“But it is not a Russian space station,” Gryzlov said. “Do we have any plans whatsoever to build our own military space station? Whatever happened to our own space station projects? We had several, and now we have none?”
“Yes, sir,” Khristenko replied. “The project is called Orbital Piloted Assembly and Experiment Complex. Before the International Space Station is decommissioned and allowed to reenter the atmosphere, Russia would detach its Russian Orbital Section modules and mount them on a central truss with solar panels and positioning thrusters. The station will be used to assemble spacecraft for moon or Mars missions, conduct experiments, and—”
“When is this supposed to take place?”
“In about five years, sir,” Sokolov replied.
“Five years? That is unacceptable, Sokolov!” Gryzlov shouted. “I want the plans for this station to be advanced. I want this to happen as quickly as possible!”
“But we have agreements with nine nations for the use of those modules on the International Space Station, sir,” Foreign Minister Titeneva said. Gryzlov’s eyes flared at this interruption. “The partnership has already paid Russia for their use and to support the ISS. We cannot—”
“If the United States will not cancel this domineering plan to militarize and industrialize Earth orbit, all partnerships and agreements regarding outer space are null and void,” Gryzlov said. “Do you understand me? If Phoenix persists with this outrageous plan, Russia is going to push back. Everyone here had better understand: Russia is not going to allow any one nation to dominate outer space. That bastard Kenneth Phoenix has just thrown down the gauntlet: Russia is picking it up, and we will respond . . . starting right now!”
Gryzlov dismissed the meeting with a wave of his hand, and soon he and Tarzarov were alone. “I am tired of always having to light a fire under these career bureaucrats’ asses,” Gryzlov said, lighting a cigar. “We may need to update the list of replacement ministers again. Titenov’s name is at the head of the list to be replaced. How dare she challenge my wishes? I do not care what protocols are in place—what I want is what I want, and her job is to get it for me.”
“Now that you have given them their orders, let us see how they respond,” Tarzarov suggested. “If they fail to get the money from the Duma and start military construction projects, you have good reason to replace them. As I said, Gennadiy, do not make this personal.”
“Yes, yes,” Gryzlov said dismissively.
Tarzarov checked his smartphone for messages. “Ilianov is here.”
“Good. Get him in here,” Gryzlov said. A moment later Tarzarov, carrying a box of items, escorted Bruno Ilianov and Yvette Korchkov into the president’s office, then put the box on the president’s desk. “I hear you were successful, Colonel, even though your workers were arrested,” he said, rising from his desk to greet them. Ilianov was wearing his Russian Air Force uniform. Making no attempt to be circumspect, Gryzlov ran his eyes up and down Korchkov’s body as she approached. She was dressed in a dark business suit, tailored to accentuate her curves and breasts, but she wore spiked high heels that were more suited to a cocktail party than business in the office of the president of Russia. Korchkov returned Gryzlov’s appreciative gaze without expression. He turned his attention back to Ilianov and extended his hand. The Russian colonel took it, and Gryzlov held the hand, keeping Ilianov close to him. “The capture of your men is unfortunate, Colonel,” he said. “I hope they can hold their tongues.”
“It does not matter, sir,” Ilianov said. “Our story will hold up. They are known burglars and Russian nationalists who wanted revenge on General Patrick McLanahan. They gave the items to other unknown expatriates. If they do talk and implicate me, I will deny everything. You can support their sentiments but will launch an investigation, terminate me, and offer to pay for repairs. The American media’s ridiculously fast news cycle and general ignorance for anything except sex and violence will quickly sweep the whole episode away.”
“It had better, Colonel,” Gryzlov warned. He returned to his desk, dumped the items from the box onto its top, picked up the urn, hefted it, then looked at Ilianov. “Empty?”
“Exactly so, sir,” Ilianov said. “What does that mean?”
“It means someone already flushed him down the sewer,” Gryzlov said acidly, “depriving me of the opportunity to do so.” He glanced over the remaining items. “So. This is all that remains of the great Patrick Shane McLanahan, aerial assassin,” he said.
“Not quite all, sir,” Ilianov said. “His immediate family. Two sisters and a son.”