A head and shoulders emerged from the open hatch on his left. Sergeant Pavel Vassiliev had been Grigori's driver for the better part of two years.

  "Going to be another hot one, sir," Vassiliev said. "The air conditioning is broken again. Too bad we can't open the vents for that desert breeze."

  "You've been spoiled by all that nice, cold air, Sergeant. "

  "That's right, sir. If they didn't want to spoil us, why add it in the first place?"

  "They put it there for you, Pavel. So you'd have something to bitch about when it stopped working."

  Vassiliev grinned at him.

  "Got that right, sir."

  "Everybody loaded up in back?"

  "Like caviar in a tin, Captain."

  A cloud of dust rose ahead, as tanks of the 12th Motorized Infantry began rolling. Grigori would have liked it better if the 22nd was out in front, but it made sense to let the tanks take the first brunt of whatever the Kurds might have ready for them.

  He heard a short burst of static in his earpiece, then Major Gorky's voice.

  "All units, prepare to move out."

  "Here we go, sir."

  Vassiliev ducked into his compartment, pulling the hatch shut with a metallic clang. Grigori did a final comm check with his platoon commanders and dropped down next to him, closing the hatch. It was forbidden to drive the vehicles with the hatches open. At least the broken AC kept air circulating. Minutes later, the formation began moving toward the highway leading to Deir-ez-Zor. From there they would cross the Euphrates into Kurdish territory.

  Deir ez-Zor had been heavily damaged during the civil war of the decade before. The regime had rebuilt the city with Russian help, but had never been able to oust the Kurds from the oil fields on the other side of the river. Once across the Euphrates, the heaviest concentration of the wells under Kurdish control were to the east and south.

  Phase one of the battle plan called for the columns to cross the river and split into two elements. One element would head east under the command of Colonel Brezhnev from the 12th, eliminating opposition along the way before turning south. The second element, led by Colonel Novikov, would turn south as soon as they crossed the river. Eventually the Russian forces would meet up near the town of Abu Kamal, close to the southern border with Iraq. That would secure the bulk of the fields under Kurdish control. At that point, attention could be turned to the remainder of the fields in the Northeast.

  As they neared Deir ez-Zor, the desert sands gave way to fields of crops irrigated by the life-giving waters of the Euphrates. Motorcycle outriders had gone ahead and cleared the way. People watched in silence as the Russian columns rumbled through, wondering if the city was about to be destroyed again.

  Grigori's company crossed the Euphrates into Kurdish territory and headed east onto a harsh, yellow plain dotted with oil pumps rising and falling in monotonous rhythm. They looked like huge metal birds, dipping their beaks.

  There was no cover. If an air attack came, the columns would be sitting ducks, but Grigori wasn't worried. The SDF didn't have many planes. If they showed up, Russian fighters would take care of them. The Americans wouldn't dare interfere.

  A flight of SU-35s screamed by overhead, headed somewhere to the east. He almost felt sorry for the Kurds. Those planes would turn their positions into rubble.

  The first objective was a large refinery and distribution junction ten kilometers east of the highway. So far they'd encountered no resistance, but Grigori knew it couldn't last. The refinery could be seen in the distance, a sprawling complex of buildings and towers. The planes had bombed it. Thick columns of black smoke rose into the morning sky, lit with an orange glow from the raging fires below.

  The air-conditioning began working again. It made the interior almost comfortable.

  Grigori scanned the objective through his optics. He couldn't spot any of the enemy, only smoke and flames. Had they abandoned the refinery and fled?

  The column had almost reached the outer buildings when someone in the complex opened up with a heavy machine gun. Suddenly the air filled with the crackle of small arms fire. Bullets glanced off the carrier with a ringing, metallic sound.

  They followed the waving red pennant on Colonel Brezhnev's command vehicle toward the muzzle flashes of the guns. Major Gorky's vehicle was off to the left. Static crackled in Grigori's comm set.

  "Eagle Six to all units. Enemy ahead in force. Engage at will."

  Eagle Six was Brezhnev.

  Adrenaline pumped through Grigori's veins.

  "You heard him, Vassiliev," Grigori said. "Sasha, keep an eye on those buildings."

  Sasha Turganev was Grigori's gunner. The 30 millimeter cannon was a powerful weapon, with enough force to penetrate the steel plate used in most armored personnel carriers. Against a building, it could blow holes through walls with ease.

  It was getting noisy inside the carrier. The autoloader clacked and whirred as it fed ammunition to the gun. A steady hail of bullets rang loud against the armor as they roared into the refinery complex.

  The turret made a whining sound as Sasha traversed back and forth, searching for targets. Suddenly Brezhnev's command vehicle vanished, engulfed in a ball of smoke and flame.

  There was no time to think about it. A trail of white smoke erupted from one of the buildings. A rocket propelled grenade streaked toward them.

  "Left! Left! RPG!" Grigori shouted.

  Vassiliev swerved, too late. The grenade hit the troop compartment in the back of the carrier. The sound was like nothing Grigori had ever heard. It felt like a giant hammer had swung down out of the sky and slammed against the side of the vehicle.

  He was thrown off his seat. He hit the hard metal side of the carrier, driving his helmet down over his eyes. It hurt. He felt blood trickling down his cheek.

  The turn left had exposed one of the few vulnerable spots on the carrier. The explosion had blasted through the armor. In the troop compartment behind Grigori, men were on fire. Their terrible screams froze him in place. A second rocket exploded against the front, and the carrier stopped moving. Grigori looked to his left. Vassiliev was slumped over the big steering wheel. Blood ran down his face.

  Smoke filled the compartment. Coughing, Grigori leaned to the side and unlocked the hatch above his unconscious driver, then threw open the hatch over his head. Dizzy, he hauled himself out until he lay on the top of the vehicle. Tracers streaked through the air. For every round he saw, nine more were invisible. Rifle flashes blinked and stuttered in the dark window openings of the refinery buildings. The air was dense with the sound of automatic fire. Explosions echoed all around. Bullets passed over him, ricocheted off the turret, whined away, a discordant symphony of death.

  He crawled over to the driver's hatch and lifted it up, then bent down and pulled Vassiliev through the opening. A bullet punched into his thigh, almost knocking him off the vehicle. It was like being hit by a truck. His leg went numb. He kept hold of Vassiliev and dragged him to the side, lowering him down to the ground. Then he crawled back to his hatch and dropped down into the compartment below. Sasha's legs dangled from the turret.

  Coughing and choking in thick, black smoke, he got Sasha down. Grigori couldn't feel his left leg. Somehow he struggled up through the command hatch, then reached down and hauled his gunner out of the burning BTR. Another bullet struck him as he pushed Sasha over the side. He rolled off the carrier and landed on his back on the hard ground.

  Grigori lay there, looking up at the sky. Something blocked the light.

  "Captain!"

  Vassiliev. Why is he there?

  Vassiliev was saying something, but he couldn't hear what it was. He couldn't feel anything. There was no pain. Only a sickening feeling of falling, faster and faster. He wanted to tell Vassiliev to help Sasha but he couldn't speak.

  Anya.

  Then the world dropped away.

  Chapter 20

  Two days after the Russians crossed the Euphrates, Anya and her mother were watching television. All three major channels were reporting on the operations in Syria. All the channels carried the same commentary, glowing accounts of an unstoppable Russian advance.

  Anya was worried. She knew the truth behind the propaganda spewing from the TV. The Kurds were putting up stiff resistance, more than had been anticipated. It was only the end of the second day, and the advance was already slowing down. Russian casualties were heavy, far surpassing estimates. Even though Kurdish forces had been siphoned off to fight the Turks, a determined contingent had remained behind to protect the oil.

  What was supposed to be a quick and painless victory had turned into a savage, bloody, battle with no holds barred. The tanks had proved vulnerable to suicidal Kurds armed with courage and the latest American antitank weapons. Every building, even the smallest shack, was heavily defended. The Kurds had sophisticated antiaircraft weapons, a gift from the Americans. They hadn't stopped attacks from the air, but they had made them costly. One SU-35 cost the equivalent of eighty-five million American dollars. Six had already been shot down.

  The outcome of the operation was not in doubt. In the end, control of the oilfields would pass to Moscow, but President Tarasov wasn't getting the quick and popular victory he had counted on.

  Russian forces had steered clear of the American troops in the area, but Anya worried that someone might make a mistake and trigger a much larger war. As far as she was concerned, nothing short of a direct attack on the Motherland could justify that.

  There had been times during her career when Anya had wondered why she had been ordered to do something. Even so, she'd never questioned the necessity for what she was asked to do. She had always assumed there were good reasons for those orders, even if she didn't know what they were. But this adventure in Syria was different. It bothered her.

  Russia had plenty of oil. What was happening in Syria was political, a chess move on the world stage. It wasn't about defending the Motherland, no matter what the television announcers said. The Kurds were no threat to the Federation. Her countrymen were dying because of politics.

  It felt wrong, more than wrong. She wished she could do something about it, but that wasn't possible.

  On screen, a well-known Moscow TV anchor stood by the side of a highway somewhere East of the Euphrates, facing the camera. He wore a helmet that was too small for him and a vest that made him look like someone playing soldier. Smoke rose in the distance, over ancient land that might once have been the biblical Garden of Eden. A stream of Russian vehicles rolled by behind him, throwing up clouds of dust. His prideful commentary made it clear the Russians were there at the request of their staunch ally, President Khaleem-al-Khali, to help drive out the Kurdish occupiers who were plundering Syria's vast oil reserves.

  "Elements of the 22nd Special Purpose Brigade and the 12th Motorized Rifle Brigade have been engaged since the beginning of operations to ensure the security of our nation. Our troops are advancing at a steady pace. Some resistance has been reported, but the enemy had better watch out! Our brave soldiers will soon make short work of them!"

  Yulia put her hand to her mouth. "Grigori is in the 22nd. Did you know about this, Anya?"

  EAGLE was no longer a secret. There was no reason to hide her knowledge.

  "Yes, mother. I knew about it."

  "Why didn't you tell me? What if something happens to Grigori?"

  "I didn't want to worry you. Besides, I wasn't allowed to tell you."

  "That's no excuse. You should have told me."

  "I wasn't allowed to," Anya said again. "The operation was secret."

  "Your father was always keeping secrets," Yulia said, her voice unhappy.

  A knock came at the door. Anya rose from the couch.

  "I'll get it."

  "It's late. Why is anyone coming here now?"

  She went to the door and opened it. Two officers in dress uniform stood there, one of them a woman. Anya had a sudden, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. There was only one reason why these people would be here this late at night.

  "Colonel Volkova?"

  Her mouth was dry.

  "Yes. I am Colonel Volkova."

  "I am Captain Brezhinski. It is my sad duty to inform you that your brother, Captain Grigori Volkov, has fallen in battle."

  The words paralyzed her. Anya stood rooted to the floor, unable to move.

  Yulia's voice came from the other room.

  "Anya, what is it?"

  He can't be dead. It must be a mistake. I talked to him a week ago.

  "Colonel Volkova? Are you all right?"

  He can't be. They've made a mistake.

  Her heart began pounding. A wave of dizziness swept over her. Anya put her hand on her chest, feeling as though she might faint. Then it passed. She looked at Captain Brezhinski.

  "You are certain? There's no possibility of a mistake?"

  "I am very sorry, Colonel."

  "How...what happened?"

  "Captain Volkov's vehicle was disabled by a rocket attack. Your brother is a hero, Colonel. He was under continuous fire and severely wounded. He disregarded his wounds and managed to get his crew to safety before he succumbed. You can be proud of him. Please accept the condolences of the nation for his death. He died for the Motherland."

  Died for the Motherland.

  The words echoed in her mind. Grigori was dead.

  Dead.

  "Anya?"

  Her mother had come into the hall. She saw the two officers.

  "Anya? What do they want?"

  Anya took a deep breath.

  "It's Grigori, mother."

  "Grigori? Is he all right?"

  "Mother..."

  Yulia looked at the two officers standing in the hallway. The blood drained from her face.

  "No," she said.

  She clasped her chest and fell to the floor.

  "Shit," the Captain said.

  He pushed his way past Anya and knelt down. Yulia's face was an odd color, her breathing harsh and labored.

  "Lieutenant Peshkov, call an ambulance."

  Anya felt like she was standing outside of herself, as if she were in a bad dream and couldn't wake up. Sound faded. She saw the Lieutenant call for help without understanding the words. She saw Captain Brezhinski pushing on her mother's chest. All she could think about was what he'd said.

  Died for the Motherland.

  She realized Lieutenant Peshkov was saying something.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said, an ambulance is on the way, Colonel."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant."

  "I'm sorry, ma'am."

  "Yes."

  Grigori is gone. My sweet brother is gone. For what? For nothing.

  Then, I helped make it happen.

  She wanted to strike out, to scream at Brezhinski. Of course she couldn't do that. It wasn't his fault. Someone was to blame, but it wasn't him.

  It was too soon to feel grief, but she knew it would come. She was aware of something else building inside her, demanding to get out.

  Demanding to be heard.

  Anger. No, something more intense than that, something more primal.

  Rage.

  Chapter 21

  Anya sat unmoving at the kitchen table watching a wisp of steam rise from her cup of tea, getting ready to visit her mother in the hospital. She was thinking of Grigori and why he'd been sent to Syria in the first place. She'd spent a lot of time the last few days thinking about that. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. She didn't like where her thoughts were taking her.

  The official explanation for the war was that Federation troops had gone into Syria at the request of the regime in Damascus. The public believed it, but Anya knew it was a lie. Operation EAGLE was only the opening move in a larger game. The generals were playing with fire. The risk of igniting a larger war was real.

  The Russian operation had destabilized the region. The world was nervous. All of the Middle East had gone to high alert. She didn't believe the Americans would stand by and let Tarasov do whatever he wanted. They'd have to respond. Whatever the response was, it wouldn't be good.

  She couldn't sleep at night, thinking about what war with the West would look like. The images were too horrible to contemplate. Nothing was worth starting World War III, certainly not Syria's oil. A major confrontation with America could go nuclear. If that happened, her homeland would be destroyed.

  The Federation didn't need more oil. Russia had enough proven reserves to cover her needs for the next thirty years. The oil was an excuse. Why were troops in Syria? Why had her brother been there? It sure as hell wasn't to assist the corrupt regime of Khaleem al-Khali.

  Tarasov was allied with a core group of senior generals who wanted to bring back the power Russia had wielded in the days of the Soviet Union. The election was coming soon. His popularity had taken a big jump because of the Syrian offensive. People saw it as a resurgence of Russian strength, something to make them feel proud of their country again.

  Grigori died because Tarasov wanted to look good in the polls.

  The realization triggered a sudden rush of adrenaline. Her heart began pounding. It felt like someone had grabbed her head and squeezed.

  She took deep breaths, calming herself. Of course it wasn't that simple. Or was it? It didn't really matter. What mattered was that Grigori was dead for no good reason. Dead because of powerful men who wanted even more power. They had killed both her brothers, one through incompetence and one through an unnecessary war. Stupid men, putting her country and the world at risk.

  It's wrong. Wrong. They have to be stopped.

  I have to do something.

  She drank some of her tea, then got up to go to the hospital.

  They had put her mother in a private room, an unexpected luxury. The room was painted in soothing shades of blue, pleasant and quiet. The nurses and doctors were polite and respectful. They all knew what had brought on Yulia's heart attack.