Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (21 page)

 
          
“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 Tyenee 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—”

 
          
“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—”

 
          
“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. I want 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, 1 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. Bom
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 as you
can, but you must maintain absolute secrecy—even from the government. 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 day 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 IIG.” 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.”

 
          
“They
will not cooperate because Pavel Kazakov is a lying, cheating, 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. Contact the Bulgarian and Macedonian development ministries, 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.”