Vanguard (2 page)

In the years that followed, the USSR had eased its totalitarian policies and become the Soviet Republic. It had embarked on a period of peaceful expansion, absorbing the Warsaw Pact nations and a few countries from Asia and North Africa. Dwarfing the US in size and power, the massive republic had brought peace and stability to parts of the globe that had known little of either.

It never forgot Orlisia, though. And seventeen years later, it would return to repossess what had been lost.

~~ - ~~

Sophie sat aboard the New York-bound train, looking at Michael’s passport picture.

Even in a black and white photocopy, Michael was beautiful. Throughout their most bitter battles of the last decade, during their long separations and furious arguments, he’d always been beautiful to her. She didn’t think she’d ever told him that, and now might never get the chance.

For a moment, pain and panic overwhelmed her. She leaned her forehead against the window, forcing herself to breathe evenly, then turned back to the dossier.

Sophie examined the picture, but there was nothing she didn’t already know. Michael’s face was etched on her heart. He wasn’t smiling in the picture – he rarely smiled in photos – which made him look more foreign. His mother’s Orlisian blood dominated in his heavy brow, generous mouth, and stern expression. He looked more American when he smiled, showing boyish dimples beneath the black hair he’d inherited from his father. A perfect blend of his parents, and the two cultures that shared him.

Determined not to cry, Sophie turned her attention back to the workup. She flipped to the next page, noting a mention of her own name. She showed up in any decent profile of Michael Nariovsky-Trent.

She appeared under “Closest Known Associates/Friends” along with Carter DeVries. No one else; Michael had always been solitary. Sophie spotted Mirielle Desmarais’ name under “Sexual/Romantic Relations.” Other names appeared there as well, relationships Michael had had over the years. But a brief entry at the bottom of the category startled her.

“Sophie Ann Swenda: Likely ongoing romantic relations since 2002, exact nature of relationship never confirmed.”

“‘
Ongoing romantic relations’
?” she murmured. “Someone should tell Michael that.” But she couldn’t tell him because he was missing. Missing and almost certainly presumed dead by the world’s bureaucratic machinery. And the fear rose in her all over again.

Terror had been her companion since Michael had left for his besieged homeland of Orlisia in the summer. Panic had arrived in September when he’d vanished after a Soviet incursion into the region where he’d been. Two months, three days and….she checked her watch…nineteen hours ago.

~~ - ~~

Four months earlier

Sophie met Michael on the steps of his parents’ house in midtown Manhattan. He smiled broadly at her approach, his dimples popping out.

Michael had returned from his mission to Uganda with Médecins Sans Frontières several weeks earlier. Sophie was running Refugee Crisis International headquarters while her colleagues worked in Sichuan province in China following the massive earthquake that had struck in May. It was the first time they’d been in New York at the same time for an extended period of time since she’d moved there four years previously.

Not that they’d had a moment to themselves since the Soviet Republic had invaded Orlisia a few weeks prior. Certainly there hadn’t been the time or inclination for romance. Michael seemed happier, more relaxed, as Sophie greeted him.
Maybe tonight.

“Walk with me.” He took her hand and led her to a nearby park to sit in the summer twilight. Michael pulled Sophie close to him, and for the first time, she felt how his long, lean body trembled with suppressed emotion.

Her happiness drained away, and she searched his face. Then she knew what he’d brought her there to say.

“No.”

“I have to go,
mana mila
.” His cold hands took hers. “It is my home. I must do something.”

“Please, no,” she said, terror seeping into her body. “Your home is here, in New York. With your parents. With
me
, Mikael.” Agony filled his face at her words. She switched to Orlisian, talking faster. “The border is closed. You’ll never get in. No one can get in now, certainly not a US citizen of Orlisian birth. They’ll shoot you.”

Michael crushed Sophie against him, and her voice became muffled against his shoulder. “Please don’t go. I can’t bear to lose you again. I’ve lost you too many times.”

“You have never lost me,” he whispered. “You have always had me. Always. But I must go. I cannot live with myself if I do not.”

“Then take me with you. I’m just as skilled as you in a crisis, probably more so. I could save lives. We’d be together.”

He pulled away from her, the fierce look on his face stopping her words. “Absolutely not. You will not come to Orlisia. You will not follow me into the warzone. I forbid it. Obey me on this, Sophie.”

For a moment, she was reminded of the Michael she’d both loved and hated as a teenager, the young man who had relied too often on his presumed male authority. But where his words would have enraged her eleven years ago, she understood them now for what they were – a comfort zone where he retreated when frightened.

“You cannot forbid me to do as I wish. You should know this by now.” She smoothed the angry line of his brow with trembling fingers. “But I won’t force my company on you either.”

As quickly as it appeared, his temper vanished, and he lunged forward to catch her mouth with his. He hadn’t kissed her like that in years, not since Carter’s wedding. His lips elicited an immediate response from her, even as her world was collapsing.

“Your company would not be unpleasant,” he said at last, his voice husky. “Far from it. But this is something I must do alone. Above all else, I will not jeopardize your life.” He cupped her face tenderly in his hands. “I have to do this,
mana mila
. Please tell me you understand. Please give me your permission to go.”

And because she loved him and understood him better than anyone else in her existence, she let him go.

He left for Europe two days later, refusing to tell Sophie his destination or what he intended to do. She knew he’d cross into Soviet territory and go straight to the resistance. He wouldn’t even let her come to say goodbye. That evening in the park was the last time she saw him.

The texts came every day for the next two months. September 10’s message was innocuous.
More snow last night. Traveling soon. I miss you so very much.

The next day, for the first time, no message. She called Michael’s father that evening. He hadn’t heard from him either. The next day, still nothing. Then a bit of news crossed the wire. The Soviet Republic claimed to have broken up a pocket of resistance in southern Orlisia.

And Sophie’s eyes turned to the hell they called Parnaas.

~~ - ~~

Her train got into Penn Station just before 6 p.m. Ignoring her promise to Hallie to go home, she took the subway down to the RCI office in the Financial District. She navigated the city with ease. Despite being born and raised on the West Coast, she’d fallen hopelessly in love with New York City since moving here.

“Hey, boss,” Sophie said to the man hunched over the boardroom table in their so-called Situation Room. A world map took up one wall, multicolored pins and flags marking current hotspots. Another wall was dedicated to the situation in Orlisia. A computer in the corner streamed twenty-four-hour news.

Will Temple straightened and winced, rubbing his back. “Don’t call me boss.” His tone was grumpy, but his blue eyes sparkled with affection as he greeted her. Nearly ten years her senior, Will had been her mentor throughout her astronomical career, the stabilizing force behind her genius. RCI was their aid agency, formed out of their common philosophy and desire to change the way aid was administered around the world.

“Anything new?”

Will picked up a sheaf of photos. “Latest satellite images of Parnaas.”

Sophie took the magnifying loupe he handed her. She leaned over the black and white photo, staring at disaster.

“They’ve expanded again,” she said. “Here and here.”

“Yes,” he said. “I can’t figure out why they’re not splitting into more than one camp. The number of people must be overwhelming any attempt at order.”

She peered into the loupe again, examining the new fringes of the amorphous shape. It was one of the largest refugee camps ever seen in the developed world and growing rapidly out of control.

It was Parnaas, a seething mass of humanity fleeing the violence of the Soviet-Orlisian war.

Somewhere in the middle of that is Michael.

It had only been five months since the Soviet Republic had invaded Orlisia for the second time in the little country’s short history, bombing ceaselessly for days. The airports, railways, roads, harbors – all leveled. The survivors had made their way to the southern border where soldiers had stopped them outside the town of Parnaas. They’d been ordered to camp in a nearby field, given food and temporary shelter. When their ranks had swelled to the tens of thousands, the tanks had come and the fences had gone up.

But Parnaas was no ordinary refugee camp.

A spicy aroma drifted into the room. Sophie’s stomach growled, reminding her of the late hour. “Did you order food?” she asked. Will pointed to the doorway.

Sophie turned, her face breaking into a grin as a lithe figure in a bright red winter coat sailed in the doorway. “Why, Dr. Shah! I didn’t know you delivered.”

“I’m an obstetrician, so of course I deliver. It’s the only way I can get a meal with my husband and best friend these days.” Anjali Shah set down two paper bags of fragrant Chinese takeout on a desk. “Hi, husband.” She gave Will a quick hug and a smile. “Hi, best friend,” she said, blowing Sophie a kiss. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

“Any updates from the coalition?” Anjali asked. As RCI’s medical director, Anjali – together with Will and Sophie – formed the executive committee of their aid agency.

“It’s going well.” Sophie piled noodles onto her plate. “We’ve got agreement on our overall strategy, and now we’re documenting the entry plan. Next step is negotiating who’s on the strike team. And, of course, convincing the Soviet government to let us into Parnaas.”

Once it became clear that the Soviets’ intent was to hold as many Orlisians as possible within the borders of Parnaas, every humanitarian agency in the world demanded entry. The Soviet Republic refused, fueling speculation that Parnaas was a modern-day concentration camp. But while it wasn’t a death camp, it became equally apparent as the weeks rolled by that Parnaas was not a traditional refugee camp. The Soviets wanted the refugees alive, isolated from the outside world, and fully under their control.

The huge number of displaced people inside the camp had finally worn the invading nation down. An overture came from the Soviet Republic via diplomatic channels, suggesting that an non-governmental organization (NGO) presence might be tolerated temporarily to keep the refugees alive through the approaching winter. Sophie leaped.

Her proposal was simple: Given the scope of the Orlisian crisis, all NGOs should work together as a coalition. She’d brought together all the major agencies in America via web conference to sell them on her idea.

Within forty-eight hours, every agency in the meeting agreed to the coalition approach, and several smaller ones caught wind and wanted in. They called themselves the Refugee Crisis Coalition. Sixteen development agencies – many with profoundly different mandates – held together by ideals, duct tape, and sheer determination.

It was a groundbreaking, history-making agreement, if it could hold. Sophie got a story with her picture on page three of the
New York Times
. Six months ago, she would have been ecstatic. Now, she couldn’t care less. All she wanted was to get into Orlisia. In and out again, with Michael Nariovsky-Trent safely beside her.

She should never have let him go in the first place.

Several times since he’d left in late July, Sophie had nearly set out on her own. She’d spent many nights in the Situation Room, drinking coffee, paging through topographical maps, satellite images, and reports, trying to figure out how to get over the border and find him. It was profoundly uncharacteristic of her to contemplate such a plan. She was a strong woman, fearless in many regards. But never reckless.

The futility of it had stopped her. Locating him was a million-to-one shot; convincing him to leave Orlisia seemed even less likely. Not even Sophie’s unannounced arrival in a warzone would be enough for him to abandon his beloved homeland. She knew him too well.

But then he’d vanished – sometime on or around September 10 – and everything had changed. As the days had passed with no contact, she’d become willing to do anything, take any risk, to get into Orlisia with the right resources at her fingertips.

She was just twenty-eight years old and had already achieved so much. In the last ten years, Sophie Swenda had revolutionized the way refugee camps were managed. Jointly created an infant NGO with Will. Created order out of chaos under desperate circumstances time and again. She’d even delivered a baby in a camp in the Democratic Republic of Congo.