Vasilyev simply nodded.
“And you think it will be delivered by air,” Stepanov said, “which is why you wanted my only two Su-57s.”
Vasilyev nodded again.
Stepanov sighed in exasperation. “The Su-57 has a range of fifty-five hundred kilometers, and that can be extended with additional internal fuel tanks. But for every fuel tank I add, I have to remove an air-to-air missile.
And I will have to add tanks, because Riyadh is about two thousand kilometers away. So even if I send them one at a time with extra fuel tanks, it will be pure luck if we stumble across the attackers. That’s assuming we can even identify them. And the Saudis don’t penetrate the Su-57s’ stealth features.”
Vasilyev nodded. “Neda has already told us that all three devices were experimental and designed for testing, not fully finished bombs ready for mounting on an aircraft. So, the delivery aircraft will be either a cargo plane or helicopter. It will almost certainly be coming east to west. It will be much slower than the escort aircraft, which will have to either throttle down, or more likely orbit around it.”
Stepanov shook his head. “Such a pattern would surely be noticed by the Saudis.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “Assuming they saw it. I am sure you have seen the report that the Iranians have purchased two J-20s.”
Stepanov scowled. “I have. If you’re right about this, then I’ll be putting up one Su-57 with a reduced missile payload against two of the best fighter aircraft the Chinese have got. Not a great deal for our pilot.”
Vasilyev nodded. “A challenge, yes. But I see no reasonable alternative.”
Stepanov grunted. “I don’t either.” He glanced at his aide, pushing the laptop towards him. “Prepare the necessary orders.” The aide nodded and began rapidly typing.
“You were a bit hasty on one point,” Stepanov said, smiling at Vasilyev.
Something about the smile made both Vasilyev and Grishkov… uncomfortable.
“You said there wouldn’t be enough time to get you back to the Eastern Province in time for this mission. Particularly since there are no direct flights from Syria to Saudi Arabia, that would normally be true. However, you know that the Admiral Kuznetzov was ordered to the Gulf?”
Vasilyev nodded.
Stepanov continued, “But you may not have heard of the problems the ship had a few years back, when it lost an MiG-29K because of an arrestor cable problem, and we had to transfer the rest of the carrier’s planes to this base.
After years in dry dock, and after many had thought repairing and updating it would be impossible, the carrier is now finally refitted and its problems hopefully fixed. But, we still do training for new MiG-29K carrier pilots at this base before they try landing on the Admiral Kuznetzov. So, we kept two MiG-29Ks. They are the UBR variant. Would you like to guess what makes them special?”
Vasilyev sighed. “Two seats.”
Stepanov roared with laughter. “Exactly! You are about to get to the Eastern Province very quickly indeed. Those orders have already been prepared, and your flight plan cleared by the Syrians and Iraqis. Once you’re aboard the carrier, a helicopter will take you to Dhahran Airport. It’s good that you both had multiple entry visas.”
Vasilyev frowned and looked at Grishkov. “General, has the doctor cleared my friend here for a carrier landing?”
Stepanov nodded. “He has, but I approve of your concern for your comrade. You should know that he may be a bit tougher than you realize. I have read his military record, and more importantly, talked to Colonel Geller.”
Grishkov started, clearly taken off guard. “He is here? And a Colonel now!”
Stepanov smiled. “He is assigned to this base. Yes, though he was a Lieutenant when you knew him in Chechnya, he has advanced quite rapidly since then thanks to battlefield promotions both there and here in Syria. I spoke with him just before you arrived. I regret that he is now on a mission, and you will be gone by the time he returns. Still, he asked me to pass on his regards.”
Grishkov nodded. “A good man,” he said.
Stepanov pointed at Grishkov. “Your decision to reach for a bottle of aspirin instead of something stronger was just as important in my deciding to send you on this mission.”
Turning back to Vasilyev, Stepanov said, “Your flight will not be too exciting until its end. Though the MiG-29K is capable of speeds up to twenty-two hundred kph, due to the need to conserve fuel you will be cruising at a mere fourteen hundred kph. The landing will be… exciting. But with luck survivable. Now, I assume you have some calls to make before you go?”
Nodding to the aide who had just finished typing their orders into the laptop, Stepanov said, “Get them whatever they need before their flight.”
Pointing to Neda, he said to the aide, “Prepare orders for her flight to Moscow, but keep her in comfortable quarters here on base for now. We may have more questions for her before this is over.”
Stepanov stood and reached across the table, shaking the hands of both Vasilyev and Grishkov. “Good luck to both of you. God knows you’ll need it.”
With that, he strode out of the room, and the aide handed Vasilyev a cell phone.
Grishkov looked at Vasilyev and frowned. “How many assets does the FSB really have available in the Eastern Province?”
Vasilyev shrugged as he picked up the phone. “We’re about to find out.”
Grishkov looked through the cockpit glass at the tiny postage stamp floating on the water that the pilot had improbably advised him was the Admiral Kuznetzov. The pilot had strapped him in so tightly it was good that the mask fed him oxygen directly, since otherwise Grishkov wasn’t sure he’d have been able to breathe. The pilot had said it was to minimize the impact of landing, though Grishkov wondered whether it was really to keep him from touching the controls all around him. The truth was, if every lever and switch had been a poisonous serpent, it would have made no difference to Grishkov’s interest in touching them.
The sound of the engine changed tone to a low-pitched growl, and a sharp “thunk” announced the MiG-29K’s landing gear had been lowered.
Simultaneously, the plane’s speed dropped until it felt as though it were almost standing still. Evidence that it was not was right in front of him, as the carrier went from “postage stamp” to “how can something this big float?” in less than two minutes.
The jet was on the ship’s deck seconds later, and stopped so suddenly Grishkov could feel his teeth clack together. So, he thought, the arrestor cable problem appears to have been fixed.
An hour later, Vasilyev’s MiG-29K had also landed without incident and they were aboard a Mil-8 helicopter on the way to Dhahran Airport. They had both been issued headsets, and shown the switches to use to communicate with only each other or also the pilot.
Turning the switch that with the noise of the helicopter’s operation ensured privacy, Grishkov asked Vasilyev the question he’d been thinking about the entire flight.
“It’s obvious you have no great love for either Saudi Arabia or Iran. Yet here we are, about to risk our life for the Saudis. If there is a war between them, which side should we hope will win?”
Vasilyev grunted. “First, I make a great distinction between the Saudi and Iranian governments, and their people. Saudis and Iranians, like all people around the world, are for the most part just trying to live their lives. Brutal criminal codes and oppression of women are not unique to those two countries, though it is true both are worse than most. It is also clear that most Saudi and Iranian men support both policies.”
Vasilyev paused, clearly thinking carefully about his answer. “Both countries have been accused of supporting terrorists. The Saudi government has provided funds and weapons to the terrorists fighting the Syrian government, and our troops supporting it. Years ago, they did the same for terrorists fighting the Afghan government, and our troops supporting them.