Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 Read online

  In the meantime, Kosovo was still a province of Serbia, supposedly subject to Serbian and Yugoslavian federal law. Susie had the unfortunate task of trying to enforce the laws in a region where lawlessness was the rule rather than the exception. Prizren Airport was still operated by the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia as a national and international airport, and it had to be secured and operated in accordance with Yugoslavian and International Civil Aeronautics Organization law. Its radar installations, power generators, communications links, satellite earth stations, warehouses, and fuel storage depots were also essential to Yugoslavian sovereignty and commerce. No one in NATO or the United Nations had offered to do any of these tasks for Yugoslavia. But the KLA was making that mission almost impossible.

  The NATO peacekeeping mission in Kosovo was in complete shambles, NATO allies Italy and Germany still had peacekeepers in-country, but were constantly squabbling over their role: Italy, with its eastern bases overloaded and closer to the fighting, wanted a much lower-profile presence; Germany, fearful of losing dominance over European affairs, wanted a much more active role, including stationing troops in Serbia itself. Greece and Turkey, NATO allies but longtime Mediterranean rivals, had virtually no role in peacekeeping operations, and it was thought that was the best option. Russia also wanted to reassert its presence and authority in eastern European affairs by supporting its Slavic cousins, counterbalancing Germany’s threat.

  And then there was the United States of America, the biggest question mark of all. What would the new president do? He was such an enigma that few analysts. American or foreign, could hazard a guess. The United States had twice as many peacekeepers stationed in or around Kosovo as all the other participants combined, easily outgunning both Germany and Russia. But this relegated them to the role of baby-sitter or referee. The Americans seemed less concerned with keeping peace in Kosovo than with reducing hostilities between European powers.

  “This new president is either a nut or a coward,” Susie added. The television on the all-news channel showed thousands of people outside the American Capitol milling around, as if undecided about what they should do. “Look at them— standing around with their thumbs up their asses, because their New Age retro-hippie president is back hiding in the safety of the White House.” Other remote camera shots showed presidential advisors—not yet Cabinet members, because the United States Senate had not confirmed them—arriving at the White House to confer with the President. ‘‘How embarrassing. Do you not think so, Comrade Colonel?”

  “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.”

  “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