Chapter 17 #2
Gamling was thirty-one years old, but looked closer to fifty.
Perhaps it was the Ukraine War, or simply damnable genetics, but his posture was stooped, and his flyaway hair had gone prematurely gray.
At the outset of the war, he’d been a postal worker in Volgograd, a faceless minion in one of Russia’s most enduring bureaucracies.
Two years later, he was something else entirely.
The transformation had to do with his hobby.
Gamling had long been interested in drones, and for years had been president of Volgograd’s club for enthusiasts.
Six months into the war, as it became clear that drones were morphing into game-changing weapons, the Russian army began scouring the country for expertise.
Gamling was “recruited” by two armed men who came to his door.
They told him his skills were critical to Russia’s special military operation.
Gamling was intimidated, but also intrigued.
His job at the post office was mind-numbing, and he couldn’t deny a pang of patriotism for Mother Russia.
A friend from high school had volunteered early on, only to return two months later in a wooden box under a flag.
His brother-in-law had taken a big signing bonus and come home missing an arm.
Gamling signed the recruiters’ papers without complaint, and the next day he packed a bag.
They had promised Gamling he would be posted far behind the front lines. It was true for a time, but as the war degraded, his work took him closer to the shooting. From an ever-changing series of barns and basement workshops, he assembled drones and flew them into an apocalyptic sky.
Strike models were his specialty, a blend of his most passionate pursuits—flying UAVs and first-person shooter video games.
The fact that his targets were flesh and blood was blurred by the ceaseless volume of work.
Drones were shipped to his unit by the hundreds, then the thousands, each model more capable than the previous.
Greater range, better electronic countermeasures, more lethal munitions.
He learned a great deal from others in his unit, in particular the engineers who struggled to dominate the most important aspect of all—the radio-frequency spectrum.
Frequency-hopping algorithms, fiber-optic wires, autonomous endgame capabilities.
The skies above Ukraine were a storm of electronic noise, signals and jammers vying for superiority.
Countermeasures, and countercountermeasures.
The only constant was change, new systems appearing weekly.
Gamling showed a flair for the electronic gamesmanship, and within six months he was a lead technician in Rubicon, Russia’s premier drone unit.
He ended up serving three tours in Ukraine, and when Malenkov began searching for a man with such talents, Gamling’s name was invariably the first mentioned.
Malenkov did have reservations about hiring a Russian citizen—much as had been the case when he’d headed up the SSD—yet having a handful on the team was acceptable. Allowances had to be made for talent.
Malenkov had found his man.
He tracked him to a shed behind his family farm outside Volgograd: newly divorced, war-weary, and clearing out the closets of his recently deceased father.
Malenkov knew going in that Gamling was financially distressed, and so money was part of the pitch.
Yet he couched the offer more as a challenge, a new frontier for the application of his admirable talents.
And an alternative to returning to a life of civil service surrounded by gray-scale careerists.
Or as Malenkov had termed it, “barnacles who clung to their paychecks without caring where the ship was headed.”
It turned out to be the perfect play—the postman had chosen adventure.
“Have you solved our problem?” Malenkov asked as he approached over the brushed concrete floor.
The engineer looked up from his screen. This was the label that stuck in Malenkov’s mind: engineer. The man had never attended any recognized university, but the depth and currency of his frontline expertise were worth more than any advanced degree.
“Which problem are you referring to?” Gamling responded.
“The incompatible circuit boards.”
“That was weeks ago. We acquired a new tranche, built in Taiwan, and routed them through Italy. They are working as advertised.”
“What now, then?”
“Yesterday it was a glitch in the terrain databases. Today it is the spray bars. The nozzles have been clogging with a simulated mix.”
“Where did you get them?”
“China, of course. They were lightweight, and I am always trying to save a few kilos. But they will not work for our purposes. I’ve arranged for replacements, and they should arrive on tomorrow’s flight.”
“Is that enough time?”
“I am aware of the schedule.”
The annoyance in Gamling’s tone was clear.
Malenkov let it go. The man was indispensable, and unfortunately, he knew it. “What else?”
“I am redesigning the tanks. Our problem was that the payload holding tank was insufficient, while the original fuel tank was larger than necessary. I’ve spent the last week redistributing the volume.
” He led Malenkov to a work stand. A metal tank the size of a bathtub sat on a bench and a worker was welding a divider near one end.
“This is the last one. When we are done, we will have just enough fuel to complete our mission, and the remaining space will be dedicated to payload.”
“How much in all?” Malenkov asked.
“One hundred ninety liters of fuel, one thousand liters of payload.”
“That doesn’t seem like much gas.”
“I have done the calculations carefully. Even in worst-case wind conditions, it allows a twenty percent reserve margin. I will flight-test one of the drones soon. When modifications are made to an aircraft, difficulties can arise. Weight distribution, center of gravity, flight characteristics under a dynamic air load.”
“Do you expect problems?”
“Not at all. I simply want to take every precaution.”
Malenkov watched the welder. He decided the man knew what he was doing.
The bead was straight, its width consistent.
He himself had learned the skill—at times closer to an art—as a teenager in his father’s machine shop.
It was the summer he’d made his fateful choice to join the army.
Having seen the grinding existence his father had suffered, he had no interest in following in his footsteps: repairing combiner augers and plow blades in a drafty mud-floor barn.
And how far I have come.
Not for the first time, Malenkov was glad to have found Gamling.
The man was proficient technically, but he also had a knack for finding good help.
Another skill, no doubt, he had learned in Ukraine.
He’d brought in four technicians, a mix of required skills.
One aviation mechanic, a computer software specialist, and two general-duty wrench-turners.
There had been only one reject, a meteorologist from Irkutsk who, on learning the details of their mission after arriving, had started asking uncomfortable questions.
Like Bojan’s two drunken guards, he had been “sent home.” Gamling had assumed his duties.
There was one other technician here, the most specialized of all, who Malenkov himself had recruited after an exhaustive search.
Omar Qasim was unique, and the most vital man in their unusual enterprise.
For reasons Malenkov didn’t understand, the man kept to himself, interacting with the others only when required.
He performed the bulk of his work at night, but perform he had.
When the big day came, Qasim would be ready.
Gamling went back to work on his laptop.
Malenkov strolled out across the hangar floor.
The ten drones looked anything but ominous.
Only two had so far flown, tests to validate certain subsystems. They were presently in various stages of preparation.
Panels hung open and test equipment was attached.
Two days from now, the scene would be very different.
The aircraft would be fueled and primed, programmed to undertake their first and only mission.
The precise timing of the launch was dependent on conditions—this was where the loss of the meteorologist worked against them. But there was a deadline for Malenkov’s strike.
His little squadron was going to change the course of the world.
And when it did…Andrei Malenkov would become a very wealthy man.