"Spetsnaz? What's that?" Campbell asked.

  "Spetsnaz is what they call their special forces, sir. They are some of the best soldiers in the world. Like our Delta Force."

  "General Kroger, you heard what Director Kramer said. What do you think Tarasov is doing?"

  "I don't like it, Mister President. Putting the 22nd down in Syria is disturbing, but it's deploying the motorized brigade that really worries me. The brigade is heavily armed. It adds significant assault strength and firepower. You only bring in that kind of support when you want serious offensive capability. It's much more than you'd need to go after a few terrorists. Not to mention the fact that they've built a full operations base in a matter of weeks, complete with airstrip. When that is complete, it can handle those big Antonovs. I strongly recommend beefing up our presence there. At the moment the Russians have us at a severe disadvantage."

  Campbell looked at Kaplan.

  "Harold?"

  "Sending American troops to Syria will not go down well with the public," Kaplan said. "Our current polling data shows seventy-six percent of the public is in favor of bringing back all of our people in the Middle East. Sending more would be politically unwise."

  "Letting the Russians take over Syria would be politically unwise," Kroger said.

  "Mister President, our analysis is in line with what General Kroger recommends," Kramer said. "I don't think it's an accident that Tarasov has increased his capabilities in the region at the same time Sevim is planning to attack the Kurds."

  "What's his objective?"

  "We think Tarasov has his eye on the oil fields in the Kurdish autonomous region."

  "You think he's after the oil? They've already got plenty."

  Naïve, Kroger thought. He's got a lot to learn.

  "Sir, it's not about how much they have," Kroger said. "It's about denying control of the fields to us. Right now we and the Kurds determine what happens to that oil. Those fields are a large part of Syria's total reserves. The Kurds have prevented Damascus from taking control of them, with our help. I believe Director Kramer is right. Tarasov is getting ready to make a move on the fields. All the more reason for us to upgrade our capabilities."

  "Congress will resist sending in more troops and equipment," Kaplan said.

  "Congress resists anything that might cause them problems when it's time to be reelected," Kroger said. "Letting Tarasov take control of that oil would be a huge strategic mistake. We'd lose Syria for good."

  "Mister President, it's possible Tarasov is testing your resolve," Kramer said. "You're unknown at this point, new in the job. He has elections coming up and he needs a public success. The Russians suffer from a collective inferiority complex. If he makes you look bad, it will help his reelection."

  General Kroger's opinion of Kramer went up a notch.

  She just made it personal. She's good at this.

  "I met Tarasov briefly in Paris," Campbell said. "He strikes me as an arrogant man. I don't trust him and I don't like him."

  Kaplan spoke up.

  "Mister President, perhaps it would be best to wait and see if the Russians really are going after the oil before you consider sending in more forces. An increase in our military presence at this time could be seen as a provocation."

  "If we wait until they go into the fields, it will be too late to do anything about it," Kroger said.

  "You'd risk a confrontation with Moscow over this?" Kaplan asked.

  "There won't be a confrontation if we're wrong about their intentions. But if they're planning to grab that oil, we have to be ready to stop them."

  Campbell watched the exchange, held up his hand.

  "All right, I've heard enough. Harold, I agree we need more hard evidence the Russians are going to make trouble, before we do anything that could be viewed as provocative. At the same time, General Kroger has a point. We can't let them do whatever they want. General, prepare a military option in response if Tarasov makes a move on those fields. I want something ready to go on a moment's notice."

  "Yes, sir. May I make a suggestion?"

  "Of course."

  "The Russians will roll over the SDF with their tanks. The Kurds are tough fighters, but they need weapons to fight with. I'd like to give them what they need, with your authorization. I'm talking about small arms, antitank weapons, vehicles, antiaircraft missiles. Not major offensive weapons like planes. You don't need congressional permission to do that."

  "That seems sensible. Go ahead, General. Make sure the press doesn't get wind of it. Director Kramer, increase your surveillance of the area. I want more information."

  "Yes, Mister president."

  "Harold, talk to Margaret. Sooner or later, word will get out about the Russian buildup. We have to control the narrative on this."

  Margaret Whitcomb was Campbell's Press Secretary.

  "Yes, Mister President."

  Campbell stood. The others rose automatically.

  The meeting was over.

  Kramer and General Kroger walked together toward the entrance where their cars waited outside the entrance to the West Wing.

  "He's making a mistake," Kroger said. "Typical damn politician. Prepare something, but don't do anything until something happens. If something happens it will be too late to do anything."

  "At least he gave you authorization to send weapons."

  "You and I both know those weapons won't be enough."

  "When Sevim goes into Syria, the Kurds will have their hands full," Kramer said. "If we're right about Tarasov, he'll wait until they're busy beating off the Turks to make his move."

  "I'm calling a meeting of the Chiefs for later today. We'll discuss options."

  "General, we both know this could escalate. I want you to know you can count on Langley for whatever you need."

  "I appreciate that, Director. It would help if I had eyes-on intel from the ground."

  "I'll see what I can do."

  Kroger nodded. "Nice work with Campbell in there."

  "He'll be all right. He just needs time to learn his job. Fortunately, he has us to advise him."

  "Kaplan is a problem," Kroger said.

  "Yes. His main concern is the president's popularity. National security isn't his strong point. He shouldn't be in his position, but Campbell feels comfortable with him. If it comes down to it, he can be persuaded to take a more realistic position."

  "You seem certain of that."

  "I am. Let's hope he doesn't have to find that out the hard way."

  Chapter 8

  Major Nikolai Gorky stood smoking under the relentless Syrian sun, scratching an insect bite on his thigh. Gorky didn't like the desert. The dry air sucked the moisture out of him. It felt like the inside of his nose was caked with cement. It was hotter than hell during the day and you froze your balls off at night. The best thing you could say about the desert was that it was ideal terrain for motorized assault. As far as he was concerned, that was the only good thing about it.

  He watched a scorpion scuttle toward him across the hard packed earth. When it came close, he stepped on it. It made a satisfying crunch under his boot.

  The base was up and running. For now, the troops were sheltered in tents. Construction of permanent barracks would come later. By the time everyone arrived, there would be a combined total of almost ten thousand combat troops.

  Overall command of EAGLE had been given to General Chernov. Gorky thought it was a good choice. Colonel Novikov had served under Chernov in Chechnya, and the two men got along well. A harmonious command boded well for success of the operation.

  So far everything was going smoothly. Supplies had been arriving daily in a steady stream, a minor miracle.

  The base was in the interior of the country, not far from Deir ez-Zor. The sprawling complex of oil fields and pipelines controlled by the Kurds mostly lay to the east and south of where Gorky stood. There were more wells near the Turkish border, where Sevim's army was getting ready to invade.

  Every objective was within easy striking distance, including the American advisor base fifty kilometers to the northeast. Gorky wondered if the Americans would be foolish enough to resist, once the operation began. If the rules of engagement permitted, it wouldn't go well for them.

  Kurdish control of the fields was a thorn in the side of Moscow's ambitions. Russia's intervention on the side of Syria's president had saved him from the rebels, but he still ruled only part of the country. EAGLE would change that. Gorky had no doubt the Kremlin would make sure al-Khali was suitably grateful.

  By now the American analysts would be scrambling to discover what purpose the base was intended to serve.

  They'll find out soon enough, Gorky thought.

  He'd feel better when his heavy weapons and more soldiers got here. They were due to arrive with Colonel Novikov in a few days, when the airstrip was finished. With Novikov would come the 108th and 173rd Special Purpose Detachments. That would almost bring the brigade up to strength and provide plenty of personnel and firepower. The rest would follow a week later.

  "Sir."

  Gorky turned to see Master Sergeant Vanya Kozlov approaching. Kozlov had been a soldier for more than twenty years. Major Gorky was in command until Colonel Novikov arrived, but Kozlov was the one who was really in charge. He was built like a brick wall, broad and low to the ground. He was bald, strong, and more than competent. His face was scarred from shrapnel taken in Grozny. The wound had not helped his temperament. No one wanted to get on Kozlov's bad side.

  Kozlov stopped and saluted. "Sir, your presence is required in the radio room."

  Gorky returned the salute. "Thank you, Master Sergeant. Carry on."

  Kozlov saluted again and headed off toward the airstrip. Gorky walked toward the building that served as a combined mess hall, headquarters, officers' barracks, and communication center. Inside, it smelled of new construction and desert dust. It was a relief to get out of the sun. The Duty Sergeant rose from behind his desk as Gorky entered.

  "At ease," Gorky said.

  He strode past the desk and entered the radio room. A man wearing the two stripes of a Junior Sergeant on his uniform epaulets sat in front of a table loaded with an array of radios and computers, tapping his fingers in rhythm on the table. He had a set of earphones on and didn't hear Gorky enter.

  When he felt Gorky's touch on his shoulder he turned, ripped the phones off his head and jumped to attention. Faint music sounded from the phones.

  "Sir."

  Gorky looked at the man's name tag.

  "Junior Sergeant Pavlov. Do you enjoy your job?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "In the future, if I find out you have been listening to anything except official communications, you will be reduced to private and put on permanent latrine duty. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

  "You have a communication for me?"

  "Yes, sir. Colonel Novikov is waiting to speak with you."

  He handed Gorky a headset. "You can use this, sir."

  Gorky donned the headset and nodded. Pavlov flipped a switch.

  "Sir, I have Major Gorky on the line," he said.

  There was a burst of static and Colonel Novikov's voice sounded in Gorky's ear.

  "Good morning Major."

  "Good morning, sir."

  "The Turks are getting ready to move," Novikov said. "Our intelligence says the invasion will begin in two days. What is the status of the airstrip?"

  "We are ahead of schedule, sir. It's serviceable now, but I would prefer to wait one more day before we institute heavy traffic."

  "Very well. I will arrive the day after tomorrow. I know what you're thinking, Nikolai. I'll be bringing the Special Weapons Company with me."

  "That's good to hear, sir."

  "Now that the airstrip is ready, we'll bring everything up to full strength. About half the 12th Motorized Brigade is in country. They'll be joining you soon. The rest will come over next week. Colonel Brezhnev is their commander. Make sure we are ready for them."

  "We'll be ready, sir."

  "You're going to be busy this week, Nikolai. A word of warning. General Chernov might make a surprise inspection."

  "Thanks for the heads up, sir. When will air support arrive?"

  "Are the revetments ready?"

  "Yes, sir. All set to go."

  "Excellent. The squadron will arrive in a few days."

  "Colonel, it will take at least another week to finish important infrastructure. Fueling facilities for the planes. Fuel storage. The barracks."

  "Don't worry, we're not moving yet. You've done well. Keep the pace up. Are you getting everything you need?"

  "Amazingly, I am. Supplies have been steady and well organized. CSS is doing a good job, for once."

  "Careful what you say, Nikolai. You never know who's listening. Criticism is not well received these days."

  "Nothing new about that, sir."

  Novikov laughed. "All right, I'm going. I'll see you in two days."

  "We're going to kick their ass, sir."

  "Yes, Major, we are."

  Gorky broke the connection and left the radio room. Back outside in the heat and dust, he stopped. Everywhere he looked, his men were busy.

  His men.

  His family.

  Chapter 9

  Thorne had been back from Turkey for a month. He was out for an early morning run, 5K through the Virginia countryside. Sometimes it seemed to him that he'd been running for a good part of his life.

  When he played ball in high school and college, running was basic physical conditioning. When he went into the Marines, running was a daily occurrence. He'd thought there wasn't anything more to know about running. Then he'd started Recon training.

  The Marine Corps was a tough service, and the men who made up Recon were the toughest in the Corps. There was no room for anyone who couldn't handle the fierce physical and mental challenges of the training. Looking back, it was the hardest thing he'd ever done. Afghanistan was almost easy after that, except for the Taliban who kept trying to murder him.

  He came up behind two other joggers, a couple decked out in the latest high tech running gear. He glanced over at them as he passed, looking for any sign they were more than they appeared to be. It wasn't that he expected trouble, it was habit. It was why he was still alive. The woman reminded him of his ex, Ashley. She'd had the same, sharp features and liked to wear her blonde hair the same way, tucked up in a ponytail and sticking out the back of a ball cap.

  He'd met Ashley on Oahu. He'd passed all of Langley's background checks and was killing time until he had to report for training in Virginia. Ashley had been competing in a surfing competition on the North Shore.

  Mesmerized, he'd watched her dance with the crushing power of the Pacific, riding the face of a monster wave through an ominous green tunnel of curling water. You didn't see many women take on that kind of wave. Not many men, either. Curious, he'd decided to seek her out.

  He found her standing with her board next to a food concession, still in her wetsuit, long blonde hair hanging loose across her shoulders. She was arguing with a broad- shouldered surfer type in a Hawaiian shirt and baggy red shorts. The guy was giving her a hard time. Suddenly he knocked the board out of her hands and pushed her up against the wall of the concession, hard.

  Thorne stepped up and tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Hey."

  Surfer Boy turned to look at him. He was muscular, overdeveloped, the kind of man who spent a lot of time in the gym looking at himself in the mirror. Big, dumb, and steroid strong.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Thorne said. "Leave her alone."

  "Fuck off, asshole."

  "You know what? I don't think I will. Leave her alone."

  "Dude, you just bought yourself a shit load of trouble."

  Surfer Boy threw a punch. Thorne blocked the punch, moved a hip into him, and tossed him five feet away. He landed on his ass in the sand.

  "I were you, I'd stay down," Thorne said. "Dude."

  A group of surfers were hanging around the concession. A few called out.

  "Hey, Eddie, looks like you got a problem."

  "Better listen to the man."

  "Yeah, Eddie, stay down."

  Laughter followed.

  Damn. Now he has to get up.

  Eddie got to his feet, his face red, filled with rage.

  He charged. Thorne kicked him in the groin as hard as he could. Eddie went down and curled up in fetal position, groaning and clutching his genitals. Oohs and ahhs came from the crowd.

  The fight was over.

  He turned to the woman.

  "You okay?"

  "I'm fine."

  She looked at the man on the ground and then at Thorne.

  "You always jump in like that?"

  "Only for beautiful women who ride big waves."

  She laughed.

  "What's your name?"

  "Ashley. What yours?"

  "Mike. Buy you a drink?" he said.

  She brushed a strand of hair from her face, assessing him.

  "Sure, I know a good place."

  Three Mojitos later, he was hooked. Then it got complicated.

  Thorne was already bound by Langley's rules about relationships. One of them was not telling your significant other anything about your real job. Violation of that rule meant instant dismissal. The only exception was when the relationship was with another CIA officer. Even then, there were compartments that were closed to the other. From the beginning, his relationship with Ashley was based on a lie.

  He told her he worked for an IT company based in Virginia. She decided to join him there. A month after that, they were married in a civil ceremony.

  In hindsight, it was easy to see there'd never been a chance it would last. He was beginning a year of training with long hours. She was addicted to the adrenaline high of surfing, and there weren't any big waves in Virginia. She began taking trips to Hawaii, staying longer than she had to. He didn't know for sure, but he figured she might be cheating on him.

  By the time his training had finished, the marriage was hanging by a thread.