Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (180 page)

Zevitin picked up his phone. “President Mohtaz, this is Leonid Zevitin.”

“Please stand by for His Excellency, sir,” a heavily Persian-accented voice said in Russian. Zevitin rolled his eyes impatiently. It was always a game with weak men like Mohtaz, he thought—it was always so damned important to try to gain the smallest advantage by making the other party wait, even over something as simple as a phone call.

A few moments later, the voice of a young translator said, “The Imam Mohtaz is on the line. Identify yourself please.”

“Mr. President, this is Leonid Zevitin calling. I hope you are well.”

“Praise be to God for his mercy, it is so.”

No attempt to return pleasantries, Zevitin noted—again, typical of Mohtaz. “I wanted to discuss the recent air attack by the Americans in Tehran against a suspected Hezbollah rocket launcher.”

“I know nothing of this.”

“Mr. President, I warned you against allowing the insurgents to arm the rockets with weapons of mass destruction,” Zevitin said. “We specifically chose the Hornet rocket because it is in use all over the world and would be harder to trace back to Russia. The only rocket force known to have the technology to put chemical warheads on them was Russia.”

“I know no details of what the freedom fighters do in their struggle against the crusaders, nonbelievers, and Zionists,” the translator said. “All I know is that God will reward all who have answered the call of holy retribution. They will earn a place at His right hand.”

“Mr. President, I urge you to keep your forces in check,” Zevitin said. “Armed resistance to foreign occupation is acceptable to all nations, even with unguided rockets against suspected sympathizers, but using poison gas is not. Your insurgency risks a popular backlash if—”

Zevitin could hear Mohtaz shouting in the background even be
fore the translator finished speaking, and then the flustered young man had to scramble to keep up with the Iranian cleric's sudden tirade: “This is not an insurgency, damn your eyes,” the translator said in a much calmer voice than Mohtaz's. “Proud Iranians and their brothers are taking back the nation that has been illegally and immorally taken from us. That is not an insurgency—it is a holy war of freedom against oppression. And in such a struggle, all weapons and all tactics are justified in the eyes of God.” And the connection was broken.

“Fucking bastard,” Zevitin swore—not realizing until it was too late that he had done so in English—as he slammed the receiver down.

“Why bother with that insane zealot, sir?” foreign affairs minister Hedrov asked. “The man is crazy. He cares for nothing else but retaking power—he does not care how many innocent people he must kill to do it. He is bringing in foreign
jihadis
from all over the world, and most of them are crazier than
he
is.”

“Do you think I care about Mohtaz or anyone in that damned country, Minister?” Zevitin asked heatedly. “For the time being, it is better for Russia with Mohtaz alive and stirring up the Islamists, calling for them to go to Iran and fight. I hope that country tears itself apart, which is almost a certainty if the insurgency grows.”

“I wish Buzhazi had called on
us
rather than McLanahan when he wanted support for his insurgency—Mohtaz and that monarchist bitch Qagev would be dead by now, and Buzhazi would be firmly in command, with us at his side,” Hedrov said, casting a disapproving glare at Federal Security Bureau chief Truznyev. “We should have recruited him the moment he surfaced in the Iranian People's Militia.”

“Buzhazi was completely off our radar screens, Minister,” Truznyev said dismissively. “He was disgraced and all but condemned to die. Iran had drifted into the Chinese sphere of influence…”

“We sold them plenty of weapons.”

“After oil prices rose, yes—they bought Chinese crap because it
was cheaper,” Truznyev said. “But then we found many of those weapons in the hands of Chechen separatists and drug runners within our own borders in short order. China stopped their support for Iran long ago because they support Islamists in Xinjiang and East Turkestan—Chinese Islamic insurgents were fighting government troops
with their own damned weapons
! The theocrats in Iran are completely out of control. They do not deserve our support.”

“All right, all right,” Zevitin said wearily, shaking his hand at his advisers. “These endless arguments are getting us nowhere.” To Truznyev, he said, “Igor, get me all the data on that American hypersonic missile you can get your hands on, and get it fast. I don't need to know how to counter it—yet. I need enough information so that I can make Gardner
believe
that I know
all
about it. I want to argue that it's a threat to world peace, regional stability, the arms balance, blah, blah, blah. Same with their damned Armstrong Space Station. And I'd like an update on
all
the new American military technology. I'm tired of hearing about it
after
we encounter it in the field.”

“
Argue
with the Americans, eh, Mr. President?” chief of the general staff Furzyenko asked sarcastically. “Perhaps we can go in front of the Security Council and argue that the sunlight reflecting off their station's radar arrays keeps us up at night.”

“I don't need snide remarks from you today, General—I need results,” Zevitin said acidly. “The Americans are settled in Iraq, and they may have gained a foothold in Iran if Buzhazi and the Qagev successfully forms a government friendly to the West. Along with American bases in central Asia, the Baltics, and eastern Europe, Iran adds yet another section of fence with which to pen us in. Now they have this damned space station, which passes over Russia ten times a day! Russia is virtually surrounded—” And at that, Zevitin slapped his hand down hard on the table. “—and that is
completely unacceptable
!” He looked each of his advisers in the eye, his gaze pausing momentarily on Truznyev and Darzov before sitting back in his seat and irritably running a hand over his forehead.

“That hypersonic missile surprised us all, sir,” Truznyev said.

“Bullshit,” Zevitin retorted. “They need to test-fire the thing, don't they? They can't do that in an underground laboratory. Why can't we be observing their missile tests? We know exactly where their high-speed instrumented test ranges are for hypersonic missile development—we should be all over those sites.”

“Good espionage costs money, Mr. President. Why spy for the Russians when the Israelis and Chinese can offer ten times the price?”

“Then perhaps it's time to cut some salaries and expensive retirement benefits of our so-called leaders and put the money back into getting quality intelligence data,” Zevitin said acidly. “Back when Russian oil was only a few dollars a barrel, Russia once had hundreds of spies deep inside every nook and cranny of American weapons development—we once had almost unfettered access to Dreamland, their most highly classified facility. And what places we didn't infiltrate ourselves, we were able to buy information from hundreds more, including Americans. The FSB's and military intelligence's task is to get that information, and since Gryzlov's administration we haven't done a damned thing but whine and moan about being surrounded and possibly attacked again by the Americans.” He paused again, then looked at the armed forces chief of staff. “Give us a status report on
Fanar
, General Furzyenko.”

“One unit fully operational, sir,” the chief of staff replied. “The mobile anti-satellite laser system proved very successful in downing one of the American spaceplanes over Iran.”

“What?”
chief of staff Orlev exclaimed. “Then, what the Americans said was true? One of their spaceplanes
was
downed by us?”

Zevitin nodded to Furzyenko as he pulled a cigarette from his desk drawer and lit up, wordlessly giving him permission to explain. “The
Fanar
project is a top-secret mobile anti-satellite laser system, Mr. Orlev,” the military chief of staff explained. “It is based on the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser system developed in the 1980s, but greatly modified, enhanced, and improved.”

“Kavaznya was a massive facility powered by a nuclear reactor, if I remember correctly,” Orlev observed. He was only in high school
when he learned about it—at the time the government had said there was an accident and the plant had been shut down for safety upgrades. It was only when he assumed his post as chief of staff that he learned that Kavaznya had actually been bombed by a single American B-52 Stratofortress bomber, a highly modified experimental “test-bed” model known as the “Megafortress”—crewed by none other than Patrick McLanahan, who was then just an Air Force captain and crew bombardier. The name
McLanahan
had popped up many times in relation to dozens of events around the world in the two decades since that attack, to the point that Darzov and even Zevitin seemed obsessed with the man, his high-tech machines, and his schemes. “How can such a system be mobile?”

“Twenty years of research and engineering, billions of rubles, and a lot of espionage—
good
espionage, not like today,” Zevitin said. “Continue, General.”

“Yes, sir,” Furzyenko said. “
Fanar
's design is based on the Israeli Tactical High-Energy Laser program and the American airborne laser program, which puts a chemical laser on a large aircraft such as a Boeing 747 or B-52 bomber. It is capable of destroying a ballistic missile at ranges as far as five hundred kilometers. It is not as powerful as Kavaznya was, but it is portable, easily transported and maintained, is durable and reliable, extremely accurate, and if locked onto target long enough, can destroy even heavily shielded spacecraft hundreds of kilometers in space…like the Americans' new Black Stallion spaceplane.”

Orlev's mouth dropped. “Then the rumors are true?” Zevitin smiled, nodded, then took another deep drag of his cigarette. “But we denied we had anything to do with the loss of the American spaceplane! The Americans must realize we have such a weapon!”

“And thus the game begins,” Zevitin said, smiling as he finished the last of his cigarette. He ground the butt into the ashtray as if demonstrating what he intended to do to anyone who dared oppose him. “We'll see who is willing to play, and who is not. Continue, General.”

“Yes, sir. The system can be disguised as a standard twelve-meter tractor-trailer rig and can be driven almost anywhere and mixed in with normal commercial traffic. It can be set up and readied to fire in less than an hour, can fire about a dozen bursts on one refueling, depending on how long the laser is firing at one target—and, most importantly, it can be broken down and moved within minutes after firing.”

“Only a dozen bursts? That does not sound like very many engagements.”

“We can bring along more fuel, of course,” Furzyenko said, “but
Fanar
was never designed to counter large numbers of spacecraft or aircraft. The system can only fire for up to thirty seconds at a time due to heat, and one load of fuel can fire the laser for approximately sixty seconds total. The next barrage can be fired thirty to forty minutes later after refueling, depending on if the fuel comes from the fire vehicle or a separate support vehicle. Most spacecraft in low-Earth orbit would be well beyond the horizon before another barrage, so we decided it would be best not to try to fire too many barrages at once.

“In addition, everything else in the convoy increases in size as well—security, provisions, spare parts, power generators—so we decided to limit the extra laser fuel to one truck. With one command and fire vehicle, one power and control vehicle, one refueling and supply vehicle, and one support and crew vehicle, it can still travel anonymously enough on open highways anywhere without drawing attention. We brought it back to Moscow for additional tests and upgrades. That will take some time to accomplish.”

“I think you've had enough time, General,” Zevitin said. “The Americans need to see how vulnerable their precious space station and spaceplanes can be. I want that system up and running
now
.”

“If I had more engineers and more money, sir, I could finish the three that are in the construction pipeline within a year,” Furzyenko said. He glanced at General Darzov. “But there seems to be a lot of
attention being paid to General Darzov's
Molnija
project, and I'm afraid our resources are being unduly diverted.”

“Darzov has made some good arguments for
Molnija
, General Furzyenko,” Zevitin said.

“I'm afraid I do not know what
Molnija
is, Mr. President,” Alexandra Hedrov said. “I assume it's not a fine watch maker. Is this a new secret weapon program?”

Zevitin nodded to Andrei Darzov, who stood and began: “
Molnija
is an air-launched anti-satellite weapon, Madam Minister. It is a prototype weapon only, a combination of the Kh-90 hypersonic cruise missile reprogrammed for extreme high-altitude flight with a combination of rocket-ramjet-rocket propulsion to allow it to fly up to five hundred kilometers above Earth. The system was first developed by the Americans in the 1980s; we had a similar system but canceled it many years ago. The technology has improved greatly since then.”

“
Molnija
is a big step backward,” Furzyenko said. “The laser system has proven its worth. Air-launched anti-satellite weapons were rejected years ago because it was unreliable and too easily detected.”

“With respect, sir, I disagree,” Darzov said. Furzyenko turned to glare at his subordinate, but it was difficult to stare at the man's rather disturbing wounds, and he was forced to look away. “The problem with a fixed anti-satellite weapon, as was found with the Kavaznya anti-satellite laser, is that it is too easy to attack it, even with numerous and sophisticated anti-aircraft weapon systems protecting it. Even the mobile laser system we developed is vulnerable to attack since it takes so much support and takes so long to set up, fuel, and aim. We saw how quickly the Americans were able to attack the laser site in Iran—luckily, we had time to move the real system and construct a decoy in its place.
Molnija
can be carried to many air bases in the target's path and can attack from multiple angles.