The Weapon (8 page)

“You ready?” Henrickson's balding pate poked in from the adjoining room. “We missed the opening ceremony.”

“I don't think that counts as a major loss, Monty. I need coffee. And the Shkval demonstration's not till this afternoon.”

“Maybe not, but we should get over as soon as we can. Meet up with this guy Dvorov.”

Dan pulled on his suit jacket. He wedged passport, wallet, visa, and a Xerox of the official letter from Rosvooruzhenye in the inside pocket. He checked his other pockets. Camera, handheld, his official TAG cards identifying him as the Director of Special Projects. “I'm ready. Let's pull chocks.”

“Uh, before we go. Slight problem. Well, not exactly a problem. But it could become one.”

“Focus, Monty.”

Henrickson blinked, then pointed to the ceiling. Dan stared at him. Monty cupped a hand to one ear like someone listening.

“What are you—oh. Sorry, I didn't get any sleep on the plane.”

“Care to step into my room?”

“Sure.”

Henrickson's was as shabby and cramped as his own, like an Eastern European version of a Super 8, but the analyst's bed was made up with hospital corners. He pulled a soft-sider out from under it and oriented it to open away from the window. He glanced at the ceiling again. Dan thought he was being a little overdramatic. This was the new
Rus sia, after all. But when he unzipped it and held it open, Dan blinked.

He reached for a pad by the telephone. Wrote, HOW MUCH IN THERE?

THIRTY THOUSAND.

WHY $?

HELPS DOING BUSINESS HERE.

WHO SIGNED FOR THIS? WHERE'D IT COME FROM?

DON'T WORRY. I SIGNED FOR YOU.

“Jesus Christ,” Dan muttered. He scrubbed a hand down his face. Started to speak, then grabbed the pad again. HOTEL SAFE?

PUT IT THERE IF YOU WANT. BUT THINK IT'S ACTUALLY MORE SECURE HERE.

He rubbed his face again, torn between what he'd do at home—in the unlikely event he found himself in a cheap hotel with a cubic foot of crisp new hundred-dollar bills—and what Henrickson was saying, which was that putting it in the hotel safe might mean saying good-bye to it. Finally he scribbled, OK, LEAVE HERE. He tore the pages out, hesitated, then tore out more pages, till he couldn't see the indentation of his printing. He tore the paper into scraps and went into the bathroom, feeling like a character in a spy film as he flushed. Just as Henrickson stood from beside the bed, someone knocked on their door.

When he opened it a tall, dark-haired man in a European-cut suit and silk tie held out his hand. His heavy chin looked both freshly shaven and stubbled dark. He smelled very good and his shoes gleamed. “Commander Lenson? Capitaine de Vaiseau Christophe de Lestapis de Cary, Marine Francaise. At your service.”

“Uh, Capitaine?
Je regrette, monsieur, mais je ne vous connais pas
—”

Wincing, de Cary held out a letter. “As you see, I am part of your delegation. This must be Monsieur 'enrickson?”

Dan asked him to step in while he read. The letter was from the U.S. Department of Commerce to the Chief of Naval
Operations, asking that a C. L. de Cary, French Navy, be attached to the Special Purchasing Delegation to the Russian Federation Ministry of Defense between the dates of 5 and 11 October. M. de Cary would be representing the Défense Conseil International, NAVFCO Branch.

He lifted his gaze to see de Cary examining the curtains with distaste. “They have not put you in a very good hotel,” he observed. “I am at the Balchug-Kempinsky myself.”

“I've been there,” Henrickson said. “Swanky. What's that go for these days—about four hundred a night?”

“I am not sure. I simply sign for it.”

Dan held his letter out. “Uh, sir, this is—awkward. This looks fine, but no one told me we were being joined by a third party. Let me talk to my compadre for a minute.”

In the bathroom Dan muttered, “How did the
French
insert themselves into this? They're not even in NATO.”

“I don't know. But it looks like a real letter.”

“It's
real,
but it's from Commerce. We don't work for Commerce, Monty. Remember?”

“It's the same government.”

“With all due respect, you've obviously never worked in the Pentagon.”

“So, what? We blow him off?”

Dan snuck a look, saw de Cary peering out the window, holding the grimy smoke-smelling curtains carefully away from his suit. “We can't just blow him off. For one thing, a capitaine de vaiseau's pretty senior—I think that's an O-6 equivalent, our captain or col o nel. And he's obviously got somebody in DC on his side. But rule number one's gonna have to be, we don't discuss anything sensitive in front of him. Till we can clarify just what the hell he's supposed to be doing with us.”

 

De Cary had a taxi waiting. At one point they were on an embankment along what Dan figured to be the Moskva River. The last time he'd been in Rus sia they'd flown into St. Petersburg aboard Air Force One, with a motorcade, an official reception, the works. Now here he was again, less posh, but
still, a Mercedes taxi on his way to an international exhibition. Not bad for a kid from smalltown Pennsylvania.

Actually he was looking forward to it. Getting rights to this thing, so the labs could devise countermeasures, might save lives the next time the Fleet brushed up against a rogue state in the littorals. But his mood darkened as he contemplated a suitcase of cash signed for in his name, and a Frenchman who'd barnacled himself to them out of nowhere. He glanced at the capitaine, who was riding shotgun with the Chechen-looking driver. Though de Cary seemed like a nice enough guy. Even an aristocrat, if he was reading the name right.

The exhibition center's modernistic concrete was flaking. They followed the armintex check-in signs. Stood in line to enter a lavishly carpeted hall, showed their IDs. Dan's badge read that he was a member of the United States of America Delegation. De Cary's, interestingly enough, read the same, but the Frenchman pinned it on with aplomb. A buffet held breakfast pastries, a huge baked fish, coffee, chocolate, tea. Dan skipped the food and settled for coffee, craning around. He wanted to find their principal and set up a meeting.

 

Pavilion 1 was the biggest conference space he'd ever been in. The ceiling was high as a cathedral apse, and every square foot of the immense arena was both immaculately clean and looked new, which wasn't what he was used to finding in Rus sia. Avenues fully thirty feet across were spaced along sparkling tile floors. He trailed de Cary and Henrickson as they moved from display to display, each of which was labeled in Russian, English, French, Chinese, and Arabic.

A booth displayed rubber-armored frequency-agile infantry radios. Another, a massive missile battery that on closer inspection was inflatable, a dummy, to trick aerial or satellite reconnaissance. Next to it a Swedish company better known for its cars touted a system for instant identification and destruction of “targets” within densely populated urban neighborhoods. A Canadian company offered upgrades
to aging MIG airframes to let them “identify and engage the most modern First World aircraft.” A Swiss-Taiwanese partnership offered “fixed-site control centers” to “coordinate joint operations in expeditionary environments.” Russian companies displayed “man-portable antiarmor systems” that showed soldiers in unmarked uniforms destroying U.S. Bradley armored personnel carriers.

Flickering screens showed missiles erupting, tanks charging, artillery bursts walking across desert, but never a hint of blood or wounds. Acronyms and buzzspeak spun across languages: UKMFTS, ITAR, JLCCTC, I/ITSEC, EO/ IR, C5I, net-centric, federative algorithms, austere environments, next-generation visualization solutions. He examined stabilized optical sights, unguided rockets advertised as “easy to fire, hard to neutralize,” high-mobility excavators, stabilized remote laser designators, training aircraft that could be converted to “counterinsurgency roles,” artillery shells that offered “increased trauma-production capability,” bomb after shell after missile, each promising ever increased mortality at ever lower cost.

He walked aisle after aisle. Smiling women served vodka, wine, and hot hors d'oeuvres at linen-covered tables. They handed out crystal paperweights, Cuban cigars, bricks of Swiss chocolate, even curved daggers shining with silver inlay and engraved with the names of arms companies. Hard-edged spokesmodels pirouetted on elevated platforms like lap dancers, brandishing black-stocked rifles with glowing reflex sights, pouting as they struck poses in the latest infantry load-bearing equipment.

Gradually his attention shifted to those around him who, less eye-catching than the vendors, were the reason they were here. They drifted from booth to booth. They seldom smiled back at the salespeople, who seemed to cringe as they displayed their wares. Though nearly all wore suits, their complexions and beards and the murmurs he caught made clear most of the putative customers were from east of Morocco and west of India, south of Rus sia and north of the Horn of Africa.

De Cary murmured beside him, “Pakistanis, Chinese, North Koreans, the Taliban—they'll sell to anyone with cash.”

“Sometimes we feel that way about the French.”

“Then you don't know the history of ITAR.”

“I don't even know what it is.”

“International Traffic in Arms Regulations. Look into who sells the most arms, year after year. You will find it is almost always the United States.” De Cary seemed to rein in. “But we are never far behind. Yes, we are competitors. Still, in this issue of supercavitating weapons, we find ourselves on the same side.”

De Cary told him supercavitation was classified as a dual-use technology, rather than military-only. “That gives both purchasers and vendors more latitude, under the ITAR regime. The other point is that we may have better contacts with the company we will be dealing with. The Russians always perceived you as the main enemy. It's hard for them to think of you as a customer. That's where I may be able to help.”

“And you obtain the technology, too?” Dan asked him.

De Cary shrugged. “We provide our good offices; you provide funding. We both increase the security of our respective fleets.”

He broke off, nodding to a small Asian woman who emerged from the crowd. They fell into French too rapid for Dan to follow, though he caught an occasional word.

 

The Komponent booth was at the east end of the main avenue. It was neither the glossiest nor the shabbiest. Two statuesque blondes handed out brochures. He flipped through one. Unfortunately it was all in Russian. At the booth a screen displayed an animated image of a supercavitating vehicle being driven through the water. The gas cavity was a wavering spheroid of pink and red; the surrounding sea, dark blue.

He stood and watched the flow patterns coming off the stern and slowly realized this wasn't a cartoon, but the output of a computer-driven model. Especially when the body
went into a slow, corkscrewing turn, radically distorting the cavity on the off-yaw side. The vortices coming off the thing aft made clear what Boscow had been talking about, how modeling turbulence was so difficult.

But if this was what it seemed to be, the Russians had solved that problem. Studying the roiling screen, he saw how the tail-yaw was counteracted as the body rotated. Plumes of gas, etched in green, flickered on and off in brief bursts. He stared, understanding for the first time, as opposed to all the theoretical discussion, how difficult this gas-veiled, high-speed dance really was.

“
Voi ponemaye kto vizu
?” said a voice behind him. Then repeated, this time in a succession of heavily accented languages, “
Verstehen sie? Comprenez?
You understand what you see?”

He turned to face a bulky, white-haired Russian in a black suit decorated with cat hair. From an orange cat, it looked like. His gaze climbed the suit to a puffy, spotted, unhealthy-looking face, hazel-green eyes magnified by thick lenses. “Uh—some of it.”

“You are interested in high-speed underwater travel?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

Whoever he was, this man had presence. Dan found it hard to break their locked gaze as his interlocutor waved toward the screen. “Is not classic Newtonian fluid. Around the body surrounding. Is what I call biphase flow regime. Where is both gas and fluid. In some ways behaves like gas, other ways like liquid. Interesting connection to methane venting at sea. But that is other project. The difficulty here is to make sure gas cavity ever sheathes body of rotation. Where cavity is pierced, wetted surface induces asymmetric drag. You following?”

“I follow, yes.” Dan offered his hand. “You wouldn't be Yevgeny Dvorov, would you?”

“Academician Dvorov, yes. Do I know you? You am English I think. Dr. Bennett?” Dvorov adjusted black-framed glasses, trying to zoom in on his name badge.

“No sir. My name's Dan Lenson. I'm from the United
States. A letter was sent in advance, setting up a meeting with you on behalf of our government. Approved by Rosvooruzhenye—if I'm pronouncing that right. I'm hoping to set up an interview, discuss a contract for technology sharing, perhaps even license production.”

Behind the smudged lenses the overmagnified eyes slid away. Dvorov was still holding his hand, in his big, soft, warm one, but something had changed. “Dr. Lenson. That would be in Russian Daniel Leonartovich, no?
Ochyeen priyatna.
Very good to meet. But you understand, this we are speaking of here, originally very sensitive weapons technology. Highly valued by CIS Government. You understand? But, United States? You said, United States?”

“Yessir. I did. Uh, and France.”

Dvorov shook his head, and this time Dan read his body language as the opposite of welcoming, though his voice was still soft as his hands. “We did not expect interest from this quarter. So advanced in all matters of technology. Tell me more, Doctor. Your government wishes to license production? Precisely, production of what? Or is this perhaps private entity, some big American company you represent?”