If Vorishnov didn't quite understand the term Dixon used, he understood his meaning. "Yes, I agree. It would appear, Colonel, that the buildup of Russian forces along their northern and eastern borders has fooled the Ukrainians. We will have tactical, and possibly operational, surprise in the morning."
Dixon glanced over at Vorishnov. He liked the big Russian. Forever correcting Dixon and his officers on the correct pronunciation of the names of Ukrainian towns, cities, and rivers, Colonel Vorishnov had an easygoing manner while maintaining a professional bearing and conduct. He was, Dixon thought, very Russian, never missing a chance to tell anyone who would listen about the greatness and beauty of his native land. Nor would Vorishnov's pride allow him to miss the opportunity to remind the Americans of the role that the Russian Army was playing in this operation. Although the only Russians who would actually enter the Ukraine during the upcoming operation were the advisors serving with all American units, it was fear of the Russian Army deployed along the northern Ukrainian border that would paralyze the bulk of the Ukrainian Army and allow the Americans to seize the two nuclear weapons depots near Svalyava. If nothing else, Vorishnov gave Dixon a peer, another officer of equal stature outside the normal chain of command, in whom he could confide and with whom he could compare ideas and thoughts. That Dixon would be glad to find a friend and confidant in a Russian officer was another sign that the world they were living in was, as Dixon's wife, Jan, often mused, "getting curiouser and curiouser."
Satisfied that he had seen all that there was to see from where they were, and noting the long shadows cast by the guard towers, Dixon nudged Vorishnov. "Well, I'm sold. Our friends down there aren't expecting us."
Without looking at Dixon, Vorishnov continued to study the border trace with his binoculars. "No, no. I don't believe they know what is about to happen. You should have a good morning tomorrow morning."
Dixon grunted. "It's not tomorrow morning and crossing the border I'm worried about. It's the road from Uzhgorod to Mukacevo that gives me the willies."
While still holding his binoculars up, Vorishnov twisted his head toward Dixon. "It is pronounced Moo-kay-see-vo, Colonel. And yes, I share your concern about that part of the operation. I still believe you are sending far too small a force south to block the Ukrainian armored brigade garrisoned at Uzlovaya. You are, in my humble opinion, placing too much reliability in your attack helicopters and the skill of the commander of that blocking force. I do not agree with your lovely young intelligence officer's assessment. After you strike across the border and move east, the Ukrainian brigade at Uzlovaya will move north to strike your exposed flank, not northeast to shield Mukacevo. And when that happens, you will need to shift portions of your main body south to deal with them. When that happens, you will find yourself involved in a meeting engagement in which they, operating on their own territory, will have the advantage."
Used to Vorishnov's corrections, Dixon let the comment about Mukacevo pass. But he defended his decision to use just one company as a blocking force. "Yes, I can understand your concern. Under most circumstances, I would agree. In this case, however, I feel justified in taking, what you consider, a risk. Captain Nancy Kozak, the commander of the blocking force, is a proven commodity. Even if the attack helicopters are grounded or diverted, we will have more than enough artillery in support to give Kozak the edge. Besides, with only two tank and two mech infantry battalions, I can't afford to disperse my force to protect against threats. If the Ukrainian armored brigade becomes a danger, then we'll deal with it."
Dixon paused, waiting for Vorishnov's response. Vorishnov, however, said nothing. He knew from Vorishnov's expression that the Russian remained unconvinced. The idea of placing that much confidence in an officer as junior as Kozak was to Vorishnov's mind foolish. But he said nothing, for this was not his brigade. He, Vorishnov told himself, had said his piece. Dixon, the commander, had made up his mind and was, he realized, prepared to pay the price if he was wrong.
When Vorishnov said nothing, Dixon sighed. I guess, he thought to himself as he looked at Vorishnov, old habits and ways of thinking are hard to break. With a shrug, Dixon looked away from Vorishnov and back at the border crossing before he spoke. "I think, Colonel, we are finished here. Let's head on back and see what the young'uns are doing."
Though Vorishnov didn't quite approve of the casual manner in which American officers conducted themselves, and didn't understand most of the names and references Dixon and his staff used, like the term young'uns applied to junior officers, Vorishnov understood it was all part of Dixon's style. And so long as Dixon and his subordinates were comfortable with it and it didn't interfere with the conduct of operations, Vorishnov felt there was no need to say anything. As much as it grated on him, the Americans, after all, had won more wars in the recent past than his own army. And as he had been taught from an early age, one does not argue with success.
"Yes, let us go back. My toes tell me it is time for some warm tea."
As the senators and congressmen filed into the White House conference room, the President did not leave her seat to greet them. Instead, Abigail Wilson was turned away from the door through which the congressional leaders entered the room, leaning over the arm of her chair, talking to her Secretary of Defense, Terry Rothenberg. That did not mean she was ignoring the congressional delegation. Wilson was far too astute a politician for that. Instead, from the corner of her eye she kept track of who was entering the room, making mental notes of the expressions on their faces and their deportment. Though she had already been well briefed on who would and would not be present, the seating arrangements, and which of the delegation were figureheads, and which were the real movers and shakers in Congress, her staff could not tell her what the attitude of the senators and congressmen would be at the time of the meeting. On this matter, Wilson was on her own. With the same well-practiced coolness that had catapulted her from the governor's mansion in Colorado into the White House, Wilson discreetly studied her opposition and prepared to meet them head-on, on her own terms, in her own time, in her own way. Of course, that was her intention. It did not, however, take into account Congressman Ed Lewis.
When the delegation was seated and Wilson's Secretary of State, Peter Soares, indicated that it was time to commence, Wilson looked over to him with a questioning glance. In her mind she had only counted off nine senators and congressmen. There were supposed to be ten. Soares, who had not been counting, wondered what Wilson was concerned about, and returned her glance with a blank stare. After seeing her nod to indicate that there was an empty chair catty-corner from her, Soares finally understood. He looked over to a presidential aide strategically located at the entrance to the room. With his face contorted, eyes pinched, and his teeth slightly exposed, an expression that reminded many of a rat, Soares tried to convey the message to the aide that someone was missing.
Unlike Wilson and Soares, the aide immediately became flustered when he saw Soares's expression and realized that there was something wrong. Straightening up, the aide turned and prepared to rush out of the room in search of the missing congressman. His progress, however, was stopped cold as he plowed into another man entering the room. The presidential aide literally bounced off the tall, lean frame of Ed Lewis, who, true to form, was taking his time about showing up for the "emergency" White House briefing.