“I think that honor is now reserved for the Americans,” the Italian commander said. Many of the commanders laughed — but the Italian colonel was serious.
“The English and French can maintain their positions in Kosovo,” the German commander summarized. “With assistance from the other nations involved, I believe Germany can maintain a sufficient presence in Albania to quell any violence, and certainly with the Russians across the border in Macedonia, we can calm the situation dramatically. We stay out of sight unless there’s fighting or unless we see signs of illegal activity, such as arms smuggling. It is a workable interim solution until the diplomats can find a more lasting mechanism for keeping the peace.”
There were no other nations willing or able to offer a better solution, so the resolution passed unanimously. At that, with a simple voice vote, the Balkans were carved up once again.
Government House, Skopje,
Republic of Maccedonia
“Tell that rat bastard Kazakov to get the hell out of Skopje — his visa is to be revoked immediately!” Branco Nikolov, the prime minister of the Republic of Macedonia, shouted. “I am canceling my appointments with him now and to eternity!”
Nikolov hated gangsters like Kazakov, and the reason was simple: Macedonia was one of seven nations in the world legally authorized to cultivate, store, sell, and ship pharmaceutical opium. While it was a very lucrative enterprise, perfectly suited for a mostly agricultural country like Macedonia, the nation had to endure constant scrutiny and immense challenges to make sure the opium was not getting into the hands of illegal-drug makers. Macedonia expended quite a bit of its gross national product on internal and border security to combat the evil influences of men like Kazakov.
It didn’t make any difference that Kazakov wanted to talk about something else entirely — getting licenses and leases to build a huge pipeline across Macedonia from Bulgaria to Albania. It didn’t matter. Kazakov was scum.
Just then, the phone rang. Nikolov picked it up and listened. His assistant saw his shoulders droop and his jaw drop open. “Sir?”
Nikolov looked up at his assistant, surprise and disbelief etched across his face. His eyes again fell to the desk. “Get Kazakov … no, ask Comrade Kazakov to come in.”
“Sir?” the assistant gasped. “I thought you said …?”
“Just do it,” Nikolov said in a low, panicked voice. “That was the President. The United Nations Security Council is voting later this morning on a resolution to send Russian peacekeepers into Macedonia from Kosovo.”
“What? Russian troops in Macedonia? It cannot be!”
“They are on the move right now,” Nikolov said. “The resolution is expected to pass by the end of the day. Three thousand Russian troops from Prizren, another five thousand troops expected to fly into the capital by next week and move to Bitola to set up observation posts along the Albanian border. The Germans will be patrolling the Albanian side. The goddamned Germans—”
“But … but what about Kazakov? what does he have to do about this?”
“I don’t know, but I feel his fingers pulling some strings in all this,” Nikolov said ominously.
“How so, sir?”
“Don’t you see? The Russian troops from Prizren will be following a route exactly identical to the routing Kazakov’s proposed pipeline will take. Kazakov will practically have Russian troops guarding every centimeter of his proposed pipeline.”
“But that’s got to be a coincidence, sir,” the assistant said. “The duplicity falls apart at the Albanian border. Kazakov will never get approval from Albania to extend his pipeline project into Albania.”
Nikolov looked worried enough to chew a fingernail, something his assistant had never before seen him do. “But if he does do it, if he does get permission, there’s nothing we could do about it with Russian troops occupying half our country,” he said. “Better to make a deal with Kazakov now — the fewer enemies we have, the better.”
Near Resen, Republic of Macedonia
“C’mon, kids, let’s get going!” Chief Master Sergeant Ed Lewis, NCOIC of the 158th Fighter Wing, Vermont Air National Guard, shouted through the mess tent door. “It’s a beautiful day outside, we’re having a great time, and breakfast was exceptionally good today! Let’s move it!” The Chief greeted his troops like this every day at 0645. He was usually the first one in line when the chow hall opened up at 0600, but he had already led PT at 0530 and had conducted an informal first sergeant’s meeting at the breakfast table.
Inside the tent, his troops made a few raucous comments as they got up from the picnic bench-style tables, policed up their trays and areas, and headed outside. Lewis spoke a little Macedonian and greeted every Macedonian soldier in his own language, which he knew sounded funny as hell in his thick New England accent. The weather was miserable, the conditions were poor most times, the workdays were long and hard, the food was plentiful but bland, and they were six thousand miles from home — but Ed Lewis and his Green Mountain Boys loved every minute of it.
For the second year in a row, members of the Vermont Air National Guard were participating in a Partnership For Peace program called Cornerstone, where NATO and Macedonian military units worked side by side, shared equipment, learned about each other’s capabilities, trained together, and did some good work for the locals at the same time. For Cornerstone 2001-3, the encampment was in a rural area fifteen miles north of Resen in south-central Macedonia. Spring flooding had decimated a number of villages in the area, so construction units of the U.S. Navy Seabees and U.S. Marine Corps, led by units of the 158th Fighter Wing “Green Mountain Boys” of the Vermont Air National Guard, had been sent in to rebuild roads, schools, bridges, and other buildings, help the local utilities restore and restart service, and supply drinking water to the citizens.
This was the second time that Chief Master Sergeant Ed Lewis, first sergeant of the 158th Fighter Wing of the Vermont Air National Guard, had been in Macedonia during his training rotation. To tell the absolute truth, he enjoyed the hell out of it. Southern Macedonia was very much like his native Milton, Vermont — rural, rugged, isolated, lush, a little backward, wet, sometimes cold and gray, other times sunny and spectacularly beautiful. The people were friendly and very hospitable. Most everyone spoke English, at least much better than Lewis spoke Macedonian or Greek, which was a real benefit to Lewis and his contingent of one hundred Guardsmen and the other American service members here.
The troops were treated like neighbors here. If a soldier paused longer than normal on the street, a woman would come out of a nearby house and invite him inside to rest, or offer him or her coffee, cakes, or delicacies such as lamb’s head soup. They never gave directions to anyone — the locals would always escort a lost soldier to his destination, no matter how far out of their way it was. If an American did the simplest courtesy for a Macedonian, even as trivial as stepping aside to let him or her pass, or holding a door open, the next time you’d meet that civilian, he or she would offer to launder your uniform, take you for a drive around town to see the sights, or have you meet every one of his relatives. Although living in the field was tough on all of them, the locals did everything they could to make the foreigners seem welcome.