by Jackson, Lee
The priest tugged at his shoulder. “Yermolov is leaving. They cancelled the event.”
Suddenly, Atcho’s mind grasped what the priest had said. “He’s moving,” he thundered. “Yermolov is moving. Father, get the news to your patriarch. Ivan, wake up! You’ve got to get us to Moscow.”
“I have to do what?” Ivan came fully awake with a start.
“That article spooked Yermolov,” Atcho declared. “He’s moving.”
“That’s a leap,” Ivan replied. His voice carried his skepticism. “Maybe he’s relocating to the army post. He had his big conference. He might feel more secure.”
“No, he’s moving on Moscow,” Atcho insisted. “Yermolov didn’t just postpone the social event. He cancelled it. He knows Gorbachev is taking active steps. The Pravda articles told him that. He wants to preempt Gorbachev.”
Ivan still looked dubious. “Even if you’re right, what do we do?”
“We’ll take it step by step,” Atcho growled. “We have to get ahead of Yermolov. Reagan wants him brought to the US alive.”
Ivan whirled on him. “I’m still a loyal Russian. If we capture him, he should be turned over to Gorbachev.”
“I work for Reagan,” Atcho reminded him sharply. “Yermolov has our military secrets.”
Ivan started to protest, but Atcho silenced him with an upraised hand. “We don’t have time to discuss it. Either way, we have to get in front of him. If we can’t return him to the US, I’ll kill him.”
Ivan stared at Atcho, and nodded. “Fair enough.” He pondered the difficulty of getting to Moscow. “We can’t drive there fast enough, especially in a stolen army car. If we go commercial, we’re likely to get caught. Atcho, you flew that private jet down to Havana last year to capture Yermolov. If I get you into a Soviet plane, can you fly it?”
“Maybe, if you translate the switches and buttons. That’s not a safe alternative. Frankly, I’m seeing only one option with a chance of capturing Yermolov. We have to be on the same flight.”
Rafael, Ivan, and Matfey stared at him. Ivan scoffed. “Since this just turned into a suicide mission, why don’t we shoot him on sight?”
Atcho ignored the dark humor. “He has to be going on a military flight, and not a regularly scheduled one. The crew won’t know they’re carrying the next wannabe general secretary. We should be able to spot an unscheduled plane at the airfield prepping to fly to Moscow.”
“I can do that,” Ivan said. “Our KGB credentials will get us on the airfield. I can handle it from there.”
Matfey interrupted meekly. “May I offer a suggestion?” Startled, the others regarded him with courteous skepticism. “There’s a cargo plane parked on the runway at the aircraft plant. They say it was built to fly the Soviet space orbiter around. I’ve never seen one so big. It was supposed to fly out for a check-ride tomorrow, but the schedule was changed. Instead it will go straight to Moscow.”
Atcho stared at him. “Are you sure? How do you know that?”
“Some of our church members work at the plant. The schedule change was ordered a few hours ago. The ground crew will prep it tonight.”
“And it’s supposed to fly to Moscow tomorrow?”
Matfey nodded.
Ivan suddenly looked excited. “Is that the Mriya?”
Matfey shrugged. “I suppose so. The plant workers were talking about it for weeks. They were so excited to see it.”
“Do you know why the schedule changed?” Rafael asked. The priest shook his head.
“That’s got to be Yermolov’s ride,” Atcho exclaimed. “The Pravda articles came out yesterday, and then the schedule changed.”
“That’s a fantastic aircraft,” Ivan broke in. “It’s the biggest plane in the world. It can fly a third of the way around the earth at the equator without refueling.” He turned on the priest. “And it’s here?” His eyes gleamed. “I never expected to actually see it!”
“We’ll do more than see it,” Atcho said. “That’s how they’re going to Moscow, and so are we. Let’s get moving.”
While they gathered their things, Matfey left. He returned minutes later, his face ashen, his eyes wide in terror. “Please, Atcho, I need to speak with you.” He tugged at Atcho’s shoulder. Seeing the priest’s distraught state, foreboding gripped him. He followed the priest into a corner away from the others. They conferred in hushed tones, and Atcho’s head jerked up sharply. When he returned to his companions, he looked grim. Meanwhile, Matfey left the room.
Atcho set his jaw. “Ivan, if you can get me on the plane, I can finish things. You’ll have to get the two of you out of the country.” He smiled. “Lara and Kirill will be happy to see you.”
Rafael and Ivan stared at him, eyes wide. “What the hell?” Rafael asked.
“Father Matfey received a phone call from Moscow,” Atcho said. He related the conversation he had just had with the priest. “Yermolov has a briefcase nuke. I’m supposed to disarm it.”
Rafael reacted first. “You mean a bomb? Yermolov has a bomb?”
Atcho nodded.
“How big is it?”
“Big enough to take out the Kremlin and everything around it for a mile. Then there’s the fallout. The US Embassy is in the area.”
“You were right that he intended to blackmail with a nuke,” Ivan said, alarmed. “And he bypassed Soviet protocol. Brilliant. How are you supposed to neutralize it?”
“Overpower him, I guess.” He thought of the NukeX, wishing he had one now. “Someone is supposedly on the way with a device to do the job, but we don’t have time to wait. Yermolov is moving.”
“Whew!” Rafael exclaimed. “That’s a lot to take in.” He faced Atcho while shaking his head. “Look, I’m afraid of heights, small spaces, and things that go bump in the night,” he said, “but nothing scares me as much as facing Sofia if I show up back home without you. I’m going with you.”
Atcho started to protest. Rafael stopped him with an upraised hand. “Don’t. We’ve known each other too long. Save your breath.”
“I can get you on the plane,” Ivan cut in. He looked grim. “What happens then? I didn’t volunteer for this.” He looked back and forth between Atcho and Rafael. “What happens if you fail and Yermolov succeeds? You’ll be dead, and every KGB officer in the Soviet Union will be after me. A madman in the Kremlin will threaten my family along with the rest of the world. I already saved your skins once. I’ll stick around to make sure you don’t screw up again. Besides, I won’t let this maniac blow up Mother Russia. Now let’s get on with it.”
Atcho stared at them. “All right then.” They started picking up their things. Father Matfey knocked on the door.
“Come in, Father,” Atcho called, “and thanks for your help.”
“I am so sorry,” Matfey said anxiously. “I forgot to tell you this morning when you first came in. There’s a lady waiting for you at the US Embassy in Moscow. Her name is Sofia Stahl.”
Atcho felt the blood drain from his face. He turned to his companions with a grim look. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Two thousand miles away, McFadden faced Sofia on a windy runway at an airbase east of Moscow. Next to them stood a Soviet Air Force general, a member of Gorbachev’s inner circle.
“You understand that this is going to be a very uncomfortable ride,” McFadden yelled against the wind and the roar of jet engines. Out on the runway, a Sukhoi 35 jet fighter was surrounded by technicians and crewmen working busily around it. “Novosibirsk is at the edge of this aircraft’s range, but it was the only one immediately available that could fly that far without refueling. The crew is removing every piece of equipment possible to extend its distance, and it’s not carrying ordinance. But there is still very little room for error. Also, it’s a one-seater, so they’re taking out everything they can from behind the pilot’s seat. You’ll have to scrunch in, but it flies at Mach 2, so the flight will only take a little over an hour. They’ve jerry-rigged a second oxygen supply.” He scrutini
zed her face, and saw subdued fright overridden with resolve. “Are you sure you can handle this?”
Sofia nodded vigorously, even as her gut took a turn. She glanced at the aircraft, heard its roar, smelled the exhaust, and saw the heat waves distorting the view behind its engine. The crew was clearing away the last pieces of equipment. “Looks like they’re ready for us. Let’s go.”
“Wait!” McFadden called out. “Are you sure you know how to use that NukeX?”
Sofia nodded again. “Hold device down firmly against trigger area. Red button powers. Yellow button tests. Black button executes. Keep downward pressure until…”
McFadden grinned roguishly. “You got it. If we don’t see a red glow in the east, we’ll know you succeeded.”
“Thanks.” She turned and strode across the tarmac dressed in a Soviet colonel’s uniform. McFadden walked next to her. “I’ll be in radio contact with you on a dedicated encrypted frequency that the pilot can’t access. Right now, his flight plan calls for him to land at the Novosibirsk aircraft manufacturing plant. You might have to commandeer a vehicle. Are you sure you can do that?”
Sofia’s gut took another turn, but she nodded.
“From there, head straight to the Nevsky Cathedral in Novosibirsk. As far as we know, that’s where Atcho is now. We’ll try to get a better fix on his location, and get word to you, and if that changes, we’ll let you know.”
They arrived by the aircraft. The thunderous engine made further conversation impossible. McFadden clapped her shoulder, and she climbed the short ladder. The pilot stood in the cockpit and pointed to the incredibly small area into which she would squeeze herself.
McFadden watched as Sofia placed one leg into the cockpit behind the pilot’s seat, and then the other. Then she put on a helmet, attached a hose and communications wire to the aircraft where the pilot indicated, stooped, and disappeared backwards into the cramped space. Moments later, the SU-35 roared down the runway, and then hurtled almost vertically into the night sky.
Chapter 43
Atcho sat in the passenger seat of the little car. Rafael scrunched across the rear seat. They had a clear view of the airfield at the manufacturing plant as Ivan trudged through snow to the operations office.
On the runway stood the Antonov 225 Mriya, the most magnificent aircraft any of them had ever seen. It looked longer than a football field. Six jet engines hung from its wings. Its nose cone was rotated above its fuselage, revealing the gaping cargo hold.
“We can get lost in that thing,” Rafael remarked.
Atcho caught movement in his right peripheral vision. When he focused his attention that way, his blood froze. Approaching the gate a mile off was a convoy of military vehicles illuminated by floodlights along the access road. Near the front of the column was a limousine. That could mean only one thing: Yermolov’s arrival.
Atcho jumped from the car and shouted to Ivan, who continued trudging to the operations building. Atcho took off in a dead run, shouting until Ivan heard him and turned to look his way.
Atcho waved both arms and pointed at the convoy. Ivan turned and stared. The lead vehicle approached the security checkpoint. Ivan whirled and gestured furiously for Atcho to go back to the car.
Atcho ran, jerked the driver’s door open, and crammed behind the steering wheel. “We’re in trouble,” he called to Rafael, who was staring at the convoy. “I’ll park behind a berm where we won’t be so visible. Watch for Ivan.”
* * *
Ivan’s heart raced. He stepped inside the operations building. Daylight was hours away and the morning shift had not yet arrived. Someone must have alerted the night staff to the arrival of the convoy, because they seemed to struggle unwillingly to regain awareness despite the approaching end of their shift.
Ivan walked into a side room with a group of men seated around a table, and held up his KGB credentials. “Where is the Mriya pilot?”
They looked up, startled. One stood. “That’s me. Who are you?”
“Colonel Chekov.” Ivan handed over his ID. “You’ll be flying the Mriya today?”
The officer nodded. “I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Stephan Zhukov.” He looked tough, like someone not easily put off. After examining Ivan’s credentials, he handed them back.
“I need to speak to you privately.” Ivan turned to the others. “You will not speak of my presence among yourselves or anyone else. Is that understood?” He glared at them. They nodded.
When he was alone with Zhukov outside the lounge, Ivan grabbed the pilot by the arm. “We don’t have much time. A convoy is coming through the gate now. It carries at least two generals, Kutuzov and Yermolov. One is under investigation.”
Zhukov’s eyes widened. “They are on our manifest.”
“I’ll be riding with you on your flight to Moscow,” Ivan said. “Two more KGB colonels will accompany me. We’re also here to make sure that terrorist threats against the aircraft don’t succeed. You are to tell no one we’re here, especially not those two generals.”
Zhukov stepped closer. “Do you know of specific threats?”
“None that I can speak of, except to say that it could be tied in with my investigation. We’re here as a precaution. Nothing can be allowed to happen to the Mriya. We won’t take chances.”
Zhukov leaned in, his face grave. “What do you need from me?”
“As you know, the flight schedule changed suddenly and with little notice.”
Zhukov nodded.
“That was our tip-off. The other two colonels are waiting outside in a car. You need to get us aboard the aircraft unseen.”
Zhukov grasped the urgency. “You can’t drive onto the tarmac. You’ll be exposed. Where are you parked?”
Ivan told him.
“There’s an equipment shed near there. It’s the only one. Put your car in there. I’ll send the cargo chief. He has a van there with crew equipment to load onto the plane. He’ll drive you down.”
“That’ll work. Make sure he understands secrecy.”
“I can handle that. Hurry. The convoy must be moving through the gate by now.”
Ivan walked swiftly outside. Rafael emerged from behind a low ridge and waved at him. “Let’s go,” Ivan barked when they reached the car. He spotted the shed, and Atcho drove inside. The crew van was parked there, just as Zhukov had said.
They watched from the shadows. The convoy had cleared the security gate, and its lead vehicle had closed almost a quarter of the distance. The motorcade disappeared behind a low rise.
The cargo chief arrived looking anxious. “We must hurry,” was all he said as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the van.
The lights of the oncoming convoy became visible again, about half a mile away. “We won’t get to the plane before them,” the cargo chief said. He shoved the gears and stepped on the accelerator. “Zhukov explained everything. I’ll drop you in the shadows of the aircraft. Try to look like ground crew. Sleepy.” He laughed, warming to the intrigue in which he found himself. “If anyone gets out of the vehicles, I’ll distract.”
Ivan nodded.
“Listen carefully,” the chief continued as he sped out to the runway. “I’m on ground crew. I won’t be flying with you. Use the crew door on the left side of the airplane. When you get in, go straight to an office near the bottom of the stairs on the opposite side near the front. It belongs to the loadmaster. He’ll be flying, but he’ll stay in a cabin upstairs for this flight. Zhukov will tell him. He won’t mind. It’s more comfortable. Do you understand?”
“Where will the generals be?”
“Upstairs in a cabin to the right of the loadmaster’s.”
Through the windshield, they saw the convoy emerge from behind the low hill and proceed to the apron. The cargo chief was right: they would arrive at the aircraft almost simultaneously. He drove to the side opposite the operations building and the convoy, and halted near the left-side landing gear. “Pretend you’re inspecting the tires,” he said. “I’ll drive ove
r to meet them.”
Atcho’s heart pounded as he led his small group onto the runway. They dispersed between the tires under the huge aircraft and stayed low, keeping to shadows as they made their way forward toward the crew door.
On the other side of the cargo plane, the convoy drew to a halt. The low fuselage limited Atcho’s view, but he saw the bottom of the limousine as the back door opened and two sets of feet stepped out onto the tarmac. The cargo chief drove between the aircraft and the limousine, blocking the view.
Atcho signaled to Rafael and Ivan. Feigning tire inspections, they worked forward. The bottom of the crew door was head high, and it was closed. Standing below it, they were clear of the landing gear and far more exposed.
Atcho saw the van start to move again. “Get that door open,” he muttered to Ivan, and then made his way to the front wheels. Clearance between the ground and the aircraft was higher there. He inhaled sharply. Generals Kutuzov and Yermolov stood conversing not more than seventy feet away. They looked over the plane while they talked, as if admiring it.
Yermolov’s hand clutched an object that riveted Atcho’s attention. He stared at it. From this distance, he could not be certain of what he saw, but was sure it must be the briefcase.
He squatted on the opposite side of the massive tires. By the crew door, Ivan and Rafael searched frantically for a latch or handle that would release the door. The only alternative was to go up the front ramp and through the gaping cargo hold. There, they would be illuminated by bright work lights.
Atcho returned his attention to Yermolov and Kutuzov. The pilot, Zhukov, approached them from their rear. They turned to greet him.
Another man in military uniform with KGB insignia left the operations building and called to them. As they turned toward him, Atcho hurried back to where his companions still fussed with the crew door.
“It’ll be slightly open,” he hissed. “Keeps air flowing.” He shoved near its bottom, and it moved. He shoved again, found a handhold, and pulled until the door with its built-in stair-step unfolded to the ground. All three breathed a sigh of relief.