THE TEN THOUSAND Read online

  As the operations officer for Dixon's brigade, Cerro spent, in his opinion, far too much time tied down at the brigade command post. Never missing a chance to get away from there and given a chance to play rifleman, crawling about in the snow, mud, and dirt, Cerro was, therefore, quite put out when Dixon had left him to deal with the farmer. Looking back down the hill at Cerro, Dixon smiled to himself and shook his head. Strange breed, the infantry, he thought. Of course, he totally discounted the fact that he, despite his twenty-two-year career as an armor officer, never passed up a chance to crawl around and play rifleman. Before turning back toward the border, Dixon noticed that Cerro had a white helmet cover, a commodity in even shorter supply than the white parka. Where in the hell had Cerro gotten that? More importantly, Dixon wondered, were there any more?

  While the tall Russian colonel eased himself down into a kneeling position next to Dixon, Dixon turned his mind away from the trivial concerns of parkas and helmet covers to the matter that had brought these four men and their drivers to this spot. Between deep breaths and his efforts to pull the white hood over the brown pile cap he wore, Colonel Anatol Vorishnov spoke in a sigh, half to himself, half to Dixon. "This snow, it will be the death of me one day."

  Twisting his head toward Vorishnov, Dixon raised an eyebrow. "I thought you guys loved winter and the snow. You know, General Winter, General Mud, and all that stuff."

  Vorishnov laughed. "You, my friend, are a victim of propaganda and popular myths. When the wind blows, my nose and toes grow cold, like yours. And the snow pulling at my ankles is no lighter than that which you plow through. Unless, of course, one waits until someone else has beaten a path through it, like you just did."

  Smiling, Dixon nodded. "Ah, now I understand why you took your time before following."

  "We Russians, Colonel Dixon, at times seem to be dull and slow, but we are not stupid."

  "Never thought you were, Colonel. Are you ready?"

  Vorishnov grinned and motioned to Dixon. "After you, Colonel."

  "Somehow, Colonel Vorishnov, I thought you'd say that."

  "Do you think, Colonel Dixon, that your young major will be able to convince our curious Slovak farmer that we are simply sightseeing?"

  Dixon smiled. "Not to worry, Colonel. Major Cerro is a graduate of the Virginia Military Institute. That makes him more than qualified to fabricate tall stories."

  Realizing that Dixon was still joking, Vorishnov smiled. There was a special affinity between Harold Cerro and Scott Dixon. Though both conducted themselves in a manner befitting the proper relationship between an operations officer and his commander, their regard for each other ran much deeper. Had they been peers, Vorishnov knew they would be best of friends. As it was, the conversations between Dixon and Cerro sometimes left one in doubt as to who the subordinate was and who the commander was. But then again, Vorishnov reminded himself, this is the American Army. They, he thought, had their own ways, not all bad, not all good. The one habit that both Dixon and Cerro seemed to share was a sense of humor that at times seemed inappropriate and irreverent. After having served in an army racked for a decade by social and political change, Vorishnov enjoyed the humor as much as Dixon did and participated whenever possible. "I thought in your country only the Irish could tell stories?"

  "Yes, that is true. The Irish are gifted in that way. That is why Cerro had to go to a special school to learn." Looking over to the west, Dixon grunted. "We are losing the daylight. If we wait for Major Cerro, we will see nothing."

  Vorishnov looked at the setting sun and agreed. "Yes, it would be a shame to come all this way for nothing."

  Slowly Dixon began to make his way to the crest of the hill. It was a strange world that Dixon found himself moving through that evening. Even now, as his mind leafed through a mental file that stored the many concerns of command and the impending operation, Dixon could not escape the irony of the situation in which he found himself. Twenty years earlier, as a second lieutenant of armor, Dixon had been assigned to a unit tasked with defending West Germany against an attack from Soviet-led Warsaw Pact forces. It was east of Fulda, in central Germany, where he made his first trip to the border for recons. Then he commanded five M-60A1 tanks, tanks that could reach the breathtaking speed of twenty miles an hour on a downhill slope with favorable tail winds. His men wore the old-style World War II helmet, and the adversary he was looking for was Russian. Now, Dixon thought, the political situation and the world were moving as fast as the M-1A1 Abrams tanks that equipped the two armored battalions in his brigade. And his adversary today was as different as the uniform he had worn. Had someone told Dixon during his days at Fulda that he would be leading a combat command into the Ukraine, and using a serving Russian officer as an advisor, he and his fellow lieutenants would have considered him nuts. But it was about to happen.

  When Dixon and Vorishnov reached the crest of the hill, Dixon was struck by the beauty of the scene before him. In many ways the mountains, forests, and high pasture lands, all blanketed in heavy snow, reminded Dixon of southern Bavaria. Even the small farmhouses and barns that dotted the countryside looked the same from a distance. But this wasn't southern Germany. This part of the world was, for the United States Army, new territory. The southern rim of the Carpathian Mountains dominated the horizon to their left and front as far as the eye could see. To their right, the forested and snow-covered foothills of the Carpathians slowly gave way to the Alföld plain, which eventually led into Hungary. Dixon, with a degree in history, understood the significance of what was about to happen and dwelt on that thought as he and Vorishnov settled down to study the border, which now lay less than one hundred meters from where they were. After a quick scan with their naked eyes, both men in silence hoisted their binoculars up and began to study the wire fence, the anti-vehicle ditch, guard towers, and the border crossing.

  Except for the thin trail of smoke slowly curling up from the stovepipes in the guard towers and the guard shack at the border crossing, neither man could see any sign of unusual activity. There was no evidence of new excavations or weapons emplacements. Satisfied that there would be no surprises at the border trace itself, Dixon trained his binoculars on the road that ran from Slovakia into the Ukraine. There was nothing to indicate that it was mined or that any preparations had been made to crater it. After watching a Ukrainian customs official casually pass a truck overloaded with pigs without even bothering to check the papers the vehicle driver waved from a partially opened window, Dixon lowered his binoculars. He took one more look from horizon to horizon before he spoke. "Well, either they don't know we're coming or they are the coolest customers this side of the Rhine."

  If Vorishnov didn't quite understand the term Dixon used, he understood his meaning. "Yes, I agree. It would appear, Colonel, that the buildup of Russian forces along their northern and eastern borders has fooled the Ukrainians. We will have tactical, and possibly operational, surprise in the morning."

  Dixon glanced over at Vorishnov. He liked the big Russian. Forever correcting Dixon and his officers on the correct pronunciation of the names of Ukrainian towns, cities, and rivers, Colonel Vorishnov had an easygoing manner while maintaining a professional bearing and conduct. He was, Dixon thought, very Russian, never missing a chance to tell anyone who would listen about the greatness and beauty of his native land. Nor would Vorishnov's pride allow him to miss the opportunity to remind the Americans of the role that the Russian Army was playing in this operation. Although the only Russians who would actually enter the Ukraine during the upcoming operation were the advisors serving with all American units, it was fear of the Russian Army deployed along the northern Ukrainian border that would paralyze the bulk of the Ukrainian Army and allow the Americans to seize the two nuclear weapons depots near Svalyava. If nothing else, Vorishnov gave Dixon a peer, another officer of equal stature outside the normal chain of command, in whom he could confide and with whom he could compare ideas and thoughts. That Dixon would be glad to find a frien
d and confidant in a Russian officer was another sign that the world they were living in was, as Dixon's wife, Jan, often mused, "getting curiouser and curiouser."

  Satisfied that he had seen all that there was to see from where they were, and noting the long shadows cast by the guard towers, Dixon nudged Vorishnov. "Well, I'm sold. Our friends down there aren't expecting us."

  Without looking at Dixon, Vorishnov continued to study the border trace with his binoculars. "No, no. I don't believe they know what is about to happen. You should have a good morning tomorrow morning."

  Dixon grunted. "It's not tomorrow morning and crossing the border I'm worried about. It's the road from Uzhgorod to Mukacevo that gives me the willies."

  While still holding his binoculars up, Vorishnov twisted his head toward Dixon. "It is pronounced Moo-kay-see-vo, Colonel. And yes, I share your concern about that part of the operation. I still believe you are sending far too small a force south to block the Ukrainian armored brigade garrisoned at Uzlovaya. You are, in my humble opinion, placing too much reliability in your attack helicopters and the skill of the commander of that blocking force. I do not agree with your lovely young intelligence officer's assessment. After you strike across the border and move east, the Ukrainian brigade at Uzlovaya will move north to strike your exposed flank, not northeast to shield Mukacevo. And when that happens, you will need to shift portions of your main body south to deal with them. When that happens, you will find yourself involved in a meeting engagement in which they, operating on their own territory, will have the advantage."

  Used to Vorishnov's corrections, Dixon let the comment about Mukacevo pass. But he defended his decision to use just one company as a blocking force. "Yes, I can understand your concern. Under most circumstances, I would agree. In this case, however, I feel justified in taking, what you consider, a risk. Captain Nancy Kozak, the commander of the blocking force, is a proven commodity. Even if the attack helicopters are grounded or diverted, we will have more than enough artillery in support to give Kozak the edge. Besides, with only two tank and two mech infantry battalions, I can't afford to disperse my force to protect against threats. If the Ukrainian armored brigade becomes a danger, then we'll deal with it."

  Dixon paused, waiting for Vorishnov's response. Vorishnov, however, said nothing. He knew from Vorishnov's expression that the Russian remained unconvinced. The idea of placing that much confidence in an officer as junior as Kozak was to Vorishnov's mind foolish. But he said nothing, for this was not his brigade. He, Vorishnov told himself, had said his piece. Dixon, the commander, had made up his mind and was, he realized, prepared to pay the price if he was wrong.

  When Vorishnov said nothing, Dixon sighed. I guess, he thought to himself as he looked at Vorishnov, old habits and ways of thinking are hard to break. With a shrug, Dixon looked away from Vorishnov and back at the border crossing before he spoke. "I think, Colonel, we are finished here. Let's head on back and see what the young'uns are doing."

  Though Vorishnov didn't quite approve of the casual manner in which American officers conducted themselves, and didn't understand most of the names and references Dixon and his staff used, like the term young'uns applied to junior officers, Vorishnov understood it was all part of Dixon's style. And so long as Dixon and his subordinates were comfortable with it and it didn't interfere with the conduct of operations, Vorishnov felt there was no need to say anything. As much as it grated on him, the Americans, after all, had won more wars in the recent past than his own army. And as he had been taught from an early age, one does not argue with success.

  "Yes, let us go back. My toes tell me it is time for some warm tea."

  As the senators and congressmen filed into the White House conference room, the President did not leave her seat to greet them. Instead, Abigail Wilson was turned away from the door through which the congressional leaders entered the room, leaning over the arm of her chair, talking to her Secretary of Defense, Terry Rothenberg. That did not mean she was ignoring the congressional delegation. Wilson was far too astute a politician for that. Instead, from the corner of her eye she kept track of who was entering the room, making mental notes of the expressions on their faces and their deportment. Though she had already been well briefed on who would and would not be present, the seating arrangements, and which of the delegation were figureheads, and which were the real movers and shakers in Congress, her staff could not tell her what the attitude of the senators and congressmen would be at the time of the meeting. On this matter, Wilson was on her own. With the same well-practiced coolness that had catapulted her from the governor's mansion in Colorado into the White House, Wilson discreetly studied her opposition and prepared to meet them head-on, on her own terms, in her own time, in her own way. Of course, that was her intention. It did not, however, take into account Congressman Ed Lewis.

  When the delegation was seated and Wilson's Secretary of State, Peter Soares, indicated that it was time to commence, Wilson looked over to him with a questioning glance. In her mind she had only counted off nine senators and congressmen. There were supposed to be ten. Soares, who had not been counting, wondered what Wilson was concerned about, and returned her glance with a blank stare. After seeing her nod to indicate that there was an empty chair catty-corner from her, Soares finally understood. He looked over to a presidential aide strategically located at the entrance to the room. With his face contorted, eyes pinched, and his teeth slightly exposed, an expression that reminded many of a rat, Soares tried to convey the message to the aide that someone was missing.

  Unlike Wilson and Soares, the aide immediately became flustered when he saw Soares's expression and realized that there was something wrong. Straightening up, the aide turned and prepared to rush out of the room in search of the missing congressman. His progress, however, was stopped cold as he plowed into another man entering the room. The presidential aide literally bounced off the tall, lean frame of Ed Lewis, who, true to form, was taking his time about showing up for the "emergency" White House briefing.

  Rather than being embarrassed, Lewis paused, flashing a slightly wicked smile as the presidential aide backed off and resumed his post. Once he was sure that he had everyone's undivided attention, Lewis bowed slightly. "My humble apologies for being so late." Looking over at the aide, Lewis's smile broadened. "It appears that the rush hour traffic is as bad in here as it is outside." This brought a few chuckles from his colleagues and a scornful look from Soares.

  Wilson, though she was not happy that a congressman had managed to upstage her well-orchestrated opening, didn't bat an eye. Instead she lightly touched Rothenberg's arm as she broke off their private conversation and turned in her seat. So that she did not appear to be at a loss as to what to do while she waited for Lewis to take his seat, Wilson played with her notes, already carefully laid out in front of her. Pete Soares had been right, she thought. Lewis, when he wanted to be, could be a real asshole.

  When he was sure that they were finally ready to start, Soares began the meeting. "As we all know, the Russian and Ukrainian governments have been unable to come to an agreement over the disposition of nuclear weapons stored in the Ukraine. The seizure of those weapons by the Ukrainian military in November and the Russians' demand that those weapons be returned to the control of the Commonwealth forces have resulted in an impasse. Economic sanctions, including the cutting off of all oil and petroleum products into the Ukraine, have resulted in hardships but no compromise. If anything, the actions by the Russians and the republics that still belong to the Commonwealth have only served to harden the determination of the Ukrainian government. Sovereignty and self-determination are, in their words, at stake."

  Soares paused and looked at the assembled congressional delegation when he heard a sigh that sounded remarkably like "Shit." Lewis, who knew what was coming without having to be told, was already shaking his head. "Don't tell me, Pete. Let me guess. Our troops, deployed from their bases in Germany to the Czech and Slovakian republics in an effort to di
scourage the Hungarians from taking advantage of political upheavals between those two, just happen to be in a position to move into the Ukraine and secure the nuclear weapons in question. And, oh, by the way, the Russians, having publicly encouraged and praised our deployment into the Czech and Slovakian republics, have asked us to use those conveniently located forces to bail their sorry asses out of an embarrassing situation."

  Angry at Lewis's rude interruption, Soares was unable to continue. Instead he stood at the end of the table and glared at Lewis. Seeing that the situation was about to get out of hand, Wilson intervened. "It's more than an effort to save the Commonwealth from public embarrassment. We have been able to confirm that the Ukrainian government has been approached by another, non-nuclear government about trading warheads for the economic support that the Commonwealth embargo has denied the Ukraine. With Ukrainian industry and transportation grinding to a halt due to the oil embargo, certain elements in the Ukrainian government have been reported to be taking the offer seriously."

  Impatient, Lewis cut in. "So we are going to use military forces to do what the Russians haven't been able to do."

  Noting that Wilson was now becoming irritated by Lewis's manner, Secretary of Defense Rothenberg took up the challenge this time. "Yes, Congressman Lewis, we are. At the request of the Commonwealth forces, surgical strikes, using our air and ground units currently deployed in eastern Slovakia, will be used to neutralize the threat. The two storage sites, both in the vicinity of Svalyava, will be seized by rangers who will secure the devices in question and prepare them for transport back to Germany."

  Had Rothenberg hit Lewis between the eyes, he couldn't have gotten a more violent reaction. Lewis, having been a member of the National Guard for years and a veteran of the Gulf War, hated it when politicians used terms like "surgical strike" and "neutralize" as if they really meant something. Pushing himself away from the table, Lewis became enraged. "Jesus, Rothenberg. Do you think you're about to present a case in court?" Lewis didn't wait for Rothenberg, who was now becoming upset, to answer. "We're not talking about your law firm back in New York filing a suit against someone. We're talking about war. Real people, our people, going through the Carpathian Mountains in the dead of winter to seize weapons that the Ukrainians are no doubt defending with their best units. And when that happens, when our good little American boys and girls come nose-to-nose with those good little Ukrainian boys in the mountains, there'll be nothing surgical about the outcome. For those of you who haven't been blessed with the experience, there's nothing surgical about being on the receiving end of a 750-pound general purpose bomb."