“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—”
“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 — 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 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 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 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.”