Code Name Antares

by Jamie Fredric

  The phone rang. “Stevens.”

  “Grant, Scott here.”

  “Any changes?”

  “No.”

  “I assume you notified the President about the cargo ship.”

  “Yeah. That’s why I’m calling. Made him somewhat relieved, but . . .”

  “I know. Look, Scott, he wanted to keep us and the investigation ‘under the radar,’ but we may need more help besides NSA. CIA always has its ‘ears’ on. Maybe they already have something but don’t know it.”

  “Do you wanna talk with him?”

  “Not necessary, but I’ll leave that up to him.”

  “It might take awhile before I can reach him again.”

  “Do your best.” Expecting another call, Grant carried the phone to the table, stretching the cord to its max, then repeated his conversation with Mullins to everyone. For the time being, Team A.T. was “dead in the water.” Grant was beyond impatient.

  Adler started cleaning up his kitchen mess, plunging his hands into hot, soapy dishwater.

  “Joe, forget that for now,” Grant said over his shoulder.

  Clips were ejected, and weapons were systematically broken down, a process each man could do with his eyes closed.

  Grant was wiping down the gun with a cloth rag, when his motion slowed.

  “Uh-oh,” Adler said quietly to himself, as he sat across from him, seeing the clenched jaw. “Why are those ‘wheels’ spinning? Look, we’re ready whenever you are. But you’ve gotta tell us what, where, and concerns. Out with it.”

  “If that plane gets too far ahead of us, we may never catch it or the weapons. We can’t fuck this up.”

  “You still plan on waiting here?”

  Grant nodded. “It’ll take less time, Joe.” The phone rang again. “Scott?”

  “NSA boys are working their asses off for you!”

  “And?”

  “Intercepted a couple of messages from the embassy to the cargo ship and one to Moscow.”

  “They know about us ‘lifting’ the weapons, I assume.”

  “You can say that. Plus, Moscow still wants its half of the weapons. So for now, the Afghans are out of the picture.”

  “Is that it?”

  “All for now!”

  Grant loaded ammo into new clips. Not much was said by anyone, as they worked quickly, efficiently, waiting for the phone to ring again.

  It did. Grant rammed a clip ‘home’ then answered, “Scott?”

  “Grant! Flight time’s 0830! They’ve scheduled Shannon as the fuel stop.” (Shannon, Ireland was the westernmost non-NATO airport.)

  Grant checked his watch. “We can do it!”

  “Do what?!”

  “Scott, thanks, but we’ve gotta move! I’ll call you on the way to the airfield!”

  This might be their last chance. He slammed down the phone, then swung around toward Garrett. “Matt, we’ll take your gear. You head out now. Set a flight plan for Shannon, Ireland. We’ll be right behind you!”

  Grant turned to the others. “Listen up! Get what you need from in here, maybe a change of clothes.” He asked Stalley, “Doc, is your medical bag. . .?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Okay! Let’s go!”

  Boots pounded against the wood floor as they hightailed it to the bedrooms. Adler unplugged the coffee pot, confirmed stove was off, then made a quick detour to the pantry and grabbed a few packages of Oreos.

  Within five minutes, with gear and weapons in hand, they were out the door.

  *

  Dulles International Airport

  0815 Hours

  The pilot and co-pilot were in the cockpit, going through the final checklist before departure of the embassy’s private jet, an Antonov I, similar to a Gulfstream in size, but lower to the ground like a 737. The jet, with a modified cabin, had become standard equipment for most of Russia’s embassies.

  The co-pilot noticed a vehicle approaching, then left the cockpit, and waited at the top of the stairs for his passenger.

  Kalinin backed the pickup truck close to the open cargo hold. He got out then lowered the tailgate, as he noticed a U.S. Customs agent walking toward him with a clipboard in hand.

  Leaning slightly in order to read the name tag on the agent’s green jacket, he greeted him in broken English. “Good morning. . .Agent Davison.”

  “Morning. Can I see your passport and documents for any diplomatic pouches you’re carrying?”

  “Of course.” Kalinin removed his passport and papers from the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and handed them to Davison.

  The agent laid everything on the clipboard, opened the passport and compared the picture to the man in front of him, examined all pertinent information, then date stamped one of the pages. He gave the passport back to Kalinin, and unfolded the documentation. He pointed to the truck. “Would you remove anything that’s going with you?”

  Kalinin put his suitcases on the ground, each one marked appropriately. As the agent examined them, Kalinin pulled out the canvas bags. Even though he knew the agent couldn’t inspect the contents, he felt his heart pounding.

  An approaching vehicle made both men turn. The Mercedes was within twenty feet of them when it stopped, and the driver shut off the engine. Zelesky got out then stood by the car, looking toward Kalinin.

  Petya Vikulin let himself out from the passenger side, then removed a single suitcase from the back seat. He draped a suit bag over his shoulder, then walked toward Kalinin, with Zelesky following close.

  The customs agent eyed the new passenger, then the manifest. “The manifest doesn’t show any additional passengers.”

  Kalinin turned toward Vikulin, spoke in Russian, then answered the agent. “I am sorry, sir, that you were not informed in time, but Comrade Vikulin said he received an emergency message from Moscow, requesting he return home.”

  “Passport,” Davison said, holding his hand toward the Russian. The passport was handed over, reviewed, and stamped. Then he pointed to Zelesky. “Is he going, too?”

  Kalinin spoke to Zelesky, then responded, “He is not. He is here only to park the truck.” Kalinin handed Zelesky the keys. Once the tailgate was closed, Zelesky drove the pickup truck to the embassy’s assigned area. He returned to the Mercedes, and waited.

  Davison stamped and signed official papers, then gave Kalinin a copy. “Have a nice flight,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away, then disappeared inside the building. Taking one last look at the plane, he ducked into a side room and quietly made a call.

  Kalinin reached for one of the pouches, saying to Vikulin, “Help me put these in the cargo hold.”

  Fifteen minutes later, with cargo loaded, exit door secured, and two passengers in their seats, the pilot received authorization to taxi to Runway 01R. Kalinin looked out the window, seeing the Mercedes being driven away.

  Just as the Antonov began traveling parallel to Runway 01R, the engines of a BOAC 747 roared, the jumbo jet rumbling down the runway, its wheels finally lifting off concrete.

  Kalinin leaned back against the seat. With the incident aboard the cargo ship still fresh in his mind, he couldn’t help but worry. Come on! Come on! he repeated silently, slapping a hand on the armrest, anxious for takeoff.

  Petya Vikulin sat two rows behind Kalinin, still speculating about two men who looked so very much alike. But were there two? Eye color could be changed easily with contact lenses. Could that be why the American traitor sent the photograph, to set them on a path looking for one man? Kalinin’s cover story seemed accurate enough. Then again, any story could be cleverly created by the CIA or FBI, a ploy used by the KGB itself over the years.

  He sat up straighter, as he began formulating a plan. For the next several hours, it would just be him and Kalinin. The pilots would be too preoccupied. Perhaps he could find a way to make Kalinin talk, and if not, the stop in Shannon might be to his advantage.

  Vikulin had given himself much to think about, much to consider. By the time
they landed in Moscow, perhaps he would have found a way to clear himself from his dire situation.

  The aircraft slowly came to a stop, as a TWA 707 began its takeoff. The Antonov taxied into position, lined up on Runway 01R, then waited for clearance. Noises increased as flap motors, hydraulics, electric valves adjusted, then the engines wound up. Brakes were released, and the plane began its takeoff roll.

  Once airborne, Nicolai Kalinin breathed a heavy sigh of relief, while he watched the city of Washington, D.C. pass below. His first mission as a Russian operative was almost completed, even though it had not gone entirely as planned. Whether or not he was allowed to return to the U.S. rested in the hands of officials in Moscow.

  *

  Building of the First Directorate

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  Sounds of automatic weapons and explosions outside the compound couldn’t distract the two men. Farhad Hashimi angrily turned away from Major Viktor Zubarev. The news just delivered was not what Hashimi expected. Keeping his back to Zubarev, he asked, “You are certain you read the message correctly?”

  “Yes. As I already told you, the weapons were stolen from the cargo ship. It was confirmed by the captain and the embassy in Washington.”

  “I am finding this very difficult to believe.” Hashimi spun around. Standing close to the Russian, he questioned, “During the night, while that ship was underway, in the Atlantic Ocean, the weapons were taken?!”

  Zubarev nodded. “They weren’t just taken! They were stolen!”

  “What is being done to find those weapons, weapons promised to me?!”

  “I do not know. I am not in charge of any investigation. How could I be?!”

  “You must be in contact with someone!”

  “Communication between the U.S. and here has been difficult. We may never. . .”

  Hashimi cut Zubarev off. “If those weapons were as top secret as you claimed, they could have had an impact on our fight against the rebels. Now we must continue to use old weapons?! Will you be supplying us with anything?! Old?! New?! Anything?!”

  Zubarev had delivered the message. Any further information or conversation was unnecessary. “That is all I have to report. You will not be getting weapons.” He gave a quick bow of his head, then turned and walked out of the building.

  Hashimi’s hands balled up into tight fists. He took short, quick strides toward the entry. Zubarev was already in his vehicle. As it turned past the building, he completely ignored the Afghan. Leaning toward his driver, he made a motion with his hand, as if pointing ahead of them.

  Two of Hashimi’s guards, with RPGs slung over their shoulders, stood on either side of the entry, waiting for him to give them an order. All it took was a short nod. They ran down the steps, jumped into an overused, beat up UAZ, then sped across the compound. Ten minutes later, an explosion destroyed Zubarev’s vehicle, along with him and his driver.

  For a few moments, Hashimi’s eyes followed a billowing cloud of black smoke beyond the north side of the compound. Rubbing his fingers continuously over his mustache and short beard, he turned and walked to his office. Standing by the window, he wondered if there was a way to obtain more sophisticated weapons.

  He never saw it coming, only heard the telltale sound as he looked overhead, but by that time it was too late to take cover. Shells fired from two M-47, 152mm field guns, destroyed the entire section of building. Two more landed in the compound. Rebels? Russians? Was it immediate retribution for Zubarev?

  No one was alive to question.

  Chapter 14

  Eagle 8

  In the Lead Chevy

  Dust and dirt flew out from beneath the wide tires of both SUVs, as they sped along the one lane dirt road. None of the passengers bothered looking at watches. They were already committed to their mission.

  Grant phoned Mullins. “Scott! We’re heading to the airfield. Any updates?!”

  “Report is the plane left just about on time.”

  “Looks like we’ve got a chase on our hands.”

  “Listen, I also got word your ‘boy’ wasn’t the only person making the trip.”

  “Who?!” Grant asked with surprise. He pressed his back against the seat, steadying himself because Adler wasn’t about to let up on the gas.

  “Does the last name ‘Vikulin’ sound familiar?”

  “You’re shittin’ me!”

  “So you do know him.”

  “He gave me the address of the safe house.”

  “Oh, shit! I’m gonna need that story, too!”

  Adler started slowing the SUV. The Gulfstream was straight ahead, navigation lights blinking, cabin and cockpit lights glowing.

  “We’re at the Gulfstream. Hey! Do you have any markings for that plane?”

  “Just so happens I do. It’s an Antonov I, number RA-42624.”

  “RA-42624. Got it. Try to call me if you have urgent shit to report. Gotta go. We’re here.”

  “Godspeed, buddy.”

  “Thanks, Scott.”

  Adler and Novak drove the SUVs close to the plane’s steps. Doors slammed as the men jumped from the vehicles, then immediately unloaded all the gear, putting everything near the plane. Adler and Novak drove the SUVs closer to the tree line, locked them, then ran back to the Gulfstream.

  Garrett was in the cockpit, checking gauges, flipping switches. He heard the Team coming aboard. “Evenly distribute the weight of that gear!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  Grant and Adler boarded last, with Adler stowing both rucksacks.

  Grant put on his aviator sunglasses, then went to the cockpit and climbed into the co-pilot’s seat, slipping his arms through the shoulder harness. The Team had been on the “hunt” for a new co-pilot ever since Paul Butner, the co-pilot for their mission to China, declined the offer due to family responsibilities. They had to find someone who knew the C-130, too.

  Grant was the only one with any flying experience, even though it had been in props. He and Garrett had already been through the basics aboard the Gulfstream, taking it up more than once.

  “We’re clear back here,” Adler reported. Grant hit the switch to pull in the steps and secure the door.

  “Shit!” Novak said, leaning over the back of Stalley’s seat. “Doesn’t look like we’ll have a flight attendant on this trip either!”

  “Buckle up!” Grant said over his shoulder, as he put on a set of headphones and adjusted the mouthpiece. He picked up the clipboard. “Okay. Ready for pre-flight check.” He called out the takeoff procedures, as Garrett verified each was complete. Finally, the last three: landing, taxi, strobe lights on, transponder on, engine instruments checked.

  Garrett taxied out to the grass and dirt runway. The engines started winding up. He advanced the throttles close to fifty percent. As the Gulfstream started down the runway, Grant kept his eyes on the speed indicator, calling out the speed. If there were any major problems, such as engine failure or fire, they’d have to abort takeoff before reaching V1. But once past that speed, takeoff was the only option, no matter what happened afterward.

  When the engines stabilized at forty-five percent, Garrett accelerated them to takeoff thrust. Reaching Vr (rotation speed), he raised the nose gear off the runway, then finally, the landing gear.

  Both men were quiet, concentrating, watching gauges, watching for air traffic, adjusting controls.

  Light from a brilliant morning sun spread throughout the interior of the Gulfstream, as the plane continued its climb. Garrett brought the aircraft to a northeast heading. They’d travel close to the eastern seaboard until Nova Scotia, then begin the Great Circle Route over Newfoundland, on a course for Shannon, Ireland, on the trail of a Russian mole.

  Grant pulled back a side of the headphones. “Listen, Matt, you haven’t had any sleep for over two days. Once we’re over the Atlantic, maybe I can takeover for a while, with autopilot on!”

  “Thanks, Grant. I should be okay. You guys haven’t had any either.”

  “Yeah,
but we’re used to it.” Turning for a better view of the cabin, he tilted his head toward it. “Maybe I spoke too soon. Two of them are already cutting Zs! But you’ve been out of the habit for a while. Well, I’ll leave it up to you.”

  Grant took off the headphones, then released the seatbelt harness. “Want something to drink?”

  “Anything with caffeine.”

  Grant walked slowly down the aisle. Novak and James were asleep, Slade was reading the latest issue of SI, Stalley and Diaz were playing cards. Adler was making coffee, and munching on a peanut butter sandwich.

  “Got anything for me?” Grant asked, as he got a Pepsi from the fridge.

  Adler opened a drawer. “Well, what have we here?”

  Grant laughed, immediately grabbing a handful of Snickers candy bars. “Think these’ll last?”

  “What you see, is all you get!”

  Grant bumped a fist against his friend’s shoulder. “Thanks, Joe.” He put one on seat trays and table as he went back to the cockpit.

  He handed Garrett a Pepsi, then held an open hand toward him, with two Snickers. “Not for me,” Garrett said.

  Grant climbed into the seat, and unwrapped the candy. “Shannon Airport can be a real bitch for landings and takeoffs.”

  “Yeah. The winds coming across the runway are wicked sometimes.”

  “Tell me about it. Made a couple of landings hard enough to blow out tires.”

  “Promise I’ll be careful.”

  “Confirm something about refueling.”

  “Shoot,” Garrett said, before taking a drink.

  “Private jets are refueled away from the terminal, right?”

  Garrett wiped a hand across his mouth. “Yeah. They’re kept out of the way of bigger commercials. The airport usually provides small buses to take passengers to and from the terminal.”

  Even with his sunglasses on, Grant shielded his eyes as he glanced out the windshield. “Looks like good weather. Think we’ll pick up a tail wind?”