Severov looked up at the sky as the rising sun illuminated the light clouds. Their plan was to be across the border before dawn. Now he wondered if they’d get across before lunch. In fact, he still wondered if it was a good idea to even try this.
Finally Severov nodded his head in dismissal of the young man. He walked down the line of three T-90s with their engines idling and their crews making last-minute adjustments. He was truly torn. He had spent the last decade wanting to engage NATO in a major tank battle. He envied the Israelis who got a chance to kick some ass every couple of years when someone in the Middle East had a memory lapse and forgot what it was like to go up against a professional army. On the other hand, Severov’s recent trip through Estonia reminded him of the collateral damage that would occur once the shooting started. The idea of smashing ancient villages to gain a tactical advantage on NATO troops didn’t appeal to him.
He also thought of Fannie Legat. If they didn’t cross the border, he’d have a very difficult time seeing her again. At least as long as he held Amir on this side of the border, there was one less thing that threatened her.
A sergeant sitting on top of one tank called out to him. “We’re all ready to go, Major. Any idea what time they’ll take us off the leash?”
Severov stepped closer and shouted over the sound of the idling tank. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up for an early departure, Anatoly. My bet is this wolfhound stays on the leash for a while longer.” He looked up and down the line of tanks and the trucks assigned to him, then back at the burly sergeant. “Grab six good men with rifles and keep patrolling this line of tanks on both sides until we’re ready to go. Can you do that?”
The sergeant hopped down onto the ground and faced the taller officer. “Are you still worried about the Chechens, Major?”
“I worry about everything. That’s my job.”
It was almost midnight in Brooklyn as Joseph Katazin sat on the closed seat of the toilet in his upstairs bathroom, assessing his injuries. Surprisingly, considering there had been gunfire and a grenade blast, the only thing that really bothered him was his ankle. Then he twisted quickly and realized his ribs still hurt as well. This was not how he pictured his later years as a deep-cover spy in the United States. What happened to his idea of sipping fine whisky with a cultured contact who told him about the inner workings of the Pentagon? But this was real life and these were real injuries. And they hurt.
He wrapped an Ace bandage tightly around his ankle and swallowed four aspirin. As he sat and looked over the vanity to see the cuts on his forehead and across his nose in the mirror, his wife pulled the door opened slowly. The action made him jump.
She had a heavy bathrobe pulled tight around her ample body. “What are you doing at this hour?”
“I took a tumble at the office and hurt my ankle.” He was shocked to see a look of concern on his wife’s face as she opened the door all the way and stepped in to inspect his first aid. As she leaned over and looked at the bandage he said, “It’s nothing, really.”
She switched her attention to his head and touched one of the fresh abrasions. “Did you fall off the loading dock?”
“Yes, I wasn’t paying attention and stepped off backwards. My ribs are a little sore, too.”
His wife reached into the medicine cabinet, pulled out a bottle of peroxide and poured some onto a cotton ball, and started to dab the cuts.
A few seconds later his daughter appeared in the doorway like an apparition. Fear spread across her face as she said, “What happened? Daddy, are you all right?”
He held out his arms, and she ran over to him. He looked into her sleepy eyes and said, “Just a little accident. I’m fine.” He brushed the hair out of her face and felt her forehead to make sure her fever had not returned.
The girl said, “Did you hear about the explosion?”
“On the way to Brighton Beach? Yes, I heard.”
His wife said, “The news said it might be terrorists living in an apartment, but those Russians would never let Muslims move into one of their buildings.”
“Not everyone is as closed-minded about new neighbors as you think. It sounds like a reasonable explanation to me.”
His wife moved the bloody towel that he had been using earlier, and instantly he remembered why he had set it on the counter. She stepped back and said, “Why do you have a gun in here?”
Could this night get any more frustrating?
Severov was surprised to see two command vehicles parked outside the colonel’s tent. He took a moment to straighten his uniform before he stepped up to the guard at the front and identified himself. The guard was not from any of his units and snapped to attention as if he were at a tourist spot in Moscow showing off for the European visitors.
Severov stepped past the man and immediately came to attention when he saw the commanding general standing next to his portly colonel.
The colonel turned, smiled, and said, “At ease, Anton.” Once Severov relaxed his stance, the colonel said, “The general was just commenting on what an excellent job you did scouting the route.”
“Thank you, sir.” He still stared straight ahead instead of engaging the superior officers.
Now the general stepped toward him. He was about the same age as the colonel but clearly did not have the same tendencies toward overindulging in food and drink. He was an athletic man with broad shoulders in his midfifties. His short hair was graying at the temples, and he had the look of a combat veteran. His uniform was neat and boots well polished.
The general said, “We’re still going into Estonia, Major. We’re just doing it a little later than we thought. Right now we expect our jump-off point to be about 1100 hours local time.”
Severov made no comment, although apparently his expression changed slightly, because the general said, “You may speak freely, Major. You don’t like our idea?”
Severov turned toward the battle-hardened general and said, “Sir, with respect, why would we wait? The longer we stage, the greater the chance of someone noticing us.”
“We’re not concerned by that, Comrade Major. The best NATO can do is try to turn some of our Chechen recruits against us.”
Severov decided not to mention his contribution to the angry Muslim recruits in the ranks. He did say, “The little revolt has made the men jumpy and suspicious.”
Now the general stepped close to him and said, “Have you ever met Vladimir Putin?”
“No, sir.”
“I worked with him several different times. He is a great leader for our country and arrived on the scene at exactly the right moment. He is not a man I’m about to tell that the Russian military cannot handle unruly Muslims, then roll into a virtually defenseless country and take it over before NATO can mount a counterattack.”
“So we go?”
“It’s taking longer to stage, but it will happen. You can count on being in Estonia by noon and at the far border by sometime tomorrow. If the route is as easy as you said in your report, we will have no problem rolling our tanks at high speed. I doubt the little notice they have of us gathering on this side of the border gave anyone time to plant land mines or IEDs.”
The general stepped over and put his hand on Severov’s shoulder. “This military operation is part of a much more ambitious plan, Major. All the news you’ve been reading from the West about financial crisis and terror attacks is accurate. These were planned and directed by Russian operatives working closely with jihadists. The idea was to distract the U.S. and Europe while we make another land grab. We need a forward operating base in Europe, and Estonia fits in nicely with our plans. It also has an excellent infrastructure for telecommunications. All of this will help us as we regain our status in the world.”