Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (53 page)

 
          
“Unbelievable,”
Kazakov said. “Well, this means our operation may need to be stepped up a bit
more,”

 
          
“Stepped
up? You mean canceled, don't you?”

 
          
“Canceled?
There is no way in hell I’m going to cancel this operation now!” Kazakov retorted.
“I've already laid one hundred and sixty-three miles of support and utility
structures through some of the shittiest countryside in all of the Balkans.
I’ll be ready to start laying pipe in another two months in
Bulgaria
, and I can start in
Macedonia
soon as well. I’ve got foundries in seven
countries ready to ship five hundred and fifty
miles
of pipe starting
next month and extending over the next seven to nine months! I’m right on
schedule, Colonel-General. There is no way I can survive if the schedule is
delayed even one month, let alone canceled! I’ve written a quarter of a billion
dollars in checks already, and I haven’t laid one centimeter of pipe or shipped
one liter of crude yet! I cannot afford to waste one dollar or one hour.”

 
          
“We
are not just under suspicion or surveillance, Kazakov—we are under attack!”
Zhurbenko said, “Do you understand? The Americans flew into
Russia
and were virtually unopposed! We cannot
stop them.”

 
          
“Stop
them? From doing what?” Kazakov asked. “They sloppily executed a routine rescue
mission. They lost a stealth warplane—that cost them dearly, believe me.
Nothing that was done affects our plans. The only thing I’m waiting for,
Colonel- General, is a commitment from the Russian Army to move when it must.”

 
          
“It
takes time to move the numbers necessary,” Zhurbenko said. “Colonel-General
Toporov said he has mobilized the first three brigades and can insert the first
airborne battalion at any time—”

 
          
“One
battalion? That’s not enough. That’s not
nearly
enough!” Kazakov said.
“When the time comes, I need an entire airborne brigade off the ground and on
its way. When the invitation comes to allow Russian troops into place, I don’t
want a lousy battalion—I want at least a brigade of men on the ground, followed
quickly by armor and air defenses, and set up within three days. Anything else
would be a waste of our time.” “That is impossible.”

 
          
“You
have no idea about the opportunity that has presented itself here,
Colonel-General,” Kazakov snapped. “The American fiasco has only bolstered our
plan. Why hasn’t news of this been broadcast around the world? Why haven’t we
exposed the Americans’ hostile mission?”

           
"President Sen’kov thought that
if the American president went on international television and told the world
why he launched the operation,” Zhurbenko explained, "that it would
embarrass Moscow even more than Washington.”

 
          
"And
well it should,” Kazakov said. ‘But the American president didn't go on
television, did he? He made a deal with Sen'kov to help him, to keep him from
losing face. That was his fatal mistake Roust all of your contacts in the media
and give them all the details of the operation. Everything. W'hen it is exposed
and the American president tries to deny what happened, world support of the
United States
will crumble.

 
          
"And
then," Kazakov went on happily, motioning to his chief engineer and his
assistant, "when the stealth warplane strikes again in another part of
eastern Europe, the world condemnation of the
United States
will continue to strengthen. Get on it
right now, Zhurbenko. And tell that idiot Toporov to get off his fat ass and
kick his senior officers into mobilizing those occupying forces, or he will
suddenly find himself taking a little nap—on the bottom of the Caspian Sea.”

 
          
Kazakov
terminated the call to Zhurbenko with an angry push of a button. Damn cowards,
he thought. The country is collapsing all around them, and all they can think
of is playing it safe. Arc the Americans playing it safe? Just when they
thought the new president. Thom, was going to be a baby in a carriage, he
orders two stealth bombers to overfly
Russia
. Very gutsy move.

 
          
He
dialed his secure phone once again, calling his airfield in
Romania
. "Doctor, I want the cover taken off
our roadster. Get it ready to cruise,” There was a noticeable pause, and
Kazakov thought he detected a sharp intake of breath. “Pyotr, is something
wrong?”

 
          
"The
.. er. the boys already had the roadster out, sir.” Kazakov nearly dropped the
phone in surprise.

           
“
Shto?"
he asked
breathlessly. “Nu
ni mudi
, Doctor.”

           
"No, I’m not kidding,” Fursenko
said. "Some damage from the last. . . er, drive was repaired. They planned
a local test drive to check the repairs—”

 
          
"You
can talk plainly, Doctor. I cannot. Tell me what in hell happened.”

           
“Stoica and Yegorov heard about an
air defense emergency on the Russia-Ukraine border They launched and secretly
followed the Russian air defense radar controllers’ vectors. They said they
were checking the stealth characteristics while carrying weapon pylons. That’s
what they told me...

 
          
“What
happened. Doctor?”

 
          
“They
got into a dogfight,” Fursenko said. “A dogfight with what they think was an
American stealth bomber—a stealth bomber that
fired two missiles at them.
"

 
          
“What?
You’re kidding! You are
fucking
kidding!” No reply, just labored,
excited breathing. “Are they all right? Did they make it back?”

 
          
“They
are fine. The plane is fine. They came out of it well. They hit it. They said
they hit it. It got away, but they were victorious!”

 
          
“How
dare they . . . how . . . why in hell did they . . . ? The engineers and aides
in the trailer couldn’t help but stare at Kazakov now—their boss was bug-eyed
and his voice had risen two octaves with excitement. “I will be back there as
quickly as I can. I want to see our two boys when I get there. If they move, if
they are even in the damned bathroom when I get back, they are dead. Was there
any damage to the roadster?”

 
          
“Minor
damage, but from a previous flight,” Fursenko explained. “We need to make some
design changes to the missile launch tubes in the wings—the wings are being
damaged by missile exhaust. Some more titanium for strengthening, perhaps some
more powerful gas generators ...”

 
          
“Fine.
Get what you need at ‘home’ and see to it immediately.”

 
          
“
‘Home?’ ” Fursenko paused again, confusion and panic in his voice. “You mean,
Metyor? Back at Zhukovsky?’

 
          
“Of
course that’s what I..Kazakov stopped, his throat turning dry once again. “What
is it
now,
Doctor?”

 
          
“You
haven’t heard about Zhukovsky?”

 
          
“I
am in the middle of nowhere in fucking
Bulgaria
, Doctor. Spit it out.”

 
          
“My—I
mean, our—I mean,
your
facility was destroyed last night,” Fursenko said
in a voice so shaky he could hardly make himself understood.

           
“What?”

           
“The military says it was a natural
gas leak,” Fursenko explained. “The natural gas explosion apparently mixed with
some jet fuel or other petroleum products and incinerated the entire building.
Nothing is left.
Nothing.
Nothing within seven hundred
meters
of
the building is left.”

 
          
“Natural.
.. gas . .. explosion ...
ni pizdi
/” Kazakov shouted. “Don't bullshit
me! There has to be an explanation, a
real
explanation!”

 
          
“Sir,
six men were killed inside the facility. Dmitri Rochardov, Andrei—”

 
          
“I
don’t give a shit about a couple janitors and night watchmen!” Kazakov shouted.
“I want you back there immediately. Find the best forensics experts you can. I
want that blast site sealed off and covered, I want every living being that
sets foot inside that facility screened and approved by me personally, and I
want every piece of debris and ash examined with a microscope, Natural gas
explosion, my ass—that was the work of a saboteur, or a military strike. I want
to know what kind of explosion it was, and I want to see evidence—no
speculation, no guesses, no hypothesis. I don’t care if the investigators are
out there until winter
—l
want to know exactly what happened, and I want
to know
immediately
!” And he disconnected the call with an angry stab.

 
          
For
a brief instant, he felt things were beginning to spin out of control. He had
these feelings often, and his instincts always served him well—he knew when to
get in, when to push, when to back off, and when to get the hell out. The voice
told him to get the hell out. The American air force and military spy agencies
had stumbled across his operation. It was simply too incredible to believe the
absolute bad luck. The voice said,
“Get out. Run. Run before it's too late.
”

 
          
Pavel
looked around himself. The problem was, he was moving too fast to just stop
abruptly. He had already spent a quarter of a billion dollars to get the
project started. He was going to pony up another quarter of a billion out of
his own personal fortune. Investors and lenders in two dozen countries around
the world were lining up ready to help him raise another one and three quarter
billion dollars to build the entire line. Word travels fast.

 
          
Problem
was, he was going to pay another quarter of a billion dollars in loan interest,
bribes, and dividends to all these investors in the next year or so before any
oil revenues started to come in. He was deep into it. Some of these investors
were the world’s biggest arms dealers, drug dealers, industrialists,
generalissimos, and government finance ministers. They had been promised a
hefty return on their investment, and they would not be happy at all to hear
that the project was off, even if they got their principal back.

 
          
But
the more recent development, his ace in the hole—this encounter with the
American aircraft. The Americans had at first tom up the Russian air defenses
as if they never existed. But then his stealth fighter happened on it, and was
victorious. Stoica and Yegorov were typical fighter pilots, cocky and
arrogant—everything was a victory for them—but Fursenko would never lie to him.
If he said his boys were victorious, they were.

 
          
That
meant the Metyor-179 had gone up against the West’s most fearsome weapons—first
the NATO AWACS radar plane, and now an American stealth bomber with air-to-air
weapons—and had prevailed. It was undefeated in battle. It had flown right into
the midst of NATO, American, and Russian air defense weapon systems, and was
untouched.

 
          
That
was the reason why he decided to continue. For the first time in his life, he
ignored the little voice in his head. It was still telling him to get out, cut
your losses and run, but he tuned it out. The Tyenee stealth fighter-bomber was
the key. That was his ticket to victory. He had to keep the business side
tight, and hope Stoica and Yegorov could handle NATO and the incompetent
Americans.

 
          
Keep
it tight. Deal with the business end like always.

 
          
“Sir?”
one of Kazakov’s aides interrupted hesitantly. “Those Bulgarian soldiers are waiting
at Trailer Seventeen. They are complaining there’s no foreman there.”

 
          
Kazakov
shook his head. Damned cowards. Sometimes it took a little courage to get
something done.