"Oh, yes," Kozlov said brightly.
"Good. That certainly makes a difference." He turned to Meredith. "Lay that map of the Baku area back down, Merry. Let's go over that again with Viktor and see what he thinks."
Meredith stretched another map across the table. After trying to squeeze in around an undersized computer screen, the planning group had returned to the use of old-fashioned tools, incidentally making the work much easier for Kozlov.
"Viktor," Taylor said, "we've looked over the terrain, and the overhead shots and the map make it look like the best approach is to come in low from the north, using the peninsula to shield us. What do you think?"
Kozlov appeared doubtful. "Yes, I think you can do that, should you wish. But perhaps another way is better. You see, there are radar sites hidden on the ridge of the peninsula. But have you thought to come in from the east? Over the water? You see, there are many oil towers — what is the English word?"
"Derricks?" Meredith asked.
"Yes. The derricks. They are of metals. You would have natural radar shielding effects. I know, because our radars were always blind in this sector."
"Fuck me," Colonel Williams said. He had been munching on a packet of dehydrated pears from the field rations. "You still can't beat firsthand knowledge of your area of operations."
"You see, this is very good," Kozlov continued. "There are many landmarks for the eye as well as for the computer. And to come in such a way over the city, there are no air defenses." He traced over the corner of the map where an outsize city plan had been inserted. "You see? Over here is the tower of television. But you will come from here. There will be the high building of the Moscow Hotel and there is Kirov Park. From there it is easy."
"That'll take us right in over the mob scene," Colonel Williams said. "If the buggers are still out there."
"I think they will not have air defense weapons," Kozlov said.
"Check," Taylor said. "Okay, Viktor. Are there any obstructions on this parade ground or whatever it is in front of the headquarters? Anything the imagery might not clearly indicate?"
"No. Unless there would be trucks that day. It is very flat. I remember clearly. In the spring, the water would not drain properly. It was terrible for the shoes."
"Okay. You've seen the M-l00s. How many birds can we put down in there? In your view?"
"I think only six. Perhaps seven."
"Great. That's more space than we need. We ran the mensuration from the available imagery, but it's good to hear it from somebody who's walked the ground."
"You know," Kozlov said, "that there is also the roof here. It is not marked, but it is reinforced to act as a helipad. It is quite big. Can you land on a regular helipad?" Taylor grew extremely interested. "Piece of cake. And that's the roof of the main headquarters building?"
"Yes. This is always for the helicopter of the general."
"Better and better. So we can access the building from up there?"
Kozlov looked up blankly. Taylor's turn of phrase had baffled him. Meredith quickly put the question into Russian.
Kozlov's expression eased. "Oh, yes. Although it may be guarded."
Taylor reached for a detailed sketch Kozlov had provided of the building's various levels.
"All right, Viktor. You're convinced that this room will still be the ops center?"
"It must be so. Only this room is of a big enough size and with so much wiring."
"All right. And this should be the computer room?"
Kozlov chewed his lip with his coffee-colored teeth. "I must think it to be. All of the specialized wiring is only to here and then to here, you see. We had great problems in the remaking of the wires in the building. It is so old."
"You don't think they might have rewired the place?" Kozlov shrugged. "I cannot tell. But it would be very hard."
"All right. We'll just have to take our chances on that. Now, if we were to put one ship down on the helipad, say three in the central courtyard, with two flying cover for us all… how would the team from the helipad get down to the computer room and the ops center?"
Kozlov traced his finger along the mock blueprint. "There is perhaps a very good way. Here is the private lift for the general, but that is too dangerous, I think. Then there is a stairwell."
"Here?" Taylor asked, bending very close to the map to read the plan that Kozlov had drawn by hand while riding in an aircraft. Taylor's finger touched a small shaded square.
"Yes. That is the stairwell. You must go down three flights of the stairs. Then you are in the main corridor. The operations center and the computer room are only here. It is very good."
"Well, that's convenient," Williams said.
Taylor nodded. "It's great. If we can get down those goddamned stairs. That stairwell's a death trap, if ever there was one."
Everyone looked at Taylor. The dead skin on his face had turned to wax. There had not even been time to splash water over the layers of oil, dirt, and exhaustion that each of the Americans wore.
Taylor snorted. "But I don't see much choice. It's too direct a route to pass up." He looked at Kozlov. "We'll try it, Viktor. The fire teams from the main raiding force can strike from the parade ground. We'll link up, if we can. If not, they'll at least provide a hell of a diversion for us." Taylor shook his head. "I hate stairwell fights, though. I lost a damned good NCO that way when we had to retake the U.S. consulate in Guadalajara."
"The classic surgical strike," Colonel Williams commented, studying the map over Taylor's shoulder.
Taylor straightened, twisting the stiffness out of his back. "Wouldn't call it that at all, Tucker. This is a classic raid. Strike unexpectedly. Take out everything that moves. Do your business. And un-ass the area. Surprise, shock, speed… and all the firepower you can put out." Taylor turned to Meredith and Parker. "I want to hit them at sunset. We'll be coming out of the east, riding out of the darkness. I want to strike when there's just enough twilight for us to get our bearings visually, but when it's already dark enough to fuck with their heads." Taylor broadened his gaze to include the rest of the planning team. "We're going to come out of the sky like death itself. We're going to bring them fear."
Taylor shifted his field of fire to Ryder. It was difficult for him to look at the young warrant, because it was then so difficult to look away. The resemblance to the young man who had died so miserably in Africa was the stuff of bad, bad luck.
"Chief," Taylor said, "how much time are you going to need once we boot your ass into that computer room?"
Ryder shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his expression distinctly uncertain. He was obviously out of his element.
"Fifteen minutes?" Colonel Williams prompted.
"I guess so," Ryder said. He had a flat, midwestern accent.
"Don't fucking guess," Taylor said sternly. "Tell us how much time you're going to need."
The young warrant reddened. "If everything's in working order," he said, "I think half an hour would be best. If that's all right. See, I've got to insert—"
"Thirty minutes," Taylor said. "You got it. Now. Merry. Give me what you've got on possible enemy response forces. Who are they, where are they, what's the reaction time? You know the list of questions."
"Yes, sir." Meredith began. "Within the facility itself…"
The men labored through schematics and figures, turning again and again to the automated support systems or to subordinate staff officers and NCOs. Neglected cups of coffee went cold. To each man, the process was as familiar as could be, and even Kozlov slipped easily into the pattern of the universal details of staff work. Warning orders went out to the volunteer crews, along with photocopies of maps and the building plans. Junior leaders gathered to listen to Hank Parker, whose stature seemed to grow by the hour, while Meredith grilled others on potential threats and contingencies, forcing them to actively remember the crucial details of his briefing. No man had any healthy energy left. They continued to function only by the grace of the wide-awake tablets and individual strength of will. The importance of each moment prodded them along, yet it was important not to hurry so much that errors or oversights occurred. The genius of good staff work was always a matter of striking exactly the right balance between speed and thoroughness — and recognizing immediately when that balance shifted as the circumstances of the battlefield changed. Right now, the paramount enemy was the clock.