Condor

by M. L. Buchman

  Suddenly, the crowd dispersed. There were occasional flickers of people moving, but only a few.

  “What just happened?” Roy didn’t understand.

  “It’s all loaded.” Miranda checked the image’s time stamp and sighed with relief. “It was just a few minutes ago.”

  “Right.” Lizzy pointed at the various people. “These will be the loadmasters doing their final checks. Look, there’s a fueling truck. There’s another already under the other wing. We still have some time. Each truck this size holds about fifty thousand pounds of fuel.”

  “Why pounds? Not gallons?” Clark looked puzzled.

  “Military planes, we think in pounds of fuel.”

  “I forgot; you were a jet jockey. Carry on, General Gray. Pounds versus gallons?”

  Lizzy cleared her throat. “Fifty thousand pounds is roughly seven thousand gallons of fuel per truck, sir.”

  “That’s seven thousand, three hundred and fifty-three gallons, if their Jet A fuel mix is similar to ours, sir.” Miranda looked around the room and decided that Holly was right and there were times she really shouldn’t speak. “That’s twenty-four-point-three percent of a train’s railcar—another common unit for measuring fuel.” Really shouldn’t.

  “If she’s dry—” Lizzy continued, “actually he, the Russian’s call their planes and ships by the male gender—the Condor will load up six fuel truck’s worth.”

  One point four six railcars, Miranda whispered to herself.

  “They’ll keep the fuel loading as light as possible.”

  Miranda twisted to face Lizzy.

  Mike spun as well.

  No one else reacted.

  None of them were pilots and they wouldn’t understand the implications of that statement.

  Holly and her team couldn’t exactly drop into some quiet Siberian airport and load up an extra ten thousand gallons on the sly.

  “How close do the Russians load fuel to their precise planned flight destination?” Mike found his voice before she could.

  Lizzy shrugged.

  “Close.”

  56

  “Ready to rock?” Holly asked the others as she tried to stretch the kinks out of her back. The only cab at the airport had been a thirty-year-old Zhiguli compact gypsy cab. The ride across Samara had been painfully cramped even with just the four of them.

  Jon looked equally bent out of shape. Tim and Tom, the two 24th STS Air Combat Controllers who’d joined them in Ramstein, looked a little better off.

  Holly had forgotten the smell of Russia. There was a dry-cold that pervaded every other scent. Cabbage and dry-cold. Aging, untuned exhaust from the Zhiguli, and dry-cold. The sagging industrial zone that surrounded the gleaming gray-and-glass facade of the Progress Space Rocket Centre’s entrance, squatting atop a flight of concrete steps like a sleeping bear ready to awaken and crush them, smelled of rust and hydraulic fluid…and the dry-cold scent.

  A woman with shoulder-length bronze-brown hair and a classically Russian just-too-tight dress was coming down the front steps of the Progress Rocket Space Centre toward them.

  “Wow! Talk about made for the camera,” Tom spoke up and shouldered the Red 8K camera he’d been practicing with since they picked him up at Ramstein. He made the move look as if he’d done it a thousand times, rather than never having touched a studio camera until a few hours ago.

  The woman certainly was: bright smile, smooth walk, and had clearly just brushed her hair to a shine and redone her makeup. She was remarkably photogenic.

  Holly had last slept on the steel deck of a C-130 Hercules from Spieden Island to Kentucky, though mostly not-at-all because of Miranda’s damn question about whether she was sleeping with Mike.

  Clarissa had arranged for a change of clothes to be waiting for Holly in Germany—casual up-scale Euro that didn’t feel like her at all.

  Holly supposed that the slender black slacks, a trim matching blazer over a white silk, open-collar blouse, and wrap-around shades to go with the quick dye job into jet black hair and a neat trim had made her match her new passport.

  And left her feeling not at all like herself. Except for the dirty-dishrag-exhausted bit. That was all too familiar.

  The disguise, as much as anything, had pushed her back into SASR days when such togs were often appropriate during a reconnoiter. She’d forgotten so quickly what it felt like to be playing a role rather than just being her lazy self.

  Jon wore dark contacts and a brunette wig that turned his military crewcut into something like an early Beatle—which was so out it must be back in.

  It was surprising how much it changed both their looks, and the passport photos were doctored so much they were only barely the same person. Clarissa’s team was smart; their identities would be almost impossible to trace back to a real person if anyone ever tried.

  Nobody would pay attention to Tim or Tom as the technicians. They were just two guys who looked surprisingly alike, with tousled hair and rough-trimmed beards.

  “Knows she’s about to be on film. Bet that dress is less than an hour old.” Tim held up his shotgun boom mic, covered in a long thick windscreen like a black foam rifle barrel. Which was appropriate because, if combined properly with the mic boom and three specific parts from his light meter, it turned into a very accurate sniper rifle in about sixty seconds.

  Back at Ramstein, They’d debated between having Jon or Holly be the “on-screen” talent. Which would be better for bamboozling whoever they met?

  Jon had finally hit the right idea. “We’re cohosts. You take care of the hot men; I’ll corral the hot women.”

  “And if they’re lesbian?”

  “I’ll charm them anyway because I’m a charming guy.”

  He wasn’t, but he was a nice guy.

  Maybe it was time Holly stopped worrying about him and Miranda, and let Miranda just figure it out for herself. Maybe she’d take her own advice, and realize she didn’t know shit. Perhaps she’d take Mike, a rack of long necks, and go on a blinder just to see what happened. If she drank enough, she wouldn’t remember the morning after anyway. Or maybe she’d be able to knock back enough to block out the past, however briefly.

  “He’s so ‘charming’ that maybe I’ll just swoon right here,” Tim had clapped his hands to his heart and fluttered his eyes like a silent film dame.

  “No, he’s mine. All mine.” Tom had given his buddy a hip check that sent Tim sprawling into the hangar’s wall where they’d been quickly sorting their gear.

  The two combat controllers had turned it into a fun team within the first ten minutes.

  Ragging on her and each other.

  Surprised the hell out of her. She was used to having to fight her own battles, especially among Spec Ops.

  She couldn’t ask why, of course. But eventually Tim had offered a side comment. “Ozzie SASR? That’s some serious kick-ass, girl.”

  “Yeah, we’ll all have to watch over Air Force here,” she’d nodded toward Jon.

  Tom had given her a high five that they were in on that program. And they’d been good from that moment on.

  Now, on the front steps of the Progress Space Rocket Centre’s admin building, they were three Spec Ops soldiers…and one pilot out of his depth but game to try.

  She’d missed that a lot without even realizing it.

  No need to ever question if they had her back, and they’d know that she had theirs.

  “Last report said they’re loaded and fueling. Let’s do this fast.” Holly turned just as the brunette beauty arrived a little breathlessly.

  “Hello, I’m Tatyana Tarasova, head of media relations here at the Progress Rocket Space Centre. I was told that Russian is acceptable for all of your crew. Would you prefer to work in Polish, German, French, or English perhaps?” No coyness to the smile or heaving chest of helpful excitement. Maybe she actually was good enough to be the polyglot head of media relations; just a very photogenic one.

  “Please, let us stay with Russian. We
are all comfortable with that. Also, at the Space Channel, we hope to capture the mood and feel of each country. POLSA was hard as Tomas has no Polish and mine is poor.” Actually nonexistent, but Holly felt it was better to keep that to herself.

  “Wonderful. I’m so sorry that there was a mix-up and we lost your scheduling. It never reached my desk, but no matter. Your credentials all check out—”

  One point for Clarissa and the CIA.

  “—and I was able to rearrange my meetings so we have the whole morning.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Jon stepped right in; his Russian was even better than Holly’s so she was glad for him to take the lead. “We can never thank you enough. We actually aren’t planning on shooting any real footage today. Instead, our interest is in establishing shots and story. We will then approach you for a full script approval, of course. Ultimately, SC—sorry, the Space Channel—is hoping to film a full mini-series about the Progress Rocket Space Centre from its very origins as it is one of the three most important in the world—along with ESA and NASA. Do you still have anyone who worked on the original R-7 Semyorka? I know it was sixty years ago that State Aviation Plant No. 1 was tasked with building that first rocket, but we are hoping someone still remembers the stories of that era.”

  “You have done your homework, Herr Schnell,” the woman smiled prettily.

  Holly had been surprised to discover that Clarissa Reese had a sense of humor. When they’d opened their false IDs, Jon Swift had become Herr Schnell, Mr. Fast. She’d become Hulda Musiker, maker of music. She supposed she should be thankful Reese hadn’t named her Ms. Steaming Turdpile.

  “As it happens, Progress maintains a retirement center nearby. There are still several members who worked on that first R-7 rocket that launched the Sputnik even before the manufacturing was given to State Aviation Plant No. 1, which became Progress. I will make a call that they should expect you.”

  “No. Let’s keep it simple for now,” Jon stopped her as she was already reaching for her phone.

  “Simply knowing that we can conduct those interviews will be enough,” Holly agreed quickly.

  No time for delays.

  “Our plan is to make this film backwards. So many stories start with the very smallest pieces and bring them together to the triumphant end. Our studies show that many people do not care without the bigger picture first. We will eventually start with a launch at Baikonur and then work our way backwards.”

  “Baikonur?” Tatyana bristled exactly as Holly had hoped. “That is in Kazakhstan. Why not start with our new launch center in Vostochny?”

  “Oh, we simply assumed the Russian government would never let us film there. That would be wonderful if you could help arrange it.”

  Tatyana waved a perfectly manicured hand with tasteful dark red nail polish—Holly had never worn nail polish in her life—as if it was no trouble at all.

  “So, perhaps,” Holly decided to really roll the dice. “We can start at the finished point, where you deliver a rocket to transport, and then start working backwards.”

  “Your timing is perfect,” Tatyana began leading them around the side of the administration building. “We have just loaded our newest satellite onto a transport jet that will be leaving momentarily. I can’t discuss the payload, of course, but I think it is okay to mention that it is headed to Vostochny.”

  “That’s wonderful. Boys,” Holly turned to Tim and Tom, “Make sure you capture any footage that Tatyana Tarasova approves. We will want to use that if we can’t time our live filming with another delivery.”

  Tom grumbled something like, “Yeah, yeah. We know our jobs, lady,” in surly German.

  Tim just rolled his eyes.

  Tatyana offered her a look of sympathy as someone who had clearly worked with too many grumpy camera crews.

  Perfect.

  57

  Drake knew he used to be better at controlling his emotions.

  He was sure of it.

  At the moment he wanted to pound the Sit Room table with both his fists.

  “What the hell is going on over there?”

  Lizzy sighed. “The timing is awkward. I won’t have another satellite overhead for seventeen minutes. And when I do, it will be a low-angle pass, so we may not be able to see much even if the approaching weather doesn’t cover the site.”

  “Goddamn it,” he kept that to a mutter.

  Roy and Clark had been called out of the room to some other matter.

  Mike was staring fixedly at the mission clock, which simply showed Samara-local time because they didn’t have anything else more relevant to reference. The moment they crossed into Russian airspace wasn’t terribly relevant except that each additional minute was another chance for everything to go to hell.

  And they didn’t have a mission-end time until they actually got that damn plane out of Russia. Not even an estimated one until they got it aloft.

  Miranda was the only one staying focused on anything.

  “What are you working on?”

  She looked at him in surprise. Miranda always seemed to be shocked when directly addressed.

  “Jeremy and I are working on two simultaneous crash reports. I currently have his latest draft of the civilian 767 accident at Nashville. And he is layering in additional information from his photographic analysis of the sabotage and explosion of the AN-124 Condor at Fort Campbell in case it’s of use to the Air Force’s AIB team. We’ve also been in touch with them regarding any new developments.”

  “And is there anything new?”

  “Only one item. I’m not sure if it would be classified as new but it is definitely curious. For the team handover, Holly had insisted that I not mention the presence of an Antonov representative at the crash site. Apparently, one has just now called from the Ukraine asking if they had seen a plane that was past due for reporting their arrival at Fort Campbell. When informed that they had lost a plane, the Antonov factory complained about lack of notification. Which makes no sense as their representative was already on site.”

  Drake felt an itch.

  It reminded him of one of his last missions. Task Force Falcon had deployed to Kosovo, including the Ranger’s elite Regimental Reconnaissance Detachment, to help stabilize the newly formed country. Kosovo had fought a bloody and brutal seventeen months for its freedom from Yugoslavia, which had left the country in tatters.

  Among the official count of forces involved in the war, an “unknown number” of Russian “volunteers” had supported Milosěvić’s attempts at exterminating the Kosovan Albanians.

  One particular “volunteer” was caught heading a rape squad, after the declaration of peace. Even as they drilled down on his identity, it seemed to morph. Yugoslav raping Islamic Albanians… No, an Albanian wanted for killing civilians who had aided…someone.

  Then the volunteer had made one mistake, and they were able to identify him as Russian.

  Within hours he’d been murdered in his cell…and the only likely suspect was a Russian who’d slipped through the perimeter Drake’s own team had set up around the holding cells. Whoever it was had also left four dead Albanian guards inside. To get by a Ranger RRD team—and make five kills—took a degree of skill he’d never seen outside of Delta Force.

  It hadn’t taken a genius to know that the only person likely to pull off such a mission had been a Zaslon operative.

  That same itch was back.

  Had one of Russia’s secret elite warriors been at the Condor crash in the middle of the secure Fort Campbell military base?

  “Tell me about the man who was there.”

  “What man?” Miranda had drifted most of the way back to her report.

  “The one who said they were from Antonov.”

  “I never said there was a man from Antonov.”

  “Then who?”

  “A woman.”

  Drake hadn’t expected that. He could feel Lizzy’s smile at his back telling him he was still making assumptions. He ignored her.


  “Then tell me about the woman who said she was from Antonov.”

  “Ask Mike. He spent the most time with her.” Miranda turned away and Drake might as well be on another planet.

  He looked across the table toward Mike, who was no longer watching the seconds tick by in the Samara time zone.

  Now he was looking directly across at Drake.

  His stare was dead flat.

  Drake opened his mouth to ask.

  Mike offered an infinitesimal shake of his head, then glanced over at Miranda. The message was obvious: Don’t say a thing about the Antonov woman around Miranda.

  Drake was sick of not knowing.

  He jabbed a finger toward the door.

  Mike shrugged before rising, and they both headed for one of the other Situation Room conference spaces.

  58

  “Wow! Is that an Antonov Ruslan?” Jon asked for Tatyana’s sake. He still wondered why he’d agreed to this crazy endeavor.

  He’d spent the entire flight over the Atlantic and then on to Samara, studying the Antonov manual someone had scared up for him.

  The damn thing was a monster. And staring at it now parked on the Russian tarmac, it seemed to glower at him. Like the C-5 Galaxy, its wings drooped heavily when it was on the ground. It wasn’t the natural state for either airplane. They belonged aloft; wings lifted near to level rather than drooping like sad rabbit ears.

  “It is,” Tatyana’s pleasure at his surprise reminded him of his role.

  Barely.

  He wanted to yell to Holly. “Abort! Abort! Abort!”

  But they were so far in. So close.

  Then he thought about the five thousand kilometers to cross Russia. And the thirteen hundred more to their planned refueling point at Sapporo, Japan on Hokkaido Island. Dependent on an unlikely twenty-four percent fuel reserve.

  Maybe they weren’t so close.

  “Would you like to meet the crew?” Tatyana was flagging down four men walking toward the plane carrying small suitcases.