Both Morgan and Goff exited the study, leaving the President alone with his thoughts — and his secret fears.
Over the Black Sea
The attack on the German embassy in Tirane went off with surprising precision and flawless execution — even Pyotr Fursenko, who had enormous trust in his constructs, was as pleased as he was surprised. It went off so well and so quickly that he had little time to prepare for the second part of their dangerous mission.
Gennadi Yegorov was the quiet, unexcitable captain of their pickup strike team. Even with the constant threat of Pavel Kazakov and his demonic anger hovering around them, Yegorov took his time, refamiliarizing himself with the forward cockpit and explaining several key pieces of information to Fursenko — he was mindful of the fact that although Fursenko had designed and built the plane, he had never flown in it or any other aircraft before. Yegorov got Kazakov to agree to an extra day to prepare, and it was time well spent. By the time they were ready to launch, Fursenko felt confident he could play the role of Yegorov’s assistant and flip the right switches at the proper time.
If not, and their mission ended in failure, he felt very confident he could punch them both out of the aircraft.
It was without a doubt the biggest warload the Metyor-179 had ever carried: a pylon with one R-60 air-to-air missile and one Kh-73 laser-guided one-thousand-kilogram bomb under each wing, two Kh-73 bombs in the internal weapons bay, and four R-60 missiles in the internal wing launchers for emergency use only. The R-60s on the wing pylons were a last-minute suggestion from Yegorov. His logic was simple: the Tyenee was most vulnerable with the two big bombs on those pylons, so why not carry some extra insurance? When the external bombs were expended or if they got jumped before the target area, they could use the two extra missiles to fight their way out, jettison the bombs and pylons, and use their stealthiness to get away. It turns out they were not needed, but Yegorov proved he was definitely in charge of this mission and this aircraft.
The navigation system was as tight and as accurate as could be during the short flight from Codlea to Tirane. The radar warning receiver bleeped during most of the flight, especially near the Macedonian and Albanian capitals, but no fighters or antiaircraft weapon systems ever appeared to challenge them. Yegorov had made Fursenko some drawings of what the German embassy might look like in the targeting display, in case he had to refine the aim, but the targeting box was right on the correct building all the way, so Fursenko didn’t have to touch a thing except to be sure the weapon arming and release switches were in the proper setting for the bomb run, which of course he could do with his eyes closed — after all, he’d designed and positioned each and every one of them, and he knew to the smallest detail exactly what had to happen to get a successful weapon release.
But Fursenko did not have his eyes closed — and lie saw everything, including the thousands of persons filling the streets near the German embassy. One one-thousand-kilo bomb was certainly enough to destroy the small embassy building. The second weapon was targeted on the very same point, but actually impacted several meters short — right into the crowded street in the midst of the protesters. When the first bomb hit the German embassy, and as the impossibly bright cloud of fire blossomed across the screen, Fursenko thought he could see the people as individuals, could see the shock wave hit them first, knocking down their signs, blowing tons of debris toward them in the blink of an eye, and whisking their heads back just milliseconds before the wall of heat and concrete washed over them. Then the laser targeting system automatically flipped to a wide bomb damage assessment shot of the target area, so Fursenko could not see any more details except for the second bomb falling short and adding its fury to the first.
But he knew there was going to be death down there. They had only targeted buildings, sure — but Kazakov must’ve known that those protesters were going to be there. He could’ve waited a few hours until the streets were clear, but he didn’t. He could’ve targeted another building, or picked some other target to make his point and cause a distraction, but he hadn’t. He’d deliberately chosen this target because of the number of people that would be in the path of that blast.
It was true: Pavel Kazakov was a murderous monster. He would order the deaths of thousands just to cover his tracks as easily and as casually as he’d order Cornish game hen from a restaurant menu.
“How are you doing back there, Doctor?” Gennadi Yegorov asked.
“All right,” Fursenko asked. “And call me Pyotr, please.”
“I will. And call me Gennadi.”
They fell silent for a few moments; then: “I was thinking …”
“Yes, Pyotr?”
“I was thinking about how coldly Comrade Kazakov can kill a person,” Fursenko said. “Human life means absolutely nothing to him.”
“It certainly adds a new dynamic to our business, doesn’t it? Yegorov said with casual, dark humor. “Just too many ways to die.”
Fursenko dropped his mask, afraid he might hyperventilate. He looked at Yegorov’s eyes in the rearview mirror, then raised his oxygen mask and spoke into its microphone: “He will not let us live if we return. You know that, don’t you?”
Ion was falling apart, Pyotr,” Yegorov said. “He couldn’t handle the task. He was getting bored and making mistakes.”
“But Kazakov shot him four times in the head, as easily as … as cutting open a melon for breakfast,” Fursenko pointed out.
“Pyotr, forget about Stoica. He was a drunk and an idiot.”
“As soon as he’s done with us, he’ll discard us, the Metyor-179, and everyone working out there in Codlea. He’ll kill us all, just as easily as he killed Stoica and those soldiers in Bulgaria.”
“Pyotr, you agreed to work for the man,” Yegorov pointed out. “You did it voluntarily, same as I. We both knew who he was and what he wanted long before we agreed to work for him. After we shot down that unarmed AWACS plane, we took his money. After we killed those people in Kukes, we took his money. After he killed those soldiers in Bulgaria, we took his money. We’re heartless butchers, just like he is. What do you want to do now? Fly away? Try to run and hide?”
“How about we save ourselves?”
“Then you had better find a way to make sure he’s dead,” Yegorov said. “Because if he’s alive and you cross him, he’ll find you and devise some ugly, horrible way to kill you. He did Stoica a favor by killing him quickly.”
“Should we ask the West for protection?”
“The West would want us to testify as witnesses against Kazakov, and then our lives would be worthless,” Yegorov said. “We’re co-conspirators with him now, Pyotr, can’t you understand that? We’re his hired killers. Just because you’re a scientist and not a pilot or gunman doesn’t absolve you from guilt. If we testify against Kazakov, we’d be put in prison ourselves, and then we’d be targets for his worldwide network of assassins. If we’re put into a witness protection program, our lives would be at the mercy of some government bureaucrat — no guarantee we’d be safe from Pavel Kazakov. No. We have a job to do, you and I. Let’s do it.”
“Are you crazy, or just blind?” Fursenko asked incredulously. “Can’t you see what’s happening? Kazakov is a killer. Once he’s done with us, we’re dead. He’ll have his billions, and we’ll be dead.”