by Lou Dobbs
Finally, when he’d had enough time in the park to clear his head, he started walking toward Bleecker Street. It didn’t take long until he saw several men huddled in front of a doorway. It was the shelter Charlie had taken him to for his one night of decent rest.
Before he even reached the door one of the men turned, and he could see it was his friend. The former Army Ranger waved and said, “I’ve been worried about you.”
“You and me both, brother.”
*
Anton Severov had barely shut his eyes when he heard shouts and a commotion not far from his cot. He bounced up immediately and saw that flames were rising into the night sky a couple of hundred yards from his position. He slipped on his boots and tunic and, fastening buttons as he went, jogged toward the commotion.
As he approached, several officers were running the same direction he was, while many of the enlisted men were moving away from the flames. He could see three trucks were clearly on fire, and there was a group of about thirty men in front of the trucks chanting something.
Severov recognized a sergeant watching the spectacle and said, “What the hell is going on?”
“It’s the Chechen recruits, sir. Something has them all stirred up. They just keep chanting, ‘God is great.’”
“Has anyone tried to disperse them?”
“No one is sure how much force we can use.”
Severov snatched the AK-47 from the man, stepped forward, and fired a burst into the air. That caught everyone’s attention and spurred several other officers to action. Someone struck one of the Chechens with the butt of a gun and knocked him to the ground. Others started shouting for all of the men to sit down and put their hands on their heads. That opened the way for others to move forward and use fire extinguishers on the burning trucks.
It was some kind of demonstration, or possibly a revolt. Severov realized that if it had gone on longer it might’ve sucked in more of the Chechen recruits and could have ignited into something more serious.
It took a little time for Severov to find Amir. He was looking for his former guide to see if he had anything to do with the revolt. If he established that Amir instigated it, Severov wouldn’t have any issues with shooting the Iranian punk.
He found Amir sitting with the group of young Chechen recruits, with one of the men translating from English to the others. Amir was holding an impromptu class on Islam and the future. Severov held back and listened to see if the man said anything that would incriminate him.
Amir said, “This is a wonderful opportunity to embarrass the Great Satan. Americans are greedy and don’t follow the tenets of Islam. Most of them have no faith at all and have been left wandering by their leaders. You have a chance to find glory for our cause.”
Severov listened as a translator repeated everything in Chechen, with a slight Chantish accent. He recognized him as a sergeant who worked in the motor pool. Many of the Chechens were reduced to more menial jobs. That might change after tonight.
Amir looked over to Severov and smiled. He knew there was nothing the Russian major would do in front of an audience of Chechen truck drivers. He couldn’t hide his satisfaction at seeing flames behind the major’s profile.
Severov knew he’d have to deal with this terrorist sooner rather than later.
*
Mike Rosenberg prided himself on keeping his cool. As a G-2 in the marines he frequently went out on missions with the platoons who were receiving his intelligence. He even managed to get permission for Derek Walsh to come on a couple of the missions, although most of them were relatively quiet.
His toughest combat assignment was in Afghanistan when the small unit on patrol that he was attached to came under attack and was forced into a defensive position between two mountains. They never knew the exact number of enemy combatants facing them, but from the rate of fire Rosenberg had estimated that somewhere between 120 and 150 fighters had converged on the spot after the first few hours of the fight.
Their radio operator had been killed in the initial assault, and it took an enterprising Apache pilot to start searching for them off the usual trails. In the hours that they were pinned down by enemy fire, Rosenberg kept his cool and returned fire when he had a clear target and generally tried to keep his head on straight. The Apache pilot managed to scatter some of the closest fighters and call in an air strike, which to this day was etched in Rosenberg’s memory like a still photograph.
The four F-15s roared across the valley and dropped a mixture of ordnance that was so explosive it sucked the air out of his lungs for a moment. The few trees and exposed boulders were vaporized instantly.
He stepped out from behind cover and looked out over a barren valley, knowing no one had survived the air strike. But he was never scared.
At this moment, he had to admit he was in a panic. He had just found one of his best friend’s phone number on the toll records of a suspected terrorist. He had gone through dozens of potential explanations, and none of them panned out in his brain. His next thought was that if he found these records, someone else would be onto them very soon as well. He doubted the FBI would waste much time in tracking down Bill Shepherd, and Rosenberg’s fear was that they wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. Exactly like what had happened with Derek Walsh. It was this mistrust of the premier federal law enforcement agency that had Rosenberg incapacitated with fear. He had nowhere to turn.
He checked the toll records again and saw that Shepherd had called the number and the number had called Shepherd at least nine times in the past month. This wasn’t just a wrong number.
He looked up at the clock. Now it was nearly nine o’clock, which made it about three in Germany. He didn’t know if he could wait much longer.
32
Derek Walsh sat at a long table and finished off his third turkey sandwich while Charlie parked himself across the table like a guard dog, keeping the other residents from getting too close while he ate. The shelter was just five large rooms that used to be a grocery store. The first room was a welcome center that allowed visitors a respite from the cold or heat of New York and offered water and snacks all day. The second room was for overnight visitors and had six picnic tables that would hold a total of thirty-six residents. The third and fourth rooms were male dorms with a single cot for each resident, and the last room was for female residents and held up to eight women. Showers and bathrooms were attached to each dorm. The place was clean and ran smoothly.
A TV in the corner of the room played a local New York newscast, which was covering the explosion that had killed two people in Brooklyn. Right now all anyone knew was that the FBI had entered an apartment and the result was two dead people and the evacuation of the building while they searched for hidden explosives. Of course everyone assumed it was some sort of terrorism investigation. The most persistent speculation was that it was tied to the terror bombing of the Whitehall subway station that killed nine people. The city was in an uproar.
Walsh looked up at the screen and recognized the street he had run down to escape. Every person the TV station interviewed on the street had a Russian accent, and every one of them had some comment about Muslims moving into the neighborhood being why things like this happened.
It was true that blood was thicker than water, and every ethnic group tended to protect its own and blame someone else. The Russians used this to great effect, making their organized crime apparatuses extraordinarily difficult for the police to infiltrate. Walsh had read a number of articles about how the Russians had not integrated into society as much as other groups, and one of the theories about why was that it was difficult to tell a Russian from an American just walking down the street. They didn’t face the pressure of other ethnic groups to conform.
Walsh’s personal experience told him it might have something to do with their ruthlessness as well.
Charlie said, “I won’t ask you any questions about what happened, but by the way you keep watching the TV, I’m guessing that explosion had some
thing to do with you.”
“I should have it all cleared up by tomorrow.”
“That’s what you said two days ago.”
“That seems like a lifetime.”
Charlie chuckled and said, “I hope you at least learned something from all this. That’s the only reason God puts us through all these tests.”
Walsh thought about the older man’s comment as he glanced around the room at the other homeless people. He had learned quite a bit. He would never complain about a job or apartment again. He no longer regretted that he had not seen much combat in the marines. Half the men in the room were veterans. It wasn’t like half the U.S. population was veterans, especially here in New York, where they had one of the lowest rates of military recruitment in the country. These were issues he had never considered before. Combat had greatly affected these men and the way they dealt with other people. It was as if an entire generation of heroes had failed to assimilate back into society. Walsh had no idea how to fix the problem. But he would no longer ignore it.
Charlie said, “You look like shit.”
“In this case, looks are not deceiving.”
“You think a good night’s sleep will help? Me and some of the boys can stand watch if it would make you feel better.”
For the first time since any of this had happened, Walsh felt safe. He could trust his brothers in the military to look after him. Tomorrow he’d call Mike Rosenberg and explain everything that had happened. Maybe by then Rosenberg would have made some progress on his end.
*
Anton Severov paced back and forth as tanks fell into position. A young lieutenant, who wore his hair slightly too long and had an urban accent from Moscow, jogged up to Severov and saluted.
Severov didn’t have the energy to ask any questions; he just looked at the younger man.
The younger man said, “Our jump-off time has been delayed, Major. The colonel would like you to meet him in his command tent in forty-five minutes.”
Severov looked up at the sky as the rising sun illuminated the light clouds. Their plan was to be across the border before dawn. Now he wondered if they’d get across before lunch. In fact, he still wondered if it was a good idea to even try this.
Finally Severov nodded his head in dismissal of the young man. He walked down the line of three T-90s with their engines idling and their crews making last-minute adjustments. He was truly torn. He had spent the last decade wanting to engage NATO in a major tank battle. He envied the Israelis who got a chance to kick some ass every couple of years when someone in the Middle East had a memory lapse and forgot what it was like to go up against a professional army. On the other hand, Severov’s recent trip through Estonia reminded him of the collateral damage that would occur once the shooting started. The idea of smashing ancient villages to gain a tactical advantage on NATO troops didn’t appeal to him.
He also thought of Fannie Legat. If they didn’t cross the border, he’d have a very difficult time seeing her again. At least as long as he held Amir on this side of the border, there was one less thing that threatened her.
A sergeant sitting on top of one tank called out to him. “We’re all ready to go, Major. Any idea what time they’ll take us off the leash?”
Severov stepped closer and shouted over the sound of the idling tank. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up for an early departure, Anatoly. My bet is this wolfhound stays on the leash for a while longer.” He looked up and down the line of tanks and the trucks assigned to him, then back at the burly sergeant. “Grab six good men with rifles and keep patrolling this line of tanks on both sides until we’re ready to go. Can you do that?”
The sergeant hopped down onto the ground and faced the taller officer. “Are you still worried about the Chechens, Major?”
“I worry about everything. That’s my job.”
*
It was almost midnight in Brooklyn as Joseph Katazin sat on the closed seat of the toilet in his upstairs bathroom, assessing his injuries. Surprisingly, considering there had been gunfire and a grenade blast, the only thing that really bothered him was his ankle. Then he twisted quickly and realized his ribs still hurt as well. This was not how he pictured his later years as a deep-cover spy in the United States. What happened to his idea of sipping fine whisky with a cultured contact who told him about the inner workings of the Pentagon? But this was real life and these were real injuries. And they hurt.
He wrapped an Ace bandage tightly around his ankle and swallowed four aspirin. As he sat and looked over the vanity to see the cuts on his forehead and across his nose in the mirror, his wife pulled the door opened slowly. The action made him jump.
She had a heavy bathrobe pulled tight around her ample body. “What are you doing at this hour?”
“I took a tumble at the office and hurt my ankle.” He was shocked to see a look of concern on his wife’s face as she opened the door all the way and stepped in to inspect his first aid. As she leaned over and looked at the bandage he said, “It’s nothing, really.”
She switched her attention to his head and touched one of the fresh abrasions. “Did you fall off the loading dock?”
“Yes, I wasn’t paying attention and stepped off backwards. My ribs are a little sore, too.”
His wife reached into the medicine cabinet, pulled out a bottle of peroxide and poured some onto a cotton ball, and started to dab the cuts.
A few seconds later his daughter appeared in the doorway like an apparition. Fear spread across her face as she said, “What happened? Daddy, are you all right?”
He held out his arms, and she ran over to him. He looked into her sleepy eyes and said, “Just a little accident. I’m fine.” He brushed the hair out of her face and felt her forehead to make sure her fever had not returned.
The girl said, “Did you hear about the explosion?”
“On the way to Brighton Beach? Yes, I heard.”
His wife said, “The news said it might be terrorists living in an apartment, but those Russians would never let Muslims move into one of their buildings.”
“Not everyone is as closed-minded about new neighbors as you think. It sounds like a reasonable explanation to me.”
His wife moved the bloody towel that he had been using earlier, and instantly he remembered why he had set it on the counter. She stepped back and said, “Why do you have a gun in here?”
Could this night get any more frustrating?
*
Severov was surprised to see two command vehicles parked outside the colonel’s tent. He took a moment to straighten his uniform before he stepped up to the guard at the front and identified himself. The guard was not from any of his units and snapped to attention as if he were at a tourist spot in Moscow showing off for the European visitors.
Severov stepped past the man and immediately came to attention when he saw the commanding general standing next to his portly colonel.
The colonel turned, smiled, and said, “At ease, Anton.” Once Severov relaxed his stance, the colonel said, “The general was just commenting on what an excellent job you did scouting the route.”
“Thank you, sir.” He still stared straight ahead instead of engaging the superior officers.
Now the general stepped toward him. He was about the same age as the colonel but clearly did not have the same tendencies toward overindulging in food and drink. He was an athletic man with broad shoulders in his midfifties. His short hair was graying at the temples, and he had the look of a combat veteran. His uniform was neat and boots well polished.
The general said, “We’re still going into Estonia, Major. We’re just doing it a little later than we thought. Right now we expect our jump-off point to be about 1100 hours local time.”
Severov made no comment, although apparently his expression changed slightly, because the general said, “You may speak freely, Major. You don’t like our idea?”
Severov turned toward the battle-hardened general and said, “Sir, with respect, why would we wait? The
longer we stage, the greater the chance of someone noticing us.”
“We’re not concerned by that, Comrade Major. The best NATO can do is try to turn some of our Chechen recruits against us.”
Severov decided not to mention his contribution to the angry Muslim recruits in the ranks. He did say, “The little revolt has made the men jumpy and suspicious.”
Now the general stepped close to him and said, “Have you ever met Vladimir Putin?”
“No, sir.”
“I worked with him several different times. He is a great leader for our country and arrived on the scene at exactly the right moment. He is not a man I’m about to tell that the Russian military cannot handle unruly Muslims, then roll into a virtually defenseless country and take it over before NATO can mount a counterattack.”
“So we go?”
“It’s taking longer to stage, but it will happen. You can count on being in Estonia by noon and at the far border by sometime tomorrow. If the route is as easy as you said in your report, we will have no problem rolling our tanks at high speed. I doubt the little notice they have of us gathering on this side of the border gave anyone time to plant land mines or IEDs.”
The general stepped over and put his hand on Severov’s shoulder. “This military operation is part of a much more ambitious plan, Major. All the news you’ve been reading from the West about financial crisis and terror attacks is accurate. These were planned and directed by Russian operatives working closely with jihadists. The idea was to distract the U.S. and Europe while we make another land grab. We need a forward operating base in Europe, and Estonia fits in nicely with our plans. It also has an excellent infrastructure for telecommunications. All of this will help us as we regain our status in the world.”
Severov had already figured all this out. He blurted, “Is the extra land and infrastructure worth a war?”
The general chuckled. “Who would fight for Estonia? Latvia? No, I think NATO will put up some token resistance and then roll over. It will be just like the West’s complaints about Crimea. Americans pay little attention to Eastern Europe. We’ll roll south with little problem.” The general took a seat on a field stool near a desk.
