The Art of War

THIRTEEN

The large Aeroflot jet traveled down the runway, awkward and ungainly now that it was on the ground. A few streaks of rust showed on its side, and there was a trickle of hydraulic fluid from one engine.

Wadi contemplated it gravely. Perhaps not the best aircraft, but then again, there were no Iranians riding in it. It would do for the cargo it transported, in some ways more precious than gold or oil.

The aircraft finally came to a halt near the hastily erected terminal building. A boarding ladder was pushed up to it as the hatch opened. Two security guards came down the ladder and stood guard as the aircraft disgorged a flood of civilian technicians.

The heat hit them like a physical blow. While many parts of Russia were not hospitable, there was not much in the world that could match the baking sun in the Middle East.

Wadi’s assistant stepped forward. He spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome. “We are very glad to see you, my friends. Very glad indeed.”

Ilya Gromko, the leader of the group stepped forward. “Thank you. If we could perhaps get out of the heat, we can discuss the progress schedule. My men are eager to get to work.”

And to get out of the Middle East, I suspect, Wadi thought. He let no trace of his thought show on his face. “Of course, of course.”

He led the way into the terminal building, where they were rewarded with an icy blast of air-conditioning, then they crowded into the room. “All work will be done, of course, in air-conditioned bunkers,” Wadi said.

“For investments, if you like. Especially hardened.” He paused to let this reminder to the man that they were in dangerous territory. “Do you anticipate any additional problems?”

“No. Not as long as we can get the parts,” Gromko said.

“Oh, that will not be a problem,” Wadi assured him. “My government has the most cordial of relationships with yours.” As well as hard cash. Very convenient, that the nation who has the technology we need is sorely strapped for that. Hard-up enough, certainly, to send a full crew here on the mere possibility of a contract.

“I have reviewed the production schedules. Most impressive.”

The Russian leader grunted. “It’s not anything we are not used to. The stories I could tell… well, I shall not bore you. We will conduct our preliminary assessment this evening. After that, I will assign six men per aircraft. An assembly line, three days per aircraft. I would estimate no more than two weeks to have all the aircraft operationally ready. Do you have sufficient pilots to fly them?”

Wadi drew himself up straight. The man was offensive, intolerably so. Yet for the time being, he needed his help.

Of course he had the necessary pilots, all of them eager to join battle. They had the benefit of the most advanced training, tutors, and the instructors who attended the U.S. Navy’s best school decades ago. And as for the skills they did not possess now, well, there was no shortage of combat instructors for a nation as wealthy as Iran. And if that didn’t work, there was always the threat of their biological weapons.

But for now, he must allow the insult to pass. He yearned for the day when he no longer needed these man nor their talented hands and spare parts. And most assuredly the Soviet Union — Russia — would be offended if he executed them for offenses that would have warranted execution had they been citizens.

Oh, but someday soon, they would pay. And pay dearly. After Iran took its place in the civilized world as a superpower once again.