Chapter 1

Alexi Garazimov looked at himself in the reflection of the dirty storefront window. Pouting he removed his hat and wiped the dull gold and spotted brim with his woolen sleeve. At 6' 2", he was a tall, handsome Russian. His dark brown eyes and nearly black hair belied his Tartar roots. In him, he remebered his father saying often, there was the blood of conquerors. Now, he was an officer in a once proud military of a once-upon-a-time world power; a Lt. Colonel in the armed forces of a shabby, empoverished and petty country; its currency worthless; the government overtly and clumsily ineffective and corrupt.

Of course, the government was always corrupt; but, now the corruption was on the surface, like a stain that blemished the once polished image the Soviets presented to the world and to itself. Garazimov felt himself stained, too.

5 years ago, he lived very well-buying what he needed from the military post exchanges and hard currency stores, providing an almost luxurious life for himself and his wife and 2 children. A mistress on the side was satisfied by his lovemaking and the 2 cartons of Marlboro cigarettes per week and a supplement to her meat ration. Now, he could barely scrape enough together to pay for the on-base 2 room flat that satirized the idea of what was a home in post-Soviet Russia, potato soup 4 nights a week and the occasional drunken binge in the officer's club; even vodka cost money. So, he reasoned, if the system couldn't pay him what he deserved, he would do what he had to to get the hard currency he needed to survive. "Everyone else does it," he rationalized to himself. "So, why not me?"

Garazimov heard the approaching car and smoothed out the wrinkles in his impressive uniform. The perfect place for a rendezvous, Factory City 452 had been abandoned soon after Yeltsin's 2nd term began and the economic situation worsened. Formerly one of many nameless towns across central Russia involved with the manufacture and storage of nuclear weapons, the residents moved away as soon as the government was unable to pay the workers and the military for their loyalty and patriotism. It was now a ghost town. Empty and far from any people, Garazimov found it appropriate that he should complete his business here.

A late-model Mercedes pulled up near him and stopped. Garazimov watched as a tall, dark man with sunglasses stepped out from the back seat on one side; the man was Western, handsome, and obviously very rich. In the old days, Garazimov would have labelled him "decadent." As he considered the man, he noticed a 2nd occupant get out of the car from the other side. A dark, long-legged woman, she was stunning.

"You have the item?" the rich man asked non-chalantly. "Did you bring the case," Garazimov answered. The rich man hefted a large briefcase; it was apparently heavy. "One million dollars." Garazimov felt his mouth go dry. He tried to swallow. He straightened himself out into near attention, turned and walked deliberately into the empty store. Momentarily, he emerged pushing a cart on which rested a dark olive drab crate, about the size of 2 coffins laid one on top of the other. He pushed it up towards the rich man and stopped. "It's yours, sir." Garazimov smiled nervously.

The rich man undid the clasps on one side of the crate and lifted up the top. As he looked inside, he smiled. "The money is yours, my friend," the rich man handed the briefcase to the Russian. "Use the money in good health. And good luck." Garazimov stepped back and dropped to one knee. Opening the briefcase, he saw, neatly stacked and wrapped, the unique greenish gray print of the US dollar, 1 million dollars' worth. Garazimov was moved beyond words; so moved that he didn't notice as the long-legged companion of the rich man removed a small pistol from her handbag and pointed it at his head. Suddenly, a small lorry turned up the road and roared noisily towards them. This broke the Russian's attention long enough so that he looked right into the barrel of the pistol held by the beautiful, long-legged woman.

"If you'll turn to your left now, please, lieutenant," the female petty officer asked. Her voice echoed slightly in the empty examination room.

Lt. Tracy Parker turned nonchalantly to her left. These were her "graduation" photos after all, she thought. But, no graduation like she or anyone else ever had. All Special Operations Unit members were required to have these shots taken before missions. An additional way of identifying the bodies should the worst occur.

Tracy left her mind wander as the flash-pop of another set of close-ups were taken of her head, each limb, torso, identifying marks -- now on her right side. She was thinking of Tom and graduation from the Academy 2 years ago, her application to the new Special Operations Unit, the "Sweet SOUs" because of the all-female composition of the units, the incredible physical and psychological training, and the satisfaction she felt about being 5th in a class of 32 women -- 32 women of an original 75 entrants. She and her 31 "sisters" survived basic training while witnessing the other 43 disappear one by one-some because they couldn't handle the stress and abuse, some because of fatal carelessness during basic. "Better now than in the field," she remembered their Marine DI growl after each accidental death. Those words had always left her with a chill. They echoed in her mind when tracers were crackling past her in her last mission, and now, they came back to her again. "Pretty cold," she whispered under her breath. She closed her eyes and sighed slightly.

"S'cuse me lieutenant?" the photographer asked. "Oh, nothing!" Tracy quickly responded. She didn't realize she had spoken aloud. "I know, ma'am. Couple sets left, that's all." The petty officer was chirpy and that seemed to annoy her slightly. Tracy refused to suspect she was more nervous about the mission than she let herself feel. She was number 3. The first 2 SOUs didn't complete the mission and came back in bags. The photos were important in identifying the remains, she remembered being told. Of course the petty officer didn't know that. She just thought Tracy was cold in her SOU outfit.