by Lee Jackson
He pulled back. He was too late.
Ivan reached up, locked his hand around the general’s ankle, and yanked. Yermolov fell backward and tried to clutch anything that would support his balance. There was nothing. Ivan braced a foot against one of the stairs and wrenched.
Atcho appeared next to him. He grabbed Yermolov’s other foot, and together they dragged him down.
Yermolov almost fell on top of them. Atcho and Ivan tugged on his legs again and dragged him down to the cargo level. Yermolov landed in a heap. He howled, but his voice was lost in the bowels of a behemoth in flight.
Rafael jumped to assist. Atcho waved him away. “Go take care of the other general,” he yelled. He turned to Sofia. “Go with him and find that bomb!” They nodded and rushed toward the stairs. Yermolov reached up to grab Rafael, who kicked his hands away. He and Sofia drew their pistols and disappeared up the stairs.
Yermolov flailed at his still unknown assailants. “I’ll kill you.”
Ivan let go of Yermolov’s leg, stepped alongside him, and kicked his chin. The general lay still.
“Go help them!” Atcho told Ivan. “I’ll be there as soon as I tie down this son-of-a-bitch. Don’t let the plane land. Get to the crew compartment. Take control.” Ivan gave him a thumbs-up, drew his pistol, and headed up the stairs.
Meanwhile, Rafael and Sofia reached the upper level. They crept along the short crosswalk by the crew compartment. Ahead were the two cabins that the cargo chief had mentioned. He had said the one for the generals was on the right.
Holding his pistol at shoulder height, Rafael eased in front of the door. He reached down and turned the doorknob. Pushing gently, he peered through the crack. The couch to his right was empty.
Rafael shoved the door open and hurtled across to his left. Fierko sat there reading. He barely had time to look up before Rafael knocked him against the aircraft’s outer wall. When their motion stopped, Rafael was on top of him with a pistol at his head.
“You move, I shoot,” Rafael roared. “Do you understand?”
Sofia appeared in the door and shouted a translation.
Fierko’s eyes flashed with rage, but he nodded and gave no resistance. Rafael’s gestures added implicit emphasis.
“Where’s the bomb?” Sofia demanded in Russian. Seeing Fierko’s eyes widen in confused surprise, she yelled, “The briefcase. Where is Yermolov’s briefcase?”
Fierko was bewildered. “His briefcase? He took it with him, to the latrine.” Sofia bolted for the door.
Rafael motioned for the general to lie on his stomach. Then he bound Fierko’s hands and feet with cargo straps.
In the next compartment, the loadmaster heard the thud of Rafael landing on Fierko, but did not know the cause. He had turned off the lights in the cabin an hour earlier, but was sleeping lightly when he heard the disturbance. He sat up and peered around in the dark. Then he went to his entrance and stepped through. The generals’ compartment door was ajar, but the crosswalk was quiet.
He withdrew into his cabin, but just then, one of the ceiling lights cast the shadow of a man moving on the crosswalk. Thinking he might catch sight of one of the generals, the loadmaster stayed and watched through the crack. Then he froze. He saw Ivan creeping cautiously toward the generals’ open door. In his right hand, he carried a pistol at the ready, and entered the cabin. Thinking furiously, the loadmaster backed into darkness and closed his door.
In the generals’ compartment, Ivan looked over Rafael’s shoulder and saw that he had tied Fierko’s hands, and was lashing his feet. “You got him?”
Rafael signaled to confirm. “There’s no bomb,” he called.
“What?”
“The bomb. The briefcase. It’s not here. Sofia went to look for it in the latrine.”
Ivan grimaced. He kneeled next to Fierko’s head. “Where is the briefcase?” he yelled in Russian.
Fierko stared, unblinking.
“Where’s the briefcase?” Ivan roared. “It’s a bomb, a nuclear bomb.”
Fierko’s eyes widened with a hint of terror. “I told the woman. Yermolov took it with him. He went to the latrine.”
Ivan translated for Rafael. “Tell that to Atcho, when he comes. I’m going to the flight cabin.”
In the next compartment, the loadmaster cracked his door open. He saw Ivan re-emerge, halt, and speak to someone inside.
Ivan returned his pistol to his belt. He walked to the crew cabin, mounted the two stairs, entered, and closed the door.
The loadmaster cursed. His Makarov was locked away in his office on the cargo level. He stepped quietly onto the crosswalk. It was empty. The door to the adjacent cabin was ajar, but he could not see inside. He kept his back close to the wall as he crept past it, reached the stairs, and climbed down.
Atcho knew that Yermolov would not be out long. The general had been stunned by Ivan’s kick to his chin, but he was already stirring. Atcho rolled the man onto his stomach and pulled his arms behind him. Then he took a cargo strap from his pocket, and looped one snugly around Yermolov’s left wrist.
Atcho had just cinched the cargo strap and looped it around the right wrist, but had not yet tightened it. He sensed movement behind him and turned his head slightly. From the corner of his eye, he saw the loadmaster hurtling through the air toward him. He dropped his head and rolled to his right.
The loadmaster clipped Atcho’s shoulder, accelerating Atcho’s roll. He continued to careen forward, but was thrown to his left and landed in a heap, banging his head on the cold steel floor. His waist covered Yermolov’s face. All three men lay stunned.
Yermolov was the first to stir. The movement on his back had jarred him awake. He became aware of a mass falling to his right, and was infuriated when more weight landed across his head. His jaw ached where Ivan had kicked him.
When he tried to move, he found that a strap had been looped around both wrists. Frantic, he pulled against them. The one on his right wrist fell away. Working both arms forward under the weight of his body and that of the loadmaster, he struggled against throbbing aches, but managed to roll onto his right side, and found another person there. He pushed the loadmaster off his head. In the faint light, he saw Atcho’s face.
Pain forgotten, rage surged through Yermolov. “You bastard!” he thundered. “I’ll kill you!”
The aircraft creaked while banking to its left. Yermolov lurched, and found himself sitting with his legs stretched downhill. Atcho rolled into him. The loadmaster lay still.
Atcho had been only slightly stunned, and when he rolled, he opened his eyes. In the half-light of the cargo bay, Yermolov’s face was in shadows with dark pits where his eyes should be, the image of a devil in flight.
The aircraft banked steeper. Atcho’s left shoulder was pinned against Yermolov. Through shooting pain, he pulled both arms under him and shoved off so that he rolled across Yermolov’s legs. He kept himself rolling on the downhill side.
Yermolov jerked his right arm free from under the loadmaster. As Atcho rolled past, he slammed his fist down on Atcho’s head.
Atcho reeled under the blow, but kept moving. He struggled to his feet, glaring at Yermolov. “You ’re mine,” he roared above the din.
The jet straightened out, its momentum throwing Atcho into Yermolov’s chest, flattening both. Seconds later, its nose dipped further into its descent.
Atcho tried to roll to his right, but was held back by the upward angle of the floor. He forced his legs to a crouch.
Yermolov rolled down in the opposite direction over the limp figure of the loadmaster and struggled to one knee. He panted hard and looked across at Atcho with a malicious grin. “You really are a pain in the ass, you know that, Atcho? You never learned when to stop.”
Atcho fought to catch his breath. Between them the loadmaster stirred, now downhill from Atcho. Without hesitation, Atcho stepped over and kicked the man’s head. He fell back into unconsciousness. Using momentum, Atcho swung around and faced Yermolov. Ten empty f
eet lay between them.
“You’re so cruel,” Yermolov crooned. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“You’re done.”
Yermolov looked amused. “Seriously? Do you know where you are?”
Atcho glared, irony conveyed in his expression. “Not where you think we are. We won’t land in Moscow. My friends will see to that.”
Yermolov’s face contorted into shocked realization. Atcho reached for his pistol. It was not in its holster. Reading his gesture, Yermolov chortled, “You lost your gun?” He reached for his own, but found his holster empty too. He dropped his glance to check for it.
Atcho lunged, attacking downhill, but his motion was dulled by tossing and bumping as the big plane descended through turbulent clouds. Metal screeched on metal. With the roar of engines, the smell of fuel and hydraulic fluid, and the sound of wind on steel skin, only the scream of demons in flaming hell could be more raucous.
Atcho caught Yermolov mid-chest with both feet. The general stumbled backwards on the downhill slant and landed on his buttocks in a sitting position.
The jet lurched upward. Atcho fell hard, slamming his right temple into the rough steel floor. Consciousness waned.
When he looked up again, Yermolov stood over him. He punched the side of Atcho’s face, pounding his head into the floor. Atcho lay almost prone on his right side.
Yermolov dug his right knee into Atcho’s stomach. He pulled his fist back to deliver another punishing blow to Atcho’s face.
Atcho saw it coming and jerked his head aside. Yermolov’s fist slammed into the steel floor. He howled in agony and let go.
Atcho rolled away and struggled to his feet. Every wound screamed in pain. Yermolov watched him, wild-eyed. He put his good hand on the floor and started to push himself up.
With a roar, Atcho attacked. He stepped toward Yermolov, spun on the ball of his foot, ducked his upper body, and delivered a powerful kick to the jaw. Yermolov went down and did not move.
Atcho looked around. The loadmaster had begun to stir again. As Atcho glanced in that direction, he saw his pistol on the floor nearby. Breathing heavily, he staggered over, picked it up, and then found Yermolov’s pistol lying two feet away. He picked it up too.
The loadmaster sat up, shaking his head, and leaned on his arms behind him. His eyes locked on Atcho.
Panting heavily, Atcho pointed his pistol. The man lay back down.
A few feet away Yermolov lifted his anguished face. Atcho waved the pistol at him. “Stay where you are!”
Yermolov grinned with malevolence, despite his pain. “Or what? You aren’t going to shoot me.” He looked around. “You might miss, and hit something vital.”
Atcho pulled the slider on his Glock. “Where’s the bomb, Yermolov?”
Yermolov raised doleful eyes in surprise. “Is there anything you don’t know?” He laughed in satanic staccato. “Find it.” He grinned again, his eyes burning with evil. He looked straight into Atcho’s eyes, and rose onto one knee. Then, before Atcho could stop him, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object, and jabbed a button with his finger. “You’ve got twelve minutes.”
In horror, Atcho realized that Yermolov had just armed the bomb via remote control. Setting his jaw, he closed the distance between them. The general braced for another skirmish. Atcho lowered his pistol to Yermolov’s lower right thigh. “I don’t have time for games.” He pulled the trigger. The pistol jumped in his hand.
Yermolov screamed. A dark pool of blood spread along the floor, rippling with the vibration of the aircraft.
Atcho turned to check the loadmaster, whose eyes were wide with fear. With flicks of his wrist, Atcho signaled for the man to turn Yermolov onto his back and tie him to a cargo rail. “Hurry!” he yelled without knowing if the man understood. “Bomb!”
The loadmaster seemed to grasp the word “bomb.” He suddenly moved frantically, and secured Yermolov to a cargo rail in short order. When he was done, Atcho tied him up and checked Yermolov’s bindings. Then he put his mouth close to Yermolov’s ear.
“I’m putting a tourniquet on your leg. Lie still, or you’ll bleed out.” He grabbed Yermolov’s jaw and wrenched it around to look full into his face. “Reagan wants you alive. I don’t care either way, and it’s my call.”
Chapter 47
Atcho rushed upstairs and found Rafael keeping watch over Fierko. “Where’s the briefcase?”
“Yermolov took it to the latrine. Sofia’s searching for it.” He stared at Atcho’s bloodstained clothes, torn and dripping with sweat.
Atcho gestured toward Fierko. “Is he secure?”
“He’s not going anywhere.”
“Make sure, and then go help Sofia find the briefcase. The bomb is already active. Yermolov set it by remote. I’m going to the flight cabin.”
Sofia had found the latrine, and now searched frantically for the briefcase by the dim light on the wall. It was not on the floor, or behind the commode. She opened a cabinet door, but it too was empty. She looked along the wall for an opening, and on the ceiling, but found nothing. She looked again at the commode, but the opening at the bottom was too small for a briefcase.
Rafael showed up behind her in the door. Her look told him her effort so far had been futile. He looked over the latrine just as she had, but saw nothing different.
Sofia looked up at the ceiling again. “What about up there?” she suggested. “Maybe that ceiling raises.” It was beyond her reach, but when Rafael stood on the commode he could push up on it slightly, and found that it raised. He tried to reach around beyond the ceiling tile, but found nothing, and in any event, could not reach far.
“Here, I’ll lift you,” he told Sofia. She moved out of his way while he positioned himself. Then he put his hands together with fingers interlocked, and leaned down. She stepped into them, he hoisted her as far as he could, and she grappled around in the dark space beyond the opening, out to arm’s length.
Just as Rafael thought he would drop her, Sofia’s hand hit a boxlike object. At that moment, a high pitch electronic sound blared from inside the opening. Her heart dropped. “I think I’ve found it,” she called.
Rafael struggled for better position, and Sofia tugged at the object until she found a handle and could grasp it securely. As Rafael’s strength gave out, she held on to it firmly, and when they went down, the object fell with them. It was a briefcase, and the electronic sound came from inside it.
“Get to the flight cabin,” Sofia yelled. “Let Atcho know we’ve got it. It sounds like it’s been armed.”
Rafael struggled back up and bounded out the door, while Sofia examined the briefcase. It looked ordinary, brown, with a hard surface and a regular latch. She turned it over and examined the other side, but could find no indication of where a trigger mechanism might be.
Gingerly, she pressed the latch release, and held the spring-lock so that it opened gently. Inside, she saw the metal sheet that covered the contents, but nothing that indicated a trigger mechanism. As she held it, the high-toned noise continued, jarring her nerves, and then a control panel popped up. It had a counter, and immediately started counting down. Sofia’s blood froze, and she felt suffocated. The counter crossed the three-minute mark.
The airplane had flown straight and level for a while, but started to bank left again. Soon it would begin its final descent.
When Atcho had entered the crew compartment a few minutes earlier, Ivan stood behind the pilot’s seat. He wore a headset, and he looked relieved to see Atcho.
The crewmembers stared at him, taking in his battered appearance. Gun in hand, he pushed past them to the cockpit.
Lieutenant-Colonel Zhukov and the copilot concentrated on gauges and switches, and the sky. Each had a hand on three of the six throttle controls between them. The aircraft rocketed toward the ground. In a few minutes, they would flare for touchdown.
Atcho tapped the pilot on the shoulder. Zhukov’s shock on seeing Atcho’s bloodied cl
othes registered on his face. He shifted his eyes and locked them on Ivan. “This is one of your KGB colonels?” he demanded. Ivan confirmed with a slight nod. Zhukov scoffed, and returned his attention to flying the aircraft.
Atcho grabbed a headset from behind the pilot’s seat. “Do you speak English?” he asked Zhukov.
The pilot turned to him in surprise and nodded, but quickly returned to his controls. “I’m busy.”
“Listen carefully. Don’t land this airplane.”
Zhukov whirled. He stared at Atcho and then glared at Ivan. His expression became grim. The copilot overheard the conversation. He turned and saw Atcho and his pistol. The blood drained from his face. Pilot and copilot returned to their task of landing the airplane.
It straightened into final descent on its glide path. Within minutes, it would experience turbulence under the wing as it approached the ground and flared. A miscalculation could be catastrophic.
“Zhukov,” Atcho said, and as he did, he brought the pistol to the side of the pilot’s head. “You cannot land. People will die.”
Zhukov swore. “We’ll sort this out on the ground,” he growled. “Step back.”
“There’s a bomb on board. Increase power and take this plane back up!”
“I don’t believe you.”
Atcho glanced out the windshield. In the distance, lights indicating the glide path flashed at him in rapid sequence. Already he could make out the near end of the runway. He jabbed the pistol against Zhukov’s cheek. “Take it up. Now!”
Ivan crouched at Atcho’s back. He had pulled his pistol, and pointed it at the crew. The navigator and one of the engineers were on their feet. They appeared to be calculating a rush. Their expressions registered both dread and resolve.
The door at the rear of the compartment burst open. Rafael entered and sized up the situation. He pulled his pistol and gestured to the crewmen to sit down. “Do your jobs,” he ordered. “Do you understand?” Deflated fury flashed from their eyes, but they sat down. Then Rafael looked at Atcho. “She found it,” he called. Atcho wheeled slightly and returned his grim stare.