The Kremlin Phoenix

by Renneberg, Stephen

  The plane turned onto the end of the runway, the engines powered up, but before the brakes were released, the roar of the engines died.

  “What happened?” Craig demanded.

  General Sorokin jumped to his feet and hurried forward, followed by Craig. They burst into the control room to find the pilot on the radio with the control tower and a third voice.

  The pilot turned to Sorokin and shook his head. “The army is radioing. They’ve ordered us not to takeoff, or they’ll open fire.”

  “They’re playing for time,” Craig said.

  “Takeoff,” the general ordered.

  “But general,” the pilot said, “If they start shooting, one hit will destroy the plane, and kill us all.”

  “They’ve got to hit us, to do that,” Sorokin said. “Now go!”

  The pilot exchanged doubtful looks with his co-pilot and engineer, then powered up the engines and released the brakes. The A320 rolled forward as a muted crump sounded from an artillery piece firing. At the end of the runway, a cloud erupted from a shell exploding against the reinforced concrete, carving a shallow crater in the surface.

  “They’re trying to wreck the runway,” General Sorokin said as another shell exploded slightly closer, blasting a second crater into the airstrip. He turned to the pilot. “Keep going. Get into the air as fast as you can. Don’t stop for any reason.”

  At the far end of the airstrip, another shell landed as the creeping barrage came closer still, this time ripping up a slab of runway as the pilot pushed the throttles to maximum. The speaker suddenly blared with a stream of angry demands from the army officer commanding the gun battery.

  “What’s he saying?” Craig asked.

  “He’s ordering us to stop, or we’ll be destroyed.” Sorokin reached forward and switched off the radio as another shell thumped down into the runway, reducing the length of the airstrip by another hundred meters.

  “Must be only one gun firing,” Sorokin said, realizing the army still hadn’t had time to set up the entire battery.

  “Do we have enough room?” Craig asked.

  Sorokin’s jaw tensed. “It’ll be close.”

  The artillery spotter saw the A320 speeding down the runway, and redirected his gun towards the center of the airstrip in an attempt to hit the jet, while beside him, another gun crew worked feverishly to deploy a second artillery piece. Precious seconds passed as the jet picked up speed while the artillery crew reset the gun and fired. The shell landed behind the jet, cracking the runway but failing to penetrate its hardened surface. The gun crew compensated for the A320’s growing speed, sending their next shell bursting in front of the big airbus. The projectile landed to the side of the runway in open ground, throwing a high plume of dirt above the port wing as the second gun opened fire. It’s poorly aimed shell soared over the jet and landed well beyond the airstrip.

  Sorokin estimated the distance to the craters and the slab of concrete blocking the runway shortened.“Get up!” he urged as the first crater approached.

  The pilot glanced at their airspeed indicator. It was still below a hundred knots, but climbing fast. “Not yet!”

  Craig leaned forward as the first artillery piece fired again. There was a flash from among the trees at the end of the airstrip, then another shell fell on the reinforced center of the runway, cracking the surface, but not breaking through it.

  The closest crater was on the right side of the runway, so Sorokin pointed to the left side. “Ease her over a little!”

  Sensing his meaning, the pilot let the aircraft drift towards the edge of the runway. The aircraft vibrated as it sped over a thin layer of dirt thrown out from the crater, then its starboard wheels narrowly missing the jagged hole in the concrete as the jet raced towards the second crater.

  “Now!” Sorokin yelled.

  The big jet shuddered in protest as the pilot pulled back on the stick, lifting the nose wheel. A moment later, the main wheels floated off the ground as they passed over the second crater. The A320 began to climb as another 105 millimeter shell dropped past its starboard wing and struck the runway, but the jet was travelling too fast now to be caught in the explosion. The white jet swept on through the thinning cloud of black smoke dispersing from the first shells, then it was in clear air and climbing steeply.

  Below, they saw three guns lined up, set to fire, and three more partially sited. There was one more flash from among the trees, then the gun battery fell silent and the crews looked up, watching as the A320 escaped into the safety of the sky.

  “Next stop, Alaska,” Craig said as the airbus banked towards the rising sun.

  Chapter 11

  Nogorev and Chernykh crept through the dark maintenance crawlway stretching from the forward cargo compartment to the avionics bay beneath the flight deck. It was several hours since takeoff, enough time Nogorev calculated for the passengers to have fallen into the drowsy boredom of long distance air travel. He’d been surprised by the crump of artillery during takeoff. No one had told him the army had been ordered to wreck the runway, but now that they’d failed, he had sole responsibility for preventing Craig Balard from aiding Gundarovsky’s burgeoning resistance movement.

  Nogorev squeezed into the small engineering space beneath the access hatch that opened into the flight deck. He held his knife in one hand as he quietly turned the locking handle with the other, then eased the hatch up enough for a crack of light to appear. He stole a quick look, then lowered the hatch and held up three fingers to Chernykh, indicating the positions of the two pilots and the engineer above them. Chernykh readied his Skorpion machine pistol, even though he would only use it if Nogorev was overpowered. They both knew the risks of discharging a gun at high altitude, something they’d only do as a last resort.

  Nogorev readied himself, then quietly raised the access panel and stood. The engineer sat dozing, the co-pilot was gazing absently through the cockpit window and the pilot sat with arms crossed, watching the instruments. Nogorev climbed quietly out of the avionics bay and cut the engineer’s throat with a single savage stroke. The engineer’s eyes opened in shock. He gurgled momentarily before slumping forward in his safety harness.

  “What the - ?” the pilot turned, finding himself nose to barrel with Nogorev’s silenced Skorpion.

  Nogorev held a bloody blade in front of his lips like a finger, ordering silence. Chernykh climbed up onto the flight deck and locked the door to the passenger compartment, then aimed his sub-machine gun at the pilots.

  “Who are you?” the pilot asked.

  “Are you on autopilot?” Nogorev demanded.

  “Yes,” the pilot replied. “If you fire that gun in here, you’ll kill us all.”

  “Where are we going?” Nogorev asked.

  “Anchorage, Alaska.”

  “Where are we now?”

  “Approaching Kolyma Gulf, on the north Siberian coast.”

  “Land immediately.”

  “We can’t. Not out here. There are no runways long enough to take an aircraft this big.”

  Nogorev suppressed his irritation. “If you had to divert, where would you go?”

  “Ugolny,” the co-pilot said.

  “Where’s that?” Chernykh asked.

  “On the Chukotka coast, near the Bering Sea.”

  “That’s too far north.” Nogorev said. Even at low altitude, it would be too cold for a parachute jump. “What about further south?”

  The co-pilot looked at the navigation display. “Yelizovo?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s on the south eastern tip of Kamchatka,” the co-pilot replied.

  Nogorev thought for a moment. It would still be cold, but it might just be bearable. “How long to get there?”

  The co-pilot did a quick calculation. “Three hours.”

  “That’s a long way off our course,” the pilot said. “We couldn’t–”

  Nogorev stabbed the pilot in a lightning fast stroke, driving the knife up into the captain’s bra
in, killing him instantly. The pilot slumped forward, the knife embedded beneath his jaw. Nogorev turned to the co-pilot. “You are now flying this aircraft. Determine what fuel you need to reach Yelizovo. Dump the rest.”

  The co-pilot glanced at the dead pilot and nodded. He quickly calculated the fuel requirements, then with Nogorev’s gun aimed at his head, began dumping fuel, very slowly. After a few minutes, he turned nervously back to Nogorev. “That’s it.”

  “Can you reach Alaska with the remaining fuel?”

  “No sir,” the co-pilot said truthfully. “We have just enough fuel to reach Yelizovo.” The co-pilot swallowed, hoping his lie would not be detected.

  Nogorev waved at the controls. “Set the autopilot for Yelizovo, four thousand meters altitude.”

  “Four thousand?”

  Nogorev gave the co-pilot a deadly stare, silencing further questions.

  “Yes sir.” The co-pilot reset the autopilot with shaking hands. Slowly, the A320 banked to the south east, towards Yelizovo Airport on the outskirts of the coastal city of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. Presently, the airbus leveled off on its new course and began gently descending toward its new altitude.

  “Now what?” the co-pilot asked.

  Nogorev released the engineer’s safety belt, letting his body fall onto the deck, then sat in the seat. “We wait.”

  * * * *

  Once airborne, Craig and his father exchanged histories, trying to learn in a few hours what the other had done over many years. Craig had shown him his old KGB file, but as neither could read it, it was quickly consigned to a vacant seat. When his father started to doze, Craig walked forward to stretch, past empty seats and a handful of sleeping old men. After a few knee bends, he glanced through the window beside the emergency exit door, gazing out across wispy clouds and a vast expanse of green Siberian forest. For a while, he marveled at the immensity of the frozen wilderness, then became uneasy as he remembered having seen the Arctic Sea approaching in the distance a few hours ago.

  How could he now be looking down at an endless forest?

  He went back to where General Sorokin slept and quietly roused him. “We’re over land,” he whispered. “Shouldn’t we be over water by now?”

  Sorokin blinked, snapping fully awake. He moved to a window, where he studied the terrain and the angle of the sunlight on the wing. Surprise flashed across his face. “We’re on the wrong course!”

  By now, the Lieutenant and several of the General’s guards were watching with growing interest. Sorokin motioned for them to follow with their weapons as he hurried towards the flight deck. He tried the door, surprised to find it locked.

  He knocked, yelling, “Open up, it’s General Sorokin!”

  When no one answered, he stepped back. “Break it in.”

  The lieutenant stepped forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into the door lock. A moment later, he spun around and fell to the floor, pressing his hand against his shoulder. When they saw blood seeping through his fingers, they realized he’d been shot, although no one had heard the silenced gun fire.

  The air force soldiers raised their weapons to return fire, but General Sorokin held up his hand. “No! Not in here.” Their high powered assault rifles would destroy fragile equipment in the cockpit and easily puncture the outer hull.

  One of the general’s escorts dragged the lieutenant to safety, then pulled open his shirt to check the wound. There was a small entry hole, but no exit wound, indicating he’d been hit by a low velocity bullet which had lodged against bone.

  “Identify yourself!” General Sorokin ordered. “What do you want?”

  There was no response. Sorokin tried several more times, then motioned for one of the soldiers to break in the cockpit door from the side, where he would not be so easy a target. The soldier fixed his bayonet and struck the door once, quickly darting aside, but no shot sounded from within. He drove the bayonet into the lock, levered it apart, then kicked the door open. The cockpit was empty, except for the bodies of the engineer on the floor and the pilots in their seats. The captain still had the knife in his throat, and the co-pilot’s head was twisted unnaturally from a broken neck.

  General Sorokin led the way into the cockpit, running his eye over the dead aircrew with growing anger. His gaze settled on the hatch down into the avionics bay. He nodded to a soldier to aim at the floor hatch, then he lifted it quickly, but the dark space below was empty. “Whoever did this, is down there,” he said slowly, replacing the hatch and standing to study the aircraft’s controls. He motioned for the soldiers to remove the bodies as Valentina and Colonel Balard arrived to peer into the flight deck.

  “Who’s going to pilot the plane?” Valentina asked.

  “There are twenty seven pilots on this aircraft,” Colonel Balard said. “Flying the plane shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Twenty eight,” General Sorokin said as he climbed into the captain’s seat.

  “Could you use a co-pilot?” Colonel Balard asked. When Sorokin nodded, he slid into the other seat.

  The General studied the controls a moment. “We’re way off course.” The Siberian plain stretched off to the left and right, while a wide expanse of water lay dead ahead. A ribbon of land was just starting to creep up over the horizon in the distance. “That’s the Kamchatka Peninsula!”

  “Can we still make Alaska?” Craig asked.

  Sorokin checked the fuel levels, made several rough calculations and shook his head. “No, Alaska is impossible now. We’re heading for Yelizovo airport at the southern end of the Peninsula.”

  “Can we reach anywhere outside Russia?” Craig asked. “What about the Aleutians?”

  General Sorokin shook his head. “There are no airstrips large enough for this aircraft in range.”

  Colonel Balard studied the navigational display. “Alaska’s not the only choice.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Sorokin asked.

  Colonel Balard pointed to the map. “How about there?”

  Sorokin did some fast fuel calculations. “We might make it,” he said, then quickly reset the auto pilot. Slowly the A320 banked further to the south, turning towards the Sea of Okhotsk between mainland Russia and the Kamchatka Peninsula.

  An indicator light suddenly turned red as air was sucked down into the avionics bay through the floor hatch. General Sorokin looked up surprised. “The port landing gear compartment door just unlocked!” He pressed a switch several times, trying unsuccessfully to lock the gear door.

  “What’s the altitude?” Craig asked.

  “Four thousand meters,” his father replied, surprised.

  “Is that low enough to jump?”

  “It’s possible, but this is a civilian plane,” General Sorokin said. “It’s not equipped with parachutes.”

  “But Bratsk Airbase was!” Valentina said. “Right?”

  “Yes, but whoever’s in the landing gear compartment couldn’t jump at this speed,” the general said, “even if he had oxygen.”

  “Spetsnaz are just crazy enough to try,” Valentina said, “without oxygen.”

  “Dropping the gear would slow us down,” Sorokin conceded.

  “We should go lower,” Colonel Balard said. “We’re depressurizing at this altitude.”

  “But that will make it easier for him to jump,” Valentina said.

  “If we stay over water,” Craig said, “he can’t jump. And if he plans to destroy the plane, he’ll die with us.”

  Sorokin reset the autopilot to two thousand three hundred meters. Slowly, the airbus began a gentle, computer controlled descent.

  “We can’t leave him down there, whoever he is,” Craig said, producing the pistol Siyansky had given him at Zamok Branka and opening the hatch down into the avionics bay. He peered into the darkness a moment, then climbed down.

  Valentina drew her Makarov pistol and started down after him

  “Don’t let my son do anything stupid,” Colonel Balard said. “I’d hate to lose him again, so soon
after finding him.”

  Valentina gave him a reassuring nod, then lowered herself into the cramped avionics bay, followed by one of General Sorokin’s guards. Craig had already pulled himself through the narrow crawlway to the forward cargo compartment, where he found an empty rectangular space large enough to hold three cargo containers. A panel was pried open in the rear wall, providing access into the undercarriage housing and the rear cargo compartments beyond. Air was being sucked out through the open panel as sunlight reflected off metal surfaces from the undercarriage compartment. Over the roar of the engines, Craig heard a mechanical creaking as the undercarriage door was being manually cranked open.

  He had to stoop as he crept towards the open panel, shivering in the freezing cold air as it was whistled out through the wheel bay. Behind him, Valentina and the soldier emerged from the avionics crawlway and hurried to his side as he stole a look through the open panel. The wheel bay was filled with thick metal struts, shock absorbers and four large black wheels. Below the wheels, the port undercarriage door was already down sixty degrees, revealing a cold, dark blue sea sparkling below. Chernykh turned a crank handle at the back of the compartment, unaware Craig was watching him, while the parachute he’d brought aboard lay at his feet.

  Craig raised his gun, and opened his mouth to shout an order for Chernykh to stop, but Valentina clamped her hand over his mouth and pulled him away from the open panel.

  She released her grip and whispered, “Never warn them! Never give them a chance!”

  Valentina nodded to the soldier. He crept to the open panel and took aim with his rifle. Just as he fired, the aircraft shuddered, causing his shot to go wide, grazing Chernykh’s shoulder. A moment later two shots cut through the cargo compartment’s thin metal skin, one taking the soldier in the hip. He fell back, hand pressed against his wound as his rifle skidded across the cargo deck.

  Valentina dragged the soldier back as Craig stole a look through the open panel. The manual crank stood abandoned and the surrounding metal deck was sprinkled with red droplets. A bloodied hand appeared on a black rubber wheel, then a head and a gun popped up together. Craig fired, striking a metal shock absorber, filling the confined wheel bay with a reverberating metal clang.