Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (52 page)

 
          
The
radar in the missile’s nose gave the exact distance to impact, and at the
proper moment, the computer ignited a small armored rocket device in the missile’s
nose that shot a five-hundred-and-fifty-pound high-explosive shaped-charge
warhead through the thick concrete and steel-sheathed roof, allowing most of
the rest of the missile to pass through. Once inside, the main charge detonated:
a two-thousand-pound high-explosive incendiary warhead, which created a massive
three- thousand-degree fireball inside the secure section of the Metyor IIG
research hangar. The force of the blast, combined with exploding fuel and
natural gas lines, added enough energy to the blast to rip the entire hangar
open like a popped balloon. Everything inside the hangar and within five
hundred yards of the blast was instantly roasted to ash.

           
Jon Masters whooped and cheered like
a kid at a rodeo when his screen went blank—he knew his missile had scored a
direct hit. “Hey,
Archangel
,” he said to nobody, still reveling in his
long-distance victory, “come take a look at this mess. Man, what a day,” He
clicked on his intercom. “Good kill, guys,” he announced. “Grant Two bit the
dust, but Grant One made us proud. Come on up and take a look at the video if you'd
like, then let's put our little models back together— we've got three hours to
make this plane look like just another trash-hauler carrying oil-drilling parts
again before we land.”

Radohir
,
Bulgaria

Later that morning

           
'Halt!
Stop!
Astanavleevat’sya!”
yelled the Bulgarian military officer in as many foreign languages as he could
think of, running at top speed toward the engineer’s trailer, the AK-74 assault
rifle held high over his head. “Stop, in the name of the law!”

 
          
Pavel
Gregorievich Kazakov, wearing a long black leather coat—which discreetly
covered a Kevlar bulletproof vest underneath—and black fur cap, looked up from
the rolls of blueprints and engineering specs, saw the angry officer running
toward them waving the rifle, and rolled his eyes in exasperation. He was
standing with a group of aides and engineers on the back porch of the mobile
engineer’s headquarters trailer, which had been transported to southwestern
Bulgaria
, just thirty-five miles west of the
Bulgarian capital of
Sofia
and less than fifty miles from the Macedonian border. “Now what?” he
shouted angrily.

 
          
“He’s
got a gun, sir,” one of the engineers said nervously.

 
          
“What
is with these Interior Ministry assholes?” Kazakov muttered He nodded to one of
his bodyguards standing a few feet away. “Doesn’t he realize how dangerous it
is to be carrying a weapon like that? Someone could get hurt. Or he could be
mistaken for a terrorist and shot by mistake.”

 
          
The
bodyguard smiled, pulled out a German MP5K submachine gun with an eight-inch
Sionics suppressor fitted, and leveled it at the approaching officer, keeping
it low and out of sight
“Gatoviy, rookavadetel
, ” he said in a low voice
as he clicked the selector switch from the S setting to the three-shot setting.
The eyes of some of the engineers and assistants standing nearby widened in
fear—Is he really going to shoot that soldier? they thought. He looked
agitated, and he was carrying a gun, but he certainly wasn’t threatening.

 
          
Kazakov
thought about giving the order, then shook his head.
“Nyet. Zhdat
, ” he
said, with an exasperated voice. His bodyguard took his finger off the trigger
but kept the muzzle leveled at the officer. As long as the Bulgarian officer
had the rifle in his hand he was a potential threat, so the bodyguard did not
lower his own weapon, but kept careful watch as the officer approached the
group. “He has made so much noise, half of
Bulgaria
has already heard him. Plenty of time to
take care of him later, if the need arises.” The officer shouted several angry
words in Bulgarian at the group, jabbing toward the mountains and the nearby
dam with the rifle. “Don’t these Interior Ministry officers speak Russian
anymore? What in hell is he saying?”

 
          
“He
is Captain Todor Metodiev. He is not from the Interior Ministry, but from the
Labor Corps of the Bulgarian Army, sir,” a translator said.

 
          
“The
Labor Corps? What’s that?”

 
          
“A
sort of engineer branch of the army, but also used in civil work projects,” one
of his aides replied.

 
          
“Another
damned bureaucrat with a uniform and a gun,” Kazakov said disgustedly. “What
does he want... as if I don’t already know?”

 
          
“He
wants us to stop work immediately, dismantle all of the equipment, remove all
construction materials from the mountainside, and move our operation back to
Sofia
,” the translator said. “He says we do not
have the proper documentation for this operation.”

 
          
“Remove
everything from the mountain!” Kazakov exclaimed. “We have
over three
thousand kilos of dynamite
and at least a kilometer of Primacord up there!
Can’t he see I have loaders, tractors, earthmovers, and dump trucks lined up
five kilometers down the road—the road I had to build, to comply with yet more
Bulgarian laws—ready to move earth? Is he crazy? We have all the proper
documentation already! We are
drowning
in documentation!”

 
          
Metodiev
kept on talking all through Kazakov's retort and the translation. “He says we
do not have a required permit from the Labor Corps. They are in charge of the
reconstruction project on the dam He says the demolition can create serious
damage to the dam and the river itself if there are mudslides or shifting
earth. In the interest of safety, he demands we remove all materials from the
mountain immediately or he w ill send in Labor Corps troops to do it for us and
then bill us for the labor.”

 
          
“Bill
us, eh?” Kazakov sneered. “Wonder how much his bill is to leave us alone right
now?”

 
          
This
was a common occurrence throughout the business world, but especially so here
in
Bulgaria
—the official shakedown. Graft and
corruption were commonplace in business all over the world, but Bulgarians
seemed to be the masters at it; every two-bit bureaucrat, military, or
paramilitary officer had stopped by his many construction sites in the past few
months, carrying yet another official-looking edict or notice, then unabashedly
putting his hand out—some of them
actually doing just that
, putting
their hands out—expecting payola right on the spot.

 
          
To
Pavel Kazakov, payola was a normal, routine part of doing business—he even
included it in his budgets. Generally, the closer he was to
Russia
, the less developed the region, or the more
Russian the influences in the region, the lower the payola. Ten to twenty
percent was a good figure to use in
Russia
. the Transcaucasus, most of South and
Central America, the Middle East, and Africa; twenty to thirty percent in
eastern and southern Europe, the Indian subcontinent, and Asia; forty percent
in western Europe; and forty to fifty percent in North America. That was one
reason he didn’t do much business in the West—payoff expenses were always high,
and the local Mafia organizations were generally better organized, better
protected, and deadlier if crossed. His reputation was also better—meaning,
more feared—in eastern Europe and western
Asia
.

           
But there was a protocol to follow,
too. In most of the rest of the world, payments were made only to the head of
the labor union, or to the city or county engineer, police chief, inspectors,
compliance officers, tax assessors, or the local army barracks commander. In
Bulgaria
, everyone had their hand out. The main guy
was supposed to keep only a cut of the payoff, maybe twenty or thirty percent,
and use the rest to grease the palms of his chief subordinates, immediate
bosses, and anyone with whom he wanted to curry favor. Payola was meant to be
shared—that’s how the institutions of graft and corruption survived and
flourished. Many times, the bosses neglected to do that, thinking that because
they were the boss, they were too powerful for anyone to retaliate against.

 
          
Pavel
was all too happy to give payoffs in order to get a project done, as long as
everyone else understood and played by the rules. He also enjoyed giving
lessons on proper payola management.

 
          
‘Tell
him to leave the paperwork for us, and we will complete it and turn it in to
his superior officer,” Kazakov said, mentally dismissing the officer.

 
          
“He
says he has been ordered to collect the paperwork now, or he will order his men
onto the mountain to arrest us and dismantle and confiscate all of our
equipment.”

 
          
Kazakov
closed his eyes against a growing headache. “For the love of God ...” He paused
for several long moments, his eyes closed tightly, resting against the chart
table; then: “How many men does he have with him?”

 
          
“About
fifty, sir. All heavily armed.”

 
          
Too
many for his security staff, Kazakov thought—next time, he vowed to bring more
men. He sighed, then said, “Very well. Have him and his men report to the
senior site foreman at Trailer Seventeen. I will radio ahead and authorize Mr.
Lechenov to give Captain Metodiev his ‘paperwork.’ Get out of here.”

 
          
As
the Bulgarian army officer departed, Kazakov’s aide stepped up to him and asked
quietly, “Trailer Seventeen is—”

           
“I know.” He watched as the
Bulgarian officer gathered his men together and started marching them up the
dirt access road into the forest. About a dozen Bulgarian soldiers armed with automatic
weapons stayed behind—it appeared that they were guarding the trailer until
their commander returned. “Peasants,” Kazakov spat. “Let's get back to work.”
But their work was interrupted by a satellite phone call. Kazakov picked it up
himself—only a handful of persons had access to the number “
Shto?"

 
          
“They
know.” a voice said. “The Americans, the president, everyone knows.”

 
          
“Stop
talking in riddles.” Kazakov said. He recognized the person talking as
Colonel-General Valeriy Zhurbenko, the chief of staff of the
Russian Federation
’s armed forces and Kazakov’s unofficial
liaison to the Kremlin. He motioned for his aides to dismiss the engineers from
the trailer Once they were hustled out, Kazakov said, “This is a secure line.
General. Speak so I can understand you.”

 
          
“Metyor
was bugged,” Zhurbenko said. “The Americans rescued a spy last night that was
taping conversations inside the facility.”

 
          
Kazakov
got to his feet, stunned. “How do you know this?”

           
“Because the American president
said
so
to Sen'kov,” Zhurbenko replied incredulously. “The American president
admitted to him that they were operating a spy at Metyor, admitted sending in
an exfiltration team, and—you will not believe it—sending in a stealth
aircraft,
a stealth supersonic bomber,
to cover the operation!”

 
          
“What?”
Kazakov exploded. ‘The Americans flew a stealth bomber over
Russia
?
Imsi night?"

 
          
“Not
just one
—two
stealth bombers!” Zhurbenko said. “One aircraft was shot
down near the
Ukraine
border. The Americans apparently flew a second one through
Russia
to protect the forces that went in to
rescue the first bomber’s crew members. And the American president mentioned to
Sen’kov that they had heard information on the bugs that an aircraft from
Metyor was involved in the attack at Kukes.”