Uqba ben Nafi, 0345 GMT (0445 Local)

Praporshchik (Warrant Officer) Dmitri Sergeivich Tolkin gestured to the tank and BTR drivers, motioning them backwards into the supply hangars on the northern end of runway 03/21. The vehicles were maneuvered into place in the narrow spaces and shut down. The doors were closed, confining the sharp smell of diesel smoke. Tolkin stood with his back toward the hangar doors and lit a cigarette, avoiding the gaze of the officers, especially the zampolit, Captain Suslov, who strode back and forth shouting useless orders at the sweating Spetznaz troopers.

“A word, Tolkin?”

Tolkin whirled, dropping his cigarette, and saluted Colonel Zharkov. “Of course, Comrade Colonel.”

“No need for all that courtesy, Tolkin. We enjoyed ten months in Afghanistan together, remember?”

Tolkin had always liked Colonel Zharkov, because he thought and acted like a soldier, despite his reputed party connections, yet he was wary of the colonel’s confiding demeanor. “Of course, Comrade Colonel. Then, we had the black-asses on the right side of our guns.”

That’s a test, thought Zharkov, and smiled. “Do you trust me, Tolkin?” he asked abruptly.

Tolkin did, but he was surprised by the question. “Comrade Colonel?”

“Old Russian proverb, Tolkin: ‘It is not always your enemies who put you into it.’“

“‘Nor your friends who pull you out of it.’ Yes, my Colonel, I trust you.”

“And I you. Captain Suslov will command your tank on the assault against the terrorists in the Operations Building.”

“And I will gladly relinquish my commander’s seat and take the morning off, Comrade Colonel.”

“I would prefer you gave that leave to Gunner Potemkin instead, Tolkin, and stayed with your tank.”

Tolkin chewed on this. He did not share the Russian passion for riddles. “Comrade Colonel?”

Colonel Zharkov placed his hand on the praporshchik’s chest, with three fingers extended. Tolkin looked at the colonel’s hand, then at his face. “The zampolit?”

“I fear so, Tolkin.”

Tolkin was puzzled. The three fingers, from one enlisted man (or a warrant, who in the Soviet Army remained in spirit a senior enlisted man), meant Third Directorate; KGB. “My Colonel?”

“It is possible that the captain has orders that differ from ours, Tolkin. We are to take the American hostages intact, and hold them at the pleasure of our superiors in Moscow.”

“Colonel-”

“It may be, Tolkin, that Captain Suslov has orders that are, shall we say, from another source, which might cause him to disobey, or exceed, an order of mine.”

“But, Colonel, surely-”

“You, old friend, are to see that nothing like that happens.”

Tolkin felt the itch of confusion on his brain. This was no decision for a warrant officer. “Comrade Colonel, what means should I use to stop the captain if he disobeys-”

“Any means, Tolkin,” interrupted Zharkov, “all means, if it even looks like he might disobey my orders.”

Tolkin was suddenly afraid. Eighteen years of soldiering had not prepared him to deal with a renegade officer, perhaps of the KGB, on the vaguest of instructions.

“We helped each other in Afghanistan, Tolkin,” said the colonel very softly.

Tolkin remembered. They hadn’t helped each other. Tolkin had gone down in a desolate valley with a leg wound, and his squad had been wiped out. Tolkin had seen the Afghan women moving toward him through the rocks with long knives in their hands. Colonel Zharkov had come back for him and carried him to safety. “Yes, my Colonel. I will look after Captain Suslov, with great care.”

Zharkov smiled. “We must be ready to move by 0545 Local. We must capture the American hostages, intact, Comrade.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel. We will be ready.” Tolkin saluted.

Colonel Zharkov returned the salute and walked over to chat with Captain Suslov, near the hangar doors.