Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (61 page)

 
          
The
first task was organizing this mishmash of foreigners, soldiers of different
branches, and locals, but that’s where Lewis really shined. He had been
organizing things all his life, starting with his baseball card collection, his
Little League team, his senior class in high school as class president, and
yard stock in the lumber yard where he had worked as the day- shift foreman for
the past ten years. He used an effective combination of communication skills,
cajoling, horse trading, force, and his keen powers of observation to identify
leaders, followers, or slackers, and put them in the right place. After fifteen
years in the Air Guard, including two months in Saudi Arabia during Desert
Storm, he also knew a lot about taking a bunch of kids—the conscripts in the
Macedonian Army were all between eighteen and twenty years old—matching them up
with the veterans, and letting the old farts lead.

 
          
Once
the job for today was outlined for the groups, they launched off on their own.
The job was to pump out standing water from the campus, strip out water-damaged
walls and floors, inspect the structure for signs of weakness or damage, repair
or replace the foundations and structures, rehabilitate the grounds, and then
get them ready to refurnish. About half of the campus was still under water,
some of it as much as two feet high, so they had big trailer-mounted pumps
ready to go. But before anyone stepped into even a quarter-inch of water, Lewis
had the 158th Medical Services Squadron and the 158th Civil Engineering
Squadron, Environmental Control, come in and test the soil and water for signs
of contamination. This part of
Macedonia
was fairly pristine, and there were few villages
upstream, but
Macedonia
did quite a bit of cattle farming in the
highlands, and cattle waste and disease caused all sorts of problems, not to
mention the real hazards if they found any dead cattle carcasses or corpses. So
nobody touched anything unless it was signed off on by the medical and
environmental guys.

 
          
Lewis’s
troops were just fanning out to begin work when he heard choppers in the
distance. It was not unusual at all—the international airport at Ohrid just a
few miles to the west had a military facility where most of the United Nations
troops were stationed; and being fairly close to the border and to the
two-millennium-old historical sites of southern Macedonia, the area was very
heavily patrolled—but Lewis stopped to search for them and watch them approach.
Macedonia had a few American surplus UH-1 Hueys and a few old ex-Soviet Mil-17
transport helicopters, but these choppers sounded even bigger—and it sounded
like a lot of them inbound.

 
          
There
were Popping up from a low level high-speed inbound approach to the schoolyard
was a formation of three Mil Mi~24V “Hind-E” helicopter gunships in a wide V
formation. The big armored choppers zoomed in at treetop level, and as soon as
they cleared the tree line, their noses lowered again, rapidly picking up
speed. He could even see the big gun turret in the front under the nose
sweeping back and forth, looking for targets, locking on and tracking any large
vehicle or militarylooking building—he swore the lead chopper’s gunner locked
on to
him
and had him dead in his sights. Lewis had seen plenty of
Russian helicopters throughout the Balkans in his years here, but all of them
had been unarmed. These were armed to the tefcth with rocket pods, anti-armor
missiles, bombs, mines, even air-to-air missiles filling every attach point on
their weapon pylons. That was a major violation of NATO and United Nations
directives—but even more than that, they were scary as hell.

 
          
Lewis
had never seen a Russian helicopter on an attack run before, but he imagined
this was exactly what it looked like. He withdrew his walkie-talkie from its
belt holster and keyed the mike button; “Cornerstone Alpha, this is Cornerstone
One.”

           
Alpha was the unit’s commanding
officer. Colonel Andrew Toutin, the commander of the 158th Fighter Wing,
currently located at the Cornerstone operation headquarters in
Skopje
. “Go ahead. Chief.”

           
“Sir, I’ve got an eyeball on three
big Russian helicopter gunships ready to overfly the Resen school grounds, and
they are armed. Repeat, they are armed to the teeth.”

 
          
“What?”
Toutin shouted. “What in hell was that?
Armed?
Are you saying you
clearly observe weapons on board these helicopters?”

 
          
“Affirmative,
sir. Many weapons. Many weapons.”

 
          
He
could imagine his boss swearing long and loud off-air— the boss, a salty old
veteran fighter pilot with over twenty years’ active duty service and over ten
years in the Vermont Air Guard, usually used expletives frequently and often
creatively in everyday conversation. “I’ll call it in to NATO headquarters
here, Chief,” Toutin said. “Contact the Macedonian security NCO and make sure
they keep their weapons out of sight. If the choppers try to land, keep the
civilians away from them.” “Roger all, sir,” Lewis responded. “Break, break.
Seven, this is One.”

 
          
“This
is Seven,” the Macedonian noncommissioned officer in chaige of the security
forces for Cornerstone responded in broken but passable English. “I see the
Russians too, Chief. I copy Alpha, we keep our weapons out of sight, and I will
order the police chief to get the civilians indoors. I will initiate a security
checkpoint report and verify orders. Stand by.”

 
          
The
Russian gunships completed their low pass over the campus, then split up and
disappeared over the horizon, flying so low they were hidden by trees almost
immediately. The thunderous roar of the Hinds masked the sound of more
helicopters coming in. These were Mil Mi-8T troop transport helicopters, huge
twin-turboshaft monsters carrying fuel in external pylons instead of weapons.
Lewis saw six of them dart in toward the school from three different
directions, all from treetop level and at maximum forward speed. Spreading out
across the campus, the helicopters suddenly pitched up to quickly slow their
forward speed, then settled rapidly to the ground in three pairs spread out
about three hundred yards apart. Seconds after the transports hit the ground,
heavily armed Russian soldiers in dark green camouflage BDUs and with
camouflaged faces and weapons spread out to guard the helicopters and took
cover positions behind nearby buildings. As the transport helicopters departed,
the Hind-E gunships cruised nearby, ready to pounce if any enemy activity
popped up

 
          
Pretty
damned efficient, Lewis thought grimly. Everywhere he looked on the campus,
there was a Russian infantryman. They were probably not outnumbered, but they
were clearly outgunned.

 
          
One
of the Russian soldiers set up a smoke-wind direction torch on the parking lot.
and moments later a lone Mi-8 transport arrived- This one was a little
different: it off loaded only eight security troops, and it was festooned with
antennae all over its fuselage. Along with the security forces, an officer with
full battle gear stepped off the helicopter, flanked by a few aides, staff
officers, and a civilian. Aha, Lewis guessed, the boss has just arrived.

 
          
Somehow,
for some reason, Lewis had a bad feeling about this. He knew about the border
skirmish between
Albania
and
Macedonia
, the declaration of war between them, and
the decision by NATO to allow Russian peacekeepers into
Macedonia
, but he'd never expected this. The Russians
were supposed to be arriving at
Ohrid
International
Airport
, about forty miles west, and setting up
patrol lines north and south along the Albanian-Macedonian border. What were
they doing here? And why the airborne assault—why not just drive in?

 
          
He
knew the proper procedure would be to let Toutin handle this—but instead, Lewis
holstered his walkie-talkie and headed out to where the Russian officer had
just alighted. “Chief, where are you going?” one of his clerks asked.

 
          
“To
talk.”

 
          
“But
shouldn't we go get the colonel?”

 
          
“It’ll
take him an hour to get here.”

 
          
“What
about the major?” The on-site commander of the Cornerstone detachment in Resen
was the wing intcl officer. Major Bruce Kramer. To put it mildly, Kramer hated
Macedonia
. As far as anyone knew, Kramer spent all
his time in his tent, writing letters to his congressman asking to get him the
hell out of the Balkans.

           
“Forget about him,” Lewis said. “I’m
going out to talk with them. If the colonel calls, tell him the Russians have
landed and it looks like they’re taking over the joint.” Lew is w ished he had
his Kevlar and his web gear. Although the Green Mountain Boys were indeed a
combat unit and had seen plenty of action over the years, here in
Macedonia
they had no capability to fight anyone,
especially Russians. At least he hoped to act the part of a field combat
noncom, even if he couldn’t look like one.

 
          
The
Russian security guards let him approach, keeping one eye on him and another on
their field of fire. All weapons were at port arms or raised upward—none were
aimed at NATO or Macedonian troops. Encouraging sign, at least. When he was
about five paces from the commanding officer, a stem look and a half-turn to
the left by one of the officer's security guards, w hich would have allowed him
just to lower his rifle to shoot, stopped Lewis cold. No question of his
desires or intentions if he did not comply.

 
          
Lewis
saluted, but did not wait for a return salute before lowering his. The Russian
did not return the salute. He had to shout over the roar of the Mi-8, which was
idling but had not shut down. “Who are you and what do you w ant?”

 
          
One
of the aides shouted a translation into his commander’s ear, received the
reply, then passed the word to the other soldiers nearby. “Captain Rokov is in
charge,” the aide said. “He has ordered that all NATO and Macedonian forces
stationed here are to be gathered here immediately.”

 
          
Lewis
noted that the colonel never wanted to know who Lewis was or desire to see the
commanding officer—obviously he didn’t care w'ho he or anyone else was. “Why,
sir?” Lewis asked.

 
          
“You
will do as you are ordered. Sergeant,” the aide repeated.

 
          
“I
have not been instructed to follow your orders, sir,” Lewis replied. “If you
don’t mind, I’ll wait until I receive orders from my commanding officer.”

 
          
“Where
is your commanding officer, Sergeant?”

           
“I am the commander of this detail,”
replied Lewis. Not technically correct, but he was in charge at this moment. “I
am in direct communication with KFOR and NATO commanders in
Skopje
. If I am instructed to do so, I will carry
out your orders, but until then. I am respectfully asking you to withdraw your
men from my AOR. We have our orders, and I intend to see they are carried out.”

 
          
“What
are your orders. Sergeant?” the aide asked. “What is your currently assigned
area of responsibility?”

 
          
“That’s
‘Chief Master Sergeant’ or ‘Chief' to you, sir,” Lewis admonished him. “I am
not at liberty to discuss my orders with you. My AOR extends throughout
Bitola
province, but you may ask NATO headquarters
in
Skopje
for the exact boundaries. You may contact
NATO headquarters in
Skopje
and inquire there. Now please move your troops off the school campus.
They’re interfering with our work and scaring the locals. I suggest bringing
your choppers back here and helocasting your troops to
Ohrid
International
Airport
. You’ll find much better accommodations
there anyway.”