~ ~ ~
The pilot smiled as the tower gave him clearance to taxi. With a curt glance at the instruments, he reached forward, toggled the transmit button and confirmed. They were number one for takeoff and would be airborne in minutes.
Grigenko sat in the oversized reclining chair nearest the cockpit, his legs up on the footrest, a glass of vodka in his hand. Oleg peered through the window, absently watching the terminal. The pilot’s voice came over the speakers.
“We are cleared for takeoff, sir. Please fasten your seatbelt. We will be in the air shortly.”
A map popped up on the large flat screen TV on the forward bulkhead, a red line charting their planned flight path to the United States.
Grigenko felt for the remote control in his seat arm and switched it to television, thumbing through the channels until he found live news coverage of the fire in the Monaco marina. His beloved Petrushka was ablaze and looked like it would be a total loss. The newscaster’s excited voice recited statistics on the yacht’s cost and then launched into a measured description of the reclusive Russian oligarch who owned it.
“So, the insurance company is going to be pissed, nyet?” Grigenko said with a harsh laugh, then took another swallow of vodka. Oleg smiled in obligatory amusement.
Grigenko glanced out the window, movement having caught his eye. Just a maintenance vehicle.
“Once we’re in the air, I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a long day,” he said, stretching his arms overhead with a yawn. He pushed a button on the seat, and the windows went opaque, blocking out the glare from the runway spotlights.
The pilot inched the controls forward, increasing power to the engines as the Gulfstream started its takeoff run. It began crawling forward and then quickly accelerated, pushing him back in his seat.
The copilot saw the truck heading at them just before the pilot did.
“What the hell does he think he’s doing? Go, get out of here, idiot. We’re taking off,” the pilot said, waving with his hand at the window, talking to himself. “Do you see this fool? Must be dru–”
The truck swerved and veered toward the jet. The co-pilot screamed as the vehicle’s stairway clipped the right wing, tearing the tip off and jolting the plane. The pilot cut power and struggled to manage their trajectory, but the jet was going too fast, having hit the truck while moving at almost a hundred miles per hour. Fluid streaked from the damaged wing, a part of which dragged on the tarmac, sparks flying in a long bright trail as he fought to control the skid. A fragment of wreckage bounced off the runway and then hit the left rear engine, smoke belching from it as the metal chewed through the turbine blades. A warning lamp illuminated on the instrument panel, and the engine died. As the plane slowed, flames began to ignite the liquid pouring from the wing and fuselage.
Jet Page 62