Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  “Break. Delta, meet me at Blue right away. Out,” Delta was the call sign of his tactical operations chief. If, instead of a security sweep, the Russians did nothing—except secretly send out a few two-man patrols a few hundred meters past the fence—then if the hooligans were bold enough to try launching another volley, maybe they had a chance of nabbing a few of them. It was very illegal to send Russians outside the compound at night, but that was only a KFOR and NATO regulation, and Kazakov didn’t feel too obligated to follow their rules. It was also supposedly illegal for anyone to launch noisemakers into the Russian compound, but NATO obviously wasn’t doing anything about that.

  Kazakov turned to Susie, who was trying to appear as if he were tying his boots, when in fact he was breathing heavily and looked like he might pass out. “While you’re resting there, Captain, listen: I have a plan. I’m going to send a few roving patrols out to see if we can catch some of whoever’s launching those noisemakers. I want some of your men to accompany my commandos. Meet me at the security building right away, and be careful.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Colonel,” Susie shouted. “I’ll meet up with you right away.” Even though he had been going downstairs, Susie was exhausted—too much deskwork, too little exercise, too much maraschino, Kazakov decided. If they made it through this night, he’d have to—

  Kazakov’s attention was diverted to the sound of another string of noisemakers going off—close enough this time to smell the acidy gunpowder. “My God, not again.” He removed his radio from his belt to ask for a report...

  .. . when suddenly he saw a bright yellow flash of light from inside the section of fence just east of the security building. He knew instinctively what it was. “Captain!” he shouted, turning toward Susie, then dodging away. “Move! Move! But he knew it would be too late—the bullets were probably already in flight.

  They were. The entry wound was less than the size of his little finger, but the exit wound tore the back of Susie’s head off.

  Kazakov threw his legs out from under himself just as a bullet plowed into the pavement behind him. He rolled and rolled until he landed in the street, then leapt to his feet and dove behind a dark lightpost. A sniper! Probably KLA, but close enough to the fence to get a good shot off at lone figures at night. This was the first time something like this had happened in the Russian compound.

  As his mind raced to assemble a plan of action, he found himself thinking the weirdest thoughts, such as: Damn, this sniper is good. The time delay between the bullet hitting Susie in the head and the gunshot sound was considerable, meaning that the shot had been done over a very long distance, at night. Remarkable men. those snipers. Training one took years and perhaps millions of rubles for a really good rifle and ...

  More fireworks, just a few dozen meters away—he heard them slap the pavement in front of him just before they popped off. Kazakov wished he had his armored staff car just then— that sniper was still out there, using the noisemakers as cover for his attacks. He pulled his radio from his web belt: “Apasna, apasna, this is Alpha, snipers along the fence line east of Blue, all personnel man your duty posts and prepare to repel attackers! Repeat, snipers on the fence line, Charlie is down. Full nighttime challenge. All stations, report status to security control!”

  “Alpha, gdye vi? Say position!” It was the duty sergeant. “Take cover! Units will respond to your location. Say position from Blue.”

  A tremendous explosion made Kazakov duck. It was a direct antitank rocket hit on the security building near the main gate. He had obviously underestimated these Kosovo Liberation Army thugs—they must have very good weaponry to strike that building from far away.

  “Blue has been hit! Blue is hit!” Kazakov shouted into the radio. He swept his AKM-74 assault rifle across the slowly clearing billowing smoke around the security building. There were armed men jumping across the damaged walls and structures, silhouetted against the fog of blasted concrete and dirt, but from fifty meters away Kazakov couldn’t tell if they were Russians or KLA. But they were jumping from the outside in, so Kazakov assumed they were enemy KLA rebels. He fired at a couple of them who were clustered close together, then immediately rolled left several times, got to his feet, and scampered in a low crouch behind a concrete street signpost. It was a good thing he’d moved—seconds later, the spot from where he had fired was cratered with bullets.

  There was nothing he could do here, Kazakov thought grimly. He hated the idea of turning his back on any surviving perimeter guards, but the invaders had the upper hand, and he was alone. Better to retreat, find help, and organize a counterassault in force.

  Kazakov had just started running back toward the headquarters building when he saw his command car speeding around the comer, a gunner manning the gun turret, its headlight slits in place to mask its approach. He waved, and the vehicle veered toward him. The command car held four armed infantrymen along with a radio operator, aide, driver, gunner, and security man. If it was fully manned, it might be enough to mount a good counterassault until more troops moved into—

  Kazakov was so busy planning his next move that he failed to notice that the command car was heading right at him. By the time he realized something was wrong, it was too late. The armored car plowed into the colonel at over thirty kilometers an hour.

  His thick winter battle dress uniform and helmet saved his life, but Kazakov was knocked near unconscious by the force of the impact, All he could register were excited, now jubilant Albanian-speaking voices, and flashlight beams sweeping across his face.

  “Dobriy vyechyeer, Colonel Kazakov,” one of the Albanian voices said in very good Russian. '‘Good we should bump into you like this. We were on our way to visit you when your men informed us you were inspecting the security posts.”

  “S kyem vi? Who are you with?” Kazakov muttered. “What unit?”

  “You know who, Colonel,” the man replied. “We are your sworn enemies. We have vowed to do everything in our power to force you to leave our homeland. You are invaders, trespassers, and murderers. The penalty for murder in Kosovo is death. Your sentence will be carried out immediately.”

  “You have already murdered many Russian soldiers,” Kazakov said. “Reinforcements are on the way. Leave me and save yourselves or you will all be slaughtered.”

  “I would have preferred it if you simply begged for your life. Colonel,” the man said. “But you do bring up a good suggestion. We should withdraw from here immediately. Das svedanya. Colonel Kazakov. Spasiba va vychyeer. Thanks for the wonderful evening.”

  “Idi v zhopu, pizda, ” Kazakov cursed.

  The flashlight beam shined directly into Kazakov’s eyes, and the man’s face moved close enough that he could smell the alcohol, cordite, and blood on the man’s uniform. “You want to inspect the security posts. Colonel dirt-mouth? Kharasho. Allow me to take you there.”

  Kazakov’s legs were chained to the back of the command car. and the rebels dragged the colonel’s body through the streets of Prizren, firing into the sky in jubilation. Kazakov remained conscious for several blocks until his head hit the debris of a destroyed truck and he was mercifully knocked unconscious. His last thought was of his wife and his three sons. He had not seen them in so many months, and now he knew they would never see him again: they would never permit the family to see a corpse as bad as he knew his was going to look.

  At the front gate to the Russian security zone, the colonel was hung upside down over the entry control point road, stripped naked, then riddled with machine-gun fire until his body could no longer be recognized as human. The rebels were long gone before United Nations reinforcements arrived.

  ONE

  Zhukovsky Flight Research Center, near Bykovo, Russian Federation

  The next evening

  Even with many high-intensity lights ringing the area, it was almost impossible to see the big transport plane through the darkness and driving snowstorm as it taxied over to its parking spot. Its port-side turboprop engines
, the ones facing the terminal building, the honor guard, a small band, and a group of waiting people, had already been shut down, and as soon as the plane was stopped by ground crews with lighted wands, the other two engines were also shut down. The ramp suddenly became eerily quiet, the only sound that of a long line of hearses’ wheels crunching on snow. On one side of the transport plane’s tail, seventeen hearses waited; on the other side were seventeen limousines for the family members, plus several officiallooking government vehicles. From the official vehicles, two men surrounded by security guards alighted and took places beside the honor guard.

  The transport’s cargo ramp under the tall tail motored down, and the receiving detail marched over and stepped up the ramp, as the first limousine pulled out of line and maneuvered over to receive its passenger. The band began to play a solemn funeral march. A few moments later, the receiving detail slowly wheeled out the first casket, draped with the flag of the Russian Federation. As the honor guard and officials saluted and lowered flags in respect, a woman clothed all in black, wearing a black veil under her black beaver pelt hat, stepped forward from the line of limousines and reached out with both hands to gently touch the casket in silent greeting, as if wishing to not to disturb its occupant but to welcome him home.

  Then, suddenly, her grief turned to anger. She cried aloud in anguish, piercing the frigid, snowy evening like a gunshot. She pushed the attendants aside, then grasped the Russian Federation flag in her gloved hands, pulled it off the casket, flung it to the ground, and rested her right cheek on the smooth gray surface of the casket’s lid, sobbing loudly. A young man, tall and clothed in black as well, held her shaking shoulders, eventually pulling her away from the casket as it was escorted to the waiting hearse. The young man tried to comfort and support the woman as he led her to her own waiting limousine, where other family members were waiting, but she pushed him away. The limousine drove off, leaving the young man behind. The commander of the escort detail picked the flag up off the snow- covered ramp, quickly folded it, and gave it to one of the limousine attendants, as if unsure of what to do with it now.

  The young man remained behind. He watched silently as the remaining sixteen caskets were escorted out of the big transport plane and placed into their hearses, and he remained, ignoring the snow falling heavier and heavier, after all the limousines, the escort detail, and the color guard had departed. None of the other family members spoke to the officials, and they did not attempt to speak with the family members. The officials returned to their limousines as soon as the last hearse drove away.

  The young man saw he was not alone. A tall, distinguished- looking older gentleman, also in a black fur beaver-pelt hat and rich-looking sealskin coat, stood nearby, tears running unabashedly down his cheeks. They looked at each other across the snow-obscured ramp. The older man approached the younger and nodded politely. “Spakoyniy nochyee, bratam, ” he said in greeting. “K sazhalyeneeyoo. Kak deela?”

  “I’ve been better,” the younger man replied. He did not offer his hand in greeting.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” the older man said. “I am Dr. Pyotr Viktorievich Fursenko. I lost my son, Gennadi Pi- otrievich, in Kosovo.”

  “I am sorry,” the young man murmured. There was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.

  “Thank you. He was a lieutenant, one of the security officers. He had been in the army only eight months, and in Kosovo only two weeks.” No other comment from the young man, so Fursenko went on: “I assume the unit commander, Colonel Kazakov, was your father?” The young man nodded. Dr. Fursenko paused, looked at the younger man, waiting for an introduction, but none was forthcoming. “And that was your mother, I assume?” Again, nothing. “I am sorry for her as well. I must tell you, I can't help but agree with her sentiments.” “Her sentiments?”

  “Her anger at Russia, at the Central Military Committee, at the general state of our country in general,” Fursenko said. “We can’t seem to do anything right, even help our comrades hold on to a tiny republic in the backwaters of the Balkans.” The younger man glanced over at Fursenko. “How do you know I’m not an internal security officer or MVD, Doctor?” he asked. The MVD, or Ministry of Internal Affairs, conducted most government intelligence, counterintelligence, and national police activities inside the Russian Federation. “You could be investigated for what you just said.”

  “I don’t care—let them investigate me, imprison me, kill me,” Fursenko said, his voice filled with despair. ‘They are undoubtedly better at killing their own people than protecting their soldiers in Kosovo or Chechnya.” The young man smiled at that comment. “My research center was tom down, my industry that I have worked in for twenty-five years has all but closed down, my parents are gone, my wife died a few years ago, and my two daughters are somewhere in North America. My son was all I had left.” He paused, looking the younger man up and down. “I would say that you could be MVD or SVR as well.” The SVR was the new name for the KGB, which conducted most foreign intelligence activities for Russia but was free to act inside the country as well. “Except I think you are dressed a little too well.”

  “You are a very observant man,” the young man said. He regarded Fursenko for a moment, then extended a hand, and Fursenko accepted it. “Pavel Gregorievich Kazakov.”

  "Pleased to meet—” Fursenko stopped suddenly, then squinted his eyes. “Pavel Kazakov? The Pavel Kazakov?”

  "I am very impressed by what you are doing at Metyor, Doctor Fursenko,'" Kazakov remarked, his voice deep and insistent as if silently urging Fursenko not to dwell on what he had just figured out.

  "I. . . I.. .” Fursenko took a moment to regain his composure. then went on. “Thank you. sir. It is all due to you. of course.”

  “Not at all. Doctor,” Kazakov said. "Metyor is a fine group.” Most large privatized companies in the Commonwealth of Independent States belonged to organizations called IIGs, or Industrial Investment Groups, similar to corporations in the United States IIG members were usually banks, other IIGs. some foreign investors, and a few wealthy indiv iduals, but the primary member of any IIG w as the Russian government, which controlled at least twenty percent but sometimes as much as ninety percent of any v enture, and therefore had ultimate control. Metyor was one of the lucky ones: only thirty percent of the IIG was owned by the government. "And I am familiar with your old venture, the Soviet aircraft design bureau in Lithuania called Fisikous,”

  It was Fursenko's turn to look uncomfortable, which pleased and intrigued Kazakov. In conducting his due-diligence before investing in any new company, especially a troubled but high-tech concern like Metyor. Kazakov always put his extensive private intelligence operatives, most of them former KGB. to work learning all there was to learn about the previous holdings of the IIG, w hich in this case was a research and development institute called Fisikous. What he had found out was nothing short of astounding.

  The Fisikous Institute of Technology had been an adv anced aircraft and technology research facility in Vilnius, in what was then the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic, now the independent Republic of Lithuania on the eastern end of the Baltic Sea. Fisikous had been on the cutting edge of Soviet aircraft design, attracting the brightest engineers from all over the Soviet Union and the non-aligned nations. The big name at Fisikous had been a young scientist named Ivan Ozerov, who'd been the resident low observable technology—stealth—expert. No one knew anything about Ozerov, except that in a short time at Fisikous, under the direct supervision of the chief of the facility, Pyotr Fursenko, and another man who most suspected was KGB, he’d become the number-one design expert in all of the Soviet Union. Ozerov was brilliant, but weird and unpredictable, occasionally launching into wild tirades in English at the slightest provocation or agitation. Scientists there had long suspected Ozerov of being either on LSD or simply psychotic—he was far more than just eccentric. But there was no question that his work, especially on the incredible Fi-170 stealth bomber, had been nothing short of geniu
s.

  But there had been problems at Fisikous. The Baltic republic of Lithuania was dri ving toward independence from the Soviet Union, and Fisikous represented all that was bad about life under Soviet rule. Ivan Ozerov had disappeared during some kind of military action. Some said the American CIA or Special Forces had kidnapped Ozerov. Others said Ozerov had not been Russian but a captured American scientist, codenamed “Redtail Hawk,” brainwashed right there at Fisikous by the KGB, and that the military action had really been a rescue mission. Even the Fisikous-170 stealth bomber, a one- hundred-and-twenty-thousand kilo warplane, had been stolen.

  “When the Union collapsed, I went back to Russia to head up some other aerospace design bureaus,” Fursenko went on. “I was going to retire or emigrate to the West, because the industry had all but disappeared in the Commonwealth. But when my wife died, I... I stayed on .., well, mostly just to have something to do.”

  “I understand,” Kazakov said sincerely. “I think that’s important.”

  “They had better kofye and romavaya babas in the labs than I could afford as a pensioner anyway,” Fursenko admitted with a faint smile. “There’s not much money in Metyor, but we’re doing important work, incredible things. I didn’t mind not getting paid as long as I could keep on working and get real coffee. No offense, sir. It is rewarding work, but the pay is terrible.”

  “No offense taken. My mother made the best romovaya babas when I was a kid!" Kazakov said. He sighed. “Now I think she would use a handful of them to choke me if she had the chance.”

  Fursenko didn't know what to say or do—he was afraid to smile, nod, or even move. He was very surprised and a bit wary after hearing the apparent warmth in Kazakov’s voice— not something he had ever expected to hear at all. “I couldn’t help but notice, your mother .. . seemed rather upset at... well ..