Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers)

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Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers) Page 19

by Philip Donlay


  “Type in the destination,” Donovan suggested.

  Michael did, and the GPS instantly shot to a point seven hundred and seventy miles northeast. Michael cycled the range on the moving map until the destination was clearly visible.

  “Bloody hell,” Trevor mumbled when he glanced at the screen.

  Michael keyed his microphone. “This flight plan starts in Slovakia and ends in Moscow.”

  “We have to stop him,” Lauren said. “Moscow could very easily launch their own missiles at the United States, or anyone else they think might be responsible. It’s one of the theoretical triggers for an extinction-level nuclear exchange.”

  “If this guy starts from Slovakia,” Donovan said. “He’ll be in Russian airspace fairly quickly.”

  “He’ll be invisible,” Lauren said. “If the sky is full of fighters, or he thinks they’ve been warned, he can turn around, land somewhere, and wait until another day.”

  “Or pick a different target, in a different country,” Montero added. “He can do about anything he wants. We don’t even know what this plane looks like.”

  “I think we might,” Lauren said. “Montero, on your phone, run an Internet search for any aircraft named Phoenix.”

  “Is this it?” Montero held up her phone so Lauren could see.

  “Yes.” Lauren handed the phone to Donovan.

  The forward sweep of the wings was unusual but not innovative, the construction looked to be composite, every edge was rounded, the twin vertical stabilizers were canted outboard. If a radar beam did hit this aircraft there were very few hard edges to send the signal back to the antenna. If it were coated with some sort of radar-absorbing material it would vanish from a radar screen.

  “I gather the engine is buried in the fuselage,” Michael asked as he inspected the photo. “How fast, how high? What kind of range are we talking about?”

  “These are specs from twenty years ago.” Donovan thumbed down to the technical data. “Two hundred seventy-five knots at thirty thousand feet, with a no-reserve range of twelve hundred nautical miles. Does the jet exhaust come out between the vertical stabilizers here in top of the fuselage?” The tiny photograph made it difficult for Donovan to make out the details.

  “Yes,” Lauren said. “Daniel was trying to reduce the noise footprint by deflecting all of the jet noise upward, away from the ground.”

  “We need to call Calvin,” Donovan told Lauren. “Bring him up to date.”

  Lauren dialed and Calvin picked up immediately. “Calvin, I’m handing the phone to Donovan.”

  Donovan took the phone, pulled off his headset. “Calvin, we have the jump drive. There is a flight plan from Slovakia to Moscow. We also have a name, Aleksander Kovalenko. Lauren knows what kind of aircraft Daniel built, it’s one of his earlier designs, the Phoenix. Google the thing.”

  “I just did. You think this is what Kovalenko has?”

  “You know him?” Donovan asked.

  “I know of him. He’s a former Ukrainian Air Force officer. He was flagged as someone rumored to have ties with Chechen terrorists. He’s Ukrainian by birth. He was a fighter pilot in the Ukrainian Air Force. He flew MiG-29s, spoke half a dozen different languages, and was a rising star until he was grounded under mysterious circumstances. The rumor is he killed someone, or was suspected of killing someone; a Russian. When Kovalenko was drummed out of the service and disappeared, there was speculation he finally unraveled over the latest Russian-Ukrainian issues. I just pulled up his file; it looks like his uproar goes way back. A large portion of Kovalenko’s family was killed in Stalin’s forced famine of the Ukraine. Stalin was a real bastard. When it comes to genocide, Hitler was a sissy compared to Stalin. In two years, Stalin starved seven million Ukrainians. Three million of them were children.”

  “I remember the history. Russia and most of Ukraine have issues that go way back,” Donovan said. “So, the Moscow thing makes sense? The man doesn’t like Russians, and he found a way to launch a first strike at Moscow.”

  “What you have is a theory, zero hard evidence. I can tell you right now, if I try to sell this to the Pentagon, no one is going to believe that one man can fly undetected into some of the most heavily defended airspace in the world. If we send NATO fighters to the border of Russia, it’s only going to incite tensions. I can promise you, the current administration won’t sign off on any of this. I will make a call to a contact I have at the Pentagon and see what they think, but what I need is proof.”

  “What about the Russians?” Donovan said. “Can we warn them?”

  “They’d go bat-shit crazy,” Calvin said. “We’d risk them making a preemptive launch, or scaring this guy off and then we’d have stirred up a mountain of diplomatic and military trouble and still be faced with the same threat. No, we have to have rock-solid proof, or do nothing at all.”

  “What if I provide you the proof?” Donovan’s frustration was growing. Lauren’s very real fear that the Russians might counter-launch if they thought they were under a large-scale attack was real. Washington D.C. would be at the top of their list. “Calvin, I believe my wife, and she thinks there’s going to be a terrorist strike on Moscow, tonight. If you won’t try to stop it . . . I will, but I need your help.”

  “You’ve got it, within the limits of my power, absolutely.”

  “I’m going to give you the first waypoint. There’s no airport close, so we think it’s a first fix. The airport Kovalenko is using could be anywhere west of there.” Donovan read off the numbers and then Calvin read them back for accuracy. “Find the airport. Maybe the airplane hasn’t taken off yet.”

  “What did he say?” Lauren asked as Donovan disconnected the call.

  “Nothing good. We might be on our own.” Donovan handed the phone to Lauren and then put on his headset. “Trevor, Budapest Airport. And fly fast.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “THIS IS GOING to be fast and dirty. I’m going to come in low, without lights,” Trevor said. “I’m not going to talk to the control tower, so when we touch down, it’ll only be for a moment. My plan is for us to be on our way again before anyone knows we were ever there.”

  “We know the Gulfstream is at the airport,” Michael said. “What about fuel?”

  “That’s the variable,” Donovan said. “I have no idea how much fuel was onboard when the charter pilots landed, but all I need is enough to get to the Russian border. We know where the Phoenix is going to be, we’re just not sure when it will get there. The Gulfstream is two hundred twenty-five miles an hour faster. I can cover some ground and I’m hoping I’ll get lucky. If I can prove the threat exists, then maybe people will listen.”

  “Quit saying I. We’re both going,” Michael said. “We’ll do this the right way.”

  Donovan looked at Lauren and found the conflict in her eyes. He pulled off his headset and leaned close to kiss her.

  “I don’t want you to go,” Lauren said as she intertwined her fingers with his. “We just found each other again. I can’t lose you.”

  “There’s no one else.” Donovan kissed the back of her hand. “It’s a reconnaissance mission. If we can find this plane in time, chances are the Air Force can shoot it down before he can start World War Three.”

  “Simple reconnaissance?”

  Donovan heard the wariness in her voice. He also remembered Kristof’s warning about nothing being simple. “Yes, I know it’s a long shot, but we have to try. Reach out to William. Through the State Department he can work on shielding you from the CIA. I’ll find you in Vienna when it’s over.”

  Lauren raised her chin and they kissed.

  “So,” Trevor asked. “I’m dropping the two of you off and everyone else goes to Austria with me?”

  “Yes,” Donovan said. “We’ll either get airborne quickly, or we won’t at all. If we don’t, we’ll contact you.”

  “Let me know. I’ll have men close,” Marta said. “We have safe houses in Budapest.”

  “Lauren, the
hard drive needs to go with you,” Donovan said. “But Michael and I will need the coordinates so we can plug them into the Gulfstream’s GPS once we’re airborne.”

  “I’ve already sent them to your phone,” Montero said. “Is there anything else you’ll need?”

  “No, just the coordinates and a phone,” Donovan said.

  “If you get airborne, where will you eventually land?” Montero asked the one question that hadn’t been mentioned.

  “That’ll all be dictated on how much fuel we have to play with,” Donovan said. “There are plenty of airports out there.” Donovan and Michael both knew that fuel was only one of many considerations.

  “Here’s how we all stay in touch,” Marta handed Donovan her Blackphone. Once you’re airborne, it’ll switch from land-based connections and revert to satellite. To boost the signal, take this tiny suction cup and attach it to any piece of metal connected to the airframe and your entire aircraft becomes an antenna. It’s fully charged.”

  “Where are you going when you get to Vienna?” Donovan asked.

  “Undecided,” Marta replied.

  “I understand,” Donovan knew Marta was being cautious. If any of them were caught, she didn’t want a trail leading straight to her destination.

  “We’re about five minutes out,” Trevor announced. “I’ll swing in over the General Aviation ramp, find the darkest place to touch down, and then you two are out the door.”

  “Sounds good,” Donovan turned to Lauren and found that her headphones were around her neck and she had a cell phone to her ear. She looked up and their eyes met, hers wide with surprise before they narrowed. Donovan knew she was calculating something. He’d seen the look a thousand times. She ended the call and quickly pulled her headphones back over her ears.

  “That was Calvin. They may have spotted the Phoenix. He sent the satellite image,” Lauren opened the photo on her phone and studied it for a moment and then handed it to Donovan. The photo was grainy black and white and it took a moment for him to orient himself. There was an open door, big enough for a hangar. There was barely enough light from inside the building to cast light on something sitting outside the door. Only half of the object was illuminated, but Donovan could see one of the forward swept wings and the twin tails. It was the Phoenix.

  “Where and when?” Donovan said as he handed the phone back to Lauren.

  “Seventy-three nautical miles northwest of Budapest, near a small town named Galánta, Slovakia. It was spotted four minutes ago, but now it’s gone. It could be back in the hangar, or it could have already taken off.”

  “Anything else?” Donovan asked.

  “Yes, Calvin said that even with this image, the Pentagon says there is nothing to be done. He also issued a very serious stipulation. If we think we can stop Kovalenko, do it, but on our side of the border. Under no circumstances are we to cross into Russian airspace.”

  “So in other words,” Michael said. “If we can’t stop him where NATO can go in and clean up the pieces of the American-made aircraft, we’re to let it go and the nuclear detonation will erase the evidence.”

  “Heads up, everybody,” Trevor said. “The Budapest Airport is twelve o’clock and one mile. We’re coming in from the southwest, as far away from the control tower as we can get. With all of the ground clutter, I doubt if we’re showing up on their radar, and hopefully, at this hour, they’ll never see us in the dark.”

  Both Donovan and Michael strained to find the green-and-white Gulfstream they’d chartered in D.C.

  “There,” Michael pointed.

  Donovan found the Gulfstream, and it couldn’t have been in a worse position. It was parked with the nose pointed towards three other airplanes, blocking any forward exit, which meant that they’d have to find a tug and push it out to be able to taxi. Donovan’s hopes plummeted until his eyes were drawn down to the cargo ramp where he spotted a row of freighters being prepped for the night’s flights. In the halo of lights surrounding the ramp sat a Boeing 727 freighter. The blue airplane with white lettering down the side, was sitting with its navigation lights on, the cargo door open, and a fuel truck was just pulling away.

  “Michael,” Donovan said. “What do you think about the Skybridge 727?”

  “Brilliant,” Michael said and slowly smiled. “Of course the freight ramp makes it an entirely different kind of operation. The Phoenix could already be airborne and this is going to take us a little longer than if we’d been able to jump in a Gulfstream.”

  “It also turns us into hijackers or terrorists. The 727,” Donovan asked. “Yes or no?”

  “Yes, but it’s been a long time,” Michael said, holding up his bandaged hand. “We’ll need a third person.”

  “I’m in,” Montero said without hesitation.

  “You’re with us, then,” Donovan nodded. “We’re taking the 727.”

  “I alerted some of my men. They’ve just arrived street side,” Marta said. “They’ll provide some distractions to give you time to get airborne.”

  Donovan studied the ramp, buildings, and the row of cargo aircraft. “Trevor, do you see that hangar straight ahead? That large shadow, just this side of the cargo ramp, can you let us out there?”

  “I see it,” Trevor said. “No problem.”

  “Perfect.” Donovan turned to Michael and got a resolute nod in return. When he looked at Lauren, the expression on her face and the look in her eyes told him that he was loved, to be careful, and to come back to her—it was all he needed. Donovan glanced at Montero. “You ready?”

  Montero didn’t hesitate. She stuffed her laptop into her backpack, threw off her seatbelt, and stepped to the ground the instant the helicopter touched down. She ducked under the rotor blades and fell in behind Donovan and Michael as they ran through the shadows until they were pressed up against a brick wall in the dark as the helicopter lifted away into the night.

  “The best way for us to get out to the airplane is to act like we belong,” Montero said. “I say we walk out there and see what it takes to get airborne.”

  “Let’s do it.” Donovan took a quick peek around the corner of the building and motioned for Michael and Montero to follow. With Montero between them, they headed out to the Boeing 727. The ramp wasn’t overly busy. Budapest wasn’t anyone’s cargo hub, so the few freighters on the ground were scattered out along the perimeter of the apron. There were bright lights illuminating the entire area, but as far as Donovan could tell, they didn’t draw anyone’s attention.

  Donovan headed toward the portable stairs that would take them up to the forward door. As they drew closer, the noise from the Boeing’s 727 auxiliary power unit drowned out nearly everything. He didn’t see anyone around the plane, and it didn’t look like the cargo had arrived yet which meant the crew of three would most likely be in the cockpit. The 727 was designed over fifty years ago, back when all modern jetliners flew with three crewmen.

  Montero stopped, as did Donovan. He could see she held a Glock in one hand, a phone in the other. She’d received a text message. “That was Marta. Her men found the Skybridge captain and first officer outside, smoking. We don’t have to worry about them.”

  “Okay, there should only be one guy,” Michael said. “We don’t need him to fly the thing, but I need to ask him some questions after I disable the cockpit voice recorder. There’s no use documenting our string of felonies. Montero, can you blindfold him so he can’t identify us? Once we’re finished chatting, we’ll leave him behind.”

  “Let’s start out playing nice,” Donovan said. “And we’ll see how it goes.”

  Montero nodded, holstered her Glock, and dug briefly into her backpack until she found her roll of duct tape. She stripped off two twelve-inch strips, overlapped them lengthwise, so she’d made a section of tape, twelve inches long and nearly five inches wide. She knew what she was doing, and it made the tape seem lethal.

  She nodded that she was ready and then turned and led the way up the stairs. Donovan, with Michael r
ight behind him, caught up to her just as she vanished through the main fuselage door. Donovan took a quick look over Montero’s shoulder into the cockpit. A solitary young man with two stripes on his shoulder boards sat at the flight engineer’s panel.

  Montero timed her advance perfectly. When the flight engineer leaned over to pull something from his flight bag, she crept up behind him, slapped the tape over his eyes, and put him in a full nelson to control his flailing arms until his initial panic burned itself out.

  Michael went forward and ripped the area microphone from the overhead, and then snapped the wires. He went to the engineer’s panel, threw a few switches, and picked up a clipboard. He scanned the paper and then turned to the engineer. “Sit still and we won’t hurt you. What’s your call sign?”

  Montero increased her pressure on the flight engineer’s shoulder sockets.

  “Skybridge 770.”

  “Destination?” Michael asked.

  “Vilnius, Lithuania.”

  “What’s your estimated time of departure?”

  “Fifteen minutes ago, but our freight has been delayed.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said and looked at Donovan. “I’m done with him. Take him down and move the stairs away from the plane. Make sure he doesn’t run screaming into the terminal.”

  “Don’t hurt me,” the young man begged.

  “I’ll take care of him,” Montero said. “How do I get back aboard?”

  “I can lower the rear airstair,” Michael said. “Make it fast.”

  Montero pulled the engineer from the chair while Donovan maneuvered the young man’s hands behind him and wrapped two loops of tape tightly around his wrists. They propelled him down the stairs. Donovan found the controls that electrically moved the stairs back from the fuselage. He motored around the nose of the 727 and left the stairs parked in the grass beyond the wing.

  Montero gave the flight engineer a quick, harmless jab to the midsection that doubled him over, taking the last of the fight out of him. She pressed a swatch of duct tape over his mouth, careful to leave his nose clear. Finally, she eased him to the ground, pulled a sturdy plastic tie from her pack and secured his ankle to the steel frame of the stairs, well out of reach of the controls.

 

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