As if to punctuate Zhurbenko’s words, the images on CNN shifted to demonstrators outside German and Russian embassies around the world, from Albania to Moscow, from Norway to South Africa, protesting the actions of the German and Russian armies in the Balkans. The entire world now feared a Russo-German Axis alliance, another attempt to occupy all of Europe, and perhaps even a third world war — but this time, with no help from the United States expected, a successful one.
All this, CNN said, because of Pavel Kazakov and his bloodthirsty greed. Kazakov had once been feared for his reputation. Fear had been replaced by grudging respect for his entrepreneurial audacity and success. Now he was hated. He was the world’s Public Enemy Number One. He could never walk anywhere in the real world, even with an army of bodyguards. Even without a reward on his head — and Pavel had no doubt one was soon going to be announced — he was not safe from anyone. Who wouldn’t want to be known as the one who’d rid the world of such a monster?
Kazakov’s eyes grew narrow with anger, but slowly his logical mind took over from his emotions, and he started to devise a plan. “Then I assume,” he asked sarcastically, “you are speaking to me from a private chartered aircraft taking you over the Mediterranean to some nameless African republic with no extradition treaty with the Russian Federation?”
“I am not a rich drug-dealing bastard like you, Kazakov,” Zhurbenko said. “I did all this for Russia. Yes, I took your money, and I hope I can get my wife and sons out of the country so they can enjoy it before the Interior Ministry takes away everything I own. But I did all this for mother Russia, to regain some of our lost power and influence around the world. I will not abandon my post or my country.” ‘
“Then I suppose you have to live with your decision, General,” Kazakov said casually.
“Oh, I can live with myself just fine, Pavel,” Zhurbenko said. “Russia again has troops in the Balkans and throughout Western Europe — all legal, all sanctioned by the United Nations — the NATO alliance has been fractured, we have a powerful new ally in Germany, and Caspian oil is making my country rich. I am proud of what I’ve done for my country, Kazakov, even if I end up going to prison for it. The loss of your tanker and your million barrels of oil is of no consequence to me.”
“Then I think our business is at an end,” Kazakov said. “You enjoy being a good little soldier in Lefortovo Prison. Remember, if you drop the bar of soap in the shower, don’t bend over to pick it up.”
Kazakov slammed the phone down so hard, he nearly broke the receiver on his three-thousand-dollar satellite phone. He had tried to sound casual and flippant on the phone with Zhurbenko, as if the loss of half a billion dollars was no big deal for him, but in actuality it was a huge blow. Since he owned the oil from the well to the refinery, including the terminals all along the way, and since he had numerous “side deals” with the individual countries to transport the oil, none of his product or the ships that carried it across the Black Sea was insured — not that many companies around the world would sell insurance to a drug smuggler and gangster. In addition, his investors expected to be paid whether or not the oil made it to the pipeline, and that was seven and a half million dollars that bad to come out of his own pocket. There was no interest on this money, no grace period, and no declaring bankruptcy — it was either pay up or be hunted for the rest of his life.
Further, the loss of one tanker by some shadowy, obviously powerful terrorist outfit — probably some CIA or SAS strike team — put the brakes on any more shipments on tankers bearing his name. That meant leasing other tankers, and that didn’t come cheap. In any case, his oil was as much of a target as his tankers were, and shipping companies would either simply refuse to transport any Metyorgaz crude, or charge a hefty premium to do so, to compensate for the possibility of another terrorist attack.
There was only one answer: divert the world’s attention away from him and onto another topic.
He left his private office and stormed out to the aircraft hangar. Although they continued to move the Metyor-179 Tyenee from place to place on a regular basis, most of Metyor’s known or suspected bases in Georgia, Kazakhstan, Russia, and Bulgaria were under heavy surveillance, so the base in Romania seemed to be the safest. He marched past the security guards and found Pyotr Fursenko standing in front of the Mt-179 stealth aircraft, worriedly discussing the streaks of black and gray on the leading edge — the internal missile launchers. “Doctor, get the aircraft ready to go tonight,” he ordered.
The technician Fursenko was talking to stepped away, thankful to get away from Pavel Kazakov. “We have some problems, sir,” Fursenko said.
“I’m not interested in problems right now, Fursenko, only action and results.” Fursenko said nothing, only looked at the hangar floor. “Well? What is wrong now?”
“There was more damage to the wing structure after the last missile launches—”
“I thought you had that problem solved.”
“We could not reengineer the internal launcher system and still keep the plane operational and on around-the-clock alert as you wanted,” Fursenko explained. “We could do nothing else but make minor repairs and impose operational limitations. The crew was restricted to firing internal missiles only in an emergency, after all other missiles were expended, only if the aircraft was in danger, and with a zero-point-eight Mach speed restriction, two-g acceleration, and five point zero angle-of-attack limits.” Fursenko could tell that this flurry of aeronautical technospeak was giving his young boss a headache, so he quickly decided to conclude with more or less happy news: “But we have repaired the damage, and I think we can be ready to fly.”
“So if you had operational limitations, why was there damage to the wing?” Fursenko hesitated, and Kazakov guessed the reason. “Obviously, because Stoica and Yegorov violated the restrictions, is that correct?”
“Their orders were to shoot down the patrol planes,” Fursenko argued. “They did a very good job—”
“They only got one bomber!”
“Which is very good, considering the odds they were up against,” Fursenko pointed out. “They faced four well-trained Turkish adversaries and managed to get two of them, maybe three.”
Kazakov looked up at the cockpit. Gennadi Yegorov was up there in the forward cockpit, making notes on a clipboard as the technicians tested electrical circuits, his head in a bandage. “What happened to Yegorov?”
“A slight concussion during some of their evasive maneuvers. The corpsman thinks he’ll be fine.”
“And Stoica?”
“Over there.” Fursenko looked apprehensive. Kazakov saw Stoica nursing a cup of coffee, one hand covering his eyes. “I think he has a touch of flu. When will you give us a list of new targets, sir?”
“Right away,” Kazakov said. He stared angrily at Stoica and realized the bastard did not have the flu. “There will be two of them, both to be hit on the same night.”
“That is risky, sir,” Fursenko said. “A heavy weapons load will mean using external weapon pylons—”
“Why? You have the internal weapons bay. Two air-to-ground weapons, two targets.”
“That’s risky, sir,” Fursenko explained. “We typically plan on twice the number of weapons than necessary to ensure success of the mission — two targets, four weapons, in case of a miss or a weapons malfunction.”