Warrior Class

Nellis Air Force Base, north of Las Vegas, Nevada

“Jee-sus, look at those suckers haul ass!”

It seemed as if the entire crowd of about two thousand onlookers said the very same thing as two sleek aircraft came into view on final approach to Nellis Air Force Base’s main runway. Even from ten miles out, they were clearly visible. Yet unlike most large aircraft, such as airliners or military jet transports, this aircraft didn’t seem to be flying slower than normal — in fact, like the fighter jets that escorted it, it seemed to be going very fast indeed.

It used the NATO nickname “Backfire.” But in the Republic of Ukraine it was known as “Speka,” meaning “heat,” and that described the Tupolev-22M perfectly. It looked like a very large jet fighter or a small, compact bomber, with a long pointed nose, sleek lines, variable-geometry “swing” wings, and two very big, very noisy afterburning engines. It carried a wide range of weapons, including all of the Commonwealth of Independent States’ air-launched weapons. It had half the payload of the B-1 bomber, but much greater speed and range; and it was air-refuelable, which meant it could attack targets anywhere on the planet on short notice with minimal support. It was sleek, fast, powerful, and even sexy-looking. All of these factors made the Backfire bomber arguably one of the world’s most devastating attack planes.

There were many reasons for Ukraine not to have anything to do with the Backfires, or any expensive offensive weapon system, for that matter. Ukraine, the largest and most populous ex-Soviet republic besides Russia, had one of the smallest gross national products in industrialized Europe — every bit of its industrial output was needed to maintain its fragile existing infrastructure and maintain a modicum of a decent life for its citizens, with hardly anything left over for exports, long-term capital improvement, or warfighting. Despite its geographical and strategic importance, Ukraine spent a fraction of what other countries its size spent on defense, and it would be difficult to maintain the fleet of relatively high-tech planes.

Upon splitting off from the Commonwealth, Ukraine’s entire strategic attitude had changed as well. Ukraine declared itself a “nuclear-free” country, isolated itself from the ethnic and economic turmoil engulfing most of eastern Europe and the Russian enclaves, and resisted joining any outside military alliance. Ukraine had few outside enemies except for its tenuous relationship with its former parent, Russia, so the long-range supersonic Backfires had been considered nothing more than a useless, dangerous money pit. In fact, plenty of countries, including several Middle East countries, had offered as much as one billion dollars each in hard currency for the planes. So they had been too expensive to fly, not apparently vital to the security of Ukraine, and worth billions in badly needed cash.

But times quickly changed, and Ukraine had found it could no longer afford to live in splendid isolation. Russia became more and more reactionary and more aggressive against its former Soviet republics, increasing the pressure on its neighbors to join the new Commonwealth — what many saw as the rebirth of the Soviet empire — or suffer its wrath. When Ukraine had refused to renew its membership in the Commonwealth and at the same time applied for membership in the North Atlantic Treaty Organization, Russia had exploded.

In 1995, Russia had staged a series of deadly attacks against military bases in several of its former republics, including Moldova, Lithuania, and Ukraine. Russia had called these bases “suspected terrorist training facilities” and threats against Russia and the Commonwealth of Independent States, and had accused their former republics of persecuting ethnic Russians. The Russian attacks had been swift and devastating. Only when Russia had attacked NATO warships on the Black Sea had anyone tried to oppose the Russian war machine. Rebecca Furness, at the time the first female combat pilot in the United States Air Force, and her tiny Air Force Reserve unit from Plattsburgh, New York, had flown a series of precision strike raids deep into Russia that had helped stop the conflict before it flared into a general east European thermonuclear war. Patrick McLanahan, flying the original EB-52 Megafortress, had done the same in defending Lithuania against attacks by neighboring Belarus and Russia.

Already devastated by a slow economy, no foreign investment, and a general lack of confidence in its reformist government, Russia had finally refrained from any more military forays for several years. It was completely unable to influence events concerning former close friends Iraq, Serbia, and North Korea. Russia, whose landmass spanned almost half the globe’s time zones and whose natural resources were unmatched by any country in the world, was quickly becoming a third-rate power.

The rise of nationalist, neo-Communist leaders like Valentin Sen’kov had changed all that. Russia had reasserted its influence in deciding the fate of Bosnia, Serbia, and Kosovo, and it had used considerable military force to subdue the breakaway republic of Chechnya. Ukraine, because of its domineering location on the Black Sea, its large Russian population, and because it hadn’t been properly brought into line during the 1995 conflict, clearly saw itself as next in line if it refused to toe the Russian line.

Ukraine’s answer: stop acting like a target, and start being a true European power and member of the world community. It started a conscription program — every high school student received ten weeks of military basic training as a condition of graduation, and every able-bodied person had to belong to a reserve unit until age forty — and increased defense spending tenfold. Ukraine had beefed up its Black Sea fleet, started training its ground forces using German, Turkish, and American doctrine instead of Russian, and rebuilt its air forces — including reactivating the Tupolev-22M fleet. Since the 1995 conflict with Russia, twelve of the surviving twenty-one Backfire bombers had been returned to service.

The most important change: increased integration with NATO military command structure and doctrine. Full integration would take many years, but the beginning of this important step in NATO’s push toward Asia was taking place now. Two of the supersonic swing-wing bombers were at Nellis Air Force Base in southern Nevada, participating in U.S. Air Force-sponsored joint NATO air combat exercises. They were the most powerful, most anticipated, ex-Soviet warplanes ever to come to America.

“How about we have a little fun, guys?” Captain Annie Dewey asked. The thirty-five-year-old brunette B-1B aircraft commander from the One-Eleventh Bomb Squadron, Nevada Air National Guard, was sitting in the right seat of the Tupolev-22M supersonic bomber. Per United States regulations, a U.S. military pilot had to be on board every multi-crew-member combat aircraft landing on an active military airbase. The nonstop flight from Ukraine to Las Vegas had taken only nine hours, including two aerial refuelings.

“What do you have in mind?” Colonel-General Roman Smoliy, the crew commander, asked. With his square jaw, gray flattop, piercing blue eyes, square nose, and broad shoulders tapering to thin ankles, Roman Smoliy looked like he had been cast for a Hollywood movie. Smoliy was the chief of staff of the Ukrainian Air Force. Before the conflict with Russia, Ukraine had had a force of two hundred intercontinental bombers, equal to that of the United States, a mix of Tu-95 Bear turboprop bombers, Tu-22 Blinders, and Tu-160 Blackjack supersonic bombers, along with the Tu-22M Backfires. After the war, only fifty had remained. It was General Smoliy’s job to decide if Ukraine should have any long-range bombers at all, and that meant learning how to employ them in battle. “Nothing boring, I take it?”

“How well you know me already, General,” Annie said. She spoke briefly on the radio, got the clearance she was looking for, then said, “Escorts, you’re clear to depart. See ya on the ground.” The two F-16C Falcon air defense fighters, who had been escorting the big Russian bombers on their flight across the United States, wagged their wings and split off. “Okay, General, one-time good deal — all the airspace within thirty miles of Nellis, including over Las Vegas, is yours. Show us what these babies can do.”

General Smoliy broke into a wide grin, then reached across the center console, took Annie’s hand, and kissed it. “Thank you, Captain.” He secured his oxygen mask with an excited SNAP! and took a firm grip on the control stick. “Doozhe priyemno, Las Vegas,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” He then jammed the throttles all the way to full military power and swept the wings back as far as they could go. He started a tight left turn back toward Las Vegas, his wingman in tight fingertip formation. It did not take long for the formation to overfly the Strip. They had descended to just a thousand feet above ground level. They did two three-sixties over the downtown, using the Stratosphere tower as their orbit point.

After the second orbit, just to make sure as many folks as possible were watching, Smoliy called out, “Dvee, drova, tup!” and he plugged in full afterburners. The two Tu-22Ms easily slid through the sound barrier, booming all of downtown Las Vegas. He then aimed directly for Nellis Air Force Base. Still traveling well past the speed of sound, both heavy bombers flew down the runway only two hundred feet above ground, creating a double rooster-tail from the supersonic shock wave that could be seen twenty miles away.

At the north end of the runway, Smoliy pulled his throttles back to military power, yanked his bomber into a hard ninety-degree right-bank turn, and swept the wings forward, quickly slowing the big bomber down below the sound barrier. By the time they rolled out on the downwind side, they were at the perfect altitude and airspeed for the approach, and Smoliy and Dewey began configuring the bomber for their overhead approach. The second Tu-22M was precisely thirty seconds behind him.

“That was awesome, General!” Annie shouted, after she double-checked that the landing gear was down and locked. “Totally awesome!”

“Thank you, young lady,” Smoliy said. “I do enjoy watching young excited women.” He nodded to her, then said, “The aircraft is yours, Captain.” Surprised but excited, she put her hands on the controls, and Smoliy patted her on the shoulder to tell her she had the aircraft. “Make us proud.”

She did. Annie Dewey made a perfect touchdown on Nellis’s main runway and taxied to their parking spot, the applause of the huge crowd audible even over the roar of the idling engines. When both aircraft swept their wings partially back and shut down their engines simultaneously, the applause replaced and then easily surpassed the noise of the engines. After the crew stepped out of their aircraft, General Smoliy drove the cheers and applause to even greater heights when he stepped out to the end of the red carpet laid out for him on the tarmac and kissed the ground. The greetings, hugs, handshakes, and shoulder-slapping went on for a long time. General Smoliy greeted the Air Warfare Center commander, Major-General Lance “Laser” Peterson, and most of the others in the reception party like long-lost brothers.

The Ukrainian bomber crew members also met other foreign aviators, including the commander of the Turkish Air Force, Major-General Erdal Sivarek, who had arrived with several of his aircraft and two jet transports carrying equipment and spare parts earlier in the day. The big Backfire bombers were parked directly across from the Turkish F-16s, and the size difference was astounding. The size difference carried over to the two commanders — the Ukrainian general was almost a foot and a half taller than the Turk. The meeting between the two commanders was cordial but icy; General Smoliy did not reserve the same jovial friendliness for the Turkish officer as he did his American hosts.

“General Sivarek, merhaba,” a voice behind Sivarek said after the encounter ended. “Gunaydin. Nasilsinizz?” It was Rebecca Furness, recently promoted to full colonel, the commander of the One-Eleventh Bombardment Squadron of the Nevada Air National Guard, based at Tonopah Test Range northwest of Las Vegas. “Do you remember me, General?”

It took only a moment for the Turkish officer to recognize her, and his face, which had been dark with moodiness, brightened considerably. “Major … no, Colonel Rebecca!” Sivarek exclaimed. “Siz nasilsiniz? I am glad you are well.”

“It’s been a long time,” Rebecca said. “It’s nice to see you, but it’s a time I’d sooner forget.”

Rebecca was the commander of the 111th Bombardment Squadron of the Nevada Air National Guard, the only unit in the United States flying the EB-1C aerial battleship. Until their new base was built in Battle Mountain, Nevada, her little unit of six EB-1C bombers was temporarily located at Tonopah Test Range, or TTR, in western Nevada inside the Nellis range complex.

She had first met Sivarek just a few years earlier, during the Russian-Ukrainian conflict, when a power-mad Russian president had tried to reunite parts of the old Soviet Union by force. The Russians had used the pretext of Russian citizens being abused by governments in former republics to send the Russian Army in to reoccupy the republic. When Ukraine had put up a fiercer than expected resistance, Russia had retaliated with tactical nuclear weapons. The United States, fearful of allowing the conflict to escalate to an all-out nuclear war, had sent in only a few tactical air units to Turkey, including an Air Force Reserve unit from Plattsburgh, New York — Rebecca Furness’s old unit, flying the RF-111G Vampire bomber, the first iteration of Rebecca’s EB-1C Megafortress flying battleship.

Although Rebecca’s unit had acquitted itself well in several skirmishes against the Russians, the general feeling was that NATO and the United States had let their Turkish allies down. Several bases in Turkey and several warships had been destroyed by Russian attacks, yet the United States had refused to commit sizable forces against Russia. Only the heroism of Rebecca’s tiny unit, and the desperate bravery of what was left of the Ukrainian Air Force, had prevented an all-out war — and saved Turkey.

“It is indeed a small world. I am glad you kept up with your Turkish. Agzina siglik! Health to your mouth.”

“Tesekkur edetim, efendim,” Rebecca replied, giving him a slight bow. “Biraz konusuyorum. And that’s about all I remember.”

Sivarek clapped his hands in approval. “So, what unit are you with?”

“I’m with the Nevada Air National Guard,” Rebecca replied. Sivarek noted with considerable interest that Rebecca did not go into any details. “We’re participating in some of the exercises with your squadron and the Ukrainians.”

“Very good. I noticed your air force does not fly the RF-111s anymore. I would have welcomed the chance to try our hands at them.” He nodded toward the Tupolev-22M Backfire bomber. “Those whales will be no trouble for us.”

“They might have some surprises for you.”

“We have encountered them before, over the Black Sea on training flights and patrols,” Sivarek said. “The Ukrainians seem unsure about pushing them to their full capability. It is understandable, I suppose. But I hope NATO is not counting on them for much.”

“Maybe we can help them improve their tactics.”

Sivarek nodded, his face darkening again, his lips thinning in frustration. “Your new friends in eastern Europe, I suppose,” he said. “Turkey has been coming here to Red Flag and other exercises for over twenty years, but it seems as if we get little respect from the United States regarding affairs in our region. But when Ukraine wants to play NATO warriors, the world comes running.”

“I think that’s not quite accurate,” Rebecca said. But she knew he was at least partially correct. During the Russia-Ukraine conflict, Turkey had suffered tremendous loss of life and property, but afterward relations between Turkey and the West had mostly gone back to the way they were, as if the conflict had never happened at all. Instead of rushing in to help Turkey modernize its military, NATO’s easternmost ally had been left to rebuild and rearm by itself, with no more than ordinary levels of support and cooperation from the United States or NATO.

“You are a loyal American officer,” Sivarek said with a smile. “I would have liked very much for you to have stayed in my country with your incredible RF-111 fighter-bombers after the conflict.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“The RF-111, the Vampire I believe you called it, would have been ideal for Turkey’s defense,” Sivarek explained. “A single aircraft with reconnaissance, counterair, close air support, heavy bombing, antiship, and electronic-warfare capabilities? We would have liked very much to have two squadrons. Unfortunately, you sold them all to Australia. That was a dark day for Turkey.”

“Some would have said it was a bright day for the Kurds and the Greeks.”

“We are not at war with Greece, nor will we ever be,” Sivarek said. “All parties realize we must find a peaceful settlement to the Cyprus question. But the Kurds-they are a different song. They are butchers, terrorists, anarchists, and spawns of Satan.”

“The sight of F-111s bombing Kurdish villages would have sickened most Americans,” Rebecca pointed out. “I understand the media paints a different picture than you’d like-they are portrayed as oppressed persons, persecuted by fundamentalist Muslim governments, denied a homeland by both Iraq and Turkey. The government will always be seen as the oppressor, and the Kurds as heroic refugees, like the Jews. Their hardships will be seen as the faithful struggling against tyranny.”

“Aci patlicani kiragi calmaz—the worthless don’t suffer hardships,” Sivarek said. “So Turkey, a NATO ally, is scorned by the West. Ukraine once aimed nuclear weapons at your country., Iran once tried to sink an American aircraft carrier and has engineered countless terrorist attacks against American interests, but you court their favor now so you can import their oil and counterbalance a resurging Russian hegemony. Turkey has cooperated with America for thirty years, standing on the front line of defense against Russia, yet we are virtually ignored. What is Turkey supposed to say about this American foreign policy?”

“The old saying goes, if you don’t like American foreign policy, wait a few days — it’ll change,” Rebecca said.

“Ah yes — your new American president, the Jeffersonian hippie president,” Sivarek said, with an amused, slightly mocking smile. “I think he will break up NATO. This will leave Turkey all alone to face the Russians. Very unfortunate. What will you do then? Will you come back then and help defend my country, Colonel Rebecca? Or will you come to the aid of your new Ukrainian friends instead?”

“I don’t think the President will ever actually leave or break up NATO,” Rebecca said. “It would not be in our best interests. But I would very much like to speak with you about your country and your defense needs.”

“Oh?” Sivarek smiled that swarthy, cocky smile. “You never did mention what unit you are with, Colonel Rebecca.”

“No, I didn’t,” Furness said with a sly smile. She extended her hand, and he shook it warmly. “Gidelim, General.”

At that same time, when Annie Dewey emerged from the lead bomber’s crew compartment, she was met by Colonel David Luger, and she ran happily into his arms. “Oh, God, David,” she breathed, “it’s so good to see you.”

Luger murmured a “Welcome back” to her, but she could tell immediately that his attention was elsewhere. When she looked at him after their embrace, she saw him staring with an almost blank expression at the Tupolev-22M Backfire bomber. “Hey, David,” she said, studying his face with growing concern. “Everything okay?”

“Sure … sure…” But everything was not all right. She thought she began to feel his hands grow cold, and she swore that his face was looking paler.

“You’ve seen one of these things before, haven’t you?” she asked. “I thought you knew all there was to know about every warplane in the known galaxy.”

“Yes … yes, I know all about ‘Speka.’”

“Speka? What’s that?”

“Hey! My copilot! Annie!” they heard behind them. It was General Roman Smoliy. “Hey you, I did not know you had eyes for any other man but me! Who is this usurper daring to compete with me for your affections?”

David Luger turned-and looked into the face of Hell.

“General, this is my good friend, Colonel …” But Annie’s introduction was cut short when Luger suddenly turned and strode quickly away. “David!” she called after him. But he was quickly lost in the crowd that had come to see the big Ukrainian bombers up close.

Annie turned back to Smoliy. “I am so sorry, General. I don’t know what … “But when she looked at the big Ukrainian pilot, he was staring at the spot where Luger had been standing, with an odd expression on his face. “General Smoliy? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Harniy,” he replied absently, using his pet name for her, “Beautiful.” “It is nothing. I thought I saw … but it is impossible.” He shook off the image, took Annie’s hand, and kissed it. “He is special to you, no?”

“He is special to me, yes.”

“Good for you,” Smoliy said. “Very good. Take care of him.” Annie tried but couldn’t read anything else in the big general’s eyes to give her a clue about what was going on.

A few hours later, after the welcoming celebrations and brief meetings with the commander of the Air Warfare Center and the wing commander, the Ukrainian and Turkish commanders were escorted to their quarters, and General Peterson walked over to his secure battle staff room inside the base command post. Two officers were there waiting for them. “Well, well, so they do let you out of the sandbox once in a while, eh, Earthmover?” he said to one of the men waiting for him.

“Only on special occasions, Laser,” Lieutenant-General Terrill Samson, commander of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, responded with a smile. The big three-star black general extended a huge hand to Peterson. “You remember my deputy, Patrick McLanahan?”

“Sure do,” Peterson said, shaking hands with McLanahan. “That job at the Fifty-seventh Wing is still yours for the asking, Muck. Even though you’re a bomber puke, you’re still the best man for the job. Put your name in the bucket, and you’re in the pipeline. I’ll pick up that phone and set aside an Air War College slot for you right now. Just say the word.”

“Thanks, General,” Patrick said, “but I’m very good right now.” In his mid-forties, solidly built and unassuming, his blond hair slowly but surely turning gray, McLanahan looked more at home as a policeman or a high school wrestling coach, but in fact he had spent most of his professional life designing and testing exotic high-tech warplanes for the U.S. Air Force. He had never really aspired to be a wing commander. What he’d really wanted was what he’d just received — recognition of his talents from his superiors. More than anything else, that made his career complete.

“I’ll bet you are,” Peterson said, smiling and giving Samson a wink. He invited the two to sit down, then offered them cigars. “Heck, we don’t use the battle staff room for anything these days except when you jokers from Dreamland come wandering back to the real world,” he said, “so I turned it back into a smoking-okay room. I know it doesn’t jibe with the smoke-free Air Force, but what the hell.” At that, both Samson and McLanahan lit up. “So you want to take a look at the Backfire, huh? You guys going to start flying them up there in Dreamland now?”

“Maybe,” Samson replied. “They might be the only long-range intercontinental bombers in NATO pretty soon.”

“What are you talking about, Earth—?” Peterson stopped, his jaw dropping open and a curl of smoke escaping. “Holy shit. The rumors are true? The United States will leave NATO? Leave Europe?” Samson nodded. “Do you have details?”

“Not many I can share with you right now,” Samson replied. “American units will leave European bases by attrition, which means that units will slowly draw down over time until they become non-mission effective, at which time they’ll close down. A few units, especially those involved in treaty obligation duties, will be replaced with Reserve and National Guard units until the treaties can be renegotiated.”

“This is incredible!” General Peterson shouted. “The United States will simply leave Europe? Ignore sixty years of partnership in maintaining the peace and simply go home?”

“Afraid so,” Samson said. “There are already bills before Congress authorizing our withdrawal from NATO, but the President has said he will cut off nonessential funding for overseas units. When they run out of money and can’t fulfill their missions, they’ll go back to the States. Funding for NATO itself will draw down over five years.”

“Wow” was all Peterson could say. He shook his head. “What about the other rumors? The Army …?”

“Slash and bum,” Samson said.

“No troops stationed overseas?”

“How about no active duty Army combat troops … anywhere,” Samson said. “None. The only active duty Army will be administrative, support, research, training, and special operations. The rest will be Army Reserve and National Guard only, with no overseas bases on non-U.S.-owned territory. If the country needs an army, the President will have to go before Congress and ask for it, and Congress will have to come up with the money. The only forward-deployed infantry troops will be Marine Corps expeditionary forces serving afloat, and Guard and Reserve forces on training days.”

“My God. What is Thorn smoking? Is he crazy? The American people will revolt against him. Europe will be ripe for the picking.”

“That remains to be seen,” Samson said. “Anyway, we start gearing up for more long-range missions. We’re going to start seeing a lot more foreign air forces here at Nellis training with our guys, because now they have to be responsible for defending their own territories as not only the frontline force, but the sustaining force until the U.S. gears up and deploys the Reserves. HAWC is interested in the tactical and strategic bombers, and right now, that’s the Backfires and any other forces that can carry standoff weapons. We want to see how the Ukraine stacks up against the Turkish Air Force.”

“Judging by Smoliy’s and Sivarek’s personal relationship, I’d say we’re going to have a wild time in the ranges in the next few weeks,” Peterson said. He studied Samson for a moment over his cigar, then turned to Patrick and asked, “You going to be playing along with them? Get some of your supersecret toys up there? Mix it up a little with them?”

“What supersecret toys are you referring to, sir?” Patrick asked, then masked his smile with a cloud of aromatic cigar smoke.

“Ah, don’t give me that brainwashed bullshit, Muck,” Peterson said, with a laugh. “All I ask is that if you want to play on my ranges, brief the crews as much as possible on the performance parameters of whatever you’ll put up against them. You don’t have to give away any secrets — just a heads-up so no one gets hurt. This is still a training environment. I don’t want these guys thinking we’re chasing them across the sky with UFOs or something.”

“Deal,” Patrick said.

Peterson shook his head again, then took a deep drag from his cigar. “No Army. The cockroaches are going to be taking over the kitchen now for sure.”

Later that evening, several Nellis Security Force officers escorted two U.S. Air Force officers into the isolated revetment area on the east side of Nellis Air Force Base, away from the main parking ramp, where the two Ukrainian Tu-22M Backfire bombers were parked. Already there beside one of the bombers was General Roman Smoliy. He was puffing away on a cigar impatiently as the two officers approached.

“Hey, Harniy! Pretty lady captain!” Smoliy greeted Annie Dewey. “I did not expect you tonight — I expect you to be dancing all night with my men. I told them all about you and those gentle, talented hands of yours.”

Annie Dewey approached Smoliy, and she and the officer with her saluted. Smoliy returned the salute with the butt end of his cigar. “It is too late, and I am too relaxed, for protocols,” he said. He turned his attention to the other officer and said, “If you don’t mind, Colonel, I want to be with my men tonight. It has been a long day.”

Colonel David Luger said nothing, but stared back at Smoliy, then up at the big Tupolev-22M Backfire bomber behind him. “This won’t take long, General. I promise.”

“Good, good,” Smoliy said. He studied Luger carefully for a moment, his eyes narrowing, then looking askance as if trying to dredge up some long-forgotten images in his mind. He looked again at Luger, opened his mouth, closed it. Luger looked back at him, then removed his garrison cap. Smoliy gulped, his mouth and eyes opening wide in surprise, and he gasped, “Idi k yobanay matiri …”

“Da, General,” Luger replied in casual, remarkably fluent Russian. “Dobriy vyechyeer On zassal yimu mazgi.”

Annie Dewey turned to David in surprise. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian—”

“Ozerov,” Smoliy gasped. “Ivan Ozerov. You’re here? Here in America? In an American military uniform?” David Luger swallowed hard. He hadn’t heard that name in years — but it was his, all right.

Luger was a fifteen-year Air Force veteran from Amarillo, Texas. His aeronautical engineering background and expertise in computers, systems design, and advanced systems design, along with his years as a B-52 bomber navigator-bombardier, had made him one of the most sought-after aviation project leaders in the world. If Dave Luger were a civilian, he would certainly be a vice president of Boeing or Raytheon, or an undersecretary of defense at the Pentagon … and if it hadn’t been for the Redtail Hawk incident, he might be head of an Air Force laboratory.

But in 1988, following a secret B-52 bombing raid engineered by the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center against a ground-based laser site in the Soviet Union, Luger had been left for dead on a snow-covered runway in Siberia, then captured and brainwashed while being nursed back to health by the KGB. For five years, he had been forced to use his engineering brilliance to build the next generation of Soviet long-range bombers.

To the U.S. military and intelligence community, David Luger had been a traitor. The CIA had thought he was nothing more than an AWOL U.S. Air Force B-52 bombardier that had deserted and joined the other side. The security level at the High Technology Aerospace Center was so high that no one, even the CIA, knew Luger had been on the EB-52 Old Dog bombing raid against the Kavaznya laser site or that he had been left behind at the Siberian air base at Anadyr and presumed dead; the cover story, devised by the previous director of HAWC, General Brad Elliott, had stated that Luger had died in a crash of a top-secret experimental aircraft. The CIA knew that Luger was in the Soviet Union, and assumed he had defected. All they really knew was that a highly intelligent Air Force Academy grad, American citizen, B-52 crew member, and member of a top-secret weapons research group with an advanced degree and a top-secret security clearance, had been advancing the state of the art in Russian long-range bombing technology by an entire generation.

He had been discovered and rescued by Patrick McLanahan and a special combined Air Force — Marine Corps Intelligence Support Agency operations team called Madcap Magician just before the CIA had been going to carry out plans to terminate him, at the same time averting a certain all-out war between the newly independent Baltic states and a resurgent Soviet-style military government in Russia. It had taken another five years to deprogram, rehabilitate, and return Luger to his life as an American aviator and expert aerospace engineer.

He’d made it back, fully reintegrated into the supersecret world at Elliott Air Force Base, Groom Lake, Nevada, home of the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center. He’d won his promotion to full colonel after years of dedicated work, both in his personal and professional life, and had successfully managed to drive the years of torture out of his consciousness. But now, with the arrival of the Tupolev-22M Backfire bomber and its commander, Roman Smoliy, the awful horrors were back …

… because Roman Smoliy, then a young bomber pilot with the Soviet Air Force assigned to the Fisikous Research and Technology Institute in Vilnius, Lithuania, had been one of Luger’s chief tormentors.

“Ozerov? Who’s Ozerov?” Annie asked. “Dave, what’s going on?”

“It’s not Ivan Ozerov, General, it’s David Luger,” he said, ignoring Annie, letting his eyes bore angrily into Smoliy’s. “I was never Ivan Ozerov. Ozerov was an invention by a sadistic KGB officer at Fisikous who tortured me for five fucking years.”

“I–I didn’t know!” Smoliy stammered. “I did not know you were an American.”

“You thought I was some kind of egghead goofball genius, sent to Fisikous to try to tell you how to fly a Soviet warplane,” David said. “You took every opportunity to make my life miserable, just so you could be the strutting hotshot pilot.”

“Dave, let’s get out of here,” Annie said, a thrill of fear shooting up and down her spine. “You’re really scaring me.”

“Why are you doing this, Colonel?” Smoliy asked, pleading now. “Why are you haunting me now? Everything is different. Fisikous no longer exists. The Soviet Air Force no longer exists. You are here in your own country—”

“I just wanted you to know that it was me, General,” Luger said acidly. “I wanted you to know that I’ll never forget what you and the other bastards at Fisikous did to me.”

“But I did not know—”

“As far as you knew, I was a Russian aerospace engineer,” David said. “But I was weaker than you, weak from the drugs and the torture and the mind-control crap they subjected me to for so long. I was one of you, for all you knew, and you still shit all over me!” He stepped toward the big Ukrainian officer and said, “I will never forgive, and I will never forget, Smoliy, you sadistic bastard. You’re in my homeland now.”

He turned on a heel and walked away. Annie looked at Smoliy in complete and utter confusion, then ran after Luger. “David, wait.”

“I’m outta here, Annie.”

“What is going on? Where do you know him from? Fisikous? Lithuania? How could you know him from an old Soviet research center?”

They went back to the staff car. Luger said nothing for a long while, until they were outside the front gate at Nellis. “Annie … Annie, I was at Fisikous. Years ago. I … Christ, I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t tell me? You were at a top-secret Soviet research center, and you can’t tell me how or why?” Annie asked incredulously. “David, you can’t keep a secret like this between us. It’s obviously something deeply personal, hurtful, even … even…”

“Psychological ‘? Emotional?” David said. “Annie, it goes far deeper than that, way deeper. But I can’t tell you yet. I’m sorry I brought you along.”

“You brought me along because we share, Dave,” she said. “We’re together. It’s not you and me anymore, it’s us. You asked me along because you thought you needed my support. I’m here for you. Tell me what I can do for you. Let me in.” She paused, then asked, “Does it have to do with that Megafortress memorial in the classified aircraft hangar? The Kavaznya mission? Those charts, your flight jacket with the blood on it, the story General McLanahan told us?”

“I can’t, Annie,” was all Luger could say. “I … I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Can’t … or won’t?”

He had no answer, no more words for her the rest of the evening. He was silent as he walked her to her apartment door, then as she kissed his cheek and squeezed his hand good-bye.

Metyor Aerospace Center IIG headquarters, Zhukovsky Air Bass, Moscow, Russian Federation

“Thank you for coming, Comrade Kazakov,” Pyotr Fursenko said, extending a hand in greeting. “Welcome to your facility.” Pavel Kazakov had arrived at the Metyor Aerospace Center facility very late in the evening, after the swing shift had gone home and the factory and administration building maintenance workers had finished. He was accompanied by two aides and three bodyguards, all with long sealskin coats. When they set off the metal detectors built into the doorway in the rear of the administration facility, but kept right on walking alongside Kazakov, Fursenko knew they were heavily armed. Kazakov himself was dressed casually, as if he had left his home for a walk around his estate — he resembled many of the swing-shift engineers or middle managers at the plant, working late in the office.

“So, what is so important that you needed me to come at this hour, eenzhenyer?” Kazakov asked. His voice was stem, but in fact he was nervous with anticipation.

“I thought very long and hard about the things we spoke about when we met, Comrade,” Fursenko said. “Someone needs to punish the butchers who killed your father and my son in Prizren.”

Kazakov looked around the first hangar they entered. The huge forty-thousand-square-foot hangar, its ceiling over fifty feet high, was in immaculate condition, clean, well-lit, and freshly painted-and completely empty. The young financier was visibly disappointed, growing angry. “You, Doctor?” Kazakov asked. “With this? What do you intend to do? Invite them all here for a game of volleyball?”

“Crush them,” Fursenko said. “Destroy them, exactly the same way they destroyed our family members — swiftly, silently, in one night.”

“With what, Doctor? I see a bucket and a mop in that corner and a lamp on that security desk. Or do those things transform themselves into weapons at your command?”

“With this, Comrade,” Fursenko said proudly. He walked to the back of the hangar. The back wall was actually a separate hangar door, dividing the massive building into a semi-secure and secure area. He swiped a security card, entered a code into a keypad, and pressed a button to open the second set of hangar doors.

What was inside made Pavel Kazakov gasp in surprise.

In truth, it was actually hard to see, because the aircraft was so thin. Its wing span was over one hundred and forty feet, but its fuselage and wings were so thin that it appeared to be floating in midair. The wings actually swept forward—the wingtips were in line with the very nose of the aircraft. The wings swept back gracefully to a broad, flat tail, where the engine exhausts for the four afterburning jet engines were flat and razor-thin, like the rest of the aircraft. The aircraft stood tall on long, seemingly fragile tricycle landing gear. There were no vertical control surfaces — the tail area swept to a point and simply ended, with no visible flight control surfaces whatsoever.

“What … is … this thing?” Kazakov breathed.

“We call it Tyenee—’Shadow,’” Fursenko said proudly. “It was officially the Fisikous-179 stealth bomber that we built here at Metyor from plans, jigs, and molds we recovered before Fisikous was closed. Over the years we added many different enhancements to it to try to modernize it.”

“‘Modernize it’?” Kazakov asked incredulously. “You don’t call this ‘modem’?”

“This aircraft is almost twenty years old, Comrade,” Fursenko said. “It was one of my first designs. But back then, I simply did not have enough technical knowledge about stealth design versus aerodynamic requirements — I couldn’t make it fly and be stealthy at the same time. I worked on it for almost ten years. Then Ivan Ozerov came along and made it fly in six months.”

Kazakov stepped closer to the aircraft and examined it closely. “Where are the flight control surfaces?” he asked. “Don’t airplanes need things on the wings to make them turn?”

“Not this aircraft,” Fursenko explained. “It uses microhydraulic actuators all over its surface to make tiny, imperceptible changes to the airflow across the fuselage, which create or reduce lift and drag wherever it’s needed for whatever maneuver it is commanded to perform. We found we didn’t need to hang spoilers or flaps or rudders into the slipstream to make it turn, climb, or fly in coordinated flight-all we needed to do was slightly alter the shape of a portion of the fuselage. The result: no need for any flight control surfaces in normal flight. That increases its stealthiness a hundredfold.”

Pavel continued his walkaround of the incredible aircraft, eventually coming to the bomb bay. There were two very small bomb bays — they looked big enough for only a few large weapons. “These seem very small.”

“Tyenee was just a technology demonstrator aircraft, so it was never really designed to have weapons bays at all — the bays were used for instrumentation, cameras, and telemetry equipment,” Fursenko said. “But we eventually turned them back into weapons bays. They are large enough for just four two-thousand-pound-class weapons on each side, about sixteen thousand pounds total. There are external hardpoints under the wings for standoff weapons as well, which would be used before the aircraft got within enemy radar range. Tyenee also carries defensive weapons, built into the wing leading edges itself to reduce radar cross-section: four R-60MK heat-seeking air-to-air missiles, specifically designed for this aircraft.” Kazakov looked, but he could not see the missile muzzles — they were that well-concealed.

They climbed a ladder up the side of the nose to the crew compartment. Despite the size of the aircraft, there were only two tandem ejection seats inside, and it was extremely cramped. Power had already been applied, and the thick bubble canopy had been slid back to its retracted position. The main flight, navigation, and aircraft systems readouts were on three large flat-panel monitors on the forward instrument panel, with a few tape-style analog gauges on each side. Kazakov immediately sat in the pilot’s seat in front.

Fursenko knelt beside him on the canopy sill, explaining the various displays and controls. “The aircraft is electronically controlled by a side-stick controller on the right, with a single throttle control on the left instrument panel,” Fursenko said. “Those four switches below it act as emergency backup throttles.”

“It seems as if there are no controls to this plane,” Kazakov commented. “No switches, no buttons?”

“Most all commands are entered either by voice, by eye-pointing devices in the flight helmets where you choose items on the monitors, or by touching the monitors,” Fursenko explained. “Most normal flight conditions are preprogrammed into the computer — the initial flight plan, all the targets, all the weapon ballistics. The pilot just has to follow the computer’s directions, or simply let the autopilot fly the flight plan.

“The defensive and offensive systems are mostly automatic,” he went on. “The aircraft will fly itself to the target, open the bomb doors, and release the correct weapon automatically. The bombardier in back normally uses satellite navigation, with inertial navigation as a backup, all controlled by computer. In the target area, he can use laser designators or imaging infrared sensors to locate the target and guide his weapons. The defensive weapons can be manually or computer-controlled. The bombardier also has electronic flight controls in the rear, although the aircraft does not require two pilots to operate successfully.”

“This aircraft is amazing!” Kazakov exclaimed. “Simply amazing! I have never seen anything like it before in my life!”

“The technology we use is at least ten years behind the West,” Fursenko said. “But it has been well tested and is solid, robust equipment, easy to maintain and very reliable. We are developing standoff attack and cruise missile technology that we hope someday will make Tyenee a most deadly weapon system.”

“When can I fly it?” Kazakov asked. “Tomorrow. First thing tomorrow. Get me your best test pilot and a flight suit. I want to fly it as soon as possible. When can that be?”

“Never,” Fursenko, said in a grave voice.

“Never? What in hell do you mean?”

“This aircraft has never and will never be cleared for flight,” Fursenko explained solemnly. “First, it is banned by international treaty. The Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty limits the number and specifications of nuclear weapon delivery systems that can be flown, and Tyenee is not on the list. Second, it was never intended to be flown — it was a test article only, to be used for electromagnetic global propagation studies, stress and fatigue testing, weapon mating, wind tunnel testing, and computer-aided manufacturing techniques.”

“But it can fly? You have flown it before?”

“We have made a few flight tests….” Fursenko said.

“Make it flyable,” Kazakov said. “Do whatever you need to do, but make it flyable.”

“We don’t have the funding to—”

“You do now,” Kazakov interjected. “Whatever you need, you’ll have. And the government need not know where you got the money.”

Fursenko smiled — it was precisely what he’d hoped Kazakov would do. “Very well, sir,” he said. “With funding for my engineers and builders, I can have Tyenee flying in six months. We can—”

“What about weapons?” Kazakov asked. “Do you have weapons we can try on it?”

“We only have test shapes, weighted and with the exact ballistics of live weapons, but with—”

“I want real weapons on board this aircraft when it flies,” Pavel ordered, as excited as a kid with a new model plane. “Offensive and defensive weapons both, fully functional. It can be Western or Russian weapons, I don’t care. You’ll get the money for whatever you can procure. Cash. I want trained crews, support crews, maintenance personnel, planners, intelligence officers-I want this aircraft operational. The sooner, the better.”

“I was praying you’d want that, too,” Fursenko exclaimed proudly. He turned to the mafioso in the left seat of his creation and put a hand on his shoulder. “Comrade Kazakov, I have hoped this day would come. I have seen this aircraft stolen, nearly destroyed, nearly scrapped, and all but forgotten in the collapse of our country. I knew we had one of the world’s ultimate weapons here. But all it has done in the past eight years is gather dust.”

“No longer,” Kazakov said. “I have plans for this monster. I have plans to make most of eastern Europe bow to the power of the Russian empire once again.”

With myself at its head, he thought to himself. With no one but myself at the top.

Kazakov spent several hours at the facility with Fursenko. While they spoke, Kazakov was on the phone to his headquarters, requesting background information on key personnel involved in the Tyenee project. If they passed a cursory background examination — bank accounts, address, family, time of employment, criminal record, and Party affiliations — Kazakov arranged to speak with them personally. He was impressed with the level of excitement and energy in each member of the project. It all made sense to Kazakov: the only persons who would still be working at Metyor would be persons committed to the company, like Pyotr Fursenko, since other firms in Europe were certainly busier and the future looked brighter than here.

The most impressive man in the entire facility beside Fursenko himself was the chief pilot — currently the only fulltime pilot at Metyor — Ion Stoica. born and raised in Bucharest, Romania, Stoica had trained as a pilot at the Soviet Naval Academy in St. Petersburg and served as a naval aviation bomber pilot, flying the Tupolev-95 Bear and Tupolev-16 Badger bombers in minelaying, antiship, missile attack, and maritime reconnaissance missions. He’d served briefly in the Romanian Air Force as an air defense wing commander and instructor pilot in the MiG-21 fighter, before returning to the Soviet Union as a test pilot flying for Pyotr Fursenko at the Fisikous Institute. When Fisikous had closed and the Soviet Union imploded, Stoica had gone back to his native Romania, flying and instructing in MiG-21 and MiG-29 air defense fighters, before accepting a position again with his old friend Pyotr Fursenko at Metyor Aerospace in 1993.

Stoica thoroughly thought of himself as Russian, and was grateful to Russia for his training, education, and outlook on world and national affairs. He thanked the KGB’s role in eliminating the dictator Nicolae Ceausescu from power in Romania and restoring a more traditional, pro-Soviet communist regime, rather than the brutal Stalinist one that had ruled Romania for most of his life.

Pavel Kazakov found Stoica to be a hardworking, single-minded, almost fanatical Russian patriot who thought of his efforts to design a high-tech aerospace weapon system to be an honor rather than just a job. When Romania had been admitted to the Partnership For Peace, NATO’s group of ex-Warsaw Pact nations being considered for NATO membership, Ion Stoica had emigrated to Russia and become a citizen a year later. Like most of the principals at Metyor, Stoica had been happily subsisting mostly on cafeteria food and sleeping in the Metyor factory in between irregular and sparse paychecks.

By the time Pavel Kazakov was finished with his inspections, interviews, and planning sessions, the day shift had already arrived and the workday was in full swing — which for Metyor Aerospace was not very busy at all. Kazakov was escorted out the back to his waiting sedan by Fursenko. “Doctor, I am most impressed with the aircraft and your people,” he said, shaking the directors hand. “I want you to use every effort to get Tyenee ready to fly as soon as you can, but you must maintain absolute secrecy — even from the government. If any authorities come by or anyone asks any suspicious questions, refer them to my headquarters immediately. Tyenee is to remain under wraps from anyone except those whom I have spoken to and cleared directly. Do you understand?’

“Perfectly, tovarisch,” Fursenko replied. “It is indeed an honor to be working with you.”

“Decide that later, after we have begun our work,” Kazakov said ominously. “You may well rue the day you ever spoke to me out on that tarmac.”

Office of the Minister of Economic Cooperation and Trade, Government House, Tirane, Albania

The aide was already pouring strong black coffee and setting out a tray of caviar and toast when the minister walked into his office. “Good morning, sir,” the aide said. “How are you today?”

“Fine, fine,” Maqo Solis, the Minister of Economic Cooperation and Trade of the government of the Republic of Albania, replied. It was a rare sunny and warm spring day, and it seemed as if the entire capital was in excellent spirits. “What do we have this morning? I was hoping to get a massage and steam bath in before lunch.”

“Quite possible, sir,” Solis’s aide said cheerfully. “Staff conference meeting at eight A.M., scheduled for one hour, and then a status briefing on Turkish port construction projects afterward, scheduled for no more than an hour. The usual interruptions — trade delegate drop-bys, phone calls from People’s Assembly legislators, and of course your paperwork for the morning, all organized in order of precedence. I’ll schedule the massage for eleven.”

“Make the interruptions brief and the high-priority pile small, Thimio, and you can schedule a session for yourself after work — on me,” Minister Solis said. He started to flip through the messages that needed answers before the eight o’clock meeting. “Anything in here that I need to look at right away?”

“Yes, sir — the call from Pavel Kazakov, Metyor IIG.” Minister Solis rolled his eyes and snorted in exasperation, his mood already darkening. “He wants to schedule a meeting with the Office of Petroleum Resource Development, and he wants you to set it up. He says they will not cooperate without your help.”

“They will not cooperate because Pavel Kazakov is a lying, eating, thieving, murderous back-stabbing pimp,” Solis retorted. “He thought he could bribe his way through the government to get approval to build his pipeline to Vlore? I threw him out of my office once, and I will do it again if need be.”

“He says he expects to start construction of the Burgas to Samokov section of the line through Bulgaria within three months, and win approval of Samokov, Bulgaria, to Debar, Macedonia, within two months,” the aide said, reading the lengthy message from the communications center. “He says he feels your office’s lack of cooperation is unfair and biased, and will negatively impact the perception of the project to his investors.”

“Thimio, you can stop reading his ranting — I’m not interested,” Solis said. “Who in God’s name has ever heard of a drug dealer building an oil pipeline? It must be a scam. Contact the Bulgarian and Macedonian development and see if what Kazakov says is true.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide produced an ornate leather-wrapped box. “The message came with this.”

“Was it scanned by security?”

“Yes, sir, and examined personally.” Solis opened it. It was a gold, pearl, and platinum watch with ruby numerals, a Rolex knockoff, but a very expensive one.

“God, will he never stop? Get rid of it,” Solis said disgustedly. “I won’t accept it. Turn it in to whatever agency is supposed to regulate foreign gifts, or keep it yourself.”

“Yes, sir,” the aide said enthusiastically. He knew the minister could get in trouble for accepting foreign gifts — but rarely did — but aides could not. “Sir, the message goes on.”

“Go on to the next item, Thimio.”

“I think you should hear this, sir,” the aide said. “Mr. Kazakov says that he will look most harshly on any refusal to facilitate negotiations with the government on completing the pipeline. He emphasizes ‘most harshly.’ He further says—”

“He has the balls to threaten me?” Solis shot up from his seat and snatched the message out of his aide’s hand. “Why, that motherless bastard … he is! He’s threatening me with retaliation if I do not expedite the approval process for his pipeline. He is actually saying ‘You will live to regret any inaction, but the government may not.’ How dare he? How dare he threaten a minister of the Albanian government! I want the National Intelligence Service on his ass immediately! I want the Foreign Ministry and State Security to contact the Russian government to arrest and extradite Kazakov for openly threatening a foreign minister and a foreign government in an attempt to force us to cooperate with him!”

“Sir, he may be a criminal, but he is reputedly a powerful Russian and international Mafia boss,” the aide warned. “All of the actions you mentioned are legal and proper responses. Kazakov will follow no such legalistic protocols. If we lash out, he may just follow through on his threats. Someone will get hurt, and Kazakov will probably remain on the loose, protected by the government officials that he bribes for protection. Don’t fight this weasel. Stall him, pretend to cooperate, and let the bureaucratic wheels grind away on him. Once he finds Albania uncooperative, maybe he’ll reroute to Thessaloniki, as he’s threatened to do before, or up through Kosovo and Montenegro to Dubrovnik or Bar.”

“A Russian oil pipeline through Greece? That’ll be the day,” Solis said, then grimaced. “Well, stranger things have happened. Besides, who would want to build a pipeline through Kosovo or even Montenegro? They would have to spend billions to try to guard it, or billions in rebuilding it every year. Those provinces will never be stable enough to make that kind of investment as long as the Serbs are in charge. Even Pavel Kazakov can’t bribe all the warring factions.

“No, he wants his pipeline to go through Albania, and Vlore is the logical spot — a sheltered harbor, easy access to the Adriatic and Italy, good transport infrastructure, docks, storage, and refineries already in place,” Solis went on. “But the last thing we want is a monster like Kazakov to establish a foothold in Albania. If we stall him, express our anger, and throw up enough roadblocks, maybe he’ll take his drug money and sell his pipeline interests to some American or British oil conglomerates. That would be ideal.”

“So I should have the staff draft a letter in response—”

“Politely acknowledge receipt of his message, but wait until he’s complained at least three times before sending the response,” Solis said, with a smile. “Then have it sent to Kazakov by ground post — in due time.”

“Very good, sir,” the aide said. “And should I initiate a hostile foreign contact report with NIS and Minister Siradova of State Security?”

“Don’t bother,” Solis replied casually, as he began flipping through the morning messages once again. “Kazakov is a murderous punk, but he’s only dangerous in Russia. If he even dares try to step foot inside our borders or tries any strong-arm tactics with us, we’ll nail his rotting hide to the wall.” He looked at his aide and winked. “Enjoy the watch, Thimio.”

Zhukovsky Air Base, Moscow, Russian Federation

Pavel Kazakov had never really known his father. Gregor had spent far more time with his soldiers and his duties, first in the Red Army, then the Russian Army, than he had at home. He had been little more than a distant memory, a stranger to his family as much as he had been a hero in Russia.

At first Pavel had known him only through the letters he would write to his mother. They would sit around the dinner table mesmerized as their father related stirring stories of military life, adventures overseas or on some deployment or exercise. He’d then issued disembodied orders to his three children from the field-study harder, work harder, volunteer for that project or this work-study program. His orders had never failed to have the same dire level of consequences if not followed, even though he was hardly around to enforce them. Later, Pavel had known his father mostly through word of mouth on post or in newspaper accounts of his adventures across Europe and southwestern Asia. He’d certainly been larger than life, and men at every post and every city had had enormous respect for him.

But even as his legend had grown, Pavel’s respect for him had dwindled. It was more than just being away from home all the time: Pavel began to believe that his father never really cared for his family as much as he did his uniform. It became much more important for Pavel to see how far he could go to twist the old man’s ass than to try to earn the respect and love from a man who was never around to give it. Pavel found out too quickly that he could buy — or force others to give-love and respect cheaply on the street. Why pursue it from a living legend who was never around when it was so easy to get everywhere else?

But after his father’s death, Pavel had realized several things. First, their government had let them all down. That was intolerable. But most important, Pavel had let his father down. Gregor Kazakov had had national respect because he had earned it — even from his son?

Nah, that was all bullshit, Pavel Kazakov reassured himself. The government had liked Colonel Kazakov because he was a damned mindless military automaton who accepted every chickenshit job and every useless and mostly suicidal mission without a word of complaint. Why? Because he hadn’t known any better. He’d been a brainwashed military monkey who had had precisely one original thought in his whole military career — the invasion of Pristina Airport in 1999. The Russian people had liked him because they had damn few heroes these days and he’d been the handy one. He’d represented not one true inspirational virtue. Gregor Kazakov had been a uniformed buffoon who had died serving a brainlessly bankrupt and inept government doing a thankless, objectiveless, useless peacekeeping mission in a crappy part of the world. He’d deserved to die a horrible, bloody death.

Yet Pavel Kazakov found it useful to invoke the old man’s name as he addressed a small group of technicians and support workers in the now closed-off main hangar complex, standing before the amazing Metyor-179 stealth aircraft:

“My friends, the work you have done in the past several weeks has been extraordinary. I know my father, Colonel Gregor Kazakov, would have been proud to know each and every last one of you. You are true Russian patriots, true heroes to our fatherland.

“We have meticulously planned this mission, gathered the best intelligence, prepared and tested the best equipment, and trained many long hours for this moment. The result of your hard work is right here before you. You are the champions. It has been a privilege for me to work beside you to make this mission a reality. I have one final word to all of you: thank you, and good hunting. For Gregor Kazakov and for Russia, attack!” The group of about one hundred engineers, technicians, support crews, and administrators broke out into furious applause and cheers.

Maybe the old fart did have some purpose in his life, Pavel thought.

Ion Stoica, the chief test pilot at Metyor Aerospace, and his systems officer, a Russian ex-fighter pilot named Gennadi Yegorov, quickly boarded the Metyor-179 stealth fighter-bomber and performed their power-off, power-on, and before-engine start checklists. The interior of the aircraft hangar was then darkened, the doors rolled open, the aircraft was towed outside, and the engines started. All of the checklists took just a few minutes, because they were all computerized — the crew members had only a few checklists that they themselves had to perform to verify the computer’s integrity.

Now they sat to wait for the signal to depart.

Zhukovsky Air Base east of Moscow was an active Russian Air Force military airfield, with several squadrons of Tu-95 Bear and Tu-22M Backfire heavy bombers located there, along with several types of trainers, transports, and other support aircraft. Maintaining secrecy at such a base was not difficult, although it was by far a top-secret facility. The airfield lights were always extinguished before any aircraft launch at night to hide the type and number of aircraft departing — a standard Soviet-era tactic, even in peacetime. Although the main base complex was close by on the north side of the runway, and a small housing area a few kilometers to the southeast, the runway itself was fairly isolated. No one could see the runway complex at night except the control tower personnel and security patrols that ringed the runways during every launch to keep away prying eyes.

About three hours before sunset, two Tu-22 Backfire bombers began to taxi toward the active runway on a scheduled training mission from the main secure parking ramp, east of the Metyor facility. Backfire bombers always did all missions in pairs, from takeoff to touchdown, and so both bombers taxied into position at the end of the runway, staggered so their wingtips were less than fifty feet from one another. Behind them on the hold line was an old Ilyushin-14 twin-piston transport plane, nicknamed Veedyorka, “The Bucket.” Even though the plane was almost fifty years old, it was a rather common sight on most Russian airfields, shuttling parts and mail on short hops from base to base throughout the Commonwealth. It seemed quite comical to see one of Russia’s most advanced aircraft, the Backfire, sharing a runway with one of Russia’s most low-tech birds.

After extending their variable-geometry wings to full takeoff extension, the Backfire bombers began their takeoff roll. The leader plugged in full afterburner and released brakes, shooting a plume of fire and clouds of thick black smoke behind him. Exactly six seconds later, the wingman plugged in his afterburners, and ten seconds after his leader, released brakes and shot down the runway after his leader. The clouds of black smoke in their wakes seemed to make the night even darker, despite the bright afterburner plume they trailed. When they reached midfield, not yet airborne but close to rotate speed, the I1-14 Bucket taxied forward to the end of the runway. It was required to wait two minutes after the Backfires departed because the wingtip vortices of the two departing supersonic Backfires could easily flip the old transport over.

It never made it to takeoff position. Something happened. The tower controllers noticed a bright spark on the right engine, followed by a flash of fire on the ground, followed a few seconds later by a tremendous explosion as the right engine exploded. The right-wing fuel tank ruptured, sending hundreds of gallons of avgas pouring onto the ramp. The transport was ablaze in less than twenty seconds. The tower controllers immediately hit the emergency alarm, which activated the lights at that spot on the runway and called out the base fire department. Security and rescue crews began to respond immediately.

In the sudden confusion, no one on base noticed when a thin, black, almost invisible aircraft taxied out along a midfield taxiway near the Metyor Aerospace facility, pulled onto the active runway, and began its takeoff roll. The smoke from the departing Backfire bombers partially obscured it, but anyone else who might have noticed it depart in the confusion of the fire at the other end of the runway would’ve thought it was a third Backfire bomber. They may or may not have noticed that the third aircraft used only minimum afterburner power, no taxi lights, no anticollision lights, and no position lights during its takeoff run. Since it started its rolling takeoff run near midfield, it needed every remaining foot of Zhukovsky’s fifteen thousand-foot-long runway before it left the ground, but once airborne, it climbed faster than the Backfires and quickly disappeared into the dark.

Unlike other aircraft flying so close to Moscow’s airspace, the Metyor-179 stealth bomber did not use its transponder, the transmitter that alerted air traffic control of its position, altitude, and airspeed; neither did Stoica and Yegorov contact anyone on their radios, or check in with air traffic control or air defense command headquarters. Once its long, spindly landing gear was up, the Mt-179 virtually disappeared.

The Mt-179 Tyenee’s flight control computer, coupled with air data and fuel sensors, leveled the stealth bomber at twenty-eight thousand feet — from now on, the computer would automatically adjust altitude based on best range fuel bum and aircraft gross weight, step-climbing as the aircraft got lighter, achieving the perfect balance between the power needed to climb and the faster airspeeds and lower fuel bum at higher altitude. It didn’t have to worry about deconflicting itself with other aircraft, staying out of restricted airspace, or getting permission to cross national boundaries: its collision-avoidance system detected and displayed the location of any other transponder-equipped aircraft so it could avoid them in time; and because no radars on the ground could detect the aircraft, it was free to fly any course and any altitude the crew chose. Stoica had to make a couple of precautionary turns in Moscow’s airspace to remain clear of some commercial air traffic that might get too close, and a few times they did get a solid “chirp” on their radar detectors., strong enough to know they might have been detected — no stealth system was 100 percent effective — but otherwise they proceeded on a direct “great circle” course to their initial point. There was not enough air traffic around Kiev, Bucharest, or Sofia, the three largest cities on their flight path, to worry about deviations.

During the two-hour flight to their initial point, Stoica and Yegorov busied themselves with checklists and updating their intelligence information. The Mt-179 did not have a datalink system that automatically updated their attack computers, as many American and some Western attack aircraft did. Instead, ground technicians sent simple coded messages on a discreet, scrambled satellite communications channel. The ground controllers received information from commercial photoreconnaissance satellites, military communications taps from Zhukovsky and other military sources that they could access, and even news reports on television and on the Internet, then encoded the information and transmitted it to the crew. The two crew members decoded the messages, then made notes and symbols on their strip charts.

Near Cluj, Romania, the flight control computer commanded Stoica to pull the throttles nearly all the way back to flight idle to save fuel, and the Mt-179 Shadow started a shallow descent from about thirty-six thousand feet. In idle power, the cockpit was very quiet. The two crew members finished their checklists, took one last nervous pee into piddle packs, tightened their restraining harnesses and lap belts, and refastened oxygen masks and donned fireproof gloves. The action was about to begin.

The last item on the checklist: Stoica reached back over his right shoulder as far as he could, and Yegorov reached forward and clasped his hand. No words were necessary. That was a tradition they’d started from the first day working together on the Metyor-179 stealth aircraft.

But then, they’d done it before every test flight; now, it was to say “good luck” on their first strike mission.

As they crossed western Bulgaria and into Macedonia, the radar warning receiver in the cockpit of the Metyor-179 bleeped — but instead of the usual ground-radar S symbol, they saw a “bat-wing” symbol with a circle inside it. “NATO AWACS radar plane, eleven o’clock, range forty miles,” Yegorov reported. “We’re coming into extreme detection range now.”

“Here we go,” Stoica said. “Prepare for attack.” From its vantage point thirty miles east of Skopje, Macedonia, at thirty thousand feet, the NATO E-3A Airborne Warning and Control System (AWACS) radar aircraft, using its powerful AN/APY-2 radar mounted within the thirty-foot rotodome atop its fuselage, could see any normal aircraft flying inside Yugoslavia at any altitude and airspeed, as well as monitor aircraft flying in most of western Bulgaria, Bosnia, parts of Croatia, most of northern Greece, and parts of northern Italy.

Although the Mt-179 was not a normal aircraft, Russian stealth technology such as was employed on the Metyor-179 Shadow was not perfect, and the closer they got to central Macedonia, the closer they got to the E-3 AWACS radar plane. Soon, the radar warning receiver was bleeping almost continuously. They did not want to waste fuel trying to circumnavigate the radar craft, and they would waste even more fuel trying to duck down to low altitude too soon.

But they were carrying the solution — the R-60 defensive heat-seeking air-to-air missiles.

“Acknowledged. R-60s ready for launch,” Yegorov reported. Stoica pushed the power up until the Mt-179 had broken the sound barrier. Two minutes later, Yegorov said, “Coming in to extreme launch range. Ready to uncage.”

“Uncage missiles,” Stoica ordered. Yegorov hit a switch, which opened up a tiny titanium shutter in the wing leading edge, uncovering the R-60’s heat-seeking sensor. His mouth and throat were dry and his forehead damp from the anticipation. In all his years flying for the Russian and Romanian Air Forces, he had never fired an air-to-air missile in anger — now, as a civilian, he was about to shoot down one of the biggest, most important support aircraft in the NATO arsenal. A few moments later, they received a SHOOT warning light. “Clear for launch,” Stoica said.

“Ready, ready, now.” Yegorov hit the launch command button, and an R-60 missile leaped out of the left-wing launch chamber. Seconds later, Yegorov fired a second missile from the right. “Two missiles away. Bye-bye, Mr. AWACS plane.”

“O-1, this is C-1,” the senior controller called on the ship’s intercom. “We’ve got an intermittent unknown target bearing zero-two-zero, range twenty miles, no altitude. Request permission for beam-sharpening mode.”

The operations crew commander of the sixteen-person NATO AWACS crew, a British Royal Air Force colonel, called up the senior controller’s display on his own station. The radar sometimes couldn’t see small or weak targets very well until they switched from long-range scan to short-range but high-intensity beam-sharpening mode, which concentrated more energy on weaker targets. “Clear,” the commander radioed back. “Crew, radar in narrow BIM, reconfigure.” The rest of the crew needed to know when the radar was going to be switching modes because they could be flooded with targets in seconds — everything from birds to clouds to balloons could show on radar now, until the computer “squelched” out slow-moving targets.

The unknown target immediately popped into clear view. “Contact, bearing zero-one-five, range nineteen miles, descending through angels twenty, airspeed six-five-zero knots, negative IFF, designate as Hostile One. Hostile contact, crew.”

“Can we get some patrol aircraft up here to take a look?” the deputy commander, seated beside the commander on the first console, asked.

“Patrol aircraft? What patrol aircraft?” the commander said. “Our patrols packed up their kits and departed. Thanks to the Americans, we have no air patrols over KFOR anymore.”

It was true. A month earlier, President Thorn of the United States had announced that the United States was pulling its ground and air forces out of KFOR and sending them home. The only American forces in southern Europe right now were Air Force E-3C AWACS radar planes, E-8A Joint STARS (Joint Surveillance, Targeting, and Reconnaissance System) radar planes, and a Navy-Marine Corps task force off the coast of Croatia in the Adriatic Ocean, plus the Sixth Fleet still operating in the Mediterranean Sea. All other air and ground forces, including almost ten thousand troops in Kosovo, Macedonia, and Montenegro, along with five thousand troops in Bosnia, were gone …

… and not just out of the Balkans, and not just back in the United States, but gone: the units had been disbanded, and the soldiers reassigned, offered early retirements, or involuntarily separated from military service.

The United States was in the midst of a massive demilitarization never seen before. Troops were being pulled out of Europe and Asia in staggering numbers. Billions of dollars in military equipment was being sold, given to allied forces, or simply left in place. Virtually overnight, American military bases in Germany, Belgium, the Netherlands, and Norway were empty. Military and civilian cargo vessels were lined up in harbors all throughout Europe, ready to transport thousands of troops and millions of tons of supplies and belongings back to North America.

The European members of NATO and the non-NATO members of KFOR vowed to continue the United Nations peacekeeping efforts in Kosovo and the Balkans, but without the United States, it seemed almost pointless. But the European nations had been demanding a greater role in security missions in Europe, so few could really complain when the United States unceremoniously left the field and went home — no one really expected it to happen so suddenly.

“Who’s the closest air defense assets we can call on?” the commander asked.

“The Three-thirty-fourth Fighter Squadron out of Thessaloniki,” his deputy said, punching up the unit’s satellite and airborne telephone channels to its command post. “They have cross-border air defense arrangements with Macedonia — they can scramble fighters and have them up here in ten minutes.”

“Get them up here straightaway,” the commander ordered. “Comm, C-1, broadcast warning messages on all frequencies, get that hostile turned around. Notify Skopje and American Navy air traffic control about an unknown target we have marked as ‘Hostile.’”

“And if he doesn’t turn around?”

“There’s not a bloody thing we can do about it,” the commander said. “We might be able to convince Italy or Turkey to send a couple fighters up to take a look, but even they don’t want to waste any fuel or air-frame time on anyone who’s not a threat to their country. We just watch and—”

“Snap target! Snap target!” one of the radar technicians shouted. He immediately marked the new high-speed target with a blinking circle symbol, then sent an alert to every crew station. “Designate Highspeed One … snap target, snap target, second high-speed target, designate Highspeed Two.”

“O-1, this is C-1,” the senior controller on board the AWACS radar plane radioed on intercom to the operations crew commander. “We’ve got target Highspeed One, climbing through angels forty, range three miles and closing fast, speed eight hundred and increasing. Highspeed Two is following the same track, two seconds behind Highspeed One.”

“Missile attack!” the commander shouted. “Missile evasion tactics, now! Shut down the radar! Countermeasures ready!” He punched the HOT button on his intercom panel so he could talk to both the ops crew and flight crew. “Missile attack, missile attack, pilot, turn ninety left and descend to angles one-zero now.” At the same time, the crew defensive systems officer began sending out radar and infrared jamming signals and ejecting chaff and flare bundles, trying to spoof and decoy the incoming missiles.

But it was far too late — once the R-60 missile locked on, there was little a big aircraft like an E-3 AWACS could do to evade it. The missiles plowed into the aircraft with a direct hit, the first missile into the rotodome and the second missile into the forward fuselage section.

He could see it all clearly right in front of him, even though it was over three miles away: the decoys flying out of the AWACS plane, the flares a hundred times brighter and hotter than the aircraft; the AWACS plane trying a steep turning descent, one that the crew had obviously practiced before but still looked so steep and fast that it was doubtful if the crew could have pulled out of it even if they survived the missile attack; then the twin streaks of light, the huge blossoms of flames, the pieces of the jet flying apart, and the rolling, tumbling mass of burning metal and jet fuel on its final flight, straight down.

“Target destroyed,” Yegorov reported.

“I see it,” Stoica gasped. “My God. How many?”

“Twenty crew members. Sixteen operations, four flight.”

Stoica switched the multifunction display to another mode so he wouldn’t have to watch the plane burn on the ground. “They should have gone home when the Americans did,” he murmured. “Leaving an AWACS radar plane up here, all alone, with no air cover? It was suicidal.”

“It was homicidal — and we did it,” Yegorov said. “But we’ve got a job to do, just like they did. Business is business.”

The Mt-179 Shadow headed southwest, still in a shallow, high-speed descent. As they approached the Yugoslavian republic of Kosovo, Stoica increased his descent rate until they were at five hundred feet above the ground at six hundred knots airspeed. Ground radar coverage was much better in United Nations-patrolled Kosovo, and they had to be at terrain-masking altitude long before they reached the radar pickets. Using the infrared scanner, Stoica could easily see all the terrain even in pitch darkness. Ten minutes later, they crossed the Albanian border and swept down the gently rolling hills across the Drin River valley to the town of Kikesi I Ri, or New Kukes, in northeastern Albania.

New Kukes was a relocated town, built by the Albanian government only thirty years earlier with Soviet assistance; the old town had been deliberately flooded after construction of a hydroelectric power-generating dam on the Drin River. The Drin River valley is narrow and hilly, with what seems like a perpetual foggy haze obscuring the ridges and mountain tops nearby. The native population of twelve thousand had swelled to over one hundred thousand with Kosovo refugees, although that number had decreased to just a few thousand refugees since KFOR had established its peacekeeping force in 1999 and allowed the refugees safe passage across the border. The huge Kukes carpet factory employed nearly a thousand workers, and the copper and chromium mines in the region employed another few thousand. But by far the biggest employers in the region were the black-market weapons salesmen, the Albanian Mafia, the drug lords, and the prostitutes, preying on the refugees and supporting ethnic Albanian Kosovar freedom fighters in their continuing struggle to form an independent Muslim nation in Kosovo.

The center of both legitimate and illegitimate commerce in northeastern Albania was the Kukes carpet factory, several kilometers from the center of town; it was by far the biggest industrial facility in the entire valley. The refugee camps that had been set up near the factory were smaller than before, but the remaining parts of the camp had evolved into a semipermanent series of shacks, tents, and wooden buildings, reminiscent of an Old West mining camp evolving into a real town, with ankle-deep mud streets, wooden sidewalks, almost no running water, and just as many animals wandering the street as vehicles. Several of the larger wooden buildings, two or three stories high, were saloons, restaurants, or shops on the ground floor, with offices on the middle floors and apartments on the upper floors for the wealthier merchants, government officials and bureaucrats, and underworld bosses and lieutenants.

Behind the wooden buildings were the shacks for the workers, and beyond those was the tent city, built by NATO military engineers and international relief organizations, for Kukes’ other group of residents — the Kosovo Liberation Army training center. At any given time, over five hundred men, women, and children as young as fourteen and as old as sixty were in training at the Kukes camp by Kosovar instructors, overseen and administered by the Albanian Army. They trained in hand-to-hand combat, mountaineering, land navigation, basic maneuvers, and small-arms tactics, along with political and religious indoctrination courses. The top twenty percent of each class were sent to Albanian regular army bases at Shkoder, Gjader, and Tirana for advanced military training; the top five percent of those, who showed especial aptitude in military arts as well as hotter than usual hatred for non-Muslims, were sent to training centers in Libya, Sudan, Egypt, and Algeria for advanced combat and terrorist training.

Under the NATO peacekeeping umbrella, safe from hit-and-run raids by Serb paramilitaries and border police, the Kukes training camp was allowed to grow and flourish. In exchange for food, housing, and training, the recruits worked the carpet factory and mines, provided security for the smugglers and drug dealers, and did odd jobs around the tent city. An hour before sunrise, with the first hints of the morning light filtering through the low overcast, the day shift workers were having breakfast and getting ready to head to work, and the graveyard shift for both the mines and the carpet factory were just getting ready to leave — when the Metyor-179 Shadow stealth bomber began its bomb run.

The first targets to hit were the antiaircraft defensive emplacements. Like most Soviet-era client-state factories, the Kukes carpet factory had several antiaircraft gun emplacements mounted on the rooftops, mostly twin-barreled 37-millimeter optically guided units with a few single 57-millimeter heavy-caliber guns. Kukes had six 37-2 emplacements and two 57-1 emplacements, scattered throughout the compound, with the 37s at the corners and on the east and west sides of the compound along the river and the 57s in the center of the compound; two additional 37-2 units and two 57-1 units were situated near the hydroelectric power plant east of the town.

But most of these weapon systems had been decimated by the Albanian civil war of 1997 and had been only partially refurbished in response to the Serbian aggression in neighboring Kosovo. The radars and electro-optical sensors had long ago been stolen and sold for food or drugs, leaving the guns with only iron sights with uncalibrated and grossly inaccurate lead-computing mechanisms. The gun emplacements on the dam were not a threat — it was easy to maneuver around them, and the gunners never reacted to the jet’s presence anyway. The smaller-caliber guns were probably not a threat, especially if they were only optically or manually guided. But the big 57-millimeter guns could be trouble. They had to be neutralized.

Using the infrared sensor, Yegorov targeted the two gun emplacements from ten miles away, well outside the antiaircraft gun’s maximum range. The Mt-179’s laser rangefinder/ designator clicked down the range. Inside seven miles, the Mt-179 Shadow started a steep climb to three thousand feet above the ground. Inside five miles to the target, well outside the antiaircraft artillery’s maximum range, Yegorov opened its right bomb bay doors and released a Kh-29L Ookoos, or “Sting,” missile.

The Kh-29L Sting missile dropped free of the right bomb bay, fell for about a hundred feet as it stabilized in the slipstream, then ignited its solid-rocket motor. The missile’s semi-active laser guidance seeker homed in on the reflected energy of the Shadow’s laser designator. Yegorov had only to keep the crosshairs on the target, carefully magnifying and refining his aimpoint. He steered the missile in for a direct hit on the base of the 57-millimeter gun emplacement, blowing a hole in the roof and sending the gun crashing through to the dozens of workers below. Yegorov immediately switched to the second 57-1 emplacement and sent it crashing through the roof just like the first.

Yegorov then switched his infrared sensors to the front of the carpet factory, targeting another Sting missile at the main administrative entrance to the plant and the last missile at the main worker’s entrance, where hundreds of workers were leaving or entering. Each Sting missile had a six-hundred-pound high-explosive warhead, and the devastation was enormous. Secondary explosions from each of the Sting missiles fired on the factory blew out windows with tongues of fire, finally collapsing part of the administrative section. Rolling waves of fire belched from the workers’ entrance as the Sting missile broke open gas and fuel lines inside the plant.

Stoica started a steep climb, then rolled left to survey the damage. “Ahuyivayush’iy, Gennadi,” he said. “Right where we planned it.”

“Shyri zhopy ni p’omish, “Yegorov replied. “Couldn’t have missed that if I tried.”

Stoica flew outbound about three minutes — long enough for folks to think the attack was over and start coming out of hiding — then executed an easy turn back toward the plant at five thousand feet above ground. Yegorov immediately locked his infrared sensor on the last four remaining targets: the refugee center, which according to Kazakov’s intelligence acted as the terrorist training center; the Red Cross/Red Crescent Aid Center, suspected of being a terrorist headquarters because supposedly it would never be targeted in an attack; the distribution center, where food and supplies were unloaded from trucks or rails, warehoused, inventoried, and disbursed to the camp residents; and finally the building with the largest restaurant and shops, suspected of being owned by and filled with Muslim terrorists.

The Mt-179 made only one pass, dropping just two weapons-two PLAB-500 laser-guided fuel — air explosive canisters. Each FAE canister created a cloud of highly flammable gas several hundred feet in diameter. The gas mixed with oxygen in the air, and was then detonated by releasing explosive charges into the cloud. The resultant explosion, resembling a miniature nuclear mushroom cloud, was a hundred times greater than the equivalent weight of TNT.

Over two hundred men, women, and children died instantly in the two huge fireballs; another one thousand persons died or were injured and thousands more were left homeless in the ensuing firestorm as the entire town was consumed in the galloping wildfires caused by the fuel-air explosives. The fires would last for days, spreading to char hundreds of thousands of acres of surrounding forests. Investigators would later find nothing but devastation.

Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Kremlin, Moscow, Russian Federation

“Minister Schramm. What a pleasant surprise. Good morning to you.”

“Let us dispense with the pleasantries, Mr. Filippov,” Republic of Germany Foreign Minister Rolf Schramm snapped. He was in the living room of his residence in Bonn, with only a jogging suit on, surrounded by his senior advisors. “I am watching the news of your little attack on Kukes, Albania. My God, man, has Sen’kov lost his senses? Or is he not in charge of the government anymore? Has the military finally taken charge?”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Minister,” Russian Federation Foreign Minister Ivan Ivanovich Filippov said in stiff but very passable German. “Albania? What—?” He was at home, not even dressed yet. He immediately ran out of the bathroom and flipped on the television. Nothing on Russian TV on anything happening in Albania. What in hell was going on? “I … I cannot comment on what has happened, Minister,” Filippov said. He couldn’t confirm or deny anything — nor would he, even if he could.

“I want you to pledge to me, Mr. Minister, that these attacks have ended,” Schramm said. “No more attacks in the Balkans. You must promise me this is not the prelude to an offensive in the Balkans.”

Filippov was excitedly pressing his radio button that rang his aide’s radio — there was no answer. “I will not promise anything, Minister,” Filippov replied, winging it as best he could. He did not want to say he didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t want to admit culpability, either. “Russia will act in its best interests. We will never negotiate or deal that away. Never.” At that moment, his housekeeper opened the door, and Filippov’s aide came rushing in with a thin file. He saw that the TV was on and switched it over to CNN International. Sure enough, there was a remote broadcast from somewhere in Macedonia — it looked like a plane crash.

“What I cannot understand is the attack on the NATO E-3 radar plane,” Schramm went on. “Why did you attack the radar plane? Are you mad? NATO will certainly find out it was Russia, and they will certainly retaliate!”

“We categorically deny any such involvement!” Filippov retorted — it was an almost automatic response to any such allegation, no matter how truthful it really was. But he still gulped in surprise. Someone shot down a NATO radar plane? This was tantamount to an act of war! “What will Germany do, Minister?” Filippov asked cautiously. “You will participate in the investigation, of course. Has Germany already decided to punish Russia?”

“If this is a prelude to an attack by Russia, Minister Filippov,” Schramm fumed, “Germany and NATO will stand firmly against you.”

Russian Federation Foreign Minister Ivan Filippov suppressed a chuckle — he dared not make fun of NATO or Germany’s part in it, no matter how ridiculous or unrealistic it was. Schramm was in no position to threaten Russia with anything, let alone a unified NATO response.

“Mr. Foreign Minister, again, I assure you, Russia is committed to the peace and security of the entire Balkan region,” Filippov said, still not confirming or denying any involvement in whatever was going on. “Russia has been the target of many anti-NATO and anti-peacekeeper attacks in recent weeks. We know for certain that the Multinational Security Brigade — South, under German control, was their target again. We will act whenever we see the threat is genuine.”

“Really?” Minister Schramm remarked. “Why did you not share this information with us? A combined Russian-German strike force would have been very effective and would have undoubtedly waylaid the criticism you most certainly will have to endure once word of this attack spreads.”

Filippov’s head was still scrambling to catch up with the events swirling around him, but he noted a very different note in Schramm’s voice — he wasn’t talking about the incident anymore. His entire train of thought was moving in a completely different direction, and it had nothing to do with confrontation. “I do like the idea of Russia and Germany joining forces in the future,” Filippov said, “and I am glad you have the courage and insightfulness to see the benefit of such a union.”

There was a slight but noticeable pause on the line; then: “I have long thought that the entire Balkan conflict has been a great economic and political drain on all concerned,” Schramm said. “The atrocities committed by both sides in this conflict have been brutal and violent, and had to be stopped. But NATO and the nonaligned nations have spent hundreds of millions of dollars trying to devise a peaceful solution, and the violence seems worse than ever.

“I could not agree more, Minister.”

“But what is the endgame here?” Schramm asked, the frustration evident in his voice. “The factions in the Balkans have been fighting for centuries. There are acts of total barbarism on both sides, but it seems that only the Christian acts of violence against the poor Muslims are publicized in the world press. For some reason, the Muslims became the underdogs, and the Americans seemed to come to their rescue.”

“We have long spoke about the possibility of why the Americans supported the Muslims,” Filippov offered, “namely, to garner support and friendship from the oil-rich Arab countries, in hopes the Americans would be allowed to build land bases in Persian Gulf nations so they could move their expensive, vulnerable aircraft carriers out of the Gulf They were so afraid of Iran or Iraq sinking one of their carriers in the Gulf that they made a deal with the devils in the deserts of Arabia to support their Muslim brothers in the Balkans.”

“I do not know the reason for why the Americans chose one side over the other,” Schramm said. “But when America speaks, the rest of the world, especially Europe and NATO, must listen.”

“Nonsense,” Filippov interjected. “Germany is not compelled to follow any nation, even the United States. You have the fastest-growing and most powerful economy in Europe, and your growth far exceeds any other country in the world, even America.”

“In any case, Germany has been forced to support a foreign policy that is not always in our best interests,” Schramm went on cautiously. “We have been forced to stand back and watch as our own peacekeepers harbor Muslim terrorists that attack fellow Christians. Muslim bandits are now free to roam the Balkans, killing innocent Christians, selling drugs under NATO protection, and are still receiving and trading millions of marks in weapons from Iran and Saudi Arabia each year. It makes absolutely no sense at all to me.”

“To me as well, Minister,” Filippov said. “I agree with you completely. But we must be careful. Russia’s action against Kukes was an emotional strike against terrorists. I abhor violence, but I was glad to offer my support for the plan. We cannot let the situation spin out of our control, however. The Muslims will undoubtedly retaliate against KFOR peacekeepers. We must be careful that we do not set southern Europe ablaze simply because we wanted to avenge our soldiers’ deaths.”

“The danger is real, Mr. Filippov,” Schramm said. “Especially now, since the United States pulled out of KFOR.”

“I agree, Minister,” Filippov said. “The only clear way of reducing tension in the Balkans and salvaging our own national pride is to disengage from the brutal but pointless course we have set for ourselves. The bloodlust between the rival factions in the Balkans is not worth the life of one German or one Russian.”

“I have long advocated constructive disengagement in the Balkans,” Rolf Schramm said. “I never recommended anyone simply depart, like the Americans did — that only creates a power vacuum that aggressors on all sides will seek to exploit for themselves. The American president was exceedingly irresponsible in his decision just to pull out of Europe as he has done. But I have long pushed to find a way to develop a plan where our forces can leave the battlefield but still remain involved and active in steering the region to some sort of peaceful structure.”

“I know you have, Minister — as leader of the opposition, I remember you were an outspoken critic of the previous government always seeming to knuckle under to the twisted politics and logic of the United States,” Filippov said. That was not entirely true — there was no doubt Schramm was far to the right politically of his predecessors, and he had made a few speeches in favor of getting out of the Kosovo Force, but he was certainly no Willy Brandt or Helmut Kohl — his European vision was limited to whatever it took for him to rise to his current office. “What did Clinton or Martindale know of European geopolitics? All they cared about was their legacy and their domestic political power base. They used the crisis in the Balkans for their own gain. Now that the Americans are gone, it is up to Germany and Russia to take a leadership position in Europe.”

“Very well said, Mr. Filippov: disengage from the fighting but still maintain a presence in the region,” Schramm summarized. “The Americans tried and failed to force a peace not just in the Balkans, but in the Middle East, the Indian subcontinent, even Ireland. Now that the Americans have turned tail and run, we must take up the cause of peace and justice in our own land.”

“Very well put, Minister,” Filippov said. “Russia is only concerned about one thing: supporting our Slavic brothers against the growing wave of violence and anarchy by Muslim separatists who seek to establish fundamentalist Islamic regimes in majority Christian nations. We care nothing if Kosovo becomes an independent republic or a Muslim enclave. But if they seek to trample the rights of Christians to their historical landmarks and their ancestral lands, we have an obligation to help. And if radical Islamic countries like Albania try to export their brand of murder, terrorism, and intimidation on the smaller, weaker oblasts in the Balkans, it is in our interests to resist those attempts by any means necessary.”

“And Germany wants only peace, security, stabilization, and freedom of commerce and communications in the Balkans,” Schramm said. “We want our friends in Croatia and Bosnia to be safe from harassment and civil rights violations by the Muslims and Serb extremists. We wish no ill will toward the Serb people — we only want all to coexist in peace. We must forget the historical animosities that have ruined the peace in the Balkans for far too long.”

“I heartily agree,” Filippov said warmly. “Russia pledges its support to assist in these efforts. We want peace as much as Germany, and we have the political and cultural ability to influence Serbian actions that are not in keeping with peaceful resolution of conflicts. We can certainly help keep any radical Serb elements from disturbing free trade and communications in the region.”

“That would be a generous and most valuable contribution to peace,” Schramm said. “But, sir, I feel there must be a quid pro quo. What can you suggest?”

“Germany is nothing but a stabilizing, independent-minded, powerful force in Europe,” Filippov said as sincerely as he could, his mind fairly whistling with the effort to think of the right amount of sugar and bullshit to feed Schramm. Filippov’s aide was staring, dumbfounded, as his superior was virtually inventing a Russo-German alliance of some sort while standing wet in his bathrobe in his bedroom! “It is the largest and most powerful nation in Western Europe, and it deserves a leadership position far greater than the scraps left to you by the United States and NATO. But now with the United States turning its back on the Western alliance, it is clear to me that Germany must take its rightful place as the leader of the European Union. Let the North Atlantic Treaty Organization dissolve. It has served its purpose and has become an outdated, unwieldy, even dangerous anachronism.”

“So if Germany reins in the Western European nations, Russia will contain and control the Eastern European nations?” Schramm asked. “Germany and Russia work together to create a lasting peace in Europe?”

“Exactly. Well put, Minister,” Filippov said. “There is no reason we should work at cross purposes when we are being pulled together by common goals and common enemies.”

“Some will say this is too similar to the Axis alliance before the Great Patriotic War.”

“Our countries are radically different now — the world is different,” Filippov responded. “There are no Third Reich, fascist, or communist regimes in place in our countries. We are all stable, democratic, open societies ruled by law and by the people, not by megalomaniac dictators. And I do not propose an alliance for now, although one can certainly be contemplated in the near future. All I suggest is that we use our individual influences to work together to bring peace and stability to eastern and southern Europe.”

Schramm nodded in agreement. “I like the sound of this, Mr. Filippov,” he said. “We work together to bring peace to the Balkans, not apart. We throw off the old ties and forge newer, stronger ones together.”

“Exactly,” Filippov said. His aide had been furiously writing on a pad of paper, and he finally showed his superior his notes, trying to toss out any other ideas as long as he had the German foreign ministers ear. “And there are many other areas of cooperation we can explore, as well,” Filippov said, his mind racing again, trying to think of more avenues of cooperation that could keep this sudden foreign affairs windfall on firm ground.

“Such as?”

Filippov read the third or fourth line of his aide’s notes, then looked up in a wide-eyed expression.

The note said simply, Kazakov’s oil?

He paused, again writing and rewriting the script in his head a dozen times, before saying, “Such as Europe’s reliance on so much Middle Eastern oil. Russia is a major world oil exporter, yet Europe buys less than ten percent of its oil from us. Germany gets less than twenty percent of its oil from Russia, and we are your neighbors! Correcting that situation would offer enormous advantages to both our economies.”

“I think this is a matter to be discussed in a meeting of our commerce and energy ministers, Mr. Filippov—”

“It is a foreign relations matter as well, Minister Schramm,” Filippov interjected. “We know why Europe imports little oil from Russia — recent history will certainly not convince some persons in our respective countries to become too closely linked. That is understandable. But look at current events, Minister. Europe cast its lot with the United States for its longterm military and economic security, and it now appears that gamble has lost. The United States no longer needs Germany.

“Russia knows better, sir. Russia has natural resources, raw materials, more than any nation on Earth — including petroleum, massive reserves that cannot even be fully explored for two generations, let alone tapped. The known Caspian Sea oil reserves are five times greater than those in the Persian Gulf, and only a fourth of the oil fields have even been fully explored.”

“Yet Russia exploits these reserves only for itself,” Schramm pointed out. “It is fine for you to speak of tapping these fields — but then all pipelines lead only to Russia, to Samara or Novorossiysk.”

“Exactly so, Minister,” Filippov said. “But we have a plan to invest over a billion dollars in the next year to build a pipeline linking the Black Sea with the Adriatic Sea. We have some influence in Bulgaria; Germany has considerable influence with Albania. If the United States leaves NATO and leaves Europe, as our information suggests, they will abandon any plans to build a base in Vlore, and Greece and Turkey will lose their great benefactor and will have to fend for themselves. Turkey will certainly leave Albania and Macedonia to their own fates.”

“You are proposing a Russian oil company build a pipeline from the Black Sea to the Adriatic?” Schramm asked incredulously. “A private company, I assume? Gazprom. only builds pipelines in Russia. LUKoil wanted to build a pipeline through Ukraine and Poland to the Baltic Sea, but its investors scattered after the Russian invasion of Ukraine, and the company is teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. That leaves…” There was a pause, and Filippov heard a muted gasp. “You’re not suggesting Metyorgaz? Pavel the Playboy?”

“I’d prefer not to reveal too many details about the proposal for now, Minister,” Filippov interjected. He was surprised as hell when Schramm mentioned Metyorgaz, Kazakov’s oil company cum drug distribution front company. But then again, Germany was very closely linked with Albania, and it certainly had a major presence in the Balkans. They would certainly be aware of any large-scale development projects proposed for the region. And Kazakov was an international crime and business figure — they certainly would be on the alert for anything he might be involved in. “I will say that Russia is committed to developing the Caspian Sea petroleum resources and serving all of Europe with inexpensive oil. That is of great benefit to all of us. Russia is securing commitments from many different sources to do just this, and we look to the leaders in the European Union to help us.”

“You sound like a sales brochure now, Herr Filippov,” Schramm said, with a nervous chuckle. “Germany is indeed looking for safe, secure, reliable sources of energy. Our dependence on Middle East oil is not desirable, yet it is a relatively cheap and reliable source—”

“As long as the United States secures peace in the Middle East,” Filippov interjected. “What if the United States withdraws from the Middle East as we see they have done in Europe? The price of oil will skyrocket, and supply will be in greater jeopardy. Germany needs to secure its own source of oil, right here in Europe, not the Middle East. The Caspian Sea oil reserves are the answer. The problem is, what will Turkey do with oil transiting the Bosporus Straits if instability sets in? Where will you go to get oil from Asia? To Syria? Israel — if it even exists in five years? Will you need to invade Turkey in order to get oil shipments through the Bosporus?”

There was a lengthy pause from Bonn. Filippov was going to ask Schramm if he was still on the line when the German foreign minister finally asked, “So the attack against Albania was not a retaliatory strike, but only the beginning of a campaign to secure land and rights to build this pipeline to Europe?”

“I cannot comment further on this morning’s events,” Filippov repeated. He certainly could not — he had no idea what had happened except that a NATO radar plane was a burning hunk of metal in Macedonia. But his word rang true, loud and clear. A secret attack on Albania to secure pipeline rights? Kazakov was just crazy enough to do something like that … “As for the rights to build a pipeline — we do not want bloodshed. We hope to convince the respective governments in southern Europe to participate in this lucrative and important expansion.”

“I see,” Schramm said woodenly. Any person could hear the words between the words, the thinly veiled threat. “We will talk more of this, Minister Filippov.”

Filippov hung up the phone, feeling as drained and shaky as if he had just run a two-kilometer sprint. “What … in … hell is going on?” he shouted to his aide. “What in hell just happened?”

“It sounded to me,” his aide replied with a smile, “that you have just negotiated an alliance with Germany to divide the Balkans between you, sir.”

“But what about Albania?” Filippov asked. “What happened in Albania?”

The aide shrugged and replied, “Does it matter now, sir?”