Some things the body never forgets. There was none of the awkwardness between them common to new lovers. She was ready for him when he entered her. They moved together for what seemed like a long time, eyes locked. When they came together, it shook him to the core.

  After a minute he kissed her, brushed damp hair away from her face.

  "Whoa," he said.

  "Whoa, yourself."

  "This was probably a bad idea."

  "Probably."

  "It's going to complicate everything."

  "Maybe. It doesn't have to."

  "I want this," she said.

  "So do I."

  "If Carlson finds out he'll use it against us."

  "Then we'll make sure he doesn't," Thorne said.

  "Now I'm hungry," she said.

  "That steak should be ready for the grill by now."

  He got out of bed, pulled on his shorts and walked barefoot into the kitchen. He went out onto the patio and lit the grill. When he came back in, Jenna was pulling salad ingredients out of the refrigerator.

  "This lettuce is looking a little sad," she said.

  "I haven't been to the store since before Syria."

  "That explains it."

  She peeled away leaves until she found some that felt almost crisp.

  Later, after they'd eaten, they sat outside with fresh drinks.

  Jenna sighed.

  "That was a serious sigh," Thorne said. "What are you thinking about?"

  "I was wondering what it would be like to have a normal life," she said.

  "Normal?"

  "You know what I mean. Less stress. More time to relax. Take a vacation. Stuff like that."

  "You think it's possible? That kind of life?"

  "Not for me. Not for you, either. Even if I was lying on a beach somewhere, I'd be worried about the things going on that most people don't know about."

  "Like advanced Russian missiles in Syria."

  "Like that."

  "Somebody's got to do what we do."

  "You think it makes any difference?"

  "I don't know. I try not to think about it."

  "I used to think it does," Jenna said. "Now I'm not so sure."

  Thorne looked over at her.

  "You want to stay over?"

  "Don't ask dumb questions," she said.

  Chapter 17

  President Campbell's morning hadn't started well. Being president wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and Washington was a long way from the grasslands of South Dakota.

  He'd woken up with a headache, un-rested after a few hours of sleep. He'd forgotten what it was like to get a good night's sleep. A low-grade headache throbbed at the base of his skull. He'd washed down a couple of aspirin, gotten ready for the day, and headed for the breakfast room and a cup of coffee. Amy Campbell was sitting at the table, sipping a glass of orange juice and reading the morning paper. This was the one time of the day when they kept everyone away. Private time. There wasn't much of that.

  "Morning, babe. You're up early."

  He kissed her on top of her head.

  "I couldn't sleep. I didn't want to wake you, so I got up."

  Campbell sat down, poured himself a cup of coffee from a silver pot, and brushed jam on a piece of toast.

  His wife folded the paper and set it down on the table. She looked at her husband. He seemed to have aged a year, only a few months into the job.

  He looks so tired. He needs a break.

  "We haven't been to Camp David yet. Do you think you could get away for a weekend?"

  Campbell took a bite of his toast.

  "I'd like that. Maybe in a few weeks. My predecessor left things a mess. There are too many of his people still holding office. I'm meeting a lot of resistance. It's never anything overt, but things get shuffled aside or delayed. I knew Washington was going to be a tough nut to crack. I didn't know how tough. I'm beginning to find out."

  "It's why you were elected," she said. "People have faith in you. You'll find a way to do it."

  Campbell looked at his watch and started to rise.

  "I have to start the day."

  "Take your pills, Richard," she said.

  He looked at a small dish containing a dozen vitamin and supplement capsules.

  "I hate taking all these damn pills."

  "Stop grumbling and take them." She smiled at him. "They keep you healthy. The little green ones will help keep your energy level up."

  "Yes, Doctor," he said.

  He began swallowing the pills.

  A half an hour later, Campbell was sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office. DCI Kramer had finished briefing him about the Russian missiles. The analysts at Langley had confirmed upgraded SS 400s were being installed at Latakia and the new Russian base near Deir-ez-Zor.

  General Kroger was in the room, along with Kaplan and Walter Covington, the National Security Advisor.

  "You're certain of this, Director?" Campbell said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mister President, those are damn good missiles," Kroger said. "I hate to say it, but they're better than ours. They can knock out almost anything we can throw at them. By bringing them in, they've upped the ante."

  "You have any more bad news for me today, Director?"

  "Yes, sir, I'm afraid I have. They've also moved two squadrons of SU-35s from Latakia to the new base."

  "How many planes is that?"

  "Twenty-four, Mister President. The SU-35 is a fighter bomber. It's an offensive weapon. Two squadrons is a significant commitment. They wouldn't do that unless they intend to use them."

  "General Kroger, what is your analysis of the situation?"

  "Sir, all indications are that Sevim is about to invade Syria and eliminate what he paints as the Kurdish threat to his regime. He's on a mission to avenge his son's death. When he goes after them, the Kurds will be forced to pull troops from everywhere else to reinforce their front. At that point I believe the Russians will launch their offensive and go after the fields. Everything they're doing confirms our earlier suspicions."

  "Director Kramer?"

  "I agree with General Kroger, sir. Everything points to a combined ground and air offensive against the Kurds. The only possible objective is the oil."

  Campbell turned to the National Security Advisor.

  "Walter? What's your opinion?"

  Walter Covington was forty-two years old, Ivy League educated, and ambitious. He still had the fair-haired look and athletic build of his days at Yale, where he'd played quarterback. That had been the year they'd won the Ivy League championship. Losing was not a common word in Covington's vocabulary.

  President Campbell had run on the promise of a balanced and bipartisan approach to government. Covington was a hawk, picked to help balance those within his administration who tended to confuse appeasement with diplomacy. Harold Kaplan was the acknowledged spokesman for that group.

  "Sir, you need to let Tarasov know we are not going to stand by and let him grab that oil."

  Kaplan spoke up.

  "How do you propose to stop him? He's got the best part of ten thousand combat troops on the ground and plenty of airpower to back them up. If we do anything, we risk war."

  "You'd let him get away with it?"

  "I don't think Syria's oil is worth World War III," Kaplan said.

  "It doesn't have to lead to that," Covington said. "Tarasov knows he can't win a war with us."

  "Tarasov isn't in control. His generals are."

  "Mister President," Covington said. "If we don't do something, they'll think we're weak. That never works out well. Look at what happened when nobody stopped Hitler in 1936."

  "This isn't 1936," Kaplan said. "History doesn't repeat itself."

  Covington looked at Kaplan in disbelief.

  "I can't believe you said that. If history teaches us anything, it's that it always repeats itself, unless somebody pays attention. Maybe it's time we figured that out."

  "All right," Campbell said. "General, what do you suggest?"

  "Sir, you asked me to prepare an option for this situation."

  "Go on."

  "At present we have five hundred advisors on the ground in Syria. They're about fifty kilometers from the new Russian base. I propose we reinforce them with a regiment from the 75th Rangers, out of Fort Benning. That's two thousand men. They can be in place within twenty-four hours. That will show Tarasov we will not be intimidated."

  "You want to send two thousand Rangers in there? That's asking for trouble," Kaplan said.

  "It will let the Russians know we mean business."

  "What are the chances of the Russians engaging our troops?" Campbell said.

  "I don't think they're dumb enough to do that," Kroger said.

  "What if you're wrong?" Kaplan said. "Mister President, how are you going to explain it to the American people if any of our boys are killed over there?"

  Campbell's headache came back with a vengeance. It sent a stab of pain shivering through his skull. He clasped his hands and rested his arms on his desk.

  "General Kroger, we have to avoid an armed confrontation with the Russians at all costs. I agree that we can't allow Tarasov to do whatever he wants, but I'm not willing to authorize a troop deployment. It's too big a gamble. Tarasov already has the advantage of an established base with superior airpower and defenses. We will wait and see how it plays out. I'm not going to have American soldiers dying for Syrian oil. Prepare a plan to get our people out of there if it becomes necessary."

  "Mister President..."

  "I've made my decision, General."

  "Yes, sir."

  On the way out to their vehicles, General Kroger and Rebecca Kramer once again found themselves walking together.

  "Campbell is making another mistake," Kroger said.

  "He's worried about starting a world war," Kramer said.

  "I don't believe it would come to that."

  "He has to consider what Congress would do. Except for a few hard-core cases, nobody over there gives a damn what happens to the Kurds. Public opinion as well."

  "The hell with the public. They don't know anything."

  "No. But it would be helpful if they demanded a strong American response to Russia's actions. Something that would force Campbell to act."

  "The public will never support that."

  "Perhaps we can help change their mind," Kramer said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "The media is easily manipulated. It's a simple enough matter to stir up outrage, once the Russians start rolling over the Kurds. You know how it works. Pictures of crying children, bombed out buildings, mothers wailing. Burning oil fields polluting the skies. The media loves things like that."

  "And then?"

  "And then, once the outcry to do something is loud and clear, you present the president with a military option to punish the Russians that doesn't involve sending in more troops. Something that will force Tarasov to back off."

  "What would that be?"

  "I'm sure you'll think of something," she said.

  Chapter 18

  The Russian equivalent of the Pentagon was situated on the Moscow River, not far from the Kremlin. Tarasov and his senior officers were seated in the war room, watching a live satellite feed of Turkish tanks and infantry streaming across the border into Syria.

  Buried three hundred feet below the surface, the war room was three stories high, the heart of the National Control Defense Center. The lowest level was filled with six long rows of computer consoles that allowed instant communication with any and all of the Federation's diverse military forces. The consoles were segregated by service, as could be seen by the different markings on the uniforms of the men and women sitting at them.

  Images of the Turkish invasion from a satellite orbiting over Syria were displayed on a gigantic screen. Two long tiers of U-shaped balconies faced the screen and overlooked the floor below. The balconies were lined with rows of red leather chairs.

  Tarasov sat in the exact middle of the front row on the first tier, looking at the images on the screen. He was flanked to either side by General Kerensky and Defense Minister Fedorov. First Deputy Defense Minister Stepanov sat next to Fedorov. The rest of the chairs were filled with the Russian General Staff and ranking officers of the Federation's Army and Air Force. The second tier was currently empty.

  "It begins," Tarasov said.

  "Yes, Mister President," Kerensky said. "Sevim's tanks and planes will make short work of initial resistance, but they haven't come up against the main defensive positions of the SDF yet. The Kurds always knew this day would come. They've prepared for it. They know what they're doing, and they know what they're up against. They've placed their heavy weapons using features in the terrain to slow the Turks down. It will give them time to bring up reinforcements."

  "Can they win?"

  "No, Mister President. Not if Sevim is serious about crushing them. Their Air Force is limited to some aging F-16s and a few helicopters. They don't have enough weaponry to beat him. But it will be a costly victory for the Turks. The Kurds are dug in and determined. It's bound to drag on for quite a while."

  "Have they begun moving reinforcements from the oil fields?"

  "Yes, sir. As we anticipated, some detachments of their forces protecting the fields are moving to meet the Turkish advance."

  "What are the American advisers doing?"

  "Nothing. I've received reliable intelligence that they are not going to do anything," Kerensky said. "The security services have a highly placed source in Washington who reports their president will evacuate them if necessary."

  "As I thought," Tarasov said. "The man is weak."

  "It will be necessary at some stage to remove them," Kerensky said.

  "All in good time, General. Perhaps their president will take care of that for us. Make sure there are no incidents that force the Americans to react."

  "Yes, Mister President."

  "Operation EAGLE?"

  "Ready to begin on your command, Mister President."

  "Open the link to General Chernov."

  Kerensky spoke into his headset. Seconds later, General Chernov's voice sounded in Tarasov's ear.

  "Yes, Mister President."

  "General Chernov. Are you ready to execute?"

  There was only one possible answer.

  "Yes, sir. Our forces stand ready, awaiting your command."

  "The Motherland is depending on you, General. I have every confidence you will carry out your mission with full success."

  "Thank you, Mister President. I will relay your words to our troops."

  "Very well. You may begin operations immediately."

  "Yes, sir."

  Tarasov broke the connection.

  In Syria, General Chernov turned to his commanders.

  "EAGLE is to begin immediately. Pass the word." He looked at his watch. "Final briefing in thirty minutes, at 0830. Dismissed."

  Outside the headquarters building, Colonel Novikov turned to Major Gorky.

  "All right, Nikolai. Form up the brigade and get them ready to roll. The 12th will take the lead with their tanks."

  "The men won't like that, sir. They expect to be in the front of the action."

  "They'll be happy enough when they see what the tanks do to the Kurdish positions. There will be plenty of action, you can be sure of that."

  "Sir."

  Gorky saluted and went off to carry out his orders.

  Chapter 19

  Captain Grigori Volkov stood in the open hatch of his armored personnel carrier, waiting for the command to advance. He was already sweating under the weight of his body armor. The sun was a blazing ball of yellow fire in a cloudless blue sky, a promise of searing temperatures to come later in the day.

  Grigori's vehicle was a testament to the skills of Russian military designers. It had eight large wheels and a two hundred and sixty horsepower diesel engine that could do better than fifty miles an hour over level ground. It was armed with a 30mm cannon and a 7.62mm machine gun. The carrier was manned by a crew of three and carried seven special forces soldiers loaded down with a variety of weapons.

  Kevlar plating and a reinforced floor protected the occupants against bullets, mines and IED's. If needed, an overpressure system was designed to counteract nuclear or chemical attack. It was even air-conditioned, though Grigori had little confidence that feature would continue to function in the Syrian heat.

  Electronic support for the vehicle commander was a technological marvel. Grigori had the use of advanced GPS and topographical maps, satellite navigation, and night vision functions. Using his headset he could communicate with his crew, the brigade command vehicle, each of his platoon commanders, and every other vehicle in his company.

  Major Gorky's command vehicle idled at the head of the column. He had chosen Grigori's Alpha Company to be first in formation behind him. It was a source of personal satisfaction, an acknowledgment of his leadership.

  Grigori looked out at the featureless sands of the Syrian desert. Kurdish territory was less than an hour's drive away. His excitement was beginning to build, the first hint of adrenaline making its way through his veins. All his senses were heightened. There was a hard, metallic taste in his mouth.

  He took a deep breath. The air smelled of diesel fumes and hot metal and desert dust.

  The smell of war.

  Grigori couldn't think of any place he'd rather be than here, feeling the vibration of the idling engine under his feet.

  Ever since he could remember, he'd wanted to be a soldier. His father had reached the rank of full Colonel in the SVR and had expected his sons to follow in his footsteps. Grigori had never wanted to be anything like his father. He'd never forgiven him for his cruelty, for the way Arkady Volkov had bullied all of them. He still bore the marks of his father's belt buckle on his back.

  The evening before, he'd meant to call Anya. It had slipped his mind. Now it was too late.

  I wonder what she's doing? You've gone far, big sister..

  Thinking of Anya made him think of Mikhail. Mikhail had doted on his big brother and sister. It had been natural that he'd follow them into the Army. That would have been all right, except for the incompetence of the idiot Lieutenant responsible for Mikhail's useless death. The man should have been court-martialed, but he was well-connected. He had received only a mild reprimand. Grigori had learned the man had been promoted and was working a desk job in Rostov. He decided that when he got back after this operation he'd look him up. Catch him off base. Teach him a lesson.