"Brown, Dale - Warrior Class" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Dale)

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 voicenot 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 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 modern post-Union breakup, more
11 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 shame, 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 Gregorievich Kazakov didn't believe in fate-he wielded too much power to believe that anyone else decided your futurebut 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 modern 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 pistol 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 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 griefhowever 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 with 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 Red Army. Thanks to his parents, he had enrolled in the Russian Military Academy in St. Petersburg, known then as Leningrad, but found he had no love of the military-only for partying, smoking, drinking, and hell-raising, the wilder the better. To avoid embarrassment, his father had had him quietly transferred to Odessa Polytechnic University in the Ukraine Soviet Socialist Republic, near their winter home. In a place where he was jusr another one of many spoiled sons of high-ranking Communist Party members attending