Duncan cursed the heavy traffic as he drove south out of Warsaw and it took him an hour to reach Konstancin. After flailing around in the dark trying to find the address, he asked a teenage boy for directions. Much to his surprise, the address was across the street from a dingy yellow army barracks located in the heart of the suburb. He turned into a gated drive and was greeted by a Caucasian shepherd, a huge shaggy gray watchdog. A middle-aged woman came out, tethered the dog, and opened the gate.
Inside, another woman was waiting for him. “I’m sorry but the apartment has been rented,” she said. “I’m not sure you would want it.” She gestured across the street at the barracks. “In the old days girls worked here servicing them.” Duncan almost laughed. The house was a CIA listening post that had been a brothel. She held out her hand and he gave her the slip of paper with the phone number. The way the number was written was his entree. “Forget this number and address.” He nodded and she spoke in a low voice. “The SPS compound at Kutno will be attacked tonight by the Russians. We’re not sure of the exact time or how.”
Again, Duncan nodded. He glanced at his watch. Where could he find Jerzy Fedor at this hour to pass on the warning?
“Do not contact Fedor,” the woman said, anticipating his next move. “He may be compromised.” Duncan reached for his phone to call the SPS. She reached out and stopped him. “Don’t. They’re monitoring the phones at the SPS.”
“Oh, shit.” Duncan ran for his car.
Ewa was still at work at six-thirty that same evening, wading through the paperwork that had piled up on her desk while she was out with Duncan. The last item was a big envelope from the Ministry of Culture and Tourism. She carefully opened it and read the cover letter. Suddenly, the long, frustrating day turned wonderful, full of promise. She reached for the phone and hit the speed-dial button.
“Pontowski,” the familiar voice answered.
“This is Ewa. I have a most interesting letter from the Polish government. They’re offering you a chance to visit your family cottage that has been restored as a tourist attraction. Of course, there will be some photographers at the cottage for publicity, but other than that, you’ll be free to explore your heritage.”
“I didn’t know there was a Pontowski cottage. Grandpop only said we were descended from good, lusty, peasant stock.”
“Then it must be a farmhouse,” Ewa told him.
“Where is it?”
She checked the letter. “It’s near Jankowice on the Vistula River. I don’t know where that is. But you”—she almost said we—“will be staying in Krakow. So it must be near there. You’ll love Krakow. It’s a very pretty city, even in winter.”
“Sounds good. Do I get an interpreter or guide?”
“I’ll check into it,” Ewa promised.
Bethesda, Maryland
The doors leading into the Bethesda Naval Medical Center swung open and the waiting reporters and cameramen waiting outside automatically stepped forward. Just as quickly, they stepped back when Maddy Turner came out. The respectful hush lasted three steps. “Madame President,” a reporter asked, breaking the silence, “how’s your mother?” Turner stopped as more questions were shouted at her.
“She’s stable. The doctors are very optimistic.”
Another question from the back carried over the crowd. The speaker had a deep baritone voice that carried weight and could not be ignored. “Was it because of the photograph?”
Turner didn’t answer at first and fixed the reporter with a hard look. Maura was a tough, savvy woman who knew how the system worked and it was only a matter of time before the doctored photos were published in the U.S. More important, Maura had a history of minor heart problems. But for Turner, it was a moment a politician lives for. It was an opportunity to beat up the media. “I can tell you she was very upset.” Her words came faster, building in momentum. “My God, the woman’s sixty-eight years old. She didn’t deserve this.” Just as quickly, the storm passed and she was in control. “But did that cause her heart attack? I don’t know.”
The deep baritone questioner was back. “Then you don’t hold the press responsible?”
The sharp look on her face said more than any words. But her answer was calm. “I like to think that the media and I have the same moral values. Joe Litton will have a statement in your hands within the hour.” She walked toward the waiting cars.
“Madame President,” a woman said, her voice cracking, “please give our best to your mother. Our prayers are with her.”
Patrick Shaw was waiting for her in the presidential limousine. The president’s departure from the hospital had been as carefully staged as a Broadway production and he was pleased. The reporter with the deep voice he planted had triggered the answers he wanted. But Patrick Shaw was still a very worried man.
Maddy climbed in and sat down. She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. “She’s fine. It was a minor attack.”
The iron bands around Shaw’s heart eased. “That was a perfect exit, Madame President. You held them by the neck and kicked them where it did the most good.”
“I’m not finished yet. Those bastards are going to learn to play by the rules.”
The bands were back, clamping Shaw’s heart.
Near Bialystok, Poland
The operator on duty in the bunker at the Crown East radar site was like a child with a new toy; he couldn’t keep his hands off the controls of the new TPS-59 radar. Unbidden, his right hand rolled the control ball until the cursor was over the only target on the screen. He pressed the ball to the first detent and the computer displayed a wealth of information. The aircraft was a Russian Antonov-124 transport. The huge cargo plane was the Russian answer to the Americans’ C-5 Galaxy and was rarely seen outside Russia, much less at night. The operator checked the flight plan. The Antonov was on a routine mission and not one of the troublesome diplomatic flights.
He tracked the westbound aircraft as it flew past Warsaw. He almost called the tactical threat officer when the aircraft slowed to 140 knots ground speed. But when it remained at 32,000 feet and on the same heading, he changed his mind. The crazy Russkies were probably having mechanical problems.
Near Kutno, Poland
The six-man crew on the Antonov-124 were warm and comfortable on the fully pressurized upper deck. On command, the flight engineer depressurized the cargo deck and closely monitored the cabin’s pressure as the rear cargo doors opened. The pilot felt the big aircraft pitch up slightly as the ninety-four men in the rear bailed out. He readjusted the trim while the cargo doors closed and the copilot pushed the throttles back up to cruise speed.
Outside, the jumpers deployed their highly modified parachutes, checked their oxygen for the long descent, and clapped their hands to stay warm in the freezing night air. Thanks to the small Global Positioning System receiver each man carried, they had no trouble steering for the target fifteen miles away. The lead man checked the big watch strapped to the emergency chute on his chest. They would be on the ground in twenty-one minutes.
The commander of the SPS was caged fury when Duncan told him about the impending attack. But he was far too professional to act rashly. He glanced at his watch: almost midnight. “They’ll be monitoring us, if they’re any good.”
“Assume they’re good,” Duncan replied. “If the attackers are in place, activity in the compound will key the attack. If the attackers are still moving into position, activity will probably force an abort.”
The commander uttered a fine Polish profanity. “They’ll go for the communications center first. Unfortunately, most of my people here are cadets. My instructors have taught them ‘silent alert’ procedures but we’ve never practiced it.” He studied the clock on the wall for a moment and made his decision. “We still have some time.” He picked up the phone and set the alert in motion.
The communications center responded first. The duty officer prepared an attack message and opened a line to the Army’s central command post. The two sergeant
s on duty secured the bunker doors and opened the weapons safe. Inside the barracks, two instructors moved silently from bed to bed waking cadets. The commands were simple. No lights and no noise. Wear battle fatigues, vests, and helmets. Stay low and gather by the door. On command, run for the armory and draw your weapon. Go to a defensive position as instructed. This is not a drill.
Duncan followed the commander to the armory where they had to wait for a weapons custodian. It seemed an eternity before the sergeant arrived. The commander told Duncan to stay and help pass out weapons until more custodians arrived, then join him in the command post. The commander was issued a side arm and a Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine gun. A smooth bolt action and long silencer made it the perfect weapon for close-in fighting. Then he disappeared into the night. Duncan felt the tension slowly coil like a spring being wound up.
The first batch of cadets piled through the door and were rapidly issued weapons. An instructor sent them to guard the command post and the communications center. “Try not to do yourself any injury,” he said, motioning them into the night. He swore when they collided with the next group of arriving cadets. Two more weapons custodians arrived and Duncan was issued a side arm, vest, and helmet before he too left for the command post.
Outside, he paused for a moment to let his eyes adapt to the night. He wished he had night-vision goggles, but the limited number available were going to squad leaders. The third group of cadets ran past him, heading for the armory. Duncan took a deep breath as primeval instinct emerged from its hidden niche. Adrenaline surged through him and he was more alert and alive than he had been in years. He looked around, now fully accustomed to the night. Instinctively, he looked up. Four dark shadows drifted across the darkened sky.
Parachutists! Duncan raged to himself. His heart raced as the shadows passed overhead and drifted over the trees south of the compound. For a moment, he couldn’t move, frozen with fear. He had never been trained for this type of combat and it was totally beyond him. Run! he told himself. Another thought came to him. These are my friends. I’ve got to warn them. He ran for the command post.
A cadet stopped him with a challenge. “I don’t know the fuckin’ password,” he growled. “Look up.” The cadet did as two more shadows passed overhead. “Those are parachutes. Pass the warning.” The cadet ran into the command post and the heavy steel door banged shut, stranding Duncan outside. “Ah, shit,” he moaned, his fear back. Another dark shadow drifted over, this time much closer to the ground, obviously about to land. Duncan crouched in the shadows as the parachutist touched down. The man gave a little grunt on impact, his feet protesting in pain after the long exposure to the cold. He expertly collapsed his parachute, his back to Duncan.
Duncan never hesitated. He glided across the thirty feet separating them as he drew his weapon. He held the automatic low on his waist as he poked the rigid forefinger of his left hand against the man’s neck, just below his left ear. “Freeze, asshole.”
The man’s reactions were quick and sure, the result of years of training and conditioning. He whirled on Duncan as his left arm came around in a sweeping motion. His right foot was a blur as he aimed a kick at Duncan. Normally, it would have been all over. But adrenaline was still pumping through the American and he stepped back, rattlesnake quick, avoiding the kick. The man was almost as quick and his knife was out, a blur coming at Duncan.
Duncan shot him in the stomach.
The single shot echoed over the compound and into the trees. The loud shriek of a mortar round echoed back. Duncan grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him toward the command post. The mortar round tore into the first barracks and exploded, sending a bright pulse of light over the compound. In that split second more than forty cadets were framed, some running for the armory, others away. Round after round pounded the compound, killing and wounding cadets caught in the open. Duncan was also caught in the open and he rolled under the body he was dragging, the only protection available. Shrapnel tore into the dead body, but he was safe.
As quickly as it started, the barrage stopped. Shrieks of pain and cries for help shattered the sudden silence. Duncan knew what was coming next and scrambled to his feet. He was a mess, caked with blood-soaked dirt but unhurt. He dragged the body the last few feet to the command post and banged on the steel door. “I’ve got one of the bastards!” he yelled in English.
Duncan’s adrenaline rush crashed just as men dashed from the nearby trees, firing on the run. The distinctive rattle of AK-47s filled the air, filling him with terror. Duncan fell to the ground and fumbled with the AK-47 still strapped to the dead parachutist’s side. The buckles were unfamiliar and it took a moment to free the weapon. He worked furiously as a sapper reached the door of the command post, unaware that Duncan was only a few feet away. The sapper planted an explosive charge against the door as Duncan came to his feet and charged the AK-47. He squeezed off a short burst and cut the sapper down before he could set the detonator.
Duncan fell to the ground and rolled into a deep shadow as more men charged into the compound. But it was only a matter of moments before one of the attackers spotted him through night-vision goggles. He was as good as dead and knew it. An uncontrollable rage claimed him. He came to his feet and emptied the AK-47. He slapped another clip into the weapon and kept firing. He never saw the grenade rolling across the ground toward him.
Duncan’s fire had delayed the attackers long enough for six cadets to move into position and block the attackers from moving past the command post. For a few moments, the firefight hinged on the low concrete structure and the attackers were unable to move past it. Finally, another sapper reached the door and set the detonator. A cadet poked his submachine gun around the corner and cut him down before he could retreat to safety. A blast knocked the heavy door off its hinges and an assault team of four men rushed inside the darkened bunker.
But the command post was empty. The commander of the SPS had ordered its evacuation through an escape hatch in the rear wall. Contrary to popular belief, night-vision goggles do not work in total darkness and the four men were essentially blind. One of them lifted his goggles and flicked on a flashlight. He saw the escape hatch in time to see four grenades tumble out. The last thing he heard before the explosion was the hatch clanging shut.
Flames from the burning barracks cast an eerie light over the compound as the firefight dissolved into chaos. There was no coordination, just pockets of resistance fighting for their lives. Suddenly, a helicopter flew across the compound at full speed. It made no attempt to slow or turn. But it was enough.
A series of frantic radio calls demanded to know if there were more helicopters inbound. Lacking an answer, an assault team trying to flank the command post withdrew to the trees. In itself, it was a trickle. But the team next in line stopped advancing, made a radio call, and finding they were on the flank, decided to withdraw. That was when the SPS commander ordered a counterattack by the twelve cadets on the opposite side of the compound. The trickle turned into a stream and the attackers were in full retreat, rushing for the trees.
Part of the equation for genius in military leadership is knowing when to exploit an advantage, willingness to sacrifice lives, and having the force of personality to make it happen. The commander of the SPS keyed his radio and calmly ordered his cadets to counterattack, driving the last of the invaders into the trees. The fighting was hand-to-hand and vicious as the cadets avenged their fallen comrades. Finally, they broke through to the fields on the other side of the trees.
Another part of the equation is knowing when to stop. The commander listened as the gunfire withered away. Satisfied he had a defensible perimeter, he ordered the cadets to stand and hold. The battle was over.
“Sir,” a cadet said, “we found Mr. Duncan.” The young man led the commander to the side of the command post. The fragmentation grenade had turned the body into a bloody pulp, almost unrecognizable. The cadet threw up. The commander waited patiently, remembering his first firefight
. “The American did well. Look.” He counted the bodies. “He gave us warning and killed seven of our enemies. The man was a friend.”
The commander looked at the burning barracks and the carnage around him. Half of his cadets had been killed or wounded. The body count for the attackers stood at twenty-six and was going higher. “This is not a victory, only a warning.” He pulled out his cell phone and called Jerzy Fedor. They had to talk immediately.
TWENTY-SIX
Outside Moscow
The commander’s balcony overlooking the operations center appealed to Vashin’s pleasure in heights and gave him the overview he craved. Yet, it was not so far removed to put him out of touch. The trim army colonel took the main stage, holding a long, old-fashioned wooden pointer. He jabbed at the large scale chart of the SPS compound on the sliding wallboard directly behind him.
“Our forces have successfully withdrawn as planned. The trucks are now en route to Belarus and should cross the border at first light. The border guards have been bribed and there will be no trouble.”
Vashin liked the colonel’s optimism. He reached for the microphone clipped to the side of his seat. “Casualties?” he asked. His voice echoed over the operations center with a tinny, harsh sound.
The colonel shrugged. “Does it matter? We achieved our objective. The SPS no longer exists as a functional unit.”
Vashin accepted the colonel’s logic and stood to leave. The generals rose as one, a fraction of a second behind him. The constant deference they paid Vashin, their total subservience, were survival techniques born of desperation when Stalin ruled, refined under Khrushchev, institutionalized during Brezhnev’s regime, and almost forgotten when Gorbachev tried to reform the system. Instinctively, the generals saw in Vashin a new Stalin and reverted to the submissiveness that had worked so well in the past. “Your positioning of the blocking force was masterful,” one of them said. “They were able to stop a counterattack which saved the operation. You are to be commended, sir.” The other generals nodded in unison.
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