President Tarasov and General Kerensky watched the crowd on a monitor in Tarasov's office.

  "We could not have planned anything more effective than this," Tarasov said. "I want pictures of the men who were killed on the front page of every newspaper."

  "I agree, Mister President, it's an excellent opportunity. Perhaps you could visit the families. Or bring them here to the Kremlin for a presentation of medals and the gratitude of the nation."

  "I sometimes wonder which of us is the more cynical, General."

  "I prefer to think of it as utilizing opportunity," Kerensky said.

  "Was it really an accident?"

  "Yes, sir, it was. The commander in the field believed he was firing on Kurdish vehicles."

  "We fired first?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Perhaps we should give him a medal as well. It's either that, or a posting to Siberia."

  "Major Gorky screwed up, but a medal would be better. After all, he did take out the American units, even if his mistake got his men killed. A medal ceremony would be a popular move."

  "Very well. Set it up."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I understand that Colonel Volkova's brother was killed, heroically."

  "Yes, sir. Captain Volkov was part of Major Gorky's unit. He died from wounds sustained when he rescued two of his crewmen from their burning vehicle."

  "Let's award Gorky the Medal of Suvarov for heroism in combat. At the same time we'll give the Gold Star to Captain Volkov. Colonel Volkova can accept it for him. We'll televise the ceremony. The public will like it."

  The official name of the Gold Star medal was Hero of the Russian Federation. It was Russia's highest military award.

  "May I suggest that we also include Captain Volkov's mother at the ceremony? Perhaps even present the medal to her, while Colonel Volkova stands at her side?"

  Tarasov nodded. "An excellent idea."

  "Have you heard from the Americans yet?" Kerensky said.

  "Not yet. I'm sure I won't have long to wait."

  "What do you think they'll do?"

  "I don't expect them to do anything. At least not anything important. They'll complain and threaten some sort of retaliation, but nothing will come of it. Their President doesn't have the balls, and even if he did, the American Congress would cut them off. What's the situation in Syria?"

  "Except for isolated pockets of resistance, we've established control of most major distribution points and about two thirds of the oil fields. The Kurdish forces have consolidated and are retreating into the Northeast quadrant. They're battered, but hold good defensive positions."

  "How long till it's done?"

  "Hard to say, Mister President. A month, perhaps. They are very stubborn fighters."

  A knock sounded. One of the tall double doors opened and an aide stepped into the room.

  "What is it?" Tarasov said.

  "Mister President, the American president is calling."

  "Send in the translator. Then put him through."

  "Yes, sir."

  The man withdrew.

  "This should be interesting," Tarasov said.

  The translator came in, a captain in uniform. He came to attention and saluted.

  "Mister President. Where do you want me?"

  "Right there, by the desk."

  Tarasov picked up the phone. He activated the speaker and recorder.

  "Mister President."

  "President Tarasov. I'm calling about the event in Syria."

  "Which event would that be, Mister President? Are you talking about the unprovoked attack on our forces by your so-called advisors?"

  Kerensky nodded his approval.

  In Washington, President Campbell covered the mouthpiece of the phone. He'd asked General Kroger to be present during the call.

  "The son of a bitch wants to play hardball."

  "He's trying to intimidate you," Kroger said. "He needs to know you won't put up with it."

  Campbell uncovered the mouthpiece. "I'm not going to play games, President Tarasov. Regardless of who fired first, the fact that American lives have been lost forces me to tell you that the United States will not tolerate further aggression."

  "Is that a threat, Mister President?"

  "Not at all. Merely a bit of advice. You and I are not friends, President Tarasov. I regret that is the case. I hope we may have an opportunity to remedy that in the future. You do not know me well. Please do not underestimate my resolve in this matter. Things have gone far enough in Syria. I suggest that you withdraw your troops back across the Euphrates, in the interests of better relations between our two nations. Acknowledgment of responsibility and an expression of regret for the deaths of our soldiers would go a long way toward improving those relations."

  In Moscow, Kerensky raised his eyebrows.

  "President Campbell, it is true we do not know each other. You tell me not to underestimate your resolve. I tell you, do not make that mistake with me. We are in Syria as the legitimate ally of the regime, carrying out actions against bandits who have been stealing resources from the Syrian people. Stealing those resources, I might add, with your assistance. We will not change our decision to remove these bandits once and for all. You offer advice. Let me do the same for you. Do not interfere with our operations in the region. The results might not be to your liking."

  "That is your final word on the matter, Mister President?"

  "It is the United States which should apologize. Stay out of Syria, Mister President. It is no longer in your interest to remain there. If you wish better relations between our countries, you will cease your provocations against us."

  Tarasov disconnected.

  "You may leave," Tarasov said to the translator.

  "Sir."

  Kerensky waited until the man had left the room.

  "That was well done, Mister President."

  "There's nothing he can do," Tarasov said. "The United States has become a paper tiger. If he leaves his advisors in place, they will be a small island surrounded by a sea of Russian strength. He has no option but to pull them out. We will graciously allow them to withdraw."

  Tarasov got up and went to a sideboard. He filled two glasses from a bottle of vodka and brought one over to Kerensky.

  "A toast, General. To a new era, one where we have regained our rightful place in the world."

  "It has been a long time coming," Tarasov said.

  The two men drank.

  On the other side of the world, President Campbell was angry.

  "General Kroger."

  "Sir?"

  "That arrogant bastard hung up on me. He needs to understand that I will not be intimidated. I've considered your suggestion regarding blockading the Dardanelles. You've discussed this with the other chiefs? Admiral Stone?"

  "Yes, sir. At length."

  "Their opinion?"

  "The chiefs are united. In our judgment, a blockade is the most effective way to pressure the Russians without putting our troops in harm's way."

  "What do you think the Russians will do, General?"

  "They'll bluster, sir. They'll probably go to the UN and accuse us of warmongering. But they're not going to do anything foolish like trying to run the blockade with one of their warships."

  "What will happen if they try?"

  "We'll warn them not to proceed. If necessary, fire warning shots to discourage them. If they continue, we will disable their vessel."

  "This could escalate," Campbell said.

  "There may be some limited incidents. Tarasov isn't going to risk a major war with us, Mister President. He'll negotiate."

  "What about our Rangers? Should we leave them in place or bring them home?"

  "With all due respect, sir, if you pull them out now, Tarasov will see that as a sign of weakness. I recommend leaving them in place."

  "Very well, but I want extraction ready if things heat up."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Prepare to institute the blockade if we can't resolve this in any other way. I'm going to request an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council. We'll try diplomacy first. If that fails, we'll put the blockade in place. In the meantime, go to DEFCON 3. That will show Tarasov we're taking this seriously."

  "Yes, Mister President."

  He's coming around, Kroger thought. Kramer will like this.

  Chapter 25

  The push to make Anya the face of women in the military had moved into high gear. There'd been a front-page article in Isvestia, as well as the article in Red Star.

  Anya was an instant celebrity. Everywhere she went, people looked at her and whispered to each other. Some of her coworkers offered condolences on the death of her brother. Some looked at her with eyes of envy and jealousy. Rumors at the Ministry had her sleeping with everyone from General Stepanov to the president himself. How else to explain her sudden promotion, jumping ahead of others on the list? People more deserving of higher rank?

  She'd worked hard to get where she was, and the rumors and innuendo made her angry. She told herself she should be used to it by now, but that didn't help. Ever since Anya joined the Army, she'd had to work twice as hard as her male counterparts. She couldn't choose assignments or superior officers, but she could do her best to accomplish whatever was required. Her family history hadn't hurt, but she'd gotten where she was on the strength of her abilities. It made her furious that people thought she'd earned promotion on her back. And now Stepanov was scheming to give them reasons to think they were right.

  Earlier today he'd made his move.

  She'd been summoned to his office, not knowing what to expect. As usual, Major Petrov looked at her in a way that made her skin crawl. Stepanov had been behind his massive desk, reading a thick file, when she entered.

  "Have a seat, Colonel. I'll be with you in a moment."

  "Sir."

  After a few moments, Stepanov finished and set the file aside.

  "It is my pleasure to tell you that your brother has been awarded the Gold Star for his actions in Syria. President Tarasov wishes to present the medal himself. He wants to give it to your mother. Of course, you will be standing at her side."

  A fucking medal. Oh, Grigori. My beautiful brother.

  She wanted to tell Stepanov what he and Tarasov could do with their medal. But she couldn't say that.

  "Yes, sir."

  "The ceremony will take place in the president's office tomorrow afternoon at 1400 hours. Take the rest of today and tomorrow off. Make sure your mother is prepared. These events can be stressful when one is not used to meeting the president."

  "Of course, sir. I'm sure she will be grateful and thrilled."

  "It's not every day the Gold Star is handed out. Your brother is a true hero. His men would have died if he had not acted as he did."

  She couldn't tell Stepanov what she really thought. That Grigori was dead because of people like him. People who had started an unnecessary war because they could.

  "I'm sure it is also good for morale, to have a hero."

  Her voice contained a bitter undertone. Stepanov looked at her, not sure if she was being sarcastic.

  "I don't quite take your meaning, Colonel."

  "I only meant that our country needs heroes when we are at war."

  "A war that is going well, thanks to your efficient organizational abilities."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "I would like to discuss some details of the operation with you," Stepanov said, his voice friendly. "Perhaps in a more relaxed atmosphere. Why don't you join me for dinner this evening?"

  In the outer office, Petrov listened to the conversation.

  "Thank you for the invitation, sir. But perhaps another evening might be more appropriate? My mother is not well. She needs careful preparation for tomorrow's ceremony."

  "Of course, of course, I wasn't thinking. Another evening will do as well. Let's say the day after tomorrow. I'll send my car to pick you up."

  "Will that be all, sir?"

  "Yes, Colonel. Go home and take care of your mother."

  "Yes, sir."

  On her way out of the office, Petrov gave her a knowing leer.

  She went back down to her office, locked her files in the safe, and left the ministry building. If felt as though everything was spiraling out of control. Stepanov had more on his mind than dinner.

  That evening she told Yulia about the ceremony.

  "Mother, the president is going to give Grigori the Gold Star."

  "The Gold Star?"

  "It's our highest military honor. The president wants you to attend the ceremony."

  "I'm going to meet the president?"

  "He wants to present the medal to you. There will be photographers there."

  Yulia put her hand to her mouth, horrified.

  "What will I wear? He's the president. I don't have anything..."

  "Don't worry, mother. I'll take you shopping. We'll find something nice."

  Yulia began crying. Anya put her arm around her, holding her until she'd calmed down.

  "It's all right, mother."

  "No, it isn't. It's all too much."

  "What is?"

  "Everything. First Grigori is killed. Now you're an important person. I'm going to meet the president. I don't know why everything is changing so fast."

  "You've always wished you could meet him."

  "Yes, but not like this."

  "We have to make the best of it," Anya said. "Come on, I'll make some tea."

  "I don't want any tea. I want to lie down."

  Anya helped into her bedroom and onto the bed.

  "I'll be in the other room if you need me," Anya said.

  Yulia turned on her side and muttered something in reply.

  Anya closed the door to the room and went into the kitchen. She put a kettle on for tea and sat down at the kitchen table. While she waited for the water to boil, she thought about Stepanov.

  He was a bullish man, not particularly handsome, old enough to be her father. She imagined what it would be like to have sex with him. The images weren't pleasant.

  Everything she'd worked for was in jeopardy because this man was attracted to her. It wasn't fair, but she'd never bought into the idea that life was supposed to be fair. Her father had taught her that. Not by words, but by his actions.

  Anya was under no illusions. Stepanov wasn't inviting her to dinner to talk about logistics. If she refused him, he'd flush her career down the toilet. Anya wasn't sure what she'd do when he propositioned her. She wasn't a prude, but she preferred to choose who she let into her bed. Would she have sex with him to protect her career? If she did, did that make her any better than a whore? She didn't know the answer to that question. It disturbed her, that she didn't know.

  The kettle whistled on the stove. Anya got up and spooned tea into a strainer. She took a cup from the shelf and made the tea. She went back to the table and sat down again.

  She'd been in the Army for seventeen years.

  She remembered what it had been like that first week of advanced training.

  The Vystrel course for officers was a one-year program for candidates selected for future high command. It was held on a base outside the town of Solnechnogorsk, about sixty kilometers from Moscow. She thought she'd been prepared for what she was getting into. The reality turned out to be a lot different.

  The first day of training was an assault on personal privacy and boundaries. Vystrel candidates were treated harshly. As soon as she stepped off the bus she'd been forced to run everywhere, with people shouting at her. The day was a blur in her memory, but some things stood out. They'd cut her hair. She'd been rushed from one place to another. All the time people had yelled at her. At the end of the day they'd stood her up in her shapeless green fatigues against a measured background and had a picture taken for her ID. When she was finally allowed to sleep, she fell exhausted onto the lumpy mattress of her bunk and passed out.

  It seemed as though she'd been asleep for only a few moments, when a sergeant began banging the lid of a large trashcan to roust them from bed.

  No particular exceptions were made for women candidates, except for segregation from the men. After they'd been rousted from their bunks, the women were given ten minutes to prepare for the day before being marched to the mess hall. The bathroom consisted of a long row of open toilets. The sounds of fifty women voiding their bowels at the same time was something she would never forget.

  After those first months of harassment, the ranks of the candidates were considerably thinner. At the end of the year, she'd finished fourth in the class.

  She'd paid her dues and learned her job. She was good at it. Now it was all threatened by this powerful man.

  She sipped at the tea and considered what to do. All that fine talk about becoming the image of women in the modern military boiled down to a reality no different than it had been in the time of the Czars. Spread your legs, or suffer the consequences.

  She thought about her little brother, Mikhail. The officer responsible for his death should have been court-martialed. Instead, he'd been shuffled to a different post and allowed to continue his career. He'd even been promoted.

  She thought about Grigori, dead in a war created to satisfy the lust for power of her country's leaders. A war that might trigger something worse. She knew how Stepanov thought. He was typical of the Russian high command. There would be no meaningful negotiation with the United States.

  Rulers came and went, but the Motherland endured. It was Russia that was important, not the politicians and generals who ruled her.

  Anya truly loved her country. She'd dedicated her life to protecting it, but the Russia she loved was in the control of madmen. They'd killed her brothers. Now they were driving the country toward the abyss. If war came, millions would die.

  Someone had to do something.

  A small voice whispered in the back of her mind, something she didn't want to acknowledge.

  A thought she couldn't dismiss.

  A thought of treason.

  Chapter 26

  In the morning, Anya took her mother to the Gum department store on Red Square to find something for the medal ceremony. The shops would have seemed familiar to anyone from Europe or America. All of the big brand names in women's clothes could be found here. After an hour of wandering through the shops, Yulia still hadn't seen anything she liked.