“So then use the external pylons.”
“If we put air-to-ground missiles on an external pylon, it means we cannot put air-to-air missiles on a pylon because of weight restrictions. The air-to-ground weapons are much heavier than air-to-air weapons, and they have a narrower carriage envelope.”
“So’? Use the pylons and the weapons bay for offensive weapons, and the internal missiles for defense.”
“But we cannot use internal defensive missiles, sir,” Fursenko said. “The damage—”
“I thought you said you repaired the damage.”
“We have repaired the damage caused by launching missiles from the last mission, but we have not solved the underlying problem yet,” Fursenko said. “And there is certainly much more damage to the wing that we can’t see. I would caution against using any internal missiles at all except in an emergency, and to be extra safe I would advise not even to load missiles into the launchers.”
“I pay those men a lot of money to take certain risks, Doctor,” Kazakov said flatly. “Besides, if it might help bring them and the aircraft back in one piece, I want it used. The missiles go on, but they are not to be used except in absolute emergencies — no chasing, after targets of opportunity. Issue the order.”
“But that leaves us with no defensive weapons to counter known threats,” Fursenko argued. “We will need the external pylons both for defensive and for offensive weapons.”
“Fursenko, you are beginning to talk in circles,” Kazakov said irritably. “First you say we cannot use internal missiles, and then you say we cannot do the mission unless we use internals. What are you really saying, Doctor? Are you saying we cannot fly the aircraft?”
“I … I guess that’s what I’m saying,” Fursenko said finally. “It cannot be safely used without extensive inspection and repair.”
Pavel Kazakov seemed to accept this bit of news. He nodded, then seemed to shrug his shoulders. “Then perhaps we will strike just one target,” he said. “Will that satisfy you, Doctor? You can use the internal weapons bay for offensive weapons, and the pylons for defensive weapons.”
“Our other problem came with using external pylons, because using them greatly increases our radar cross-section and destroys our stealthiness,” Fursenko explained. “If we only strike one target, we can still use the other two internal launchers for emergency use, and then use the internal bay for offensive weapons.”
Kazakov nodded again. “And what of Gennadi and Ion?” he asked. “Will they be all right?”
“Gennadi seems to be well. He has been under close supervision, and seems to be suffering no effects of his concussion.” Fursenko frowned at Stoica. “Ion … we’ll have to see how well he can recover. From the flu.”
Kazakov nodded. He looked at Yegorov, who was flipping switches and speaking on a headset to the technicians. “If we need to do a test flight, Gennadi can do it?”
“Of course. Gennadi is a trained pilot and is almost as familiar with the Tyenee as Ion. We would substitute myself or one of the other technicians in the weapons officer’s position for the test flight.”
“Excellent.” Kazakov strolled over toward Stoica. The pilot did not stand or even acknowledge Kazakov’s presence, just sat with his hand covering his eyes. “Ion? I hope you are feeling better. Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ve done everything I can think of, Pavel,” Stoica moaned. A faint whiff of fortified wine caught Kazakov’s nostrils. “I just need a little time so I can get my head together.”
“It’ll take more than time to get your head together, Ion,” Kazakov said. Stoica raised his head and looked at Kazakov through bloodshot eyes and was about to ask his boss what he meant when Kazakov pulled a SIG-Sauer P226 nine-millimeter pistol from a shoulder holster, held it to Stoica’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. Half the contents of Stoica’s skull splattered out onto the table, and his limp, lifeless body collapsed on top of the mess of brains, blood, and bone. Kazakov fired three more rounds into Stoica’s eyes and mouth until his head was nothing more than a lump of gore.
He turned back toward Fursenko, still holding the smoking pistol clenched in his fist, and wiped blobs of blood and bits of brain matter across his face until he wore a macabre death mask. “No more excuses from any of you!” he screamed. “No more excuses! When I say I want a job done, you will do it! When I say I want a target destroyed, all the targets, you had better destroy them, or don’t bother returning to my base! I don’t care about safety, or malfunctions, or caution lights, or excuses, or danger. You do a job or you will die. Is that clear?
“Fursenko, I want that aircraft airborne with as many weapons as you need to do the job, and I want it airborne tonight, or I will slaughter each and every one of you! And you will destroy both targets I give you, both of them, or don’t bother coming back — in fact, don’t even bother living anymore! Do I make myself clear? Now, get busy, all of you!”
The White House Oval Office
The three Air Force general officers entered the Oval Office and stood quietly and unobtrusively along the wall, not daring to say a word or even make any sudden moves. They all expected the same thing: a major-league ass-chewing, thanks to Patrick McLanahan and his high-tech toys.
The President finished reading the report that Director of Central Intelligence Douglas Morgan had given him moments earlier. After the President read the report, he gave it to Vice President Les Busick, then stared off into space, thinking. Busick glanced at the report, then passed it along to Secretary of State Kercheval. Robert Goff had already briefed both men; Kercheval seemed even more upset than the President. After a few moments, President Thorn shook his head in exasperation, then glanced at Secretary of Defense Goff. “Take a seat, gentlemen,” he said.
After several long, silent, awkward moments, the President stood, crossed in front of his desk, then sat down on its edge. The seething anger on his face was painfully obvious to all. Thorn stared at each of the generals in turn, then asked slowly and measurably, “General Venti, how do I stop McLanahan?”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff thought for a moment, then replied, “We believe McLanahan’s raid started off from a small Ukrainian base near Nikolayev. Special Operations Command is ready to dispatch several teams into the area to hunt them down. Meanwhile, we retask reconnaissance satellites to scan every possible base for their presence.”
“If we get lucky, we’ll find them in a couple days — if they haven’t packed up and moved to a different location,” Morgan interjected.
“If they modified other Ukrainian helicopters to act as aerial refueling tankers,” Air Force Chief of Staff General Victor Hayes pointed out, “that could double the size of the area we’d need to search. It’d be a needle in a haystack.”
“Not necessarily,” Morgan said. “If we knew what their next move was, we might be able to set up a picket and nab them.”
“And if we got a little more cooperation from the Ukrainians or the Turks, we’d find them easier, too,” Kercheval added. “But this Black Sea Alliance is refusing to give us any information, although we’re certain they’ve been tracking and perhaps even assisting McLanahan in his raids.”
“They stole a damned supertanker loaded with a million barrels of oil in the middle of the Black Sea,” Vice President Busick retorted. “Who would’ve guessed they’d try something like that? Are we supposed to set up surveillance on every tanker in the area? What are they up to? What do they hope to accomplish?”