Oblivion and poverty — not exactly attractive prospects, he thought coldly as he made his farewell to Remizov and left the vast Tupolev factory. Which made it much easier to contemplate taking a very different path in life. And imagining how the course of action he was now considering would have horrified his father — always so rigidly attentive to his duty — made it even more appealing.
A couple of hours outside Kazan, Petrov swung his IRBIS touring motorbike off the crowded highway and onto a narrow, tree-lined road. He opened the throttle, smoothly accelerating as the track curved back to the west. The sensation of speed as trees flashed past, more blurs than distinct shapes, was exhilarating. Through openings in the woods on his right, he caught glimpses of an enormous stretch of dark blue water, the vast Cheboksary Reservoir created by damming the Volga River. Off on the left, wheat and barley fields surrounded small farming villages. Apart from a couple of old tractors trundling across the fields and faded clothes drying outside rundown cottages, there were few signs of people.
A few kilometers farther on, he slowed and pulled in behind a silver-gray late model Mercedes sedan parked just off the road. Dismounting, he stripped off his helmet and unzipped his jacket. Even in the shade provided by the trees, the summer heat was oppressive.
At his approach, the driver of the Mercedes slid out from behind the wheel. With a silent nod, he opened the sedan’s rear door. A slight bulge in the man’s dark business jacket revealed the presence of a shoulder holster.
Petrov raised an eyebrow. So even here in this rural backwater, his host felt the need for a bodyguard. Perhaps such vigilance was an inevitable by-product of the acquisition of great wealth. If so, he thought with satisfaction, he might someday soon learn the value of caution himself.
He slid into the back of the air-conditioned Mercedes and nodded politely to the older, heavier-set man waiting there. “Everything is on track,” he said confidently.
“There were no problems at the factory?”
Petrov shrugged. “The Tupolev guys are pissed, but no one’s willing to stick his neck out to protest openly.”
“They are wise,” the older man said, with the hint of an icy smile of his own. Dmitri Grishin was one of Russia’s most powerful oligarchs, a man who had made his fortune through close ties to Moscow’s political, industrial, and defense elites. Either on his own or through intermediaries, he owned significant stakes in many of the nation’s most successful and profitable enterprises. “Our president does not appreciate having his decisions questioned.”
“Fortunately for us,” Petrov agreed, matching the oligarch’s wry expression. His eyes narrowed. “What about the other elements of our special project? Are they moving ahead?”
Grishin nodded smoothly. “My people have everything well in hand. They’ve found a valley deep in the wilderness in Alaska that’s perfect for our purposes. All will be ready when you are.”
“What about the Americans?” Petrov asked. “Is there a chance they could stumble across your team at work?”
The oligarch shook his head. “Relax, Colonel. The Alaskan wilderness is enormous and almost entirely uninhabited. I doubt anyone’s even visited the site we’ve found since the end of the last Ice Age, more than twelve thousand years ago. The Americans won’t see a thing.”
Reassured, Petrov slid back out of the Mercedes and then leaned back in. “Until the snows fall, then.”
“And the icy winds blow,” Grishin agreed. He glanced up at the younger man. “Fly safe, Colonel. We both have a lot at stake here.”
Petrov shot him a grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the PAK-DA prototype like it was my very own.”
Moments later, as he stood watching the limousine pull away, Petrov felt a sudden stab of pain lance through his left temple. “Fuck,” he muttered. He’d been resolutely ignoring a mild headache since leaving the Tupolev plant. But now it was getting worse. Frowning, he fumbled out a couple of aspirin tablets from a packet in one of his pockets and then pulled out a stainless steel hip flask. Embossed with the badge of the Soviet Union’s Red Air Force, it was the one item he’d inherited from his father that he genuinely valued.
Impatiently, he downed the aspirin with a swig of vodka and then recapped the flask. This was no time for illness. Not when he was so close to making sure that he would be the one everyone remembered in the future.
One
Its shadow lost among jagged black peaks and spires of hardened lava, the dark gray U.S. Air Force HH-60W Jolly Green II helicopter flew low across the desolate wastes of southern Libya. Specially designed for service with CSAR (combat search and rescue) squadrons and named in honor of the HH-3E Jolly Green Giant made famous during Vietnam War rescue missions, this was the newest variation of Sikorsky’s versatile UH-60 Black Hawk series. Like its predecessor aircraft, the HH-60G Pave Hawk, the Jolly Green II was equipped with a hoist and retractable midair refueling probe. But upgraded avionics, engines, weapons, armor, and larger fuel tanks dramatically increased its capabilities, including extending its unrefueled range to more than seven hundred miles.
The helicopter’s nose dropped sharply, descending fast as it sped down a bleak slope of black volcanic rock and sand. Along the horizon to the southwest, the terrain shifted dramatically — morphing into a seemingly endless, golden-orange sea of Saharan sand dunes. Heat waves rippled across a landscape baked by the harsh rays of the desert sun high overhead.
Seated behind the HH-60’s cockpit and facing outward, Captain Nicholas Flynn felt his stomach floating as the helicopter raced downslope at more than 160 knots. Through the cabin window in front of him, he caught blurred glimpses of massive boulders zipping past not more than a few feet below. That only increased the sensation of uncontrolled speed. He swallowed hard and crossed his arms over the straps holding him in his seat. “Oh, what fun,” he muttered, realizing too late he was on the intercom.
“What’s the matter, Nick?” the cheerful voice of the pilot, Captain Scott “FX” Dykstra, asked through his headset. “Don’t like flying?”
Through gritted teeth, Flynn shot back, “Flying, I don’t mind. I just prefer my sky with a little less ground in it.”
Dykstra chuckled. “See, there’s where I gotta disagree with you.” The helicopter banked hard left and then right again, as he steered around a massive ledge of basalt jutting out at an angle from the softer soils around it. “Clouds are pretty and all, but high altitude’s a happy hunting ground for hostile interceptors and missiles. Down here just above the dirt is the sweet spot, where any bad guys only get a couple of seconds to react before we scoot on past and out of sight.”
“Oh, I understand the theory,” Flynn said, bracing himself as the HH-60 slewed sharply upward again and then leveled out a hundred feet off the desert floor. “It’s the practice that scares the shit out of me.”
A new voice came on the intercom circuit. This one belonged to Technical Sergeant Carl Zalewski, one of the two PJs, or pararescue jumpers, riding with him in the Jolly Green II cabin. “Please tell me you’re not being literal, sir. Our guys just washed this bird before we took off from El Minya. If we bring it back all dirty, they’re gonna be seriously upset.”