Target Down!

1

Moscow. Late Autumn, 1990.

Winter seemed in a particular hurry this year, the man thought as he walked slowly through the park. The trees about him had virtually shed their foliage and looked dead, rather than preparing for the long hibernation. The man shivered in his shabby overcoat. There was a sickly pallor to his gaunt face, giving him the look of a recent prisoner, which, indeed, he was.

He was not eager to arrive at his destination, though he knew the place well. The last time he was there, he wielded power. Now he was unsure of himself and a little afraid; mostly of the man he was going to see.

Why had the general arranged his release from the Siberian hellhole, the very same general who had caused him to be sent there in the first place? What was important enough to justify returning his freedom to him?

He was under no illusions. The freedom was tenuous, and its price would be heavy. The general wanted something badly enough to secure the release of a disgraced former colonel in the KGB.

Hands deep within the pockets, he gripped his coat tighter about him as if for protection against something much more ferocious than the coming Russian winter. As he walked on he noted the faces of passersby. Old habits died hard; but he was noticing something new: open discontent, a strange grimness, a latent anger.

So much for the new freedoms, he thought, allowing himself a fleeting twinge of malicious pleasure.

Everything had a price … as they were only just beginning to find out.

And where do you think you’re going?

The belligerent challenge came from the uniformed KGB guard who stood at the entrance of the short tunnel that led to a wide courtyard. The courtyard belonged to one of the most forbidding structures in the city.

The guard was peering at the unwelcome visitor. As recognition dawned the guard’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

At last he said, Comrade … Comrade Colonel Stolybin! I … I had no idea…. I mean, you don’t look … What I want to say—

You’re becoming more embarrassed by the second, Sergeant, Stolybin interrupted in a neutral voice. For your information, I am no longer a colonel….

Well yes, Comrade. I know, but …

Stolybin waved a dismissive hand. Even now he could not quite forget his former standing, and the action was unconscious. The sergeant could easily have taken offense, but he had known Stolybin well.

There is no need to apologize, Sergeant. You were not responsible for what happened to me. I’m here to see the general. Stolybin gave a tight grin that held no mirth. He got me out.

I see, Comrade Colonel…. I mean … Of course you may go in.

Thank you, Stolybin said dryly.

As he walked past, the sergeant called out. Comrade …

Stolybin paused to look back.

It’s good to see you again, the sergeant said, a trifle awkwardly, as if afraid of showing emotion. Things are coming to pieces all over the country. We need to have order restored. The sergeant stopped suddenly, as if afraid he’d said too much.

I know exactly what you mean.

Stolybin turned and walked on.

To the guard, it had not been an open expression of solidarity; but such a comment, even from the ragged-looking former colonel, made him feel strangely better.

Now that the colonel was back, perhaps he and the general would start sorting out that bunch that seemed to have taken over the Motherland.

Welcome, Sergei Grigorevich! the general said expansively. He took Stolybin by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.

If Stolybin thought it was a brazen act of hypocrisy, he gave no indication.

The general stood back to survey his visitor critically. You look a little—the general paused—lean. Yes. That’s it. Lean. He stubbed out his cigarette when he saw Stolybin’s nose wrinkling distastefully.

I was not exactly at a dacha on the Black Sea, Stolybin retorted with the air of a man who considered he had nothing further to lose. The general could always send him back to Siberia, despite the rash of peace and openness breaking out all over the place. He didn’t care. The Comrade General knows this. Or should I address you as Citizen?

The general’s eyes suddenly turned hard. It was as if he had never welcomed Stolybin. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you have suffered as much as is possible and that there is nothing more in store. You lost the nation its most advanced aircraft prototype and allowed the successful defection of its test pilot—

General …

Don’t interrupt! I will not have insubordination from my junior officers.

Stolybin was not intimidated. If the General will permit, I am not his junior officer. My rank was stripped from me.

The general glared. I stripped you. What I take, I can return. Before you left on your twelve-month … sojourn, you were a lieutenant-colonel in the KGB. You have been reinstated—the general took his time—as a full colonel, with full pay and privileges, as of today. Any objections? Given the general’s position, it was an empty challenge.

Stolybin harbored a sense of betrayal, and nursed a seething anger, but he was not stupid. No, Comrade General.

The incident that had cost him his rank and his freedom had occurred just over a year before. An operation that he had planned had not ended well. He still thought its conception brilliant, but unforeseen factors had made him the loser. The prototype had not made it to the West, but had run out of fuel over the Norwegian Sea. It was now in pieces 12,000 feet below the surface. The pilot, however, had been rescued by the West. He had never returned. In addition, there had been combat. Four top-of-the-line fighters—two MiG-29s and two Su-27s—sent to stop the pilot, had been destroyed by fighters from a special NATO squadron. They had cost Stolybin his operation. The anger against them flamed in his pale cheeks.

The general observed the sudden rush of color with satisfaction. "You’re remembering where to direct your anger. Good. You will like the reason for my decision to give you a second chance. Count yourself lucky, Colonel. I don’t give second chances easily; in fact, you are the first. Fail me a second time, and you will be a very unfortunate man indeed.

The Motherland is in chaos, the general went on, and I am certain it will get worse, unless something is done to stop it. We have granted the republics a certain degree of freedom. But what happens? They begin to kill each other. This is peace? This is freedom? His contempt was palpable. We have made the West a present of what they call Eastern Europe; our armies are in retreat and now, what are we about to do? The general answered his own question, thumping his regulation-issue desk suddenly. We’re throwing away our weapons! Weapons that we need for our own defense.

Knowing that if past practice was anything to go by the sacrificed weaponry had already been superseded by better quality, Stolybin chose discretion and remained silent. Whatever the general said to him would not make him relax his vigilance. His neck was on the line. If the general dumped him again, the general would be coming down, too. Stolybin knew this was dangerous thinking. He kept his expression attentive as the general continued to rave.

The Wall is down, the general continued in a razor-edged tone, and everyone is happy; or so it seems. But mark my words, Colonel. Europe, the world, has become a more unstable place. Before long, people will be wishing for the certainties of the status quo. There are those among us who are not prepared to wait for this enlightenment, whenever it may choose to return. Our land is coming apart. It’s a comic opera out there. Deputies arguing with each other like a rabble on a street corner while the Motherland creaks into immobility. You, Colonel, can have your revenge on those who defeated you, and serve the Motherland while you’re at it. Well?

I am still here, Comrade General, and I await your orders.

The general stared at Stolybin unblinkingly for a long moment.

I have not offered you a drink, Colonel. What would you like? I hope it’s vodka. Our people appear to be succumbing to Western tastes. You have returned to a land fit not for heroes, but for hamburgers and cola.

Vodka, Comrade General.

Good. Sit down, Colonel. You look almost dead on your feet.

Stolybin gratefully sat down on one of the two chairs available for visitors in the sparsely furnished room. They were interview chairs, which meant they were not particularly comfortable. The general had a more opulent room where the real visitors were entertained. The general went quickly out to that room through a connecting door to get the drinks.

He returned, not only with two generously charged glasses but with a dark, bulky file tucked beneath an arm. He handed a glass to Stolybin, then with his freed hand placed the file on the desk. A cigarette dangled from his lips. A quick puff, then he put it out.

He held up his own glass. To the Motherland.

Stolybin got to his feet. The Motherland.

They drank, the general downing his in one gulp. Stolybin tried to do the same and was seized by a fit of uncontrollable coughing. The severe regime in the Siberian prison had ill-prepared his body for the potency of a regal vodka.

The general waited patiently until the coughing had subsided. In a few days, he said, you’ll be able to do that without blinking. Of course, he went on, as if only just remembering, you only like scotch, don’t you? He pointed to the dead cigarette. And hate these.

Stolybin, not fooled, replied: I’ve always liked good vodka, Comrade General. But I have been out of practice. He ignored the rest.

The general nodded. You have a new apartment, new uniforms, and new civilian clothes. Those, I’m afraid, are not the Western kind you usually prefer; but if your work requires Western travel, allowances can be made … within reason. You will also be given a car, and a driver. The general paused long enough to note Stolybin’s look of surprise. "Oh yes. Colonels can still get a car … at least my colonels can. You’ll like your driver, he went on, permitting himself a twitched smile that was more of a smirk. I believe you know each other. Tokareva."

Stolybin tried not to react. Tokareva! He certainly knew her. Nearly 180 centimeters tall, twenty-three years old, and a pneumatic whirlwind. Memories of her glorious body taunted him. He wondered how she had managed to return to her old job. The association with her former boss could not have helped during the past year.

As if he had read Stolybin’s mind, the general said: I kept her out of harm’s way … just in case a chance came for you to redeem yourself.

And what price had she been made to pay? Stolybin wondered, hoping the thought had not outwardly betrayed him. He tried not to think of the general launching himself upon that wonderful young … He drove the obscene vision from his mind.

But the general was accurately following Stolybin’s train of thought. She was … grateful.

And Stolybin hated the general. Weakened by his time in prison, he had not yet regained full control of himself. He used to be very good at thinking one thing while displaying something quite different. He vowed to retrain himself. But for the moment, his feeling of hate showed briefly.

Good, the general was saying. Good! I want you to hate me. I want you to channel that hate into giving me the results I expect from you. He tapped at the file on the desk. When you have read all of this, you will understand the high stakes you are playing for. Yes, you. Because if you fail, I will not hesitate to take my revenge. Suddenly cold eyes bored into Stolybin’s already shaken soul. "There is to be no failure. There will be no failure. Am I clear?"

Very clear, Comrade General.

The general’s voice became less hard as he continued: "Tokareva is loyal. She sees the dangers to the State. Even so, no contents of this file—not even the smallest part of it—will be made known to her. As far as she is concerned, it does not exist. Very few people know of its existence. You are the first new person in decades, making a total of five who are still living. There is not to be a sixth. Whatever the operation you devise after studying it, whatever manpower you choose to employ … no one is to know of this file. Your life depends upon it."

Stolybin looked steadily back at the general and said nothing.

The file will never leave this office unless taken away by me, the general went on, or I ask you to bring it to me next door. You will study it here, and each day when you’re finished, I shall retrieve it.

The general was a Georgian. Stolybin was Russian and found he suddenly hated the way the general spoke the language. He hated the traces of the accent. It was a petty attitude, he knew; but he could not forgive the general for sleeping with Tokareva.

Several years ago, the general’s Georgian voice said, "when I was about your age, I was given a very important job to do. I succeeded. It’s all in the file. You will study the subject thoroughly, and base your operation upon it. I have put in an outline about what I want done. A broad canvas, if you like. You will paint me the detailed picture, and act upon it. This will be your office for the duration. No one will interfere with your work. I’ll make certain. Have a quick look now, then you may go out to the courtyard where Tokareva is waiting with the car.

She will take you to your new apartment. Spend the night with her, if you wish. But in the morning, sharp and early, I want you in here in a smart uniform, ready to begin. Consider tomorrow to be the first day of the operation. The general moved toward the connecting door and paused. Remember, I do not expect failure. You will see why. He went out, leaving his empty glass.

Stolybin stared at the closed door for what seemed years, conflicting emotions going through him. He was alternately attacked by a sudden hunger for food, and for Tokareva. Yet a part of him was revolted by this desire for her. She was the general’s leftover. But it had been a long, long twelve months….

He went over to the desk and sat down behind it. He pulled the file toward him. Though bulky, it was neatly arranged. He began to read, and within two pages, he was hooked.

Two hours later, Stolybin slowly closed the file. He felt a new and grudging respect for the general. He had no intention of forgiving his superior the sexual blackmail he had used on Tokareva. It was an obvious trick, fouling a disgraced subordinate’s territory; but the general’s earlier operation had been brilliant. It had been a stroke of genius. Stolybin knew the general was challenging him to do better, or at the very least, equal him.

But what the general wanted was frightening; and monstrous in its cold-blooded calculation. Stolybin was no hypocrite. He could be as calculating as anyone the general could put up against him.

Yet this operation made something deep within him balk at the thought. The fear he had felt in the park returned. He had read the file. He was in. The general had neatly trapped him.

Stolybin stood up. At that moment, the general entered.

He must have been watching me on a monitor, Stolybin thought sourly. A tiny camera or two would have been planted in the room as a matter of routine.

Well? the general said, lighting up a cigarette and daring Stolybin to object.

That was a brilliant operation, Comrade General, Stolybin remarked truthfully, ignoring the smoke the other blew into the room.

I know that. It was not a boast. What I meant was have you any ideas?

There are several possibilities … Stolybin began.

Good. The general picked up the file. Don’t tax the mind for the moment. Attend to the needs of the flesh. He walked out, again leaving Stolybin to stare at the closed door.

After a while, Stolybin stuck his hands deep into the shabby coat he had been given on leaving the prison and made his way out of the room, heading for the courtyard.

It seemed to him that what the general wanted was a war; a foreign war to unite the people, and to overthrow a government. From well before Caesar’s time, generals and politicians had done that when there was trouble brewing at home. It always worked.

But in Caesar’s time, wars did not engulf the planet, threatening it with destruction.

As he went out into the courtyard and saw the welcoming smile on the face of the tall, young woman waiting for him, Stolybin felt that perhaps the best way to temporarily forget the nightmare he had been asked to create was to bury himself deep into Tokareva’s warm and energetic body.

And as for the people, he thought with some contempt, they never seemed to learn. Like people everywhere, they fell for it every time.

Suddenly he smiled, grimly. Colonels could be dangerous, too.

What is the problem? Tokareva inquired solicitously.

Stolybin was standing near a window in the darkened bedroom, looking out upon the Moscow night. He was naked. After half an hour of trying, he had found to his immense chagrin that he had been unable to make love to her. Tokareva was the daughter of a Finnish mother and a Russian father and she had inherited the best of both worlds. The seemingly translucent blond hair and pale skin, the fine features of her mother, had been coupled with a sturdiness inherited from her father’s peasant stock. The result, in someone of her height, made the pulses race. She also possessed fathomless black eyes that seemed to draw at the very spirit.

But the naked body reclining so invitingly upon the new bed supplied courtesy of the general could not entice him. Just one year before, it was another story. They would have been at it almost the moment they had come through the door.

He knew what his problem was. Without turning to face her, he said, The general …

Ah. Now I understand. What did he tell you?

That you let him sleep with you.

I let him! She sounded indignant. Was that his sick version of what happened?

Stolybin shrugged. You let him, he made you. Does it really matter who did what?

Yes! It does! She was sitting up in the bed now, staring at him through the gloom. "Why don’t you ask me what happened?"

All right. What happened? He sounded indifferent.

There was a long silence that was charged with her anger.

At last, she began quietly. I wanted to be around when you came out. I didn’t know how long they had sent you for. The general offered me protection…. I … I—

I don’t need to hear this.

Yes, you do! she said fiercely. You should know the truth before you judge me. It was all a pretense. I went around, not denying he was serewing me, but not saying he was either. The general was the one who made a show of it. So people left me alone.

Stolybin turned. What are you saying? he asked softly.

I’m saying nothing happened. The general is impotent. At least, with me.

Stolybin was torn between his glee at the news and the cutting knowledge that Tokareva had indeed been to bed with the general. How else could she have known of the older man’s lack of potency? Despite this, he could feel the beginnings of a response in his body.

Tokareva’s eyes picked out a subtle movement in the glow from the city’s lights.

Ah, she said. Some life is returning.

You were in his bed, he accused. That’s the only way you could know.

"I had no choice. After trying just that one time, he never touched me again. He was too embarrassed. What more do you want? You’ve got me as you left me. Do you think I would have enjoyed having that old man, with all his stinking cigarette smoke, on top of me every night for a whole year? Do you?"

Her anger had the effect of arousing him. You have dangerous knowledge, he said after a while. You must not let him suspect you’ve told me.

I won’t. Now come here.

He returned to the bed and got in slowly. She was ready for him, but entry into her seemed to go on forever.

Oooh! she said. Come home, come home! Her arms wrapped themselves strongly about him. Her body began to heave. Sergei, Sergei … oh … I missed you. I missed you. Her speech was thick, punctuated by short gasps of pleasure.

Stolybin felt himself driving into her. Twelve months of pent-up fury was pounding into her. He wanted to pay the general back; the prison guards who had enjoyed having a KGB man to shove around; and Tokareva for letting the general touch her.

He knew he was being unreasonable about that part. The general would have left her no choice. But he didn’t care. He was working out his frustrations. A detached part of him told him he must be causing her some pain; but she didn’t seem to mind, and he was well past caring.

They scrabbled at each other on the bed, gasping and grunting. Then she rolled him over, straddled him, and plunged her lower body frantically. Her voice rose to a scream, mingling with his long-drawn-out growl. Her damp body collapsed slowly upon his.

Oh Sergei, my comrade colonel. That was so good. You have lost nothing.

Stolybin lay back, mind crystal clear. He knew exactly how to produce what the general wanted.

Still lying on top of him, Tokareva stretched, a great, satisfied feline.

Stolybin was up bright and early. The long, pleasurable night of hectic lovemaking, instead of wearing out his gulag-slimmed body, had served to energize him. Smart and sharp in his new uniform and new colonel’s shoulder boards, he stared at himself in a full-length mirror. There was a little looseness here and there, but nothing that was conspicuous.

The prison regime had removed all excess fat from his big frame, and save for the pallor of his sunken cheeks and the strange fire in his eyes, he considered himself quite fit for action.

He touched his cropped head reflectively. The hair was in bad shape, but it would soon recover.

Pleased with yourself?

He swung round. Tokareva, in her own uniform of a lieutenant, had entered. The night before, she had worn civilian clothes.

A commission, he said in mild surprise. You never told me.

You had other things on your mind.

The general pulled a few strings, I suppose.

She nodded. Screwing a lieutenant is better for the ego.

Don’t say that. I don’t even want to think of the two of you—

She came forward to halt his words with a long kiss. They had made love before and after breakfast.

And now, she said as she stood back, we must be distant. We must look as if we had a terrible night, and you must be the cold, aloof KGB colonel. You must look as if you despise me, for all to see; especially the general.

On entering the apartment for the first time last night, they had thoroughly searched it for bugs and cameras. Having wired a few rooms in his time, Stolybin had checked every cranny. He felt pretty certain the general would not have been so obvious; but that in itself could have been what the general had hoped he would think.

Before leaving, he gave the entire apartment another check. If he did find anything now, he thought ruefully, it would be too late to do him any good. But there was nothing.

He put on his brand-new cap and followed an efficient-looking Tokareva out.

2

Yo, buddy.

In the front cockpit of the Air Superiority Variant Tornado, the F.3S, Flight Lieutenant Mark Selby sighed.

McCann, he said to his backseater, you’re a highly educated man, an American, to be sure … but we won’t hold that against you—

He loves me, really, McCann said to the empty sky 40,000 feet above the cold North Sea.

—so why do you insist on talking like some street urchin?

‘Street urchin.’ Boy, you Brits kill me sometimes.

What did you want to tell me, McCann? Selby asked with heavy patience.

Ah. Interested, are you? Just that the boys have come out to play.

Christ. Why didn’t you tell me?

I just did, McCann said smugly. Aaah shiiit! he yelled in an aggrieved tone as Selby suddenly rolled the aircraft onto its back and pulled firmly on the stick. Warn a guy, will you? Then his complaint turned into a grunt as he worked against the G-forces pressing at him. Suddenly, the forces relaxed.

The ASV was now in a steep dive.

The boys who had come out to play were a pair of Belgian air-force F-16 Falcons. This was a test combat. The F-16 pilots had been selected to compete for one place in the November Project. The idea of the November units was the brainchild of Wing Commander Christopher Jason, RAF, who had felt that changing realities on the international scene required a fully integrated defense structure, starting with air forces, and initially made up of personnel from the NATO countries. The first of these squadrons, November Zero One, was already operational and had been blooded in combat with the MiG-29s and Su-27s sent to shoot down a defecting pilot in the stolen prototype.

Selby and McCann, of Zero One, together with fellow members Axel Hohendorf and Wolfgang Flacht—both formerly of the German Bundesmarineflieger—in a sister aircraft, had defeated the MiGs and Su’s in combat. None of them dreamed that their actions had resulted in Stolybin’s Siberian holiday. They did not even know of his existence.

As the ASV plunged seaward both men’s minds were occupied only with ensuring neither of the F-16s got the better of them. The F-16 pilot who best acquitted himself would be the chosen candidate to join the next squadron being formed, November Zero Two.

This was not going to be a long-range intercept. With the ASV Super Tornado’s reach of over a hundred miles, even in a simulated combat, the F-16s would be dead ducks. The test was to be in a close-in knife fight, where the Falcons would be able to use their legendary agility. But the ASV was agile, too. Formidably so. But Selby had no intention of taking the F-16s for granted. Overconfidence could, like familiarity, breed contempt, which in turn bred carelessness, which in its turn meant you were the dead meat. In true combat, that was a recipe for a shortened life span.

Selby began to gently pull the diving aircraft into level flight, easing back on the stick. As the sleek nose came up toward the horizon his left hand slid the twin throttles back. Virtually at the same moment, the two-engine rpm indicators at the lower right of the main instrument panel registered 85-percent power on both turbofans. Uprated by 30 percent on the standard F.3 power plants, they gave the ASV, lightened by the substitution of tough but weight-reducing composite material in strategic areas of the airframe, a thrust-to-weight ratio that was well over unity. At this better than 1:1 ratio, the engines were virtually flying themselves when at full thrust, canceling out practically all aspects of weight. It served to give the ASV a performance that outstripped its nearest