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Major Gorky and his men proceeded against stiff resistance toward Syria's eastern border with Iraq. Gorky's orders were clear: he was to avoid the American advisers located in the area. Under no circumstances was he to engage them.
The realities of combat didn't always match orders given in the calm before battle. Things happened that couldn't be predicted, even in a world where technology and sophisticated communications eliminated some of the problems that had plagued commanders since the days of the pharaohs. The nature of war was confusion and uncertainty, a truth recognized by every competent commander. It was called the "fog of war," and was taught in every military academy in the world.
By the time they encountered the American patrol, the 22nd had suffered heavy casualties. Colonel Brezhnev was dead. Gorky was now in command of the eastward advance. His best company commander had been killed while rescuing his wounded crew. The Kurds had stubbornly refused to surrender or run, and they were armed with the latest American weapons.
The soldiers of the 22nd were pissed. They were hot and they were tired, and they'd been taking intermittent fire for several hours. They came over a rise and saw an armored personnel carrier and three Humvees headed straight for them.
Gorky opened fire. It was one of those incidents that happens in war. The American vehicles looked a lot like the Kurdish ones. There was nothing unusual about that, since most of the Kurdish vehicles had been provided by the Pentagon. American and Kurdish units were painted in a similar desert camouflage pattern.
The firefight was brief and brutal. When it was over, fourteen Americans and eighteen Russians were dead. One of Gorky's APCs was in flames, a second was disabled, and the American units had been destroyed. It wasn't until he came alongside the burning remains of the lead American vehicle and saw the markings, that Major Gorky discovered his mistake.
****
In Washington, DC, it was evening. Rebecca Kramer had poured herself a glass of white wine and picked up a book, when her secured line rang. The display showed it was from her Deputy Director, Scott Davidson. She picked up.
"Yes, Scott."
"There's been an incident in Syria. The Russians fired on an American patrol."
"Casualties?"
"Fourteen of our people. Eighteen Russians."
"Confirmed?"
"We were using ECHO, listening to the Russian commander. Confirmation is straight from the horse's mouth."
ECHO was one of America's most coveted secrets, a program that captured Russian military communications in real time. Langley had been listening to the Russians talk about what had happened.
"I'm on my way," Kramer said.
She disconnected, dialed, and called back her bodyguards and driver. Evening traffic was snarled. It was an hour before she was back in her office on the seventh floor.
There were many perks that went with her job as head of America's most powerful intelligence agency. One of them was a private kitchen and dining room. Someone was always there to provide food and whatever else might be needed. The first thing she did was call for coffee, lots of it.
A written brief on the incident lay on her desk. There was a light knock on the door and her Deputy Director came in. Kramer didn't like many people, but she appreciated Davidson. It would have been going too far to call him a friend. Rebecca Kramer didn't have friends. She had colleagues, and few of those. Davidson was on the list.
Davidson was sixty-one years old, with thinning hair turning gray. More than thirty of those years had been spent in the Agency. He wore a dark suit tailored to conceal a slight scoliosis that hiked one shoulder higher than the other.
His face looked as if it hadn't been quite finished. One cheekbone was higher than the other. The corner of his mouth on that side turned slightly upward. His eyes were a hazel color, his eyebrows almost nonexistent. He had on a light blue shirt, open at the collar. Davidson usually wore a tie, but it went into his pocket after working hours. Ten o'clock at night qualified as after hours.
"Coffee?" She gestured at the sideboard, where a gleaming pot stood next to an array of cups and saucers. "There's a fresh pot over there."
"I could use a caffeine hit. It's been a long day."
He poured a cup and pulled up a chair near Kramer's desk.
"This is going to be a real shit storm," he said.
"Run it by me."
"Our people were out on a routine patrol. Their orders were to observe Russian activity, if possible. They had strict orders not to engage. Something went wrong."
"Who fired first?"
Davidson shrugged. "The Russians, but it's a moot point. We can't prove it was them and they can't prove it was us. The Kurds have been giving the Russians hell. My guess is someone got a little trigger happy. I guarantee they'll say we fired first when it goes public."
"Of course they will," Kramer said. "It may even be true. Like you said, it's a moot point. Does the president know?"
"I figured that was your call, Director. The Joint Chiefs will have gotten the word by now."
"Okay. Call in Analysis, DI, Operations. Have them come in now. We'll meet in the bubble."
DI was Digital Information. She had told Davidson to have the directors of three of Langley's five directorates come in. The bubble was a completely secure room in the heart of the building.
"Anything else?"
"No, that's it for now. Thank you, Scott."
"No problem. I'll get on it."
He left the room. Kramer called General Kroger.
"I was about to call you," Kroger said.
"You've been briefed?"
"Those Russian bastards killed fourteen of our men. They paid the price, though."
"You remember what we spoke about at the White House?"
"Of course."
"Sad as it is, the deaths of those soldiers gives us the key to stirring up public opinion. The media will be all over this. It won't take much to get people demanding the president do something about the Russians."
"That's cold, Rebecca."
"You know I'm right, General."
"Unfortunately, you are."
"Have you thought about what might be done to discourage Tarasov's adventurism?"
"Adventurism? I guess that's one way to put it. Yes, I have."
Kroger told her what he had in mind.
"I knew I could count on you," Kramer said.