by Dale Brown
his talents from his superiors. More than anything else, that made his career complete.
"I'll bet you are," Peterson said, smiling and giving Samson a wink. He invited the two to sit down, then offered them cigars. "Heck, we don't use the battle
staff room for anything these days except when you jokers from Dreamland come wandering back to the real world," he said, "so I turned it back into a smoking-okay room. I know it doesn't jibe with the smokefree Air Force, but what the hell." At that, both Samson and McLanahan lit up. "So you want to take a look at the Backfire, huh? You guys going to start flying them up there in Dreamland nowT'
"Maybe," Samson replied. "They might be the only longrange intercontinental bombers in NATO pretty soon." "What are you talking about, Earth-?" Peterson stopped,
his jaw dropping open and a curl of smoke escaping. "Holy shit. The rumors are true? The United States will leave NATO? Leave Europe?" Samson nodded. "Do you have details?"
"Not many I can share with you right now," Samson replied. "American units will leave European bases by attrition, which means that units will slowly draw down over time until they become non-mission effective, at which time they'll close down. A few units, especially those involved in treaty obligation duties, will be replaced with Reserve and National Guard units until the treaties can be renegotiated."
"This is incredible!" General Peterson shouted. "The United States will simply leave Europe? Ignore sixty years of partnership in maintaining the peace and simply go home?"
"Afraid so," Samson said. "There are already bills before Congress authorizing our withdrawal from NATO, but the President has said he will cut off nonessential funding for overseas units. When they run out of money and can't fulfill their missions, they'll go back to the States. Funding for NATO itself will draw down over five years."
"Wow" was all Peterson could say. He shook his head. "What about the other rumors? The Army ... T'
"Slash and bum," Samson said. "No troops stationed overseas?"
"How about no active duty Army combat troops ... any-
where," Samson said. "None. The only active duty Army will be administrative, support, research, training, and special operations. The rest will be Army Reserve and National Guard only, with no overseas bases on non-U.S.-owned territory. If the country needs an army, the President will have to go before Congress and ask for it, and Congress will have to come up with the money. The only forward-deployed infantry troops will be Marine Corps expeditionary forces serving afloat, and Guard and Reserve forces on training days."
"My God. What is Thorn smoking? Is he crazy? The American people will revolt against him. Europe will be ripe for the picking."
"That remains to be seen," Samson said. "Anyway, we start gearing up for more long-range missions. We're going to start seeing a lot more foreign air forces here at Nellis training with our guys, because now they have to be responsible for defending their own territories as not only the frontline force, but the sustaining force until the U.S. gears up and deploys the Reserves. HAWC is interested in the tactical and strategic bombers, and right now, that's the Backfires and any other forces that can carry standoff weapons. We want to see how the Ukraine stacks up against the Turkish Air Force."
"Judging by Smoliy's and Sivarek's personal relationship, I'd say we're going to have a wild time in the ranges in the next few weeks," Peterson said. He studied Samson for a moment over his cigar, then turned to Patrick and asked, "You going to be playing along with them? Get some of your supersecret toys up there? Mix it up a little with them?"
"What supersecret toys are you referring to, sir?" Patrick asked, then masked his smile with a cloud of aromatic cigar smoke.
"Ah, don't give me that brainwashed bullshit, Muck," Peterson said, with a laugh. "All I ask is that if you want to play on my ranges, brief the crews as much as possible on the performance parameters of whatever you'll put up against them. You don't have to give away any secrets-just a heads-up so no one gets hurt. This is still a training environment. I don't want these guys thinking we're chasing them across the sky with UFOs or something."
"Deal," Patrick said.
Peterson shook his head again, then took a deep drag from his cigar. "No Army. The cockroaches are going to be taking over the kitchen now for sure."
Later that evening, several Nellis Security Force officers escorted two U.S. Air Force officers into the isolated revetment area on the east side of Nellis
Air Force Base, away from the main parking ramp, where the two Ukrainian Tu-22M Backfire bombers were parked. Already there beside one of the bombers was General Roman Smoliy. He was puffing away on a cigar impatiently as the two officers approached.
"Hey, Harniy! Pretty lady captain!" Smoliy greeted Annie Dewey. "I did not expect you tonight-I expect you to be dancing all night with my men. I told them all about you and those gentle, talented hands of yours."
Annie Dewey approached Smoliy, and she and the officer with her saluted. Smoliy returned the salute with the butt end of his cigar. "It is too late, and I am too relaxed, for protocols," he said. He turned his attention to the other officer and said, "If you don't mind, Colonel, I want to be with my men tonight. It has been a long day."
Colonel David Luger said nothing, but stared back at Smoliy, then up at the big Tupolev-22M Backfire bomber behind him. "This won't take long, General. I promise."
"Good, good," Smoliy said. He studied Luger carefully for a moment, his eyes narrowing, then looking askance as if trying to dredge up some long-forgotten images in his mind. He looked again at Luger, opened his mouth, closed it. Luger looked back at him, then removed his garrison cap. Smoliy gulped, his mouth and eyes opening wide in surprise, and he gasped, "Idi k yobanay matiri. - - "
"Da, General," Luger replied in casual, remarkably fluent Russian. "Dobriy vyechyeer On zassal yimu mazgi. "
Annie Dewey turned to David in surprise. "I didn't know you spoke Russian-"
"Ozerov," Smoliy gasped. "Ivan Ozerov. You're here? Here in America? In an American military uniform?" David Luger
swallowed hard. He hadn't heard that name in years-but it was his, all right.
Luger was a fifteen-year Air Force veteran from Amarillo, Texas. His aeronautical engineering background and expertise in computers, systems design, and advanced systems design, along with his years as a B-52 bomber navigator-bombardier, had made him one of the most sought-after aviation project leaders in the world. If Dave Luger were a civilian, he would certainly be a vice president of Boeing or Raytheon, or an undersecretary of defense at the Pentagon ... and if it hadn't been for the Redtail Hawk incident, he might be head of an Air Force laboratory.
But in 1988, following a secret B-52 bombing raid engineered by the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center against a ground-based laser site in the Soviet Union, Luger had been left for dead on a snow-covered runway in Siberia, then captured and brainwashed while being nursed back to health by the KGB. For five years, he had been forced to use his engineering brilliance to build the next generation of Soviet long-range bombers.
To the U.S. military and intelligence community, David Luger had been a traitor. The CIA had thought he was nothing more than an AWOL U.S. Air Force B-52 bombardier that had deserted and joined the other side. The security level at the High Technology Aerospace Center was so high that no one, even the CIA, knew Luger had been on the EB-52 Old Dog bombing raid against the Kavaznya laser site or that he had been left behind at the Siberian air base at Anadyr and presumed dead; the cover story, devised by the previous director of HAWC, General Brad Elliott, had stated that Luger had died in a crash of a top-secret experimental aircraft. The CIA knew that Luger was in the Soviet Union, and assumed he had defected. All they really knew was that a highly intelligent Air Force Academy grad, American citizen, B-52 crew member, and member of a top-secret weapons research -group with an advanced degree and a top-secret security clearance, had been advancing the state of the art in Russian long-range bombing technology by an entir
e generation.
He had been discovered and rescued by Patrick McLanahan
and a special combined Air Force-Marine Corps Intelligence Support Agency operations team called Madcap Magician just before the CIA had been going to carry out plans to terminate him, at the same time averting a certain all-out war between the newly independent Baltic states and a resurgent Soviet-style military government in Russia. It had taken another five years to deprogram,
rehabilitate, and return Luger to his life as an American aviator and expert aerospace engineer.
He'd made it back, fully reintegrated into the supersecret world at Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake, Nevada, home of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center. He'd won his promotion to full colonel after years of dedicated work, both in his personal and professional life, and had successfully managed to drive the years of torture out of his consciousness. But now, with the arrival of the Tupolev-22M Backfire bomber and its commander, Roman Smoliy, the awful horrors were back ...
... because Roman Smoliy, then a young bomber pilot with the Soviet Air Force assigned to the Fisikous Research and Technology Institute in Vilnius, Lithuania, had been one of Luger's chief tormentors.
"Ozerov? Who's Ozerov?" Annie asked. "Dave, what's going on?"
"It's not Ivan Ozerov, General, it's David Luger," he said, ignoring Annie, letting his eyes bore angrily into Smoliy's. "I was never Ivan Ozerov. Ozerov was an invention by a sadistic KGB officer at Fisikous who tortured me for five fucking years."
1-1 didn't know!" Smoliy stammered. "I did not know you were an American."
"You thought I was some kind of egghead goofball genius, sent to Fisikous to try to tell you how to fly a Soviet warplane," David said. "You took every opportunity to make my life miserable, just so you could be the strutting hotshot pilot."
"Dave, let's get out of here," Annie said, a thrill of fear shooting up and down her spine. "You're really scaring me." "Why are you doing this, Colonel?" Smoliy asked, pleading
now. "Why are you haunting me now? Everything is different.
Fisikous no longer exists. The Soviet Air Force no longer exists. You are here in your own country-2'
"I just wanted you to know that it was me, General," Luger said acidly. "I wanted you to know that I'll never forget what you and the other bastards at Fisikous did to me."
"But I did not know-"
"As far as you knew, I was a Russian aerospace engineer," David said. "But I was weaker than you, weak from the drugs and the torture and the mind-control crap they subjected me to for so long. I was one ofyou, for all you knew, and you still shit all over me!" He stepped toward the big Ukrainian officer and said, "I will never forgive, and I will never forget, Smoliy, you sadistic bastard. You're in my homeland now."
He turned on a heel and walked away. Annie looked at Smoliy in complete and utter confiision, then ran after Luger. "David, wait."
"I'm outta here, Annie."
"What is going on? Where do you know him from? Fisikous? Lithuania? How could you know him from an old Soviet research center?"
They went back to the staff car. Luger said nothing for a long while, until they were outside the front gate at Nellis. "Annie ... Annie, I was at Fisikous. Years ago. I ... Christ, I can't tell you."
"Can't tell me? You were at a top-secret Soviet research center, and you can't tell me how or why?" Annie asked incredulously. "David, you can't keep a secret like this between us. It's obviously something deeply personal, hurtful, even ... even. . ."
"Psychological '? Emotional?" David said. "Annie, it goes far deeper than that, way deeper. But I can't tell you yet. I'm sorry I brought you along."
-You brought me along because we share, Dave," she said. "We Ire together. It's not you and me anymore, it's us. You asked me along because you thought you needed my support. I'm here for you. Tell me what I can do for you. Let me in." She paused, then asked, "Does it have to do with that Megafortress memorial in the classified aircraft hangar? The
Kavaznya mission? Those charts, your flight jacket with the blood on it, the story General McLanahan told us?"
"I can't, Annie," was all Luger could say. "I ... I'm sorry, but I can't."
"Can't ... or won't?"
He had no answer, no more words for her the rest of the evening. He was silent as he walked her to her apartment door, then as she kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand good-bye.
Metyor Aerospace Center nG headquarters, zhukovsky Air Bass, Moscow, laussian Federation The next morning
"Thank you for coming, Comrade Kazakov," Pyotr Fursenko said, extending a hand in greeting. "Welcome to your facility." Pavel Kazakov had arrived at the Metyor Aerospace Center
facility very late in the evening, after the swing shift had gone home and the factory and administration building maintenance workers had finished. He was accompanied by two aides and three bodyguards, all with long sealskin coats. When they set off the metal detectors built into the doorway in the rear of the administration facility, but kept right on walking alongside Kazakov, Fursenko knew they were heavily armed. Kazakov himself was dressed casually, as if he had left his home for a walk around his estate-he resembled many of the swing-shift engineers or middle managers at the plant, working late in the office.
"So, what is so important that you needed me to come at this hour, eenzhenyer?" Kazakov asked. His voice was stem, but in fact he was nervous with anticipation.
"I thought very long and hard about the things we spoke about when we met, Comrade," Fursenko said. "Someone needs to punish the butchers who killed your father and my son in Prizren."
Kazakov looked around the first hangar they entered. The huge forty-thousand-square-foot hangar, its ceiling over fifty feet high, was in immaculate condition, clean, well-lit, and freshly painted-and completely empty. The young financier
was visibly disappointed, growing angry. "You, Doctor?" Kazakov asked. "With this? What do you intend to do? Invite them all here for a game of volleyball?"
"Crush them," Fursenko said. "Destroy them, exactly the same way they destroyed our family members-swiftly, silently, in one night."
"With what, Doctor? I see a bucket and a mop in that corner and a lamp on that security desk. Or do those things transform themselves into weapons at your command?"
"With this, Comrade," Fursenko said proudly. He walked to the back of the hangar. The back wall was actually a separate hangar door, dividing the massive building into a semi-secure and secure area. He swiped a security card, entered a code into a keypad, and pressed a button to open the second set of hangar doors.
What was inside made Pavel Kazakov gasp in surprise.
In truth, it was actually hard to see, because the aircraft was so thin. Its wing span was over one hundred and forty feet, but its fuselage and wings were so thin that it appeared to be floating in midair. The wings actually sweptforward-the wingtips were in line with the very nose of the aircraft. The wings swept back gracefully to a broad, flat tail, where the engine exhausts for the four afterburning jet engines were flat and razor-thin, like the rest of the aircraft. The aircraft stood tall on long, seemingly fragile tricycle landing gear. There were no vertical control surfaces-the tail area swept to a point and simply ended, with no visible flight control surfaces whatsoever.
"What ... is ... this thing?" Kazakov breathed.
"We call it Tyenee-'Shadow,' " Fursenko said proudly. "It was officially the Fisikous-179 stealth bomber that we built here at Metyor from plans, jigs, and molds we recovered before Fisikous was closed. Over the years we added many different enhancements to it to try to modernize it."
" 'Modernize it'?" Kazakov asked incredulously. "You don't call this 'modem'?"
"This aircraft is almost twenty years old, Comrade," Fursenko said. "It was one of my first designs. But back then, I simply did not have enough technical knowledge about stealth design versus aerodynamic requirements-I couldn't
make it fly and be stealthy at the same time. I worked on it for almost ten y
ears. Then Ivan Ozerov came along and made it fly in six months."
Kazakov stepped closer to the aircraft and examined it closely. "Where are
the flight control surfaces?" he asked. "Don't airplanes need things on the wings to make them turn?"
"Not this aircraft," Fursenko explained. "It uses microhydraulic actuators all over its surface to make tiny, imperceptible changes to the airflow across the fuselage, which create or reduce lift and drag wherever it's needed for whatever maneuver it is commanded to perform. We found we didn't need to hang spoilers or flaps or rudders into the slipstream to make it turn, climb, or fly in coordinated flight-all we needed to do was slightly alter the shape of a portion of the fuselage. The result: no need for any flight control surfaces in normal flight. That increases its stealthiness a hundredfold."
Pavel continued his walkaround of the incredible aircraft, eventually coming to the bomb bay. There were two very small bomb bays-they looked big enough for only a few large weapons. "These seem very small."
"Tyenee was just a technology demonstrator aircraft, so it was never really designed to have weapons bays at all-the bays were used for instrumentation, cameras, and telemetry equipment," Fursenko said. "But we eventually turned them back into weapons bays. They are large enough for just four two-thousand-pound-class weapons on each side, about sixteen thousand pounds total. There are external hardpoints under the wings for standoff weapons as well, which would be used before the aircraft got within enemy radar range. Tyenee also carries defensive weapons, built into the wing leading edges itself to reduce radar cross-section: four R-60MK heat-seeking air-to-air missiles, specifically designed for this aircraft." Kazakov looked, but he could not see the missile muzzles-they were that well-concealed.
They climbed a ladder up the side of the nose to the crew compartment. Despite the size of the aircraft, there were only two tandem ejection seats inside, and it was extremely cramped. Power had already been applied, and the thick bubble canopy had been slid back to its retracted position. The