Anya's domain.

  From time to time she wondered what life would be like if she'd chosen another occupation, but those were only passing fancies. She was working for her country. The pay wasn't good, but her rank brought privileges unavailable to most of the civilian population.

  Even so, sometimes she wished she'd landed in a different job.

  Something less boring.

  Later, she would remember that thought.

  Chapter 4

  The official office of the President of the Russian Federation was located under the green dome of the Senate building, within the ancient brick walls of the Kremlin. Flowers had started to bloom in the Kremlin garden outside the president's office windows, but it was doubtful if Ivan Tarasov had noticed.

  Tarasov sat behind a desk that had been used by Joseph Stalin. It was no accident that he had chosen that particular piece of furniture. There were only three men Tarasov admired. The first was his namesake, Ivan the Terrible, the man responsible for uniting warring feudal territories into what eventually became Russia. The second was Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, better known as Lenin. Joseph Stalin was the third.

  Tarasov was sixty-nine years old, a product of the Soviet educational system and a true believer in Russia's destiny to rule the world. It had been instilled in him that America was Russia's enemy. By itself, that might have been enough to fuel the hatred that smoldered inside him. What had set it in stone was an American missile that scattered bits of his father over a hundred square meters of Afghanistan.

  His climb to power had started many years before. Promotion in the USSR depended on establishing a relationship with a patron, someone who could protect you within the ruthless world of Soviet bureaucracy. Tarasov's patron had been Yevgeny Kutzov, a member of the Politburo, the ruling committee of the Soviet Union.

  Kutzov had appointed him to the Central Control Commission, the feared arbiter of communist orthodoxy. The CCC had the power to expel anyone from the Communist Party, a kiss of death in the rigidly controlled society. A place on the commission opened the door to power on a national level. Tarasov had been a rising star, his future assured.

  Then came the collapse, and the Soviet empire was no more. Russia was reduced to a second rate nation, and Tarasov was out of a job.

  That was when he'd met Boris Kerensky, the man now sitting across from him. Kerensky had been a mere captain then, in a military gutted by corruption and mismanagement from above. Like Tarasov, Kerensky was angry about what he saw as the betrayal of the Motherland. He knew other young officers who felt as he did. A group of men formed around Kerensky and Tarasov. They had called themselves True October, in honor of the 1917 revolution.

  It had taken many years, but True October was now in control.

  Kerensky and Tarasov were bound together by the common goal of restoring Russia's place as a world power to be feared. As far as it went, they were friends, but that didn't mean they trusted one another. Trust was never easily given in Russia. Once given, it could be withdrawn without warning. Within the ruling circles of power, the new Russia was not much different from the old.

  Kerensky was now Chief of the General Staff, the most powerful position in the military. His broad shoulders and barrel chest strained the earth green tunic of his uniform. His troops called him The Bear. It was said he'd once crushed a man to death with his bare arms during hand-to-hand combat.

  No one ruled in Russia without the backing of the military. Tarasov sat behind the presidential desk because Kerensky had helped put him there. Kerensky had just finished briefing him on events in Turkey. Tarasov pursed his lips in frustration.

  "That idiot Kirdar! I warned him about the subversive elements in his military. It took us years to undermine Turkey's relationship with NATO. There are billions of dollars of weapons sitting on the docks at Sevastapol ready to be shipped, with nowhere to send them. Sevim will lick the boots of the Americans, you watch."

  "I agree, Mister President. Sevim is a problem."

  "Give me your ideas, Boris."

  "The General Staff met this morning to discuss the Turkish situation. We are of one mind that Sevim must do something to win the full support of his people. It's well known that he hates the Kurds. He views them as a subversive element. Most of the Turkish public agrees with him. Our opinion is that he will attack the Kurdish autonomous region in Syria to buy himself time and favor."

  "Again? The Turks never learn, do they? How many times have we seen this scenario play out? It always ends the same way. A few noses get bloodied, national honor is upheld, and then they scurry back over their border. Nothing much changes."

  "Of course you are right, Ivan Ivanovitch. However, we think this time it is different. We believe Sevim will go all out to destroy them. It's a logical move."

  "Go on."

  "If he can destroy their forces, he eliminates hope for a Kurdish homeland and extends Turkey's influence in the region. The Syrians can't do anything about it. They're not equipped to take on the Turkish army and they hate the Kurds as much as he does. An invasion will destabilize the region. We believe it provides an opportunity."

  "How, General?"

  "The area of Syria controlled by the Kurds has significant oil fields and critical distribution pipelines. Sevim will create chaos. He wants to punish the Kurds, but he has no interest in remaining in Syria. He needs his military at home if he wants to stay in power. He couldn't take and keep the oil even if he wanted to."

  "And the opportunity you mentioned?"

  "The Syrian regime knows it cannot survive without us. Once Sevim invades the fields, I propose that we offer to assist President al-Khali in recovering his territory. Of course, it would be necessary to build up our forces in the region to accomplish that."

  When Tarasov smiled, his lips curled upward at the corners. Foreign journalists sometimes compared his smile to that of a wolf, a comparison that pleased him. Russian journalists were more circumspect. Behind the smile were sharp teeth.

  "I see," Tarasov said. "Sevim would not be able to keep control, but we could."

  "Yes, Mister President. We could. Once the Kurdish defense forces are fully engaged with the Turks, we move in."

  "To 'liberate' the oil fields from Kurdish occupation?"

  "Exactly."

  "And once we are in?"

  "Once in, we stay. Protecting the oil for our gallant ally, President Khaleem al-Khali."

  "There are Americans there, keeping an eye on the oil. The so-called 'Advisors' helping the Kurds. What about them?"

  "The American contingent is small. It poses no significant threat. You've met their new president. What do you think of him? How tough is he?"

  "I was not impressed. He's a creature of his political party. He has no experience in foreign affairs. Their election was divisive, and he's dealing with a lot of opposition at home. He doesn't like us, but I don't think he has the balls to stand up to us."

  "In your opinion, what will he do if we increase our presence there?"

  "The Americans are sick of military adventures in the Middle East. I don't think he'll risk political capital for the Kurds. He'll bluster and threaten, but I believe he'll withdraw his troops rather than risk a confrontation."

  "That is what I hoped you would say, Mister President. Of course we'll have to make sure al-Khali is happy. He'll need a bone or two."

  "That won't be a problem. He's enamored of our military technology. We could give him some of those missiles we had marked for Turkey. Perhaps some front line planes and training for his pilots."

  "I believe that would satisfy him. He likes expensive toys."

  "Assuming you're correct in your analysis, when do you think Sevim will invade?"

  "Soon. He needs to get the public behind him. The Kurds have been causing trouble in Turkey for a long time. Nobody likes them. Using them as a scapegoat is a perfect way to stoke nationalism and divert attention while he goes after internal enemies. There's a bonus for you as well."

  "Yes?"

  "The election is coming up. Taking control of the oil fields will boost your popularity."

  Tarasov's re-election was guaranteed, but genuine enthusiasm for him at the polls would make the process seem more legitimate in the eyes of the world. Optics and perception were everything. Russian politics was not much different from politics in the West.

  In the Western press, Russia was portrayed as a second-rate country hiding behind the glitter of Moscow and an aging nuclear deterrent, President Tarasov as an unruly child.

  The reality was far different.

  Tarasov was highly intelligent and a dangerous enemy, deft at manipulating world opinion. He still allowed the obsolete aircraft carrier Kuznetsov to steam around the world, showing the flag and belching smoke, a rusting relic of former Russian power. The world laughed whenever Kuznetsov appeared. Like a master magician, Tarasov used the ship to distract attention from what was really happening.

  The era of the big aircraft carriers was over, even if the Americans hadn't yet admitted it. In a world of hypersonic cruise missiles and space lasers, the aircraft carrier was an easy target. While the world was busy making jokes and watching the Kuznetsov, Tarasov had quietly built up a large fleet of first-class nuclear submarines. He'd modernized the Navy, the missile and ground forces, and the Air Force.

  The Federation's military was well equipped and highly capable, with a professional officer cadre as good as anyone's. In the event of war, the West would discover that Russia could not be defeated by anything short of a full nuclear exchange.

  Seizing control of the Syrian oil fields and pushing the Americans out would be wildly popular. It would be seen as thumbing a collective nose at the West, a broad step toward reclaiming Russia's influence and power.

  "I like your thinking, Boris. When do you want to proceed?"

  "Right away, with an initial insertion of troops. It's going to take time to build up sufficient strength."

  "What units do you want to deploy?"

  "I want to begin with the 22nd Special Purpose Brigade."

  "Spetsnaz?"

  "It's best not to underestimate Kurdish resistance, Mister President. The 22nd is the best choice if we run into problems later on, when we advance into the fields. I know their commander well. Colonel Novikov is a loyal and efficient officer. Also the logistics are good. The brigade is based out of Rostov, close to Syria. There shouldn't be any problem with clearance from our Iranian friends for overflights."

  "One brigade? The Kurds don't have much in the way of armor, but they claim a hundred thousand men in their Syrian Defense Force. Even the 22nd might have trouble with that many."

  "I want to back them up with the 12th Motorized Rifle Brigade. Plus they will have a full complement of logistical and engineering personnel. One of the first tasks will be to construct a base and airfield close to Kurdish controlled territory. That will allow us to supply our forces and provide air cover when the time comes. The Kurds are no match for that much armor and personnel. General Chernov will be in overall command."

  "Have you thought of a name for this operation?"

  "How does Operation EAGLE sound to you?"

  The wolfish smile reappeared. The double-headed eagle was an ancient symbol of Russian power.

  "Good. Issue the orders. I'll speak with al-Khali and let him know we're sending more supplies and troops to support him."

  "He's not going to like it once he realizes what we intend to do."

  "It doesn't matter whether he likes it or not. By the time he finds out, it will be too late for him to do anything. We'll make sure to sweeten the pot if he balks. Besides, he doesn't have a choice."

  "The Americans will, as they say, 'shit a brick.'"

  "Let them. They had their opportunity in Syria and failed to take advantage of it. Their political animosities work to our advantage. While they're busy tearing themselves apart, we'll continue to expand our influence. They need to learn once and for all that we can't be pushed aside. We're not the beggars they want us to be."

  "They'll never understand us," General Kerensky said.

  "No," Tarasov said, "they won't. And that will be their undoing."

  Chapter 5

  Lunch in the ministry canteen was forgettable. Anya bought a chocolate pudding to take home to her mother. She'd been back at her desk for an hour, studying recent production figures for the Sukhoi SU-57, still the Federation's premier front line fighter. There were issues that needed to be addressed at the Komsomolsk-on-Amur Plant, where the aircraft was manufactured.

  Her phone signaled a call on one of the internal lines.

  "Lieutenant Colonel Volkova speaking."

  "Colonel, this is Major Petrov. General Stepanov wants to see you in his office."

  Stepanov was the First Deputy Minister of Defense, in charge of Combat Support Services. Petrov was his aide.

  "Now?"

  "Yes, Colonel. Immediately."

  "I'm on my way."

  What does he want? I'd better watch my step.

  Anya could count on one hand the number of times she had been in Stepanov's presence. She'd never been summoned to his office. There were eleven deputy ministers in the Ministry of Defense, each responsible for some specific facet of Federation forces.

  The role of the military in Russia was fundamentally different from the way it was in the West, where military commanders were subordinate to civilian leadership. In Russia, the lines were blurred. Military and civilian authority were inextricably mixed. Nothing was done without consideration of the military. As the man responsible for combat readiness, First Deputy Minister General Yuri Stepanov was one of the most powerful men in Russia. He was part of a core group of senior officers led by the Chief of Staff, General Kerensky.

  Anya had plenty of experience dealing with powerful men, starting with her father. She'd learned early on to keep her mouth shut, pay attention, and follow orders. She'd joined the army to get away from her father, not realizing she'd still have to keep her mouth shut and follow orders. That had been years ago. At least now she was in a position where she gave some of those orders.

  Stepanov's office was on the top floor. Major Petrov was waiting to escort her to Stepanov's office when she stepped from the elevator. Petrov had fair hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and an arrogant expression. His round face reminded Anya of a sour apple. Anya felt his eyes crawl over her body. She met his stare.

  "Yes, Major? You wish to say something?"

  The look in Petrov's eyes faded.

  Cold bitch.

  "This way, Colonel."

  She followed him to a tall set of wooden doors. A desk to the side was unoccupied. She assumed it was Petrov's. He knocked. A deep voice boomed from within.

  "Come."

  Petrov opened the door. "Lieutenant Colonel Volkova is here, sir."

  "Send her in."

  Petrov stood to the side and indicated she should enter. She went in. The door closed behind her.

  Stepanov sat behind a polished wooden desk. He was a heavyset man, with a broad face. Dark hair receded on either side of his forehead, leaving a widow's peak. The shoulder boards on his crisp uniform bore the large gold star of a full general in the Army. Rows of ribbons decorated his chest. He was studying a document.

  She came to attention in front of the desk. A thick manila folder lay in front of him. She saw her name on it.

  There were files on every Russian. For someone like her, there were extensive background checks, countless invasions of her privacy. It was one of the things she resented about life in Russia. The fat file on his desk probably contained every detail of her life.

  "Lieutenant Colonel Volkova reporting, sir."

  Stepanov looked up. "At ease, Volkova. Take a seat. I'll be with you in a moment."

  "Sir."

  A chair with carved arms and a brown leather seat was placed to one side of the desk. Anya sat down at attention, her back straight. Stepanov scribbled something on the paper he was reading, capped his pen, and set it down.

  He turned toward Anya and studied her for a long moment. His eyes were dark, flat, unreadable, as if he'd pulled an inner shield over them. Her father had used the same technique. She was damned if she was going to let herself be intimidated, but it wasn't easy. Stepanov radiated a powerful presence. He tapped the folder on his desk with her name on it.

  "I've been reviewing your record, Colonel. It's exemplary. Your unit has consistently met or exceeded the goals required of you. That is a reflection of your organizational skills and leadership."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "You come from a family with a history of service to the Rodina. Tell me, Colonel. Why didn't you enter the security services, like your father and the men in your family before him?"

  The question caught her off guard. What was he getting at? She decided to tell the truth, at least part of it. Stepanov didn't need to know how much she'd hated her drunken father and the thugs he called friends.

  "To be frank, sir, I did not feel comfortable with that kind of work. I felt I could be more useful serving in the Army."

  "You have a judgment on the work of the security services?"

  Careful.

  "It is necessary work for our country," Anya said. "The security services are a bulwark against our enemies."

  "You would agree that we have many enemies?"

  "Yes, sir. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be wearing this uniform."

  He nodded to himself. Her answer seemed to satisfy him.

  "I have an important assignment for you. You are to maintain the strictest security for this. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Stepanov opened a drawer and took out a blue folder. It was marked STATE SECRET in bold letters. Few documents earned the Federation's highest security rating. He slid it over to her. She took it and held it in her lap.

  "As of today, your security clearance is increased. Your orders are to make certain everything is prepared for the success of the operation outlined in this folder. You are to give this your full attention. The requirements of this mission supersede all others. If anyone argues with you about priorities, refer them to me. You may only tell the people working for you what they need to know to complete their assigned tasks. Is that clear?"