Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (5 page)

 
          
“Do
not underestimate this man, Captain,” Colonel Gregor Kazakov said, draining his
cup of brandy, which Susie immediately refilled. “He has the strength of his
convictions—he is not a political animal like the others. Never confuse a soft-
spoken nature with weakness.”

 
          
Susie
nodded thoughtfully. If Kazakov thought so ... Kazakov was a great soldier, an
extraordinarily brave and resourceful warrior. Gregor Kazakov was the commander
of the
Russian Federation
’s four-thousand-man Kosovo peacekeeping
mission, charged with trying to maintain order in the Russian sector of this
explosive Yugoslavian republic.

 
          
He
was a hero to Susie because he had exhibited something relatively rare and
unusual in a Russian military officer—initiative. it was Gregor Kazakov, then
just a major, who, in June of 1999, upon secret orders from Moscow, had taken elements
of his famed 331 Airborne battalion in two Antonov-12 transports low-level at
night through the dark, forbidding Bosnian highlands, and then parachuted 120
elite Russian commandos, two armored personnel carriers, man-portable
antiaircraft weapons, and a few days' worth of ammunition and supplies onto
Pristina Airport, thus yanking away the key position in Kosovo right out from
under NATO’s confused, uncoordinated noses. The Russian paratroopers had
captured the airport with complete surprise and no resistance. The entire
operation, from tasking order to last man on the drop zone, had taken less than
twelve hours—again, amazingly fast and efficient for any Russian military
maneuver. A small company of British paratroopers, sent in as an advance team to
set up for incoming NATO supply Bights, had been politely but firmly rolled out
of bed by their Russian counterparts and ordered to evacuate the airport.

 
          
NATO
had E-3 Airborne Warning and Control radar planes above Bosnia, Albania, and
Macedonia monitoring air traffic over the entire region, and at one point two
U.S. Navy F-14 Tomcats from an aircraft carrier in the Adriatic Sea had been
vectored in on them, intercepting them shortly after they’d lifted oft' from
the Russian air base in Bosnia. The F-14s had warned the planes to turn back,
and even locked onto them with their missile-guidance radars, threatening to
fire if they didn’t reverse course. But Kazakov had ordered the An-12 pilots to
continue, and the Americans had eventually backed off without even firing a
warning shot. The move had surprised the entire world and briefly touched off
fears of
N ATO
retaliation. Instead,
Russia
had gained in hours what weeks of
negotiation had failed to achieve—a role in the peacekeeping efforts inside
Kosovo. NATO had not only blinked at Kazakov’s audacity— they’d stepped aside.

           
Of course, if NATO had wanted to
take Pristina Airfield back, they could have done so with ease—Kazakov himself
would have readily admitted that, Kazakov's troops, although elite soldiers and
highly motivated, were very poorly equipped, and training was substandard at
best. Peacekeeping duty in
Bosnia
had the lowest funding priority, but the
government wanted mobile, elite commandos in place to assure dominance, so
Kazakov’s men were woefully unprepared. The assault on
Pristina
Airport
had been the first jump most of the men had
made in several weeks, because there was very little jet fuel available for
training flights; everything from bullets to bombs to boots was in short
supply. But the surprise factor had left the Americans, British, French, and
German peacekeepers frozen in shock. One hour, the place was nearly deserted;
the next hour, a couple hundred Russian paratroopers were setting up shop.

 
          
The
mission’s success had sent a surge of patriotic, nationalistic joy throughout
Russia
. Kazakov had received a promotion to full
colonel and the People’s Meritorious Service medal for his audacity and warrior
spirit. In the end, the event had marked the beginning of the end of the
Yeltsin administration, since it was obvious Yeltsin either had not sanctioned
the plan, fearing reprisals from the West, or, more likely, had known nothing
about it in the first place. Less than a year later, Yeltsin had resigned, his
Social Democratic Party was out, and Valentin Sen’kov and the new Russia-All
Fatherland Party, not communist but decidedly nationalistic and anti-West, had
surged into the Kremlin and Duma in large numbers.

 
          
Kazakov
could have been elected premier of
Russia
if he’d wanted to get into Russian
politics—no doubt a much tougher assignment than any other he had ever held.
But he was a soldier and commander, and wanted nothing more than to lead
Russian soldiers. He’d requested and been authorized to command the Russian
presence in all of Yugoslavia, and had chosen to set up his headquarters right
in NATO’s face, squarely in the middle of the hornet’s nest that was
Kosovo—Prizren, in southern Kosovo, the largest and most dangerous
multinational brigade sector. Kazakov commanded two full mechanized infantry
battalions, four thousand soldiers, there. He also commanded an
eight-hundred-man Tactical Group, composed of a fast helicopter assault force,
in the Kosovo Multi-National .Brigade—East headquarters at Gnjilane, and was an
advisor to the Ukrainian Army’s three-hundred-man contingent there as well.

 
          
Now
the troops had been in place for almost two years, with only minimal-duty
out-rotations, so the men were slack, poorly trained, and poorly motivated. All
they received here in Kosovo were constant threats from ethnic Albanian
civilians and Kosovo Liberation Army forces—most of whom roamed the streets
almost at will, with very little interference from NATO—and increasing cutbacks
and inattention from home. The new president of
Russia
, ex-Communist, ex-KGB officer, and ex-prime
president Valentin Sen’kov, promised more money and more prestige for the
Russian military, and he was beginning to deliver But no one, not even
President Sen’koy, could squeeze blood from a turnip. There was simply no additional
money to invest for the
Russian Federation
’s huge military.

 
          
“The
question is,” Susie said, gulping down more brandy, “will Thom continue the
American buildup in Kosovo and continue to support revolutionaries, saboteurs,
and terrorists in
Albania
,
Montenegro
, and
Macedonia
, like his predecessor? Or will he stop this
maddening scheme to break up
Yugoslavia
and let us fight our own battles?”

 
          
“It
is hard to Jell with this president,” Kazakov said. “He is a military man, that
much 1 know—an army lieutenant in Desert Storm, I believe He is credited with
leading a team of commandos hundreds of miles into
Iraq
, even into
Baghdad
itself, and lazing targets for
precision-guided bombers.”

 
          
“That
mealy mouthed worm was a
commando?”
Susie asked incredulously. He hadn’t
paid much attention to the American political campaign. “He would not be
qualified to shine your boots, let alone be called a commando, like yourself ”

           
“If it was a lie, I believe the
American press would have exposed him in very short order—instead, they
verified it,” Kazakov said. “I told you, Captain, do not underestimate him. He
knows what it’s like to be a warrior, with a rifle in your hands sneaking into
position, with your enemies all around you in the darkness. His outward
demeanor may be different from other American presidents', but they are all
pushed and pulled by so many political forces. They can be quite
unpredictable.”

 
          
“Yes,
especially that last one, Martindale,” Susie said. “A real back-stabbing
snake.” Kazakov nodded, and Susie felt pleased with himself that he had made an
observation that this great warrior agreed with. “The master of glad-handed
robbery—shake hands with the right hand, club you over the head with the left.”
He started to pour Kazakov more brandy.

 
          
But
Kazakov held out a hand over the glass and rose to his feet. “I've got sentry
posts to check,” he said.

 
          
“That's
what junior officers are for,” Susie said, filling his glass again. Kazakov
glared at him disapprovingly. Susie noticed the stare, ignored the brandy, and
got to his feet as well. “Excellent idea. Colonel. I think I'll join you.
Always good to show some brass to the troops.”

 
          
The
early-evening air was crisp and very cold, but the skies were clear and the
moon, nearly full, was out. It was easy to see the perimeter of the
headquarters compound and its fi ve-metcr- high barbed-wire-topped fence. Crews
were busy keeping snow from piling up on the fence, which was wired with motion
detectors—they would certainly be deactivated now while they worked. That meant
that the guard towers and roving patrols were more important than ever, so
Kazakov decided to check those first. Kazakov got clearance from Central
Security Control on his portable radio. “Follow me. Chief Captain.”

           
“Of course, sir,” Susie said, then
caught his tongue. To his great surprise. Colonel Kazakov began removing his
greatcoat as he headed for the steps to the first security tower. “Where are
you going, Colonel?” he asked.

 
          
“We
are going to climb up and check on our guard towers,” Kazakov said. “We need to
get a report from the duty sergeant in charge.”

 
          
“Would
it not be easier for him to report to us?”

 
          
“Let’s
go. Captain. A little exercise won’t hurt us.”

 
          
“We’re
... we’re climbing up
there?”
Susie asked. He pointed up to the top of
the six-story tower. “Without your coat, sir?”

 
          
“Your
uniform would be soaked clear through with sweat by the time you got up there.
^”
Kazakov pointed out, “and then you'd freeze to death. Take off your coat and
let’s go. Leave your hat and gloves on. Let's not take all day, Captain."
The commando leader began trudging up the steps. Susie had no choice but to
follow. Kazakov was already to the second floor by the time Susie even mounted
the steps.

 
          
The
tower cab was not very large or very warm—heaters would fog the windows—but
they had good, strong Nicaraguan coffee and German cigarettes, which Kazakov
gratefully accepted from the surprised and impressed security force sergeant.
Kazakov was careful to hide the glow from the cigarette, cupping it inside his
hands—a glowing cigarette inside the dark cab could be seen for miles by a
sniper. “Everything all right tonight. Sergeant?" he asked.

 
          
The
sergeant handed Kazakov his logbook. “Slightly higher i passerby count than
last night, sir," he replied. The guards kept a count and a general
description of everyone who passed within sight of the towers—since the
headquarters was located on one of the main roads to and from the airport, it
was generally busy, even at night in bad weather. “Mostly gawkers coming to
look at the big bad Russians.”

 
          
It
was busy because the Russian compound was the scene of almost daily
demonstrations by Albanian Kosovars, protesting the Russian presence in their
province. Most times, the demonstrations were noisy but small, a few dozen old
men and women with whistles and bullhorns chanting “Russians Go Home.” Lately,
however, the protests had gotten larger, more hostile, closer to the fence
line, and now there were more young men in the crowds—probably Kosovo
Liberation Army intelligence-gatherers, probing the Russian perimeter. Kazakov
took these new demonstrations very seriously and ordered doubled patrols during
them, which further strained his force. But the Kosovars needed to see a large,
imposing Russian presence. The moment they detected any weakness, Kazakov was
sure they would pounce.

 
          
“Your
response?”

           
“Increased patrols—on foot,
unfortunately, no more vehicles available from the motor pool—and a request in
to the captain of police in Prizren and N ATO security office to step up
patrols in and out of the city as well.”