Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 by Warrior Class (v1.1)

operatives, most of them former KGB. to work learning all
there was to learn about the previous holdings of the IIG, w hich in this case
was a research and development institute called Fisikous. What he had found out
was nothing short of astounding.
                 The
Fisikous Institute of Technology had been an adv anced aircraft and technology
research facility in Vilnius , in what was then the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic , now the independent Republic of Lithuania on the eastern end of the Baltic Sea . Fisikous had been on the cutting edge of
Soviet aircraft design, attracting the brightest engineers from all over the Soviet Union and the non-aligned nations. The big name
at Fisikous had been a young scientist named Ivan Ozerov, who'd been the
resident low observable technology—stealth—expert. No one knew anything about
Ozerov, except that in a short time at Fisikous, under the direct supervision
of the chief of the facility, Pyotr Fursenko, and another man who most
suspected was KGB, he’d become the number-one design expert in all of the
Soviet Union. Ozerov was brilliant, but weird and unpredictable, occasionally
launching into wild tirades in English at the slightest provocation or
agitation. Scientists there had long suspected Ozerov of being either on LSD or
simply psychotic—he was far more than just eccentric. But there was no question
that his work, especially on the incredible Fi-170 stealth bomber, had been
nothing short of genius.
                 But
there had been problems at Fisikous. The Baltic republic of Lithuania was dri ving toward independence from the Soviet Union , and Fisikous represented all that was bad
about life under Soviet rule. Ivan Ozerov had disappeared during some kind of
military action. Some said the American CIA or Special Forces had kidnapped
Ozerov. Others said Ozerov had not been Russian but a captured American
scientist, codenamed “Redtail Hawk,” brainwashed right there at Fisikous by the
KGB, and that the military action had really been a rescue mission. Even the
Fisikous-170 stealth bomber, a one- hundred-and-twenty-thousand kilo warplane,
had been stolen.
                 “When
the Union collapsed, I went back to Russia to head up some other aerospace design
bureaus,” Fursenko went on. “I was going to retire or emigrate to the West,
because the industry had all but disappeared in the Commonwealth. But when my
wife died, I... I stayed on .., well, mostly just to have something to do.”
                 “I
understand,” Kazakov said sincerely. “I think that’s important.”
                 “They
had better kofye and romavaya babas in the labs than I could
afford as a pensioner anyway,” Fursenko admitted with a faint smile. “There’s
not much money in Metyor, but we’re doing important work, incredible things. I
didn’t mind not getting paid as long as I could keep on working and get real
coffee. No offense, sir. It is rewarding work, but the pay is terrible.”
                 “No
offense taken. My mother made the best romovaya babas when I was
a kid!" Kazakov said. He sighed. “Now I think she would use a handful of
them to choke me if she had the chance.”
                 Fursenko
didn't know what to say or do—he was afraid to smile, nod, or even move. He was
very surprised and a bit wary after hearing the apparent warmth in Kazakov’s
voice— not something he had ever expected to hear at all. “I couldn’t help but
notice, your mother .. . seemed rather upset at... well ..
                 “At
me, yes,” Kazakov admitted. “She does not approve of what I do.”
                 “And
at Russia also.”
                 “She
blames the Russian government for the sloppy way it supports our troops
overseas,” Kazakov said. “She blames me for everything else.”
                 Fursenko
definitely did not feel comfortable