“That is impossible.”
“You have no idea about the opportunity that has presented itself here, Colonel-General,” Kazakov snapped. “The American fiasco has only bolstered our plan. Why hasn’t news of this been broadcast around the world? Why haven’t we exposed the Americans’ hostile mission?”
“President Sen’kov thought that if the American president went on international television and told the world why he launched the operation,” Zhurbenko explained, “that it would embarrass Moscow even more than Washington.”
“And well it should,” Kazakov said. “But the American president didn’t go on television, did he? He made a deal with Sen’kov to help him, to keep him from losing face. That was his fatal mistake. Roust all of your contacts in the media and give them all the details of the operation. Everything. When it is exposed and the American president tries to deny what happened, world support of the United States will crumble.
“And then,” Kazakov went on happily, motioning to his chief engineer and his assistant, “when the stealth warplane strikes again in another part of eastern Europe, the world condemnation of the United States will continue to strengthen. Get on it right now, Zhurbenko. And tell that idiot Toporov to get off his fat ass and kick his senior officers into mobilizing those occupying forces, or he will suddenly find himself taking a little nap — on the bottom of the Caspian Sea.”
Kazakov terminated the call to Zhurbenko with an angry push of a button. Damn cowards, he thought. The country is collapsing all around them, and all they can think of is playing it safe. Are the Americans playing it safe? Just when they thought the new president, Thorn, was going to be a baby in a carriage, he orders two stealth bombers to overfly Russia. Very gutsy move.
He dialed his secure phone once again, calling his airfield in Romania. “Doctor, I want the cover taken off our roadster. Get it ready to cruise.” There was a noticeable pause, and Kazakov thought he detected a sharp intake of breath. “Pyotr, is something wrong?”
“The … er, the boys already had the roadster out, sir.”
Kazakov nearly dropped the phone in surprise. “Shto?” he asked breathlessly. “Nu ni mudi, Doctor.”
“No, I’m not kidding,” Fursenko said. “Some damage from the last … er, drive was repaired. They planned a local test drive to check the repairs—”
“You can talk plainly, Doctor. I cannot. Tell me what in hell happened.”
“Stoica and Yegorov heard about an air defense emergency on the Russia-Ukraine border. They launched and secretly followed the Russian air defense radar controllers’ vectors. They said they were checking the stealth characteristics while carrying weapon pylons. That’s what they told me..
“What happened, Doctor?”
“They got into a dogfight,” Fursenko said. “A dogfight with what they think was an American stealth bomber — a stealth bomber that fired two missiles at them.”
“What? You’re kidding! You are fucking kidding!” No reply, just labored, excited breathing. “Are they all right? Did they make it back?”
“They are fine. The plane is fine. They came out of it well. They hit it. They said they hit it. It got away, but they were victorious!”
“How dare they … how… why in hell did they …?” The engineers and aides in the trailer couldn’t help but stare at Kazakov now — their boss was bug-eyed and his voice had risen two octaves with excitement. “I will be back there as quickly as I can. I want to see our two boys when I get there. If they move, if they are even in the damned bathroom when I get back, they are dead. Was there any damage to the roadster?”
“Minor damage, but from a previous flight,” Fursenko explained. “We need to make some design changes to the missile launch tubes in the wings — the wings are being damaged by missile exhaust. Some more titanium for strengthening, perhaps some more powerful gas generators…”
“Fine. Get what you need at ‘home’ and see to it immediately.”
“‘Home?” Fursenko paused again, confusion and panic in his voice. “You mean, Metyor? Back at Zhukovsky?”
“Of course that’s what 1…” Kazakov stopped, his throat turning dry once again. “What is it now, Doctor?”
“You haven’t heard about Zhukovsky?”
“I am in the middle of nowhere in fucking Bulgaria, Doctor. Spit it out.”
“My — I mean, our — I mean, your facility was destroyed last night,” Fursenko said in a voice so shaky he could hardly make himself understood.
“What?”
“The military says it was a natural gas leak,” Fursenko explained. “The natural gas explosion apparently mixed with some jet fuel or other petroleum products and incinerated the entire building. Nothing is left. Nothing. Nothing within seven hundred meters of the building is left.”
“Natural … gas … explosion … ni pizdi!” Kazakov shouted. “Don’t bullshit me! There has to be an explanation, a real explanation!”
“Sir, six men were killed inside the facility. Dmitri Rochardov, Andrei—”
“I don’t give a shit about a couple janitors and night watchmen!” Kazakov shouted. “I want you back there immediately. Find the best forensics experts you can. I want that blast site sealed off and covered, I want every living being that sets foot inside that facility screened and approved by me personally, and I want every piece of debris and ash examined with a microscope. Natural gas explosion, my ass — that was the work of a saboteur, or a military strike. I want to know what kind of explosion it was, and I want to see evidence — no speculation, no guesses, no hypothesis. I don’t care if the investigators are out there until winter — I want to know exactly what happened, and I want to know immediately!” And he disconnected the call with an angry stab.
For a brief instant, he felt things were beginning to spin out of control. He had these feelings often, and his instincts always served him well — he knew when to get in, when to push, when to back off, and when to get the hell out. The voice told him to get the hell out. The American air force and military spy agencies had stumbled across his operation. It was simply too incredible to believe the absolute bad luck. The voice said, “Get out. Rum Run before it’s too late.”
Pavel looked around himself. The problem was, he was moving too fast to just stop abruptly. He had already spent a quarter of a billion dollars to get the project started. He was going to pony up another quarter of a billion out of his own personal fortune. Investors and lenders in two dozen countries around the world were lining up ready to help him raise another one and three quarter billion dollars to build the entire line. Word travels fast.
Problem was, he was going to pay another quarter of a billion dollars in loan interest, bribes, and dividends to all these investors in the next year or so before any oil revenues started to come in. He was deep into it. Some of these investors were the world’s biggest arms dealers, drug dealers, industrialists, generalissimos, and government finance ministers. They had been promised a hefty return on their investment, and they would not be happy at all to hear that the project was off, even if they got their principal back.
But the more recent development, his ace in the hole — this encounter with the American aircraft. The Americans had at first torn up the Russian air defenses as if they never existed. But then his stealth fighter happened on it, and was victorious. Stoica and Yegorov were typical fighter pilots, cocky and arrogant — everything was a victory for them — but Fursenko would never lie to him. If he said his boys were victorious, they were.