0532 (0632 Local)

Colonel Zharkov watched his men as he monitored Major Kirov’s communications with his tanks. The Maintenance Building shook as several cannon shells struck the upper story. The men, who had been lounging around in small groups, smoking and talking, moved quickly back to their tanks and armored personnel carriers and climbed inside. Many closed the hatches.

There was a lot of shouting on the tank tactical net, much of it in Arabic, of which Zharkov understood little, but he could hear the fanaticism of the Libyan soldiers. Some were ululating into their microphones like Berber horse cavalrymen as Kirov and his junior officers shouted in vain in Russian to try to restore some discipline. The screams of “Allah’u Aqbar” chilled him; they brought back the horror of Afghanistan.

Zharkov gritted his teeth as more shells struck above him, sending down showers of plaster and glass from broken light bulbs. It’s only a matter of time before this building catches fire, he thought.

Captain Suslov appeared at his side. Zharkov quickly briefed him on Kirov’s progress. “What will we do, Comrade Colonel?”

“Sit. Wait. This is turning into the bloodbath nobody wanted.”

Suslov’s face twitched suddenly, as if something the colonel said had startled him. “But Kirov is breaking through! Shouldn’t we support him, assure his victory?”

“No, Suslov. Remember, as far as the politicians of the world will tell it, that isn’t Kirov’s column; he isn’t even there. It is a Libyan column. Our orders were to take the hostages and give them to the Americans, to prevent a Soviet-American confrontation.”

Your orders, thought Suslov, remembering his own.

The Russian lieutenant who had the duty in the office at the end of the maintenance bays ran to Zharkov’s tank. He looks thoroughly scared, thought Zharkov. “Comrade Colonel, the Ambassador is calling for you on the secure land line from Tripoli.”

Zharkov climbed down and followed the lieutenant back to the office, running crouched as more shells exploded upstairs. He picked up the phone and announced, “Colonel Zharkov.”

“Comrade Colonel, this is Ambassador Timkin. We have just had an urgent signal from Moscow, from Doryatkin. The General Secretary has died.”

Zharkov didn’t speak. The power struggle would now be out in the open.

Timkin continued. “Doryatkin is very concerned about that Spetznaz unit of yours. What is your situation?”

Zharkov briefly explained where he was, and his guesses about the fighting a few hundred meters to the south. “Good, Colonel,” said Timkin. “Stay concealed until it is over, if you can. If the Americans are defeated, try to keep the black-asses from butchering all the hostages.”

“And if the Americans prevail, Comrade Ambassador?”

“Stay where you are. They aren’t likely to search the base, are they?”

“No, I wouldn’t think so, but this building is taking fire, and may burn.”

“God. Well, if you have to show yourself, try to avoid a fight. Surrender, even.”

“That may not be possible. The Americans will probably fire as soon as they see us.” I would, he thought bleakly.

“Well, Colonel Zharkov, try to do your best. I am sure you know what is at stake in the, ah, larger arena.”

He means Moscow. “I understand, Comrade Ambassador. I had better go and brief my men. However it ends, this battle will be over very quickly.”