“What kind of airplanes, sir?”
“F-22 Raptors.”
“These will be American airplanes?”
“No. We are going to sell or trade them to the Russians. These will be Russian airplanes, and the Russians will hire qualified American civilians to fly them. They just don’t know it yet.”
“When will they know it?”
“We’ll bring this subject up after the shooting starts. You understand?”
Cassidy shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t pretend to understand any of it.”
“A refreshing attitude. I’m not sure I understand much of it, either. Still, if we decide to go through with this proposal, your job, Colonel, would be to command the Russian F-22 squadron.”
Cassidy just stared. This trip to Washington had occurred on two hours’ notice. No reason given, just a summons to be on the afternoon plane. He had speculated all the way across the Pacific, which was one reason he hadn’t had any sleep. He had concluded that the folks in the Pentagon wanted to ensure they had everything he knew about the new Japanese Zero fighter. He certainly hadn’t suspected this. It occurred to him to ask, “Why me, sir?”
Stanford Tuck thought that a logical question. He said, “You know as much about Asia as any senior flight officer, and you are F-22-qualified, so we won’t have to waste weeks teaching you how to fly the darn thing. Amazingly enough, when we put our criteria into the idiot box, your name was at the head of the very short list that popped out.”
“I don’t know what to say, sir.”
“Don’t say anything. That’s normally best.” The general smiled. “I’ll have to think about it, sir. This is right out of the blue. I’m not sure I could do the job.”
Cassidy looked tired, the general thought. “As you might suspect, there are political complications,” the general continued, “so there are some serious wrinkles. The political types think we are skirting dangerously close to the abyss if we have a serving U.s. officer in combat against a friendly power, so you’ll have to retire from the Air Force.”
“Well, I—“
“Another is that the Air Force chief of staff doesn’t want any of his active duty F-22 pilots resigning to accept commissions in the Russian air force. I think he’s afraid of starting a precedent.”
The general’s eyes solidified, like water freezing. “He didn’t want to lose you, either, but he didn’t have a choice. Still, the politicians don’t want to ruffle the chief of staffs feathers— they’re going to get quite enough flak over this as it is — so you’ll have to get your recruits from Raptor-qualified folks who just got off active duty or retired. There aren’t many retirees, but there are one or two you can talk to. We’ll give you a list.”
Cassidy had recovered his composure and got the wheels going again. “Most of those people will have plans, sir. They’re not just leaving active duty — they’re going to something. They won’t be interested in going to Siberia.”
“Your job is to recruit the people you need, out of uniform or in.”
Tuck leaned forward and his voice hardened. “You let me know who you want, and I’ll see that he or she is an available civilian pretty damn quick.”
“If I say yes, when would I start, General?”
“The politicians haven’t committed to this adventure yet. They’re considering it. I won’t go along until more details are ironed out.”
“We’ll need qualified maintenance people, intel, weather.”
Tuck nodded. “My aide, Colonel Eatherly, will go over the nuts and bolts with you. Fixing problems is what he does best. He can smooth the road, help straighten it out.”
“Maybe you should give him this job, sir,” Bob Cassidy said, and tried to grin. “I’ve never even been to Russia.”
Tuck got to his feet. “Go get some sleep, Colonel. Come see me in the morning, let me know what you think then. As I said, your name came up. The folks around here tell me you are F-22-qualified, you got us most of the info on the Zero, and you understand the Japanese as well as anyone in uniform. The U.s. ambassador to Japan highly recommends you, as do two of your old fighter bosses I’ve talked to. They tell me you can pull this off if anyone can. It’s your decision.” I’ll have to think about it, sir.”
As Stanford Tuck shook the colonel’s hand, he said, “You’re a professional fighter pilot, Cassidy; this will probably be all the war you’ll ever get.”
The general looked Cassidy right in the eye. “It’s going to be a genuine sausage machine. A lot of people are going to die. The process will be damned unpleasant and ugly as hell. The elected leaders of your country refuse to declare war. Do you want to risk your life for Russia, for the Russians? Sleep on it. See me tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Everything we have discussed is top secret, Colonel. Everything.”
Out in the reception area, one of the enlisted people volunteered to lead Bob Cassidy toward the main entrance and the waiting car. Combat. People dying. Lord have mercy.
Kalugin looked like Russian folk story. He look that hid whatever his face.
a wolf, an old gray wolf of the taiga from a had small black eyes and a fierce, hungry thoughts were passing behind the features of Aleksandr Ivanovich Kalugin was a shrewd, calculating paranoid without morals, ethics, or scruples of any kind, a gangster willing to do whatever it took to enrich himself. He had no loyalty to anyone except himself. He was a perfect political animal, ready to strike any pose and make any promise that he thought his listeners wanted to hear. Like politicians in Western democracies, he paid “experts” to tell him what it was “the people” wanted. He was willing, of course, to try to deliver on his promises, if the cost was low and the prospect of personal profit high. The man was a case study for those fools who believed that a politician’s character didn’t matter as long as he was on their side. The truth was that Kalugin had no side but his own: he was as ready to devour his supporters as he was his enemies. Today he fixed that wolfish stare on the minister of foreign affairs, Danilov, as the minister expounded on the conversation in the White House between the American national security adviser and the Russian ambassador to the United States. A vein in Kalugin’s forehead throbbed visibly. Finally, he muttered, through clenched teeth, “The damned Americans are lying.”
“Mr. President—“
“They are lying, you doddering fool! They have lied to us ten thousand times and they are lying again. The Japanese are not stupid enough to get trapped in Siberia this winter. That icebox is the most inhospitable hell on this planet in winter, which is what, three, maybe three and a half months away? By October the temperatures will be below freezing and dropping like a stone. Only Russians would be crazy enough to endure that bleak, frozen outhouse that God never visits. The damned Americans are lying. Again!”
“I think that—“
“Get the Japanese ambassador into your office and ask him to his face. Ask him if his country plans to invade Russia. Ask him!”
Kalugin pointed toward the door. Danilov went. What if the Japanese did invade? The event would ignite a wildfire of patriotism. Business as usual would come to a rapid halt. Kalugin began to mull the possibilities. It seemed to him that if the Japanese invaded Siberia, an extraordinary window of political opportunity would open for a man fast enough and bold enough to seize the moment. If a man played his cards right … Inadvertently, Kalugin’s eyes went to Stalin’s portrait, which he kept on the wall even though the dictator was out of fashion in most quarters these days. For a moment, Kalugin fancied that he could see a gleam in the eye of the old assassin.
Bob Cassidy got a room in a hotel in Crystal City, one of those modern buildings with glass walls. By some quirk, his room had a good view of downtown Washington even though the desk clerk assured him he was only being charged the military rate. He couldn’t really get to sleep. The room wasn’t dark: light from the city leaked in around the curtains. He dozed at times, and dreamed of being aloft in a cockpit. He was in and out of clouds, the missile warning flashing and sounding in his ears, telling him of invisible missiles racing toward him at twice the speed of sound. He was trying desperately to escape, but he couldn’t. The missiles were streaking in … He awoke each time sweating profusely, his mouth dry, his skin itching. Finally, he fixed himself a drink from the wet bar and drank it quickly. The alcohol didn’t help. He pulled the drapes back and sat looking at the lights. He could just see the capitol dome and the Washington Monument. A war was coming and all these people were oblivious. Even if they knew, they wouldn’t care — as long as the bombs didn’t fall here. General Tuck would want to know his
