toward him. The command car held four armed infantrymen along with a radio operator, aide, driver, gunner, and security man. If it was fully manned, it might be enough to mount a good counterassault until more troops moved into—

Kazakov was so busy planning his next move that he failed to notice that the command car was heading right at him. By the time he realized something was wrong, it was too late. The armored car plowed into the colonel at over thirty kilometers an hour.

His thick winter battle dress uniform and helmet saved his life, but Kazakov was knocked near unconscious by the force of the impact. All he could register were excited, now jubilant Albanian- speaking voices, and flashlight beams sweeping across his face.

“Dobriy vyechyeer, Colonel Kazakov,” one of the Albanian voices said in very good Russian. “Good we should bump into you like this. We were on our way to visit you when your men informed us you were inspecting the security posts.”

“S kyem vi? Who are you with?” Kazakov muttered. “What unit?”

“You know who, Colonel,” the man replied. “We are your sworn enemies. We have vowed to do everything in our power to force you to leave our homeland. You are invaders, trespassers, and murderers. The penalty for murder in Kosovo is death. Your sentence will be carried out immediately.”

“You have already murdered many Russian soldiers,” Kazakov said. “Reinforcements are on the way. Leave me and save yourselves or you will all be slaughtered.”

“I would have preferred it if you simply begged for your life, Colonel,” the man said. “But you do bring up a good suggestion. We should withdraw from here immediately. Das svedanya, Colonel Kazakov. Spasiba va vychyeer Thanks for the wonderful evening.”

“Idi v zhopu, pizda,” Kazakov cursed.

The flashlight beam shined directly into Kazakov’s eyes, and the man’s face moved close enough that he could smell the alcohol, cordite, and blood on the man’s uniform. “You want to inspect the security posts, Colonel dirt-mouth? Kharasho. Allow me to take you there.”

Kazakov’s legs were chained to the back of the command car, and the rebels dragged the colonel’s body through the streets of Prizren, firing into the sky in jubilation. Kazakov remained conscious for several blocks until his head hit the debris of a destroyed truck and he was mercifully knocked unconscious. His last thought was of his wife and his three sons. He had not seen them in so many months, and now he knew they would never see him again: they would never permit the family to see a corpse as bad as he knew his was going to look.

At the front gate to the Russian security zone, the colonel was hung upside down over the entry control point road, stripped naked, then riddled with machine-gun fire until his body could no longer be recognized as human. The rebels were long gone before United Nations reinforcements arrived.