Part of the equation for genius in military leadership is knowing when to exploit an advantage, willingness to sacrifice lives, and having the force of personality to make it happen. The commander of the SPS keyed his radio and calmly ordered his cadets to counterattack, driving the last of the invaders into the trees. The fighting was hand-to-hand and vicious as the cadets avenged their fallen comrades. Finally, they broke through to the fields on the other side of the trees.
Another part of the equation is knowing when to stop. The commander listened as the gunfire withered away. Satisfied he had a defensible perimeter, he ordered the cadets to stand and hold. The battle was over.
“Sir,” a cadet said, “we found Mr. Duncan.” The young man led the commander to the side of the command post. The fragmentation grenade had turned the body into a bloody pulp, almost unrecognizable. The cadet threw up. The commander waited patiently, remembering his first firefight. “The American did well. Look.” He counted the bodies. “He gave us warning and killed seven of our enemies. The man was a friend.”
The commander looked at the burning barracks and the carnage around him. Half of his cadets had been killed or wounded. The body count for the attackers stood at twenty-six and was going higher. “This is not a victory, only a warning.” He pulled out his cell phone and called Jerzy Fedor. They had to talk immediately.
TWENTY-SIX
The commander’s balcony overlooking the operations center appealed to Vashin’s pleasure in heights and gave him the overview he craved. Yet, it was not so far removed to put him out of touch. The trim army colonel took the main stage, holding a long, old-fashioned wooden pointer. He jabbed at the large scale chart of the SPS compound on the sliding wallboard directly behind him.
“Our forces have successfully withdrawn as planned. The trucks are now en route to Belarus and should cross the border at first light. The border guards have been bribed and there will be no trouble.”
Vashin liked the colonel’s optimism. He reached for the microphone clipped to the side of his seat. “Casualties?” he asked. His voice echoed over the operations center with a tinny, harsh sound.
The colonel shrugged. “Does it matter? We achieved our objective. The SPS no longer exists as a functional unit.”
Vashin accepted the colonel’s logic and stood to leave. The generals rose as one, a fraction of a second behind him. The constant deference they paid Vashin, their total subservience, were survival techniques born of desperation when Stalin ruled, refined under Khrushchev, institutionalized during Brezhnev’s regime, and almost forgotten when Gorbachev tried to reform the system. Instinctively, the generals saw in Vashin a new Stalin and reverted to the submissiveness that had worked so well in the past. “Your positioning of the blocking force was masterful,” one of them said. “They were able to stop a counterattack which saved the operation. You are to be commended, sir.” The other generals nodded in unison.
Vashin acknowledged their praise and left. The generals were silent until the door closed behind him. As one, they sat down and the real briefing began. The generals would willingly lie and deceive their political masters, but not themselves. The colonel dropped his long wooden pointer and slid the wallboard back. A large, computer-driven display appeared with video images. The colonel now flashed a laser pointer at the screen. “We lost the element of surprise when one of our men landed inside the compound. Since most of the force was in position, the commander opted to initiate the attack. In retrospect, that was a mistake and the commander will be disciplined. The SPS had been warned and was waiting. The Poles were so confident that they used cadets. For them, it was a training exercise. Nevertheless, our men were still able to inflict considerable damage before withdrawing.”
“Casualties?” a gruff voice asked.
This time the colonel answered. “We inserted ninety-four and left forty-one behind on withdrawal. Most of those are presumed dead.”
The image on the screen changed and a late-breaking CNN story appeared. A news team was at a border crossing between Poland and Belarus where a large group of men were being off-loaded from trucks. Many were wounded and bandaged. The on-scene reporter sorted through a large stack of weapons, describing their make, origin, and use. Most of the generals spoke English and did not need an interpreter. “An unmitigated disaster,” one of them muttered.
“Without doubt,” a two-star replied. “But is it for us to tell him?”
“Not me,” a three-star said. “He sent my wife a new car. A Mercedes-Benz. My daughter loves it.”
“He knows where we live,” the two-star said.
Geraldine Blake arrived at her office next to Vashin’s penthouse at the usual time. Normally, she had one or two hours to finalize the day’s schedule and only saw Vashin after the girl who shared his bed left. But this morning she was surprised to hear the television tuned to an English-language station. Most unusual, she thought, since Vashin’s English was very limited. She listened. It was an English-language edition of CNN and the late-breaking story of the capture of a large force of escaping Russian terrorists on the Polish border was getting full coverage. This will be a problem, she thought.
She checked her appearance in the mirror and picked up her slim leather notebook. She walked through the door. The TV was on but Vashin was not paying attention. He sat on a couch thumbing through the big picture albums that detailed the life of Madeline Turner, his nemesis. Lately, he had become obsessed and the albums were updated daily. He closed the books and walked to the big window overlooking Moscow.
“It was a fiasco,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, “but I don’t know what happened.” It was a gentle rebuke that she could not help him if she was kept in the dark.
Vashin stared into the mist swirling around the Towers, his hands clasped behind his back. “We are losing Poland.” He spun around and glared at her.
“Why? I thought the Polish Mafia was under your thumb and you were in control there.”
“I was until the Americans started helping them. This Special Public Services of the Poles, it’s a front for the CIA. I can sense it in my bones. That’s why I had to eliminate them. The generals told me the operation was a success. Why did they lie to me?”
He’s obsessing, Geraldine thought. He knows the CIA has nothing to do with the SPS. She fought for time. “Maybe the generals thought the operation was a success. CNN reported that one of the Americans helping the Poles, a Peter Duncan, was killed in the attack. According to our sources, Duncan was in Poland with the U.S. Defense Security Assistance Agency administering the security package negotiated by the last ambassador. With Bender dead, the new ambassador might scale back their aid. That only leaves one person in Poland still working with the Poles.”
“Yes, I know. Pontowski. Her boyfriend, the grandson of a president. I can’t touch him.”
“Under the circumstances, a very wise decision.” She gracefully rose and walked to the window. She touched his shoulder. “Mikhail, what would Peter the Great do?” As she said it, the mist parted and the sun broke the eastern horizon far to the south.
He turned to her, his face glowing as if he had seen a vision. “You’re right. I must look to Russia.” He pointed to the sun. “The sun is breaking over the south.”
“The south?” she asked, not understanding.
“The Ukraine is Russia’s granary. It’s vital to the Russian empire, our survival. The German minister I met in Bonn, von Lubeck, used a word, a very good word. Anschluss.” He paused, striking a pose. “I want to see the Pole. Get him here and tell him to bring the money that was stolen from me.”