“So we build more of the dummy weapons,” Mavrichev countered stubbornly.

“Adding more delay and more expense,” Petrov retorted. “And for no good reason. Sooner or later, we’ll have to certify the PAK-DA’s readiness to carry a full payload of live missiles. It’s one of our key program milestones. Why not achieve it now if we can, considerably ahead of schedule?”

Zhdanov saw his point. “The colonel makes sense, Vasily Ivanovich,” he said to Mavrichev. “As the Americans say, ‘He’s got the ball, let him run with it.’” Smiling broadly, he turned back to Petrov. “You won’t let us down, will you, Colonel?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. President,” Petrov promised. He matched Zhdanov’s smile. “In fact, I can guarantee that you will be absolutely amazed by the results of Ghost Strike.”

And that, he thought with carefully concealed pleasure, might have been the most truthful thing he’d said during this entire briefing.

Federal Military Memorial Cemetery, on the Northeastern Outskirts of Moscow

Several Hours Later

Petrov stared moodily at the bronze bust of his father, Major General Vladimir Alexeyevich Petrov. Set atop a red granite tombstone, the sculpture’s suitably heroic visage stared out at an open vista of empty grass squares, paths, and access roads. The national cemetery, a replacement for the Kremlin Wall Necropolis, was intended to serve as a burial place for Russian dignitaries and military heroes for the next two hundred years. So far, only a small fraction of its forty thousand plots had been filled.

He snorted. If the stubborn old bastard weren’t dead, he’d probably be complaining about the lack of company. As befitted a true Hero of the Soviet Union, the general had always “modestly” believed he should be the center of everyone’s attention.

Irreverently, Petrov lifted his father’s old stainless-steel hip flask in a mock toast. “Here’s to you, old man. I’m sure I’ll see you in hell.” He tossed back a quick swig and then retightened the cap.

“Was that a belated funeral libation?” a dryly amused voice said from behind him. “Or simple thirst?”

Petrov turned around. Pavel Voronin stood a few paces away, dapper as always in a dark double-breasted wool coat.

“A bit of both.” He offered the flask. “Care for one yourself?”

Voronin shook his head politely. “Thanks, but not right now. Perhaps another time. Somewhere more . . . cheerful.” He glanced around the empty cemetery. There was no one else in sight. “Should I assume your presentation to the president went well?”

“Very well,” Petrov confirmed. Quickly, he ran through the details of the Ghost Strike exercise Zhdanov had approved.

Voronin whistled under his breath when he heard that the PAK-DA would now be carrying nuclear-armed cruise missiles. “Wasn’t that pressing your luck a little far?”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always emphasized the commercial aspects of this joint venture?” Petrov asked slyly.

“Your point?”

Petrov forced a laugh. “Having those weapons under our control only strengthens our bargaining position,” he explained. “The fancier the goods in the shop window, the more a merchant can charge, right?”