Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09

by Warrior Class (v1. 1)

  “They know.” a voice said. “The Americans, the president, everyone knows.”

  “Stop talking in riddles.” Kazakov said. He recognized the person talking as Colonel-General Valeriy Zhurbenko, the chief of staff of the Russian Federation’s armed forces and Kazakov’s unofficial liaison to the Kremlin. He motioned for his aides to dismiss the engineers from the trailer Once they were hustled out, Kazakov said, “This is a secure line. General. Speak so I can understand you.”

  “Metyor was bugged,” Zhurbenko said. “The Americans rescued a spy last night that was taping conversations inside the facility.”

  Kazakov got to his feet, stunned. “How do you know this?”

  “Because the American president said so to Sen'kov,” Zhurbenko replied incredulously. “The American president admitted to him that they were operating a spy at Metyor, admitted sending in an exfiltration team, and—you will not believe it—sending in a stealth aircraft, a stealth supersonic bomber, to cover the operation!”

  “What?” Kazakov exploded. ‘The Americans flew a stealth bomber over Russia? Imsi night?"

  “Not just one—two stealth bombers!” Zhurbenko said. “One aircraft was shot down near the Ukraine border. The Americans apparently flew a second one through Russia to protect the forces that went in to rescue the first bomber’s crew members. And the American president mentioned to Sen’kov that they had heard information on the bugs that an aircraft from Metyor was involved in the attack at Kukes.”

  “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.

  He walked over to a metal case sitting on the desk, unlocked it, and opened the lid. Inside was a series of switches and a large red guarded switch. He flicked three of the switches, then turned a key, which illuminated red lights on the panel.

  “Uh ... sir? You’ve armed the explosives panel.”

  “I know that.”

  “Those Bulgarian soldiers. They are up there. They—”

  “Shut up,” Kazakov spat. He opened the red safety switch guard and pressed a button. It suddenly seemed as if the ground was a carpet being shaken from two kilometers away—the earth rolled and shook like an earthquake, with its epicenter right under their feet.

  High up on the mountains above them, thousands of acres of forests suddenly disappeared in a cloud of flying dirt and debris. Nine square kilometers of the mountain was instantly leveled in a huge notch cut out of the mountains, as if a huge ice cream scoop had swooped m and taken a huge chunk out of the earth in one quick motion.

  Kazakov nodded to his bodyguard, then pointed out the w indow at the dozen Bulgarian soldiers who had stayed behind to watch over Kazakov. The bodyguard smiled, then walked out of the trailer. The soldiers were looking up at the tremendous explosion that had engulfed their comrades, frozen in shock and fear, wondering what to do. The bodyguard simply lined up behind them, set his MP5 submachine gun to full auto, and mowed them down. He waved, and a huge front-loader moved in, scooped up the bodies, then trundled down the access road to carry them up the mountain and dump them within the carnage.

  Kazakov gave his aide a warning glance as he calmly shut off the arming panel and closed and locked the lid. “Clumsy Bulgarians,” he said, as his other engineers and technicians rushed into the trailer. “Those idiots must have set off some of the charges and brought half the mountain down upon themselves. How unfortunate.” The engineers stared openmouthed at their superior and wisely kept silent. A moment later, as Kazakov was about to leave, his walkie-talkie beeped. “What is it now?”

  “This is Milos up on the north ridge,” one of the project engineers radioed, “There’s a problem. That explosion appears to have caused a large fracture in the dam. It might give way completely. I sent a man down to the village below the dam and to Sofia to warn them.”

  “Fine, fine,” Kazakov said. “Another example of fine Bulgarian workmanship.” He threw the walkie-talkie on the desk in the engineer’s office and headed out to board his private helicopter. How about that? he thought—maybe that Bulgarian Labor Corps officer did know what he was talking about after all.

  High-Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, Elliott APB, Nevada

  Two days later

  The C-141 Starlifter transport plane arrived from Ankara, Turkey, shortly after sunset. Like most inbound flights, it was told to taxi directly inside a hangar to unload its cargo and passengers under cover. But there was a very different reason for this plane to do so—it would have seemed strange for spy satellites to take pictures of a welcome-home party.

  Every assigned person and employee of Elliott Air Force Base, almost two thousand in all, were on hand, and they gave Captain Annie Dewey, Major Duane Deverill, Lieutenant- Colonel Hal Briggs, and Master Sergeant Chris Wohl a thunderous round of applause and cheers as they emerged from the crew door of the Starlifter. First to greet them was Lieutenant- General Terrill Samson, along with Brigadier-General Patrick McLanahan and Colonel Rebecca Furness. Furness and McLanahan had arrived the night before to a more muted but equally happy reception by the base personnel.

  The jubilant crowd surged forward, all wanting to reach out, touch, and congratulate the victorious airmen who had successfully completed their first assigned covert combat mission. Even though they had lost a plane and the Intelligence Support Agency team had lost two men, the agent they’d been sent in to get had been recovered safely, and most important, their fellow Dreamlanders were all safe. That was cause for celebration.

  “Welcome back, everyone, welcome back,
” General Samson said. “Thank God youTe all right.” He shook hands with each one of them, then turned to the crowd and raised his hands to silence them. “Folks, listen up,” he said. “Before we congratulate these men and women from Aces High and from Dreamland on a job well done, let's first bow our heads and ask the Lord to welcome the two ISA commandos into his home. We thank them for their supreme sacrifice.”

  After a short pause with bowed heads, during which the hangar was as silent as a church, Samson said to the newcomers, “I'm sorry to have to do this, but you're going to have to do your celebrating as you make your way to another intelligence, operational, and maintenance debrief.”

  “Can't we even take a couple hours to relax, maybe take a shower, sir?” Annie Dewey asked. She kept on scanning the crowd, looking for someone. “I don't think anyone could stand to be in the same room with me for more than sixty seconds.” “I know you've had nonstop debriefs in two continents already,” Rebecca said. “But we need to get the information dovn so we can formulate even more questions to ask you in the future. You guys know the drill. Every flight is a research test flight. Welcome back. Good work.”

  “You may spend the rest of your careers debriefing,” Patrick said, as he shook hands with every one of them. “We'll have food and drinks for you inside, and I promise we’ll make it as brief as any military debriefing can be.”

  Annie Dewey wasn’t satisfied with just a handshake—when she got to Patrick and Rebecca, she gave each one of them an unabashed kiss on the lips. “You guys saved our butts,” she said. “I'll never be able to thank you enough.”