by Lou Dobbs
He was about halfway to the Humvee when he heard the first shot from behind him.
*
Fannie had been shocked at the quick and decisive action from the U.S. Marine major. It reminded her of all the propaganda she had ever seen or read about the U.S. Marines being the finest fighting force in the world. Maybe it was true. She also wondered how he became suspicious. It appeared that someone had called him with information, because he’d been walking to meet her and then slowed. His facial expressions gave away everything she needed to know. Now she wasn’t sure what would happen. Her grand plan of destroying the front gate of the base was ruined. Her only hope for the cause was that the death of an officer near the base would sow seeds of concern among the troops. Perhaps they could use the bomb in some other way.
She had sought cover in the cement walls of an outdoor stairway. She fired one round to the area of the courtyard where the major had jumped. There were heavy planters filled with soil and growing a variety of plants and bushes. When she peeked around the corner ten seconds later, she saw the major pop out from behind one of the planters and fire three times toward the street. She didn’t know if he hit anything, but he clearly was uninjured and still capable of defending himself.
For a brief moment, Fannie considered cutting her losses and fleeing. She was much too valuable to the organization to waste her skills, skills no one else possessed, by being killed or captured trying to kill a single U.S. military officer. Then she got hold of herself. She would never be able to face misogynists in her group who already thought women were weak. She could blow up a hundred banks and they would never give her credit for being cold and tough. If she ran now she would never hear the end of it. Besides, she had gone into this part of the operation without any authorization or acknowledgment from her superiors. They thought she and Amir were still acting as guides for Anton Severov. The Russian major was another reason she wanted to hurt the Americans. She would do anything to protect him. Fate was cruel and mischievous.
She peeked around the cement stairwell again just as the major moved from his position and ran toward the big, ugly military vehicle. She jumped out and started running behind him, still ten meters away. In front of the big vehicle she could see the body of one of her men crumpled on the ground. Why would the major risk himself like this?
Fannie fired once on the run and watched as a bullet flew wildly to the left. She thought it hit the vehicle, but she wasn’t certain. The major didn’t even look over his shoulder. He was focused on the other man, who was now emerging from the side of the truck with the satchel around his side and a small Italian machine gun up and ready to fire.
Her man was distracted when he saw Fannie running behind his target. It was clear he wasn’t confident all of the bullets would go just where he aimed. She watched as the major dove for cover behind a low, decorative brick wall. Fannie kept running toward him, knowing she would have an opportunity to shoot at him unobstructed as he sought cover from the machine gun. Just as she was about to reach the angle from which she could fire at him behind the low wall, Fannie saw the major sit up and shoot four times at the man with the machine gun and the satchel on a strap around his shoulder.
Almost immediately she realized the bullets could detonate the homemade explosives in the satchel. Before she could stop and line up a shot on the major, who was behind the wall again, a flash in the street blinded her; then she heard the explosion at almost the same time the shock wave carried the intense heat across her face and body. Her blouse began to melt across her arms, and she felt her long hair sizzle. Then the blast itself knocked her off her feet.
Even in her dazed condition as she tried to scramble for whatever cover she could find, she realized the second blast was the fuel tank from the military vehicle going up. It was even more powerful than the first explosion.
The heat, sound, and force of the detonation sucked the air out of her lungs as she clung to the wooden bench she’d crawled behind. She wondered if this was what hell would feel like.
37
Walsh froze as he stared at Charlie holding the gun on the FBI agent. There were too many ways this could turn to tragedy. Despite his appearance, Charlie was a combat veteran who knew his way around guns and had already proven he could act under stress. He had overpowered Serge Blattkoff. Walsh didn’t want to think what he could do now that he had a pistol in his hand.
For her part, Tonya Stratford remained calm, even though she had not dropped the pistol from her hand. He didn’t want either one of these people hurt. He had seen enough bloodshed in the last twenty-four hours.
Walsh held up both hands, trying to avoid panic while telling Charlie this was not what he wanted to happen. “Just calm down, Charlie. She and I were talking. She’s going to help me.”
Charlie shifted his bloodshot eyes to the FBI agent and mumbled, “Is that true?”
She nodded her head slowly.
Charlie looked back to Walsh, who reinforced it by lowering his hands. He started to breathe a sigh of relief as Charlie lowered the gun, but he kept his eyes on Agent Stratford, who didn’t know Charlie the way he did. Suddenly the idea of the older veteran being shot by a federal agent terrified him. Walsh took a quick step and stood in front of Charlie, then reached down and plucked the gun from his hand. He immediately turned and handed it to Agent Stratford, butt first.
Walsh looked Agent Stratford in the eyes and saw the decision-making process running through her head. He knew that if someone pointed a gun at a federal agent, that person generally went to jail on some charge. Then Agent Stratford took the gun and let out a frustrated sigh. Walsh relaxed because he knew even an experienced FBI agent would have a difficult time arresting a homeless man who’d served his country in combat.
Now the question was how she felt about his status as a former military man and if she believed his story.
*
Joseph Katazin quietly got dressed, careful not to give his wife an excuse to leave the bed. He had considered the information she’d figured out a thousand different ways and recognized that to follow operational security he would have to eliminate her. He kept thinking of the practical aspects of disposing of her body. Now that he was faced with the need to do it, he had to consider the consequences. It was no longer a game where he was liberated from a tyrant; now he was wondering if his loyalty to Russia could make him murder a woman he had lived with for fifteen years. The mother of his daughter. A woman who, while suspicious and nagging, had done nothing to deserve something like this.
He glanced over at the bed and realized she remained stiff because she was thinking the exact same thing. He didn’t believe she had figured out his actual plans and position in the Russian government, but she knew he was involved in some dangerous shit. The stereotype of the Russian mobster wasn’t completely wrong. Like the Italians when they first moved to the United States and had the cover of a foreign language as well as a tight-knit community, the Russians had found profit in illegal activity. The law enforcement officials of the United States had a difficult time infiltrating the Russian mob. It was easy to think anyone with an accent was involved in criminal activity. Why should Katazin’s wife be any different?
Once he was dressed and had pulled on his most comfortable shoes around a swollen foot and sore ankle, Katazin retrieved his Beretta from the dresser drawer. He held it in his right hand as he stared down at the lump under the covers of his bed. He could hear a slight whimper and realized his wife knew exactly what was happening.
This was not how he thought he’d feel. This was not the cold calculated decision he believed he could make. But she could destroy everything he worked for and send the police on a trail that could derail years of work. He was even surprised when he felt a tear well up in his left eye and run down his cheek along the tiny crater of his scar.
*
Just outside the border town of Narva, Estonia, Anton Severov had the driver pull off to the side of the narrow thoroughfare so he could sit i
n the top of the cupola and watch the vehicles move smoothly along the road. It was hard to believe he was acting like a tourist here just a few days ago and was now part of a giant convoy of combat and supply vehicles.
He had just seen the start of a train with three locomotives pulling a line of cars that carried everything from ammunition to tanks. Earlier he had seen a train of tankers filled with fuel. Each stretched as far as he could see. Kilometers.
It was incredible. No one had seen movement like that since World War II. He was in one of five lines of tanks and troops moving south. Each force contained more than forty tanks and a hundred support vehicles and personnel carriers. Someone had confidence that they could stop any large-scale NATO air strikes.
The ground shook with the movement of the vehicles, and it filled him with awe. This was what he had dreamed about since his first days in the army. The minor skirmishes with the Muslim rebels were not a proper place for heavy armor and tanks. This was a mission that called for skilled tank commanders. He just wished he had more confidence in the overall plan.
The general had shown unusual trust by telling him what was going on and the purposes of the operation. Any idiot could figure out Russia was looking for more land and President Putin was ambitious, but the idea of gaining a foothold in Europe made sense if NATO didn’t object too strenuously. He was just a soldier and followed orders. It was rare to get a glimpse inside the command staff’s thinking. Somehow it made him feel more enthusiastic about the operation.
The residents of Narva were gathering on the sidewalks to watch the parade that passed by without a word. Overhead, four scout helicopters were fanning out ahead of the column. The plan for any operation like this was to get as many of the ground forces across the border as possible before putting too many aircraft above them. The theory was that radar would have a much more difficult time picking up low-flying helicopters than supersonic jets. The U.S. satellite reconnaissance would show the movement of troops, but the Russian high command was counting on the delay in the satellite and then the warning to NATO. The theory was that a quick crossing over the undefended Narva River would allow a strong foothold in Estonia should NATO and the U.S. react more aggressively than anyone anticipated.
Severov was satisfied that everything was secure and was feeling good about his job scouting Estonia. He had been so worried about the events of the night before that he hadn’t thought about Fannie much as they prepared to depart. He would call her this evening when they were a hundred and fifty miles inside Estonia. He liked the idea of someone worrying about what could happen to him.
Just as he was thinking about the beautiful French Muslim, a truck carrying troops rumbled along the road slowly, and his eye caught the scowling face of one man at the very rear of the truck, sitting on the hard wooden bench.
It was Amir.
*
The scene outside the café was gruesome. Blood was splashed along the concrete, windows broken by gunfire. Scorch marks from the blast radiated out in all directions as the police held onlookers at a safe distance. The Germans were not used to scenes like this on their streets, at least not since the 1940s. The firefight had been quick and brutal, but Major Bill Shepherd was unharmed and relieved to see that there were no casualties among bystanders. The German police had responded with astounding speed and efficiency and immediately realized that the two men Shepherd had killed by his vehicle were on a watch list for terrorists. One of the men was difficult to identify because the large, homemade C-4 device in his satchel had not only destroyed the Humvee but had scattered the terrorist over a blast radius of about forty feet.
Now officials from the base as well as Shepherd’s commanding officer were on the scene, and they were arguing about the need to question the major right now. Shepherd had overheard one of the police officers telling his commanding officer in English that it looked like the terrorist had detonated the device in the satchel himself, which made sense, but somehow was not as satisfying as Shepherd’s idea of combat.
No one had found any sign of Fannie Legat. Shepherd told them where he had last seen her and the direction she was running when the bomb detonated. She was much closer to it than he was and had no cover. That led to the theory that she had been killed and some of the body parts spread across the road were hers.
At this point, Shepherd didn’t care. There would be some questions about his connection to her, but the fact that he had never gotten intimate with her and she had tried to kill him should reassure everyone that he was not part of some complex conspiracy.
More and more personnel arrived to clean up the scene and find out what was going on. Then he saw all the U.S. military officers on their phones at the same time. That was never a good sign.
His CO turned and walked directly to him, pushing past a German police investigator who wanted to talk to Shepherd.
The marine colonel said, “Are you doing all right, Major?”
Shepherd nodded his head and stood up to show that he wasn’t even shaky after the event.
The colonel said, “Good, because the balloon just went up. Russians have crossed the Estonian border in force, and we need all hands on deck. We’ll square it with the locals. But you need to come back with me and get your units ready to move. I want you out in the field directing your platoons of marines as we try to stop those sons of bitches before they can annex the whole country.”
Shepherd couldn’t help but wonder if this attack and the Russian incursion were somehow connected.
*
In his bedroom, Joseph Katazin kept his hand on the butt of the Beretta 9 mm sitting in his waistband. He knew his wife was wide awake even though the room was still quite dark. He said in a low, calm voice, “It’s time to get up, dear. I need you to give me a ride to the office.” Once he had her out of the house he could figure out what had to be done.
The figure on the bed stirred slowly, then pushed the blanket off. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked over her shoulder. It was something Katazin had never seen. She was scared.
He waited patiently while she got dressed. After a few minutes she paused at the bathroom door and said, “I have to wake up Irina.”
“Why?”
“We can’t just leave her alone at home. She’s only a little girl.”
“It won’t take that long. You can be back here before she wakes up.”
The look his wife gave him told Katazin everything he needed to know. She knew she was not coming back to the house. Like any good mother, all she was worried about was her child. She was willing to leave the house without resistance just to make sure her daughter was safe. That struck a chord with Katazin. He still saw no other alternative.
Just as he reached for the knob of the bedroom door, there was a light tap on it from the hallway. He moved his right hand from the pistol and opened the door. His daughter stood in the hallway, the long T-shirt that she always slept in hanging to her knees.
She stepped right past him and walked to her mother, saying, “Mama, my throat hurts again. Will you make me feel better?”
Katazin’s wife stammered as she searched for the right phrase. She clutched the girl in her arms as if she were saying good-bye.
It was at that moment that Joseph Katazin realized he would have to take the risk and let his wife live. There was no telling what was going to happen after today anyway; at least this way there would be someone to take care of his daughter. Even though he knew he would never be able to see either of them again.
He eased down on his right knee and held out his arms, motioning for his daughter to come give him a hug. She squeezed him tight, and he realized how much he was giving up for patriotism. He whispered in her ear, “Mama will take care of you. I have to go to work early today.” He held on to her for a few seconds more, and as he released the hug he said, “Remember that Papa loves you.”
38
Less than two hours after Bill Shepherd had been forced into a firefight with a woman he thought was a fl
irt and her terrorist partners, he was preparing to board a Black Hawk helicopter to be transported to Estonia along with six platoons of marines. They were formulating their combat plans now, but everyone agreed that they couldn’t fight the Russians in Estonia if they were sitting on their asses in Germany.
The briefing in a hangar on the base’s tarmac was businesslike and efficient. A tall, lanky general stood next to a giant screen showing satellite photos of Estonia, then maps. The general even accepted notes as he was speaking. Shepherd knew he was getting intelligence from the CIA, information from live satellite feeds, intelligence from the Defense Department, and comments from his senior staff, all while holding the attention of the forty-two officers in the briefing. The general said, “The bottom line is simple: We’re in a shooting war. I don’t know how serious or for how long, but our orders are to work with the limited Estonian defense force and intercept the Russian force and buy time for more assets to arrive.”
From the crowd of officers someone said, “Sounds like they don’t want another Crimea.”
Someone else said, “Or Hitler.”
That brought some knowing nods from the group. Most good military officers had studied history and knew that if people didn’t change it, history tended to repeat itself.
The general was in no mood for a peanut gallery. Shepherd hung on his every word.
“Right now we know the Russians are moving at least five separate divisions south from the border. Each one has thirty to fifty tanks, antiaircraft support, troops, and supplies. It’s a massive effort. In addition, several trains are under way with follow-on supplies and additional artillery and tanks. If we allow them to get dug in along the southern border, we’ll have a hell of a time knocking them back.”
He looked around for questions. The room was silent. The general continued. “We are loading tanks for a fast move through Poland by rail. We also have fast-moving armor on its way. Air cover is moving into position as well. We are currently evaluating the Russian antiaircraft assets and planes in the area. In short, they caught us completely flat-footed.”
