Warrior Class

by Dale Brown

  Boriskov didn't like being pushed around by anyone-not someone calling themselves the Black Sea Alliance, not by a worthless politician, and especially not by a thug like Pavel Kazakov.

  Codlea, Romania The next morning

  "He let thein go?" Pavel Kazakov shouted into the secure satellite telephone. He was in his office at his secret base in central Romania, in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. "That damned destroyer captain was just a few miles away from my tanker, and he let them go?"

  "He did not 'let them go,' Pavel," Colonel-General Valeriy Zhurbenko, Chief of Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, retorted angrily, speaking from a secure communications room in the Kremlin. "He had six large aircraft with antiship cruise missiles bearing down on him. He had two choices-turn around as ordered, or get blasted out of the water. Besides, he thought there was nothing he could do-the terrorists set off an explosive on the tanker, and he thought it was on its way to the bottom of the Black Sea anyway."

  Kazakov turned angrily at his satellite television set, tuned to CNN. "Oh really? Then why am I watching the damned Turks off-loading nq oil onto their tankers in their harbor?" It was true: there was no fire or explosion on the tanker, at least not one set by the terrorists. Shortly after the Turkish Navy and Coast Guard had arrived on the scene, the tremendous fire in the forward hold had mysteriously disappeared; it had turned out it was in no danger of sinking after all. The tanker had continued under its own power, and pulled into the Turkish Navy base at Eregli. As if by magic, another tanker happened to be

  at anchor in the vicinity, empty of course, and it was pressed into service transferring oil to it from the Ustinov.

  The terrorists were nowhere to be seen.

  The stories of the Ustinov's crew were even more fantastic. There were only two terrorists, they claimed. They were invincible. Bullets bounced off them like spitballs. They carried no weapons. They shot lightning bolts from their eyes and carried rifles taller than a man that fired bullets as big as a sausage that could stop a ship many kilometers away.

  "What in hell is going on here?" Kazakov fumed. "I'm surrounded by cowards and incompetents. What is the government doing to get my tanker and my oil back? This amounts to an act of piracy on the high seas! That tanker was flying a Russian flag. What are you doing about it?"

  "The Supreme Tribunal is appealing to the World Court on your behalf, as a Russian citizen," Zhurbenko replied. "Unfortunately, your ship was struck

  and damaged by illegal activity-namely, the unauthorized discharge of a weapon-in Turkish treaty waters. That brought the matter up before the Turkish military. The vessel was clearly in danger of sinking, both by the terrorists' acts and the Russian Navy's actions, so the matter was again transferred to the Turkish Coast Guard, Minister of Commerce, and Director of Environmental Protection. There will certainly be a criminal and a military investigation."

  "This all sounds like bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo, General," Kazakov retorted. "When do I get my ship back? When do I get my oil back? That product is worth twenty-five million dollars!"

  "There is another matter, Pavel," Zhurbenko said. "And that is?"

  "You happen to be under indictment in Turkey for narcotics smuggling, murder, robbery, securities fraud, tax evasion, and a half-dozen other felony crimes," Zhurbenko said. "It is no secret that you own both the ship and the oil, so both have been seized by the Turkish courts because of your failure to appear in a Turkish court to answer charges against you."

  "What?" Kazakov shouted. "They can't do that!"

  "They can and they have," Zhurbenko said. "Your bond in

  all of your indictments equaled precisely five hundred million dollars, which is how much the ship and the oil are worth, so both have been seized by the Turkish courts."

  "I want you to get that ship and that oil back," Kazakov snapped. "I don't care what you have to do. Send in the military, send in Spetsnaz, kidnap the Turkish president-I don't care! Just get them back! I will not be thumb-tied by a bunch of Turkish lawyers and bureaucrats!"

  "The government has its own problems right now," Zhurbenko said. "In case you haven't noticed, the lid is exploding off our little deal. The taped conversations between Thorn and Sen*kov and between us at Metyor have been broadcast in a hundred countries and twenty languages around the world. When I ... when we leaked the details of the deal between Sen'kov and Thorn, we sealed our fate and Sen'kov's as well. No one is even paying any attention to the American president-the spineless popinjay has admitted everything, and the world loves him for sacrificing so much to rescue his men and women from the evil clutches of the Russians, or some such nonsense. All eyes are on us. And I think Sen'kov may have found a way to insulate himself from this whole mess-after all, he never gave any orders and never authorized any of this."

  "I have plenty to implicate Sen'kov," Kazakov said angrily. "I have bank records, wire transfers, and account numbers in seven banks around the world. I've paid him millions to get him to issue orders and deploy the army in my favor."

  "All his bank accounts are numbered, all anonymous," Zhurbenko said. "Not one of them points to Sen'kov. Besides, the Russian constitution prohibits Sen'kov from prosecution for anything he does while in office, and if the Durna tries to impeach him-which they will not do, he is too powerful for that--he can simply dissolve it. The worst that will happen to hirn is he'll be accused of being a dupe. It is I and the others in his cabinet and security council that will go to prison."

  As if to punctuate Zhurbenko's words, the images on CNN shifted to demonstrators outside German and Russian embassies around the world, from Albania to Moscow, from Norway to South Africa, protesting the actions of the German and Russian armies in the Balkans. The entire world now feared a

  Russo-Gen-nan Axis alliance, another attempt to occupy all of Europe, and

  perhaps even a third world war-but this time, with no help from the United States expected, a successful one.

  All this, CNN said, because of Pavel Kazakov and his bloodthirsty greed. Kazakov had once been feared for his reputation. Fear had been replaced by grudging respect for his entrepreneurial audacity and success. Now he was hated. He was the world's Public Enemy Number One. He could never walk anywhere in the real world, even with an army of bodyguards. Even without a reward on his head--and Pavel had no doubt one was soon going to be announced-he was not safe from anyone. Who wouldn't want to be known as the one who'd rid the world of such a monster?

  Kazakov's eyes grew narrow with anger, but slowly his logical mind took over from his emotions, and he started to devise a plan. "Then I assume," he asked sarcastically, "you are speaking to me from a private chartered aircraft taking you over the Mediterranean to some nameless African republic with no extradition treaty with the Russian Federation?"

  "I am not a rich drug-dealing bastard like you, Kazakov," Zhurbenko said. "I did all this for Russia. Yes, I took your money, and I hope I can get my wife and sons out of the country so they can enjoy it before the Interior Ministry takes away everything I own. But I did all this for mother Russia, to regain some of our lost power and influence around the world. I will not abandon my post or my country." '

  "Then I suppose you have to live with your decision, General," Kazakov said casually.

  "Oh, I can live with myself just fine, Pavel," Zhurbenko said. "Russia again has troops in the Balkans and throughout Wastern Europe-all legal, all sanctioned by the United Nations-the NATO alliance has been fractured, we have a powerful new ally in Germany, and Caspian oil is making my country rich. I am proud of what I've done for my country, Kazakov, even if I end up going to prison for it. The loss of your tanker and your million barrels of oil is of no consequence to me."

  "Then I think our business is at an end," Kazakov said. "You enjoy being a good little soldier in Lefortovo Prison. Re-

  member, if you drop the bar of soap in the shower, don't bend over to pick it up."

  Kazakov slammed the phone down so hard, he nearly bro
ke the receiver on his three-thousand-dollar satellite phone. He had tried to sound casual and flippant on the phone with Zhurbenko, as if the loss of half a billion dollars was no big deal for him, but in actuality it was a huge blow. Since he owned the oil from the well to the refinery, including the terminals all along the way, and since he had numerous "side deals" with the individual countries to transport the oil, none of his product or the ships that carried it across the Black Sea was insured-not that many companies around the world would sell insurance to a drug smuggler and gangster. In addition, his investors expected to be paid whether or not the oil made it to the pipeline, and that was seven and a half million dollars that bad to come out of his own pocket. There was no interest on this money, no grace period, and no declaring bankruptcy-it was either pay up or be hunted for the rest of his life.

  Further, the loss of one tanker by some shadowy, obviously powerful terrorist outfit-probably some CIA or SAS strike team-put the brakes on any more shipments on tankers bearing his name. That meant leasing other tankers, and that didn't come cheap. In any case, his oil was as much of a target as his tankers were, and shipping companies would either simply refuse to transport any Metyorgaz crude, or charge a hefty premium to do so, to compensate for the possibility of another terrorist attack.

  There was only one answer: divert the world's attention away from him and onto another topic.

  He left his private office and stormed out to the aircraft hangar. Although they continued to move the Metyor- 179 Tyenee from place to place on a regular basis, most of Metyor's known or suspected bases in Georgia, Kazakhstan, Russia, and Bulgaria were under heavy surveillance, so the base in Romania seemed to be the safest. He marched past the security guards and found Pyotr Fursenko standing in front of the Mt-

  179 stealth aircraft, worriedly discussing the streaks of black and gray on the leading edge-the internal missile launchers. "Doctor, get the aircraft ready to go tonight," he ordered.

  The technician Fursenko was talking to stepped away, thankful to get away from Pavel Kazakov. "We have some problems, sir," Fursenko said.

  "I'm not interested in problems right now, Fursenko, only action and results." Fursenko said nothing, only looked at the hangar floor. "Well? What is wrong now?"

  "There was more damage to the wing structure after the last missile launches-"

  "I thought you had that problem solved."

  "We could not reengineer the internal launcher system and still keep the plane operational and on around-the-clock alert as you wanted," Fursenko explained. "We could do nothing else but make minor repairs and impose operational limitations. The crew was restricted to firing internal missiles only in an emergency, after all other missiles were expended, only if the aircraft was in danger, and with a zero-point-eight Mach speed restriction, two-g acceleration, and five point zero angle-ofattack limits." Fursenko could tell that this flurry of aeronautical technospeak was giving his young boss a headache, so he quickly decided to conclude with more or less happy news: "But we have repaired the damage, and I think we can be ready to fly."

  "So if you had operational limitations, why was there damage to the wing?" Fursenko hesitated, and Kazakov guessed the reason. "Obviously, because Stoica and Yegorov violated the restrictions, is that correct?"

  "Their orders were to shoot down the patrol planes," Fursenko argued. "They did a very good job-"

  "They only got one bomber!"

  "Which is very good, considering the odds they were up against," Fursenko pointed out. "They faced four well-trained Turkish adversaries and managed to get two of them, maybe three."

  Kazakov looked up at the cockpit. Gennadi Yegorov was up there in the forward cockpit, making notes on a clipboard as the technicians tested electrical circuits, his head in a bandage. "What happened to Yegorov?"

  11 A slight concussion during some of their evasive maneuvers. The corpsman thinks he'll be fine."

  "And Stoica?"

  "Over there." Fursenko looked apprehensive. Kazakov saw Stoica nursing a cup of coffee, one hand covering his eyes. "I think he has a touch of flu. When will you give us a list of new targets, sir?"

  "Right away," Kazakov said. He stared angrily at Stoica and realized the bastard did not have the flu. "There will be two of them, both to be hit on the same night."

  "That is risky, sir," Fursenko said. "A heavy weapons load will mean using external weapon pylons-"

  "Why? You have the internal weapons bay. Two air-toground weapons, two targets."

  "That's risky, sir," Fursenko explained. "We typically plan on twice the number of weapons than necessary to ensure success of the mission-two targets, four weapons, in case of a miss or a weapons malfunction."

  "So then use the external pylons."

  "If we put air-to-ground missiles on an external pylon, it means we cannot put air-to-air missiles on a pylon because of weight restrictions. The air-to-ground weapons are much heavier than air-to-air weapons, and they have a narrower carriage envelope."

  "So'? Use the pylons and the weapons bay for offensive weapons, and the internal missiles for defense."

  "But we cannot use internal defensive missiles, sir," Fursenko said. "The damage-"

  "I thought you said you repaired the damage."

  "We have repaired the damage caused by launching missiles from the last mission, but we have not solved the underlying problem yet," Fursenko said. "And there is certainly much more damage to the wing that we can't see. I would caution against using any internal missiles at all except in an emergency, and to be extra safe I would advise not even to load missiles into the launchers."

  "I pay those men a lot of money to take certain risks, Doctor," Kazakov said flatly. "Besides, if it might help bring them and the aircraft back in one piece, I want it used. The missiles go on, but they are not to be used except in absolute emergencies-no chasine, after targets of opportunity. Issue the order." t,

  "But that leaves us with no defensive weapons to counter known threats," Fursenko argued. "We will need the external pylons both for defensive and

  for offensive weapons."

  "Fursenko, you are beginning to talk in circles," Kazakov said irritably. "First you say we cannot use internal missiles, and then you say we cannot do the mission unless we use intemals. What are you really saying, Doctor? Are you saying we cannot fly the aircraft?"

  "I ... I guess that's what I'm saying," Fursenko said finally. "It cannot be safely used without extensive inspection and repair."

  Pavel Kazakov seemed to accept this bit of news. He nodded, then seemed to shrug his shoulders. "Then perhaps we will strike just one target," he said. "Will that satisfy you, Doctor? You can use the internal weapons bay for offensive weapons, and the pylons for defensive weapons."

  "Our other problem came with using external pylons, because using them greatly increases our radar cross-section and destroys our stealthiness," Fursenko explained. "If we only strike one target, we can still use the other two internal launchers for emergency use, and then use the internal bay for offensive weapons."

  Kazakov nodded again. "And what of Gennadi and Ion?" he asked. "Will they be all right?"

  "Gennadi seems to be well. He has been under close supervision, and seems to be suffering no effects of his concussion." Fursenko frowned at Stoica. "Ion ... we'll have to see how well he can recover. From the flu."

  Kazakov nodded. He looked at Yegorov, who was flipping switches and speaking on a headset to the technicians. "If we need to do a test flight, Gennadi can do it?"

  "Of course. Gennadi is a trained pilot and is almost as familiar with the Tyenee as Ion. We would substitute myself or one of the other technicians in the weapons officer's position for the test flight."

  "Excellent." Kazakov strolled over toward Stoica. The pilot did not stand or even acknowledge Kazakov's presence, just sat with his hand covering his eyes. "Ion? I hope you are feeling better. Is there anything I can do?"

  "I've done everything I can think of, Pavel," Stoica moane
d. A faint whiff of fortified wine caught Kazakov's nostrils. "I just need a little time so I can get my head together."

  "It'll take more than time to get your head together, Ion," Kazakov said. Stoica raised his head and looked at Kazakov through bloodshot eyes and was about to ask his boss what he meant when Kazakov pulled a SIG-Sauer P226 nine-millimeter pistol from a shoulder holster, held it to Stoica's forehead, and pulled the trigger. Half the contents of Stoica's skull splattered out onto the table, and his limp, lifeless body collapsed on top of the mess of brains, blood, and bone. Kazakov fired three more rounds into Stoica's eyes and mouth until his head was nothing more than a lump of gore.

  He turned back toward Fursenko, still holding the smoking pistol clenched in his fist, and wiped blobs of blood and bits of brain matter across his face until he wore a macabre death mask. "No more excuses from any of you!" he screamed. "No more excuseg! When I say I want a job done, you will do it! When I say I want a target destroyed, all the targets, you had better destroy them, or don't bother returning to my base! I don't care about safety, or malfunctions, or caution lights, or excuses, or danger. You do a job or you will die. Is that clear?

  "Fursenko, I want that aircraft airborne with as many weapons as you need to do the job, and I want it airborne tonight, or I will slaughter each and every one of you! And you will destroy both targets I give you, both of them, or don't bother coming back-in fact, don't even bother living anymore! Do I make myself clear? Now, get busy, all of you!"

  The White House Oval Office That same time

  The three Air Force general officers entered the Oval Office and stood quietly and unobtrusively along the wall, not daring to say a word or even make any sudden moves. They all expected the same thing: a major-league ass-chewing, thanks to Patrick McLanahan and his high-tech toys.