“What are you? I mean, the way you handled the situation and the thing you did with the knife . . . Are you CIA?”
“No, Jildiz, I’m not. Not the CIA or any other group like that. I’m not a spy.”
“Then what?”
More hesitancy. “It doesn’t matter, Jildiz.”
“Military?”
Amelia didn’t want to waste time arguing. Since she was breaking no laws or orders, she yielded. “I used to be in the Army. Actually, I’m still in the Army but I work as a civilian. I specialize in foreign affairs. Technically, I’m an Army captain, but these days my battlefield is a conference table. I just get to keep my retirement this way.”
“Retirement? Really, retirement?”
“Let’s keep moving.”
“I’ve never seen a diplomat kill two men with a car and knock a thug to the ground.”
“We don’t know the two men are dead.”
Jildiz hiked an eyebrow. She seemed to be breathing easier. “We don’t?”
“Not officially. Let’s go.”
As they started down the alley the sound of angry mobs and police sirens clashed in the thickening air.
MEKLIS OSKONBAEVA WOULD LIKE to have taken time to remember simpler, less stressful days, but he was too busy. When he awoke this morning he knew he would be facing difficult decisions. Such was the nature of his job as president of a country on the edge of self-immolation. By breakfast he had been briefed about rising tensions within his own government and the growing frustrations of his people. By his third cup of tea he had a sense things weren’t right.
When were they? He’d been president for three of his five-year term and a day hadn’t gone by he hadn’t wished he’d traveled to the United States or England to teach history when he had the opportunity. But no. He was infected with a virus that made him feel he owed the country of his birth some help. A lot of help. It was the way of his father who taught him men who believed the world owed them a living couldn’t be trusted, but a man who believed he owed the world something could.
His daughter called earlier in the day to say she would be meeting with American representative Amelia Lennon. Lennon wasn’t the decision maker and he wondered why Jildiz would take the time. Still, the woman was bright and seemed to care about Kyrgyzstan and its people. Of course, she might just be a good actress. She did have one advantage: unlike many ambassadors, including the one operating at the U.S. Embassy on Prospect Mira Street, hers was not a position bought with political contributions. The U.S. Diplomatic Corps was composed of highly trained and dedicated people. That couldn’t be said for the ambassador. Maybe Jildiz saw more in the woman than she did in the man who spoke for the world’s most powerful country. Maybe.
The news of the riots came at lunch. First it was a call from the mayor of Osh and the mayor of Talas, both troubled cities. There were riots and ethnic conflicts there before. Like sparks from an unattended campfire, the blaze spread to Bishkek. Its quick spread made Meklis suspicious. Suspicion came with the job. The number of people he could trust diminished weekly.
Local news broadcasted the carnage on the television stations and it appeared as if the entire country had lost its mind.
“We have news that several police officers have been injured, some seriously.” The report came from Boris Gubuz, his minister of internal security. “That’s in Bishkek. Talas has four confirmed deaths, three police officers, one firefighter. Osh reports about twenty injuries. The hospital emergency rooms are filling up.”
Boris was a good man. Trustworthy, but his age and health limited his days. At seventy-two, he still projected confidence and intelligence flashed in his eyes. It occurred to Meklis he hadn’t seen the man smile in the last two years. Boris was never a drunk, but he was well acquainted with vodka, both domestic and that produced in his family’s homeland of Russia.
Meklis rubbed his chin, striking the perfect blend of dismay, shock, concern, and courage. “Ethnic?”
“Too early to tell, Mr. President, but I suspect some of that is going on. So far the protests have been aimed at government buildings. Osh has seen the worst outbreak. Talas is not far behind.”
“My officers have been able to keep the crowds from growing too large but they are overwhelmed.” Emil Abirov served as chief of police for Bishkek. Normally he would not be in Meklis’s panel of advisers but the situation demanded it. His officers would be the first point of contact with the mobs. They were the first line of defense. “On two occasions we’ve used tear gas. Our goal is to keep the groups under two hundred people in one place. After the last outbreak of violence we undertook a study on mob management and control.”
“How effective has it been so far?” Sariev Dootkasy’s words were low but pointed.
“Not as well as we hoped, Mr. Prime Minister. In the first hour it seemed to go well, but then unexpected results came about.”
“Such as?” Dootkasy pressed.
Abirov cleared his throat and leaned his elbows on the wide conference table. “The principle is this: Large groups—say groups of a thousand or more—become a danger to themselves as well as innocents nearby. A group psyche develops.”
“Mass hysteria?” Meklis asked.
“Not exactly, Mr. President, but the principle is the same. It begins with chanting and marching. Then someone starts shouting insults about the government. Others join in. Inevitably a counter-group forms to protest the protests. More insults. Someone throws a punch; another throws a rock; then come bricks and bottles. In ethnically mixed countries such as ours, a protest against the government becomes a racially or religiously charged one.”
“Our greatest fear,” Meklis said.
The police chief nodded. “One can’t help but think of Rwanda or Serbia. The list is long.”
Prime Minister Dootkasy pushed Abirov to continue. “So by keeping the mobs small you hope to remove the psychological aspect?”
“That was our hope.”
“Is it working?”
“No, Mr. Prime Minister, it is not. It has helped some but as the numbers grow the ability of my officers to divide the group declines. And now we’re seeing too many groups. I do not have enough officers to make the system work, not with a crowd so intent on violence.”
“But we’ve only seen a small number of injuries,” Meklis said.
“I believe that is about to increase.” Abirov sighed. “The smaller groups—let’s call them cells—simply round a city block and meet up with another group. It’s like swatting at hornets. Knock one down and another comes at you.”
“How many do you estimate are in the streets?” Meklis shifted in his seat.
“When I came in to the meeting, we were estimating three thousand.” The chief picked up his cell phone and activated it. He stared at it for a moment. “I was going to ask for an update from my leaders in the field . . . I don’t have a signal.”
As if orchestrated, the half dozen men around the table looked at their phones. No one had a signal. Meklis tapped the intercom button on the conference room phone and called for one of his assistants. “Find out if our cellular system is down.”
“Yes, sir.” The aide was a fresh-faced young man who looked like he should still be in university.
Meklis looked at the landline phone. Something that felt like a small creature gnawed at his stomach. He picked up the receiver and punched a button for an outside line. Nothing. “Phones are out.”
Seated to Meklis’s left sat General Nurbeck Saparaliev. “Excuse me for a moment, Mr. President, Mr. Prime Minister.” He rose and moved to the conference room door and exited. Less than a minute later he returned. “Basic radio communications are intact, including those dependent on repeaters. Television and radio are still working. The outage seems confined to the cell system and landlines.”
“Int
ernet?” Dootkasy asked.
“Also intact. Interesting.” Saparaliev returned to his seat.
“How so, General?” Meklis already had a suspicion.
“This may be more than a series of antigovernment protests. I can’t be sure yet, but this might be planned. It would be one thing to lose a cell tower, but to lose several sounds more like a—”
“Rebellion.” Meklis pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t follow.” Dilara Novakosa, the government press officer broke her silence.
Meklis motioned to Saparaliev. “General, if you would.”
Saparaliev turned to the middle-aged woman, a former journalism professor. “Riots are seldom planned. Protests, yes, and those can evolve into something worse. Rebellion begins with planning. Knocking out phones, landlines, and cell, hinders the ability of the military and police some; the government a great deal. Police and military have field radios and are immune to outside influence except by highly technical jamming. Jamming can be traced and neutralized.”
“So why knock out the phones if the police and military can still communicate?”
“To frustrate the populace. Imagine being injured and not able to call for help. Civil leaders communicate primarily with phone. This won’t end communications, but I have to ask why protesters would do such a thing.”
“But they couldn’t close down the Internet?” she asked.
“Or didn’t want to,” Meklis said. “Think about Arab Summer, the protests in Lybia, Egypt, Syria, and other places. The protesters used the Internet to coordinate much of their actions.”
“I still don’t understand.” Dilara looked puzzled. “They might have the Internet, but they can’t use their cell phones to broadcast video.”
“Maybe their leaders don’t want that. They don’t want the world to know.” The general made a face as if his words had a bad taste.
“Why would they care about that?” Chief Abirov looked pale as if he already knew the answer.
“We can’t know for certain, but they may have something worse in mind. Something they don’t want the world to see.”
All the faces turned to Meklis, and he once again wished he had chased the path of the academic. He was the leader and it was time for him to lead.
“I’m assuming that much of this has to do with the extension of the contract for the airfield at Manas.”
“I still think that is a bad idea, Mr. President.”
“And I am leaning in your direction, Mr. Prime Minister.” Dootkasy’s comment annoyed Meklis. He returned his attention to the others. “I have forbidden the United States from flying anything over our soil except the troop transport planes. Seeing U.S. military aircraft in our skies may incite more riots. General, you are to take over crowd control. Work with the police. I also want a contingent of police and military at our government building. I want the police in uniform and visible. I want the military nearby and ready to act but not visible. I don’t want this to become a Lybia or Syria situation in which the military kills its own citizens.” He paused and stared at General Saparaliev. “In Egypt, much of the military sided with the protesters. Will I have that problem?”
“No, Mr. President. That was a very different situation. Our troops are loyal to the government and its leaders.”
“Good.” Meklis gazed at Dilara. “I want you and your people to prepare a release to be distributed on our Web sites. I also want to prepare an address to the public.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. President,” the general said, “may I suggest contacting the U.S. Air Force at Manas and the U.S. Embassy to be on alert. If my fears are warranted and this gets even more out of control, they could be in some danger.”
“The air base is north of the city,” Meklis said.
“Yes, sir, but it’s not that far. People drive there everyday to use the international airport.”
Meklis nodded. “I’ll make contact. With phones down, I’ll send couriers. I also want increased security for key government officials and their families.” He thought of his wife. He thought of Jildiz.
CHAPTER 7
IT TOOK ONLY A few minutes for J. J. and the others to kit up. He glanced around the ready room. No one spoke, each man was focused on his gear. It was the way with warriors before battle. Talk was cheap and it was big when not on the front line, but minutes before a mission boastful chatter gave way to private thoughts; thoughts of home, of family, of comrades wounded or killed in previous action.
J. J. was scared. He felt fear every time he was called to do what only a handful of men would or could do. At first his fear bothered him but over time he learned to embrace it. Fear never made him turn his back on the action; never hesitate to walk into the line of fire. It did, however, make him sharper and smarter. If he wasn’t terrified he would begin to worry. His former team leader once told him he preferred to lead frightened men because he knew they were sane. “Men without fear are not brave, they’re nuts.”
If that was true, then J. J. was the sanest man on the planet.
While the apprehension was not new, there was a new flavor to it. Images flashed in his mind. In his early spec ops days he thought of his Army chaplain brother and his parents, maybe the girl he was dating at the time. After he married, he thought mostly of Tess. Now a movie of children not yet born playing on the white sands of some beach flickered on the screen of his mind.
And it brought the deepest ache he ever felt and fanned the flames of anxiety until they were white hot.
“You okay, Boss?”
J. J. looked up at Jose. “Me? Yeah. Sure. Why?”
“You been staring at your shoelaces like you expect them to tie and untie themselves.”
“I’m a fan of shoelaces.”
Jose crossed his arms. “Who isn’t?”
J. J. straightened and turned to his team. “Okay, ladies, fall out.” Jose turned to join the team as they left the room. “Not you, Doc. Hang a sec, will ya?”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
A few moments later only J. J. and Jose remained. J. J. cleared his throat and broke eye contact. “Doc, you got, what, three dozen kids?”
“Not quite that many . . . yet. Just four. Or is it five? I’m not good with numbers.
“How do you do it?”
Jose narrowed his eyes. “You’re asking me how to have kids? I would think you and Tess had that figured out by now. You said she was expecting twins . . . Oh. I get it.”
“Good. I was starting to worry about you.”
“You’re looking for advice from me, Boss?”
“Yeah.” He looked into Jose’s eyes and saw understanding.
“Having kids changes a man, soldiers especially. You want the pat answer or the truth?”
“I want it straight.”
“Okay, I have no idea how I do it. I just do. When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me to eat what was on my plate. I’m a little thick-headed but I finally realized he wasn’t talking about Mom’s cooking. He was teaching me to deal with what’s in front of me. It’s the only thing I can change. That’s what I do. I deal with what’s on my plate at the moment.”
“So you don’t worry about your kids growing up fatherless?”
“Don’t be stupid, Boss. I worry about it all the time.”
“You’re confusing me.”
Jose nodded. “Welcome to my world.”
CHAPTER 8
FOR J. J. BARTLEY the most difficult hours of a mission were those immediately before a mission began. That was true from the beginning. No matter how well prepared he felt, he never felt ready. He used to use the prep time to double- and triple-check his gear, or review mission objects. He would be told what his role would be and he’d do it without question. That was then, a time that seemed decades ago but
was only a few months in the past. Now the job of mission prep fell on his shoulders, so he studied the street maps of Bishkek, trying to commit to memory the area around the abduction attempt. He saw streets very much like those at home; a business and retail section, and several narrow alleys behind buildings.
Colonel Weidman stepped into the ready room with photos in his hand. “This just came in. President Oskonbaeva won’t allow us to overfly the area, but I was able to get these.” He waved the photos. “Pull it in, men.”
The team gathered around a table in the room. “We might not be able to send an aircraft over the city but we can use a space-borne asset. A bird was redirected over the area and took shots for us.”
J. J. looked at the satellite images. “So these are fresh?”
“Ten minutes tops, Master Sergeant.” Weidman pointed at one of the photos. “This is the area we are concerned about. As you can see, fires have been started at key intersections, most likely to bring traffic to a halt in the city.” He jabbed a finger at ten fires, some from a pile of something J. J. assumed were tires and a couple were from burning cars.
J. J. pointed at the image of a white van, a dark sedan, and two men lying in the street. The detail of the image was amazing and showed a resolution twice what was available just a few years ago. Had the angle been different, J. J. could have read the license plate on the sedan. Several people gathered around the bodies, but they looked untouched, as did the automatic weapon laying near the body of the man Lennon hit with her car. He couldn’t find the handgun the other man was carrying. It was likely someone stole it, or the resolution, good as it was, couldn’t distinguish it from the dark asphalt. It was sharp enough, however, to show the man’s bent and broken body. Lennon did some real damage to the attacker. Good for her.
“We have a problem.” The colonel put another picture on top. “This is Captain Lennon’s car. She left it in the middle of the street, doors open.”
“Why would she abandon her vehicle?” Aliki asked.
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