The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [230]
"Ivan Sergeyevich!" a voice called. It was Lieutenant General Yuriy Kirillin, the newly selected chief of Russian special forces—a man defining his own job as he went along, which was not the usual thing in this part of the world.
"Yuriy Andreyevich," Clark responded. He'd kept his given name and patronymic from his CIA cover as a convenience that, he was sure, the Russians knew all about anyway. So, no harm was done. He lifted a vodka bottle. It was apple vodka, flavored by some apple skins at the bottom of the bottle, and not bad to the taste. In any case, vodka was the fuel for any sort of business meeting in Russia, and since he was in Rome it was time to act Italian.
Kirillin gunned down his first shot as though he'd been waiting all week for it. He refilled and toasted John's companion: "Domingo Stepanovich," which was close enough. Chavez reciprocated the gesture. "Your men are excellent, comrades. We will learn much from them."
Comrades, John thought. Son of a bitch! "Your boys are eager, Yuriy, and hard workers."
"How long?" Kirillin asked. His eyes didn't show the vodka one little bit. Perhaps they were immune, Ding thought. He had to go easy on the stuff, lest John have to guide him home.
"Two weeks," Clark answered. "That's what Domingo tells me."
"That fast?" Kirillin asked, not displeased by the estimate.
"They're good troops, General," Ding said. "Their basic skills are there. They're in superb physical condition, and they're smart. All they need is familiarization with their new weapons, and some more directed training that we'll set up for them. And after that, they'll be training the rest of your forces, right?"
"Correct, Major. We will be establishing regional special-operations and counterterror forces throughout the country. The men you train this week will be training others in a few months. The problem with the Chechens came as a surprise to us, and we need to pay serious attention to terrorism as a security threat."
Clark didn't envy Kirillin the mission. Russia was a big country containing too many leftover nationalities from the Soviet Union—and for that matter from the time of the czars—many of whom had never particularly liked the idea of being part of Russia. America had had the problem once, but never to the extent that the Russians did, and here it wouldn't be getting better anytime soon. Economic prosperity was the only sure cure—prosperous people don't squabble; it's too rough on the china and the silverware—but prosperity was a way off in the future yet.
"Well, sir," Chavez went on, "in a year you'll have a serious and credible force, assuming you have the funding support you're going to need."
Kirillin grunted. "That is the question here, and probably in your country as well, yes?"
"Yeah." Clark had himself a laugh. "It helps if Congress loves you."
"You have many nationalities on your team," the Russian general observed.
"Yeah, well, we're mainly a NATO service, but we're used to working together. Our best shooter now is Italian."
"Really? I saw him, but—"
Chavez cut him off. "General, in a previous life, Ettore was James Butler Hickock. Excuse me, Wild Bill Hickock to you. That son of a bitch can sign his name with a handgun."
Clark refilled the vodka glasses. "Yuriy, he's won money off all of us at the pistol range. Even me."
"Is that a fact?" Kirillin mused, with the same look in his eyes that Clark had had a few weeks earlier. John punched him on the arm.
"I know what you're thinking. Bring money when you have your match with him, Comrade General," John advised. "You'll need it to pay off his winnings."
"This I must see," the Russian announced.
"Hey, Eddie!" Chavez waved his number-two over.
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell the general here how good Ettore is with a pistol."
"That fucking Eyetalian!" Sergeant Major Price swore. "He's even taken twenty pounds off Dave Woods."
"Dave's the range-master at Hereford, and he's pretty good, too,"
Ding explained. "Ettore really ought to be in the Olympics or something—maybe Camp Perry, John?"