Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 Page 13

  The most impressive man in the entire facility beside Fursenko himself was the chief pilot—currently the only fulltime pilot at Metyor—Ion Stoica. Bom and raised in Bucharest, Romania, Stoica had trained as a pilot at the Soviet Naval Academy in St. Petersburg and served as a naval aviation bomber pilot, flying the Tupolev-95 Bear and Tupolev- 16 Badger bombers in minelaying, antiship, missile attack, and maritime reconnaissance missions. He’d served briefly in the Romanian Air Force as an air defense wing commander and instructor pilot in the MiG-21 fighter, before returning to the Soviet Union as a test pilot flying for Pyotr Fursenko at the Fisikous Institute. When Fisikous had closed and the Soviet Union imploded. Stoica had gone back to his native Romania, flying and instructing in MiG-21 and MiG-29 air defense fighters, before accepting a position again with his old friend Pyotr Fursenko at Metyor Aerospace in 1993.

  Stoica thoroughly thought of himself as Russian, and was grateful to Russia for his training, education, and outlook on world and national affairs. He thanked the KGB’s role in eliminating the dictator Nicolae Ceausescu from power in Romania and restoring a more traditional, pro-Soviet communist regime, rather than the brutal Stalinist one that had ruled Romania for most of his life.

  Pavel Kazakov found Stoica to be a hardworking, singleminded. almost fanatical Russian patriot who thought of his efforts to design a high-tech aerospace weapon system to be an honor rather than just a job. When Romania had been admitted to the Partnership For Peace, NATO’s group of ex-Warsaw Pact nations being considered for NATO membership, Ion Stoica had emigrated to Russia and become a citizen a year later. Like most of the principals at Metyor, Stoica had been happily subsisting mostly on cafeteria food and sleeping in the Metyor factory in between irregular and sparse paychecks.

  By the time Pavel Kazakov was finished with his inspections, interviews, and planning sessions, the day shift had already arrived and the workday was in full swing—which for Metyor Aerospace was not very busy at all. Kazakov was escorted out the back to his waiting sedan by Fursenko. “Doctor, I am most impressed with the aircraft and your people,” he said, shaking the director’s hand. “I want you to use every effort to get Tyenee ready to fly as soon as you can, but you must maintain absolute secrecy—even from the government. If any authorities come by or anyone asks any suspicious questions, refer them to my headquarters immediately. Tyenee is to remain under wraps from anyone except those whom I have spoken to and cleared directly. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, tovarisch,” Fursenko replied. “It is indeed an honor to be working with you.”

  “Decide that later, after we have begun our work,” Kazakov said ominously. “You may well rue the day you ever spoke to me out on that tarmac.”

  Office of the Minister of Economic Cooperation and Trade, Government House, Tirane, Albania

  The next morning

  The aide was already pouring strong black coffee and setting out a tray of caviar and toast when the minister walked into his office. “Good morning, sir,” the aide said. “How are you today?”

  “Fine, fine,” Maqo Solis, the Minister of Economic Cooperation and Trade of the government of the Republic of Albania, replied. It was a rare sunny and warm spring day, and it seemed as if the entire capital was in excellent spirits. “What do we have this morning? I was hoping to get a massage and steam bath in before lunch.”

  “Quite possible, sir,” Solis’s aide said cheerfully. “Staff conference meeting at eight a.m., scheduled for one hour, and then a status briefing on Turkish port construction projects afterward, scheduled for no more than an hour. The usual interruptions—trade delegate drop-bys, phone calls from People’s Assembly legislators, and of course your paperwork for the morning, all organized in order of precedence. I'll schedule the massage for eleven.”

  “Make the interruptions brief and the high-priority pile small. Thimio, and you can schedule a session for yourself after work—on me,” Minister Solis said. He started to flip through the messages that needed answers before the eight o’clock meeting. “Anything in here that I need to look at right away?”

  “Yes, sir—the call from Pavel Kazakov, Metyor IIG.” Minister Solis rolled his eyes and snorted in exasperation, his mood already darkening. “He wants to schedule a meeting with the Office of Petroleum Resource Development, and he wants you to set it up. He says they will not cooperate without your help.”

  “They will not cooperate because Pavel Kazakov is a lying, cheating, thieving, murderous back-stabbing pimp,” Solis retorted. “He thought he could bribe his way through the government to get approval to build his pipeline to Vlore? I threw him out of my office once, and I will do it again if need be.”

  “He says he expects to start construction of the Burgas to Samokov section of the line through Bulgaria within three months, and win approval of Samokov. Bulgaria, to Debar, Macedonia, within two months,” the aide said, reading the lengthy message from the communications center. “He says he feels your office’s lack of cooperation is unfair and biased, and will negatively impact the perception of the project to his investors.”

  “Thimio, you can stop reading his ranting—I’m not interested,” Solis said. “Who in God’s name has ever heard of a drug dealer building an oil pipeline? It must be a scam. Contact the Bulgarian and Macedonian development ministries, and see if what Kazakov says is true.”

  “Yes, sir.” The aide produced an ornate leather-wrapped box. “The message came with this.”

  “Was it scanned by security?”

  “Yes, sir, and examined personally.” Solis opened it. It was a gold, pearl, and platinum watch with ruby numerals, a Rolex knockoff, but a very expensive one.

  “God, will he never stop? Get rid of it,” Solis said disgustedly. “I won’t accept it. Turn it in to whatever agency is supposed to regulate foreign gifts, or keep it yourself.”

  “Yes, sir,” the aide said enthusiastically. He knew the minister could get in trouble for accepting foreign gifts—but rarely did—but aides could not. “Sir, the message goes on.”

  “Go on to the next item, Thimio.”

  “I think you should hear this, sir,” the aide said. “Mr. Kazakov says that he will look most harshly on any refusal to facilitate negotiations with the government on completing the pipeline. He emphasizes 'most harshly.’ He further says—” “He has the balls to threaten me?' Solis shot up from his seat and snatched the message out of his aide’s hand. “Why, that motherless bastard ... he is! He’s threatening me with retaliation if I do not expedite the approval process for his pipeline, He is actually saying ‘You will live to regret any inaction, but the government may not. ’ How dare he? How dare he threaten a minister of the Albanian government! I want the National Intelligence Service on his ass immediately! I want the Foreign Ministry and State Security to contact the Russian government to arrest and extradite Kazakov for openly threatening a foreign minister and a foreign government in an attempt to force us to cooperate with him!”

  “Sir, he may be a criminal, but he is reputedly a powerful Russian and international Mafia boss,” the aide warned. “All of the actions you mentioned are legal and proper responses. Kazakov will follow no such legalistic protocols. If we lash out, he may just follow through on his threats. Someone will get hurt, and Kazakov will probably remain on the loose, protected by the government officials that he bribes for protection. Don't fight this weasel. Stall him, pretend to cooperate, and let the bureaucratic wheels grind away on him. Once he finds Albania uncooperative, maybe he’ll reroute to Thessaloniki, as he’s threatened to do before, or up through Kosovo and Montenegro to Dubrovnik or Bar.”

  “A Russian oil pipeline through Greece? That’ll be the day,” Solis said, then grimaced. “Well, stranger things have happened. Besides, who would want to build a pipeline through Kosovo or even Montenegro? They would have to spend billions to try to guard it, or billions in rebuilding it every year. Those provinces will never be stable enough to make that kind of investment as long as t
he Serbs are in charge. Even Pavel Kazakov can’t bribe all the warring factions,

  “No, he wants his pipeline to go through Albania, and Vlore is the logical spot—a sheltered harbor, easy access to the Adriatic and Italy, good transport infrastructure, docks, storage, and refineries already in place,” Solis went on. “But the last thing we want is a monster like Kazakov to establish a foothold in Albania. If we stall him, express our anger, and throw up enough roadblocks, maybe he’ll take his drug money and sell his pipeline interests to some American or British oil conglomerates. That would be ideal.”

  “So I should have the staff draft a letter in response—”

  “Politely acknowledge receipt of his message, but wait until he’s complained at least three times before sending the response,” Solis said, with a smile. “Then have it sent to Kazakov by ground post—in due time.”

  “Very good, sir,” the aide said. “And should I initiate a hostile foreign contact report with NIS and Minister Siradova of State Security?”

  “Don’t bother,” Solis replied casually, as he began flipping through the morning messages once again. “Kazakov is a murderous punk, but he’s only dangerous in Russia. If he even dares try to step foot inside our borders or tries any strong- arm tactics with us, we’ll nail his rotting hide to the wall.” He looked at his aide and winked. “Enjoy the watch, Thimio.”

  Zhukovsky Air Base, Moscow, Russian Federation

  Several weeks later

  Pavel Kazakov had never really known his father. Gregor had spent far more time with his soldiers and his duties, first in the Red Army, then the Russian Army, than he had at home. He had been little more than a distant memory, a stranger to his family as much as he had been a hero in Russia.

  At first Pavel had known him only through the letters he would write to his mother. They would sit around the dinner table mesmerized as their father related stirring stories of military life, adventures overseas or on some deployment or exercise. He’d then issued disembodied orders to his three children from the field—study harder, work harder, volunteer for that project or this work-study program. His orders had never failed to have the same dire level of consequences if not followed, even though he was hardly around to enforce them. Later, Pavel had known his father mostly through word of mouth on post or in newspaper accounts of his adventures across Europe and southwestern Asia. He’d certainly been larger than life, and men at every post and every city had had enormous respect for him.

  But even as his legend had grown, Pavel’s respect for him had dwindled. It was more than just being away from home all the time: Pavel began to believe that his father never really cared for his family as much as he did his uniform. It became much more important for Pavel to see how far he could go to twist the old man’s ass than to try to earn the respect and love from a man who was never around to give it. Pavel found out too quickly that he could buy—or force others to give—love and respect cheaply on the street. Why pursue it from a living legend who was never around when it was so easy to get everywhere else?

  But after his father’s death, Pavel had realized several things. First, their government had let them all down. That was intolerable. But most important, Pavel had let his father down. Gregor Kazakov had had national respect because he had earned it—even from his son?

  Nah. that was all bullshit, Pavel Kazakov reassured himself. The government had liked Colonel Kazakov because he was a damned mindless military automaton who accepted every chickenshit job and every useless and mostly suicidal mission without a word of complaint. Why ? Because he hadn’t known any better. He’d been a brainwashed military monkey who had had precisely one original thought in his whole military career—the invasion of Pristina Airport in 1999. The Russian people had liked him because they had damn few heroes these days and he’d been the handy one. He'd represented not one true inspirational virtue. Gregor Kazakov had been a uniformed buffoon who had died serving a brainlessly bankrupt and inept government doing a thankless, objectiveless, useless peacekeeping mission in a crappy part of the world. He’d deserved to die a horrible, bloody death.

  Yet Pavel Kazakov found it useful to invoke the old man’s name as he addressed a small group of technicians and support workers in the now closed-off main hangar complex, standing before the amazing Metyor-179 stealth aircraft:

  “My friends, the work you have done in the past several weeks has been extraordinary. I know my father, Colonel Gregor Kazakov, would have been proud to know each and every last one of you. You are true Russian patriots, true heroes to our fatherland.

  “We have meticulously planned this mission, gathered the best intelligence, prepared and tested the best equipment, and trained many long hours for this moment. The result of your hard work is right here before you. You are the champions. It has been a privilege for me to work beside you to make this mission a reality. I have one final word to all of you: thank you, and good hunting. For Gregor Kazakov and for Russia, attack!” The group of about one hundred engineers, technicians, support crews, and administrators broke out into furious applause and cheers.

  Maybe the old fart did have some purpose in his life, Pavel thought.

  Ion Stoica, the chief test pilot at Metyor Aerospace, and his systems officer, a Russian ex-fighter pilot named Gennadi Yegorov, quickly boarded the Metyor-179 stealth fighter-bomber and performed their power-off, power-on, and beforeengine start checklists. The interior of the aircraft hangar was then darkened, the doors rolled open, the aircraft was towed outside, and the engines started. All of the checklists took just a few minutes, because they were all computerized—the crew members had only a few checklists that they themselves had to perform to verify the computer's integrity.

  Now they sat to wait for the signal to depart.

  Zhukovsky Air Base east of Moscow was an active Russian Air Force military airfield, with several squadrons of Tu-95 Bear and Tu-22M Backfire heavy bombers located there, along with several types of trainers, transports, and other support aircraft. Maintaining secrecy at such a base was not difficult, although it was by far a top-secret facility. The airfield lights were always extinguished before any aircraft launch at night to hide the type and number of aircraft departing—a standard Soviet-era tactic, even in peacetime. Although the main base complex was close by on the north side of the runway, and a small housing area a few kilometers to the southeast, the runway itself was fairly isolated. No one could see the runway complex at night except the control tower personnel and security patrols that ringed the runways during every launch to keep away prying eyes.

  About three hours before sunset, two Tu-22 Backfire bombers began to taxi toward the active runway on a scheduled training mission from the main secure parking ramp, east of the Metyor facility. Backfire bombers always did all missions in pairs, from takeoff to touchdown, and so both bombers taxied into position at the end of the runway, staggered so their wingtips were less than fifty feet from one another. Behind them on the hold line was an old Ilyushin-14 twin-piston transport plane, nicknamed Veedyorka, “The Bucket.” Even though the plane was almost fifty years old, it was a rather common sight on most Russian airfields, shuttling parts and mail on short hops from base to base throughout the Commonwealth. It seemed quite comical to see one of Russia’s most advanced aircraft, the Backfire, sharing a runway with one of Russia’s most low-tech birds.

  After extending their variable-geometry wings to full takeoff extension, the Backfire bombers began their takeoff roll. The leader plugged in full afterburner and released brakes, shooting a plume of fire and clouds of thick black smoke behind him. Exactly six seconds later, the wingman plugged in his afterburners, and ten seconds after his leader, released brakes and shot down the runway after his leader. The clouds of black smoke in their wakes seemed to make the night even darker, despite the bright afterburner plume they trailed. When they reached midfield, not yet airborne but close to rotate speed, the 11-14 Bucket taxied forward to the end of the runway. It was required to wait two mi
nutes after the Backfires departed because the wingtip vortices of the two departing supersonic Backfires could easily flip the old transport over.

  It never made it to takeoff position. Something happened. The tower controllers noticed a bright spark on the right engine, followed by a flash of fire on the ground, followed a few seconds later by a tremendous explosion as the right engine exploded. The right-wing fuel tank ruptured, sending hundreds of gallons of avgas pouring onto the ramp. The transport was ablaze in less than twenty seconds. The tower controllers immediately hit the emergency alarm, which activated the lights at that spot on the runway and called out the base fire department. Security and rescue crews began to respond immediately, in the sudden confusion, no one on base noticed when a thin, black, almost invisible aircraft taxied out along a midfield taxiway near the Metyor Aerospace facility, pulled onto the active runway, and began its takeoff roll. The smoke from the departing Backfire bombers partially obscured it, but anyone else who might have noticed it depart in the confusion of the fire at the other end of the runway would’ve thought it was a third Backfire bomber. They may or may not have noticed that the third aircraft used only minimum afterburner power, no taxi lights, no anticollision lights, and no position lights during its takeoff run. Since it started its rolling takeoff run near midfield, it needed every remaining foot of Zhukovsky’s fifteen-thousand-foot-long runway before it left the ground, but once airborne, it climbed faster than the Backfires and quickly disappeared into the dark.