by A. W. Mykel
“Newark control, this is TW eight-oh-two. We read you,” the captain answered.
“TW eight-oh-two, you have a squawk on six-two-one-six.”
“Roger, Newark,” the captain confirmed.
They adjusted to pick up 6216. A special message would be sent over that private frequency.
“TW eight-oh-two, ready for squawk,” the captain said.
He took a sip of his coffee as the message began. His face tightened and grew suddenly stern. He finally swallowed and continued listening, his eyes narrowing with the words.
“Roger, Central. Thank you.”
He turned slightly in his chair and cast a glance at his crew. “We’ve got a bomb on board,” he announced.
Eyes flicked back and forth quickly. Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.
“We’re putting down in Newark,” the captain said. “They’ve been advised of the situation and will have everything ready. Tell the cabin crew to begin clearing for landing,” he said to his copilot.
The copilot immediately got up from his seat and went aft.
They switched back to standard frequency.
“Newark control, this is TW eight-oh-two.”
“We have you, eight-oh-two. Come right on one-eight-zero.”
“Roger, coming right on one-eight-zero,” the captain said. He began a slow banking turn.
The copilot returned to the cockpit. “It’s a mess out there, John. They’ve got about half of the people eating.”
“Take it away from them,” the captain said. “We’re on a countdown. There’s going to be just enough time to get this thing down.”
The copilot nodded and was about to go aft when a stewardess came in. There was a frightened look in her eyes.
“Clear for landing,” the copilot said. “We’ve got time to make it down safely,” he said. “But we have to go straight down.”
“What do I tell the passengers?” she asked.
The copilot thought. “Tell them…tell them that one of the flight crew was badly injured in the galley,” he quickly invented. “We’re putting down to get assistance. Pass it around to the rest of the cabin crew,” he said.
She nodded and disappeared.
The plane began a second slow turn, now moving in a north westerly direction toward Newark. Their approach would leave just enough time to clear the cabin for landing.
Many of the passengers sensed that something was wrong with the first turn. They all knew after the second. The plane began dropping steadily.
A nervous murmur began to rise in the cabin. Passengers began to get out of their seats to ask the cabin crew what was going on.
Kuradin overheard another passenger tell some others what he had been told. One of the crew had been hurt seriously in the galley and needed immediate attention. A passenger who was a doctor was with her now, but it was necessary to put down immediately to get her to a hospital.
Kuradin wondered. Possible, he thought, but more likely his luck had just run out.
The plane had been descending steadily since the first turn. The rate of descent had become more acute since the second turn. The plane began dropping from the bright sunlight above to the dusk below. As the light faded, so did Kuradin’s confidence.
“TW eight-oh-two, turn left on zero-seven-zero. Drop to three thousand, reduce to two-ten knots.”
“Roger, Newark,” the captain acknowledged.
“You will be following a United heavy jet,” Newark control added.
“Thank you, Newark.”
Kuradin began considering alternatives. He had none. He was helpless on that plane. SENTINEL had served an ace past him.
“TW eight-oh-two, hold one-eight-oh knots at least to the marker.”
“Roger, Newark.”
The SENTINEL agents were positioned in the front, center, and rear of the plane. They had been unable to make positive identification to this point.
“TW eight-oh-two, approaching on marker. You are second behind a heavy jet. Wind is zero-one-zero at twelve.”
“Roger. Wind is zero-one-zero at twelve.”
“Traffic behind has been diverted,” Newark control added.
Kuradin watched, as the ground came up slowly. His nerves were stretching tight. Less than seven hours away—that’s how close he had come. Stay cool, he coaxed himself. Stay cool and play out the role to the end. There was always a chance.
“TW eight-oh-two, you are clear to land. Proceed to extreme end of runway after touchdown.”
“Roger, Newark. How are we on time?” the captain asked.
“Time is good, eight-oh-two.”
The runway rushed up to meet the plane. It bounced down, then bounced again. They were on the ground.
The loud roar of the reversing engines filled the cabin. The tension was high in those passengers who didn’t believe the story they had been told. Everyone was glad to be on the ground again.
“Eight-oh-two, proceed to extreme end of runway. Take last available right. You will see the buses. Bring the plane to a stop, and evacuate through all emergency exits.”
“Roger, control,” the captain said.
The plane taxied at a swift rate. The speed of their movement confused Kuradin slightly. Maybe something was wrong with the plane, he hoped weakly. When the plane turned away from the terminal he didn’t know what to think.
“This is the captain speaking,” came the voice over the intercom. “Please stay in your seats until the plane has come to a complete stop. Once we have stopped, move quickly and orderly to the emergency exits.”
The sound in the plane rose sharply.
“There is no immediate cause for alarm,” the captain continued, but the noise was too loud for his words to be heard.
“Please stay in order of your row and seat assignments, and follow the instructions of your flight crew.”
The words were wasted. Bedlam had broken loose. Passengers were out of their seats already, racing for the emergency exits. The cabin was a scene of screaming disorder.
The plane continued its swift taxi to the buses, then braked sharply, throwing passengers to the floor and across seats and aisles.
The cabin crew had no success in keeping order, as the people jammed for the exits.
Emergency doors flew open. The exits not situated over the wings had inflatable slides, but the crush of people was so great that some of them were pushed out of the exits before the slides were completely inflated. It was a long fall, and people were injured.
The wings covered with scurrying people, the emergency slides were finally ready and people streamed down them, screaming and crying for their lives.
SENTINEL agents were positioned at every emergency exit, scanning the faces as they came.
Kuradin remained in his seat, surrounded by the screaming and madness. He considered making his way to the rear of the plane and out one of the opposite side exits, but he saw something that made him change his mind, a wheelchair—and Justin.
All hope quickly drained from him. He filled instantly and totally with fear. The battered appearance of Justin told him that his plan had worked. Pilgrim had confronted Ten Braak. But it was Pilgrim who had survived!
He nearly panicked. He knew he had to go out of the closest exit. The wheelchair was there for the old nun. They obviously knew where he had been seated and what exit he’d use. He had to stay in character to survive. It was the only chance.
He went limpingly for the exit, assisted by one of the stewardesses. He stepped onto the wing and immediately faked a fall. Two men were quick to assist him, as he slid down.
“It’s okay, sister. We got ya,” one of the men said above the hysterical cries of the other passengers.
A quick look at Justin told Centaur that they still hadn’t identified him through his disguise. Justin’s eyes continued to scan the faces of the other passengers.
Kuradin was lifted into the wheelchair and rushed to one of the waiting buses. He was helped aboard and took a window s
eat.
In a matter of moments, the plane had emptied. The crew was the last to deplane.
The SENTINEL agents had still come up empty. They joined the last of the passengers filing onto the buses. They would continue the search as the buses moved for the terminals. Justin got onto the second bus, the same one Kuradin was on.
In just moments the buses were full. They pulled away from the plane and raced for the terminal.
SENTINEL locked its laser batteries on the plane. When the buses were safely out of range, it fired.
The plane erupted into a tremendous orange ball as it exploded. The concussion shook the ground violently. The night sky was lit up, as though the sun had suddenly risen again.
The cries on the buses rose to a deafening level. Tears flowed, people hugged and kissed one another, and prayers were said aloud.
Emergency vehicles swarmed down upon the blazing wreck.
Justin moved down the jammed aisle of the bus, looking into the faces. For a brief instant Kuradin’s eyes locked with Justin’s, then looked quickly away. The fingers began to skim over the rosary beads, in make-believe prayer. But it was too late.
BLEEP! BLEEP!
Justin’s eustachian implant signaled out the recognition sign. Two bleeps. Second bus.
He continued up the aisle, passing by Kuradin as though he hadn’t seen him. He looked back at him once from behind where he was seated. Kuradin’s head made a half turn, then quickly faced front again.
There was no question. They had him.
The buses screeched to a halt near the lower doors of the terminal, just below the gate area, and the windows jammed with the watchers.
People began to file out, sobbing and praying. They moved with a great deal more order than they had shown while leaving the plane. Kuradin limped heavily with his cane, moving with the flow of people. A hand gently took his arm.
He looked into the face with a start. He had never seen it before.
“This way, sister,” a kind voice said. It was Rainmaker’s voice. He had gotten the word from Justin. Rainmaker guided the Russian to the wheelchair.
He began to wheel the chair toward the dark underside of the terminal, to the stairway taking the stream of hysterical people.
Justin caught up from behind. Rainmaker let him take over the direction of the wheelchair. Kuradin could not see the man behind him.
It swung suddenly left and began moving away from the stairway. In the confusion, nobody noticed it. The chair began to move faster and faster. Kuradin gripped the arms of the chair tightly. It was moving at a running pace now. His eyes were wide with fear.
Ahead of them, a door opened, flanked on either side by men. There was only darkness behind the door.
Justin ran the wheelchair at full tilt right into the step in front of the door. Kuradin was thrown forward into the darkness, rolling, and sprawled along the floor.
Before he could right himself, he was jerked up to his feet with a violent tug and flung against a wall. He crashed heavily into it. An elbow caught the back of his head, as he bounced off, driving his face hard into the wall. His arms were yanked back and up, into a painful double hammerlock. He was forced to his toes from the pain, his face and chest hard against the wall.
In the next second, Rainmaker was frisking him, as Justin held his arms an inch away from snapping his shoulders out of joint.
“He’s clean,” Rainmaker announced.
Justin spun Kuradin around and glared menacingly into his eyes.
“How ya doin’, sister?” Justin hissed at him, murder in his eyes. The Mauser was out and under Kuradin’s chin. Blood trickled from the Russian’s nose.
Justin ripped the habit from Kuradin’s head. He nodded slowly, as his eyes burned holes in Kuradin’s face.
“One move, one breath…just do it,” Justin warned.
Kuradin knew that he meant it.
“I’ll offer no resistance,” Kuradin said calmly.
“That’s too bad.” Justin smiled.
The two locked eyes for several long moments. A lot passed between them unsaid: England, winning and losing, Fanning… and Otto Ten Braak.
“It’s over, Phoenix. It’s checkmate time. This is one you don’t go home from,” Justin said.
Checkmate time, Kuradin thought. Not exactly, my friend.
There was one contingency left. And Centaur still held the valuable tempo.
THIRTY-TWO
Colorosa’s plan became a reality. We stood to control the most powerful potential the world had ever known.
There were no obstacles that could not be overcome in the United States now. Ten years at the most was the estimate. Then complete control. We were coming very close to being assured of our destiny.
My joy was unbounded.
My health also began to fail. Age had become my worst betrayer.
I fear I’ll not see The Day.
Entry No. 68 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
Leonid Travkin sat in his office, untouched by the sunny warmth outside. The mood in his office was turbulent and dark, the heavy grayness hanging like a death veil, smothering all life and hope. Centaur had been captured.
Kuradin had made the first of his two checkpoints. Hope had begun to flood into Travkin’s brain, only to evaporate swiftly with the news of what had happened to Flight 802 in America. The passenger count had been made falsely accurate, all persons accounted for, alive and well. Yet, Alexi Kuradin was missing, and Travkin knew why.
His head pounded. His fingers massaged his temples and rubbed his hot, aching eyes.
One hope was all that remained. It was down to that. The final contingency—provided Dmitri Chakhovsky didn’t blow it all away with a shake of his head.
Travkin’s stomach had evolved into a vicious knot during the past forty-eight hours, refusing to accept food or nourishment of any form. To make matters worse, his bowels had locked tight, adding to his increasing discomfort. That next rock-hard shit would drive him to tears, as it stretched his rectum painfully near to splitting, leaving the already troublesome hemorrhoids as bloody testimony to the power of those bowels to humble even the greatest of men. Life is filled with numerous little equalizers.
A knock sounded on Travkin’s door.
“Come in,” he growled.
Anatoly Krykov entered. A big, strong man with gentle, time-wisened eyes, Krykov was a highly respected member of the Individual Division. The Phoenix-leak situation had been handed to him personally by Travkin.
“Yes, General Travkin. You wanted to see me?” he asked, in his rich baritone.
Travkin looked past him with pursed lips and furrowed brow. He rose and stepped slowly to the windows behind his desk, looking out onto the melting snow. He stood for a long while.
Krykov waited patiently for Travkin to speak.
He turned to face the man standing tall and erect in front of his desk. “Has Melnik’s contact been identified?” he asked. Ivan Melnik was the source of the leak. He had been a man of unquestioned loyalty. It was a painful surprise.
“Yes, General Travkin,” Krykov answered sharply. “His name is Vytas Limpoulous. He is a Greek studying special communications in our own intelligence school,” he answered, referring to the KGB training institute in Moscow.
“How long has he been undertaking these studies?” Travkin asked.
“For one year,” Krykov responded.
One year. Travkin shook his head at the thought of this man being right under their noses for a full year, without their having even the slightest hint of his real purpose. He wondered how many more had been so well placed.
“I have ordered certain facts put into the Phoenix computer file that will interest this man, Limpoulous. Melnik has been keeping a close and careful watch on this file. When he learns these facts, he will try to make contact again. I want them both taken at that time,” Travkin said.
“It is absolutely vital that Limpoulous be taken alive,” he said, lo
oking directly into Krykov’s sharp eyes. “Alive—at all costs. Is that perfectly clear?” he asked.
“Yes, General,” Krykov replied. “I will take eight of our best teams. He’ll be taken alive, I promise,” Krykov assured him.
“Remember, alive—at all costs,” Travkin repeated.
“Yes, General,” Krykov assured him. He hated at all cost assignments. Too often the cost was unacceptable.
“Good. I am depending upon you,” Travkin said.
“Thank you, General.”
“Go now. There is much to be done—double surveillance on both Melnik and Limpoulous until they meet.”
Krykov nodded and spun on his heel. He walked erectly toward the door. A moment later Travkin was alone in his office.
He sat heavily in his chair, letting out a long sigh. His stomach growled loudly, and he felt suddenly hungry.
A special emergency meeting had been called by the Central Committee, to discuss the possible alternatives that existed. There would be a painful silence as he told them the facts. But there would also be that tiny glimmer of hope, riding on the last phase of the plan.
He checked his watch. There was enough time to catch a quick lunch before the meeting. He felt a little better now. His hopes had begun to lift again. If he hurried his lunch, there would be enough time for a short walk in the warm sunshine.
Justin stood in front of the small window of the sterile laminar-air-flow room located in the depths of the Dials Cardiac Clinic on St. Simon’s Island. He looked in at the meticulously gowned team attending Phoenix.
To Justin’s right was Dr. Becker Dials. Wyatt stood to the left, also looking into the sterile environment.
“He has chronic lymphatic leukemia,” Dials said. “We’ve confirmed this, with blood tests and bone-marrow samples taken from his sternum,” he said.
“He had been in remission, until very recently. We guess that he began coming out of remission about three days ago. He came out very fast.”
“Is he going to die?” Justin asked.
“He’s in very bad shape, right now. As you can see, that nose bleed turned into a hemorrhage. We’ve packed the nose both behind and in front to prevent him from drowning.”