by Marc Cameron
“Ground,” Cherenko said. “Antonov 2808 ready to taxi with information Bravo.”
“Antonov 2808,” a male voice said. “Hold short Runway One-Two, monitor Tower on one-one-niner-point-five.”
Military pilots spoke in Russian among themselves, and, to the consternation of pilots transiting from other countries, the tower sometimes did as well. But English was the international language of aviation, and this airspace was controlled by civilians. The tower controller put them in line behind an Il-76 heavy, cautioning them of wake turbulence from the departing giant.
“In line behind the heavy,” Cherenko responded. “Antonov 2808.”
A moment later the forty-six-meter, four-engine Ilyushin Il-76 lumbered down the runway, leaving invisible vortices of whirling wind behind it.
The controller spoke again. “Antonov 2808 clear for takeoff on Runway One-Two, fly runway heading until five thousand feet. Contact Moscow Departure.”
Cherenko read back the instructions as Mikhailov pushed the throttles forward slowly. The airplane began to shudder in place as he babied the four Lotarev D-18T turbofan engines for almost five full minutes before he released the brakes and began his takeoff roll. Slowly, steadily, the great bird picked up enough speed to heave herself off the runway.
“Positive rate of climb, Colonel.” Cherenko’s voice came over the intercom in Russian now, eyes on the altimeter. “Landing gear up.”
The massive Antonov was a touchy bird, but in Mikhailov’s capable hands more than a half-million pounds of airplane, fuel, and secret cargo flew with remarkable grace.
* * *
—
Air traffic controller Svetlana Minsky licked chapped lips and pressed slender fingers against her headphones—as she was wont to do when she grew nervous. Her idiot boyfriend had convinced her to stop smoking, and she was feeling it tonight. A motivational poster tacked to the wall above her said in Cyrillic: The same hammer that shatters glass forges steel. The notion would have been hilarious had it not been so sad. The hammer that was Air Traffic Control was plenty capable of shattering steel. And anyway, Minsky was far too busy doing her job to be reading bullshit motivational posters. She and the dozens of other controllers on watch inside the windowless blue room of Moscow Center took care of the airspace for seventy airports in and around Moscow. Tonight was extra hectic, and she cursed her boyfriend for stealing her cigarettes.
The agitation in her gravel voice was apparent over the radio, earning her a side-eyed warning from her supervisor, who sat birdlike at a row of desks behind her, in the middle of the bullpen.
She watched a numbered blip appear on her radar screen as the sweep came around.
A new voice to go with the blip crackled in her headset. Thickly Slavic, the English would have been almost impossible for anyone but another Russian to understand. “Moscow Departure, Antonov 2808 leaving eight hundred feet for five thousand.”
“Antonov 2808, radar contact. Continue climb as directed.”
The Short-Term Conflict Alert on Minsky’s computer showed a second Antonov, also with the Russian Air Force, bypassing Zhukovsky on a heading that would intercept 2808 at present speed and altitude. The planes were still eight miles apart. This gave her three miles before she’d have an “incident”—when two planes got closer than five lateral miles or a thousand feet of altitude.
Minsky dealt with other aircraft for a time, and gave a phlegmatic cough when she turned her attention back to the two Antonovs. All the open miles in the sky and these two bastards were determined to fly directly into each other.
Minsky wanted to curse almost as bad as she wanted a cigarette. “Antonov 2967, amend altitude to one four thousand, turn left thirty degrees for separation of company traffic departing Zhukovsky.”
There was no response.
This was not unheard of. Pilots bumped radio knobs, switched to the wrong frequency, or became engrossed in some conversation with the flight deck. Sometimes they merely fell asleep.
Six miles apart.
Minsky tried again, repeating her command for 2967 to change altitude.
No response. The term to describe an aircraft that didn’t respond over the radio was NORDO, but she didn’t take the time to use it.
“Antonov 2808, maintain one six thousand, turn left thirty degrees without delay.”
Closing in on five miles. This was too close to becoming an official “incident.”
Both airplanes now climbed toward eighteen thousand feet, converging on the same point southwest above the Moskva River.
Minsky consoled herself that only one of them had to move out of the way.
The pilot answered with a read-back of her instructions. “Maintain one six thousand, turn left thirty degrees, Antonov 2808.”
Minsky snatched up a small rubber alligator her boyfriend had given her to combat the stress of not smoking. She began to squeeze it, as if trying to obliterate the stupid thing from the world. She sighed in relief at the read-back as the number representing 2808 on her radar screen moved from its original path, following her instructions.
Inexplicably, the radar blip that was 2967 moved as well, directly toward 2808 in heading and rate of climb.
Minsky didn’t waste time on the NORDO airplane.
“Antonov 2808, turn left thirty degrees immediately.”
In the parlance of air traffic control, “immediately” meant exactly that. The pilot should not take time to disengage the autopilot or fool with the heading bug. He was to grab the yoke and turn the airplane the very moment he heard the command.
Antonov 2808 acknowledged, but did not alter course.
Fifteen feet away, across the dimly lit room, the “snitch” on the supervisor’s computer alerted him that there was a problem at the same moment Minsky reached up and snapped her fingers to get his attention. He rolled his chair across the blue industrial carpeting, eyes wide when he saw the two blips on the screen coming closer.
Minsky didn’t expect him to help, she just wanted a witness that she was doing everything by the book.
“Try the other one,” the supervisor whispered.
The conflict alert alarm sounded on her radar, signaling two minutes until a midair collision. The Americans called an incident like this a “deal”—certainly the most supreme of all understatements, Minsky thought.
She tried again.
“Antonov 2967, turn right thirty degrees, immediately. Maintain flight level one-niner-zero. Break. Antonov 2808, turn left thirty degrees for separation, company traffic three miles off your right wing. Break. Antonov 2967, turn right immediately.”
Nothing.
Minsky crushed the rubber alligator in her fist, smacking it over and over against her desk. She could have been singing “Bayu Bayushki Bayu” to these idiots for all the good it was doing.
Then, blessedly: “Left thirty degrees, Antonov 2808.”
The blip began to alter course with each radar sweep.
Minsky released a pent-up breath. “Thank you, 2808. 2967 is NORDO.”
“We will attempt contact,” 2808 replied.
Minsky allowed herself a moment to rub strained eyes with the heel of her hand, but a string of expletives from her supervisor snapped her back to attention. Antonov 2808 adjusted course as directed, but the second bird moved right along with it. At their present course and altitude, the two airplanes would very soon become a fireball over Russia.
Minsky continued to give voice commands. Her supervisor typed the identical flight instructions into the Sintez computer system, sending them to the aircraft via electronic message. At the same time, other traffic was diverted far away from the area. The second Antonov seemed bent on a midair collision. She watched in horror as the two blips on her screen grew closer with each sweep of the radar, squawking the ident numbers of their respective transponders.
�
��Antonov 2967,” Minsky said again. The pleading ran like a fissure of softer stone through her granite voice. “You must maintain altitude and present heading.” She repeated the same in Russian, just in case.
The targets momentarily froze into what was called a “ghost track” as the confused radar and computer processors worked to reacquire the two airplanes.
The supervisor groaned, leaning in almost on top of Minsky for emotional support. His voice cracked. “Twenty seconds. Then we will know.”
* * *
—
The high perch of the Antonov’s flight deck gave 2808’s crew a terrifying view of the belly of the aircraft above as it overflew them, bearing down like an eagle swooping on her prey. Colonel Mikhailov cursed through gritted teeth, pushing the yoke forward as the other plane flew directly overhead at four hundred feet, matching course as if shadowing in a tight formation.
The instruments flickered momentarily, along with the cabin lights. Mikhailov heard the flight engineer seated behind him say something unintelligible, but his hands were full and he didn’t have time to check in.
“I have the airplane,” Cherenko said from the right seat.
Mikhailov’s head snapped around. “Negative, it is still my air—”
The cold steel of a pistol barrel against his neck caused the colonel to freeze. Very slowly, he lifted his hands from the yoke.
“You have the airplane,” he said.
He half turned to see the first engineer, unconscious in a heap on the floor, drugged or struck in the head. It was impossible to tell. The engineer he did not know held the pistol in a sure hand. Smiling serenely.
The second Antonov continued to shadow them. The transponder blinked off and then came back on, flashing a completely different ident number.
The radio squawked and a new voice came across as the second plane peeled away, wings lifting into the night.
“Moscow Departure, Antonov 2808. We are in the clear. 2967 passed directly beneath us.”
The radioman behind Mikhailov spoke now. “Moscow Departure, Antonov 2967. Sorry about that. We experienced an intense electrical storm that had us all flying blind. We have it worked out.”
“2967, do you wish to declare an emergency?” the female controller asked, her voice strained from the near miss on her watch.
“Captain advises negative,” Cherenko said. “We will land in Saratov and perform required systems check. Antonov 2967.”
The controller gave him a telephone number to call to “discuss the matter further.” A report would certainly be logged. He acknowledged receipt but did not write anything down.
Mikhailov started to lower his hands, but the engineer prodded him with the pistol until he rested them on top of his head.
“So,” Mikhailov muttered, “we have become 2967 and they are now us.” The radioman continued to speak with Departure, and Mikhailov felt the airplane bank sharply to the right, heading almost due south. He looked at his first officer, pained at the stupid futility of all this. “There are other ways for them to figure out who we are.”
“True enough,” the engineer with the pistol said. “But with the right equipment and the right people supporting . . .”
“What could you hope to gain? The missiles will be useless without the launch-control devices.”
“That is true as well,” the radioman said, smiling down at the two leather briefcases at his feet.
Mikhailov felt as if his insides had broken.
“I see,” he said. “What will happen when the other airplane reaches Kazakhstan with no nuclear missiles onboard?”
“It will fly in that direction,” Cherenko said. “Unfortunately, the same electrical storm we just experienced must have damaged that aircraft’s navigation and communication systems. It will drop out of radar contact somewhere over the wooded hills of the Bashkiriya forest and be lost en route. I can assure you, that plane will not be found.”
“Then what is our destination?”
Cherenko glanced sideways and shook his head. “That, I am afraid, Comrade Colonel, is no longer your concern. For, you see, you are supposed to be aboard the doomed aircraft.” He twisted a little farther in his seat to make eye contact with the radioman seated at the workstation behind him. “Yuri, it is already Thursday—little Friday. Would you be so kind as to get the colonel some vodka?”
“No . . . I . . .” Mikhailov stammered. “I . . . do not drink—”
“My friend,” Cherenko said softly. “Do yourself a favor and have some vodka. It will make what comes next . . . easier.”
2
The President of the United States set a white porcelain coffee cup on a wood coaster at the edge of the Resolute desk. There were those who thought Jack Ryan surely drank from the skulls of his defeated enemies, but in truth, the academic and former Marine much preferred his coffee from a chipped ceramic mug, the interior of which was richly stained from the many gallons of brew that had gone before. He’d make the switch to that mug later in the day, but the first meeting in the Oval Office with a newly minted Cabinet official necessitated the fancy White House china to go with the requisite photo op.
With the photographer gone now, Ryan had moved around to the front of his desk to sit in one of the two Chippendale chairs, across from Mark Dehart, the secretary of homeland security. The upholstered couches and chairs in the middle of the Oval were more comfortable, but they had a way of swallowing people up. Ryan had met with Dehart briefly once before, immediately following the last White House Correspondents’ Dinner. That off-the-cuff meeting had taken place in a tiny Washington Hilton anteroom not much larger than a phone booth. It was a bit of an ambush—as interviews with the Commander in Chief often were. Dehart hadn’t had the time or the space then to be nervous, but he appeared downright unflappable now. His eyes sparkled with intensity at this first official sit-down with his new boss. Ryan liked that. People who were comfortable in their own skin were more likely to offer honest critiques and advice. And honest critiques from within one’s own camp were in short supply when one was arguably the most powerful person on the planet.
This morning, Ryan had blocked out a full twenty minutes with his new DHS secretary. It was an eternity as Oval Office meetings went, especially when the purpose was just a friendly chat.
Ryan gave an approving nod. “I apologize for taking so long to have you in for a visit.”
“You’re a busy man, Mr. President,” Dehart said. He was a fit sixty-one years old, lean, with the hungry face of a triathlete and the crow’s-feet of a born smiler. A crisp white shirt accented a deep tan, as if he’d spent any vacation time from his previous job as a congressman plowing fields on his old John Deere tractor. Dehart was born of Pennsylvania Dutch stock; his father and grandfather before him had been dairymen. He had used the “milk money” he’d earned to pay his way through undergrad at Penn State and then for a master’s in biology from Carnegie Mellon. A scientist at heart, he was a deep, analytical thinker with a farmer’s work ethic. He was honest and well liked by most. In the Machiavellian world of D.C. politics, that meant there were plenty of people who wanted to see him crash and burn because he made them look bad.
Dehart shifted in his seat. He wasn’t nervous, he just preferred to be up and doing rather than sitting and thinking about doing. “Frankly, I was surprised the confirmation went through,” he said. “I don’t know why, but Senator Chadwick really has it in for me.”
Ryan gave a slow shake of his head. As chair of the Homeland Security Appropriations Subcommittee of the Senate, or “cardinal,” Michelle Chadwick wielded enormous clout.
“No, Mark,” Ryan said and sighed. “Her fight’s with me. She just happens to have a scorched-earth policy when it comes to battles, political or otherwise. Honestly, I think I could put her name forward for a nomination and she’d disclose some sordid affair just to make me look stupid for t
rying to appoint her.” Ryan took another sip of coffee to wash the taste of Michelle Chadwick’s name out of his mouth, and then set the cup down to wave away any lingering thoughts. “Anyway, you made it aboard. Are you ready to hit the ground running?”
Dehart smiled. “I am indeed, sir.”
“Had a chance to read your briefing books?”
As secretary of homeland security, Dehart was responsible for, among other things, Customs and Border Protection, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, FEMA, the Coast Guard, and the Secret Service.
“I’m about two and a half feet down the three-foot stack of folders,” Dehart said, completely serious.
“Take it from me,” Ryan said. “Briefers are like cows, they add more to the pile every day.”
Dehart grinned. “The manure simile occurred to me, Mr. President. But my mother called this morning to warn me to keep my flippant remarks to a minimum, first time in the Oval Office and all.”
“Sage advice,” Ryan said. “So you’ve read enough to get a feel for what’s ahead of you . . . ahead of us. Tell me what scares you.”
Dehart inhaled deeply, and then glanced over at the presidential seal in the middle of the Oval Office carpet. He measured his words carefully before looking Ryan in the eye. “Three things, Mr. President.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Which three things?”
“Any three, sir,” Dehart said. “If they all happen at the same time.”
* * *
—
Reza Kazem did as he’d been instructed, more or less. The Russians were, after all, experts in tradecraft. He couldn’t see anyone but knew they were with him every step of the way, watching for signs of a tail.