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

discussing this man’s personal
life—-that was an area he had no desire whatsoever to explore. He extended his
hand, and Kazakov took it warmly. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Gaspadeen —”
Fursenko had used the more modem post-Union breakup, more “politically correct”
term for “mister,” but he automatically stopped himself, then said, “Tovarisch Kazakov.” That was what most Russians had called each other back when there was
a strong, fearsome, proud empire: Comrade.
                 Kazakov
smiled and nodded approvingly. “My condolences for your loss, Tovarisch Fursenko/’
                 “And
to you, sir.” Fursenko turned and quickly strode away, feeling very
uncomfortable with that man knowing his name or even standing behind him.
                 Kazakov
stood by himself on the ramp, reflecting on this very strange evening. First
the death and return of his father in ^hame, without any honors; his mother’s
outburst and her rejection; and then this chance meeting with one of the Cold
War’s most famous and brilliant weapons designers. Pavel Gre- gorievich Kazakov
didn’t believe in fate—he wielded too much power to believe that anyone else
decided your future— but there had to be a reason, some definite path, that
this chain of events signaled.
                 At
one time, Doctor Pyotr Viktorievich Fursenko had been considered the finest and
most imaginative aerospace and electromagnetodynamics engineer in all of Europe . Since the age of thirty, he had been the
director of several Soviet aircraft and weapon design bureaus, building the
most advanced military aircraft, missiles, bombs, avionics, and components
imaginable . ..
                 At
least, they had thought it was the best. Fursenko’s word had been
considered physics law until Ivan Ozerov had shown up at Fisikous. When Ozerov
had started working at Fisikous, completely shattering the old beliefs and
understandings, the Soviet scientists had realized exactly how far behind the
United States they were on advanced warplane technology, especially low
observable airframe, devices, systems, and counter-stealth technology.
                 This
had only spurred Fursenko to even greater heights of genius. Even though the
collapse of the Soviet
Union meant the
collapse of big, super-secret, well-funded agencies like Fisikous, it had also
meant that Fursenko could travel and attend classes and seminars all over the
world to learn more about modem warplane technology. When Ozerov had
disappeared, probably back to whatever planetoid or genetic-engineering
incubation tank had spawned him, Fursenko had again taken the lead in Russian
aircraft and weapons design.
                 And
now Kazakov knew where he was, had met him, and could even be called his
boss—because Kazakov owned over sixty percent of Metyor Industrial Investment
Group. The genius Fursenko had been at his disposal all this time, and he
hadn’t even known it! But how to take advantage of this development? His mind
began racing....
                 Only
when the cargo ramp was finally raised and the transport plane made ready to be
towed back to its hangar did Kazakov finally turn toward the three government
vehicles behind him, which had also remained.
                 The
middle and left side cars suddenly started up and drove off, leaving one car
behind. A guard in a dark suit, wearing a machine pistoi on a strap, emerged
from the remaining vehicle, a stretch limousine, and opened a door for the
young man. Kazakov brushed snow off his shoulders, then removed and brushed
snow off his hat, revealing a shaved head, and stepped inside. The door closed
behind the young man with a heavy CHUNK! that revealed its heavily
armored doors and windows. The limousine drove off.
                 Inside
was one man, a military officer in his early sixties, seated on a side-facing
seat. Before him was