"Very clear, sir."

  "Begin immediately. I want regular updates from you. Give them to Major Petrov."

  "Sir."

  "That's all, Colonel. Dismissed."

  "Sir."

  She stood, saluted, pivoted on her heel and left the room. Stepanov watched her walk away.

  A beautiful woman. She's unattached. I think I will do something about that.

  Outside the office, Petrov was at his desk. His face closed down as she passed.

  Back in her office, Anya shut the door and drew the blinds over her window, a signal she was not to be disturbed.

  She sat down and placed the blue folder on her desk.

  State Secret.

  She had never been given a document marked with that classification. Whatever it was, it meant trouble. And what was that all about, that conversation with Stepanov, if you could call it a conversation?

  She'd been careful not to tell Stepanov what she really thought about the SVR, the successor to the KGB. What she'd said about the security services being necessary was true, in the sense that someone had to do the dirty work of counterintelligence and rooting out spies and enemies. She loved her country, in spite of the fact that it had come to resemble the USSR her mother so fondly remembered. A country of increasing surveillance, where you had to be careful about what you said in public

  Stepanov had been probing her. Assessing her loyalty, her commitment. Bringing up her family history. Reminding her of her father. The breakup of the Soviet Union had turned Colonel Arkady Volkov into a bitter and angry man. In the end, his anger had killed him. Anya had had been ten years old when he died.

  The memory came, unbidden.

  It was August. The apartment was stifling hot, even with all the windows open. Her brother Grigori sat next to her at the dinner table, pushing his food around on his plate. Mikhail was in his high chair, next to Yulia. She was feeding a mashed vegetable to him, something with a sickly orange color. That color had always stuck in her mind.

  Her father sat at the head of the table in his chair. Anya wasn't allowed to sit in his chair. Nobody was, except her father. She was careful not to look at him. She could tell he was angry about something. When father was angry he might hurt her or her mother or Grigori. She kept her eyes on her plate.

  "Those traitors," he said. "Do you know what they have done? Do you?"

  Anya watched the spoon with the orange food pause in her mother's hand.

  "No, Arkady. Who are you talking about?"

  "Those bastard priests, that's who. Traitors, all of them."

  Anya glanced at her father. His face was red. The water glass by his plate was filled with vodka. He picked it up and drank half of it.

  "What have they done?" her mother said, her voice submissive.

  "I'll tell you what they've done."

  He slammed the table. The dishes rattled. Mikhail began to cry. Her father's voice was loud.

  "They've made saints out of the fucking Czar and his family. Exploiters, murderers, made into saints. Those bastard priests should be pulled out of their fucking churches and shot. If we still had a real government..."

  He looked over at Mikhail.

  "Stop his screaming or I will."

  "He's only a baby!"

  Her father stood, his features ugly with anger. Yulia got up, shielding Mikhail with her body. Mikhail screamed louder.

  "If you won't do it, I will."

  "You leave him alone!" Anya said.

  He turned toward her, dark and terrible.

  "Ah. The mouse squeaks."

  Anya wanted to run but her feet were frozen to the ground. Her father pulled the heavy belt from his pants and took a step toward her.

  "Arkady, no!" Yulia said.

  "I'll teach you not to squeak, little mouse. You..."

  Suddenly he stumbled. His face turned a deep purple. He began wheezing, horrible, choking sounds, trying to draw breath. He dropped the belt and grasped at the back of his chair. Then he toppled to the floor.

  Anya felt like she was standing outside of herself, looking at the man on the floor as if he were a stranger.

  Arkady Volkov's eyes rolled back and he died.

  For years, Anya had thought it was her fault that her father died. She pushed the memory back into the dark place where it lived and opened the blue folder.

  Operation EAGLE

  Phase I

  She began reading and caught her breath. The 22nd Special Forces Brigade and the 12th Motorized Rifle Brigade were being deployed to Syria, along with the 14th Engineers battalion. The 22nd was her brother's unit.

  Grigori!

  Stepanov had put her in charge of the complicated logistics of the operation, including the construction of a base and airstrip inside Syria. She was ordered to monitor and ensure ongoing supplies for nine thousand combat forces and all their equipment, plus the engineers. A large amount of ammunition and fuel was required. The brigades were to be equipped with the latest advances in antiaircraft missile technology. A timetable of three months was given to accomplish completion of designated Phase 1.

  It was a massive task. If anything went wrong, she would be blamed.

  As she read through the material in the folder she realized Stepanov had given her an assignment usually reserved for someone of flag rank. She was being tested. How she handled it would make or break her career. Success would bring promotion. Anya had no doubt that if something went wrong, her career was finished.

  A headache began probing the space behind her left eye.

  The information in the folder said nothing about objectives. The goal of Phase 1 was to get the designated units to Syria, establish a base of operations, and stockpile supplies. Whatever Phase II might be, Anya had no need to know.

  But she could speculate. There wasn't any regulation against that.

  Everyone knew about Grigori's unit, the 22nd Brigade. The 22nd was one of the Federation's premier Special Forces units. It was famous for its counterterrorism skills, but EAGLE didn't look like a new counterterrorism operation. Support by the motorized rifles, the excessive ammunition requirements, and the addition of sophisticated missile technology meant someone on the general staff anticipated serious combat.

  Moscow had been backing Syrian president Khaleem Al-Khali for years. The regime in Damascus was a corrupt, cruel dictatorship. Al-Khali remained in power because Moscow supported him. Without Russian help, he would have been defeated long ago by the rebel and Sunni forces arrayed against him. Even with Russian aid and decades of intermittent warfare, he still only ruled part of the country. The Kurds controlled everything to the east of the Euphrates, a region rich in oil. The proposed base was located near Deir-ez-Zor, on the edge of Kurdish controlled territory.

  They must be going after the oil. That means they'll have to fight the Kurds...that explains the ammunition requirements. Grigori is going into combat!

  A shot of adrenaline pumped through her body. Anya had no problem with the idea that Grigori might be called to defend the Motherland. It was the duty of any soldier. But the Kurds hadn't attacked Russia.

  Part of Anya's job was to know how much oil was produced inside the Federation and how much was in reserve. Russia didn't need Syria's oil. The Federation could sell as much as it wanted and still have more than enough for domestic and military needs. Stepanov had made her responsible for ensuring the success of an operation designed to start a war against people who were not Russia's enemy.

  This isn't right.

  Lately she had found herself wondering why her government acted the way it did. Anya had chosen the military as a career because she'd been idealistic and young. Her youth was gone and her idealism had been sorely tested over the years, but she still believed Russia could be a force for good in the world, the kind of Russia that had defeated fascist Germany in the Great Patriotic War. It wasn't Stalin who had defeated Germany. It was the Russian people, who had sacrificed themselves by the millions to crush the Nazi aberration and protect the Motherland.

  Her people.

  Anya wasn't naïve. She knew Operation EAGLE wasn't only about oil. It was a move to assert Russian power in the Middle East. The Kurds were in the way. They weren't an enemy, but that didn't mean they wouldn't do their best to kill anyone who came against them.

  Including her brother.

  Chapter 6

  Colonel Konstatin Novikov watched elements of the 22nd Special Purpose Brigade and the 14th engineers board the Antonov AN-124 that would take them to Khmeimim Air Base in Syria. This flight consisted mostly of engineering, signals, and logistics units. So far everything was going well. From Khmeimim, the units would head overland to Deir-ez-Zor and establish a base for the operation.

  The first order of business was building an airstrip. The gigantic hold of the Antonov had plenty of room for the bulldozers and other construction equipment needed. After the strip was ready, supplies and men would be flown in directly.

  Novikov had more than four thousand troops under his command. It was only a question of time before the presence of the 22nd was discovered by Western intelligence. American satellites and spies on the ground made that inevitable. To delay discovery as long as possible, the brigade would be transferred in increments over the next few weeks.

  The area had been an extensive war zone for more than a decade. The Federation already had a contingent of regular army in country. The additional troops would be justified as part of an ongoing counterterrorism mission.

  As he watched his men board the plane, a proverb came to mind. Russians had a proverb for almost every situation.

  The wolf can be hired as a shepherd very cheap.

  Novikov was an accomplished, experienced officer, the epitome of a professional warrior. After thirty years in uniform, he was nearing the end of his career. He'd been fighting Russia's enemies for a long time. He'd seen hard combat in hard places, and it showed. He never smiled. His eyes were dark and brooding, under slanting lids that spoke of a time when his ancestors rode with Ghengis Khan.

  Like special forces units all over the world, Spetsnaz brigades were a breed apart from regular units. The boundary between officer and enlisted was sometimes blurred. There were no conscripts in his brigade, no one who wasn't a committed and combat proven professional. No officer could command such men unless he'd proven himself worthy of the job. It took more than competence in the field, although that was fundamental. For the best units, a bond was established that had nothing to do with rank.

  It was an Alpha Male world, and a rough one. Novikov believed in leading from the front. He could drink any man in his unit under the table. He could out march them and out fight most of them. He respected his men and they returned that respect. The brigade was his life.

  The 22nd Brigade was one of the most decorated units in the Federation. Novikov had shaped it, and he was proud of it. EAGLE would likely be his last assignment, a final engagement against a determined enemy. The order to deploy into Syria and prepare for action against the Kurds was a welcome relief from the training routines and peacetime boredom of Rostov.

  He was looking forward to it.

  The Kurds were skilled fighters, experienced after years battling a variety of enemies set on destroying them. They were reasonably well armed, courtesy of the Americans, and had additional heavy weaponry they'd captured in battle. Novikov expected fierce resistance.

  There was no question who would win, of course. Novikov's troops were superb and far better equipped. As good as they were, the Kurds could not hope to defeat the Russians. Still, they would provide needed combat experience for his men.

  Novikov's executive officer, Major Nikolai Gorky, walked up and saluted.

  "Ready for departure, sir."

  Novikov returned his salute. "Very well, major. I'll be following in three weeks with two of the special detachments. You have your orders."

  "Yes, sir. We'll be ready for you."

  "There's been an increase in terrorist activity in the area," Novikov said. "Watch your ass, Nikolai. Keep your eyes open."

  "Always, sir."

  "Carry on."

  "Sir."

  Gorky clicked his heels, saluted, and jogged over to the plane. A moment later, the loading ramp lifted and closed. The four big engines on the huge plane spooled up and it began to move. Five minutes later it rose into the air, headed for Syria.

  Operation EAGLE had begun.

  Chapter 7

  President Richard Campbell had arrived at the White House by way of the Governor's mansion in South Dakota. He'd been in office for a little less than four months. His great-great-grandfather had helped settle the state back when it was still a territory. Campbell was South Dakota born and bred, growing up near the Black Hills on the sprawling family ranch. He was tall and lean, lanky and loose jointed. Old people made folksy jokes about him being a "tall drink of water" and said he looked a lot like the actor Jimmy Stewart.

  He'd used his height to advantage, playing Division I basketball for the South Dakota State Jackrabbits well enough to draw the attention of the pro scouts. Campbell loved playing ball, but he'd turned the scouts down. He knew enough about his ability to realize he wasn't quite fast enough for professional play.

  He'd married a local girl a week after graduation. It was one of those Hollywood stories that played well with the public later on, the guy who married his childhood sweetheart. By the time he'd gotten a Masters degree in business administration, Amy had given him two children, a boy and a girl.

  Campbell had left the family ranch in the hands of his older brother and started a service firm catering to the needs of the regional medical centers bracketing the state. Along the way he'd become friends with a surgeon who had an idea for a new device useful in open-heart surgery. Campbell backed him. They'd patented, built, and tested the device. It was now used in every operating theater in the country. All that money had come in useful later on, when he got into politics.

  The honeymoon period of his presidency was over. The sharks had begun to circle, looking for vulnerabilities. At this point he was still an unknown quantity. The Washington establishment saw him as an outsider, ripe for manipulation.

  Outside the bulletproof windows of the Oval Office, it was the kind of day that made you want to lay back and take it easy. No one in the room was in a mood to relax.

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Bradford "Bull" Kroger, sat on one of two couches placed in front of the Resolute desk and wondered what the man in the big chair was going to do with his first international crisis. Kroger still didn't have the measure of Campbell. How he dealt with what was happening in Turkey would fill in some of the gaps.

  Rebecca Kramer, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, sat next to Kroger on the couch. She was a blade of a woman, the contours of her face hard and sharp. Everything about her said serious. She wore a severe gray business suit and steel rimmed classes. Her only jewelry was a pair of discrete gold and pearl earrings. There was no wedding ring on her finger.

  Harold Kaplan sat across from General Kroger and Kramer, the point of one polished wingtip moving nervously in the air. Kaplan was Campbell's Senior Advisor for Strategic Planning and Policy. He was a small man, with an unfortunate face that looked crunched in on itself. Behind his back, the White House staff called him "the terrier," a comment both on his looks and on his relentless dedication to advising and protecting the president. Like an ill-behaved dog, he had a tendency to bite if things didn't go his way.

  Kramer had just finished briefing the president. Langley had confirmed that General Sevim was positioning troops and equipment along the Turkish border with Syria, in preparation for a full-scale invasion into Kurdish controlled territory. In addition, the Russian Federation was building up forces in the region.

  The analysts at Langley were concerned. When the analysts were concerned, so was Rebecca Kramer. So far the Russians hadn't made any hostile moves. They'd stayed away from the American base in Kurdish controlled territory, but everyone in the room knew that could change at any moment.

  "Director Kramer, you're certain about the identification of the Russian units?"

  Rebecca Kramer had an IQ of a hundred and fifty-eight. Fifty-six years old, she had spent almost all of her adult life within the agency. Campbell's appointment of an agency insider and a woman as Director of the CIA had come as a shock to the intelligence community, breaking a long string of male civilian and military appointees from outside Langley's incestuous circle.

  It had been a shrewd move by Campbell, though many had criticized his choice. Promoting from within was a gamble to gain some measure of loyalty to a new president. In the cutthroat world of Washington politics, getting the CIA in your camp was a significant coup. It was debatable whether or not Langley's fidelity would last, or even if it had been given.

  "I'm certain, Mister President," Kramer said. "The 22nd Special Purposes Brigade and the 12th motorized infantry, along with an engineering Battalion, the 14th. Our satellites can easily pick out the identifying insignia. We also have HUMINT confirmation."

  She saw the question in Campbell's eyes.

  "Human intelligence, Mister President. Information from observers on the ground. Moscow is calling it a counterterrorist operation. They're lying. It is certainly more than that. The 22nd is one of their best Spetsnaz outfits, hard core. The satellites show the Russians are in the process of transferring the whole brigade, more than four thousand men. The addition of the 12th will add another five thousand men when it's up to strength. Plus there's that battalion of engineers. They've established a base, they're building an airstrip, and they're bringing more supplies in every day. You don't do something like that unless you're going to war."