Rift Zone

by Raelynn Hillhouse

  “Then turn around. Both of you. Now!”

  “No. If you’re going to murder your own daughter, you’ll have to do it while looking me in the eye.”

  He paused for a few seconds as he studied her eyes and then he pulled back the hammer of the gun.

  A white flash lit up the night and a fireball consumed the dacha. The concussion shook the ground. Kosyk jerked his head around in time for the second blast. At that moment Zara struck his arm, knocking the pistol to the ground. They scrambled for the weapon as flaming debris rained down around them. He grabbed the gun. Zara held on to his arm, struggling to keep him from pointing it at her, but he was stronger.

  For the first time in her life, Faith wished her father dead. He was no longer the hero she imagined, but a scoundrel, a terrorist mastermind, a Stasi controller willing to sacrifice his own daughter to politics. He had betrayed her fantasy. He had betrayed her mother. He had betrayed her. Just as Kosyk started to pull the trigger, Faith smashed the brick into his skull.

  Faith cradled the bloody brick while Zara fussed with the body. She had his nose, narrow, turned up a little at the end. The eyes definitely weren’t hers, set back and with dark baggy circles under them.

  Zara took the brick from her hands and tossed it into the river. Rings of ripples floated like ghosts across the still water. Faith watched them hit the bank and return in wave after wave to the center, crossing through one another over and over again until they were no more.

  “He’s unconscious but not dead, if you need to say something to him for your own sake. Brain hemorrhages can take a while, and they’re not always fatal.”

  Faith dropped to her knees, clutched her father and sobbed. “We had no chance.”

  Where the hell is Faith? Summer looked at his watch for the hundredth time, although he had an excellent internal chronometer and was keenly aware of exactly how much time had elapsed. He’d listened as the shouts in Russian faded into moans, but didn’t hear her. He should have gone to the car, but he couldn’t leave her. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her. Then he heard a rustle in the woods below his position, coming up from the river. He slid behind the burnt-out structure and waited for the target to emerge. Please be her.

  Two figures stumbled through the woods, not even trying to conceal themselves. He aimed around the corner of the building. Flames lit up the night and he could make out the comrade leading Faith toward him. She stumbled as if injured. He rushed to her. “Where’s she hurt?”

  “She found her father.”

  Summer mouthed, “Kosyk?”

  Zara nodded. “We have to get out of here. The drivers.”

  Summer stuck the gun in his pocket and picked Faith up, hoisting her over his shoulder. He was relived to feel her body against his and didn’t want to ever let go.

  They ran down the driveway toward the car. Three-quarters of the way down the path, a gun fired and they dropped to the ground.

  “Get her to the car. I’ll draw their fire and cover you,” Zara said.

  “Careful, comrade.” Summer carried Faith toward the road.

  “Go!” Zara crouched behind a tree, reached around and fired off two shots. The drivers returned fire. She hit the ground and crawled to the next tree. She looked around and could make out three figures in the shifting flames. One was headed into the woods to outflank her, so she fired at him and then saw him drop. She shot at the others and sprinted several meters, unloading her Makarov as she ran. She dived onto the ground. Automatic-weapons fire erupted. She slinked along the ground as quickly as she could with at least fifty meters until the road. Bullets sprayed a nearby tree, turning bark into pulp.

  A gun resounded from the woods near the road. The commander. Someone screamed and the weapons fire stopped. She stood and ran toward the road. Like lightning branching across a night sky, pain suddenly radiated through her right arm, and then she heard the whizzing sound of the shot catch up with her. She spun around and emptied the magazine in the direction of the fire until a man let out an involuntary yelp of pain. Zara held her arm and ran, arriving at the Zil at the same time as Summer.

  Automatic gunfire punctuated the night as she jumped into the passenger seat. “You drive. I’m hit.”

  Summer hit the gas. The tires spun, stuck in the soft mud. The engine roared, but it wasn’t loud enough to hide the sound of the nearing Kalashnikov.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-TWO

  BERLIN AIR CORRIDOR

  10:14 P.M. (12:14 A.M. MOSCOW TIME)

  The 727 descended to nine thousand feet for the final crossing over East Germany to West Berlin. The day of milk hauls between West Berlin and West Germany had been long and uneventful, save for a bird strike in the late afternoon that threw them off schedule by nearly an hour. Frosty yawned as he scanned his console, all instruments reading within normal parameters. He knew his days were numbered as a Pan Am flight engineer. Flight engineers were slowly going extinct, thanks to declining profit margins and the genius of Boeing and Airbus designers. Modern jetliners had automated so many of the calculations that were the bread and butter of the flight engineer that even the latest models of the complex 747 had forgone their need. Sure, he was a pilot and could always become a first officer, but he was happiest as an engineer.

  He patted the side of the engineer’s station of the aging 727. The old girl is built like a brick shithouse. The boys at Boeing had so overengineered the ’27 that he was sure she’d share the same fate as the DC-3. With occasional engine replacements, she’d be demoted from First World passenger service to hauling cargo around the Third World for a good half-century beyond her expected lifespan. The new Airbuses that were entering the Pan Am fleet with their joysticks and glass cockpit would never hold up like the 727. He shook his head at the irony of a disposable airplane disposing with his job. He never did make captain, but then he never did make history as he had dreamed when he first flew his dad’s plane at eleven. Just when things were going right, life and women had a way of getting in the way. Maybe it was time to let go.

  The kidnapping a few days before in Moscow haunted him. Faith might be dead now because of him. If he’d fought harder, he could’ve saved her. He shouldn’t have listened to Ian; he should’ve gone ahead and reported her abduction to the embassy. He let Faith down. He wasn’t useful for much nowadays. Maybe it was time to gracefully harden into the fossilized world of retirement. He looked at the worn photo of his chocolate Lab Clipper and smiled. Ever since he had rescued Clipper from the pound and Clipper had saved him from the loneliness of divorce, the dog’s picture rode along on every flight, propped up on the engineer’s station. I’ll be home soon, boy.

  The first officer was flying and Captain Henning was monitoring the radio. Frosty noticed his countenance suddenly drop. He grabbed his headset and listened in on the radio chatter.

  “Ich wiederhole, Pan American, you are ordered to leave the sovereign airspace of the German Democratic Republic, heading two-two-five,” the heavily accented voice crackled over the radio.

  The afterburner of a MIG fighter flared in the distance. A few seconds later, it buzzed within meters of the American civilian craft.

  “Jesus,” Frosty said.

  The captain’s voice was steady, too steady. “Berlin Centre, Clipper six-six-one, we are experiencing substantial interference by unidentified craft.”

  Sweat beaded on Frosty’s forehead. Of all the captains he could’ve been assigned, why did he have to get Captain Courageous?

  “Say again, Clipper,” the American air traffic controller said.

  The MIG pilot interrupted, “Pan American, you are ordered to heading two-two-five at once. Mach schnell. You are violating airspace of the German Democratic Republic. Leave our airspace sofort or you will be considered hostile.”

  “Berlin Centre, Clipper six-six-one, we are being threatened by a MIG intercept. Probable Foxbat. Request heading two-two-five to return to West German airspace, best speed.”

/>   “Pan American, here is your final warning.”

  “Henning, fuck protocol. This guy is serious and not very patient. Get us the hell out of here. Now!”

  The MIG buzzed them again at the same instant the captain took charge of the controls from the first officer and began to bank. The 727 shuddered and yawed to the right. Red lights on Frosty’s monitors flashed like a pinball machine. A deafening bell drowned everything out, but years of training shoved fear aside. Frosty silenced the bell, and then confirmed the central power selector was set to the number-one engine. He called out the engine failure checklist from memory and the first officer acknowledged each item.

  “Number-two engine thrust lever—closed; start lever—cut off; engine fire switch—pulled.”

  Frosty monitored the electrical load as he cut the power to the galley and shut off the fuel and hydraulics to the damaged engine. The fire-warning light for the number two was still illuminated. “She’s still on fire. Discharging the bottle now.” He hit the transfer switch.

  The first officer followed the protocol while the captain struggled to control the machine as it dropped. And dropped.

  Frosty’s breathing stopped when he saw the number-three engine’s low-oil-pressure light flicker and its generator trip off. Its EPR was going down faster than they were. The number two’s fire-warning light burned steady as he counted down the seconds until the next extinguisher discharge. He feared he was going to make history after all. Frosty McGuire, first casualty of WWIII. No, he wasn’t going to let the Red bastards win that easily. He prayed that the number one hadn’t ingested any shrapnel as he discharged the extinguishers for both numbers two and three. Frosty McGuire was going down fighting.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTY-THREE

  NORTH OF MOSCOW

  11:23 P.M.

  The Kalashnikov fire came closer, but the tires of the Zil spun in place. The car slid sideways, splattering mud onto the windows. Summer eased up on the gas to creep out of the rut. It wouldn’t move. “Son of a buck.” Summer slapped the wheel. “I’ll push. Think you can drive a little ways, comrade?”

  “Yeah, but hurry. They’ll be in range any moment,” Zara said, her right hand applying pressure to the bullet wound.

  Summer sprang from the car. At the sound of another round of fire, Faith let out an involuntary whimper. Mud sprayed Summer as he rocked the car, careful not to slip underneath it. Stepping on a large stone for traction, he shoved until he could feel the veins popping on his forehead.

  Then the car moved.

  He jumped into the driver’s seat, nearly landing on Zara’s lap. An engine started in the distance. Just as he was closing the car door, he saw a flash of light and a second later heard the report from Faith’s mines. He then listened for the gas tank. Within seconds it lit up the forest. He threw the car into gear and stomped on the gas. The moon was bright enough that he could keep the headlights off. “You’re going to have to direct me. I don’t know where to go except away from here.”

  “Straight about twenty kilometers.” Keeping her right arm stationary, Zara removed a cardboard box from under the passenger seat. She pulled out a package of gauze. Holding it between her teeth, she ripped it open. She slipped off the blazer, opened her blouse and pressed the gauze against the wound.

  “How bad you hit, Zara?”

  “Hurts like the devil, but doesn’t feel like it got the bone. Bleeding’s more than I’d like.”

  “You’ve been hit before?”

  “Couple times. One grazed my scapula in Grenada during the invasion.”

  “Really? I took one there, too—in the butt.”

  “Hope you’re not offended if I don’t want to compare battle scars.”

  “So there definitely were Russian and not just Cuban advisers in Grenada.” He glanced over to Zara. The white gauze was turning dark from blood.

  “Not really. The Cubans can hardly build an outhouse without us, but they’re not too bad with runways. I was based out of Havana at the time, doing some counterespionage work, and I was following up on reports of increased CIA activity when the invasion started. We suspected the CIA was establishing a station at the medical school.”

  “Faith, how we doing back there? Want to tell me what happened, sweetie?” He looked into the rearview mirror. She was stretched out, covered with the blanket.

  “How do you live with yourself after you kill someone?” Faith said.

  “You needed to have aimed lower, at the base of his skull. Where you got him, it would have taken much more force and probably multiple blows to kill him.” Zara pressed on the wound. “You gave him a concussion, that’s all.”

  “The thing is, I wanted to. I wanted him dead.”

  Silence.

  “I want to see Mama now.”

  “Why?” Summer said.

  “I just killed my father, so I want to sleep with my mother in some twisted Oedipus thing. What do you think?” Her voice cracked her façade. “I need her.”

  “The comrade’s right that heads can take a real pounding. I’m sure he’s alive. You try and get some sleep. We’ve got a bit of a drive and it’s pretty much all over now.” Summer crossed his fingers, pointing them toward Zara.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t. I was going to give you a couple of minutes of respite before I told you.” Zara peeked under the bloody gauze pads, opened another pack and pressed one on top of the blood-soaked square.

  “How’s it look?”

  “Bleeding’s slowing. It’s rather deep.”

  “I’ve got a good vet here in Moscow I can recommend.”

  “Don’t worry about me. There are more important things. We’re facing two separate situations. We stopped the coup back there, but not the assassination. The orders have already been issued and the assassin deployed to murder Gorbachev tomorrow morning during the May Day parade in Red Square.”

  “What kind of a dumb-ass outfit is that? You never give the green light until you’re ready.”

  “Quite frankly, I doubt he would’ve been sober enough by morning to give the go-ahead. General Zolotov had arrangements to halt it if he had to, but he went up with the banya. Since they never received the C-4—”

  “They did tonight.”

  “I stand corrected. Since they didn’t receive the shipment as expected, they changed their plans to use a sniper from the top floor of GUM department store.” Zara rifled through the first-aid supplies with her good arm.

  “I sure hope that’s the really bad news.”

  “Take a right here.” Zara’s face grimaced from pain. “It gets much worse. Honecker is making a move against West Berlin tonight.”

  “God almighty.” Summer took a deep breath. “It’s gonna be ironic if I end up getting vaporized by American nukes. Guess, in the end, it doesn’t really matter who they come from.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It really doesn’t,” the KGB officer said.

  “Any idea of their exact plans?”

  “Kosyk said they would seal off the city tonight, liquidate the West Berlin police, take over the government, cut off communications. By morning, he said the Allied bases would be cordoned off by the National People’s Army. Faith, could you help me with this? I’ve reduced the bleeding to a trickle and I want to bandage it.”

  “Sounds like a textbook communist takeover.” Faith sat up and took the gauze roll from Zara. Her voice grew stronger. “He forgot the part about installing a puppet government first so it can invite in the National People’s Army and Red Army with a request for military assistance.”

  “The Soviet Army isn’t involved. Honecker is acting alone.” Zara opened yet another fresh square of gauze and piled it on top of the blood-soaked ones. “Help me get this blouse off and wrap my arm with the gauze strip.”

  Faith leaned over the seat and unbuttoned Zara’s blouse, careful to keep her own mud-caked sleeve away from the wound. “Honecker’s timing really doesn’t make sense to me. They should have waited a few hours. The world
would have been so stunned, they’d have a window to move and dig themselves in while the US administration was trying to figure out which faction was taking over in Moscow. The Americans would’ve been stymied asking themselves if the play for Berlin was a result of the coup or was the putsch to prevent the takeover.” Faith pushed the blouse from Zara’s right shoulder, holding it so she could pull the uninjured arm free. She paused for a moment with her hand cupping Zara’s bare shoulder.

  “Kosyk set them up. He signaled them that the assassination had already taken place tonight.”

  “Summer, I need your knife. I think I’d better cut this off. I’m afraid I’m going to hit the wound when I slip the sleeve over it,” Faith said.

  “I’m not that delicate. Go ahead and do your best not to bump it.”

  “Summer, the knife, please.”

  “Why would they believe him if the assassination hadn’t been confirmed somehow by the news or something?” Summer dug in his pocket and held out the Leatherman.

  Faith pulled out a blade. In a single motion, she sliced away the sleeve down to the elbow. Zara unbuttoned the cuff and threw the blouse onto the floorboard. She wore only a sleeveless white undershirt, now stained with specks of fresh blood.

  “Kremlin politics are different from the White House. When a leader dies, they usually wait until the body smells before they announce it.” Zara’s strained voice betrayed her pain.

  “Are there some painkillers in that first-aid shoebox?” Faith wrapped the gauze around Zara’s arm. “Tell me if this is too tight.”

  “I don’t like using drugs unless I really need them.”

  “If it’s not something really strong that’s going to make you loopy, go ahead and treat yourself,” Summer said.

  Zara shuffled through the box, removed a couple of pills from a cellophane packet and swallowed them dry. Summer turned onto a side road.