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

a communications console, complete with satellite
transceivers and television and computer monitors. A very pretty uniformed
female aide sat in the forward aft-facing seat, with a similar console before
her. She glanced at the young man, gave him an approving half-smile, and
returned to her work.
                 “You
did not even try to pay your respects to my mother, General," the young
man said acidly, without any sort of formal greeting.
                 “I
did not think it would have been wise to try to console her in her obvious
hysterical grief.”
                 “So,
who were in the other cars?” the young man asked. “The president? The defense
minister?”
                 “The
national security advisor, representing President Sen'kov, and the assistant
minister of defense for European affairs, representing the government. I
represent the military.”
                “I had hoped the president would be
courageous enough to attend,” the young man said bitterly. “Not only does the
commander-in-chief not attend, but he schedules the return flight for the dead
of night in the middle of a snowstorm! What happened to your compassion, your
responsibility to thank the families for their sacrifice?”
                 “We
may have extended that courtesy, if your mother did not desecrate the flag so,”
the old officer said. “That was a most disappointing display. Most
regrettable,”
                 “She
is the widow of a man who died in the line of duty, doing a job few officers
wanted,” the younger man said. “She has given her life for the army. She is
entitled to her grief— however she wishes to express it.” The young man looked
over, but the officer did not respond. He took a breath, then reached behind
the seat, lifted a crystal glass, and sniffed it, while at the same time
checking out the aide over the rim of the glass. “I see you still prefer
American whiskey and attractive aides, Colonel-General,” the young man said .
                 “Observant
as always, Pavel Gregorievich,” Colonel-General Valeriy Zhurbenko replied, with
a smile. He reached into a compartment under the desk and withdrew a bottle of
Jim Beam and two shot glasses. He poured, gave a glass to the young man, raised
his own glass, then said, “To Gregor Mikhailevich, the bravest and finest
officer—no, the finest man —I have ever known. My best friend, my
confidant, a soldier’s soldier, and a hero to mother Russia .”
                 “To
my father,” Pavel Gregorievich Kazakov said, raising his glass. As the general
raised his glass, he quickly added. “Who was killed because of the gutless,
cowardly, inept members of the Army of the Russian Federation and the Central Military Committee.”
                 Colonel-General
Zhurbenko, deputy minister of defense and chief of staff of the Armed Forces of
the Russian Federation , paused with his glass a centimeter from
his lips. He considered Kazakov’s words, shrugged, and downed his whiskey.
                 “At
least you have the guts not to argue w ith me,” Kazakov said bitterly.
                 “Your
words hurt and offend me. Pavel,” Zhurbenko said resignedly, as his aide
refilled their glasses. “If they were said by anyone else, regardless of their
rank or title, I would have him imprisoned, or executed.”
                 “My
mother as well. General?” Kazakov asked.
                 Zhurbenko
gave no response. He was accustomed to threatening political and military
rivals—but Kazakov wasn’t a rival, he was a superior. Even if he didn’t carry
the name of Russia ’s most famous and beloved soldier, he would quite possibly be the most
powerful man in Russia .
                 Pavel
Gregorievich Kazakov had started out wanting nothing more than to be the
privileged son of a dedicated, fastrising officer of the