“Something like this,” said Vittorio, with perhaps the trace of a smile, “it might even make me obsolete.”
Slaton sat motionless, the armorer’s words resounding in his head … a steerable bullet. He’d heard rumblings of it for years, and knew the idea had been experimented with. Now, with the results on the desk in front of him, concept leapt to reality.
“Is it U.S. or Russian?” he asked, knowing these were the most likely suspects to take the lead on such technology.
“In a sense, both,” the armorer hedged.
“Both?”
“I took precise measurements, and this is definitely a fifty-caliber round. I’d say it was fired from a Barrett, which of course is an American gun. But it might not be so simple. The bullet exhibits certain signatures—the curvature of the shank and milling characteristics—that lead me to believe it was of Russian manufacture.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Here, I think, is where you might provide the remaining answers. Now that we know what it is, please tell me the circumstances of the engagement.”
Slaton did. He began by telling Vittorio about the first shot that had presumably been taken from extreme range, and in which the bullet couldn’t be recovered. “The target was three miles from shore on a very windy night, and he was standing on a boat that would have been rocking on heavy seas. A guided round makes sense. It makes the scenario realistic.” He then explained how he’d come across the spent round on the desk in front of them. Without mentioning Davos specifically, he covered a ski slope and a high ledge—a more manageable shot in terms of range, but taken against a fast-moving target. He also told Vittorio about the young man who’d visited the only outfitter in town.
After a reflective pause, Vittorio said, “Going back to your question, then—I would say your shooter is Russian, most likely Special Forces, but certainly a trained marksman. He probably used a Barrett. I can’t tell you why the Russians designed this round for a fifty caliber as opposed to their twelve point seven millimeter standard.”
“Maybe they stole the engineering diagrams and didn’t want to change anything. This weapon was always going to be highly specialized, essentially unique. And there’s nothing difficult about acquiring a Barrett—particularly the M82 civilian version.”
“I agree, although I think the word weapon is not sufficient. You and I are looking at but one part of a new weapon system. I have given a great deal of thought as to how such a bullet might track toward its target—truth be told, I was up half the night thinking about it. Was there any evidence that this shooter, or perhaps his spotter, had some kind of secondary targeting device?”
Slaton nodded. “In the hide on the mountainside—I saw what looked like the footprints of some kind of tripod. Based on what I saw, I’m convinced there was only one person under the ledge. Our shooter was operating alone.”
Vittorio nodded, deep in thought.
“Do you have any idea how it could work?” Slaton asked.
“The tracking itself is not so complicated. Given the wafer evident in the crushed nosecone, I would bank on one of two possibilities. First would be some kind of designator-tracking system, likely using reflected laser energy. The second is that both the bullet and targeting system have infrared sensors. Targets might be acquired using the pod, with an initial picture and perhaps even GPS coordinates transmitted to the bullet. Once airborne—generally referred to as the terminal phase—the bullet would transition to autonomous tracking. Both techniques are long established in military armaments, and miniaturization is an ongoing trend. The far greater problem, though…” The armorer’s voice trailed off.
“Spin,” Slaton said, finishing the thought.
“Precisely. Bombs and missiles use fins for stabilization, yet they can also be steered by them. Bullets, on the other hand, are stabilized in flight by their tremendous rate of spin. The round you’ve given me clearly contains some kind of perimeter weighting. It must function to either create a shift in mass, or perhaps alter the round’s aerodynamic shape. It is also likely that the gun’s twist rate has been modified to reduce spin. Either way, the challenge must have been to make it all work with respect to bullet rotation.”
“Is that possible?”
“There are some very clever engineers in this world, and I think the results speak for themselves. Whatever trick they’ve come up with, it seems to work.” Vittorio leaned back in his chair, and pointed toward the round. “I would love to keep this, but I suspect you want it back. There are intelligence services and manufacturers who could learn a great deal from studying it.”
“I do have to keep it,” Slaton said. He took the bullet and wrapped it tightly in the oilcloth. “Thank you for your help. I owe you more than last night’s dinner.”
Vittorio rose and shook Slaton’s hand. “Think nothing of it. You are, after all, a regular customer.”
Slaton turned to go, and as he did Vittorio said, “It is not really any of my business … but I recall reading about some recent ugliness down in Capri. Then another tragedy two days ago in Davos. Both Russians, I think.”
Slaton turned back toward the armorer, but said nothing.
“I trust that going forward you will use great caution.”
Slaton nodded to say that he would. Moments later, as he struck out into a bright Milan day, the armorer’s parting words seemed trapped in his head.
* * *
Zhukov watched the ancient MiG roll obediently behind a tug, its nosewheel connected by a heavy tow bar. Tan whirls of dust swept across the runway, the usual atmospheric confusion of early afternoon on the high desert.
The tug pulled onto the runway and soon had the jet positioned with its nose pointed down the ten-thousand-foot concrete strip. The driver disconnected the tow bar and left the jet where it was, lifeless and lonely against the bleak high plains backdrop.
“Run the prestart checklist,” Tikhonov ordered.
The engineer occupied the only available chair on the elevated, open-air control station. Standing behind him, Zhukov looked all around. He thought it was the most comical setup he’d ever seen. The two men were perched on the rooftop platform of a highly modified Sprinter van. Above them a great yellow beach umbrella fluttered under the midday sun. In the interior of the van beneath them were racks of radios and equipment, and heavy cables snaked away toward a second vehicle a hundred yards distant—a forty-foot-long refrigerated truck that had been converted into a mission control center. Tikhonov had assured him the umbilical was only a redundancy—the two vehicles were perfectly capable of operating great distances apart. Indeed, this was an essential part of the greater concept.
The van was positioned roughly at midfield, fifty yards clear of the northern edge of the runway. The mission truck was farther back, centered in a clearing in the scrub. Zhukov thought it an awkward way to go about things, yet Tikhonov had assured him it was a tried and true process.
Everything was driven by one unique characteristic of the jet sitting before them: taking the place of the pilot in the cockpit was a box of control and telemetry equipment. In essence, the MiG had been converted into a drone. From his perch on the Sprinter, Tikhonov would fly the airplane off the runway using a joystick and throttle on the control panel in front of him. He had explained to Zhukov that having eyes on the drone was essential during takeoff to correct for crosswinds and gusts—the delay in transmitted data was simply too slow, the naked eye having an advantage of critical milliseconds. Once the aircraft was airborne, at a safe altitude, control would be handed off to a pilot in the mission truck who ran things for the bulk of the flight. On recovery, the same process ran in reverse, Tikhonov taking over from the van’s rooftop to land the MiG—the most delicate maneuver of all.
Zhukov watched a pair of crewmen with headsets walk up to the jet.
“Gear pins,” Tikhonov challenged.
“Removed,” came a voice over a speaker.
“Panels.”
“Closed and secured.”
Step by step, the final checklist was run. Battery, generator, fuel pumps, auxiliary power unit.
Minutes later the MiG’s engine was idling, the technicians trotting away. Zhukov knew things would happen quickly now—the MiG-21 was a gas hog, and time spent on the runway with the engine running was time lost in the air.
Tikhonov ran through a series of control checks, and Zhukov saw the jet’s ailerons and rudder move in concert with his inputs. Finally the power was advanced, and the turbofan began spinning up. Even at mid-level thrust it brought a dull roar, drowning out every other sound and scattering a flock of sand grouse nearby.
“Brakes released,” Tikhonov said.
The jet began moving, tentatively at first. Then the engine throttled to full power and the afterburner was engaged, dumping torrents of raw fuel aft of the turbines. Commercial airliners, Zhukov knew, had engines designed to minimize noise, a neighborly gesture to the busy cities above which they operated. The MiG was not so constrained. It barreled down the runway with a roar that was raw and unrefined, tearing apart air as it accelerated, beating the desert silence into submission. As the jet passed the control van Zhukov felt its sound more than he heard it, a low-frequency thrum that shook him to the core.
Yet it wasn’t the noise that made the greatest impression. Over so many years in the military, he’d seen many fighters take flight. Never had he seen one thunder past without a pilot in the cockpit. It seemed robotic and cold, a machine without a soul.
Soon the raucous noise faded, and the MiG became little more than a dot as it clawed into a flawless blue sky. He looked at Tikhonov and saw something close to glee. He was like a teenager behind the joystick of the ultimate video game.
“Prepare for transfer,” Tikhonov said into his microphone.
“Ready to accept control.”
“On my mark. Three … two … one … execute.”
There was a moment of uncertainty, a technical pause as circuits closed and switches activated. It reminded Zhukov of a handoff in a track relay race—a few doubtful seconds in which the baton might be dropped.
“I have the aircraft,” said a remote voice from the truck behind them.
Tikhonov pushed back in his chair. “Clockwork, I tell you! Come, Colonel, we will watch things unfold from the mission truck.”
“How long will the flight last?”
“Thirty minutes of actual test work. Then we run the recovery sequence.”
“That doesn’t seem like much.”
“Fighters are designed for speed, not endurance—they are the thoroughbreds of the sky.”
Tikhonov backed onto the ladder that led down past the Sprinter’s rear doors. As Zhukov followed, the big umbrella above them fluttered in a gust, its edges shimmering like the petals of a giant yellow flower. Once again he thought the whole arrangement looked ridiculous, but he set the notion aside. If their plan succeeded, no one would be laughing.
Zhukov reached ground level, and side-by-side the two men walked toward the mission truck. It was a slightly uphill grade, in unseasonable heat, and he noticed the engineer was sweating profusely—in truth, he looked not far from a heart attack.
They encountered a section of ground that appeared charred, and Zhukov paused. The grass was burnt to its roots, and even stones and rocks had been blackened. “Was there a fire here?” he asked.
“Yes, we lost a jet here last month. It crashed during landing.”
Zhukov looked over his shoulder at the Sprinter fifty yards behind them. “You were on top of the van … and it crashed so near?”
“It wasn’t that bad. One of the landing gear collapsed and the jet skidded off the runway. It was nearly out of fuel, so there wasn’t much of a fire.”
The two began walking again, a subtle grin beneath the engineer’s beard. “Do not worry, Colonel. Because of the mishap, I decided to incorporate a change. Each aircraft now carries a modest explosive charge. If control is lost, I can flick one switch and…” Tikhonov touched all ten fingers together, then spread them wide in an instant. “Boom!” He laughed robustly.
“That sounds like a fix an army general would order,” Zhukov said.
“I suppose it does. But the contingency will likely never be used. You know what they say … lightning never strikes the same place twice.”