by Andrew Watts
Glidepath
A Max Fend Thriller
Andrew Watts
Point Whiskey Publishing
Copyright © 2017 by Point Whiskey Publishing.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The Cold War may be 'over' for the West. For the Soviets it has entered a new, active and promising phase.
Anatoliy Golitsyn, KGB Defector
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
About the Author
The War Planners Series
Find out what’s coming next…
Also by Andrew Watts
1
Gibraltar
“Have you met Mr. Morozov before?”
“No. But I know the type,” Sergei said, sweat on his brow, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight shining off the Mediterranean.
Sergei was a midlevel manager in one of the most powerful Russian mafia organizations on the planet. Born in Moscow, he had come to France a decade earlier to run his family’s business dealings there.
Mikhail and Sergei sat on a small porch overlooking the marina, ten floors up. Below, tourists lined up for ferry rides and deep-sea fishing trips. Seagulls glided in the air, searching for discarded food.
“When you speak with him, make sure you are respectful and to the point. Mr. Morozov does not normally meet with men like you.”
Sergei waved his hand dismissively. “Maybe I don’t normally meet with men like him.”
Mikhail took a final drag from his cigarette and then pressed it into the glass ashtray on the porch table. If that’s how this arrogant little prick wants to play it, fine.
He’ll soon learn.
Mikhail had seen enough of this new generation. The ex-Spetsnaz soldier was getting older, but he still was a foreboding presence. He had cut his teeth in Afghanistan as a member of the Red Army. Mikhail didn’t care for men like Sergei. He would just as soon have snapped his skinny little neck for disregarding his advice like that—but working for Morozov required total discipline.
And Morozov wanted to talk to Sergei.
“Can you shut that thing up?”
Sergei’s terrier was yapping at Mikhail’s feet. The dog hadn’t stopped barking in the five minutes since he’d entered. An earsplitting, high-pitched yelp. Over and over and over.
“He likes you. He’s a friendly dog.”
Mikhail glared at the animal, then looked down at his buzzing phone.
“He’s coming up.”
Sergei shrugged. He glanced down at the gun holstered on Mikhail’s right side.
“You like that piece? I can get you something better.”
Mikhail ignored him.
Minutes later, Pavel Morozov entered with two security guards in tow. Mikhail’s men. They were younger, but well trained. They closed and locked the door behind them and remained near the entrance of the small vacation condo.
Morozov stepped out onto the patio and took a seat. He was fit for a man of his age—nearing sixty-five. And his tanned skin hinted at a comfortable life in the sun. His expression was stoic. But behind his eyes was the distinct look of a man who had experienced decades of power. The look of an oligarch who expected nothing less than pure obedience. Behind those confident eyes was a master spy—one who had seized power through treachery and violence after the collapse of the Soviet Union.
Sergei hadn’t stood as he’d entered. And the tiny dog only intensified its bark—now aimed at Morozov.
Sergei made a clicking sound and the dog hopped up on his lap, now emitting a low growl at the guests.
Morozov looked at Mikhail with one eyebrow raised and then gave a thin smile. Mikhail pulled out a chair for his boss and positioned himself behind Morozov without saying a word.
“Glad you could make it,” offered Sergei.
“Tell me what I came to hear.”
Sergei said, “I have information that you will be most interested in. My associates and I would like to provide you with the first bid.”
“What are you offering?”
“Access. Access to the Fend Aerospace data center. Every document they have. Their designs for aircraft. Their software. Their classified military programs. I can get you into their system.”
“How?”
Sergei leaned back and smiled, looking satisfied.
Morozov glanced back at Mikhail and then said to Sergei, “Fend Aerospace is a multibillion-dollar American corporation. They will have very good IT security systems in place. I find it unlikely that a man in your position would come into something like this without outside assistance. So…who is getting you into their system?”
“Max Fend.” Sergei petted his dog and stared into the eyes of Pavel Morozov.
“Max Fend? Charles Fend’s son?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know him?”
“We have done business together.”
“What kind of business?”
Sergei ignored the question. “Mr. Morozov, as I understand it, you have been interested in Fend Aerospace for some time. Word is that you have been fishing for a way into their network. I can give it to you. For a price.”
The tiny dog was showing its teeth at Pavel Morozov. Sergei made a shushing sound to quiet it down.
Morozov rubbed his chin. “Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why would you offer this to me?”
“I was told that you would be interested. And with your work…you would be the best person to help monetize this. My family doesn’t normally deal in this area, as you know.”
“Yes. Your family deals with prostitutes and drugs.” Morozov looked as if he was contemplating something.
“Only the best prostitutes, and the highest-margin drugs.” Sergei chuckled.
“Tell me, Sergei, why am I hearing about this from you?”
Sergei shifted in his seat. “What the hell does that mean?” The dog began growling again.
Morozov took the tone of a school principal speaking to an unruly student. “Why not one of your cousins in Moscow? I’ve dealt with them personally in the past. I have a relationship with them. Do they know about this?”
Sergei swallowed.
“Look, if you are not interested, I can go—”
“Oh, no. I am interested.”
“Then what is the problem?”
Morozov said, “Tell me, who would the buyer be? In your most experienced and professional opinion.”
Sergei shrugged. “If you are worried about the liquidity, don’t. You wouldn’t have to sell this stuff to a big aerospace company. I would think that you could sell the different pieces separately. Any technology company would be interested in the technology. Fend Aerospace is a treasure trove. You are familiar with their new automated flight program?”
“I am.”
Morozov crossed his legs, looking out over the Mediterranean Sea.
“Sergei, are you familiar with the significance of my namesake?”
Sergei rolled his eyes. “I am not here to talk about your name.”
Morozov shot the young Russian a look.
Sergei winced. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morozov. I just…what does this have to do with what we are here to discuss? I want to talk about a business proposition. You—”
“I don’t care what you want. When I tell you something, you listen.” Morozov snapped his fingers.
Mikhail walked over and gripped Sergei’s neck in one hand, twisting his left wrist behind his back until Sergei let out a squeal of pain and pressed his head down firmly against the overhang. Sergei was now bent over, his smushed face looking towards Morozov, partially protruding over the edge. The street was ten floors down.
The little dog barked furiously and then grabbed onto Mikhail’s pant leg, pulling.
Morozov uncrossed his legs and stood. He grabbed the tiny animal by its neck.
“What are you doing? Let me go. You know who my family is. This is not the way we do business—”
Mikhail punched Sergei in the kidney. With the size of Mikhail’s arms, it was quite painful. “Be quiet and listen—or you get more.”
Sergei shut up, his eyes wide. The dog kept barking, suspended in air by Morozov’s left hand.
With his free hand, Morozov took out a knife from his pocket. He flicked it open and rammed it twice into the dog’s throat. A quick, sickening squeaking sound emanated from the dog’s mouth. Morozov released his grip and the animal fell to the ground with a thud.
Morozov’s hands were covered in blood. One of the guards came over with a damp towel, and Morozov began cleaning himself. He left the dog’s carcass on the ground.
Sergei’s mouth was open, releasing a slow, painful gasp. His eyes were moist with anger and fear. Spittle dribbled from his lips.
Morozov moved his deck chair closer to the edge, so that his face was mere inches from Sergei’s own.
“Let’s try again. The name Pavel Morozov—my name—are you familiar with its story in Russian history?”
Sergei’s voice was strained. “Yes. Of course.”
“The more commonly known name is Pavlik. Pavlik Morozov. A Soviet boy. What is he known for, Sergei?”
Sergei’s eyes were looking down over the ledge, ten stories below. He then looked back at Morozov. “He turned his parents in. To…to the Communists.”
“Yes. Pavlik Morozov was thirteen when he did that. A peasant. Born in a small village in the country. He was a good Communist. But his father was not. His father had broken the law, forging documents and selling them to criminals. So Pavlik did what any good Soviet boy should have done—he turned his father in to the political police. What happened next?”
Sergei had stopped fighting but was still being forced down at an awkward angle.
“The boy was killed—by his relatives.”
“Something like that. Pavlik Morozov turned his father in. His father was sentenced to ten years in a labor camp and then executed. But then Pavlik’s family took their revenge. They did not appreciate disloyalty. Little Pavlik’s uncle, grandfather, grandmother, and cousin murdered him in cold blood. And they killed his younger brother too, for good measure.”
Sergei winced in pain. Mikhail’s thick fingers still dug into his neck, Sergei’s forehead scraping against the plastered overhang.
Morozov whispered, “Then the Soviet political police—found out about the horrific murders. So they went into town, rounded up the perpetrators, lined them up, and executed all of them by firing squad.
“The people of the Soviet Union were aghast at what happened. Pavlik became a martyr. A symbol. Statues went up. Songs and poems were written. Poor young Pavlik’s school became a memorial where children all over the Soviet Union were sent to pay tribute to his great sacrifice.”
Morozov looked up at Mikhail and nodded. Mikhail placed Sergei back on his chair but remained standing behind him. Sergei was bleeding from his forehead, where it had ground into the rough stone wall.
Morozov said, “So my parents named me after this great example of Communist bravery. What do you think, Sergei? What do you think of my name?”
Sergei said, “I don’t know…I think it is good, I guess.”
“Do you know what I think?”
Sergei shook his head, looking down at the floor.
“I think it is all propaganda bullshit. The Communists fabricated that story. It was the most perfect Russian tragedy you could imagine. And my poor parents bought it. Now I have to walk around with this goddamned lie of a name.”
Sergei just stared back, eyes lowered.
“But you know what, Sergei? The story does have a good lesson. But it is not the lesson that the Soviets wanted us to take away. Do you know what I am talking about?”
Sergei shook his head rapidly.
Morozov got in his face, speaking through gritted teeth.
“Family members are often a great source of vulnerability. They are blind spots. Take Max Fend. Max Fend might be his father’s undoing. And what about you, Sergei? Are you the weak link in your family?”
Fear shone in Sergei’s eyes.
“Like I said, Sergei, I am used to dealing with your family. Not you. So when you called, guess what I did? I called your uncles. And I told them something that they did not know. Your uncles don’t want to have a rat in the family. That is a problem for them. A problem that they would very much like to go away.”
Mikhail came back into Sergei’s view again. He was twisting a silencer onto the barrel of his gun, his eyes on Sergei.
Morozov smiled. “I make problems go away, Sergei. I’m very good at it.”
“Mr. Morozov, please just—”
“I want you to tell me everything you know about Max Fend. And then I want you to tell me exactly how you propose to gain access to the Fend network.”
“You are going to shoot me.” Sergei’s voice sounded defeated.
A thin-lipped smile. “Tell me what I want to know, and I promise you that I won’t shoot you.”
Twenty minutes later, the sounds of the marina were interrupted by screams. The screams began ten stories up and changed pitch as the source hurtled downward, ending in an abrupt smack as Sergei’s body smashed onto the pavement.
2
National Air and Space Museum
Washington, D.C.
Five Days Before the Fend 100 Flight
Charles shook his head. “How did they get through our firewall?”
“I just spoke with our IT security team. They still don’t know.”
“And you’re sure that they weren’t able to access the Fend 100 software?”
“It appears that way, but they have the aircraft design, including the wing. If the investors find out…”
“They’re going to find out, Maria, there’s no way around that. The best thing we can hope for now is to manage the message. You’ve notified the authorities?”
“Yes, Charles. We did that when it happened. But we’re just now learning how serious this was.”
“I’ll have to fly to New York and speak to some of the investors. The NextGen contract isn’t complete yet. They’ll be nervous.”
Maria Blount nodded in agreement. She was one of Charles Fend’s top executives and head of the Fend 100 autonomous flight program. She had just broken the news that a cyberattack had penetrated many of their most precious company files. They had known about the breach for several weeks. But until today, the Fend Aerospace leadership had been under the impression that their cybersecurity had prevented any important data from being stolen. This was bad news at a critical juncture in the company’s schedule.
“The Today Show is ready for you, Mr. Fend.”
The camera crew was setting up right under the National Air a
nd Space Museum’s exhibit on commercial aviation. A DC-3 was suspended in the air overhead, and the giant front end of a Boeing 747 protruded from the wall.
“Excuse me, we will have to discuss this more later,” Charles said and walked onto the set.
The production team hooked a microphone to his shirt and handed him an earpiece. Bright lights illuminated the area. The crowd of museum tourists that had gathered around him hushed, seeing that the Charles Fend was about to go on live TV.
Charles could hear “the talent” in his ear, carrying on with their morning news update. Then came the voice he assumed belonged to the producer, instructing them to cut to Washington for Charles Fend.
The large black camera rolled up in front of him, keeping the museum’s aircraft in the frame. A tiny TV screen next to the camera showed the host saying, “We’re now joined by the illustrious Charles Fend—aviation pioneer and owner of Fend Aerospace. He’s coming to us live from the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. Charles, would you care to tell everyone watching how the Fend 100 project is going so far?”
Charles smiled, his white teeth and gray hair recognizable to the viewers from many years of wide publicity.
“It’s going great, thank you for asking. In five more days, the Fend 100 will be airborne, and I wanted to thank you for having me on your show to talk about it.”
“Can you tell our audience what to expect during the flight next week?”
“Sure thing. The Fend 100 will fly its first passenger flight just like any other commercial airliner, with one key difference. The Fend 100 Artificial Intelligence Pilot System will be doing all the work. The computers will completely take over for the pilots. The Fend 100 will fly up and down the Florida coast for a few hours, allowing our passengers to experience what real airborne luxury can be like, and then the Fend 100 will return for a safe landing back at our headquarters near Jacksonville.”
