The Lazarus Moment (2 page)

And when
civil war had broken out, it was
him
the people turned to.

It was a
cause he had been born for.

Now,
over a year later, he was a general in the United Armed Forces of Novorossiya,
fighting for his homeland, a homeland he was willing to die for should it be
necessary.

Another
shell slammed into a building nearby.

“Do you
think they know where we are?”

Khomenko
looked at Orlov and shook his head. “They’re guessing. We’ve only been here
since yesterday; they have no idea where we are.”

“But
they’ve hit three of our forward positions already this morning.”

“Exactly.
Our
forward
positions. They can see them across the river, just like we
can see theirs. They’ve just been lucky with their targeting.” He lifted his
thermos, pouring himself a coffee, the brew prepared by his wife before he had
headed to the front just hours ago.

He took
a sip, offering the thermos to Orlov.

Orlov
shook his head. “No thanks, I’ve got my own.” He tapped a flask tucked away in
his breast pocket. Khomenko chuckled, Orlov’s penchant for vodka making him
truly Russian.

Khomenko
held out his plastic cup. “Warm it up for me, will you?”

Orlov grinned,
pulling out the flask and unscrewing the top. A couple of ounces glugged into Khomenko’s
cup before the man took a swig and returned the flask to safekeeping. Khomenko
swirled the cup, mixing the two liquids together then took a belt.

“Now
that’s what I call coffee.”

Several
of his men chuckled, the tenseness of the moment forgotten briefly. He looked
at them. Some had been soldiers in the Armed Forces of the Ukraine, some
laborers like him. None had ever expected to go to war, especially against
their fellow countrymen. He didn’t hate his enemy. On the contrary, many had
once been his friends.

And that
was the problem with a civil war. It pitted neighbor against neighbor, brother
against brother.

Husband
against wife.

His wife
hated his involvement. She didn’t care who won, as long as it was over soon.

“Look at
all we’ve lost! All this fighting, all this death, and what do you have to show
for it? Nothing!”

He peered
through his binoculars across the river, the memory of his wife’s familiar
argument fresh, repeated again just last night. She was right. From all
reasonable measures, they were worse off than they had been two years ago. They
were hungrier, dirtier, poorer. They had lost family and friends. The factory
he had worked at was shuttered, his wife’s cleaning jobs a thing of the past—no
one could afford her services anymore.

They
scraped by because of
who
he was.

They
could live better, of that there was no doubt, yet he refused to take more than
was offered his men. They never went truly hungry, they always had a roof over
their head, and he kept them warm and clothed.

They had
the basics.

But
nothing more.

A jet
screamed overhead, the sound of small arms fire opening up outside causing him
to shake his head.

“Cease
fire, you’ll give away our position!”

The
Ukrainian Air Force wasn’t much of a threat, though occasionally they sent a
sortie out on a bombing or strafing run, though usually it was just recon. An
explosion rumbled in the distance behind them.

“Kiev is
bold today.”

Khomenko
nodded. “It’s too bad we don’t have those SAMs anymore. They wouldn’t dare put
anything in the air.”

“True,
but I haven’t seen them hit a target yet on the first try.” Orlov turned to the
men, a smile on his face. “They’d be better off just dropping the damned planes
on us!”

Laughter
filled the cramped space, Khomenko smiling slightly. The bravado from Orlov was
common in war, insulting the enemy’s abilities a way of military life. It built
comradery and confidence.

And it
was quite often true.

But the
problem with their enemy’s bad aim was it far too often meant innocents died.

He
frowned, wondering who was hit today.

A shell
slammed into the courtyard in front of the building. He ducked, as did the
others, debris blasting through the open windows, the glass broken long ago.

“Everyone
okay?” he asked, a round of acknowledgements responding. He waved to one of the
men. “Check on the men outside.”

“Yes,
sir!”

He
turned to the room. “Start packing everything up, they’ve obviously located our
position.”

A flurry
of activity was triggered, maps and reports quickly rolled up and stuffed into
boxes, communications equipment and weapons broken down and packed away.

Another
shell slammed into the courtyard, this one a little closer, a chunk of the wall
cracking badly, the morning sun forcing its way through.

“Time to
evacuate!” He spun his hand in a circle then pointed at the rear exit. “Let’s
go!”

The men
grabbed everything they could carry, surging toward the narrow door as a young
man squeezed past them, looking about the room, his eyes settling on Khomenko.

He
snapped to attention, a shaky salute offered.

Khomenko
returned the salute as he ushered his men toward the exit. “What is it, Corporal?”

“Sir, I
regret to inform you—” The man went pale, swaying slightly, fear plastered on
his face. Khomenko reached out and grabbed the young man’s shoulder, a knot
forming in his stomach.

“What is
it? What message do you have for me?”

The man
said nothing, instead staring into Khomenko’s eyes, the reluctance clear.

He shook
him.

“Snap
out of it!”

The man
suddenly nodded, firming up his stance. “Yes, sir! Sorry, sir! Sir, I regret to
inform you that a bomb dropped by a Ukrainian jet hit your apartment building.
Your wife and child were trapped inside and are believed—”

The room
shook as a shell slammed into the outer wall, the explosion pulverizing the
concrete into dust as they were all tossed across the room. Screams filled the
confined space, one particularly loud, Khomenko wishing the man would shut the
hell up. He was about to order him to do so when he realized it was coming from
him.

He
looked down at the source of the excruciating pain and saw a large piece of
shrapnel embedded in his thigh, the bloody pulp of his upper leg like nothing
he had ever seen, his war rarely giving him the up-close view those truly on
the front lines experienced all too frequently.

“General!”
Orlov pushed himself to his feet, the man covered in dust and what appeared to
be minor cuts and bruises. Khomenko tried to speak but couldn’t, instead
blacking out as someone tried to lift him to his feet before another shell
finished them.

Though
if he could speak, he would be shouting for them to leave him, there nothing
left to live for now that his wife and daughter were dead.

James S. Brady Press Briefing Room, The White House

Washington, DC

Three weeks before the Air Force One crash

“Is this in response to the growing reports of Russian offensive
weapons being used?”

White
House Press Secretary Terri Talevich turned slightly to make eye contact with
the CBS reporter who had asked the question. She had known going into today’s
press briefing that the questions would be fast and furious, the announcement
provocative. She didn’t envy the President. World leaders were certain to be
making phone calls today, especially his Russian counterpart. Anything
involving Russia sent the vultures in front of her into a frenzy, a rabid pack
of wolves tearing at the meat of any story that might lead to more violence to
fill their pages and screens.

Sometimes
I hate this job.

She
couldn’t really blame them. It was their job, though she felt the press today were
no longer about the news, but about the commentary. Everyone had their
political slant, tainted their reporting with their own opinions, sometimes so
much so that it was impossible to know what was the truth and what was what the
reporter wanted to be the truth.

Yet one
thing would never change.

The
press loved a good story.

And they
loved the new Russia.

Because
they loved a good villain.

And they
were tired of terrorists. The newly resurgent Russia, the newly belligerent
Russia, made for good press whenever their leader did something aggressive or
bombastic. In America, he’d be laughed out of office; in Russia, they wrote
songs about him.

At
least I hope he’d be laughed out of office.

“Clint,
as you know, the White House has made its position clear. Russia must honor its
commitments to remain out of the Ukrainian conflict except for humanitarian
purposes. Offensive weapons hardly qualify as humanitarian aid.”

“But it’s
clear that they aren’t keeping to their agreement. Is the President’s
announcement to lift restrictions on foreign capital transfers to Ukrainian
controlled accounts a response to that problem?”

Of
course it is.

“I’m not
clear on what you mean?”

Clint
Rogers, a fixture on the White House scene for two decades, smiled at her.
“Come on, Terri, you know what I mean. Is President Starling inviting private
citizens and organizations to provide funding for black market weapons
purchases?”

Bingo!

“Of
course not. The President remains committed to a peaceful resolution to the
civil war. To that end, he has repeatedly insisted that the Russians honor
their commitment to remain neutral in the conflict, and that only humanitarian
aid and defensive weapons be permitted to enter the conflict zone. The lifting
of these restrictions is merely to allow the money to flow more freely to the
victims of this conflict. The current structure of trying to control the money
by funneling it all through recognized aid agencies was proving cumbersome, and
in the end was harming those it was trying to help by delaying much needed
supplies. By removing these roadblocks, aid money should flow to those in need
quicker.”

“So the
President isn’t concerned money will instead flow to illegal arms traders.”

“Of
course the President is concerned, which is why our intelligence resources will
be monitoring the situation closely.”

“What
about Russian troops fighting in the Ukraine?” asked Richard Jenner of CNN. “If
money from private American citizens is used to purchase weapons that are then
used to kill Russian soldiers, isn’t the President risking a widening of the
conflict?”

“Not at
all. As the Russian President has said repeatedly, there are
no
Russian
troops involved in the conflict, therefore there is no chance of Russian troops
being killed. If Russia were to inform us that one of their soldiers was killed
by a weapon purchased through private funds, they would have to admit that
their troops are indeed involved in the conflict. And of course we all know
that isn’t true.”

Laughter
rolled through the room.

“One
follow up question. Does this signal a softening of the White House position
that they will not arm the Ukrainians?”

“No,
this is a humanitarian gesture, not a military one.”

“Will
the President be speaking to the Russian President in person about this change
in policy?”

“There
might be an opportunity at the climate change summit in South Africa, but
nothing is scheduled before that.” She snapped her folder shut, signaling an
end to the press conference. “Thank you, everyone, have a good day.”

Terri
briskly walked from the podium and out of sight of the cameras.

One of
her staffers smiled. “That went well.”

“Yup.
Can’t wait to see who calls him first.”

“My
money is on the German Chancellor, but the office pool seems to be favoring the
Russian President.”

Terri
nodded as she strode toward her office.

“I’m
willing to bet he never calls.”

Though
he’ll probably do another of his rambling press conferences where he blames
everyone but himself for Russia’s problems.

Hertzen Moscow Oncology Research Institute, Moscow, Russia

Three weeks before the Air Force One crash

Igor Khomenko looked up from his chair as Arseny Dudnik entered the
room. He waved him over with his free arm, his other arm resting carefully on
the chair, an IV inserted, a bag of Oxaliplatin slowly dripping death into him.

The only
question was whether it would win, or the cancer.

Unfortunately
he already knew the answer.

Dudnik shook
his hand and pulled up a chair after drawing the curtain around them. “How are
you, my friend?”

Khomenko
shrugged, his now certain future, or lack thereof, no longer as frightening or
disappointing as it had been months before when he had found out the shocking
news. “This is my final round, but they’re not optimistic.”

Dudnik pursed
his lips then exhaled loudly. “I thought the diagnosis was already certain.”

Khomenko
chuckled. He should have known Dudnik would know exactly what was going on. After
all, the man was FSB, Federal Security Service, the renamed though not reformed
KGB. Dudnik had been responsible for providing him with his regular
intelligence briefings, though since the attack that had seen him wounded, then
diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, he hadn’t seen any of his men.

He was a
walking dead man.

Though
he had an incentive to keep going for as long as he could. And he hoped that Dudnik
might be just the man to help fulfill his dying wish.

“Then
you must know why I elected for the treatment.”