by Mark Greaney
The general spoke in Russian, although Connolly had read that the man spoke fluent English.
The translator said, “You are here to surrender to our forces?” There was a faint smile on Lazar’s lips, while the colonels sitting next to him sat stone-faced.
Colonel Caster saw no humor in Lazar’s joke, either. “No.”
Lazar spoke Russian again. “Well, then,” said the translator, “what shall we talk about?”
“You called me, General.”
Lazar nodded and replied at length, and his words were translated into English. “Ah, yes. I did. You and your men fought valiantly. But I know you are low on ammunition, virtually devoid of armor, and weak at every point of the compass. I am told you have a carrier battle group steaming over from Asia, but they won’t be in range until long after I take those mines and make it impossible for them to dislodge us. We have other tricks up our sleeve, Colonel, and orders to achieve nothing less than victory here.
“I propose we stop the bloodshed. You and your men vacate the mine—our mine—and in return I can offer you safe passage to Mombasa.”
Caster did not respond favorably to the general’s request. In his Texas drawl he said, “You will quit Kenya, and you will quit Africa . . . or we will annihilate every last one of you.”
The general began speaking before the translator was even finished relaying Caster’s comments to him. The captain quickly switched to English. “So, it is the time for threats, then, is it?”
Caster replied, “Not threats. Facts. You leave or you die. You killed a lot of my boys and I sure as hell didn’t come up here for your jokes or your games.”
The general remained stoic as the captain replied.
The captain at the end of the table said, “No more young men should die on either side.”
“On that one item, you and I agree,” Caster said.
The translator began to say this in Russian, but Lazar just nodded and waved a hand. As Connolly had thought, the old man understood English.
Lazar drummed his fingers on the table a moment in silence.
Everything he said and did, Connolly observed, was calculated. He was a shrewd, savvy son of a bitch. One who had likely experienced much more on the battlefield than anyone else in this room.
Caster said, “You halted your attack because you could not break my lines. My Marines withstood all the pressure you could throw at us, and now your army is weakened to the point where you are unable to continue the attack.
“But I, on the other hand, have received reinforcements.”
Lazar smiled at this and looked around the room. “Really? I don’t see them.”
“That’s because you can’t see what’s sitting off the coast. Our carrier strike group has arrived to within striking range. And if I can hold back your entire force with a Marine rifle regiment, imagine what I can do now with dozens of Navy F-18s.”
After Lazar spoke animatedly, the translator relayed the message with similar enthusiasm. “A rifle regiment? You had more forces than that, Colonel. Those Tomahawk missiles fired from your submarine didn’t help you at all—is that it? What about the aircraft from your ship?”
Caster shrugged. “I brought along friends. And more friends have arrived. Where are your friends, today, General Lazar?”
Dust swept in under the tent flaps. Bugs crawled on the table and buzzed in the warm morning air.
The general leaned forward and spoke slowly, his voice metered and steady. “You, Colonel, must be quite a poker player, because I have been a professional soldier for forty-two years and I cannot tell if you are bluffing.” He smiled. “Are you? Because I don’t believe there are any more forces out there yet. My units have kept you under constant watch, and there is no movement from the coast, none of your LCACs crossing the marshes, none of your famous Ospreys in the air bringing in hundreds more troops. You might have your carrier coming, but it’s not here yet, despite what you say, or the skies would be full of your warplanes. I believe you are still nothing but a reduced regiment guarding a small clump of clay and trillions of dollars of damn bits of metal.”
The tone was cold, almost sinister.
The carrier strike group was, in fact, another seven and a half hours from being in position to deploy its F-18s, and then only at their maximum range, and the Russians could probably take the mines in half that time if they threw all those BTRs Connolly and the entourage had seen on the way in at the hill right now. Lazar must have suspected this, Connolly thought, and while he certainly hated the general for what he’d done, he had to respect Lazar’s ability to read his adversary.
Caster waited a moment. The room was so quiet now Connolly could hear the muffled sounds of the Russian radios hidden from view under blankets.
Then the colonel leaned forward and said, “If you don’t believe me, little froggy . . . then jump.”
He waited a minute as the interpreter translated the curious phrase. There were puzzled expressions on the faces of Lazar and his colonels, and then the Russian side of the table erupted with anger.
Everyone looked at the general. He remained still a moment; then he began to chuckle. His laugh grew. He had to clutch his side with an arm that Connolly only now noticed he was in a splint, half hidden under the table.
Caster remained emotionless.
To Connolly’s surprise, Lazar switched to English. “Okay . . . little froggy.” His smile drifted away. “I must tell you something that is relevant to our meeting. I have here”—he handed a piece of paper to Colonel Caster—“a direct order from General of Russian Federation Forces Ketsov instructing my army to retire to Djibouti for some resupply and refit. There we will join our tanks, which have been refueled by friendly African nations—I cannot say which. You understand. And then we will decide whether we will come back and seize the mine or return to Russia.
“I will tell you . . . you must not interfere with us as we return to Djibouti. If you do, I will not hesitate to defend myself with the significant forces and munitions I have available.
“Am I clear, Colonel?”
Caster didn’t blink. “General, you can take all the time you want to head back north. But if you take one . . . more . . . step to the south, it’ll be your last.”
A murmur went around the room. One of the Russian colonels leaned in and whispered in the general’s ear. Lazar listened while sitting back in his chair.
He switched back into Russian and spoke to Caster, who waited for the translation. “Then it is settled. We will begin preparations to withdraw immediately. There is nothing further for us to discuss. Thank you, Colonel Caster.”
Caster stood and started to walk out, followed by Connolly and the others. When he stopped and turned back around, the men around him did the same. Caster said, “If your forces are still here tomorrow morning, I will consider it a further act of aggression.” He nodded at the general and touched his Marine Corps cover as if it were a Stetson.
Then he pivoted and walked out.
Connolly, McHale, Apollo, and the rest of the Marines followed.
Dan Connolly’s last view was of Colonel General Lazar sitting still at the table, narrow eyes following the Americans as they left.
* * *
• • •
Five minutes later Connolly again rode with McHale in his LAV, on the way back to Mrima Hill. “Borbikov wasn’t there,” Connolly said. “And he was the mastermind behind this whole thing. The one guy who would be there, front and center, if they still intended to attack. His absence means he’s been killed, wounded, or . . . relieved. Either way, I’ll bet you a hundred dollars—no, make that a mine full of rare-earth minerals—they will be gone by tomorrow.
McHale said, “Lazar just wanted to see if we would blink. Caster didn’t, so now Lazar’s more concerned about getting what’s left of his boys home.” He added, “You’re probabl
y right about Borbikov. You think Caster got all that?”
Connolly shrugged, looking out at the devastated landscape. “Doesn’t matter. He played it like a true Texan. ‘Get off my land or I’ll fuck you and your whole posse up’ was all those Russkies heard.”
They passed again through the graveyard of American and Russian vehicles. Several crews of Russians were scattered on the battlefield, along with American Marines in Humvees and French soldiers in trucks gathering what remained of fallen comrades. Connolly watched a tank recovery crew stopping to assist a Russian unit pulling a missile-and-flame-ravaged BTR out of a wet, swampy irrigation canal.
McHale said, “A few hours ago we were killing each other.” He shook his head. “War is fucking insane, Dan.”
Connolly nodded. “You’re preaching to the choir, Eric.”
CHAPTER 83
SOUTHERN KENYA
3 JANUARY
Lazar’s departing army was tracked from above by no fewer than three satellites and two Air Force reconnaissance planes, and round-the-clock Marine Corps aircraft from the USS America. The Marines weren’t taking any chances on the Russians reconstituting and popping up somewhere else. Theirs was a remnant of an army now, heading north to Djibouti, a trip that would take them days, as they dragged with them whatever vehicles and equipment were still working.
General Boris Lazar walked on the road alongside his command vehicle, surrounded by dismounted troops. Like his men, he looked terribly bedraggled; his uniform was torn, and his boots were caked with dark red clumps of earth. His broken arm hung in a sling, and his face was an almost impenetrable mask of dirt, with giant circles left from where his goggles had covered his eyes before he took them off to let the sweat dry out of them.
While hundreds of men rode in the armored vehicles, thousands more walked, limping back north at just a few kilometers an hour. The Kenyan government was in the process of rounding up buses to help with the lift back to Djibouti, but no one knew when the transports would materialize. The Kenyans did have an incentive to get the vanquished Russians the hell out of their country, but they weren’t operating with much real enthusiasm. If the Russian forces dropped dead in the heat while walking the length of their nation, well, then the Kenyans would be well rid of them.
Major Ustinov, Colonel Kir’s adjutant, had taken over for his fallen superior. He stood up in the turret of Lazar’s BTR now and called down to him over the noise of the long row of vehicles. “General? First Regiment says they have confiscated some fuel and are making a good pace.”
“And 2nd and 3rd?”
“Both report the men are tired, but they have the strength to continue. I told them that once we get back to Moyale, we will give them a rest and perhaps confiscate more fuel, food, and water.”
“Yes. We will do that.” He was so used to having these conversations with Kir, it was surreal to be dealing with someone else working in Kir’s capacity.
Ustinov said, “General, do you wish to ride awhile?”
Kir would have known better than to ask, he thought to himself. “No. The wounded need the space in there. And I would rather walk with the men.” He smiled in spite of the situation; his coffee- and tobacco-stained teeth seemed to be covered in a layer of dirt and grit. “I will go back and visit with the men of 3rd Regiment for a bit now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Ustinov nodded. He’d been around long enough to know the general wasn’t just making small talk with the soldiers; he really enjoyed the men’s company.
The general stopped in the road, turned, and went off looking for what remained of 3rd Regiment.
* * *
• • •
LANDSTUHL REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER
LANDSTUHL, GERMANY
4 JANUARY
“Watch this little maneuver,” said Sandra Glisson with a wry smile. She held the video game controller with her right hand and pushed the “X” button repeatedly. On the TV screen her Apache helicopter spun around 180 degrees; rockets launched from the pods and slammed into Jesse’s Russian Mil Mi-24 assault helicopter. Jesse dropped his PlayStation controller on his bed in a fit of rage as his helicopter spun toward the ground, burning and smoking.
“That’s bullshit!” he said.
“Face it. I kicked your ass.”
“Whatever, Glitter. It’s just because you cheated and stole the only Apache.”
She leaned over, straining to get her mouth on the straw sticking out of the can of Coke laced with Jack Daniel’s that Lieutenant Thomas had brought her. Bourbon and Coke wasn’t her favorite, but this is what Thomas had been able to slip past the watchful U.S. Army guards here at Landstuhl, so that made it good enough.
Her body cast kept her in a near-rigid state. She was covered from her ankles to just above her waist. One arm was in a cast and held up and out by a plastic bar. She gulped down the drink and reached over with her good arm to pull the copy of the English-language newspaper from under two vases of flowers. She propped it up on the traction machine that connected her with pulleys and steel wires to the big bed frame.
She sighed to herself as she flipped the pages, looking at the articles and ads, her mind and body restless from being cooped up. Another three weeks in the hospital, and then, she’d been told, the real pain would begin. Rehab to get her back aligned and, eventually, to get her walking again.
Permanent injury was a very real possibility, the docs had told her. But she had ignored their warnings. They didn’t know what she was made of. She planned on blowing their minds with her progress.
Still, it was depressing when she thought about it, so she did everything she could not to think about it.
And the Jack was helping with that.
She leafed through the paper, stopping to read an article about the Marine Corps action in Africa. “Hey, Jesse, did you see this article about all this Marine crap in Kenya?”
Her copilot wasn’t as badly injured, but a broken femur would keep him virtually bedridden for a few weeks.
“Whatever,” he said. “Marines fighting their little sideshow doesn’t interest me. The big battle was up here.”
“They interview a few of these Marines who talk about fighting the Russians with close to nothing. Little armor, dwindling ammunition, just like hanging on by the skin of their teeth.”
“Sounds like bad planning from the Marines. Someone should have packed more ammo.”
“Here’s an interview with a Marine tanker; says they lost almost their whole company.”
“Thirty-seventh Armored lost over a battalion’s worth of tanks. What we did, and those tank guys from the 37th did, and the pilots, the French special forces—that is the real shit. I even heard about some Polish civilians who aced, like, five or ten tanks using just RPGs and rocks and shit. Pretty badass.”
Sandra Glisson laughed, but it hurt her from head to toe to do so. After a moment she closed her eyes, ignoring the pain and itching, and told herself that she was tough enough to fight the Russians, so she was more than tough enough to endure the next year or more of rehab.
* * *
• • •
WARSAW, POLAND
4 JANUARY
The band struck up “Mazurek Dąbrowskiego”: “Poland is not lost . . . whilst we still live.” The national anthem, it was meant to boost the morale of Polish soldiers serving with Napoleon and symbolized their nation’s longing to remain free from oppression. The army men’s choir sang the tune with verve and pride as Paulina Tobiasz, along with eight men, stood at attention. Two of the men were on crutches and one had been in a wheelchair but had pulled himself to his feet with Paulina’s help; he leaned on her during the anthem.
All wore various uniforms of the Republic of Poland.
A wave of guilt passed over Paulina as she glanced at these men, a few now crippled for life.
After all, what
had she done? All she did was survive.
No, she did something more. The simple act of switching the train tracks had made a difference, or at least someone told her it had.
She knew she should be proud, but the intense melancholy she felt would not allow her any positive emotions right now.
Paulina had to keep reminding herself that she was now an officer in the Polish Land Forces. Too valuable a commodity to be let go from active service, she’d received a personal warrant from the president the evening before. She didn’t really want to be a leader, but the president had been insistent, so Paulina had been coerced into becoming one of Poland’s newest second lieutenants.
A week and a half ago her aspirations ran only as high as the assistant manager’s position at House Café Warszawa, leading a team of baristas.
She looked out into the crowd, finally found her father and brother, and looked away self-consciously when she realized her dad was openly weeping.
The band fell silent and President Zielinski stepped forward and faced the gathered crowd in the center of Warsaw’s Old Town, just half a block from Paulina’s coffee shop. A few people hissed—rumors had just gotten out about Zielinski’s decision to draw the Russians into Wrocław—but the gathering was mostly respectful.
The massive crowd was huddled together as light snow fell, their steaming breath rising in the chill winter air.
The president said, “Behind me stand some heroes we wish to thank for their services to the nation. They will graciously accept these honors because they know that the honors they receive today represent the courage and bravery of many others, whom we also honor, but who instead lie now in peace beneath our feet.”
President Zielinski paused, then said, “General, present those to be awarded.”
The general, crisp in his sharply starched dress uniform, belted out the order: “Personnel to be decorated . . . front and center, march.”
In unison Paulina and the others walked and hobbled forward. They saluted together and remained at attention.
