"I mean," Gregory continued, "I mean… that's like hundred megawatts of new power. Jesus, what if they made a breakthrough? How hard is it to find out what's happening there?"
"Take a look at the photos and tell me how easy you think it would be to infiltrate the place," Ryan suggested.
"Oh." Gregory looked up. "It would be nice to know how much power they push out the front end of their instruments. How long has this place been there, sir?"
"About four years, and it's not finished yet. Mozart is new. Until recently the workers were housed in this barracks and support facility. We took notice when the apartment building went up, same time as the perimeter fence. When the Russians start pampering the workers, you know that the project has a really high priority. If it has a fence and guard towers, we know it's military."
"How did you find it?" Gregory asked.
"By accident. The Agency was redrawing its meteorological data on the Soviet Union, and one of the technicians Bedded to do a computer analysis of the best places over there for astronomical observation. This is one of them. The weather over the last few months has been unusually cloudy, but on average the skies are about as clear there as they are here. The same is true of Sary Shagan, Semipalatinsk, and another new one, Storozhevaya." Ryan set out some more photographs. Gregory looked at them.
"They sure are busy."
"Good morning, Misha," Marshal of the Soviet Union Dmitri Timofeyevich Yazov said.
"And to you, Comrade Defense Minister," Colonel Filitov replied.
A sergeant helped the Minister off with his coat while another brought in a tray with a tea setting. Both withdrew when Misha opened his briefcase.
"So, Misha, what does my day look like?" Yazov poured two cups of tea. It was still dark outside the Council of Ministers building. The inside perimeter of the Kremlin walls was lit with harsh blue-white floods, and sentries appeared and disappeared in the splashes of light.
"A full one, Dmitri Timofeyevich," Misha replied. Yazov wasn't the man that Dmitri Ustinov was, but Filitov had to admit to himself that he did put in a full day's work as a uniformed officer should. Like Filitov, Marshal Yazov was by background a tank officer. Though they had never met during the war, they did know one another by reputation. Misha's was better as a combat officer – purists claimed that he was an old-fashioned cavalryman at heart, though Filitov cordially hated horses – while Dmitri Yazov had won a reputation early on as a brilliant staff officer and organizer – and a Party man, of course. Before everything else, Yazov was a Party man, else he would never have made the rank of Marshal. "We have that delegation coming in from the experimental station in the Tadzhik SSR."
"Ah, 'Bright Star.' Yes, that report is due today, isn't it?"
"Academicians," Misha snorted. "They wouldn't know what a real weapon was if I shoved it up their asses."
"The time for lances and sabers is past, Mikhail Semyonovich," Yazov said with a grin. Not the brilliant intellect that Ustinov had been, neither was Yazov a fool like his predecessor, Sergey Sokolov. His lack of engineering expertise was balanced by an uncanny instinct for the merits of new weapons systems, and rare insights into the people of the Soviet Army. "These inventions show extraordinary promise."
"Of course. I only wish that we had a real soldier running the project instead of these starry-eyed professors."
"But General Pokryshkin–"
"He was a fighter pilot. I said a soldier, Comrade Minister. Pilots will support anything that has enough buttons and dials. Besides, Pokryshkin has spent more time in universities of late than in an aircraft. They don't even let him fly himself anymore. Pokryshkin stopped being a soldier ten years ago. Now he is the procurer for the wizards." And he is building his own little empire down there, but that's an issue we'll save for another day.
"You wish a new job assignment, Misha?" Yazov inquired slyly.
"Not that one!" Filitov laughed, then turned serious. "What I am trying to say, Dmitri Timofeyevich, is that the progress assessment we get from Bright Star is – how do I say this?―warped by the fact that we don't have a real military man on the scene. Someone who understands the vagaries of combat, someone who knows what a weapon is supposed to be."
The Defense Minister nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I see your point. They think in terms of 'instruments' rather than 'weapons,' that is true. The complexity of the project concerns me."
"Just how many moving parts does this new assembly have?”
"I have no idea – thousands, I should think."
"An instrument does not become a weapon until it can be handled reliably by a private soldier – well, at least a senior lieutenant. Has anyone outside the project ever done a reliability assessment?" Filitov asked.
"No, not that I can recall."
Filitov picked up his tea. "There you are, Dmitri Timofeyevich. Don't you think that the Politburo will be interested in that? Until now, they have been willing to fund the experimental project, of course, but" – Filitov took a sip – "they are coming here to request funding to upgrade the site to operational status, and we have no independent assessment of the project."
"How would you suggest we get that assessment?"
"Obviously I cannot do it. I am too old, and too uneducated, but we have some bright new colonels in the Ministry, especially in the signals section. They are not combat officers, strictly speaking, but they are soldiers, and they are competent to look at these electronic marvels. It is only a suggestion." Filitov didn't press. He had planted the seed of an idea. Yazov was far easier to manipulate than Ustinov had ever been.
"And what of the problems at the Chelyabinsk tank works?" Yazov asked next.
Ortiz watched the Archer climbing the hill half a mile away. Two men and two camels. They probably wouldn't be mistaken for a guerrilla force the way that twenty or so would have. Not that this had to matter, Ortiz knew, but the Soviets were to the point now that they attacked almost anything that moved. Vaya con Dios.
"I sure could use a beer," the Captain observed.
Ortiz turned. "Captain, the thing that allowed me to deal with these people effectively is that I live the way they do. I observe their laws and respect their ways. That means no booze, no pork; that means I don't fool with their women."
"Shit." The officer snorted. "These ignorant savages–" Ortiz cut him off.
"Captain, the next time I hear you say that, or even think it real loud, will be your last day here. These people are working for us. They're bringing us stuff that we can't get any place else. You will, repeat will treat them with the respect they deserve. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir." Christ, this guy's turned into a sand nigger himself.
CHAPTER 3
The Weary Red Fox
t's impressive – if you can figure out what they're doing." Jack yawned. He'd taken the same Air Force transport back to Andrews from Los Alamos, and was behind in his sleep again. For all the times this had happened to him, he'd never quite learned to deal with it. "That Gregory kid is smart as hell. He took about two seconds to identify the Bach installation, practically word for word with the NPIC assessment." The difference was that the photointerpreters at the National Photographic Intelligence Center had taken four months and three written report to get it right.
"You think he belongs in the assessment team?" "Sir, that's like asking if you want to have surgeons in the operating room. Oh, by the way, he wants us to infiltrate somebody into Bach." Ryan rolled his eyes.
Admiral Greer nearly dropped his cup. "That kid must watch ninja movies."