Orders of Magnitude (The Genie and the Engineer Series Book 2)

by Glenn Michaels

  Published through Amazon.com, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. The personalities, characters and people herein are purely products of the author’s overactive imagination which was ensnared in the grip of nightmares in the wee hours of the night. Any resemblance of the characters herein to real people, either living or dead, should be a cause of serious concern for their welfare and a critical indication of their need for immediate professional therapy. (Just those that are still breathing, of course.)

  Engineer – Wizard

  Orders of Magnitude

  December 2015 printing

  Text copyright © 2015 Glenn Michaels

  Cover Design by Katie Griffin

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Purchase only authorized editions.

  Works by Glenn Michaels

  Genie and the Wizard

  The Engineer Wizard

  Orders of Magnitude

  Dedication:

  To our son, Jarrett

  June 10, 1985 to October 7, 2015

  College graduate, accountant, composer, pianist, guitarist, air-soft competitor, fluent in three languages, conversant in two more, basketball player, mountain-biker, Iron-man marathon athlete, teller of endless Dimitri jokes, and much much more.

  You took the music with you. We miss you.

  Glenn Michaels

  Author’s notes:

  Please note that this book, Engineer Wizard: Orders of Magnitude, is the sequel to The Engineer Wizard. It is not necessary to read the first book before reading this one but it is highly recommended. This book picks up where the last one left off and thus the first book lays out much of the background needed to appreciate the nuances of the events, plot, and characters of this one (at least for the first few chapters).

  In addition, a few of the first individuals who sent in nice emails complimenting the first book were offered the opportunity to have minor characters named after them here in the second one. A couple of them accepted the offer and they will find their namesakes included.

  Also, readers should be advised that, like the first book, there are quite a few sci-fi quotes, technical, scientific, and geographic references and historical figures. Therefore, readers are encouraged to check such information by way of their favorite web search engine.

  One other noteworthy caution: like the first book, this one is a blend of both urban fantasy and science-fiction. As such, it is betwixt and between, neither purely one nor the other. Please keep this in mind when delving into the pages herein.

  SECTION I

  TRAGEDIES

  ONE

  A dry desert lake bed

  106 miles southeast of Esfahan, Iran

  June

  Thursday 4:30 p.m. IRDT

  It was a bright warm sunny day, but former Lieutenant Colonel Grigory Kuzman of the Russian Air Forces, dressed in standard Iranian camouflage fatigues with the Safariflage DPM pattern, felt a chill deep in his bones.

  The Russian was tall, six-foot-four, and well-muscled at 220 pounds, with dirty blond hair cut short, a wide jaw, and large hands. Except for the jagged scar on one cheek, he was practically recruiting poster material.

  “How’s your cold?” ex-Starshina Leonid Burkov asked him, as he dropped into the trench beside Kuzman. By contrast, Burkov was short, thin, and wiry, though exceptionally strong. His hair, while also cut short, held tight jet-black curls. And that nose! Almost twice too large for his small face.

  Grigory lowered his binoculars and turned to face his longtime friend and business associate. “The worst I’ve had in ten years. My head feels as if it will explode any minute now.”

  “When those sinuses start to drain, you are going to need a box of tissues close by,” was Burkov’s wry observation. He raised his own set of binoculars to scan the sky. “It shouldn’t be long now. Omar just got word from the pilot. He’s on his approach run.”

  “That’s good. The sooner this is over with, the sooner we can get back to civilization.” Kuzman glanced around, noting that no one else was close by at that particular moment, either in the trench or out of it. “The set up here is wrong. I can feel it. You better have your—you know what—ready, just in case.”

  Burkov took a brief glimpse around as well. “It’s funny that you said that, I was about to make the same comment to you.”

  Whatever else Kuzman might have said was interrupted by the arrival of Omar.

  “Well, gentlemen it won’t be very long now,” the terrorist leader said as he dropped into the trench beside the two of them, a portable radio in his hand. “What a glorious day it is for a bombing! However, I’m sure the two of you would like to have this done and over with so you can go on to other profitable ventures.”

  Kuzman did not bother to reply but simply nodded and raised his binoculars back to his eyes.

  “There,” said Burkov, pointing to the northeast.

  The glint of sunlight from the late afternoon sun could be seen reflecting off a metal object high in the sky above them. Through their binoculars, they could clearly see the slow lumbering approach of the Hercules C-130C aircraft. Now they could hear it too, the droning of the aircraft’s engines far off in the distance.

  Kuzman swung left and snapped another quick examination of the target area through his binoculars. The assemblies of wood, aluminum piping, and sandbags scattered around the location looked decidedly out of place here in the middle of the desert, not to mention the irregular placement of life-sized dummies and the peculiar metal posts sticking vertically out of the ground. From what he could see, everything appeared to be in readiness, and the area had been cleared of all personnel—not that it would make any difference at this point. Omar would not postpone the test for the mere life of one of the Iranian soldiers in his charge. If anyone was still in the target zone at this point—what did the Americans call it? Yes, a stupid tax. How appropriate. Kuzman himself could care less about the target area or the soldiers either. His major concern was the cargo about to be dropped by the approaching plane.

  The C-130C dropped lower in the sky. Kuzman could not see it from this angle, but he knew that the rear cargo door would be wide-open now, the pallet sitting on skids ready to be pushed out.

  The plane now thundered by overhead, a huge object dropping from the rear, tumbling slowly in the late afternoon sun. As the plane scurried away, a drogue chute deployed from the package, slowing its fall through the air, aiming for the target area more than half a mile away.

  “Heads up! Fire in the hole!” yelled Omar at the top of his lungs. Up and down the trench, men hunkered down, hands over their ears. Kuzman and Burkov followed suit, not willing to risk exposure to the blast that was about to take place.

  The bomb was still two hundred feet off the ground when the first detonation went off. The charge blew liquid contents in all directions, thoroughly distributing the fuel over a very wide area.

  “Allahu Akbar!” screamed Omar.

  Then the second and much larger detonator exploded, igniting the mixture of fuel and air for a thousand feet in all directions.

  The ground beneath them heaved savagely, knocking all of them flat. The shockwave followed by the blast was deafening, and despite his fingers in his ears, Kuzman felt a sharp pain stabbing both sides of his head. The wind howled over their heads, sand blasting over the trench with incredible force. For a mome
nt, he feared that he had miscalculated and, despite their distance, that the trench was too close to the blast. Indeed, he suddenly found it too difficult to breathe with the depletion of oxygen in the air and all the dust swirling around him.

  But then the ground stopped shaking and the noise faded slowly away. He came staggering out of the trench coughing, his eyes stinging from all the dust and smoke. As soon as he could wipe away the grime and see again, he noted the presence of Burkov at his side.

  “Don’t get me wrong, gentlemen,” Burkov noted with that wiry sense of humor of his, “and perhaps it is a bit premature, but I would hazard a guess that our test was at least partially successful.”

  • • • •

  The Hercules had landed and the sun was now set. The desert night sky was brilliant with stars, the Milky Way Galaxy peeking well over the southeastern horizon. The moon was not present and would not rise until well after midnight, but the stars all by themselves were bright enough to cast a few shadows across the landscape.

  Kuzman and Burkov were standing in the outline of a set of landing lights, not far from the open door of a French Dassault Falcon 20. The business jet sat on the desert sand, one of its engines idling in readiness to leave. The two men were most anxious to go up the ladder, but a large-framed Iranian guard of the Quds Special forces would not allow them to board the aircraft. They were therefore waiting on Omar to finish with his inspections of the blast site.

  “What you think?” Burkov asked nervously. “Is he going to pay us what he owes us? Is he even going to let us leave here alive?”

  “Both good questions,” agreed Kuzman. “We should never have agreed for both of us to come observe the test.”

  “He insisted, remember?” Burkov reminded his friend. “Just in case anything needed our personal attention, he said.”

  “How convenient,” noted Kuzman sarcastically.

  “How long are we going to have to wait?” Burkov asked, fidgeting.

  “No longer, my friends,” boomed the voice of Omar from out of the darkness as he approached, entering the edge of the lighted area. “I have finished my preliminary inspections. The rest will have to wait until tomorrow, when we have full daylight again.” The terrorist laughed happily. “Your bomb obviously worked as designed. Congratulations, gentlemen! The target area and everything in it was totally obliterated! It was everything that you promised. Perhaps even more so than I expected. You have done us a great service!”

  “So we can go back to base now?” Burkov asked. “And you will pay us the rest of what you owe us?”

  Omar laughed in reply. “I understand your concerns, gentlemen. I’m afraid I must admit they are well-founded. I can’t let you go back, knowing what you know. I apologize for that, gentlemen. It is not civilized. But it is the way that it must be.”

  “I knew it!” growled Burkov.

  “Steady, old friend,” Kuzman hissed before turning back to Omar. “Killing us is not necessary. We are professionals. How long do you think we could stay in business if we revealed anything about our client’s business affairs?”

  “I am sorry. I simply cannot take the chance,” the terrorist leader replied. “And if you knew what we intend to do with the other detonators that you designed and built for us, as well as the bomb design you’ve kindly provided us, then you probably would tell the Zionists or the Americans.”

  “Nyet,” Kuzman protested angrily. “We left enough information in a secret and secure location, in case something like this happened. You would be wise to let us go and pay us what you owe us. Let us pretend that this conversation never took place. Vy soglasny?”

  “No, I do not,” Omar replied with great sadness. “Your secure location? A former senior sergeant Zubov, perhaps? He has already been quietly dealt with. I think the code phrase you used was ‘when the rich make war, it’s the poor that die.’ That’s if everything worked out as planned, right? Now, what was the distress code phrase again? Ah, yes, ‘when pigs begin to fly.’ Yes, that was it.”

  Kuzman turned bright red in anger and fear.

  “A former client of yours told us all of that, gentlemen,” Omar quietly confessed to them in a firm voice. “You really should have changed your operational procedures from time to time, you know.” Then turning, he shouted something in Arabic and four men of the Quds Special Forces magically appeared from out of the dim starlit night. “Take these two men out into the desert, away from the aircraft. Make their deaths as quick and as painless as possible. Oh, and take two shovels with you. Bury the bodies in decent graves. We owe them at least that much for what they have done for us, understand? Good, now go.”

  “Go with Allah, now, gentlemen,” Omar shouted, as the four soldiers pulled the two Russians away from the plane and out into the darkness.

  Burkov mumbled curses with every step, stumbling as he went, his eyes not yet adjusted to the starlight lit landscape. The Iranians kept shoving him and Kuzman along in the darkness at every opportunity. Kuzman kept silent, his thoughts running madly through his head, planning the next several steps in advance, gauging his timing and actions carefully. Two against four and those four were Special Forces. With a grin, he realized that the odds were stacked in his and Burkov’s favor. The Iranians just didn’t know it yet.

  What the Iranians also didn’t know was that both Burkov and he were armed. Back when they had first arrived in Iran, both they and their luggage had been thoroughly searched for contraband and they weren’t carrying weapons at that time. But both Burkov and Kuzman were old veterans to this type of operation. Neither felt comfortable operating in an unfriendly country like Iran without any means of defense.

  Using his rather extensive connections in the Middle East, in this case in Iran itself, Kuzman had arranged for a dead drop right at the airbase they were staying at. Both of them were now carrying concealed weapons. In a strap-on sheath beneath his right trouser leg was a Spetsnaz NRS-2 knife with a built in silenced gun. True, it was a small caliber bullet with a muzzle velocity of only 460 feet per second and therefore with a low stopping power. But it was very quiet.

  In a concealed hip holster beneath his shirt, he also carried a Bond Arms Backup 45ACP, a single action derringer weighing only 18 oz and it was just 4.5 inches long. Burkov was similarly armed.

  In the dim starlight, the Russian ex-Colonel could barely see the outlines of the Iranian soldiers. A hundred yards away from the light of the planes, he decided that the conditions were right. Feigning a violent sneeze as a signal to Burkov, Kuzman dropped sharply to the ground and yanked the Spetsnaz knife free of its scabbard.

  Then he went to work.

  In seconds, it was over and he stood, knife in hand, breathing hard, his heart racing from the adrenaline surge.

  Burkov was standing a few yards away, his arms across his chest. “What took you so long, old man?”

  “It’s the head cold. It’s affecting my sense of balance,” Kuzman snapped back, as he reached down to snag a pistol, a variant of the Swiss SIG Sauer P226, from one of the guards lying motionless on the ground. “Come on, we’ve got a plane to catch.”

  • • • •

  At the plane, Kuzman went around the aircraft’s nose to provide a distraction to the guard at the plane’s door while Burkov scampered beneath the fuselage, aiming for the guard’s back. But the guard reacted abnormally fast. In the light of the landing fixtures, the guard recognized Kuzman’s face and caught sight of the blood stains on the Russian’s shirt. The Quds Force soldier swung his Heckler & Koch G3 rifle sharply around and stepped away from the plane, out of Burkov’s reach. With a curse, Kuzman threw his knife, aiming for the guard’s right shoulder.

  The knife rattled off the G3 instead, throwing off the rifle’s aim. When the weapon fired, the 7.62 mm bullet impacted Kuzman’s right shoulder instead.

  Then Burkov, now far enough under the plane, fired his captured P226 twice, instantly taking down the Iranian soldier. He scrambled to his feet and rushed to Kuzman’s
side, the ex-Colonel now down on his knees and gripping his right arm hard with his left.

  “Now who’s the slow one,” Kuzman grumbled between his gritted teeth.

  “We can trade insults later, Colonel,” Burkov joked. “Those shots were heard, I’m sure. Let’s get you on the plane.”

  Helping Kuzman to his feet, Burkov shoved his gun into Kuzman’s left hand and slung an arm around the other man’s waist, supporting his weight as they hobbled over to the stair ramp. Kuzman grunted in pain with every step.

  At the ramp, Kuzman leaned up against the edge of the stairs, breathing heavily, wincing with every breath. Burkov backed up the ramp, leaning outward in order to pull his associate up and through the doorway. But another shot rang out and Burkov, with a surprised look on his face, fell off of the steps, landing flat on his face on the desert sand.

  Kuzman looked up and saw an Iranian, wearing a pilot’s hat, framed in the plane’s doorway, peering outward, gun in hand.

  Angered and without hesitation, Kuzman swung his P226 up and fired three times. The pilot fell back into the plane and out of Kuzman’s line of sight.

  There were now shouts in the blackness of the night behind them, cries of alarm. There wasn’t much time. Kuzman leaned down to Burkov and struggled to roll the man’s body over. That accomplished, he checked for a pulse, first in the wrist and then at the neck. Nothing. The sightless open eyes convinced him of Burkov’s true condition and Kuzman groaned in sudden heartbroken distress.

  “I am very sorry, old friend,” he muttered, tears forming in his eyes.

  The cries of alarm were getting closer and he struggled to get back to his feet. Waves of dizziness assaulted him, but he forced himself up the ladder and into the plane.