But there had been problems at Fisikous. The Baltic republic of Lithuania was driving toward independence from the Soviet Union, and Fisikous represented all that was bad about life under Soviet rule. Ivan Ozerov had disappeared during some kind of military action. Some said the American CIA or Special Forces had kidnapped Ozerov. Others said Ozerov had not been Russian but a captured American scientist, codenamed “Redtail Hawk,” brainwashed right there at Fisikous by the KGB, and that the military action had really been a rescue mission. Even the Fisikous-170 stealth bomber, a one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand kilo warplane, had been stolen.
“When the Union collapsed, I went back to Russia to head up some other aerospace design bureaus,” Fursenko went on. “I was going to retire or emigrate to the West, because the industry had all but disappeared in the Commonwealth. But when my wife died, I … I stayed on … well, mostly just to have something to do.”
“I understand,” Kazakov said sincerely. “I think that’s important.”
“They had better kofte and romavaya babas in the labs than I could afford as a pensioner anyway,” Fursenko admitted with a faint smile. “There’s not much money in Metyor, but we’re doing important work, incredible things. I didn’t mind not getting paid as long as I could keep on working and get real coffee. No offense, sir. It is rewarding work, but the pay is terrible.”
“No offense taken. My mother made the best romavaya babas when I was a kid,” Kazakov said. He sighed. “Now I think she would use a handful of them to choke me if she had the chance.”
Fursenko didn’t know what to say or do — he was afraid to smile, nod, or even move. He was very surprised and a bit wary after hearing the apparent warmth in Kazakov’s voice — not something he had ever expected to hear at all. “I couldn’t help but notice, your mother… seemed rather upset at … well…”
“At me, yes,” Kazakov admitted. “She does not approve of what I do.”
“And at Russia also.”
“She blames the Russian government for the sloppy way it supports our troops overseas,” Kazakov said. “She blames me for everything else.”
Fursenko definitely did not feel comfortable discussing this man’s personal life — that was an area he had no desire whatsoever to explore. He extended his hand, and Kazakov took it warmly. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Gaspadeen—” Fursenko had used the more modern post-Union breakup, more “politically correct” term for “mister,” but he automatically stopped himself, then said, “Tovarisch Kazakov.” That was what most Russians had called each other back when there was a strong, fearsome, proud empire: Comrade.
Kazakov smiled and nodded approvingly. “My condolences for your loss, Tovarisch Fursenko.”
“And to you, sir.” Fursenko turned and quickly strode away, feeling very uncomfortable with that man knowing his name or even standing behind him.
Kazakov stood by himself on the ramp, reflecting on this very strange evening. First the death and return of his father in shame, without any honors; his mother’s outburst and her rejection; and then this chance meeting with one of the Cold War’s most famous and brilliant weapons designers. Pavel Gregorievich Kazakov didn’t believe in fate — he wielded too much power to believe that anyone else decided your future — but there had to be a reason, some definite path, that this chain of events signaled.
At one time, Doctor Pyotr Viktorievich Fursenko had been considered the finest and most imaginative aerospace and electromagnetodynamics engineer in all of Europe. Since the age of thirty, he had been the director of several Soviet aircraft and weapon design bureaus, building the most advanced military aircraft, missiles, bombs, avionics, and components imaginable …
At least, they had thought it was the best. Fursenko’s word had been considered physics law until Ivan Ozerov had shown up at Fisikous. When Ozerov had started working at Fisikous, completely shattering the old beliefs and understandings, the Soviet scientists had realized exactly how far behind the United States they were on advanced warplane technology, especially low observable airframe, devices, systems, and counter-stealth technology.
This had only spurred Fursenko to even greater heights of genius. Even though the collapse of the Soviet Union meant the collapse of big, super-secret, well-funded agencies like Fisikous, it had also meant that Fursenko could travel and attend classes and seminars all over the world to learn more about modern warplane technology. When Ozerov had disappeared, probably back to whatever planetoid or genetic-engineering incubation tank had spawned him, Fursenko had again taken the lead in Russian aircraft and weapons design.
And now Kazakov knew where he was, had met him, and could even be called his boss — because Kazakov owned over sixty percent of Metyor Industrial Investment Group. The genius Fursenko had been at his disposal all this time, and he hadn’t even known it! But how to take advantage of this development? His mind began racing….
Only when the cargo ramp was finally raised and the transport plane made ready to be towed back to its hangar did Kazakov finally turn toward the three government vehicles behind him, which had also remained.
The middle and left side cars suddenly started up and drove off, leaving one car behind. A guard in a dark suit, wearing a machine pistol on a strap, emerged from the remaining vehicle, a stretch limousine, and opened a door for the young man. Kazakov brushed snow off his shoulders, then removed and brushed snow off his hat, revealing a shaved head, and stepped inside. The door closed behind the young man with a heavy CHUNK! that revealed its heavily armored doors and windows. The limousine drove off.
Inside was one man, a military officer in his early sixties, seated on a side-facing seat. Before him was a communications console, complete with satellite transceivers and television and computer monitors. A very pretty uniformed female aide sat in the forward aft-facing seat, with a similar console before her. She glanced at the young man, gave him an approving half-smile, and returned to her work.
“You did not even try to pay your respects to my mother, General,” the young man said acidly, without any sort of formal greeting.
“I did not think it would have been wise to try to console her in her obvious hysterical grief.”
“So, who were in the other cars?” the young man asked. “The president? The defense minister?”
“The national security advisor, representing President Sen’kov, and the assistant minister of defense for European affairs, representing the government. I represent the military.”
“I had hoped the president would be courageous enough to attend,” the young man said. bitterly. “Not only does the commander-in-chief not attend, but he schedules the return flight for the dead of night in the middle of a snowstorm! What happened to your compassion, your responsibility to thank the families for their sacrifice?”
“We may have extended that courtesy, if your mother did not desecrate the flag so,” the old officer said. “That was a most disappointing display. Most regrettable.”
“She is the widow of a man who died in the line of duty, doing a job few officers wanted,” the younger man said. “She has given her life for the army. She is entitled to her grief — however she wishes to express it.” The young man looked over, but the officer did not respond. He took a breath, then reached behind the seat, lifted a crystal glass, and sniffed it, while at the same time checking out the aide over the rim of the glass. “I see you still prefer American whiskey and attractive aides, Colonel-General,” the young man said.