Driver reasoned that if they had been successful in copying that much of the F-117's technology, they had probably been equally successful in designing a similar weapons system. If that was the case, Schubatis's Covert could carry and fire a couple of 2,000-pound smart bombs just like its American counterpart.
The rest of the main floor contained a MiG-23U trainer, two salty-looking MiG-21Rs, one of which was still painted with the insignia of the Czechoslovakian air force, and a MiG-21MF with the enlarged dorsal spine. Considering the vintage and condition of the rest of Quan's purchases, Driver was convinced the Covert technology was a bit more sophisticated than the 5A leader was ready for. Of course, he had no way of knowing what the other two hangars housed, but if Hangar 3 was any indication, Quan had reason to want the Covert. Without it, the dissident faction of Han Ki Po's regime had little clout.
On his way to the ready room and crew quarters, Driver took time to look for the ferry fuel tanks. If Borisov had actually flown the Su-39 from deep inside Russian territory, he would have had to strip out the weight of the plane's conventional armament to compensate for the installation of auxiliary fuel tanks.
The question of fuel was what had bothered him most. From the beginning, their plan hinged on the assumption that the Su-39 would be flight readyand since it was being used to train Quan's pilots, that was a given. But the underlying question was always: How much fuel would she be carrying? If Le was right and Schubatis's pride and joy had been flying nothing more than training missions since its arrival, it was SOP in most third world countries to keep training fuel loads at a minimum. It was risky enough jumping into a plane he had never actually flown beforebut trying to fly it out of there in a middle of a thunderstorm without having a handle on the fuel situation was asking for trouble. If they tipped their hand prematurely, the Komiskos would be waiting. The whole operation bordered on sheer insanity.
Driver was still working his way toward the ready room when he heard a phone ring on the deck below him. A uniformed officer hurried from the lighted room at the far end of the hangar, picked up the phone, listened momentarily, turned, and began shouting. Within seconds he was joined by three others. Two of the men were wearing flight suits. The only word Driver understood in the animated conversation was ''Quan." The four men reappeared moments later wearing ponchos and left by a side door.
Driver breathed a sigh of relief.
At the far end of the catwalk was a series of doors and an open bay latrine. Beyond that was a canteen area and the hall leading to the pilots' quarters. And, if Le Win Fo's information was right, behind one of those doors was a Russian by the name of Borisov. If Driver's luck held, the Russian would still be sleeping. If he wasn't, the task was going to be more difficult.
Driver discarded his poncho, double-checked the clip in his SMG, shifted it to his left hand, released the safety, and coiled his finger through the trigger guard. Then he took out his knife, tucked it in his belt, and slowly turned the doorknob. The door opened.
The only light in the room emanated from a small seven-watt security light plugged into a wall socket on the far side of the room. Borisov was sitting on the edge of his bunk, pointing a .45-caliber Makarov at Driver.
"Come in, Colonel," the Russian said in English. "Does it surprise you that I have been expecting you?"
Driver moved across the room and stood facing the Russian. "Yes," he admitted, "it surprises me."
Borisov laughed. It was muffled, but under the circumstances, surprisingly sincere. "We are all victims of our training, Colonel. All of us, I fear, are little more than the predictable products of regimentation. When one of my students reported that a Komisko had suddenly blown up and crashed, I became suspicious. That is the way the GRU trained you, is it not?"
Driver remained silent.
Borisov leaned back against the wall beside his bunk. He kept the Makarov pointed at Driver.
"When I learned that the fool, Quan, had engineered the capture of Schubatis, I knew that you, Comrade, were the one person that Kusinien could call upon. After all, who knows more about the Su-39 program than you do? Are we not indebted to you for much of the information made available to Schubatis in the early stages of development?"
"Simply a matter of money," Driver replied with a grin. "Believe it or not, it has nothing to do with political philosophy. Back in the States we've got a saying; 'When it's all over, the one with the most toys wins.' Over the years I've developed a taste for the finer things in life. The finer things cost moneya helluva lot more money than they pay an Air Force colonel."
Borisov was silent. He kept the gun pointed at Driver.
"You know what the problem with you Russians is, Arege? You people think too much. Let me give you an example. You think too much about political philosophies. You align yourself with some clown like Isotov, and the next thing you know, you're in a heap of trouble. Isotov doesn't stand a chance. Aprihinen will bury your Colonel General before this thing is all over. Shipping you off to this godforsaken hellhole with the Covert was sheer stupidity. It forces Aprihinen's hand. He can't afford to have some half-crazed, senile old fart like Han Ki Po forming an alliance with Isotov. And he sure as hell can't afford to leave the Covert in the hands of some crackpot like Quan. So what's he gonna do? He's gonna send someone after it."
"Suppose Aprihinen doesn't win," Borisov said.
"Who gives a shit? I have the moneywhat else counts?"
Borisov shifted the Makarov from one hand to the other. To Driver he was little more than a shadowa thing that would eventually have to be dealt with.
Driver leaned back up against a small writing desk with his hands in his pockets. "Know something, Arege? There's only two things in this world worth having; one is power and the other is money. Power don't mean much to me; it's restrictiveit keeps you tied down and people expect you to fix things that don't work, like the government. Money is different; you go where you want to go and you do what you want to do… And when you got money, no one gives a damn about your political philosophy."
"So you return the Covert to Russia," Borisov said. "What then?"
"On the contrary, I've been told to fly the Covert out of here and ditch it. Aprihinen doesn't need it. Now that the Americans know he has one, they'll just pump more money into something that flies a little faster and a little higher. And Aprihinen will be right back where he startedsucking hind tit. But look at the bright side of it: Without the Covert, Isotov isn't much of a threat either, and he sure as hell doesn't want some half-baked kook like Quan to have it."
"What about Schubatis?"
"What about him? As goes the Covert, so goes Schubatis. The only instruction I have concerning Schubatis is to make damn certain I don't leave him in the hands of the Chinese. Actually, the Americans and the Chinese are the only ones who think he's important: If he goes down with the Covert, the Americans are never quite sure how much we know about stealth technology. And the Chinese don't know shit. Simple, huh?"
Borisov pushed forward and started to get up. Driver moved with the quickness of a cat. His right hand went for the knife, and he threw in one fluid and death-dealing motion. The six-inch blade buried itself in Borisov's chest and the Russian slumped over on the floor.
In dying, Arege Borisov never uttered a sound.
Chapter Ten
Tang Ro Ji was in a great deal of pain, and with each passing hour he was growing weaker. His arm was throbbing, and in the last hour he had nearly blacked out. Twice he had found it necessary to loosen the tourniquet applied by the old woman to relieve the pain, and now the makeshift bandage was again soaked with blood. On the few occasions he had tried to talk to the old man, his thoughts were jumbled and his speech fragmented and incoherent. Each time the plodding horse-drawn cart passed over a rut in the rock-strewn road, he cried out in pain.