“You misunderstand me, Doctor,” Barbeau snapped. “I don’t give a damn if that B-21 prototype is combat-ready… or even close to it. All I want for the moment is a really deadly-looking, brand-new bomber that can take off, fly around for a few minutes, and then land safely.”
Interested now, Cohen leaned forward. “What’s your plan?”
“The hell with Sky Masters and its piddling X-planes,” she said, with a wide, wicked grin. “We’ll put on our own goddamned show. A show that’ll totally undercut Farrell’s attacks on my defense programs. And best of all, it won’t cost the campaign one thin dime.”
Cohen raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Because I’m the commander in chief, Luke,” Barbeau said, still grinning. “So when I order a major Air Force readiness exercise featuring a whole damn bunch of our nation’s most advanced combat aircraft, that’s official business… not politics.” She chuckled. “Picture Air Force One arriving at an air base jam-packed with shiny-new F-35s. Thousands of officers and enlisted personnel are lined up at attention in full-dress uniform to salute me. And then, just as I come sashaying down the aircraft stairs with ‘Hail to the Chief’ playing, our beautiful new B-21 Raider bomber comes roaring in, orbits low over the field, and lands.”
Cohen whistled softly. “Oh hell, yeah. Those would be some seriously good visuals.” He leaned back in his chair. “So when would we stage this ‘readiness exercise’?”
“The when’s easy,” Barbeau said confidently. “This summer. After all the primaries are over and before the political conventions kick off. The press will be dying for something exciting to cover, so that’ll be the best time to knock the wind out of Farrell’s sails.”
Cohen nodded, thinking that through. “And the where?”
“Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana,” she told him smugly. “Bomber country. Right where I was born.”
Five
Vladimir Kurakin climbed out of the armored limousine that had brought him from Novosibirsk’s Tolmachevo Airport. A gentle breeze from the south rustled through the tall pine and birch trees surrounding the huge, windowless robotics factory. He buttoned his suit jacket. Even in the spring, Siberia was cold.
He looked around. In the distance, dozens of older buildings rose above the forest. Founded in the heyday of the old Soviet Union, Akademgorodok’s research institutes and labs had been a haven for the sciences like genetics and cybernetics considered heretical by the Communist Party hierarchy. Tens of thousands of scientists and their families had lived a relatively sheltered existence here — better fed and somewhat freer than ordinary Russian citizens.
Then, when the Soviet Union collapsed, Akademgorodok fell on hard times. At first, the new Russian Federation had little money to invest in pure research. But private venture capital sparked a renaissance in the mid-1990s. The town again became a thriving center of scientific research and development. American journalists had even called it Russia’s “Silicon Forest.”
Akademgorodok was still thriving, Kurakin knew. But not quite in the same way.
Spurred on by Russia’s young and charismatic leader, Gennadiy Gryzlov, Moscow had moved in — pouring billions of rubles into research and development work on weapons-grade lasers, cybernetics, industrial automation, and applied genetics. With government money and top-secret government contracts came new restrictions and controls. Whole sections of the once-open town were now off-limits to foreigners or anyone without top-level security clearances.
The State Cybernetics Factory was one of those places.
Soldiers in camouflage battle dress and body armor guarded every entrance to the huge robotics installation. With their AK-400 assault rifles at the ready, several headed in his direction.
“Pokazhi mne svoye udostovereniye lichnosti! Show me your identification card!” their leader, a young, tough-looking captain, demanded. “This is a restricted area.”
Silently, Kurakin handed over his ID card.
The captain glanced down at it. His eyes widened slightly. He stiffened to attention. “Major General Kurakin! My apologies.”
“None are necessary, Captain,” Kurakin said, with a thin, humorless smile. “Nor is any formal military ceremony. Officially, I have retired. I am now only a civilian.”
A civilian. The thought was still strange. Kurakin, now in his early fifties, had served in the military since he entered Moscow’s High Command Training School as a teenager. Commissioned as a lieutenant in the ground forces, he’d risen steadily in rank, seeing combat in Chechnya, South Ossetia, the Ukraine, and other hot spots. For the past two years, he had led Russia’s shadowy special operations forces, its equivalent of the U.S. Special Operations Command. Hard work and rigorous, realistic training had honed the professional officers and soldiers under his command into an elite, highly capable force. From there, a post on the general staff and further promotion beckoned.
And then, several months ago, with a single urgent summons, the Kremlin had upended the smooth progression of his planned career and sent it careening off in a direction he could never have imagined. He shook his head, still feeling slightly dazed. The state, under Gennadiy Gryzlov’s rule, moved fast. You either kept pace, or you were swept away.
Still smiling dryly, Kurakin took back his identity card from the worried-looking captain. He nodded toward the factory door. “Am I cleared to go inside?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the other man assured him quickly. He swallowed hard. “Sir, I apologize for the confusion. I expected—”
“You expected to see someone in uniform,” Kurakin said quietly. He leaned closer to the captain, keeping his reproof between them. “And so your assumptions clouded your vision. Do not make this mistake again.”
Leaving the shaken captain and his soldiers behind, Kurakin entered the huge cybernetics factory alone. He stood still for a moment, taking it all in. Industrial robots crowded around a single assembly line that ran straight down the middle of the vast open space. Each robot sprouted multiple, flexible limbs, which ended in a variety of tools and other devices. Eerily, they seemed more like giant metal spiders lying in wait for prey than manufactured machines. Windowed bays high above the tiled floor showed where human technicians monitored computers that must control the entire facility.
His breath steamed in the air. It was almost as cold inside as outside. He shook his head in sudden understanding. Of course! Why waste precious heat on soulless machines? Especially since their electronic components were undoubtedly more efficient at lower temperatures.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
Kurakin turned to face the ruggedly good-looking man who’d been waiting off to the side. “Extremely impressive, Mr. President,” he said. He waved at the array of silent, waiting industrial machines. “It looks like something out of a science-fiction film, in a scene set in the distant future.”
Openly amused, Gennadiy Gryzlov came forward to join him. He nodded at Kurakin’s dark gray civilian suit. “So how does it feel, Vladimir? Running your own private company?”
“Strange, Mr. President,” Kurakin admitted. He shrugged. “I’ve been a soldier all my life. It feels odd not to operate within a clearly defined command structure.”
“Ah, there you are mistaken,” Gryzlov said, turning on him with a fast, slashing grin. “Like any good businessman you must, ultimately, obey your shareholders. Or, in this case, your only shareholder. Me.” His gaze hardened. “What I direct, you will do. I set the strategic objectives. And then you will employ whatever means are necessary to achieve my objectives. Is that clear?”