General Bilatov, hop a flight back, and report to General Stepashin. After you two have a chance to talk, we’ll meet and discuss our next moves, once the furor over this incident dies down.”
“Yes, sir,” Kasimov replied. “I’ll depart within the hour.”
“Good. That will be all. I’ll see you in a day or two.”
Colonel General Kasimov felt somewhat relieved as he called for his staff transport jet, a Yakovlev-40, to be made ready for departure and his staff car brought around to take him home so he could pack. He was going to be roasted over the coals by Nikolai Stepashin, the new chief of staff and the commander of the Ministry of State Security, perhaps even demoted. But Gryzlov needed experienced, well-educated officers for his Central Asian campaign, and Kasimov felt confident that his talents were not going to be wasted commanding some frozen remote radar site in Siberia for the next ten years just because one of his lieutenants had an itchy trigger finger.
Kasimov briefed his deputy commander while he loaded files into his briefcase, then shook hands with his office staff members and strode out to his waiting car. The plane would not be ready for at least another hour, so he had time to relax and have a few drinks in his quarters, an unassuming concrete-block building on the northeast side of Ashkhabad International Airport. He told his aide and driver to stay in the car — he could pack easier and faster himself, and he wanted to be alone. He would be done as soon as the plane was fueled and ready for takeoff.
He was sure as hell not going to miss this shitty little house, he thought as he fixed a stiff drink, retrieved his A-3 kit bag from under his bed, zipped it open, and started throwing clothing into it. Duty in Turkmenistan was great until this whole incident had blown up in their faces — the Taliban invasion of eastern Turkmenistan, the threat to Russian interests, the mobilization of troops, the American involvement, the battle for the cities of Mary and Charjew, and the Americans’ preemptive strike inside Russia to cut off their counterattack. Since then all officers who had formerly lived in nice apartments in the capital had to move to these little houses at the airport, where it was a bit more secure. Inadequate heat and light, terrible water, leaking plumbing, drafty doors and windows, cold in the winter and hot in the summer — he now lived only slightly better than his troops in their tents or out in the field camping beside their armored vehicles.
Satisfied that the rest of his packing could be finished in a few minutes, Kasimov kicked off his boots, stretched out on his bed, and took a deep sip of his vodka on ice. Still at least a half hour to wait. He thought he should call his wife but decided instead to call her from base operations right before departure. He took another sip, then closed his eyes for a short catnap.
Kasimov never heard the gunman enter through the back door, step silently into the bedroom, place a pistol muzzle under the general’s chin, and fire a single sound-suppressed round into his brain. In seconds the gunman retrieved the spent shell casing and replaced it with one from a small plastic bag, left some hair and fabric samples near the body so they could be easily found by forensic investigators, and departed.
Russian president Anatoliy Gryzlov replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle. “Something terrible has happened — General Kasimov has been murdered in his quarters,” he said tonelessly, matter-of-factly.
Minister of State Security and Chief of the General Staff Nikolai Stepashin nodded. “A horrible tragedy. I shall commence an immediate investigation. No doubt anti-Russian Turkmen assassins or Muslim terrorists were involved. They will be hunted down and summarily executed.” He could have been reading from a long-ago-prepared script — which, in fact, he was.
“Now that we have the unpleasantries out of the way,” Gryzlov said, “these are my orders: I want Turkmenistan in complete Russian control in thirty days. I want every Taliban fighter and sympathizer dead and buried, and I want every American aircraft blown out of the sky. That idiot Kasimov tipped our hand and gave away the element of surprise, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care what forces you need to mobilize — just
Stepashin nodded — he dared not voice any of the dozens of concerns he had — and picked up the telephone to issue the orders that would send a hundred thousand more Russian soldiers into Turkmenistan.
1
Where is he, Chief?” Colonel Trevor Griffin, operations officer and acting commander of the 996th Information Warfare Wing of the Air Force Air Intelligence Agency, asked as he hurried through the doors. His excitement was obvious as he waited at the verge of impatience exchanging security badges with the guard, facing a sensor for a biometric face-identification scan, and entering a security code into a keypad to open the outer door. Griffin was a sort of caricature, like a kid wearing his dad’s military uniform — short in stature, bean-faced, with slightly protruding ears and narrow, dancing blue eyes. But the broad shoulders, thick neck, and massive forearms under his overcoat only hinted at the soldier hidden behind those giddy eyes.
“In the boss’s office, sir,” the command’s Chief Master Sergeant Harold Bayless responded as he met the colonel on the other side of the security barrier. “I came in early to get caught up on some paperwork, and he was already here. I buzzed you and the boss as soon as I found out.”
“Let me know when the boss gets in,” Griffin said as he removed his Air Force blue overcoat and handed it to the chief master sergeant. “Make sure he has an office, a car, and billeting set up.”
“Yes, sir,” Bayless said. Physically, the two men could not have been more different: Bayless was husky and tall, with lots of thick, dark hair and humorless, penetrating dark eyes. Despite their height difference, Bayless had trouble keeping up with the quick full bird — Bayless finally had to let Griffin hurry off ahead of him, and he retreated to his own office to make all the appropriate notifications on behalf of this most unexpected distinguished visitor.
Despite his fast pace, Griffin wasn’t even breathing hard as he hurried past the stunned noncommissioned officer in charge and into his office. There, sitting on the sofa in the little casual seating area, was their unexpected visitor. “General McLanahan!” Griffin exclaimed. He stood at attention and saluted. “I’m sorry, sir, but I didn’t know you’d be here so soon. I’m Trevor Griffin. Good to meet you, sir.”
Patrick McLanahan got to his feet, stood at attention, and returned the colonel’s salute. Griffin came over to him and extended his hand, and Patrick shook it. “Good to meet you, too, Colonel Griffin,” Patrick McLanahan responded.
“For Christ’s sake, General, please, sit down,” Griffin said, a little confused at McLanahan’s formal bearing. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, sir. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“Coffee is good, thank you. Black,” Patrick said.
“Me, too — commando style.” Griffin buzzed his clerk, and moments later the man came in with two mugs of coffee. Griffin introduced his NCOIC, then dismissed him. “I apologize, sir, but I didn’t expect you for quite some time — in fact, I was only just recently notified that you’d be joining us,” Griffin said. He stood aside so Patrick could take the commander’s seat, but Patrick reseated himself on the sofa, so Griffin, a little confused, took his armchair at the head of the table. “We’re thrilled to have you take command of the unit.”
“Thank you.”
Griffin waited until Patrick took a sip of coffee, then said with a smile, “I’m Trevor — or ‘Tagger’ to my friends, sir.”
“Sure,” Patrick said. “I’m Patrick.” Griffin nodded happily and took a sip of coffee, still acting as excited as a kid about to go through the turnstiles at Disneyland. “I guess it’s been a while since I’ve reported in to a new unit. I’m a little nervous.”
“And I’m not used to two-star generals showing up without a lot of fanfare.”
“I’m no longer a two-star, Tagger.”
“It was either a mistake, or a temporary budgetary/billeting/ allotment thing, or somebody’s sending you a
