by Dale Brown
main flight, navigation, and aircraft systems readouts were on three large flat-panel monitors on the forward instrument panel, with a few tape-style analog gauges on each side. Kazakov immediately sat in the pilot's seat in front.
Fursenko knelt beside him on the canopy sill, explaining the various displays and controls. "The aircraft is electronically controlled by a side-stick controller on the right, with a single throttle control on the left instrument panel," Fursenko said. "Those four switches below it act as emergency backup throttles."
"It seems as if there are no controls to this plane," Kazakov commented. "No switches, no buttons?"
"Most all commands are entered either by voice, by eyepointing devices in the flight helmets where you choose items on the monitors, or by touching the monitors," Fursenko explained. "Most normal flight conditions are preprogrammed into the computer-the initial flight plan, all the targets, all the weapon ballistics. The pilot just has to follow the computer's directions, or simply let the autopilot fly the flight plan.
"The defensive and offensive systems are mostly automatic," he went on. "The aircraft will fly itself to the target, open the bomb doors, and release the correct weapon automatically. The bombardier in back normally uses satellite navigation, with inertial navigation as a backup, all controlled by computer. In the target area, he can use laser designators or imaging infrared sensors to locate the target and guide his weapons. The defensive weapons can be manually or computer-controlled. The bombardier also has electronic flight controls in the rear, although the aircraft does not require two pilots to operate successfully."
"This aircraft is amazing!" Kazakov exclaimed. "Simply amazing! I have never seen anything like it before in my life!" "The technology we use is at least ten years behind the
West," Fursenko said. "But it has been well tested and is solid, robust equipment, easy to maintain and very reliable. We are developing standoff attack and cruise missile technology that we hope someday will make Tyenee a most deadly weapon system."
"When can I fly it?" Kazakov asked. "Tomorrow. First thing
tomorrow. Get me your best test pilot and a flight suit. I want to fly it
as soon as possible. When can that be?"
"Never," Fursenko, said in a grave voice. "Never? What in hell do you mean?"
'This aircraft has never and will never be cleared for flight," Fursenko explained solemnly. "First, it is banned by international treaty. The Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty limits the number and specifications of nuclear weapon delivery systems that can be flown, and Tenee is not on the list. Second, it was never intended to be flown-it was a test article only, to be used for electromagnetic lobal propagation studies, stress and fatigue testing, weapon mating, wind tunnel testing, and computer-aided manufacturing techniques."
"But it can fly? You have flown it before?"
"We have made a few flight tests. . . ." Fursenko said. "Make it flyable," Kazakov said. "Do whatever you need to do, but make it flyable."
"We don't have the funding to-2'
"You do now," Kazakov interjected. "Whatever you need, you'll have. And the government need not know where you got the money."
Fursenko smiled-it was precisely what he'd hoped Kazakov would do. "Very well, sir," he said. "With funding for my engineers and builders, I can have Tyenee flying in six months. We can--2'
"What about weapons?" Kazakov asked. "Do you have weapons we can try on it?"
"We only have test shapes, weighted and with the exact ballistics of live weapons, but with-"
"I want real weapons on board this aircraft when it flies," Pavel ordered, as excited as a kid with a new model plane. "Offensive and defensive weapons both, fully functional. It can be Western or Russian weapons, I don't care. You'll get the money for whatever you can procure. Cash. L-ww trained crews, support crews, maintenance personnel, planners, intelligence officers-I want this aircraft operational. The sooner, the better."
"I was praying you'd want that, too," Fursenko exclaimed proudly. He turned to the mafioso in the left seat of his creation
and put a hand on his shoulder. "Comrade Kazakov, I have hoped this day would come. I have seen this aircraft stolen, nearly destroyed, nearly scrapped, and all but forgotten in the collapse of our country. I knew we had one of the world's ultimate weapons here. But all it has done in the past eight years is gather dust."
"No longer," Kazakov said. "I have plans for this monster. I have plans to make most of eastern Europe bow to the power of the Russian empire once again."
With myself at its head, he thought to himself. With no one but myself at the top.
Kazakov spent several hours at the facility with Fursenko. While they spoke, Kazakov was on the phone to his headquarters, requesting background information on key personnel involved in the Tyenee project. If they passed a cursory background examination-bank accounts, address, family, time of employment, criminal record, and Party affiliations-Kazakov arranged to speak with them personally. He was impressed with the level of excitement and energy in each member of the project. It all made sense to Kazakov: the only persons who would still be working at Metyor would be persons committed to the company, like Pyotr Fursenko, since other firms in Europe were certainly busier and the future looked brighter than here.
The most impressive man in the entire facility beside Fursenko himself was the chief pilot--currently the only fulltime pilot at Metyor-Ion Stoica. born 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,,mvou can, but you must maintain absolute secrecy--even fi.
-om theovernment. 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 d
ay 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 11G." 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." C. "They will not cooperate because Pavel Kazakov is a lying,
eating, 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. tact the Bulgarian and Macedonian development
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 threat-
ening 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 the 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 strongann 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, at-