She ignored them. They didn’t have coffee. Besides, she had long since gotten accustomed to men staring at her. Also ogling her, leering at her and propositioning her.
Tracie checked her watch. Twenty-five minutes until her scheduled departure. She choked down her coffee. It was scalding hot and almost undrinkably strong, just the way she liked it. Then she grabbed her bag, checked for her precious cargo—the letter was still there—and then double-timed to the airfield. Someone would retrieve the car later.
Tracie had been instructed to check in at Hangar Three, and now she slowed to a walk about a hundred feet from the door, crossing the tarmac at precisely 10:55 p.m.
Outside the hangar, a gigantic green U.S. Air Force B-52 towered above her, the eight engine high-wing jet appearing almost impossibly large. It had to be close to two hundred feet from wingtip to wingtip, and the fuselage soared high above like some kind of fabricated metal dinosaur. The notion of the huge hunk of metal getting airborne, much less staying that way and flying all the way to the United States seemed outlandish, some kind of magic trick or optical illusion.
Tracie had logged endless hours aboard dozens of different aircraft, from medevac helicopters to Boeing 747s during her tenure as a CIA covert ops specialist, but had never been aboard a B-52. The sheer enormity of the aircraft was staggering.
From where she stood, it looked like every other airplane she’d ever flown aboard could fit inside this behemoth. The wings thrusting outward from the top of the fuselage seemed to go on forever, swept back and hanging down slightly, as if the weight of the eight jet engines hanging in clusters of two was simply more than they could bear. The fuselage itself stretched off into the distance; to Tracie’s eye it appeared nearly as long as the wingspan’s width.
She froze in place, marveling at the engineering miracle perched atop its tiny-looking wheels. She could feel her jaw hanging open and closed it, embarrassed. She felt like a country bumpkin on her first visit to the big city.
Standing directly in front of—and far below—the nose of the huge aircraft was an officer, probably late-thirties, handsome in a grizzled, seen-it-all way. He had obviously been awaiting her arrival, and he smiled at her reaction to the B-52.
“May I see your ID, ma’am?” he asked.
Tracie handed it over, shaking her head in mute admiration of the aircraft.
The officer said, “We get that a lot from people who’ve never been up close to a BUFF before. It’s pretty impressive, isn’t it?”
“That’s an understatement,” Tracie answered.
The officer handed Tracie’s ID back and said, “I’m Major Stan Wilczynski, and I’ll be Pilot in Command for tonight’s flight. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew shortly.”
She returned the major’s smile. “I’ll bite,” she said. “What’s BUFF?”
Other than you, she wanted to add, wondering how long it had been since she had enjoyed any male companionship outside of official duty status and realizing she couldn’t remember. She kept her remark to herself, though, noting the major’s wedding ring.
He chuckled. “BUFF’s our nickname for the B-52. Stands for ‘Big Ugly Fat Fuckers.’ And they are all of that, but these babies have served with distinction for a quarter-century, with plenty more years to come. Some say the new B-1 will make the BUFF obsolete, but I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Tracie nodded, noting the reverence in the pilot’s voice as he talked about the plane. “How long have you flown the B-52, Major?”
“It’s Stan to my friends, Miss Tanner. And I’ve been involved with these Big Ugly Fuckers almost since my first day in the Air Force. Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my whole life inside one of these beasts. Can’t imagine a better way to serve my country, to be honest.”
Tracie grinned. The man’s enthusiasm was infectious, and went a long way toward breaking down her caution, a trait she came by naturally and one that had served her well over the course of her seven-year CIA career. But there was no need for it now; she was clearly among friends.
“Anyway,” Wilczynski continued, “I’ve bored you long enough. I just can’t help bragging when the subject is my baby.”
He gestured affectionately toward the aircraft’s nose. “Whaddaya say we climb aboard and get ready to leave this continent behind?” The major turned and indicated a metal ladder hanging from an open hatch in the bottom of the aircraft.
“I’m not bored at all,” Tracie answered, starting up the ladder. “I love hearing a professional discuss his passion.”
Major Wilczynski paused. “You know, I’ve never really thought about it in those terms before, but you’re right, I do have a passion for these old birds.”
He started up the ladder behind Tracie and they disappeared into the B-52.
11
May 30, 1987
10:50 p.m.
Ramstein Air Base
A maze of equipment ran the otherwise empty length of the aircraft’s interior, wires and cables seemingly placed in random locations, performing tasks Tracie could not imagine. The flight deck featured two seats placed side by side, each with a yoke where the steering wheel would be in a car. Avionics clogged the area below the windshield and the console between the two seats, gauges and dials and switches and levers that somehow allowed the flight crew to manage the almost mystical task of lifting the B-52 into the air and keeping it there.
She gazed into the empty cockpit, marveling at the engineering prowess involved in the production of such a complex aircraft. Tracie felt as though she would rattle around the vast interior of the aircraft like an elderly widow inside an otherwise deserted mansion, regardless of how many passengers were aboard. The BUFF made her feel tiny and insignificant.
She turned left, away from the flight deck and toward the rear of the aircraft, and ran straight into Major Wilczynski. His body was solid and muscled, the physique of a man who welcomed physical labor.
She stumbled and he grabbed her arm, and she chuckled. “Sorry about that,” she said, not really sorry at all, again reminded how long it had been since she’d spent any time with a man not involved in some way in the espionage game.
Any personal time.
“Not a problem,” Wilczynski answered. “I apologize for sneaking up on you. I just wanted to take a moment to introduce you to the rest of the team.”
He nodded to a pair of airmen who had climbed up the ladder and now stood next to them. “This isn’t my standard flight crew. We’re mixing and matching personnel thanks to other commitments and the unscheduled nature of the trip. Not that we mind, of course. If there’s one thing an airman loves to do, it’s fly.
“Anyway, our copilot for today’s mission is Major Tom Mitchell. Tom needs to get stateside as quickly as you do, thanks unfortunately to a family emergency, but I can tell you he’s a solid flyer.”
A pasty-faced officer, doughy and lumpy, stuck his hand out without a word and Tracie shook it. Mitchell’s skin felt hot and sweaty and he seemed preoccupied to Tracie, who in her work as a CIA field operative was accustomed to sizing up strangers immediately. Often the success of a mission—not to mention whether or not she would continue breathing—came down to her ability to effectively gauge who could be trusted and who could not.
And this man set off alarm bells.
Mitchell’s eyes shifted continuously, like they were following invisible ping pong balls bouncing back and forth across an invisible table. He barely met her eyes before sliding his gaze restlessly over her left shoulder. He shuffled his feet and rocked side to side like he would rather be anyplace else in the world but here.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Tracie said, attempting to prolong the handshake for a moment and failing, as he withdrew his moist grip from hers almost immediately.
Major Mitchell said nothing. He smiled reluctantly, the gesture making him look more ill than welcoming, and then turned and walked away. He brushed past Tracie and Major Wilczynski and disappeared onto the f
light deck. Wilczynski watched Mitchell go, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise.
He shook his head and returned his attention to Tracie. “And this young man,” he indicated an officer standing next to the spot Mitchell had just vacated, “is Captain Nathan Berenger. Nathan is a long-time member of my crew, having served as our navigator for almost five years. I can guarantee that with Nathan on the job, we won’t have to worry about getting lost on our way back to Andrews.”
Captain Berenger offered his hand, as Mitchell had done before him. In contrast to the copilot, however, Tracie felt a welcoming vibe emanating from the navigator that was almost as strong as Wilczynski’s.
She took his hand and a smile creased his face. “Try to ignore Tom,” he said softly. “I don’t know what’s bugging him—he’s been pretty preoccupied lately. Family troubles or something, I guess. But Major Wilczynski and I will take good care of you.”
He raised his voice to a normal level. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, and if you need anything, you let me know.”
Berenger’s grip felt as strong and competent as Mitchell’s had weak and indecisive. Tracie returned the captain’s handshake—and his smile—enthusiastically. Something was off about Major Mitchell, that was for sure, but these two crewmembers struck her as competent to a T. Besides, she was standing in the middle of a U.S. air base, aboard an Air Force jet, surrounded by a professional military flight crew. What could possibly go wrong?
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Berenger said, “I’ve got to get busy doing all the real work so this guy,” he nodded at Major Wiczynski, “can play aviator and soak up all the glory on today’s flight.” He winked at Tracie and clambered down a metal stairway to the navigator’s position below the flight deck.
“Berenger’s the best,” Wilczynski told her. “On a typical combat mission we would feature at least two more crew members, a bombardier and an electronic warfare officer. Since this is a noncombat mission, it’s been determined that these positions can remain unfilled for tonight. The rest of my guys are enjoying a little R and R.”
“I’m sorry to add to your workload and take you away from your own R and R,” Tracie said. “I certainly didn’t need this much transportation.” She opened her arms, indicating the gigantic interior of the B-52.
Wilczynski laughed. “No apology is necessary, believe me. In fact, I should be thanking you. I need to maintain currency in this behemoth, so instead of commanding a boring training mission next week, I get to fly across the pond and make a quick trip home.
“Besides,” he added conspiratorially. “Like I said before, if there’s one thing we all love to do, it’s drink.”
The comment took Tracie by surprise and she laughed.
“But since we can’t be doing that, the next-best thing for us is flying. We love it, and believe me when I say this is not work for us.”
He lowered his voice as Captain Berenger had done. “Even for Major Sourpuss in there,” he said with a grin.
“Now that the introductions are over,” he said, “feel free to check out the rest of the aircraft. Try not to get lost back there, though. I’ll let you know when it’s time to buckle in for departure.”
12
May 30, 1987
10:30 p.m. EST
Somewhere over the North Atlantic
The B-52 floated across the sky nearly five miles above the vast, empty expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The air was smooth, with only the occasional light bump of turbulence—like a city bus driving over a pothole—and the roar of the eight jet engines had been muted in level flight to a steady thrumming that was felt more than heard inside the cabin.
At the controls, Tom Mitchell felt as though his stomach might launch its contents all over the instruments at any moment. The gentle rocking of a large aircraft in flight had never affected him in this way before. But then he had never been about to murder four people—including himself—before, either.
He could barely think straight. He was a traitor, although no one would ever discover that devastating fact. Crashing the BUFF into the Atlantic after killing everyone on board would eliminate any evidence of foul play, satisfying the Russians and sparing his family. There was no radar coverage hundreds of miles off the United States coast, so by the time air traffic control realized the B-52 was missing, most of the aircraft and associated crash debris would already be beneath the water’s surface, well on its way to the ocean floor.
Add to that the fact that the area to be searched would be massive, thousands of square miles of uninterrupted watery desolation, and Tom Mitchell knew the odds of his treachery being discovered were astronomically long.
So that was the plan. Crash the airplane into the ocean.
The problem was that Tom was having trouble executing the plan, not to mention everyone on board the aircraft. It wasn’t that he was afraid of dying, not exactly. Anyone making a career out of military service eventually found a way to make peace with the possibility of sudden violent death. Not to do so was to risk a mental breakdown. Tom had long ago accepted that concept.
Murdering three innocent people, though, had never been part of those calculations. There was a world of difference between being blown out of the sky by an enemy missile during a bombing run and placing his service weapon inside his mouth and pulling the trigger after first shooting everyone else aboard an airplane. So he delayed the inevitable, stomach jumping and rolling while he desperately searched for another way out.
Working with the KGB had been simple at first. A Godsend. He had raked in some serious cash—an extra two grand a month was a lot of money for a United States Air Force officer—in return for passing along what often seemed like relatively harmless intel: aircraft specs or division personnel rosters or armament information.
Tom wasn’t stupid; he had known he was crossing a line from which he could never return when he relayed that first bit of information to the Russians, but keeping a German mistress was damned expensive.
Besides, serving in the USAF was boring as hell. Acting as a go-between—he refused to consider himself a spy, although late at night, unable to sleep, tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling, he had to acknowledge that was exactly what he was—brought a bit of excitement into his life.
Last night’s phone call had hammered home with crystal clarity the horrible mistake he’d made. He had been tempted to tell Boris Badanov with the thick Russian accent to go to hell. He’d done exactly that, in fact. The KGB could come and take him out if they wanted. He’d probably never see it coming and death would at least be a way out of the corner into which he’d painted himself.
But the threat to his family had changed everything. Tom hadn’t even realized the Russians knew he was married until last night. He realized now how foolishly blind he had been—of course the KGB would learn all they could about their new asset, of course they would keep that information close to the vest, pulling it out only when needed—but Roberta and Sarah were thousands of miles away, safe and anonymous in Herndon, Virginia, well out of range of the KGB.
Or so he had thought.
How wrong he’d been.
Kopalev knew way too much about his family, tossing the information out casually, like it was no big deal. Tom’s blood had frozen in his veins last night with Kopalev’s threat to snuff out the lives of his wife and child, and in the most agonizing manner possible.
He thought hard, his eyes alternating between the B-52’s instruments and the endless blaze of impossibly bright stars outside the windscreen. Maybe he could question the CIA agent currently dozing in the rear of the aircraft. No one had confirmed she was CIA, but then, no one had needed to. It was obvious. A civilian woman, appearing at Ramstein out of nowhere carrying Top Secret paperwork with instructions from the highest levels of government for a priority lift across the pond?
CIA.
And of course Kopalev had name-dropped the CIA connection quite effectively.
As a CIA spook, the woman might be able t
o use her connections to protect Tom’s family. But she certainly would ask the obvious question of why the family of an Air Force nobody was in need of protection from the KGB, a question he could not answer. He would be forced to kill her anyway.
Tom shook his head and cursed under his breath. He knew Wilczynski was watching him curiously. He didn’t care. He was fucked. He was well and truly fucked.
As an Air Force pilot, Tom Mitchell was intimately familiar with the concept of parallax view, which stated that the angle at which objects are viewed will determine how they appear to the viewer. Parallax view was one reason why a good pilot learned early in his career to rely on his instruments while flying, even on a clear, bright, sunny day.
Eyes could be fooled. Instruments could not.
The concept of parallax view applied to other situations as well. Look at a scenario from one angle and it can appear completely different than when viewed from another. But Tom realized this situation was the exception. No parallax view in the world could change one simple fact: he was going to have to do as the KGB had ordered, or sentence his own wife and child to death.
And that he could not do.
So the decision was easy, even if executing that decision was not. And Tom knew he was running out of time. Soon the giant B-52 would be approaching land, flying over U.S. soil down the east coast to Andrews Air Force Base, and while he could still carry out the murders, crashing the jet onto the U.S. mainland would never satisfy the KGB. There would be no way to guarantee the item they wanted destroyed had actually been destroyed, and his family would remain at risk.
So he had to do it soon.
The clock was ticking.
13
May 30, 1987
11:15 p.m.
Atlantic Ocean, 150 miles off the coast of Maine
Tracie tried with little success to catch a few Zs in the minimally upholstered seat. It was bolted to the side wall of the B-52, which had probably flown hundreds, if not thousands, of missions. The seatback was rickety and the vinyl upholstery worn and cracked.
Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set Page 5