Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (6 page)

 
          
“Very
well,” Kazakov said He shot a murderous glance at Susie, still trying to
struggle up the steps. He then went over, exchanged places with the sergeant in
the cab, and leaned forward to look through the low-light and infrared sentry
scope. “Where are the additional foot patrols, Sergeant?” he asked, after
scanning for a moment.

 
          
The
sergeant looked a bit embarrassed. “I ,. I asked for volunteers first, about
thirty minutes ago, from the oncoming shift,” he replied hesitantly. “My men
have been pulling overlapping fourteen-hour shifts for the past three weeks,
sir TheyTe exhausted—”

 
          
“I
understand, Mikhail, I understand," Kazakov said, only slightly perturbed.
“If you want. I'll be the bad-ass: I order an extra platoon on foot patrol,
beginning immediately. Relay the order. Then get me the commander of the
N ATO
security unit. I don’t want to talk with
the duty sergeant or the officer of the day—I want the commander himself, that
German major with the Scandinavian name.”

 
          
“Johansson.
Yes. sir,” the sergeant said, reaching for the field telephone. “What about the
chief captain of the police?”

 
          
“I
will deal with him myself.” Kazakov continued to scan as Susie, huffing and
puffing as if he were about to have a heart attack, entered the cab. Despite
the cold temperatures, he was still bathed in sweat. “Captain, my sergeant
tells me he requested additional police patrols outside the perimeter. He has
received no response. What is the delay?”

 
          
“I...
I will see to it immediately, sir,” Susie panted. “Just.., just let me catch my
breath.”

 
          
“Are
you ready to continue our rounds, Captain? Let's go. I want to inspect every
inch of the fence line tonight. You can issue the order from the portable
radio.” Kazakov was out the door and heading down the stairs before Susie could
say another word.

 
          
“Yes
... yes, sir,” Susie panted as they headed down the staircase. He was
struggling with his coat, not sure whether he should keep it off or put it on.
“I’ll be right behind you, Colonel!”

 
          
“Let’s
go. Captain, let’s go.” Kazakov was trying not to appear hurried, but
something, some unknown fear, was driving him forward, faster and faster. Susie
could no longer keep up. “As fast as you can.” He hit the bottom and started striding
toward the main entrance guard post, about three blocks away.

 
          
In
the glare of a few streetlights, he could see soldiers running toward the same
building, and seconds later the sound of gunfire was heard. What in hell was
happening? He pulled out his portable command radio and keyed the mike:
“Security One, this is Alpha. Report on disturbance at the front gate.”

 
          
“Open
channel, Alpha,” the duty sergeant said. “Can you go secure?”

 
          
“Negative.”
They were lucky if they had any secure communications capability at all. let
alone on their portables. “Blue Security, report.”

 
          
“Fireworks!
More fireworks,” the guard at the front gate reported. “All stations, all
stations, noisemakers over the fence only. Blue is secure.”

 
          
Kazakov
slowed his pace a bit. This was almost a nightly occurrence, and one of the
most maddening ploys by the ethnic Albanians to stir up the Russians: throwing
small strings of firecrackers across the gate, usually propelled several dozen
meters through the air by slings made of sliced-up inner tubes. It was just
enough harassment to jangle the nerves of the most experienced, steady veteran
fighter, but not enough to warrant a stricter crackdown on fireworks or
noisemakers in Prizren.

 
          
There
was a lot of pent-up frustration venting on the security net by angry guards.
Kazakov jabbed his portable’s mike button: “Break, break,
break
/” he
shouted. “Essential communication only!”

 
          
“Alpha,
this is Hotel.” That was the duty sergeant. “Do you want a security sweep?
Over.”

 
          
Kazakov
considered that for a moment. That was part of the dance they did out here
almost every night: the Albanian Kosovars did their demonstrations and popped a
few noisemakers off in the compound, the Russians spent most of the night doing
a security sweep, finding nothing, and they were exhausted by end of watch.
This irritating cycle had to be broken,
now!
“Negative. I want a full
all-stations check and verification

 
          
“Break.
Delta, meet me at Blue right away. Out,” Delta was the call sign of his
tactical operations chief. If, instead of a security sweep, the Russians did
nothing—except secretly send out a few two-man patrols a few hundred meters
past the fence—then if the hooligans were bold enough to try launching another
volley, maybe they had a chance of nabbing a few of them. It was very illegal
to send Russians outside the compound at night, but that was only a KFOR and
NATO regulation, and Kazakov didn’t feel too obligated to follow their rules.
It was also supposedly illegal for anyone to launch noisemakers into the
Russian compound, but NATO obviously wasn’t doing anything about
that
.

 
          
Kazakov
turned to Susie, who was trying to appear as if he were tying his boots, when
in fact he was breathing heavily and looked like he might pass out. “While
you’re resting there, Captain, listen: I have a plan. I’m going to send a few
roving patrols out to see if we can catch some of whoever’s launching those
noisemakers. I want some of your men to accompany my commandos. Meet me at the
security building right away, and be careful.”

 
          
“Don’t
worry about me, Colonel,” Susie shouted. “I’ll meet up with you right away.”
Even though he had been going downstairs, Susie was exhausted—too much
deskwork, too little exercise, too much maraschino, Kazakov decided. If they
made it through this night, he’d have to—

 
          
Kazakov’s
attention was diverted to the sound of another string of noisemakers going
off—close enough this time to smell the acidy gunpowder. “My God, not again.”
He removed his radio from his belt to ask for a report...

 
          
..
. when suddenly he saw a bright yellow flash of light from
inside
the
section of fence just east of the security building. He knew instinctively what
it was. “Captain!” he shouted, turning toward Susie, then dodging away. “Move!
Move!
But he knew it would be too late—the bullets were probably already in flight.

           
They were. The entry wound was less
than the size of his little finger, but the exit wound tore the back of Susie’s
head off.

 
          
Kazakov
threw his legs out from under himself just as a bullet plowed into the pavement
behind him. He rolled and rolled until he landed in the street, then leapt to
his feet and dove behind a dark lightpost. A sniper! Probably KLA, but close
enough to the fence to get a good shot off at lone figures at night. This was
the first time something like this had happened in the Russian compound.

 
          
As
his mind raced to assemble a plan of action, he found himself thinking the
weirdest thoughts, such as: Damn, this sniper is good. The time delay between
the bullet hitting Susie in the head and the gunshot sound was considerable,
meaning that the shot had been done over a very long distance, at night.
Remarkable men. those snipers. Training one took years and perhaps millions of
rubles for a really good rifle and ...

 
          
More
fireworks, just a few dozen meters away—he heard them slap the pavement in
front of him just before they popped off. Kazakov wished he had his armored
staff car just then— that sniper was still out there, using the noisemakers as
cover for his attacks. He pulled his radio from his web belt: “
Apasna
,
apasna,
this is Alpha, snipers along the fence line east of Blue, all personnel man
your duty posts and prepare to repel attackers! Repeat, snipers on the fence
line, Charlie is down. Full nighttime challenge. All stations, report status to
security control!”

 
          
“Alpha,
gdye vi?
Say position!” It was the duty sergeant. “Take cover! Units
will respond to your location. Say position from Blue.”

 
          
A
tremendous explosion made Kazakov duck. It was a direct antitank rocket hit on
the security building near the main gate. He had obviously underestimated these
Kosovo Liberation Army thugs—they must have very good weaponry to strike that
building from far away.

 
          
“Blue
has been hit! Blue is hit!” Kazakov shouted into the radio. He swept his AKM-74
assault rifle across the slowly clearing billowing smoke around the security
building. There were armed men jumping across the damaged walls and structures,
silhouetted against the fog of blasted concrete and dirt, but from fifty meters
away Kazakov couldn’t tell if they were Russians or KLA. But they were jumping
from the outside in, so Kazakov assumed they were enemy KLA rebels. He fired at
a couple of them who were clustered close together, then immediately rolled
left several times, got to his feet, and scampered in a low crouch behind a
concrete street signpost. It was a good thing he’d moved—seconds later, the
spot from where he had fired was cratered with bullets.

 
          
There
was nothing he could do here, Kazakov thought grimly. He hated the idea of
turning his back on any surviving perimeter guards, but the invaders had the
upper hand, and he was alone. Better to retreat, find help, and organize a
counterassault in force.

 
          
Kazakov
had just started running back toward the headquarters building when he saw his
command car speeding around the comer, a gunner manning the gun turret, its
headlight slits in place to mask its approach. He waved, and the vehicle veered
toward him. The command car held four armed infantrymen along with a radio
operator, aide, driver, gunner, and security man. If it was fully manned, it
might be enough to mount a good counterassault until more troops moved into—

 
          
Kazakov
was so busy planning his next move that he failed to notice that the command
car was heading right at him. By the time he realized something was wrong, it
was too late. The armored car plowed into the colonel at over thirty kilometers
an hour.

 
          
His
thick winter battle dress uniform and helmet saved his life, but Kazakov was
knocked near unconscious by the force of the impact, All he could register were
excited, now jubilant Albanian-speaking voices, and flashlight beams sweeping
across his face.

 
          
^“
Dobriy
vyechyeer,
Colonel Kazakov,” one of the Albanian voices said in very good
Russian. '‘Good we should bump into you like this. We were on our way to visit
you when your men informed us you were inspecting the security posts.”

 
          
“S
kyem vi?
Who are you with?” Kazakov muttered. “What unit?”

 
          
“You
know who, Colonel,” the man replied. “We are your sworn enemies. We have vowed
to do everything in our power to force you to leave our homeland. You are
invaders, trespassers, and murderers. The penalty for murder in Kosovo is
death. Your sentence will be carried out immediately.”

 
          
“You
have already murdered many Russian soldiers,” Kazakov said. “Reinforcements are
on the way. Leave me and save yourselves or you will all be slaughtered.”

 
          
“I
would have preferred it if you simply begged for your life. Colonel,” the man
said. “But you do bring up a good suggestion. We should withdraw from here
immediately.
Das svedanya.
Colonel Kazakov.
Spasiba va vychyeer.
Thanks for the wonderful evening.”

 
          
“Idi
v
zhopu
,
pizda,
” Kazakov cursed.

 
          
The
flashlight beam shined directly into Kazakov’s eyes, and the man’s face moved
close enough that he could smell the alcohol, cordite, and blood on the man’s
uniform. “You want to inspect the security posts. Colonel dirt-mouth?
Kharasho.
Allow me to take you there.”