Warrior Class

by Dale Brown

  apart. Seconds after the transports hit the ground, heavily armed Russian soldiers in dark green camouflage BDUs and with camouflaged faces and weapons spread out to guard the helicopters and took cover positions behind nearby buildings. As the transport helicopters departed, the Hind-E gunships cruised nearby, ready to pounce if any enemy activity popped up.

  Pretty damned efficient, Lewis thought grimly. Everywhere he looked on the campus, there was a Russian infantryman. They were probably not outnumbered, but they were clearly outgunned.

  One of the Russian soldiers set up a smoke-wind direction torch on the parking lot, and moments later a lone Mi-8 transport arrived. This one was a little different: it off-loaded only eight security troops, and it was festooned with antennae all over its fuselage. Along with the security forces, an officer with full battle gear stepped off the helicopter, flanked by a few aides, staff officers, and a civilian. Aha, Lewis guessed, the boss has just arrived.

  Somehow, for some reason, Lewis had a bad feeling about this. He knew about the border skirmish between Albania and Macedonia, the declaration of war between them, and the decision by NATO to allow Russian peacekeepers into Macedonia, but he'd never expected this. The Russians were supposed to be arriving at Ohrid International Airport, about forty miles west, and setting up patrol lines north and south along the Albanian-Macedonian border. What were they doing here? And why the airborne assault-why not just drive in?

  He knew the proper procedure would be to let Toutin handle this-but instead, Lewis holstered his walkie-talkie and headed out to where the Russian officer had just alighted. "Chief, where are you going?" one of his clerks asked.

  "To talk."

  "But shouldn't we go get the colonel?" "It'll take him an hour to get here."

  "What about the major?" The on-site commander of the Cornerstone detachment in Resen was the wing intel officer, Major Bruce Kramer. To put it mildly, Kramer hated Macedonia. As far as anyone knew, Kramer spent all his time in his

  tent, writing letters to his congressman asking to get him the hell out of the Balkans.

  "Forget about him," Lewis said. "I'm going out to talk with them. If the colonel calls, tell him the Russians have landed and it looks like they're taking over the joint." Lewis wished he had his Kevlar and -his web gear.

  Although the Green Mountain Boys were indeed a combat unit and had seen plenty of action over the years, here in Macedonia they had no capability to fight anyone, especially Russians. At least he hoped to act the part of a field combat noncom, even if he couldn't look like one.

  The Russian security guards let him approach, keeping one eye on him and another on their field of fire. All weapons were at port arms or raised upward-none were aimed at NATO or Macedonian troops. Encouraging sign, at least. When he was about five paces from the commanding officer, a stem look and a half-tum to the left by one of the officer's security guards, which would have allowed him just to lower his rifle to shoot, stopped Lewis cold. No question of his desires or intentions if he did not comply.

  Lewis saluted, but did not wait for a return salute before lowering his. The Russian did not return the salute. He had to shout over the roar of the Mi-8, which was idling but had not shut down. "Who are you and what do you want?"

  One of the aides shouted a translation into his commander's ear, received the reply, then passed the word to the other soldiers nearby. "Captain Rokov is in charge," the aide said. "He has ordered that all NATO and Macedonian forces stationed here are to be gathered here immediately."

  Lewis noted that the colonel never wanted to know who Lewis was or desire to see the commanding officer--obviously he didn't care who he or anyone else was. "Why, sir?" Lewis asked.

  "You will do as you are ordered, Sergeant," the aide repeated.

  "I have not been instructed to follow your orders, sir," Lewis replied. "If you don't mind, I'll wait until I receive orders from my commanding officer."

  "Where is your commanding officer, Sergeant?"

  "I am the commander of this detail," replied Lewis. Not technically correct, but he was in charge at this moment. "I am in direct communication with KFOR and NATO commanders in Skopje. If I am instructed to do so, I will carry out your orders, but until then, I am respectfully asking you to withdraw your men from my AOR. We have our orders, and I intend to see they are carried out."

  "What are your orders, Sergeant?" the aide asked. "What is your currently assigned area of responsibility?"

  "That's 'Chief Master Sergeant' or 'Chief' to you, sir," Lewis admonished him. "I am not at liberty to discuss my orders with you. My AOR extends throughout Bitola province, but you may ask NATO headquarters in Skopje for the exact boundaries. You may contact NATO headquarters in Skopje and inquire there. Now please move your troops off the school campus. They're interfering with our work and scaring the locals. I suggest bringing your choppers back here and helocasting your troops to Ohrid International Airport. You'll find much better accommodations there anyway."

  "Perhaps you will accept some help from our men?" the aide asked, after making the translation and listening to the colonel's reply. "Tell us what you would like to do, and Captain Rokov will assign some of his men to assist, in the spirit of cooperation."

  "Tell the captain no thanks, but we have things well under control."

  At that moment, there was a shout behind him. Two Russian soldiers were dragging Major Kramer out of one of the school buildings. He had been badly beaten up, and a line of blood was coming out one of the soldier's nostrils.

  "Shto teebye?" The civilian that had exited the Mi-8 helicopter with Rokov stepped forward toward the captured officer.

  "Hey! Leave him alone!" Lewis shouted. Two soldiers stepped in front of Lewis, rifles raised.

  The civilian grabbed Kramer by the hair and lifted his face up, screaming something at him. The soldiers that were carrying Kramer shouted something to Rokov. The aide translating for the Russian commander said, "They say he was hiding in

  one of the condemned buildings with a radio, calling in an air strike against our position."

  "That's bullshit!" Lewis shouted. "We are a construction unit, helping the

  Macedonians rebuild this school campus." The civilian continued to yell at Kramer, but the American

  looked like he was only half conscious. The civilian then pulled a pistol out of his coat and aimed it at Kramer.

  "No!" Lewis shouted. He managed to knock over the soldiers blocking his path and started to run toward Kramer. Captain Rokov pulled his side arm from its holster, jacked a round into the chamber, and put two bullets into Chief Master Sergeant Lewis's back from less than fifteen feet away. He was dead before he hit the ground. The civilian holding Kramer smiled, turned to the dazed American, and put two bullets into his head from point-blank range.

  "Hold your fire! All units, hold yourfire! " Rokov screamed. The civilian let go of Kramer, wiping blood and bits of brains off his coat and pants. The soldiers let him drop, unsure of what to do. "Order the troops to spread out, find the rest of the NATO and Macedonian soldiers. Capture them if possible, kill them if necessary," Rokov ordered, holstering his pistol. "As soon as this site is secure, bring in the second and third waves of troops and start moving south toward the main highway. I want the highway in both directions secure before noon." Aides hurried off to relay his orders.

  The captain turned, stooped down, and looked at the man he had killed. It was his first kill. The last way he ever wanted to do it was to shoot a man in the back. Worse, the man was unarmed. He had shot an unarmed soldier in the back. He would never live that truth down.

  Rokov tore a patch off Lewis's BDU jacket and handed it to another of his officers, his intelligence officer. "What is it?" "It's ... it is the One-fifty-eighth Fighter Wing, as expected,

  sir," the aide said nervously, obviously frightened by the double murders. "An F-, 16A Air Defense Fighter unit based in the province of Vermont, northeastern United States, part of the American Air National Guard
reserve forces. Responsible for continental air defense. Sometimes deploys to Iceland or Canada."

  Rokov had to struggle to drag his consciousness to the present. Two unarmed American soldiers were dead. What in hell had they done? But it was too late to fret over it. "An American air defense fighter unit deployed out here? Why?"

  "I do not believe they are a real fighter unit, sir," the intel officer said. "I believe they were sent out here as an advance unit, setting up air defense and surveillance operations in southern Macedonia."

  "But why down here in this river valley?" Rokov asked. "Why not in the highlands themselves, or a few kilometers farther east where they have a clear unobstructed view of the frontier? This is the worst place they could have picked if they were going to set up any kind of radar or line-of-sight communications system."

  "I still believe this is an intelligence-gathering unit, sir," the Russian intel officer said resolutely, although the confusion and uncertainty was evident in his eyes. "They have set up this site as a listening post, disguised as some sort of humanitarian aid project."

  "Well, dammit, find the officers, find the equipment, and find the crypto gear, and do it quickly!" Rokov ordered, snatching the dead NCO's patch away from the confused intel officer. "The main body of the Fifty-first Airborne Regiment will be moving through here tonight, and I don't want any sort of recon groups or intelligence-gathering devices to be operating when they do. Now get going." The aide hurried off, glad to be out of range of the captain's rising anger.

  Rokov stuffed the patch in his BDU jacket pocket. Gunfire started to erupt nearby, along with shouts in Russian to stop, more shooting, the sounds of terrified men and women screaming. More shooting, more screaming-this time, the sounds of screaming children, lots of them.

  This just didn't make sense, he thought. His observer had said the Americans had set up a special forces recon base here in the Czur Valley to monitor Russian troop activities, and his intel staff had confirmed the report. Then some reports had come in saying the group was not a special forces or recon team, but a civil aid project team called Cornerstone. The intel staff maintains they are a recon group, merely disguised as a

  civil aid project. Then he receives a report saying the Americans were part of an F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter unit, which raises all sorts of new suspicions.

  Rokov turned to the civilian passenger beside him and asked, "Well, Comrade

  Kazakov? I see no signs of American special forces or recon teams here. This place has no helicopters, no communications outlets, and is located in the worst possible location."

  "Did you expect the Americans to be standing out here in the open waving in welcome as you flew in?" Pavel Kazakov asked derisively. He was taking some rough survey shots with a portable laser/GPS transit, measuring elevations and distances from the school to the river, making mental calculations on exactly where he was going to lay his pipeline. It was never a good idea to build a big pipeline too close to the main highway, but it still had to be accessible. This was a perfect spot for a pumping and metering station. The flooding concerned him, so he had to find where the mean water level had been, so he could update the flood charts and make calculations on the water table. "It sounds like your men are digging the real enemy troops out right now."

  "I see no evidence a battalion-size force ever has been here," Rokov observed. "I see no evidence of armor, weapons concentrations, antiaircraft weaponry, fuel storage, or marshaling yards. Where is all this heavy military equipment you reported?"

  "You have been on the ground five minutes, Rokov-did you expect all the answers to just pop out at you so quickly?" Rokov looked at Kazakov suspiciously. "I find it interest-

  ing, Comrade," he said warily, "that with all the resistance we were told to expect here, with all the danger requiring a heliborne assault by an entire airborne infantry company, that you decided to come along. It was a very large risk. It makes me wonder if there were any heavy forces here at all."

  "Were you hoping for a firefight, Captain? Anxious to win some more medals?"

  "All I'm looking for are some straight answers-"

  "I'm not here to answer questions for you, Captain," Kazakov snapped. "I've been authorized to accompany you on this

  operation, and that's all you need to know. It is your job to secure this location and then move south to secure the stretch of highway near Resen to prepare for the Fifty-first Airborne Regiment to move up from their positions near Bitola."

  Captain Rokov turned to Kazakov in some surprise. "And how did you know about the Fifty-first's jumping-off point near Bitola?" he asked. "I learned about it in a top-secret briefing just before we mounted up for this assault."

  "More stupid questions," Kazakov scoffed, ignoring the question. He anchored a measuring tape to a stake and started to walk. "I've got my work, Captain, and you have yours."

  "Wait one minute, Kazakov-"

  "That's Mr Kazakov to you, Captain!" Pavel snapped. "I warn you--do not try me. Go about your business, now."

  "Or what, Mr Kazakov?"

  "You suddenly think you're so tough, Captain Rokov?" Kazakov spat. "You're the one who shot an unarmed American noncommissioned officer in the back. Your career is over."

  "That is a failure of discipline and a personal shame that I will live with for the rest of my life," Rokov said. "But what of you? What is your interest in all of this?"

  "None of your business."

  "Perhaps the rumors are true, Comrade-you are letting the army obtain and secure land for your oil pipeline through the Balkans," Rokov said. "You make up a fantasy story about American spies and Macedonian saboteurs in order to get a recon company to land you on this site, then you busy yourself surveying it. What's next? Will you order a Mi-28 to carry in your bulldozers and cranes?"

  "What I would concern myself about, Captain," Kazakov hissed in a low voice, stepping nose to nose with the Russian infantry officer, "is your fianc6e and her four-year-old daughter in Rostov at her new job at the Zil plant. She just got moved to the graveyard shift so she can work while her daughter is in bed, I understand. It would be a shame to hear that she was hurt coming home after a long night at work."

  "How in hell could you possibly know ... T' And then Rokov stopped short. Kazakov knew about his fianc6e and her daughter the same way he knew about

  the Fifty-first doing an

  airborne assault tonight-he had either powerful connections or well-informed spies, and either way he could not hope to fight him.

  "I see we now understand each other," Kazakov said, nodding and putting on a sly, knowing grin. "You did a fine job this morning, Captain. The assault was swift, accurate, precise, and well-executed. My suggestion to you: report that these filthy American spies attacked you after your men discovered their spy network, and you had no choice but to defend yourselves. You may even take credit for killing both spies. I'm sure your men can devise a way to make it appear as if the shootings were in self-defense-maybe take these corpses out to the forest and put some bullet holes in their bodies that are going in and out in the proper direction. Let's not have any more cross words between us. I will stay out of your way-"

  "And you had better stay out of mine, Kazakov," Rokov said.

  "Zamyechateel'niy, " Kazakov said. "Very good. I see we understand each other perfectly."

  Rokov maintained eye contact with Kazakov for a long moment, but eventually stepped away to supervise the moppingup operation. Minutes later, more troops started to arrive; already, the first few American soldiers were being herded into the parking lot, hands on top of their heads like captured prisoners of war.

  Yes, the operation was indeed going quite well. Kazakov could easily envision the pumping and transfer station right here. The terrain climbed rather steeply just west of here on its way into the Lake Ohrid area, and a pumping station was necessary to get it up and over. Knock a few of these rotting flooded-out buildings down, use the rubble to raise and grade the elevation, and it would work
out perfectly. What did these peasants need with a school here? Resen was only fifteen miles away-they had plenty of schools there they could attend.

  With luck, he was back on schedule and marching forward nicely to completion. No use in letting a few Americans get in the way.

  Coronado, CaMornia The next evening

  His son's eyes lit up like on Christmas morning as Patrick pulled the suit from its hanging bag. The overhead lights made the stars on the shoulders and the wings on the left breast pocket sparkle. "Woo-oo," Brad said. "You got a nice suit there, Daddy. ,

  "Thanks, big guy," Patrick said.

  He pointed at the command navigator wings, a pair of Air Force silver eagle's wings with the rampart crest in the center shield and a wreathed star on top. "You going fly-ningT' Bradley asked.

  "They're going to fly me to Washington."

  "You going to meetings? You going to give a bree-flingT' Bradley didn't wait for the answer, having decided that when Daddy brought the blue suit instead of the green, that it was going to be meetings and briefings. He grabbed one of Patrick's Corfrarn shoes and pretended it was an airplane, zooming it up and down the uniform and across the Rollaboard suitcase Patrick was packing. "Time to give a bree-fling again!"

  "What are you going to do while I'm in WashingtonT'Patrick asked. "What are your standing orders while I'm goneT'

  "Fake care of Mommy, do as Mommy says, be a good boy, and ... and. . ."

  "One more. And think-2'

  "And think about Daddy!" Bradley said triumphantly. "Very good, big guy," Patrick said. "High five." Patrick held up a hand, and Bradley slapped it.