Warrior Class Read online

  "Of course, sir," Susic 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?" Susic 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. Susic had no choice but to follow. Kazakov was already to the second floor by the time Susic 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 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 NATO security office to step up patrols in and out of the city as well."

  "Very well," Kazakov said. He shot a murderous glance at Susic, 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. They're exhausted--2'

  "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. 'Men get me the commander of the NATO security unit. I don't want to talk with the duty sergeant or the officer of the day-1 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 Susic, 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," Susic 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 Susic could say another word.

  "Yes ... yes, sir," Susic 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. Susic 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 onlyl"

  "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 ex-

  hausted 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 Susic, 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," Susic shouted. "I'll meet up with you right away." Even though he had been going downstairs, Susic was exhausted-too much deskwork, too little exer
cise, 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 Susic, 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 Susic'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 Susic 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 thenthat 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 corner, 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."

  Kazakov's legs were chained to the back of the command car, and the rebels dragged the colonel's body through the streets of Prizren, firing into the sky in jubilation. Kazakov remained conscious for several blocks until his head hit the debris of a destroyed truck and he was mercifully knocked unconscious. His last thought was of his wife and his three sons. He had not seen them in so many months, and now he knew they would never see him again: they would never permit the family to see a corpse as bad as he knew his was going to look.

  At the front gate to the Russian security zone, the colonel was hung upside down over the entry control point road, stripped naked, then riddled with machine-gun fire until his body could no longer be recognized as human. The rebels were long gone before United Nations reinforcements arrived.

  Zhukovsky Flight Research Center, near Bykovo, Russian Federation The next evening

  Even with many high-intensity lights ringing the area, it was almost impossible to see the big transport plane through the darkness and driving snowstorm as it taxied over to its parking spot. Its port-side turboprop engines, the ones facing the terminal building, the honor guard, a small band, and a group of waiting people, had already been shut down, and as soon as the plane was stopped by ground crews with lighted wands, the other two engines were also shut down. The ramp suddenly became eerily quiet, the only sound that of

  a long line of hearses' wheels crunching on snow. On one side of the transport plane's tail, seventeen hearses waited; on the other side were seventeen limousines for the family members, plus several officiallooking government vehicles. From the official vehicles, two men surrounded by security guards alighted and took places beside the honor guard.

  The transport's cargo ramp under the tall tail motored down, and the receiving detail marched over and stepped up the ramp, as the first limousine pulled out of line and maneuvered over to receive its passenger. The band began to play a solemn funeral march. A few moments later, the receiving detail slowly wheeled out the first casket, draped with the flag of the Russian Federation. As the honor guard and officials saluted and lowered flags in respect, a woman clothed all in black, wearing a black veil under her black beaver pelt hat, stepped forward from the line of limousines and reached

  out with both hands to gently touch the casket in silent greeting, as if wishing to not to disturb its occupant but to welcome him home.

  Then, suddenly, her grief turne
d to anger. She cried aloud in anguish, piercing the frigid, snowy evening like a gunshot. She pushed the attendants aside, then grasped the Russian Federation flag in her gloved hands, pulled it off the casket, flung it to the ground, and rested her right cheek on the smooth gray surface of the casket's lid, sobbing loudly. A young man, tall and clothed in black as well, held her shaking shoulders, eventually pulling her away from the casket as it was escorted to the waiting hearse. The young man tried to comfort and support the woman as he led her to her own waiting limousine, where other family members were waiting, but she pushed him away. The limousine drove off, leaving the young man behind. The commander of the escort detail picked the flag up off the snowcovered ramp, quickly folded it, and gave it to one of the limousine attendants, as if unsure of what to do with it now.

  The young man remained behind. He watched silently as the remaining sixteen caskets were escorted out of the big transport plane and placed into their hearses, and he remained, ignoring the snow falling heavier and heavier, after all the limousines, the escort detail, and the color guard had departed. None of the other family members spoke to the officials, and they did not attempt to speak with the family members. The officials returned to their limousines as soon as the last hearse drove away.

  The young man saw he was not alone. A tall, distinguishedlooking older gentleman, also in a black fur beaver-pelt hat and rich-looking sealskin coat, stood nearby, tears running unabashedly down his cheeks. They looked at each other across the snow-obscured ramp. The older man approached the younger and nodded politely. "Spakoyniy nochyee, bratam, he said in greeting. " K sazhalyeneeyoo. Kak deela ? "