True, there were always large numbers of Russian or German transport planes on almost every large airport in several major cities in the Balkans, or a Russian or German attack helicopter flying overhead all the time. This made many folks nervous, especially the older generations, who could still remember World War II. Whereas a few months earlier Pavel Kazakov had been reviled and pursued throughout Europe — he was still under indictment for narcotics trafficking and other violent crimes in twenty-three countries around the world — today he was being lauded as some sort of savior, a dashing entrepreneur rescuing the poorest nations in Europe from abject poverty. He was sponsoring drug-eradication programs in several dozen nations around the world — this from the man who had perfected the art of drug smuggling in Europe to a fine art, whom some had once accused of pumping heroin through his pipelines instead of oil.
But no one could doubt that their presence was benefiting everyone. The bottom line: everyone seemed to be getting rich from the oil. What was there not to like?
“A sort of eco-terrorist thing?” the skipper asked, immediately aware that it was his responsibility — not to mention in his, and his family’s, best interest — not to screw this up. He shook his head when the intel officer nodded. “Ni kruti mn’e yaytsa, “ he said with disgust. “The tanker has an alternate control center on the second floor of the superstructure,” the chief engineer’s mate said, producing a faxed sketch of the tanker. “If we shell the bridge, even destroy it, we can still control the ship from there. The terrorists are very likely up on the bridge — we’re bound to nail a few of them there.”
“All right,” the captain decided. “We close the distance until we can get within pinpoint firing range of the tanker, then shell the superstructure only, staying away from the alternate control center, the rudder, and the propulsion system. Weapons, what range would that be?”
“We should use the optronic sights and laser rangefinder,” he suggested. “In this weather, in these conditions, we should close to at least fifteen kilometers.”
“Very well,” Boriskov said. “Just before we start shelling the superstructure, we’ll launch the air and surface assault craft. Coordinate your shelling with the assault” The officers nodded their heads in agreement. “Loshka gavna v bochki m’oda. There’s still a spoonful of shit in the honey barrel. What about the Sukhoi-24 and Tupolev-95 attacks? What hit them? Any ideas?”
“No idea, sir,” the TAO replied. “We’re just now within radar range of the area where they were hit. We’ve been monitoring Turkey’s air traffic control network, and there’s no sign of any attack aircraft launching from there.”
“I don’t think Turkey would be stupid enough to interfere with this incident,” the captain said. “It doesn’t make sense — Turkey helping a bunch of idiotic terrorists trying to hijack an oil tanker. Where do they think they are going to go? We’ll put a stop to this in no time.”
Codlea, Bulgaria
“Wake up!” Fursenko shouted wildly. “Wake up, damn you, or he’ll kill us all!” He could smell alcohol, and beads of sweat popped on the back of his neck.
Ion Stoica’s head felt as if it was going to explode, and his mouth and tongue felt as dry and as rough as sandpaper. He rolled wearily onto his side. “What in hell do you want, Fursenko?”
“One of Metyor’s oil tankers in the Black Sea is under attack,” Fursenko exclaimed. That got Stoica’s attention. “Someone has hijacked it! Comrade Kazakov wants you to launch immediately!”
Stoica struggled to his feet, put on his flight suit over a pair of lightweight cotton underwear, stumbled into his boots, and headed out of his room in a small building adjacent to the main hangar. That little wooden building had been his home now for over eight months. Up until three months before, he had had to share it with Gennadi Yegorov, his weapons officer aboard the Metyor Mt-179 stealth fighter, but he’d finally convinced him to get his own place. Yegorov had made up a place over the main hangar — the noise from the aircraft maintenance crews below didn’t bother him.
They made their way across the dark dirt streets toward the security checkpoint to the main hangar where the Mt-179 Tyenee had been stored. Except for just a few test flights, they hadn’t flown the bird too often. NATO and Romanian air patrols had come fairly close to the base, but the Mt-179 had been able to dispatch them quickly and easily.
“You’ve been drinking!” Fursenko said, horrified, as they passed through the outer security post.
“Screw you, Doctor,” Stoica said. “I’ve been holed up in this place for over half a year with no leave and no time off. The food is lousy and I haven’t seen a woman worth fucking in three months. I bought some homemade wine from one of the locals, and if I’d had a chance to drink some then, I probably would’ve fucked the old hag. Now shut up. You’re making my head hurt.”
Yegorov was already inside, drawing on a chart of the Black Sea and northern Turkey. The guy was unreal, Stoica thought — noise, loneliness, quiet, and deprivation didn’t bother Yegorov one bit. He didn’t smoke, drink, play cards, or party like the others assigned here. He had a lot of male friends in the maintenance department — maybe Gennadi was curing his loneliness with some late-night visits to the maintenance group’s barracks. Maybe that’s why he’d agreed to relocate to over the maintenance hangar.
“Ion’s here, sir,” Yegorov said to a speakerphone.
“Nice of you to join us, Stoica,” the sneering voice of Pavel Kazakov came over the speaker.
“Sorry, sir. I came as soon as I heard.” He stopped himself from making an obscene gesture to the speakerphone, motioned to a maintenance officer for coffee, and pulled out a cigarette from a flight suit pocket. “Some retards are attacking one of your tankers?”
“A group of terrorists — the exact number is unknown, but around eight to twelve — fast-roped onto the tanker Ustinov a couple hours ago,” Yegorov summarized. “They have shoulder-fired antiaircraft missiles and have shot down a Navy helicopter. The tanker is heading south into Turkish waters, destination unknown.”
Stoica shook his head, totally confused. He took a big sip of coffee. “So what are we supposed to do?”
“Two Russian maritime patrol aircraft, a Sukhoi-24 and Tupolev-95, were attacked by an undetected aircraft en route to the tanker,” Yegorov explained. “Mr. Kazakov believes someone — NATO, the Americans, or perhaps the Turks — have sent stealth aircraft into the area to keep the Russian aircraft away. He wants us to investigate. Tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” Stoica said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “If someone’s up there, we’ll nail his ass to the wall.” He turned to the maintenance officer. “How long before we are ready to fly?”
“About twenty minutes, sir,” the officer said. Stoica nodded, inwardly groaning. It was going to take him a lot longer than that to sober up. Maybe coffee and some one-hundred-percent oxygen would help.
“There is a Russian destroyer pursuing the tanker, getting ready to land some naval infantry on the tanker to recapture it,” Kazakov said. “If there’s another aircraft out there, I want you to get it. Don’t let anyone get a shot off at either the tanker or the destroyer. I want that tanker recovered intact and the oil safe. Do you understand?” The line went dead before anyone could respond.
Stoica finished the coffee with a gulp. “Good luck to you, too, sir,” he muttered sarcastically.