Somehow, for some reason, Lewis had a bad feeling about this. He knew about the border skirmish between Albania and Macedonia, the declaration of war between them, and the decision by NATO to allow Russian peacekeepers into Macedonia, but he’d never expected this. The Russians were supposed to be arriving at Ohrid International Airport, about forty miles west, and setting up patrol lines north and south along the Albanian-Macedonian border. What were they doing here? And why the airborne assault — why not just drive in?
He knew the proper procedure would be to let Toutin handle this — but instead, Lewis holstered his walkie-talkie and headed out to where the Russian officer had just alighted. “Chief, where are you going?” one of his clerks asked.
“To talk.”
“But shouldn’t we go get the colonel?”
“It’ll take him an hour to get here.”
“What about the major?” The on-site commander of the Cornerstone detachment in Resen was the wing intel officer, Major Bruce Kramer. To put it mildly, Kramer hated Macedonia. As far as anyone knew, Kramer spent all his time in his tent, writing letters to his congressman asking to get him the hell out of the Balkans.
“Forget about him,” Lewis said. “I’m going out to talk with them. If the colonel calls, tell him the Russians have landed and it looks like they’re taking over the joint.” Lewis wished he had his Kevlar and his web gear. Although the Green Mountain Boys were indeed a combat unit and had seen plenty of action over the years, here in Macedonia they had no capability to fight anyone, especially Russians. At least he hoped to act the part of a field combat noncom, even if he couldn’t look like one.
The Russian security guards let him approach, keeping one eye on him and another on their field of fire. All weapons were at port arms or raised upward — none were aimed at NATO or Macedonian troops. Encouraging sign, at least. When he was about five paces from the commanding officer, a stem look and a half-turn to the left by one of the officer’s security guards, which would have allowed him just to lower his rifle to shoot, stopped Lewis cold. No question of his desires or intentions if he did not comply.
Lewis saluted, but did not wait for a return salute before lowering his. The Russian did not return the salute. He had to shout over the roar of the Mi-8, which was idling but had not shut down. “Who are you and what do you want?”
One of the aides shouted a translation into his commander’s ear, received the reply, then passed the word to the other soldiers nearby. “Captain Rokov is in charge,” the aide said. “He has ordered that all NATO and Macedonian forces stationed here are to be gathered here immediately.”
Lewis noted that the colonel never wanted to know who Lewis was or desire to see the commanding officer — obviously he didn’t care who he or anyone else was. “Why, sir?” Lewis asked.
“You will do as you are ordered, Sergeant,” the aide repeated.
“I have not been instructed to follow your orders, sir,” Lewis replied. “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait until I receive orders from my commanding officer.”
“Where is your commanding officer, Sergeant?”
“I am the commander of this detail,” replied Lewis. Not technically correct, but he was in charge at this moment. “I am in direct communication with KFOR and NATO commanders in Skopje. If I am instructed to do so, I will carry out your orders, but until then, I am respectfully asking you to withdraw your men from my AOR. We have our orders, and I intend to see they are carried out.”
“What are your orders, Sergeant?” the aide asked. “What is your currently assigned area of responsibility?”
“That’s ‘Chief Master Sergeant’ or ‘Chief’ to you, sir,” Lewis admonished him. “I am not at liberty to discuss my orders with you. My AOR extends throughout Bitola province, but you may ask NATO headquarters in Skopje for the exact boundaries. You may contact NATO headquarters in Skopje and inquire there. Now please move your troops off the school campus. They’re interfering with our work and scaring the locals. I suggest bringing your choppers back here and helocasting your troops to Ohrid International Airport. You’ll find much better accommodations there anyway.”
“Perhaps you will accept some help from our men?” the aide asked, after making the translation and listening to the colonel’s reply. “Tell us what you would like to do, and Captain Rokov will assign some of his men to assist, in the spirit of cooperation.”
“Tell the captain no thanks, but we have things well under control.”
At that moment, there was a shout behind him. Two Russian soldiers were dragging Major Kramer out of one of the school buildings. He had been badly beaten up, and a line of blood was coming out one of the soldier’s nostrils.
“Shto teebye?” The civilian that had exited the Mi-8 helicopter with Rokov stepped forward toward the captured officer.
“Hey! Leave him alone!” Lewis shouted. Two soldiers stepped in front of Lewis, rifles raised.
The civilian grabbed Kramer by the hair and lifted his face up, screaming something at him. The soldiers that were carrying Kramer shouted something to Rokov. The aide translating for the Russian commander said, “They say he was hiding in one of the condemned buildings with a radio, calling in an air strike against our position.”
“That’s bullshit!” Lewis shouted. “We are a construction unit, helping the Macedonians rebuild this school campus.”
The civilian continued to yell at Kramer, but the American looked like he was only half conscious. The civilian then pulled a pistol out of his coat and aimed it at Kramer.
“No!” Lewis shouted. He managed to knock over the soldiers blocking his path and started to run toward Kramer. Captain Rokov pulled his side arm from its holster, jacked a round into the chamber, and put two bullets into Chief Master Sergeant Lewis’s back from less than fifteen feet away. He was dead before he hit the ground. The civilian holding Kramer smiled, turned to the dazed American, and put two bullets into his head from point-blank range.
“Hold your fire! All units, hold your fire!” Rokov screamed. The civilian let go of Kramer, wiping blood and bits of brains off his coat and pants. The soldiers let him drop, unsure of what to do. “Order the troops to spread out, find the rest of the NATO and Macedonian soldiers. Capture them if possible, kill them if necessary,” Rokov ordered, holstering his pistol. “As soon as this site is secure, bring in the second and third waves of troops and start moving south toward the main highway. I want the highway in both directions secure before noon.” Aides hurried off to relay his orders.
The captain turned, stooped down, and looked at the man he had killed. It was his first kill. The last way he ever wanted to do it was to shoot a man in the back. Worse, the man was unarmed. He had shot an unarmed soldier in the back. He would never live that truth down.
Rokov tore a patch off Lewis’s BDU jacket and handed it to another of his officers, his intelligence officer. “What is it?”
“It’s … it is the One-fifty-eighth Fighter Wing, as expected, sir,” the aide said nervously, obviously frightened by the double murders. “An F-16A Air Defense Fighter unit based in the province of Vermont, northeastern United States, part of the American Air National Guard reserve forces. Responsible for continental air defense. Sometimes deploys to Iceland or Canada.”
Rokov had to struggle to drag his consciousness to the present. Two unarmed American soldiers were dead. What in hell had they done? But it was too late to fret over it. “An American air defense fighter unit deployed out here? Why?”