The Moscow Offensive

Seven

Sited just seven miles from the state capital and near the junction of several major interstate highways, Indianapolis International Airport was the eighth busiest air freight hub in the United States. More than a million metric tons of cargo flowed through its distribution centers and adjoining warehouses every year. So when Francis Xavier Regan expanded his namesake Regan Air Freight’s operations into the American market, it had made perfect sense to choose Indianapolis as its new corporate headquarters.

In the months since the reclusive billionaire sold his interest and then vanished at sea, Regan Air’s top executives had carried on managing the company’s day-to-day operations without much interference or even guidance from the new owners. At first, they’d all agreed that it felt peculiar to be out from under the old man’s cold and ever-calculating eye. Gradually, though, CEO Martin Crown and his closest subordinates had begun enjoying their unanticipated freedom of action. For the first time in their tenure with the company, they felt fully in charge.

Now, Crown thought dourly, it looked very much like those short-lived glory days of power and total control were coming to an end. Together with his chief financial officer, Halsey Stutz, and their director of flight operations, Ted Locke, he’d been “invited” out to the airport to watch Regan Air’s newest acquisition, a Boeing 737-200F freighter, arrive.

Sweating profusely in the heat rolling off the tarmac, the big, paunchy American unbuttoned his suit jacket. He glanced at the shorter, slimmer man who’d summoned them here out of their comfortable air-conditioned offices. This guy Daeniker was their liaison with the new owners, all of whom were based overseas. He also had the lean and hungry look Crown associated with men who didn’t mind being the bearers of bad tidings — like mass layoffs or poorly conceived corporate restructurings that usually ended in bankruptcy.

“There it comes,” Daeniker said suddenly, pointing to the twin-engine narrow-body jet flaring in to land on Runway 5L about a mile and a half from their position in front of Regan Air’s shipment center. The air freighter was already painted in Regan’s trademarked kelly-green and gold stripes, with a large, stylized R on its tailfin. The Swiss checked his watch. “Precisely on schedule,” he said with satisfaction.

Crown exchanged a pained look with Stutz and Locke. Given the current state of the economy, none of them would have approved buying another aircraft — let alone a model so old and outdated. After all, the last 737–200 had rolled off Boeing’s production line more than thirty years ago. And out of more than a thousand built, fewer than a hundred were still flying.

Daeniker smiled politely, seeing their expressions. “Do not worry, gentlemen. We negotiated a very good price when purchasing this aircraft from its former owners. And though it may be old, it is still in good flying condition.”

Crown merely nodded, this time working harder to hide his dismay. Like most people without aviation industry experience, Daeniker obviously believed the up-front purchase price for an aircraft was what mattered most. But that was peanuts in the bigger scheme of things. What really counted was how much the plane cost to maintain and operate over time. And on that score, he was pretty sure this 737-200F was going to prove a massive headache. Compared to newer jets, it was a fuel hog. Besides that, keeping the damned antiquated thing flying was going to soak up precious maintenance hours that would have been far better spent on more efficient aircraft. Hell, he was willing to bet that the guys at the regional Chinese airline that used to fly this hunk of junk couldn’t believe their luck when they were offered more than the scrap-metal price.

Engines whining shrilly, the cargo jet taxied off the runway and over toward them.

As the jet rolled to a stop, Ted Locke leaned in closer to Crown. “Jesus Christ, Martin,” he muttered. “They’ve put a fricking gravel kit on this bird.”

Crown nodded, seeing the telltale gravel deflector, shaped like a wide ski, attached to the 737’s nosewheel, and the long, thin vortex dissipators mounted in front of both engines. By protecting the engines from debris kicked up on takeoffs and landings, gravel kits allowed aircraft to use shorter, unpaved runways. In its early days, Regan Air Freight had equipped some of its planes with the same kind of kits so they could fly into rough rural airfields in Alaska and the wilds of northern Canada. But over time, those routes proved totally uneconomical and were dropped. He scowled. Just what were the new owners planning?

Invited by Daeniker to inspect the aircraft more closely, Crown and his team soon realized the gravel kit was the least of its modifications. The 737’s forward main cargo door was now much larger than that of any standard model. Not only that, but the door had been completely reconfigured so that it would slide smoothly back along the fuselage, rather than pop open. In addition, the freighter’s main deck now featured a high-speed overhead cargo handling mechanism and guide rails slotted into the floor.

“What’s the game here, Mr. Daeniker?” Crown demanded when they finished walking through the heavily modified cargo jet. “None of these fancy new gizmos is of any real use in our current lines of business.”

“That is quite true,” the other man said blandly. “But since the company’s owners plan to use this aircraft to explore a new business opportunity, it is also immaterial.”

“What new opportunity?” Halsey Stutz asked, with a sharp edge in his voice. As Regan Air Freight’s chief financial officer, he spent a lot of time hunting for ways to improve the company’s efficiency and market share. Clearly, he found the idea that he’d missed something obvious insulting.

Daeniker offered him a conciliatory smile. “One quite far afield from your current operations, Mr. Stutz. And somewhat untested.”

“Untested, how?”

“Your company’s new owners are interested in ferrying equipment, parts, and supplies to oil and gas fracking operations and wind-turbine and solar-power installations in remote parts of the United States, Canada, and Mexico,” Daeniker said. “They believe there is money to be made out of these new green-energy industries. Significant amounts of money. In fact, I believe they have already recruited a small group of experts who will soon arrive to staff a new division within your company.”

Stutz looked even more worried. “With respect, Mr. Daeniker, where on earth do you think the money’s going to come from to pay for this new venture of theirs? We’re in a very competitive industry here and practically every dollar we make is already fully committed. There is absolutely no way we can expand into a risky new field right now. Not if we want to stay profitable.”

“Relax, gentlemen,” Daeniker said, still smiling calmly. “You need not worry about the costs. The owners fully understand Regan Air’s current financial constraints. They assure me they will fund this experimental endeavor out of their own resources, rather than using profits from your current operations.”

For the first time since the Swiss banker appeared in his office, Martin Crown allowed himself to relax a bit. He could tell the others had the same reaction. If the people who’d bought out old Francis Xavier Regan wanted to risk even more of their own money, more power to them. If nothing else, playing around with this wacky idea of supplying the air freight needs of green-energy projects might keep them busy and out of his hair. And if they actually managed to turn a profit at it, well, so much the better. Facing competition from bigger rivals like FedEx, UPS, and DHL, Regan Air could use every extra dollar it could rustle up.

Standing in the open forward cargo door of the 737-200F, Willem Daeniker watched the American business executives drive away. Gennadiy Gryzlov had chosen wisely in buying this company, he realized. Its executives and employees were used to accommodating Regan’s sudden whims and top-down style of leadership. That rendered them easier to manipulate and less curious about matters they saw as outside their immediate responsibilities.

“Do you have new instructions for us, Herr Daeniker?” a lightly accented voice said behind him.

He turned around. The 737’s pilot, a stocky, fit-looking man in his forties, stood in the door leading to the cockpit. “No, Colonel Annenkov, I do not. Moscow’s original orders stand. Once you’re refueled, you will proceed to the Grand County Airport outside Moab in the American state of Utah and await further orders.”

Colonel Yuri Annenkov nodded. “Ya ponimayu. I understand.”

The former Russian Air Force officer now worked for Major General Kurakin’s “private” military company, RKU. His passport and other documents, like those of the other flight crew aboard, identified him as a German national employed by Regan Air Freight. Under close scrutiny by American law enforcement or intelligence agencies, it was unlikely their cover stories would hold up. Fortunately, Daeniker knew, no such scrutiny was likely as long as they stayed safely aboard their aircraft or inside the newly fenced-in perimeter at the Moab base.

Tall, with the broad shoulders and powerful arms he’d first developed working on oil rigs and now kept through rigorous exercise, John Dalton Farrell strode right out in front of the podium as he came to the finish of his stump speech. “And so, friends, I say: May God bless the United States of America! Now… let’s get to work! Let’s get this great nation of ours moving again!”

With a deafening roar of enthusiasm, the eight thousand people crowding the arena were on their feet — chanting in unison and waving campaign signs and flags. Smiling broadly, Farrell took the brown Stetson cowboy hat handed him by an aide and swung it in lazy circles in the air above his head. The clamor rose even higher.

His big, openhearted smile turned into a wide, toothy grin. Early on in his presidential bid, some high-priced political consultant had tried to dissuade him from wearing that hat in public, arguing that it was too stereotypically Texan. “Hell, son,” Farrell had retorted. “I am from Texas. You hear that drawl? There’s no hiding where I’m from. So I might as well make it work for me.”

Like most of the gambles he’d taken throughout his life, this one had paid off. After nearly four years of increasingly bureaucratic rule by buttoned-down Washington insiders, people were hungry for a candidate who seemed fresh, alive, and genuine — a candidate who wasn’t afraid to break stale, old political rules.

With a final wave to the shouting, cheering, foot-stomping crowd, Farrell clapped his cowboy hat firmly back onto his head. Making sure to shake every hand he could reach, he left the stage and passed through doors into a hallway that led out back, where his motorcade was waiting. His security detail closed in on all sides.

As soon as they stepped outside into the warm, humid evening, a throng of reporters mobbed them, yelling questions in his direction. Bright klieg lights lit the scene. Cameras clicked and whirred.

Farrell held up a hand. “I’m real sorry, ladies and gentlemen.” He grinned at them. “Ordinarily I love talking with y’all, but right now my security folks tell me we’ve got to get a move on.”

A young blond-haired woman wearing a CNN press badge elbowed her way out of the crowd. “That’s my question, Governor. Who are these all-powerful security people of yours exactly? They’re not members of the Secret Service. Why not? Surely, as the nominee of your party, you’re entitled to Secret Service protection.”

Farrell shook his head. “I hate to correct you, ma’am, but I am not yet the nominee. That won’t come until we hold our convention in a few weeks.”

“Isn’t that just a formality?” another journalist asked. “You’ve got the delegates you need to win sewed up.”

“Maybe so. But I learned a hard lesson after drilling my first dry hole,” Farrell said. “There’s no such thing as sewed-up in life.” He grinned again. “Except if you wave a bunch of taxpayer dollars in front of corporate big fish, they’re guaranteed to cut you a nice, fat campaign check.” That drew laughter. “And President Barbeau’s sure got that routine down cold,” he added.

This time, his quip drew a mix of pained laughter and sour looks. No surprise there, Farrell thought in amusement. Most of the press corps were not so subtly rooting for Stacy Anne Barbeau. Their slant was something he had to factor into every political calculation he made. At least in this day and age, between the Internet and other new media, he had more ways to get his message to the voters without running headlong into their ideological buzz saw.

“Anyway,” he said, “I don’t plan on using the Secret Service for protection even if I win the nomination.”

“And why is that?” the CNN reporter pounced. “Don’t you trust them?”

“I’ve no doubts at all about the professionalism of the Secret Service,” Farrell said patiently. “But I’m not in this race to cost the taxpayers even more of their hard-earned dollars. So I’m sticking with the folks I’ve brought to this dance — a collection of fine men and women from the Texas Capitol Police and the Texas Rangers, together with several decorated veterans of our nation’s armed forces.” He nodded at the grizzled, tough-looking man standing next to him. “Men like Sergeant Davis here.”

Former U.S. Special Forces sergeant Andrew Davis looked pained. Years of covert fieldwork for the Army and later for Scion and the Iron Wolf Squadron had taught him to avoid the limelight, not to relish it.

“But those Rangers and Capitol police officers are paid by your state’s taxpayers, aren’t they?” the woman CNN reporter said with an audible sneer. “So isn’t this just a PR stunt?”

“No, ma’am,” Farrell said politely, with just the barest hint of an edge to his voice. “As it happens, I’m reimbursing the good people of Texas out of my own pocket. When I’m not conducting official business in my own state, nothing I do costs any Texan one red cent. Unlike some candidates, I pay my own freight.” He donned another wide grin and doffed his hat to her. “You know, the country might be better off if more politicians did the same.”

With that parting shot, he climbed into the big black SUV idling at the curb and waited while Andrew Davis took the jump seat across from him. The doors slammed shut and they pulled away — followed by several more SUVs carrying his staff and the rest of his security detail.

Farrell sighed and closed his eyes briefly. “Good God,” he muttered. “What a snarling, snapping pack of hyenas.”

“Comes with the turf, Governor,” Davis said unsympathetically. “Nobody forced you into politics, did they?”

“Nope,” Farrell admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “That was all my own big damned ego at work.” He looked at the other man. “Sorry about turning the spotlight on you back there, Sergeant. I know that’s not real comfortable for you.”

Davis shrugged. “Like I said, it comes with this turf.” With a grimace, he shifted in his seat. “I figure not many people would think having their picture taken was rougher than getting shot at by the Russians or some other goons.”

Farrell nodded. Davis had been invalided out of the Iron Wolf Squadron after being badly wounded in a raid on Russia’s cyberwar complex. After months of intensive physical therapy, the veteran special forces noncom had recovered enough to find himself bored as hell in civilian life. He and Farrell were from the same part of rural Texas, and when mutual acquaintances suggested Davis would be a good fit for his campaign security team, Farrell had jumped at the chance to bring him on board.

“Do you miss it?” he asked seriously. “Fighting for the Poles and Scion?”

“Do you miss wildcatting?” Davis asked him in return.

Farrell thought about that, remembering the sheer thrill involved in staking every penny he had on the chance of striking oil in desolate places conventional geologists had already ruled out. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But then I figure that shooting for the presidency’s a pretty big gamble all on its own. And God knows, this country needs someone better than Stacy Anne Barbeau and her crowd running things.”

Davis raised an eyebrow. “And you figure you’re that someone better?”

Farrell shrugged with a wry half smile. “I do.”

“There haven’t been many really good presidents,” the other man said meditatively. “Washington, Lincoln, Reagan… maybe a few more.”

“You seriously think I’m on that level?” Farrell asked, still smiling ironically.

Davis shook his head. “With all due respect, Governor… hell no.”

“Then why exactly are you working for me?” Farrell wondered. “Since I’m a miserly son of a bitch, I sure as hell know it’s not the pay.”

“Not hardly,” Davis agreed with a snort. He grinned. “Mostly, I guess, it’s because you’re smart enough to hire guys like me who’ll tell you straight out when you start sounding like you’re full of shit.”

Laughing now, Farrell tipped his hat in salute and then sat back to enjoy the rest of the ride to the airport.