“I know what you mean. We’ll be there before you. I’ll call. We can do some aerial recon until you get there.”
“Viktor any help?”
“Wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for him.”
He clicked off the phone and told Cassiopeia where Ely was headed.
An alarm sounded in the cabin.
His gaze found the radar display that indicated two targets approaching from the west.
“Black Sharks,” Viktor said, “coming straight for us.”
Malone knew those choppers, too. NATO called them Hokums. KA-50s. Fast, efficient, loaded with guided missiles and 30mm cannons. He saw that Viktor also realized the threat.
“They found us quick,” Malone said.
“There’s a base near here.”
“What do you plan to do?”
They started to climb, gaining altitude, changing course. Six thousand feet. Seven. Nine. Leveling at ten.
“You know how to use the guns?” Viktor asked.
He was sitting in the weapons officer’s seat, so he scanned the instrument panel. Luckily, he could read Russian. “I can manage.”
“Then get ready for a fight.”
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
SEVENTY-SEVEN
SAMARKAND
ZOVASTINA WATCHED AS HER GENERALS CONSIDERED THE WAR plan. The men sitting around the conference table were her most trusted subordinates, though she tempered that trust with a realization that one or more of them could be a traitor. After the past twenty-four hours she could not be sure of anything. These men had all been with her from the beginning, rising as she rose, steadily building the Federation’s offensive strength, readying themselves for what was about to come.
“We’ll take Iran first,” she declared.
She knew the calculations. The current population of Pakistan was a hundred and seventy million. Afghanistan, thirty-two million. Iran, sixty-eight million. All three were targets. Originally, she’d planned a simultaneous assault, now she believed a strategic strike better. If infection points were chosen with care, places of maximum density, and the viruses planted with skill, the computer models predicted a population reduction of seventy percent or more would occur within fourteen days. She told the men what they already knew, then added, “We need a total panic. A crisis. The Iranians have to want our assistance. What do you have planned?”
“We’ll start with their military forces and government,” one of the generals said. “Most of the viral agents work in less than forty-eight hours. But we’ll vary which ones we use. They’ll identify a virus fairly quickly, but then they’ll have another to deal with. That should keep them off guard and prevent any productive medical response.”
She’d been concerned on that point, but not anymore. “The scientists tell me the viruses have all been modified, making their detection and prevention even more difficult.”
Eight men surrounded the table, all from her army and air force. Central Asia had long languished between China, the USSR, India, and the Middle East, not part of any of them, but desired by all. The Great Game had played itself out here two centuries ago when Russia and Britain battled each other for dominance, neither caring what the native populations wanted.
Not anymore.
Central Asia now spoke with unity through a democratically elected parliament, ministers, elections, courts, and a rule of law.
One voice.
Hers.
“What of the Europeans and the Americans?” a general asked. “How will they react to our aggression?”
“That’s what it cannot be,” she made clear. “No aggression. We’ll simply occupy and extend aid and relief to the embattled populations. They’ll be far too busy burying the dead to worry about us.”
She’d learned from history. The world’s most successful conquerors—the Greeks, Mongols, Huns, Romans, and Ottomans—all practiced tolerance over the lands they claimed. Hitler could have changed the course of World War II if he’d simply enlisted the aid of millions of Ukrainians, who hated the Soviets, instead of annihilating them. Her forces would enter Iran as savior, not oppressor, knowing that by the time her viruses finished there’d be no opposition left to challenge her. Then she’d annex the land. Repopulate. Move people from the Soviet-ruined regions of her nation into new locales. Blend the races. Do precisely what Alexander the Great had done with his Hellenistic revolution, only in reverse, migrating east to west.
“Can we be sure the Americans will not intervene?” one of the generals asked.
She understood the apprehension. “The Americans will not say or do a thing. Why will they care? After the Iraqi debacle, they won’t interfere, especially if we’re handling the load. They’ll actually be thrilled at the prospect of eliminating Iran.”
“Once we move on Afghanistan, there’ll be American deaths,” one of the men noted. “Their military is still present.”
“When that time comes, let’s try to minimize those,” she said. “We want the end result to be that the Americans withdraw from the country as we take control. I’m assuming that will be a popular decision in the United States. Use a virus there that’s containable. Strategic infections, targeted at specific groups and regions. The majority of the dead must be natives, especially Taliban, make sure U.S. personnel are only a consequence.”
She met the gaze of each of the men at the table. Not one of them said a word about the bruise on her face—leftover from her bout with Cassiopeia Vitt. Was her leak here? How had the Americans learned so much about her intentions?
“Millions are about to die,” one of the men said in a whisper.