“I do not believe they are a real fighter unit, sir,” the intel officer said. “I believe they were sent out here as an advance unit, setting up air defense and surveillance operations in southern Macedonia.”
“But why down here in this river valley?” Rokov asked. “Why not in the highlands themselves, or a few kilometers farther east where they have a clear unobstructed view of the frontier? This is the worst place they could have picked if they were going to set up any kind of radar or line-of-sight communications system.”
“I still believe this is an intelligence-gathering unit, sir,” the Russian intel officer said resolutely, although the confusion and uncertainty was evident in his eyes. “They have set up this site as a listening post, disguised as some sort of humanitarian aid project.”
“Well, dammit, find the officers, find the equipment, and find the crypto gear, and do it quickly!” Rokov ordered, snatching the dead NCO’s patch away from the confused intel officer. “The main body of the Fifty-first Airborne Regiment will be moving through here tonight, and I don’t want any sort of recon groups or intelligence-gathering devices to be operating when they do. Now get going.” The aide hurried off, glad to be out of range of the captain’s rising anger.
Rokov stuffed the patch in his BDU jacket pocket. Gunfire started to erupt nearby, along with shouts in Russian to stop, more shooting, the sounds of terrified men and women screaming. More shooting, more screaming — this time, the sounds of screaming children, lots of them.
This just didn’t make sense, he thought. His observer had said the Americans had set up a special forces recon base here in the Czur Valley to monitor Russian troop activities, and his intel staff had confirmed the report. Then some reports had come in saying the group was not a special forces or recon team, but a civil aid project team called Cornerstone. The intel staff maintains they are a recon group, merely disguised as a civil aid project. Then he receives a report saying the Americans were part of an F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter unit, which raises all sorts of new suspicions.
Rokov turned to the civilian passenger beside him and asked, “Well, Comrade Kazakov? I see no signs of American special forces or recon teams here. This place has no helicopters, no communications outlets, and is located in the worst possible location.”
“Did you expect the Americans to be standing out here in the open waving in welcome as you flew in?” Pavel Kazakov asked derisively. He was taking some rough survey shots with a portable laser/GPS transit, measuring elevations and distances from the school to the river, making mental calculations on exactly where he was going to lay his pipeline. It was never a good idea to build a big pipeline too close to the main highway, but it still had to be accessible. This was a perfect spot for a pumping and metering station. The flooding concerned him, so he had to find where the mean water level had been, so he could update the flood charts and make calculations on the water table. “It sounds like your men are digging the real enemy troops out right now.”
“I see no evidence a battalion-size force ever has been here,” Rokov observed. “I see no evidence of armor, weapons concentrations, antiaircraft weaponry, fuel storage, or marshaling yards. Where is all this heavy military equipment you reported?”
“You have been on the ground five minutes, Rokov — did you expect all the answers to just pop out at you so quickly?”
Rokov looked at Kazakov suspiciously. “I find it interesting, Comrade,” he said warily, “that with all the resistance we were told to expect here, with all the danger requiring a heliborne assault by an entire airborne infantry company, that you decided to come along. It was a very large risk. It makes me wonder if there were any heavy forces here at all.”
“Were you hoping for a firefight, Captain? Anxious to win some more medals?”
“All I’m looking for are some straight answers—”
“I’m not here to answer questions for you, Captain,” Kazakov snapped. “I’ve been authorized to accompany you on this operation, and that’s all you need to know. It is your job to secure this location and then move south to secure the stretch of highway near Resen to prepare for the Fifty-first Airborne Regiment to move up from their positions near Bitola.”
Captain Rokov turned to Kazakov in some surprise. “And how did you know about the Fifty-first’s jumping-off point near Bitola?” he asked. “I learned about it in a top-secret briefing just before we mounted up for this assault.”
“More stupid questions,” Kazakov scoffed, ignoring the question. He anchored a measuring tape to a stake and started to walk. “I’ve got my work, Captain, and you have yours.”
“Wait one minute, Kazakov—”
“That’s Mr. Kazakov to you, Captain!” Pavel snapped. “I warn you — do not try me. Go about your business, now.”
“Or what, Mr. Kazakov?”
“You suddenly think you’re so tough, Captain Rokov?” Kazakov spat. “You’re the one who shot an unarmed American noncommissioned officer in the back. Your career is over.”
“That is a failure of discipline and a personal shame that I will live with for the rest of my life,” Rokov said. “But what of you? What is your interest in all of this?”
“None of your business.”
“Perhaps the rumors are true, Comrade — you are letting the army obtain and secure land for your oil pipeline through the Balkans,” Rokov said. “You make up a fantasy story about American spies and Macedonian saboteurs in order to get a recon company to land you on this site, then you busy yourself surveying it. What’s next? Will you order a Mi-28 to carry in your bulldozers and cranes?”
“What I would concern myself about, Captain,” Kazakov hissed in a low voice, stepping nose to nose with the Russian infantry officer, “is your fiancée and her four-year-old daughter in Rostov at her new job at the Zil plant. She just got moved to the graveyard shift so she can work while her daughter is in bed, I understand. It would be a shame to hear that she was hurt coming home after a long night at work.”
“How in hell could you possibly know …?” And then Rokov stopped short. Kazakov knew about his fiancée and her daughter the same way he knew about the Fifty-first doing an airborne assault tonight — he had either powerful connections or well-informed spies, and either way he could not hope to fight him.
“I see we now understand each other,” Kazakov said, nodding and putting on a sly, knowing grin. “You did a fine job this morning, Captain. The assault was swift, accurate, precise, and well-executed. My suggestion to you: report that these filthy American spies attacked you after your men discovered their spy network, and you had no choice but to defend yourselves. You may even take credit for killing both spies. I’m sure your men can devise a way to make it appear as if the shootings were in self-defense — maybe take these corpses out to the forest and put some bullet holes in their bodies that are going in and out in the proper direction. Let’s not have any more cross words between us. I will stay out of your way—”
“And you had better stay out of mine, Kazakov,” Rokov said.
“Zamyechateel’niy, “Kazakov said. “Very good. I see we understand each other perfectly.”
Rokov maintained eye contact with Kazakov for a long moment, but eventually stepped away to supervise the mopping-up operation. Minutes later, more troops started to arrive; already, the first few American soldiers were being herded into the parking lot, hands on top of their heads like captured prisoners of war.
Yes, the operation was indeed going quite well. Kazakov could easily envision the pumping and transfer station right here. The terrain climbed rather steeply just west of here on its way into the Lake Ohrid area, and a pumping station was necessary to get it up and over. Knock a few of these rotting flooded-out buildings down, use the rubble to raise and grade the elevation, and it would work out perfectly. What did these peasants need with a school here? Resen was only fifteen miles away — they had plenty of schools there they could attend.