“That might be a problem,” said the minister.
“We’re prepared to proceed.”
“They would naturally move only with aid from the government,” said Gleeb. “But they would not need a great deal of assistance.”
“I don’t know what sort of aid would be available on such short notice,” said the minister. “And it might entail expense — if we are talking about a large operation.”
“Reasonable expenses would have to be compensated,” agreed Gleeb.
A few minutes of negotiation followed. Neither man named a price; they spoke instead of things like manpower and vehicles.
“We really don’t need a lot of policemen,” said Nuri.
Gleeb shot him a glance, then turned back to negotiating. The old guy was good, gently pushing back without losing his good humor or angering the minister.
Nuri wondered if he could use Gleeb when he bought his next car.
They finally settled on three dozen men and two SWAT teams, with a pair of Hummer-style jeeps outfitted with machine guns. The minister agreed that the men would not be notified of the actual raid until the following evening, as a matter of security.
“And where is this adventure taking place?” he asked, once more refilling his glass.
Gleeb looked at Nuri.
“Outside the capital,” he said.
“Where outside the capital?” the minister asked.
“In the northeast. I mean, northwest.”
It was an honest slip, but it annoyed the minister. Gleeb had to step in and calm things, claiming that Nuri did not yet have the exact location himself. “And being a stranger to Moldova, I’m sure the name would mean nothing to him if he did,” he added.
“It is in the north,” said Nuri. “I just don’t know where exactly. As Mr. Gleeb said—”
“You will call me tomorrow morning.” The minister spoke to Gleeb, not Nuri. “You will have an exact location then. You will call me and we will have some men to work with you. An action like this must have some local involvement. They will not be in too much danger, I hope.”
“I will call you, yes,” said Nuri.
“You should have given him the name of a city in the district,” said Gleeb after they left. “You never want to make it obvious that you don’t trust someone. It’s disrespectful. You nearly scuttled the whole deal.”
“I don’t need any of those troops.”
“You’re not getting them,” said Gleeb. “You’ll be lucky to get a few police cars.”
“Not lucky—”
“You’re in a foreign country. You don’t know everything. You need cooperation.”
“Well—”
“Believe me, you do.”
Gleeb took him to dinner in a French restaurant, reputedly one of the best in Eastern Europe. The food was good, but Nuri had no appetite for it. The station chief gave him background about the drug trade in Moldova, outlining its connections to the government. At the moment it was one of the few export businesses thriving in the country.
“The forces he mentioned,” said Nuri after their plates were cleared.
“That was the price only,” said Gleeb. “Their equivalent salaries. You don’t have to worry about any of that. The actual cooperation will be arranged with one of his deputies.”
“The less cooperation the better,” said Nuri.
“Now, Mr. Lupo, you’re starting to sound like you know something,” said Gleeb, smiling and signaling for the check.
38
Turk’s foul mood didn’t lift even after General Wallace and some of his aides met him on the way back to the hangar and congratulated him on a great flight.
“The episode at the end demonstrated just how capable the plane is,” said Wallace. “And the pilot.”
“Thanks,” managed Turk.
“Future of the Air Force — manned flight,” said Wallace, emphasizing the last phrase. “Well done. Carry on.”
“Thank you, sir.” Turk didn’t point out that the phrase “manned flight” was actually a slogan from the space program, which wasn’t faring too well these days.
Three of the engineers responsible for the Sabre control systems, faces ashen, met Turk for the debrief. They looked like a trio of ghosts haunting an air wreck. They had already figured out the problem, they said — an errant line of code had prevented the proper routine from loading.
“You told me it was already fixed,” Turk said. “Isn’t this the problem from the other day?”
“This kept the right solution from loading,” one of the men explained. “We fixed it and had to fix it again.”
“It should have been tested.”
“It was tested. You were part of the tests.”
I pushed the buttons you told me to push, thought Turk, but it was useless to argue.
Breanna Stockard caught up to him and Tommy Stern a few hours later at Hole 19, one of the all-ranks lounges on the main Dreamland base. Turk, sipping a seltzer, was standing at the bar talking to a nurse whose curly brunette hair hung down over her eyes in what seemed to him the cutest way imaginable. He bought her a drink, then started talking about his Ducati motorcycle, hoping to set up a date to take her for a ride.
Stern, who was married, stood by quietly, occasionally rolling his eyes.
“Captain, there you are,” said Breanna, striding across the room toward the bar. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” said Turk, though in truth he would have preferred the interruption to come a little later.
“I have to be going,” said the brunette.
“Hey, hang out a minute,” said Turk. He reached for her hand but she pulled it away.
“Sorry. Lot of stuff to do.”
Turk watched her walk away. It was definitely his loss.
Stern made his apologies as well, which was clearly fine with Breanna. They took a table in the corner.
“I saw what you did on the landing,” she told him, pulling out her chair. “It was very good piloting.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“And you’re modest,” she said sarcastically.
“Some days.” Turk took a long sip of his seltzer.
“No more Sabre flights until the entire low-altitude protocol is rewritten and retested,” said Breanna. “I’ve already given the order.”
“That’s overkill. There’s nothing wrong with the plane.”
“I’m not talking about the Tigershark. I meant the Sabres and Medusa.”
“Well…” Turk suddenly felt protective of the UM/Fs, though he couldn’t for the life of him have explained why. And in fact he’d made more or less the same argument to the engineers earlier. But there was something about having a system that he was working with grounded that put him on the defensive. “I guess.”
“When are you leaving for Prague?”
“Couple of hours.” He held up the seltzer.
Sobriety was actually a nonissue in the Tigershark, because the aircraft’s flight computer put the pilot through a series of mental tests before it would unlock its systems. Supposedly, the test could figure out if you were overtired as well as inhibited by drugs or alcohol. Turk, close to a teetotaler anyway, had never tested it.
“Plane’s ready?”
“All ready.”
Turk was taking Tiger Two. The rail gun had been removed for security purposes; unlike the plane, its existence was still top secret. It also did not have a Medusa unit.
“I’m going with you,” said Breanna.
“In the Tigershark?”
She gave him a funny look. “Of course not. I’m going in the C–20.”