Tom Clancy - The Bear and the Dragon

“Downside?”

“Boeing’s squealing some. They wanted that triple-seven order, but you wait an’ see. Somebody’s going to take up that slack, too. One other thing.”

“Yeah?” Ryan asked.

“It’s not just American companies bailing out on them. Two big Italian places, and Siemens in Germany, they’ve announced termination of some business with their Chinese partners,” TRADER said.

“Will it turn into a general movement …?”

“Too soon to say, but if I were these guys”-Winston shook the fax from CIA-“I’d be thinking about fence-mending real soon.”

“They won’t do it, George.”

“Then they’re going to learn a nasty lesson.”

No action with our friend?” Reilly asked.

“Well, he continues his sexual adventures,” Provalov answered.

“Talk to any of the girls yet?”

“Earlier today, two of them. He pays them well, in euros or d-marks, and doesn’t request any, uh, ‘exotic’ services from them.”

“Nice to know he’s normal in his tastes,” the FBI agent observed, with a grunt.

“We have numerous photos of him now. We’ve put an electronic tracker on his cars, and we’ve also planted a bug on his computer keyboard. That’ll allow us to determine his encryption password, next time he makes use of it.”

“But he hasn’t done anything incriminating yet,” Reilly said. He didn’t even make it a question.

“Not under our observation,” Oleg confirmed.

“Damn, so, he was really trying to whack Sergey Golovko. Hard to believe, man.”

“That is so, but we cannot deny it. And on Chinese orders.”

“That’s like an act of war, buddy. It’s a big fucking deal.” Reilly took a sip of his vodka.

“So it is, Mishka. Rather more complex than any case I’ve handled this year.” It was, Provalov thought, an artful understatement. He’d gladly go back to a normal homicide, a husband killing his wife for fucking a neighbor, or the other way around. Such things, nasty as they were, were far less nasty than this one was.

“How’s he pick the girls up, Oleg?” Reilly asked.

“He doesn’t call for them on the phone. He seems to go to a good restaurant with a good bar and wait until a likely prospect appears at his elbow.”

“Hmm, plant a girl on him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean get yourself a pretty girl who does this sort of thing for a living, brief her on what she ought to say, and set her in front of him like a nice fly on your fishhook. If he picks her up, maybe she can get him to talk.”

“Have you ever done such a thing?”

“We got a wiseguy that way in Jersey City three years ago. Liked to brag in front of women how tough he was, and the guys he whacked, that sort of thing. He’s in Rahway State Prison now on a murder rap. Oleg, a lot more people have talked their way into prison than you’ll ever catch on your own. Trust me. That’s how it is for us, even.”

“I wonder if the Sparrow School has any graduates working …?” Provalov mused.

It wasn’t fair to do it at night, but nobody had ever said war was marked by fairness in its execution. Colonel Boyle was in his command post monitoring the operation of 1st Armored’s Aviation Brigade. It was mainly his Apaches, though some Kiowa Warriors were up, too, as scouts for the heavy shooters. The target was a German heavy battalion, simulating a night’s laagering after a day on the offense. In fact, they were pretending to be Russians-it was a NATO scenario that went back thirty years to the introduction of the first Huey Cobras, back in the 1970s, when the value of a helicopter gunship had first been noticed in Vietnam. And a revelation it had been. Armed for the first time in 1972 with TOW missiles, they’d proven to the tanks of the North Vietnamese just how fearsome a foe a missile-armed chopper could be, and that had been before night-vision systems had come fully on line. Now the Apache turned combat operations into sport shooting, and the Germans were still trying to figure a counter for it. Even their own night-vision gear didn’t compensate for the huge advantage held by the airborne hunters. One idea that had almost worked was to lay a thermal-insulating blanket over the tanks so as to deny the helicopters the heat signature by which they hunted their motionless prey, but the problem there was the tank’s main gun tube, which had proved impractical to conceal, and the blankets had never really worked properly, any more than a twin-bed coverlet could be stretched over a king-size bed. And so, now, the Apaches’ laser-illumination systems were “painting” the Leos for enough seconds to guarantee hits from the Hellfire missiles, and while the German tanks tried to shoot back, they couldn’t seem to make it work. And now the yellow “I’m dead” lights were blinking, and yet another tank battalion had fallen victim to yet another administrative attack.

“They should have tried putting SAM teams outside their perimeter,” Colonel Boyle observed, watching the computer screen. Instead, the German colonel had tried IR lures, which the Apache gunners had learned to distinguish from the real thing. Under the rules of the scenario, proper tank decoys had not been allowed. They were a little harder to discriminate-the American-made ones almost exactly replicated the visual signature of an M1 tank, and had an internal heat source for fooling infrared gear at night- and fired off a Hoffman pyrotechnic charge to simulate a return shot when they took a hit. But they were made so well for their mission that they could not be mistaken for anything other than what they were, either a real M1 main battle tank, and hence friendly, or a decoy, and thus not really useful in a training exercise, all in all a case of battlefield technology being too good for a training exercise.

“Pegasus Lead to Archangel, over,” the digital radio called. With the new radios, it was no longer a static-marred crackle.

“Archangel to Pegasus,” Colonel Boyle answered.

“Sir, we are Winchester and just about out of targets. No friendly casualties. Pegasus is RTB, over.”

“Roger, Pegasus. Looks good from here. Out.”

And with that, the Apache battalion of attack choppers and their Kiowa bird-dogs turned back for their airfield for the mission debrief and post-game beers.

Boyle looked over at General Diggs. “Sir, I don’t know how to do it much better than that.”

“Our hosts are going to be pissed.”

“The Bundeswehr isn’t what it used to be. Their political leadership thinks peace has broken out all the way, and their troopers know it. They could have put some of their own choppers up to run interference, but my boys are pretty good at air-to-air-we train for it, and my pilots really like the idea of making ace on their own-but their chopper drivers aren’t getting all the gas they need for operational training. Their best chopper drivers are down in the Balkans doing traffic observation.”

Diggs nodded thoughtfully. The problems of the Bundeswehr were not, strictly speaking, his problems. “Colonel, that was well done. Please convey my pleasure to your people. What’s next for you?”

“General, we have a maintenance stand-down tomorrow, and two days later we’re going to run a major search-and-rescue exercise with my Blackhawks. You’re welcome to come over and watch.”

“I just might, Colonel Boyle. You done good. Be seeing you.”

“Yes, sir.” The colonel saluted, and General Diggs walked out to his HMMWV, with Colonel Masterman in attendance.

“Well, Duke?”

“Like I told you, sir, Boyle’s been feeding his boys and girls a steady diet of nails and human babies.”