Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (84 page)

 
          
“I’m
sure they know that we are doing and thinking all those things,” the President
said easily. “Besides, actions speak louder than words. Even watching and waiting
is doing something.”

 
          
“Not
in my book, it isn’t,” Goff said under his breath.

 
          
“What
would you have me do. Robert?” the President snapped. “Tell me right now: what
forces would you like to commit? We have two Marine Expeditionary Units nearby
in the Med and in the
Adriatic
Sea
, plus one
aircraft carrier battle group in the
Aegean Sea
.
We have two B-1B bomber squadrons on alert in
Georgia
and two B-2A stealth bomber squadrons ready
to go with conventional bombs and cruise missiles in
Missouri
, plus one air expeditionary wing in
South Carolina
ready to deploy if needed. That’s about
twenty-five thousand men and women, fourteen warships, and perhaps one hundred
combat aircraft we can have over the Balkans in eight hours, and perhaps double
that number in twelve hours. Do you have a target for me, Robert? What's the
mission? What do you want to blow up now?”

 
          
“I
don't want to blow up anything, sir—I just want to make it clear to Sen'kov,
Keisinger, Zhurbenko, and all those other nutcases that we don't like what
they're doing and we are ready to act if they persist!” Goff replied. “In case
they interpret our silence as disinterest or even as tacit acceptance or
permission. I want it clearly and emphatically known that we will tolerate no
offensive moves in
Europe
, no matter what the provocation.”

 
          
“I
think it’s
you
that needs to be told,” the President said. “Robert, I'm
telling you now—don’t you interpret my so-called inaction as tacit permission
or disinterest. But I am not going to respond to the threat of war with a
threat of my own.” He went over and clasped Goff on the shoulder. “Robert, you
seem to think there’s someone out there that needs to get slapped down. I’m
here to tell you: there isn’t. Let it go.” He could tell that there was a lot
that his friend still needed to say, so he took away the reassuring tone in his
voice and said, “Go home, Robert,” and it was an order, not a suggestion.

 
          
Goff
took a step closer to the President and asked, “Is that what you told President
Martindale during your little meeting with him? ‘Just go home'? Or did you tell
him or help him do something else?”

 
          
If
Goff expected the President to be surprised that he knew about the private
meeting, he didn't show it. “That’s exactly what I told him, Robert—whatever he
wants to do, whatever ideas he has. forget about them,” the President replied.
“He is not the president any longer. He does not run
U.S.
foreign or military policy—I do. He’s a
private citizen now, subject to all laws, with no special protections or
considerations because of his previous position.”

 
          
“Then
why did you keep the meeting secret from me?”

 
          
“Because
it was between him and me,” Thorn said. “It was one president talking with
another. If I couldn’t convince him to stay out of it, without the rest of my
Cabinet behind me, it was my failure.” Goff looked skeptical. The President
gave his friend a slight, knowing smile, then said, “Maybe the same reason you
didn't tell me
you
met with him.” Goff’s mouth dropped open in complete
surprise, then bobbed up and down like a freshly caught trout. “How did I know?
You told me—not in words, but in your eyes, your mannerisms. I know you,
Robert, just like you know me. The problem is, you know me so well you think
you can reason with me, change my mind. You can’t. I know you so well, I know
Martindale approached you— and I know you turned him down.”

 
          
Goff
couldn’t hide his amazement, but he couldn't help toying with Thom anyway—he
was so infuriatingly confident, Goff actually wanted to try to get his friend
mad at him any way he could, just to get a rise out of him. “You’re sure of
that? You're sure I turned him down, Thomas?”

 
          
“Fairly
sure,” the President said. “What Martindale wants to do is bold and exciting
and challenging and risky, and it’s what you want to do. Problem is, it’s also
illegal, and you know it, and you will
not
break the law. That's why
you’re trying so hard to convince me to do something—because if I don’t do it,
Martindale might, and if he does, he will probably fail, and then the
United States
looks even more like an inept failure.
Whatever’s going to happen, Robert, will happen. I'm not going to add to the
confusion and fear. We let it play out. So go home, my friend. I’ll call you if
I need you.”

 
          
Both
Morgan and Goff exited the study, leaving the President alone with his
thoughts—and his secret fears.

Over the
Black Sea

That same time

           
The attack on the German embassy in
Tirane
went off with surprising precision and
flawless execution—even Pyotr Fursenko, who had enormous trust in his constructs,
was as pleased as he was surprised. It went off so well and so quickly that he
had little time to prepare for the second part of their dangerous mission.

 
          
Gennadi
Yegorov was the quiet, unexcitable captain of their pickup strike team. Even
with the constant threat of Pavel Kazakov and his demonic anger hovering around
them, Yegorov took his time, refamiliarizing himself with the forward cockpit
and explaining several key pieces of information to Fursenko—he was mindful of
the fact that although Fursenko had designed and built the plane, he had never
flown in it or any other aircraft before. Yegorov got Kazakov to agree to an
extra day to prepare, and it was time well spent. By the time they were ready
to launch. Fursenko felt confident he could play the role of Yegorov’s
assistant and flip the right switches at the proper time.

 
          
If
not. and their mission ended in failure, he felt
very
confident he could
punch them both out of the aircraft.

 
          
It
was without a doubt the biggest warload the Metyor-179 had ever earned: a pylon
with one R-60 air-to-air missile and one Kh 73 laser-guided
one-thousand-kilogram bomb under each w ing, two Kh-73 bombs in the internal
weapons bay, and four R-60 missiles in the internal wing launchers for
emergency use only. The R 60s on the wing pylons were a last- minute suggestion
from Yegorov. His logic was simple: the Tyenee was most vulnerable with the two
big bombs on those pylons, so why not carry some extra insurance? When the
external bombs were expended or if they got jumped before the target area, they
could use the two extra missiles to fight their way out. jettison the bombs and
pylons, and use their stealthiness to get away. It turns out they were not
needed, but Yegorov proved he was definitely in charge of this mission and this
aircraft

 
          
The
navigation system was as tight and as accurate as could be during the short
flight from Codlea to
Tirane
. The radar warning receiver bleeped during most of the flight,
especially near the Macedonian and Albanian capitals, but no fighters or
antiaircraft weapon systems ever appeared to challenge them. Yegorov had made
Fursenko some drawings of what the German embassy might look like in the
targeting display, in case he had to refine the aim, but the targeting box was
right on the correct building all the way, so Fursenko didn’t have to touch a
thing except to be sure the weapon arming and release switches were in the
proper setting for the bomb run, which of course he could do with his eyes
closed—after all, he'd designed and positioned each and every one of them, and
he knew to the smallest detail exactly what had to happen to get a successful
weapon release.

           
But Fursenko did not have his eyes
closed—and he saw everything, including the thousands of persons filling the
streets near the German embassy. One one-thousand-kilo bomb was certainly
enough to destroy the small embassy building. The second weapon was targeted on
the very same point, but actually impacted several meters short—right into the
crowded street in the midst of the protesters. When the first bomb hit the
German embassy, and as the impossibly bright cloud of fire blossomed across the
screen, Fursenko thought he could see the people as individuals, could see the
shock wave hit them first, knocking down their signs, blowing tons of debris
toward them in the blink of an eye, and w hisking their heads back just
milliseconds before the wall of heat and concrete washed over them. Then the
laser targeting system automatically flipped to a wide bomb damage assessment
shot of the target area, so Fursenko could not see any more details except for
the second bomb falling short and adding its fury to the first.

 
          
But
he knew there was going to be death down there. They had only targeted
buildings, sure—but Kazakov must’ve known that those protesters were going to
be there. He could’ve waited a few hours until the streets were clear, but he
didn’t. He could’ve targeted another building, or picked some other target to
make his point and cause a distraction, but he hadn’t. He’d deliberately chosen
this target because of the number of people that would be in the path of that
blast.

 
          
It
was true: Pavel Kazakov was a murderous monster. He would order the deaths of
thousands just to cover his tracks as easily and as casually as he’d order
Cornish game hen from a restaurant menu.

 
          
“How
are you doing back there, Doctor?” Gennadi Yegorov asked.

 
          
“All
right,” Fursenko asked. “And call me Pyotr, please.”

 
          
“I
will. And call me Gennadi.”

 
          
They
fell silent for a few moments; then: “I was thinking ...”

 
          
“Yes,
Pyotr?”

 
          
“I
was thinking about how coldly Comrade Kazakov can kill a person,” Fursenko
said. “Human life means absolutely nothing to him.”

 
          
“It
certainly adds a new dynamic to our business, doesn't it?” Yegorov said with
casual, dark humor. “Just too many ways to die.”

 
          
Fursenko
dropped his mask, afraid he might hyperventilate. He looked at Yegorov's eyes
in the rearview mirror, then raised his oxygen mask and spoke into its
microphone: “He will not let us live if we return. You know that, don't you?”

           
“Ion was falling apart. Pyotr,”
Yegorov said. “He couldn't handle the task. He was getting bored and making
mistakes.”

           
“But Kazakov shot him four times in
the head, as easily as ... as cutting open a melon for breakfast,” Fursenko
pointed out.

           
“Pyotr, forget about Stoica. He was
a drunk and an idiot.”

          
“As soon as he's done with us, he'll
discard us, the Metyor-179, and everyone working out there in Codlea. He'll
kill us all, just as easily as he killed Stoica and those soldiers in
Bulgaria
.”

           
“Pyotr, you agreed to work for the
man,” Yegorov pointed out. “You did it voluntarily, same as I. We both knew who
he was and what he wanted long before we agreed to work for him. After we shot
down that unarmed AWACS plane, we took his money. After we killed those people
in Kukes, we took his money. After he killed those soldiers in
Bulgaria
, we took his money. We're heartless
butchers, just like he is. What do you want to do now? Fly away? Try to run and
hide?”

 
          
“How
about we save ourselves?”

 
          
“Then
you had better find a way to make sure he’s dead,” Yegorov said. “Because if
he's alive and you cross him, he'll find you and devise some ugly, horrible way
to kill you. He did Stoica a favor by killing him quickly.”

 
          
“Should
we ask the West for protection?”