The Florida heat hit them like a furnace as the Gulfstream's hatch hissed open. Daniel stepped out first, followed by Naomi, the two interns, and the firm's stone-faced legal counsel, Gregory Baines, who looked like he hadn't smiled since the Gulf War.
They crossed the sun-warped tarmac toward a waiting hangar that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The air smelled of jet fuel, scorched metal, and a hint of motor oil baked into concrete. Above the hangar door hung a crude, hand-painted sign: "Volkov Aviation & Logistics."
CLAUDE: Misnomer. No registered company in the U.S. or Russian Federation. Likely a reflagged front for a private arms syndicate. Recommend full biometric scan on entry.
Daniel smiled to himself. "Relax," he whispered. "We're here to buy helicopters, not launch a coup."
CLAUDE: I make no distinction.
The hangar doors creaked open with a groan that echoed across the runway. Inside stood Arkady Volkov, flanked by two silent mechanics with shaved heads and cigarettes that never burned down.
"Ahhh, Mr. Haizen," Volkov greeted, arms open like a game show host from the nuclear age. His thick Slavic accent wrapped around every syllable like iron wire. "Welcome to capitalist paradise. You come to buy dream… or maybe something that go boom?"
Gregory flinched. One intern made a noise halfway between a cough and a whimper.
Naomi muttered, "Christ, are we dealing with the KGB?"
Volkov grinned, as if he heard her. "Used to be. Maybe. Depends who is asking."
CLAUDE: He's joking. Mostly.
Daniel didn't break stride. "I'm here for three S-92s. Full executive, black. Sleek interiors. I want them prepped by July."
Volkov nodded. "Ahhh, American muscle. You want corporate. Command and comfort. I like."
He snapped his fingers and began walking down the hangar row like a deranged docent in a Cold War museum.
The group followed, flanked by machines from another time. Helicopters with gun mounts. Transport jets that still bore faded hammer-and-sickle insignias.
Volkov gestured grandly at a Kamov Ka-27.
"This one? Still flies. Seized from Ukrainian scrap yard. Rescued from idiots with no imagination."
He turned to a hulking Mil Mi-26, big enough to carry tanks.
"This? Still airworthy. Once moved nuclear reactor components in Siberia. You want to move office tower? We do it."
Then they passed something no one expected.
A Soviet MiG-29 fighter jet, being wheeled across the floor on a tractor. The warbird's matte gray skin shimmered in the light. It still had missiles attached under the wings.
Naomi stopped dead. "Daniel—"
Volkov saw her panic. "Is fine, is fine. Only for display. Maybe sale. Depends. Missiles still have warranty."
Gregory nearly dropped his briefcase.
Daniel waved it off. "Not today. I know what I want."
Volkov led them to a side hangar, deeper, quieter. Inside sat three Sikorsky S-92 helicopters, freshly painted matte black. Their fuselages gleamed under the fluorescent lights. The interiors, visible through the open hatches, were leather and carbon fiber dreams—custom consoles, noise-dampening walls, and built-in counter-surveillance modules.
Naomi exhaled in something like relief. "At least we're pretending to be a business now."
Volkov opened his hands wide. "All yours. Three birds, fully specced. Custom avionics, full encryption module, dark glass. I throw in long-range tankers for free. American clients like free things."
CLAUDE: Acceptable. Flight profiles show top performance. I would still recommend redesigning the fuselage for reduced thermal signature, but it will suffice.
Daniel nodded. "Good. Now the jets."
Volkov smiled wider.
"Ahhh, the crown jewels. Follow me."
They moved again—this time to an underground hangar. It was colder, darker. Security cameras watched from steel rafters. Sodium lights buzzed overhead.
Two aircraft stood in silence.
Twin Gulfstream G550s—sleek, polished, like blades designed to cut through time zones. Their engines were silent, but the air around them felt charged.
"These," Volkov said, "are early deliveries. Military contract overflow. Some say Pentagon paid too much, so extra units ended up… misplaced."
Gregory opened his mouth, then thought better of it.
Daniel walked the length of one jet, fingers dragging along the titanium fuselage.
"What modifications?"
Volkov looked around theatrically.
"Optional, of course. One has EMP shielding. Other has off-manifest thrust modulator. Can climb like fighter. Both have sealed cargo holds. Maybe hidden compartments. Maybe not. Depends what lawyer says."
He winked.
Naomi was pale now. "You're not seriously—"
Daniel cut her off. "I want both. No extra modifications. No missile countermeasures. No radar games. Just clean. Black. Executive spec."
CLAUDE: Good. Boeing Business Jet would've been vulgar.
Daniel: That's why I passed.
Volkov clapped his hands. "Ahh! You are man of taste. I weep."
He gestured to a waiting folder.
"Documents here. Contracts ready. Price already reduced for bulk order. Delivery by July. You want engraved champagne glasses or custom seal on leather seats?"
Daniel didn't even blink. "I want discretion. And speed."
"Done."
Naomi stepped forward, her tone edged like a scalpel. "Any of this show up on federal radar, we walk."
Volkov raised a hand. "Radar? What radar? These are ghosts, Ms. Nakamura. They fly only when needed."
The legal counsel began reviewing documents. The interns pretended to be useful.
Volkov approached Daniel one last time.
"Before we finish, maybe one more thing. For true king, not businessman."
He gestured with a crooked finger to a separate hangar bay.
Inside, under harsh overhead lights, sat a massive Boeing Business Jet 737—gleaming, long, and unmistakably opulent. Gold trim, oversized engines, a mobile command center in disguise.
The interns gasped. Even Naomi raised an eyebrow.
Volkov was beaming. "Full bedroom. Shower. Conference room. Missile jammer… allegedly. Very presidential."
Daniel circled it slowly, admiring the bulk, the presence.
CLAUDE: Vulgar. Flying skyscraper with ego complex. Do not encourage him.
Daniel paused, then turned away.
"No," he said simply. "Too loud. Too slow."
Volkov laughed. "I agree. Is like sending love letter with chainsaw. Fun, but messy."