by Dale Brown
nation-and personal indiscretions---the Americans have b&n like ffightened children."
"Is the tap in the German chancellor's office reliableT'President Sen'kov asked.
"As reliable as any microwave tap set up over a week ago," Stepashin replied noncommittally. "The Germans will undoubtedly find it and shut our tap down. They may already have discovered it and are feeding us crap, just so they can watch us have these early-morning meetings and chase our tails around for a day or two. We may spend a few weeks having to sift through mountains of data and thousands of pages of transcribed phone conversations and find out it is all garbage." He thought for a moment, then added, "But usually when a tap is discovered, the chancellor and most of the members of the Cabinet retreat to alternate locations or go on a foreign trip until their offices can be swept. No one has left Bonn, except for the vice chancellor, and he had a meeting scheduled in Brazil for weeks. In fact, the Cabinet has had two unscheduled meetings since President Thorn's call last night. I believe the information to be factual."
"What are you talking about, GeneraIT' National Security Advisor Yejsk asked. "The United States is the most powerful nation on Earth. Their economy is strong, their people are happy, it's a good place to live and invest and emulate. Like Disneyland." He chuckled, then added, "Apparently not like EuroDisney, though."
"Nikki is right," Foreign Minister Ivan Filippov said. "Besides, it's a societal and anthropological fact: the wealthier the nation, the more they tend to withdraw."
"The United States is not going to withdraw from anything," Minister of Defense Trubnikov said. "Withdrawing from peacekeeping duties in Kosovo and Bosnia-what the hell, we were all considering it, even before the death. of Gregor Kazakov. Great Britain and Italy were looking for a graceful way out; the rest of NATO, the French, and the nonaligned nations will not remain behind if the others pull out."
"That leaves Russia and Germany," President Sen'kov said. "The question is, do we want to be in the Balkans? Sergey? What do you think?"
"We have discussed this many times, sir," National Security
Advisor Sergey Yejsk replied. "Despite your predecessor's talk of unity between
Slavic peoples, we have virtually nothing in common with the Serbs or any interest in the civil wars or the breakup of Yugoslavia. The Yugoslavs are nothing but murderous animals-they invented the word 'vendetta,' not the Sicilians. The Red Army proportionally lost more soldiers to Yugoslav guerrillas than we did to the Nazis. Marshal Tito was the biggest Thorn in Stalin's side since that smug pig Churchill. We stood behind the Serbs because that stupid bigoted shit Milosevic opposed the Americans and NATO." He paused, then said, "We should get out of the Balkans, too, Mr. President."
"We should stay," Trubnikov said immediately. "The Americans will not leave the Balkans. Macedonia, Slovenia, Bulgaria-they want to make them members of NATO. If we leave, NATO will swarm into Eastern Europe. They'll be knocking on the Kremlin doors before we know it."
"Always the alarmist, eh, Viktor?" Foreign Minister Filippov said with a smile. "We should stay in the Balkans simply because the Americans are leaving. We milk the public relations value for all it's worth, then depart when we can sell that to the world, too. We are staying to keep the warring factions apart; now we're leaving because we have restored peace and stability to the Balkans."
"The problem is, getting out before our forces lose any more soldiers like Gregor Kazakov," Yejsk added. "If we sustain heavy guerrilla losses and then depart, we look like cowards."
"Russia will not flee either Chechnya or the Balkans," Sen'kov said resolutely. "I like the public relations idea best of all. If it is true, and the Americans leave the Balkans, it will be seen as a sign of weakness. We can exploit that. But remaining in the Balkans might be a waste of resources at best and dangerous at worst. After a few months, maybe a year, we depart." He turned to General Zhurbenko. "What about you, ColonelGeneral? You have been rather quiet. These are your men we are talking about."
"I met with Pavel Gregorievich Kazakov, the night the cas-
kets returned to Moscow," he said solemnly. "He was angry because you did not attend the return."
"Pavel Gregorievich," Sen'kov muttered bitterly. "A chip off the old block, except his piece flew in an entirely different direction. We did a profile of the families of the dead soldiers that could attend the service, General. I was advised that it would be politically unpopular for me to attend. The analysis proved correct: Gregor's wife virtually spat on the flag, in front of the other families. It was a very ugly scene. It only heightened whatever power Pavel Gregorievich has in this country."
"I spoke with him at length, and so did my aide," Zhurbenko said. A few of the president's advisors smiled at thatthey were well familiar with some of Major Ivana Vasilev's unique talents and appetites. "Pavel Gregorievich doesn't want power, he wants wealth."
"And he is getting it, I suppose-a hundred drug overdoses a day in Moscow, because of uncontrollable heroin imports by scum like Kazakov," Stepashin said acidly. "A mother will sell her baby for a gram of heroin and a hypodermic syringe. Yet Kazakov jets around the world, to his homes in Kazakhstan, Vietnam, and Venezuela, raking in money as fast as he can. He does not deserve to bear Gregor Mikhailievich's name."
"Did he threaten you? Did he threaten the president?" National Security Advisor YeJsk asked.
"No. He made us an offer," Zhurbenko replied in a quiet voice. "A truly remarkable, unbelievable offer." He had agonized over the decision to tell the president and the Security Council about Kazakov's incredible proposals. He had harbored ideas about trying to manipulate events himself, but decided that was impossible. But if he had the full support of the government as well as the military, it might actually work.
"He says he can sell two and a half billion rubles' worth of oil per day with a pipeline from the Black Sea to Albania." He looked around at the stunned faces in the president's office. "The plans for the pipeline exist, but it has not yet started because of all the political and domestic unrest in southern Europe, primarily Macedonia and Albania. But if the unrest
ceased, or if the various governments turned in Russia's favor, the pipeline project might be accelerated."
"What was he offering, General?" Sen'kov asked in a low voice.
"More money than any of us have ever imagined," Zhurbenko replied. "He wants to invest a quarter billion dollars to build the pipeline, plus another quarter billion in what he calls 'dividends' to investors. Hard currency, in foreign numbered accounts, untraceable. The pipeline can start flowing oil in about a year. And he offered more-he offered a way for Russia to once again become a great superpower, to regain its lost empire. He devised a way for Russia to earn untold millions of dollars a day in oil income, like a Middle East sheikhdom."
"How can you believe anything that degenerate shit says?" Yejsk asked angrily. "He is a spoiled drug dealer who happened to get rich by stinking up half the Caspian Sea with his wildcat rigs. Where is Russia's share of the wealth he has created? He shifts his money around in Kazakh, Asian, and Caribbean banks so fast no one can keep up with it, and yet he argues loud and long that his fees and tariffs from Moscow are too high. He should be reimbursing Russia for destroying the Caspian caviar trade, not to mention the thousands of lives he's destroyed with his heroin imports."
"Sir, I knew Gregor Mikhailievich Kazakov for thirty years, since before we graduated from the Academy together," Zhurbenko said. "I've known Pavel Gregorievich since the day he was born. I was his best man at his wedding when his father could not attend because he was fighting in Afghanistan. He is genuinely angry because he feels the Russian government has let him down, broken the trust with him and the military. Russia and her military forces are dying, sir. Not just because of hard economic times, but from a lack of respect, of prestige around the world. Pavel knew this. And he offered a possible way to fix the problem."
"It is doubtful to me that Kazakov cares one way or another about Russia or the army, Col
onel-General, as long as he gets whatever he wants," Foreign Intelligence Service director Nikolai Stepashin said to Zhurbenko. "I knew and respected
Colonel Kazakov as well, but I never knew his son to be anything but a wild drug addict who could kill without hesitation if it meant more money or power for himself. The people like him because he is a colorful character, like Al Capone or Robin Hood-both criminals in their own countries. This 'dividend,' Colonel-General, was a polite term for a bribe. He wants you to use the army for his own purposes, and he is willing to pay you handsomely for it."
Zhurbenko looked at the other men in the office sternly. "I know full well Kazakov was offering me a bribe. I'm not interested in Kazakov's bribes-to him, it's a normal way of doing business. I do not work that way," he said. "And when it comes to killing, Nikolai, you and I are both trained to do it without hesitation or moral question. He does it for the money-we do it for the honor of serving Russia. He may be a gangster, but he also gets results.
"But forget about the bribe. Think about the opportunity to bring some nations back into our sphere of influence. We use the army or we use Kazakov's money-it's just a different form of power, a different tool of government and foreign relations. The outcome is the same-the enhancement of the power and security of mother Russia. I think it is worth a look."
The Cabinet officials looked at the floor, quietly, for several very long moments; there were no outbursts of outrage or indignation, no protests, no denials. Finally, one by one, they looked at President Sen'kov.
"I am not going to soil my first elected term in office by getting involved with bloodthirsty gangsters like Kazakov," President Sen'kov said. "He will not dictate foreign policy. Colonel-General Zhurbenko, stay away from that hoodlum." "But sir. . ." -
"I understand his father was your friend, but it is obvious to me that even Colonel Kazakov wanted to stay as far away from his son as possible," Sen'kov said. "He is a murderous animal, and we have our hands too full as it is with antigovernment terrorists to worry about dealing with underworld drug lords. That is The High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, Elliott APB, Groom Lake, Nevada
That evening
As she expected, there he was, and her heart sank. Better try one more time, she thought, although she already knew how the conversation would go.
"Hey, Dave," Captain Annie Dewey said, as she activated the retina scan lock and entered the engineering lab. "The shuttle leaves in ten minutes. Are
you ready?"
Colonel David Luger looked up from his computer terminal, looked at the clock, then looked at his watch and shook his head in surprise. "Oh, no. Man, is it that late already?" he asked. "I'm sorry. I lost track of time."
"No problem," Annie said, trying to sound cheerful. "But we'd better hurry."
"Okay. Tbis'll work." He furiously typed in more instructions, waited for a response, then waited some more. He glanced at Annie and gave her a sheepish smile, glanced at his watch again, and then at the screen. A few moments later, he shook his head. "Man, the mainframe is slow tonight."
"Dave, we have to leave. It takes ten minutes just to get to the shuttle ten-ninal."
"I know, I know, but I can't back out until this subroutine is finished. It'll only take a second." She walked over to him and massaged one of his shoulders. She took a peek at the screen. Just by reading the heading, she knew what project he was working on, and knew he'd never be able to leave it at this point. As if confirming what she already guessed, Dave shook his head, muttered an "Oh, no, don't do this to me," and punched in more instructions.
"Problem?" "I hate to do this to you, Annie," Luger said, "but I need to finish debugging this routine and upload it to the firmware lab tonight so they can get the processor ready to install on an LRU motherboard for its test flight. This is a new error code, and I have to track it down. I'm sorry, but I don't think I can go with you tonight."
"C'mon, Dave," Annie protested. -11is is the third weekend
in a row you'll be stuck out here. We've had to excuse ourselves out of four events at the last minute. On Monday I head off to Ukraine to help bring in the bombers for the joint NATO exercises-I'll be gone for a week."
"I'm sorry, Annie, but this can't be helped."
"The test flight isn't until Monday morning," Annie reminded him. "This is Friday night. I know you'll be back out here tomorrow and Sunday working. Why not take a break for just one night?"
"I would, Annie. You know that." She knew of no such thing, but she let that one slip by. "But I'm right in the middle of this debug routine. If I finish this in the next half hour, I can knock off early and we can spend some time together at home."
"But the next shuttle doesn't leave here for two hours. We'll miss the party."
He raised his hands in surrender, but put them back down quickly to enter more instructions. "I can't leave this routine now, Annie-I'll lose all my work if I exit now, and I'll have to start over. I'll be on the next shuttle home, I promise."
"That's what you said when we missed the six o'clock shuttle."
"I can't help it," he said. "Why don't you go without me this time? You can spend some time at the party. I'll get a car to take me home, and I'll meet up with you there. Deal?"
Her pent-up anger and frustration let go at that moment. "David, this is silly. You have six programmers and technicians on your staff that can debug that routine for you in half the time Monday morning in plenty of time to load on the chip." He turned toward the computer, his head bowed, his hands flat on the table beside the keyboard. "You have got to think about yourself once in a while. You need a break. You're working yourself to exhaustion. You don't eat, you don't sleep, you don't socialize." He seemed frozen, staring blankly into the desk. "Don't you want to be with me tonight, Dave?" No reply. "David? Are you listening to me?"
Still no reply-at least, no reply to her When the computer beeped to let him know that it had found another problem, he responded instantly, punching in more code. One moment, he
was seemingly immobile, staring into nothingness; the next, he was as animated and alert as ever. Weird.
"All right." There was no use arguing or ranting at him. They weren't married-they
weren't even an official "couple," at least not in his eyes. If he wanted to stay, there was nothing she could do to change his mind. "I'm off. I'll see you at home."
"Okay, Annie," David said cheerfully. He was typing away on the computer, his head bouncing up and down to some internal song or rhythm, blissfully going on as if she had not said a word. "Have fun. I'll be on that next shuttle. Bye."
Annie Dewey never felt as alone as she did when she stepped aboard the almost full Boeing 727 shuttle plane that would take her from Dreamland to Nellis Air Force Base. Another typical night-alone.
The trick had worked like an absolute charm since his days in high school back in Billings, Montana: the best way to meet women is to help your buddy's girlfriend throw a party. Naturally, she wants to invite all of her girlfriends to the party, so she gives their names, addresses, and phone numbers to you. Voila! Instant black-book update. During the party, he and his friends would find out more about the girls, then update the black book even more. Did they have a car? Their own place? Did they like the outdoors? Movies? Quiet dinners? Wild parties? Did they have money? Were they looking for a commitment, companionship, or just a good time? Then, whatever was planned for the weekend, they would invite the appropriate women to join them. Most important, they were sure to stay away from the ones that wanted a commitment.
Duane U. "Dev" Deverill, had certainly aged since high school, but in mind, body, and spirit he was still eighteen years old, and loving every minute of it. His entire life had been a study in taking advantage of opportunities as they presented themselves. He had never thought of himself as college material, but seven years after the end of the Vietnam War, the Air Force had been tempting young men and women with full fouryear college scholarships to boost enrollment, so Dev had
&nb
sp; signed up. He'd never thought of himself as a flyer, but he'd accepted a navigator slot. He'd been the top graduate in his class and had had his choice of the best assignments right out of navigator training. He'd chosen the best assignment available: weapons systems officer aboard the then brand-new F- 15E Strike Eagle fighter-bomber. As a young captain, he'd been a flight commander during Operation Desert Storm in his F-15E squadron and racked up an impressive mission effectiveness rating and an Air Medal for his outstanding performance in combat.
Despite a meteoric career progression, he'd left the activeduty Air Force and joined the Kansas Air National Guard, flying the B-IB Lancer bomber. When the One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron of the Nevada Air National Guard had started recruiting for experienced crew members to form their new B - I B squadron in Reno, Deverill had joined immediately. He'd become one of the unit's full-time Guardsmen, helping to turn the fledgling unit into one of the best combat units in the United States Air Force. Dev had remained the same ever since he'd left Montana: supremely confident without being too arrogant, knowledgeable without being tiresome, aggressive without being annoying. He knew he was good, and everyone else knew he was good. If they forgot that fact, he was right there to remind them, but otherwise he was content to stay just a head above everyone else around him without stepping on anyone on his way to the top.
While the One-Eleventh "Aces High" was on temporary duty at the Tonopah Test Range, and a few of their bombers were undergoing modification at Dreamland, Dev shared a two-bedroom apartment with another Air Force officer, a public affairs officer at the Fifty-seventh Wing at Nellis Air Force Base, outside of North Las Vegas. It was a classic "bachelor pad," and they took full advantage of it every chance they had. The apartment complex had a nice clubhouse available for the tenants to use for parties, along with the required pool, spa, and fitness center. Right now, Dev was in "intelligence collection" mode at a party he was throwing for his roommate's girlfriend's birthday. Along with steering guests toward the drinks and food and making introductions, Dev was also gathering in-
