Rasputin's Legacy (Cold War)

by Jackson, Lee

  “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.

  On the right side of the cockpit the co-pilot pushed the throttles for more power. Zhukov reacted angrily. “I’m the pilot,” he shouted. “Do as I say.”

  Atcho whirled back around, holstered his pistol, and wrapped his arm around Zhukov’s neck in a chokehold. The man struggled against Atcho’s grip. Atcho held firm, and lifted him so that his flailing arms and legs did not collide with flight controls. Twenty seconds later, Zhukov slumped in his seat.

  “Help me!” Atcho called to Ivan. They pulled the sagging figure backward onto the floor.

  At that moment, Sofia entered. Atcho was shocked by her appearance. Her face was drained of color, and perspiration streamed down her neck. She leaned against the doorframe. In her arms, she carried the open briefcase.

  Sofia staggered to Atcho. Inside the briefcase, he saw the flat metal panel that covered the interior, including the etched shape that resembled a small rocket. The digital counter centered at the top flashed past the two-minute mark.

  “I think I tripped a fail-safe when I tried to grab it,” Sofia said, her eyes wide in uncharacteristic panic.

  Atcho stared. “No, you didn’t. Yermolov set it off by remote.” He saw faint, brief relief cross Sofia’s face. Then he looked over his shoulder at the empty pilot’s seat. “Can you fly?”

  Sofia shook her head. “You know I can’t.”

  “Then you’ll have to disarm the bomb.” He pulled the NukeX from his jacket and shoved it at her. “Here! You know what to do. I’ve got to help fly this plane.”

  Sofia gaped, indicating the bomb. “Where’s the trigger?”

  Atcho stared at it. “Use your judgment. Think like the bomb-maker. It’s not large. It has to be at one end or the other of the briefcase.” He climbed into the pilot’s seat and put on the headset.

  Sofia staggered to the back of the cabin, with the bomb and the NukeX.

  “I’ve never flown a jet this big,” Atcho called to the copilot. “I don’t know Russian markings. Tell me what to do.”

  Despite his terror, the copilot functioned competently. He pulled on the yoke, rotating the Mriya’s nose skyward to begin its flare preliminary to touching down. “Keep pressure on the throttle,” he shouted, panic in his voice. “Keep the yoke steady. I’m resetting switches.” Seconds later, he called over the radio to Moscow’s control tower. “Landing abort! Landing abort!” The aircraft continued to settle toward the ground.

  “Lower the nose,” he told Atcho. “We have power. We need airspeed!” He glanced over nervously. “We’re going to touch the ground. Just for a moment. We’re off center. If the wheels land on soft earth…” He shook his head.

  Looking out the windshield, Atcho saw that they had veered right of the runway’s centerline. He felt pressure on the yoke, and followed the copilot’s movement.

  They felt a thump as the landing gear touched down. The Mriya began to yaw. Ivan and the crew were tossed to one side. They grabbed for handholds, their eyes terrified.

  At the back of the cabin, Sofia went to her knees, the briefcase wide open in front of her. Was the bomb-maker right-handed or left-handed? She guessed right-handed, and turned the briefcase so that the lid was to her left. That would seem to put the trigger mechanism at the opposite end in the left corner, within the etching, where working on it would be easier. She pressed the NukeX down on the bomb there, and pressed the red button.

  The device hummed. She pressed the yellow button, and a light indicated that it functioned properly. Then, she pressed the black button, and felt heat rise from around the edge of the device. The counter crossed the 60-second mark.

  Sweat poured from Sofia’s brow and dripped from her chin onto her already damp shirt as she watched the numbers counting down to 35 seconds. Smoke poured from inside the briefcase, setting off blaring overhead alarms. The stench of melting plastic and metal filled the cabin.

  A thought struck Sofia. What if the bomb-maker is left-handed, or the trigger is in the middle? Swallowing panic, she slid the NukeX slowly along the length of the etching to its bottom end, and held it there as the countdown continued.

  Meanwhile, the copilot fed power into the right-hand engines and adjusted the flaps. The plane straightened out. It rolled along the ground, with the right landing gear half on, half off the tarmac. Then, it lumbered back into the air. As it did, it yawed right. He fed more power to the right engines. The plane straightened and climbed smoothly.

  Ivan stayed crouched behind Atcho, still covering the crew with his pistol. Relief spread across the crewmen’s faces. He felt it too. Then he looked at Sofia.

  Sweat soaked her clothes. She hunched directly over the bomb, applying all the strength and weight of her upper body. Her arms trembled. She watched the counter with fascination. It moved past the 15-second mark, then the 10 second mark. Sooner than she could believe, it was on final countdown. Three, two, one…zero. Sofia closed her eyes, her whole body clenched, and she said final prayers. Then, nothing.

  She looked up, shaking. Ivan and the crew stared at her. She looked back down at the NukeX and released the button. Then she clambered to her feet and leaned against the back wall, exhausted. Gradually, the ventilation system cleared the smoke.

  In the cockpit, Atcho glanced at the copilot. He had smelled the smoke and heard the alarms behind him. His eyes showed grim determination. “You’re doing great,” Atcho called to him. “Climb to cruising altitude and head west.” He exhaled.

  * * *

  In the cargo bay, the loadmaster struggled against his bindings, in vain. He gave up. A few yards away, pain seared through Yermolov’s leg with each bump and jolt. When the aircraft touched ground, he screamed in agony. No one heard him, not even the loadmaster. The erstwhile general dared not move his wounded leg for fear of loosening the tourniquet. Mercifully, he swooned into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 48

  Drygin sat in a staff car near the runway. He had seen the Mriya bank into final approach, amazed that such a large machine could look and perform so gracefully, even majestically. It followed its glide path smoothly, and when it flared, it began to settle as gently as a swan on a lake.

  As he observed, he thought he saw it take an unexpected leap skyward. Then it veered to the right of the centerline.

  Drygin watched, horrified as it dropped rapidly. He heard the engines spinning back up to greater power. Despite his normally cool composure, his breath caught.

  The jet touched down directly in front of him, with the right side of the landing gear rolling over the edge of the runway. The hot wind of jet engines nearly blew him off his feet as the nose fell. The smell of fuel exhaust assaulted his nostrils. His jaw dropped.

  He heard power to the engines increase. The plane swung to the right, straightened, raised its nose, and rose back into the air. Then, it started a
steady climb into the heavens.

  Drygin stared. Catching himself, he radioed KGB headquarters. “Patch me through to the chairman,” he shouted, “and don’t go through all that authentication bullshit. He’ll take my call.” Moments later, Chairman Murin’s voice came over the radio. “The Mriya didn’t land,” Drygin roared.

  “What do you mean? Did it arrive from—?”

  “Yes,” Drygin interrupted, “but it aborted and took off again.” For a few seconds, he heard only Murin’s breathing over the phone.

  “Go straight to the Kremlin,” Murin ordered. “I’ll meet you there.”

  * * *

  Atcho looked back at Ivan. “How’s the pilot?”

  “He’s coming to. He’ll be mad as hell.”

  “He’ll live. Give the radio operator that special phone number you have.”

  The copilot looked over questioningly. “You aren’t terrorists?”

  Atcho ignored the question. “Tell your radio operator that I want to speak to the man who answers that number, on a secure channel. You’ll be able to hear the conversation.”

  The copilot relayed the message. Then he told Atcho, “The tower wants to know what we’re doing.” The plane continued to climb, headed for cruising altitude.

  “Tell them we’ll fly due west until we speak with the man who answers that phone. We flew out on a full tank, right?”

  The copilot nodded. A few minutes later, Atcho saw motion out the left windshield. A MiG pulled alongside. Another appeared on the opposite side. Both pilots scrutinized the Mriya.

  “Copilot, when are we going to get our phone call?”

  “It’s coming in now.”

  “Good. Set it up so that the entire crew can hear the conversation.” He heard crackling in his ear, and then a voice.

  “This is Mikhail Gorbachev. Who is this?” Atcho glanced over to the copilot again, saw him blanch and his eyes grow large.

  “This is Atcho. Can you hear me, sir?”

  “I hear you.” Gorbachev was clearly irritated. “What are you doing?”

  “Exactly what you asked me to do. As they say in Texas, Yermolov is hogtied and ready for roasting. We’re on the Mriya.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. When Gorbachev spoke again, his tone had softened. “I’m glad that you have Yermolov, but what are your plans for my airplane?”

  “I’ll return it. If we had landed in Moscow, your Mriya might be safe, but your government would not be.”

  More silence. “What will you do now?”

  “Take a ride to the Azores, sir.”

  “I see.” He was quiet a moment. “And you need me to clear the airspace ahead of you?”

  “Exactly. I’m sure Mr. Reagan will help. It would shorten flight time if we could turn south, and fly over Europe.”

  In his office at the Kremlin, Gorbachev paced with his phone to his ear. He had been seated at his desk when the call came in. He heard a knock on his door. Nestor Murin opened it and peered inside. Gorbachev indicated for Murin to wait outside.

  The Mriya cruised on autopilot. Atcho stood and glanced at the copilot. The man regarded him with awe. Zhukov recovered and rose slowly to his feet.

  Intending to move out of the way so that Zhukov could reclaim his seat, Atcho swung around. Seven sets of eyes stared at him. Ivan’s expression changed to relief. Sofia still leaned against the back wall, sweat soaked, looking beleaguered. She shot Atcho a weak grin and a thumbs-up.

  Ivan and Rafael put their weapons away. Zhukov took his seat with a disgruntled, no-nonsense attitude, but made no protest.

  Gorbachev’s voice came back over the radio. “What are you doing with Borya Yermolov?”

  Atcho looked back and forth between Rafael and Ivan. “Following orders. President Reagan wants Yermolov delivered to him.”

  “That’s my airplane,” Gorbachev protested angrily. He managed to sound both exasperated and dignified.

  “I understand, sir. I have orders.”

  Gorbachev was momentarily silent. “There’ll be repercussions.”

  Ivan and Rafael wore blank expressions. Atcho glanced at the crew. They appeared anxious. “Sorry, sir. That’s above my pay grade. Unless you want to shoot us out of the sky, we’re going to the Azores. You can take it up with Mr. Reagan.”

  Gorbachev was silent again for several seconds. “Take care of my airplane,” he snapped, and the phone clicked off.

  * * *

  After Gorbachev hung up, he dialed another number and issued orders. Then he opened the door for Murin. A colonel he did not know accompanied him. They crossed to the conference area. Before they had taken their seats, Murin faced him.

  “Sir, we have two urgent matters to discuss. The first concerns the Mriya. As you know, it was scheduled to arrive today.”

  Gorbachev regarded him with a cold stare. “Yes. There’s been a problem. I just spoke with the flight crew.”

  Murin’s surprise showed. “Can you fill me in?”

  “It’s resolved.” Gorbachev’s voice was like ice.

  Murin studied the general secretary, finding him curiously resolute. He indicated the colonel who accompanied him and chose his words carefully. “This is Colonel Drygin of the KGB Border Troops in Novosibirsk,” he said. “He is a direct report to Lieutenant-General Fierko, the commanding general.”

  Gorbachev regarded Drygin coolly. “Why is he here?”

  “This could take a while,” Murin replied. “May we sit down?”

  Twenty minutes later, Gorbachev summarized. “I understand,” he told Murin in clipped tones. “Yermolov intended to execute a coup. Fierko coordinated the activity, is that correct?” Murin nodded. “Colonel Drygin uncovered the conspiracy, and brought it to you?”

  “Yes, Comrade. Yermolov and Fierko are both on the Mriya. Fierko had set up a security mechanism to provide safe passage from the aircraft directly to the Lubyanka.”

  “And what was to happen to you?”

  Murin shrugged. “You know how these things go.”

  Gorbachev scrutinized both men. “We owe Colonel Drygin our gratitude,” he said perfunctorily. He stood and shook Drygin’s hand. “With Fierko’s departure, opportunities for officers loyal to the Soviet Union and the Party will open up. Was there something else?”

  Murin also rose to his feet. “No. I need to attend to the Mriya.”

  “That situation is taken care of,” Gorbachev replied. His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. His voice was steely. “You take care of rounding up conspirators.” His eyes glinted. “Bring Fierko to me. You’ll find him in the Azores.”

  “The Azores?” Murin asked, startled. “What about Yermolov?”

  “That’s not your concern. Show yourselves out.”

  Chapter 49

  Collins pressed a button on the television remote to see what might be on that he could watch for more than five seconds. Finding nothing interesting, he rose from the couch and plodded into the kitchen. He was about to pull another beer from the refrigerator when he heard a knock on the door, and Ronald Reagan strode in. Burly followed close behind, but maintained a neutral expression.

  “Sorry to barge in. I’ve got news you might like to hear.”

  “I’m honored. What’s the news?”

  Reagan tossed his head. “We got him, Tony. Your gambit worked. We got him.”

  * * *

  Zane McFadden found the ambassador in a corner of the crowded bunker. “It’s over, sir. We can return to normal routine.” He grinned. “The rogue general is all trussed up, the bomb’s burnt to a crisp, and they’re on their way to the Azores.”

  The ambassador clambered off the floor. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  When the Mriya touched down at Lajes Air Base in the Azores, two Soviet officers were there to arrest Fierko. They stripped him of rank, and led him off the Mriya in handcuffs. The loadmaster rejoined his crew.

  A US Marine general took Yermolov into custody. Four stout MPs lifted him
onto a gurney, and a medic field-treated his wounds. They wheeled him past Atcho and his companions as they stood on the tarmac.

  Yermolov was conscious. As he looked about with eyes dulled by morphine, his glance landed on Sofia. “Ms. Stahl,” he crooned. “Not quite the party we had last time we met.” He laughed uncontrollably. His view shifted to Atcho, and his eyes filled with fury. Then he relaxed into an air of futility. “This isn’t finished,” he chortled in the throes of delirium. “I promise, it’s not finished.”

  Ivan leaned over Yermolov. “Just like you told me last year?” His contempt was visceral. “Don’t ever threaten me or my family again. Where I’m going, I’ll own my own gun, and so will my wife and son.”

  “Get him out of here,” Atcho told the MPs. He turned to the Marine general. “Where are you taking him?”

  “Where he won’t see the light of day.”

  The MPs wheeled Yermolov to a waiting Seahawk helicopter. Soon, they disappeared over the horizon of the blue Atlantic.

  * * *

  After a day and night of military travel, a helicopter brought the four companions to the White House. Ivan had been quiet for most of the trip. At first Atcho had attributed his silence to exhaustion, but each time Atcho or Sofia looked at him, they saw that the Russian stared into nothing.

  “It’ll be OK,” Atcho told him. “We take care of our own.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Rafael jibed, jabbing Ivan in his side. “I still don’t like you.”

  Ivan smiled wanly. “You’re not my shot of vodka either,” he retorted, and punched Rafael’s knee. Then he stared once again into the distance.

  On arrival, a Marine led them through a maze of halls. A boy lounged far down a corridor. He was blond and slender, and he looked athletic. He glanced up when he heard the approaching group. His eyes widened, and he ran toward them. “Papa!” he yelled. “Mama, eto Papa!”