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teeth. “And my orders, Captain?”
    â€œTake a good hard look at those rubber boats and the ground around them,” Aristov said. “See if you can pick up anything that might let us identify these terrorists. But watch out for booby traps. These bastards seem to know what they’re doing.”
    The scout nodded once and vanished among the trees and bushes.
    Surrounded by his command group, Aristov headed west, advancing deeper into Poland.
    â€œTo szalone, Panie Poruczniku!” Polish Border Guard sergeant Konrad Malek shouted into his cell phone. “This is crazy, Lieutenant! I’ve got eight men with me and we’re mostly trained to arrest smugglers and illegals. How in hell am I supposed to stop what looks like a full-scale invasion by fucking Russian commandos?”
    â€œNo one’s asking you to stop them, Konrad,” his commander said calmly, still safely ensconced back in his cozy office at the Dorohusk Border Control Point. “We only want you to slow them down while the bigwigs in Warsaw get through to the Kremlin.”
    â€œAnd how the devil do I slow them down?” Malek growled. “Write them a ticket for trespassing?”
    â€œSee if you can contact their leader and—”
    â€œSergeant!”
    Malek turned to see one of his men pointing east across the meadow. They had parked their two patrol cars on a rutted farm track about two hundred meters west of the woods lining the Bug River. Heavily armed Russian soldiers in camouflage battle dress were exiting the trees there and shaking out in a long skirmish line.
    â€œNever mind, Lieutenant,” said Malek grimly. “We’re out of time here. Our uninvited guests from the east have arrived.” He disconnected and turned to his corporal. “Hand me that bullhorn, Eryk. Let’s find out if we can talk some sense into these people.”
    Gritting his teeth, he walked out into the open pasture. He raised the bullhorn. “ Uwaga, Rosyjscy ż ołnierze! Attention, Russian soldiers! This is Sergeant Malek of the Border Guard. You are in violation of Polish national territory—”
    Suddenly a rifle shot rang out, echoing off the distant trees and across the open fields.

A T THE B UG R IVER
    T HAT SAME TIME
    Spetsnaz scout Ivan Chapayev crouched down to look more closely at the black inflatable boat his captain had spotted earlier. It had been dragged up from the riverbank and back into the shadows under the trees. Broken branches, clumps of brush, and bundles of grass were heaped across the boat in a crude attempt to conceal it.
    Lips compressed in concentration, Chapayev used the thin blade of his combat knife to gently edge aside heaps of the tangled plant debris. Careful, Ivan, he told himself. Take it nice and easy. If he missed just one little booby-trap detonator wire, his wife would get a fancy embossed letter of condolence with President Gryzlov’s signature on it, suitable for framing. He chuckled. Hell, that sour bitch Yulia would probably just pawn it for a cheap bottle of vodka.
    Nothing.
    He sat back, frowning.
    The terrorists who had tried to camouflage this boat had done a pretty piss-poor job of it. Even his captain, a decent enough officer but not the most observant of men, had picked it out from all the way across the river. On the other hand, those terrorists must have heard the clattering rotors of Russian helicopters pounding in their ears while they sculled across the water. That had probably pushed them right to the edge of panic. So it was no surprise that the terrorists had just heaped whatever vegetation they could grab on top of the boat in a frantic bid to hide it.
    Then he looked more closely at the bundles of long grass he had pushed away. They were withered, already turning brown in the summer heat. Those bundles had been cut and put in place hours ago.
    Chapayev’s eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet, reaching for the short-range