Vanguard

VANGUARD

By

CJ Markusfeld

Copyright 2015 CJ Markusfeld

Smashwords Edition

To my own class, UWP93A.

Although you’ll try, you won’t find yourselves in these pages. What you’ll find instead is the joy of what we once were, and the truth of all we’ve become.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About CJ Markusfeld

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Prologue

The dark-haired man lay on the frozen ground, surrounded by a dozen others. He was wrapped in a thin, filthy quilt, and he was dying.

His lungs burned as he drowned slowly from the inside out. Thirty-six hours ago, he’d been able to walk down the row of shelters to collect his meager rations. Now his emaciated body shook from the fever brought on by the pneumonia sweeping the camp. He wouldn’t last another twenty-four hours.

He ought to know. He was a doctor.

He was also, he realized dimly, a failure. He’d failed to save the men assigned to his resistance cell. Failed to save his beloved homeland from being overrun by the Soviet Republic. And worst of all, completely failed the woman he loved.

He’d never see Sophie again, never be able to tell her how much he loved her. She’d search for him, would continue to search long after his body was flung into the burial trench outside the camp. Sophie would never give up; she never did.

The man drifted in and out of consciousness as his body’s systems faltered. His youth, resilience, and ferocious will had kept him alive beyond what most men could endure. But now his reserves had run out.

Her face appeared in his mind. Even in his fever dream, he appreciated her grave beauty – red hair framing a serious face, freckles across her nose. Her grey eyes, filled with tears as they’d been when he’d last seen her, when she’d granted him leave to go on this futile mission.

Mana mila, do not mourn for me, my dearest love. Promise me you will have a happy life. I will always watch over you.

In his mind, the dream-Sophie looked furious. The vision swam thickly before his eyes as the woman he adored railed at him.

Mikael, don’t you dare! Don’t even think about dying! You must hang on, beloved, for just a little while longer. You must.

Michael Nariovsky-Trent was more than four thousand miles from home, dying in an overcrowded shelter in a refugee camp in northern Europe. His body sank deeper into unconsciousness, the tips of his fingers turning blue as they starved for oxygen.

Chapter 1

November 13, 2013

It had been two months, three days, and fifteen hours since Sophie Swenda had heard from him.

The conference room door opened, and Hallie Gibbs, the head of Red Cross International Services, entered. She crossed the room to shake Sophie’s hand. I wasn’t expecting you. What brings you to Washington?

I was in town meeting with Interpol, said Sophie, forcing herself to smile. Thanks for seeing me on short notice.

Interpol? What for?

A private matter, she hedged. Thought I’d stop by to see what the news is out of northern Europe.

Hallie sat down. We’re still waiting. Have you heard from the Soviet embassy?

Not yet, Sophie said, but we will soon. They’ve had the latest draft of our proposal for forty-eight hours. She spoke with confidence. As the co-founder of Refugee Crisis International, one of the country’s most respected refugee aid agencies, she had more than enough experience to know the dance steps of razor-edged negotiations between international aid agencies and unwilling governments.

Lying awake at night not knowing if Michael was alive was the part she couldn’t bear.

One, maybe two more drafts. Then we’ll get permission for the aid coalition to enter the Parnaas refugee camp.

Hallie nodded. The Soviets are running out of time. Whatever their intent, they want the Orlisian refugees alive, not frozen to death.

Sophie did her best not to flinch. Your European counterparts haven’t had any luck convincing them to allow messages in and out of the camp? The Red Cross specialized, among other things, in facilitating the flow of messages between refugees and family members in times of disaster.

Not so far, Hallie said. They’ve got Parnaas buttoned up so tightly that no one can get near it. We’ve only seen satellite images at this point. The women spent the next twenty minutes discussing tactics until Sophie drained her coffee and stood.

Flying back to New York tonight, Sophie?

Train. She gathered her notes. It’s faster than the plane. Traffic from LaGuardia to our office is murder.

I’ve told Will to move you guys down here to DC, Hallie said. Your Manhattan office rent must be astronomical.

Refugee Crisis International office space is donated. Besides, New York City is my home…as much as I’ll ever have one. They walked to the door, but Hallie put her hand on Sophie’s arm before they entered the hallway. Her voice was gentle, eyes full of compassion.

Child, you need to slow down. You’re working too hard. Sophie started to protest, but Hallie shook her head. Don’t tell me you’re fine. You look like you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. I doubt you’re eating properly, if at all. You might be a rising star in this field, but you still need to take care of yourself.

You sound like Will, said Sophie with a scowl.

Good. You could do worse than listening to him. Believe me, I know what’s at stake here. But you’ve got to maintain some distance.

There are upwards of seventy thousand people in that camp. Sophie did her best to keep the terror out of her voice. "The Soviet Republic isn’t keeping them there for a sleepover. They’re going to do something to them, and we’ve got to get them out."

We’ve got to do our best. Hallie handed Sophie her jacket. We may succeed, we may not. The Soviets could bow to international pressure tomorrow, let the refugees return home or at least allow the High Commissioner for Refugees into the camp. The Soviet Republic is a democratic nation, a member of the UN. This isn’t the 1970s. I refuse to believe they’d revert to their totalitarian roots after coming so far.

Feels like they’ve already done that by invading Orlisia.

Hallie nodded. Either way, there’s only so much we can do. This isn’t the first refugee crisis in the world we’ll work, and it won’t be the last. You can’t make it personal.

Sophie’s mouth quivered, then she drew a deep breath. You’re right, she lied. I’ll head straight home instead of going back to the office. Eight hours of sleep will do me good.

A world of good, the older woman agreed, opening the door. We need you. You’re the heart and soul of this coalition, and you need to look after yourself.

Sophie walked swiftly away, her eyes cast down. She didn’t want Hallie to see the fear she knew was showing in them, the lies and the knowledge that the situation in Orlisia was as personal as it could get for her.

~~ - ~~

Union Station, please. Sophie climbed into the taxi. Traffic spilling out from the Mall was heavier than normal, and she arrived with just a few minutes to spare. She had the documents she’d gotten from Interpol spread out in front of her as the train left the station.

The agent had been kind but unable to tell more than she already knew. The subject in question – he’d peered into the file – Dr. Michael Nariovsky-Trent had entered Kaliningrad in the Soviet Republic on July 20. His passport showed no entry into any other country since. He’d handed Sophie a copy of the completed workup, and she’d started to leave the office when the agent’s words had halted her.

Kaliningrad is extremely close to the warzone, he’d ventured. And Dr. Nariovsky-Trent holds Orlisian citizenship, does he not? The agent, of course, would have known full well that Michael had dual citizenship. With the Soviet Republic currently occupying Orlisia, Dr. Nariovsky-Trent’s proximity to the conflict is concerning.

All the more reason for me to find him, she’d replied.

The agent had taken off his glasses and held her gaze for a long moment.

Ms. Swenda, there’s not a person in international relations today who doesn’t know who you are. Your coalition represents the best hope the world has of saving the people trapped in that camp. He paused. But you can’t save everyone. You’ve got to know that.

She’d stood for a moment more, feeling the cool, professional demeanor she presented to the world trembling under the pressure of the intensely personal fear beneath.

I know. But I have to find him.

Sophie had been an infant at the time of the former USSR’s rapid evolution in the mid-1980s. The first government of the new era had originally pursued political reforms that had rocked the stability of the faltering superpower. With the separation of Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia, however, the Politburo had changed direction and undertaken a series of steady economic reforms, similar to those taken by China. The renewed approach had held the country together.

As the new market economy had grown, so too had regional stability. Greater emphasis on food production had meant the USSR was no longer reliant on imports. With the immediate crisis of financial collapse defused, the superpower had turned its focus back to the three nations – now one – that had escaped its rule.

Comprising the three breakaway states on the Baltic Sea, the new republic of Orlisia had lasted longer than international affairs pundits had predicted. Although linked by ethnic ties of the past, the people of Orlisia had united for one reason – to maintain their independence. The USSR had immediately put the young country’s resolve to the test.

The superpower had invaded Orlisia in 1992, crushing the nation’s military force and taking control of the ports on the western coast. But where the Soviets had had might, Orlisia had had endurance. Global outcry against the invasion had been furious, something the USSR did not need as it reinvented itself as a peaceful nation on the world stage. After four years of international pressure, intense cold, and supply-chain disruption, the Soviet military had withdrawn.

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.

Now she needed to save one life. Only one. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask.

Sophie? She looked up from her wool-gathering. Anjali and Will had packed up the leftovers. Let us give you a ride home.

You can’t drive me to Brooklyn at this hour. Just take me to the train. Like most New Yorkers, Sophie couldn’t afford to live in Manhattan, so she rented the upper floor of a ratty duplex in Brooklyn.

You’re staying with us tonight, Anjali said.

When Sophie started to protest, Will interrupted. You can’t help him if you keel over from exhaustion before you get to Orlisia.

She surrendered silently, following them out of the office and into their car.

Did you have any luck at Interpol today? asked Will.

"Not much. I got a few