Chapter 19.

Military contractor. Drones and fake tanks.

25.feb.2120.

KANAR capital. "Manhattan" district.

The sun, merrily glaring on everything metallic that was in the slum quarter, was inexorably moving to the West, which steadily added yellow colors to the picture. All this set in motion some internal mechanism - there was a completely distinct feeling that the previous morning energy was spent. Nevertheless, there was still some time to hang out in the contractor's buildings towering ahead.

 Lisette, and now in the front seat thanks to Dragovich's simple tricks she was sitting, and not this Zaperdyaev, not without interest, stared now at the slums, now at the high-rise buildings with broken wall panels. The car was once again making its way along the street, bumpy from the frozen and packed snow. Now they were moving in the opposite direction - away from the river.

 After crossing Ilyich Avenue, along which the group had climbed into the slums, the picture of narrow streets, spread out in the middle of the former boulevard, did not change at all. However, after the next avenue, the one-story blocks had to make room - a rail line, covered in snow, was now added to them. Its presence could only be guessed at by the dead-end stop sticking out from under the snowdrift. It, this line, was supposed to be used in the construction of a military base that was never built.

 - Our broken blocks were torn down in the first year, - Lisette began. - And here... Although, maybe these houses can be restored?

 - I'm telling you, they wanted to tear all this down too, - answered Dragovich. - They wanted to set up a base here, but things didn't work out. That's what the railroad is for. This is already a residential area. Slums don't count. If it were an ordinary residential area, there shouldn't be a railway here at all.

 - It's curious, - she said in a somewhat abstract tone, - I sometimes dreamed, not in the best of dreams, that everything here had turned into what I saw here. Everything is the same, only without snow. It happens.

 - What exactly is the same?

 - Ruins of neighborhoods, and in the middle of them there are villages like these. Only even worse - at least here the fences are not made of mesh, and you can hide from view. Although there were also different trees and sheds there. In general, what is here and what is there is almost the same.

 - "There" - in a dream?

 - Yes, there. And what happens there, in a dream... it's surrealism. It turns out that here is also surrealism.

"This is what refined Paris means," thought Dragovich. - "Of course it's weird, but there's even a plus in that." - Well, yes, - answered Dragovich, interrupting his thoughts, - I mean this word... - he suddenly stopped short, because he suddenly decided that it was better not to show what a "bast shoe" he was and didn't know what this term, which he encountered from time to time, meant. - I've heard something like that about slums before, - he added, not at all embarrassed. - But in my opinion, it's the usual devastation after military action for many places, nothing special. Another annoying thing is that this is still the rear, a protected rear. And all this happened not through the fault of "@enemy".

 As it seemed to Dragovich, he quite gracefully blocked the incomprehensible word from further participation in the conversation. Of course, it didn't cost anything to look up what it actually meant on the Internet, but Dragovich always thought that it was something equivalent to the word "shnyaga". But it was certainly not convenient to look through your phone while driving, especially in front of Lisette.

 - Do you have contractors like that in your city? - Dragovich changed the subject, nodding forward, towards the approaching complex of brand new buildings.

 - Where aren't they, Lisette answered. - They work on a tax franchise. Some from AEX, some from GBA. There's just one difference - we don't have them within the city limits. Outside the city, like gas stations. Well, maybe fewer than gas stations, but a lot. What scares me most is when you think about where to put all this after the War...

 - Do you have a lot of gas stations?

 - That's what they call gas stations out of habit.

 - Ah. And about the contractors - they'll do something civilian after the War.

 - Good if that's the case. But what if everything turns out as usual. So many people will be thrown out into the street!

 A series of blows was heard again. Not once again. "I wonder what they're up to," Dragovich said, looking up.

 The planes, trailing contrails bright as snow in the sun, were rushing south again.

- And why did they drag out their work for the whole day? - he continued his questions into the air. - Usually they always try to strike in a concentrated manner, in a large group.

 - Maybe that's all there is here, - Lisette answered. - I mean in the region or the surrounding area. This is the rear. It seems like there are a lot of defenses and terminals here, but there are few offensive weapons. Where would they come from in the rear?

 - I see you're getting into the subject, - Dragovich praised, - but on top of that, we also have aviation of the national forces, the Russian forces, based here. Do you like it here? There's always movement here. If the white lights are blinking... Ah, you were told...

 Do you like it?! - Lisette grinned. - Well, yes, everything is very protected here. And who doesn't? I have a cousin who fights in the Central Air Force, and he is an attack pilot.

 - Wow, that's cool! - Dragovich answered.

 - Well, they don't fly there like these planes. They mostly fly alone. In groups, but dispersed. And they make their way along routes that the headquarters plots for them in real time via the interlink. And these ones fly like they're on parade. Or like over the ocean. Maybe these are the new "two hundred and twenty-seconds"? Have you heard of them?

 - Frankly, I somehow missed them.

 - This is a modern version of the old American F-22. It was created a hundred years ago, even a hundred and thirty.

 - Wow. Although I have heard that this happened with some weapons. That's exactly the story with Russian attack aircraft.

 Lisette began to describe this F-222 in some detail.

 - To transfer to one of these from a stormtrooper - that would be great, - she summed up.

 - Your brother told you? - Dragovich guessed.

 - Yes. They, these planes, have already appeared at the front. Here, in the rear, nothing prevents them from flying at altitude, so maybe it is them too. It also looks better, more beautiful. Stormtroopers have weapons under their wings. And this one has everything inside like a normal modern air combat aircraft. Yes, it was like that. When there was an F-22.

 The boulevard, like the blocks that filled it, became somewhat wider. On the railway tracks, which were already cleared here, there were several empty platforms - apparently, the branch was still used somehow, perhaps by a contractor.

 After shaking for another kilometer, Dragovich drove into a parking lot opposite the light-painted monolith of one of the buildings erected after 2115. Here, in this building, besides everything else, there was something like, if not the main office, then an administrative block. The bus with the rest of them dragged behind.

 - You know what tanks are made here, - Dragovich said in a conspiratorial tone. - Only if they let you in, they will be very reluctant.

 - I have already heard, - answered Lisette. - I don't understand why they make such a military secret out of it.

 - Well, how so? These are already intelligence games. It's very complicated. I don't even try to delve into such subtleties.

 - Well, I do too, - answered Lisette, - it's just somehow funny. The production of wooden tanks is more secret than real weapons. By the way, we will have to go there.

 - Really? - Dragovich feigned surprise, who had not been told about such things.

Although, by and large, he was just a driver here.

 - Well, "@enemy" shouldn't know how many fake cars there really are, where they are made, and what roads they are transported on. - he continued. - I understand that.

 - Well, I can imagine that too.

 The building, which looked heavy from the outside, greeted those who entered with a long, wide corridor that went almost to the opposite end of the building. This was the front lobby of this enterprise, built quite recently, already during the War.

 The corridor was divided along its length by partitions. In the wide opening of each such obstacle there were barriers - frames and the usual tables with guards. It looked as if the tunnel was divided into separate security zones, each of which was more classified than the previous one.

 The entire group had already managed to gather by that time and were waiting for the representative. He soon appeared, emerging from an initially unnoticed door in the side wall.

 Introductions and greetings began. Dragovich, who found himself in the warmth that enveloped him after the frosty street, began to get bored. He wanted to sit down on some sofa, like at the very beginning, in the hotel complex, and doze off.

 The SBSE guys took over all the chatter, mainly Landskricht. Although she had an accent and was not Russian, she was very talkative. Even the "Mexican" preferred to stand in the shade. It was quite convenient. This Zaperdyaev was also mumbling something there, but it didn't matter. Dragovich, out of habit, felt the machine gun under his jacket and began to examine the interiors, in which, it must be said, there was nothing to examine.

 - There are frames there, - the thought flashed through his head. - Now it will begin...

 Usually this always entailed, albeit small, delays. Someone called somewhere and clarified, despite the tokens.

 - Let's go, gentlemen, - the representative announced. - First of all, you will take a look at our workshops, - and he pointed his hand towards the door.

 - I have a question, - the "Mexican" announced and, having waited for the representative to turn his head in his direction, threw back his jacket and showed the machine gun, demonstrating the token at the same time.

 - I have the same thing, - added Dragovich and glanced towards the frames. - Come in, gentlemen, - the representative announced, - this, - he nodded at the frames, - this is for casual visitors.

 Everything was resolved unexpectedly easily.

 Behind the door was a lighted white-walled corridor, which seemed to run parallel to the vestibule. After some distance, a door appeared, leading, one would think, back to the vestibule, but already past the frames. Security...

 The group moved on, and after some time, another similar door appeared. They never returned to the vestibule - they went to the stairwell, which led to the second floor.

 Then there was a little more wandering, after which a fairly spacious room, the size of a gym, appeared before their eyes.

 The room was filled with wide tables, cabinets and various simple equipment. In this, as the representative called it, assembly workshop, about twenty people were bustling about. They were all dressed in the same overalls, which testified to some level of organization of the process. It was hard to tell by their appearance whether all these workers were slum dwellers, but judging by all the conversations heard earlier, that was exactly it.

 Several people broke away from their work and stared at the new arrivals, but they didn't stare for long. No one even thought to approach them.

 Perhaps the representative, who was some minor boss or engineer, had spoken to them in advance so that they would pretend to be businesslike. On the other hand, breaking away from the process could ruin the workpiece - Dragovich immediately realized that the people were busy molding fiberglass parts.

 - Here we make portable artillery. In simpler terms, shock gliding drones, - the representative announced.

 - I didn't expect everything to be so simple, - said the Englishman, passing by the tables and looking at the process with some interest. - I would even say that it is so accessible for... in order to have such a production. In fact, everything is accessible.

 - Well, don't forget what class of weapons this is, - the representative answered condescendingly, - we don't live in the clouds and don't claim much. This is, after all, the fourth class for proxy units. We even insist that you indicate this in your report, otherwise it will look like we are trying to pull the wool over your eyes.

 - Of course. Everything that needs to be said will be said, - Landskricht's voice was heard. - Gentlemen, this is not the first time - this is their job.

 Filming began. The camera moved along the tables. It stank of glue, or rather resin. Compressors rattled, a milling cutter squealed.

 Dragovich, following the "Mexican", stood near one of the shelves and, like him, began to examine the stacked blanks, which were halves of hulls that resembled either cigars or tadpoles. In general, cigar-shaped tadpoles.

 The dimensions of these crafts were one and a half meters in length and thirty centimeters in the widest area of the longitudinal section. At the top, the drone had short wings that opened, as is usually the case with cruise missiles. Apparently, by complicating the design with these opening mechanisms, it was possible to push the "cigar" into a compact container. Taxiing was carried out by a V-shaped rear empennage. There was no motor. All this could be learned not only and not so much from examining the hulls, as from the posters on the walls.

 How many of them are here! - said the "Mexican". - Like firewood in a woodshed. How many "@enemy" can you throw at them, lying here?

 - More likely their proxy.

 - True, the "Mexican" agreed. - We still have to get to the "@enemy."

 They started arguing about how much explosives this thing could carry. The argument was pointless, because, as was known, such devices could be equipped in completely different ways. The ones lying here, judging by everything, were equipped with solid-fuel booster engines, although it would have been quite possible to squeeze an electric motor and battery in there. They most likely weren't trying to achieve range here - it was quite decent for a proxy to have support from the immediate rear, from a distance of seven kilometers, not even ten.

 However, with a small battery and an engine, figuratively speaking, found in the trash, this contraption could easily fly all fifty and invariably drop itself in a circle with a radius of a meter. The GPS chip module didn't care at all how far this thing flew. No one would even consider the option with less accuracy, otherwise the drones would really turn into firewood, and the fortification or dugout had to be destroyed, not frightened or made to feel like heroes who honorably survived the shelling.

 This rule was true even for class four weapons - the fifth class did not provide for any guidance and in this sense was truly archaic.

 SFS and KANAR in their difficult life together, as befitted the "white people", did not fall below the third class, assembled from exclusively modern "bricks", the list of which included optics, communications and autonomous artificial intelligence. A certain risk that some "free shooter" would spend a little money and get one of the toys, similar to those cooked up in the workshop, although it existed, was not taken into account. Firstly, although there were precedents, the consequences were negligible. Secondly, such fighters had much easier and tacitly approved by local authorities ways, such as sorties and crossings far from the capital, but even such "acts of self-expression" have long since faded away, especially after the Harlington settlement.

 The inspection came to an end. Then there was another workshop. There, in the hardened fuselages, they placed the insides - fasteners for the warhead, the mechanism for opening the wings and other guts. It was amusing that when the laser machine for metalworking that was available in one of the workshops was idle, it was used as an engraver and they applied to the hulls not just motivational inscriptions, as was often the case, but entire caricatures of "@enemy" and even comics about an unlucky and stupid enemy. It wasn't a difficult task, most likely one of the small engineers decided to show off. He succeeded.

 After lunch, which was more suited to the concept of "dinner", everyone was led through a passage to a completely different building, to the basement. There was really something to brag about here - these contractors intended to make their own chips for their fourth-class junk.

 Despite the seeming implausibility of the idea, these were not the chips that only industrial giants could produce - the chips that were drawn with a beam and cut out of silicon here were at the level of a hundred years ago, even older. But they performed simple, albeit specific functions.

 According to the representative, this local, almost handicraft production of chips was cheaper than buying them at exorbitant prices. Without assistance from the GBA, as he also added, such an undertaking could have failed - a bunch of certificates would have been required, and not so much for the chips themselves, as for the finished weapons. And so the acceptance process was much more democratic and cheaper.

 The process itself, however, was never seen by anyone - it was not surprising - you had to enter such a workshop in a special suit, and there was nothing to film there - only stationary racks and stands - all the processes took place in a vacuum. But the finished products, so that no one would doubt, were shown - however, these were the same faceless chips as everywhere else. The only difference was in the inscriptions - lines with numbers and letters.

 Here, it was clearly not possible to get by with slum dwellers as personnel.

 The representative launched into a story about what a depressive place the city had been in previous decades.

 - But now it's all fun and games, - muttered Dragovich, turning to the "Mexican". He, of course, agreed. However, both were aware that the representative had in mind the economy and nothing more.