by Ward Larsen
“Tell the Navy to push it up—flank speed or whatever the hell they call it! This is an emergency!”
Over the next ten minutes everyone watched as the speedboat collected four men from each of the three sinking ships. It then sped off, at a computed speed of fifty-two knots, toward the lawless frontier that was the coast of Yemen. In that time, Cirrus disappeared beneath the waves. The other two ships were nearly submerged, minutes from joining her. Aside from those rescued by the cigarette boat, not a single survivor was apparent on the foundering decks or in the water.
“Do we have any assets in the area that might be able to intercept this fast mover?” Coltrane asked pleadingly. “If that boat reaches Yemen we’re going to lose her.”
“I’ve already checked,” said the coordinator. “Nothing that could catch up. The only chance would be Decatur. She has a decent angle—at top speed she might be able to intercept the smaller boat. But if she does that—”
“I know what the choices are,” said an exasperated Coltrane. “We can either chase down that boat or search for survivors. But we can’t do both.”
It was the easiest decision Coltrane had faced on that day. Unfortunately, he was quite sure where it would lead. For the next two hours the U.S. destroyer Decatur executed a by-the-book search pattern, amid oil slicks and debris, over the deepest trench in the Gulf of Aden.
Not a single survivor was found.
FIFTY-ONE
Slaton realized he’d been spoiled as of late when he had to suppress disappointment at not having a private jet for his journey to Morocco. His welcome back to the real world had been finalized the previous night when his connection to Casablanca from Paris Charles De Gaulle was canceled at the last minute.
He was forced to wait until the next morning, and spent the night at an airport hotel. During that layover, he’d called Christine to give her an update on where he was headed. Their conversation could be condensed to its final exchange.
Are you sure you want to do this? she’d asked.
No, Slaton replied, staring out a broad window at an airliner lifting from a runway. But I’m sure it needs to be done.
Christine had not argued, and first thing this morning he was back in the airport security line.
He arrived in Casablanca on the stroke of noon. The arrival queues were surprisingly busy, and it took nearly an hour to clear customs and immigration. That, at least, went without a hitch, and minutes after his CIA-furnished passport was returned, he was cutting through the terminal crowds like a deer through forest.
He saw rental car counters in the distance, but before going that route Slaton decided to make a phone call. He dialed the direct number Coltrane had provided. No one picked up after ten rings, and there was no voice-mail option.
So much for my private line, he thought, ending the call. He tried not to take it personally—the man was director of the CIA, and presumably had other issues on his agenda.
He diverted outside, and steered away from the busy curb where taxis and buses were doing a brisk business. At the end of the sidewalk he looked out across the far reaches of the airfield. A handful of small aircraft were parked in line at a flight school, and beyond them he saw a modest air cargo building. With minimal contemplation, Slaton placed a call to his backup source.
Anna Sorensen picked up immediately.
Slaton said, “I just tried to reach your boss, but he didn’t answer.”
“I’m not surprised. There’s a crisis right now.”
“When is there not?”
“Hang on…” There was a thirty-second pause, and Slaton heard a series of clicks on the line. Sorensen’s voice returned. “All right, encryption is verified. You probably haven’t heard about Argos—she just sank off the coast of Yemen.”
“Sank?”
“There’s more.” She explained what had happened to MIR Enterprises’ other two ships, and that a speedboat had rescued four men from each. “We had a Navy destroyer on the scene within minutes, and two merchant ships have joined the search. There don’t appear to be any survivors.”
“There had to be fifteen, maybe twenty men on the ship I saw,” he said, recalling the busy crew he’d watched from the shadows of Argos’ hull. He also recalled the one man who’d struck him as something other than a typical sailor. Number three guide on top, number one on the sides. Slaton had mentioned him in his debriefing with Mossad, as had Aaron. They’d both pegged him as some manner of “security,” and suspected he wasn’t alone. Yet neither could have imagined this. Not a security team, but rather executioners in wait. A team of four on each ship. Waiting to destroy evidence in the most comprehensive way possible. “Were you able to track these guys who ran?”
“No, the boat they boarded was fast—it headed straight toward Yemen and we lost track near the shoreline. We’re trying to pick up a trail, but I wouldn’t count on it—our networks in Yemen aren’t the most reliable.”
“Which is why they close it. This whole operation looks more professional by the minute. It’s almost certainly state-sponsored—and the guy I saw looked Russian.”
“That keeps coming up, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah … it’s beyond coincidence.”
“Way beyond,” she agreed. “These ships got scuttled and the crews were murdered.”
“Aside from trying to locate these kill squads, how is the CIA responding?”
“We’re continuing to press the Saudis—we think there should be a stronger response to these arms shipments. Since I’m up to speed on what’s happening, Coltrane sent me to Riyadh.”
“I know.”
A brief pause. “You do?”
“He mentioned it when I last talked to him. He said the Saudis tend to be more forthcoming in person.”
“True enough. So do you have any better news? Any luck finding Ovechkin?”
“I just got to Casablanca—flight delays. I called your boss a few minutes ago hoping he’d have more for me to work with. The search box he gave me is a little overwhelming—I’ve got to narrow it down somehow.”
“So since you couldn’t get hold of him, you called me?”
“Something like that.”
“Wish I could help,” she said, “but I haven’t heard anything new. If I talk to the director, I’ll tell him what you want. But as you can probably understand—Ovechkin isn’t the priority right now.”
After agreeing to keep in touch, Slaton ended the call. He pocketed the phone and looked at the rental car counters in the terminal.
He wondered how he was going to find Ovechkin in a fifty-square-mile area. He once again swept his gaze across the greater airport. His eye was caught by a sign in the distance, and a new idea took hold. It would be, without doubt, an extravagant option.
It would also be the quickest way to cover a lot of ground.
FIFTY-TWO
“Excuse me…”
Rayan Omar turned with a start, banging his head on an engine cowling as he did so. A man he’d never seen before was standing behind him. He was rather tall, with a strong build and light hair. The eyes, an unusual shade of gray, held him amiably.
“I’m sorry,” the man said, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you speak English?”
Omar nodded. “Sure, a little bit.” He rubbed the sore spot on his scalp, and wondered why he hadn’t heard the man approach over the hangar’s hard concrete floor.
“Are you a mechanic for the air service?”
“Mechanic, pilot, refueler. Whatever is needed today.”
The visitor looked surprised, but was still smiling. “Pilot and mechanic?”
“No airplane is better maintained than the one flown by a man who is both.”
“Yes … I see your point. My name is Ericson.” A hand was offered. Omar wiped one of his own with a greasy rag and the two shook.
“You are Norwegian?” Omar asked, trying to nail down the man’s accent.
“Swedish, actually. I’m a real estate developer. I flew in
today for a business meeting, and while I’m in the area I wanted to scout out a few properties. I’d like to inquire about chartering an aircraft for an hour or two.”
Omar tipped his head noncommittally to one side. Not because he was uncertain about the prospect, but to avoid an appearance of eagerness. “Where precisely do you wish to go?”
“South along the coast. Thirty, maybe forty miles.”
Omar straightened a bit. “Yes, that might be possible.” He mentioned how busy things were this time of year, hoping the man hadn’t seen the empty parking lot out front. He also remarked on the recent price rises of aviation fuel, perhaps with some exaggeration. Only then did he put forward a ruinous hourly rate.
The Swede never flinched, suggesting to Omar that the man was operating on a deep expense account. In truth, it was a more accurate assessment than he might have imagined, although he could never have guessed the source of the funds backing the credit card in his pocket. Omar was thinking about properties to the north as well, when the Swede said, “There is one catch—today is the only day I’m free.”
Omar winced. He turned and gestured toward the twin Comanche behind him. “All three of my fleet are in the shop. This one might be ready tomorrow, but no sooner.”
The Swede turned circumspect. He looked out through the hangar door, and Omar hoped the sign on his competitor’s building wasn’t in view: Fly It Again Sam Tour Flights and Charters.
Feeling the deal slipping away, he quickly said, “There might be one possibility…”
He led the real estate man to the hangar’s rear door, then out into the torrid midday sun. There, grilling on the black tarmac, was a Bell Jet Ranger. It had been a sleek helicopter in its day, even if that day was forty years ago. The red paint had faded to something near ochre. One of the skids was bent—not by any fault of Omar’s, but from an unfortunate towing incident—and the two rotor blades appeared to rest at distinctly different pitches. On the asphalt beneath the chopper was a puddle of something blue. It certainly wasn’t his showcase aircraft—but as far as he knew, she was airworthy.
“Can you fly it?” the customer asked.
Omar grinned broadly, and said that he could.
* * *
Colonel Zhukov was not a happy man. He stood rigidly in the big mission truck, the air inside cool and dry to support banks of electronic gear. He was hovering behind a very busy Tikhonov.
The test flight had been scheduled for noon, but difficulties with telemetry links had forced a delay. It was not unexpected. The mission control truck was thirty miles from the RosAvia complex. Parked on a remote gravel service road, it cut a lonely figure in one of the most remote regions of Morocco—this in a country that served as threshold to the Sahara. Today that remoteness was entirely the point.
The live-fire exercise could only be performed over unpopulated desert. This morning two of Tikhonov’s men had scoured the “shoot box” using ATVs just to make sure no wayward goat herders or adventurous European hikers were at risk. So too, the airspace above them had been cleared by Moroccan air traffic control. Taken together, it made the area an airborne firing range, twenty square miles of sky and earth sanitized of all bystanders. And, from Zhukov’s point of view, all witnesses.
It was nearly two thirty when the engineer finally had his electronic kinks straightened out.
“The MiG is airborne,” Tikhonov announced from his workstation.
A still simmering Zhukov said nothing.
The takeoff was being performed by one of Tikhonov’s technicians, who would at that moment be under the umbrella on the roof of the Sprinter van. Zhukov listened to the same sequence he’d heard two days ago, albeit from the opposing radio.
“Prepare for transfer.”
“Ready to accept control.”
“On my mark. Three … two … one … execute.”
“I have the aircraft,” Tikhonov announced from his soft swivel chair.
Zhukov stared at the radar display and saw two white dots, both sided by data tags. One was the MiG, closing in fast from the west. The other had been orbiting overhead for fifteen minutes. That aircraft was a modified M-143 drone, originally designed for the Russian military as a target for testing air-to-air and surface-to-air missiles. At twenty-six feet long, and with a narrow wingspan, it was smaller than most aircraft, but had a fighter-like top speed of over five hundred knots. Powered by a small turbojet engine, the M-143 had been launched from a truck just outside the aerial range. Tikhonov commanded it to fly wide circles as they awaited the MiG.
“Twenty-five miles and closing fast,” Tikhonov said. “I am going to activate the MiG’s targeting pod. As soon as that feed is verified, the drone will be released into its maneuvering run. Everything will happen quickly from that point.”
“How long do I have?” Zhukov asked.
“Five minutes. If you wish to go outside, now is the time. Remember where I told you to look.”
It was Tikhonov who’d suggested that he watch from outside. The “full effect,” he’d called it. Everything on the monitors would be logged for further analysis, and could be gone over later frame by frame. The spectacle in the sky above them, however, would not be recorded. Not in any way.
Zhukov weaved between consoles in the darkened control center, and when he opened the door the bright midday sun hit like a Taser. He squinted severely, but his eyes quickly adjusted. He walked clear of the big truck and scanned the horizon to the west. He picked out the distinctive mountain, miles away, that Tikhonov had given him as a reference point. From there Zhukov looked up. He removed a water bottle from the thigh pocket of his cargo pants, took a swig, then snugged it back in place. He lifted the binoculars hanging round his neck and, like the tank commander he’d once been, surveyed the flawless blue sky.
He swept the optics back and forth for a full two minutes before spotting the loitering drone. It was roughly three miles away, a tiny silhouette enhanced by its bright orange paint job—the same shade as the MiG’s tail. He followed the aircraft through two lazy circles, then saw it veer suddenly into a hard turn.
Zhukov knew the profile because he had dictated it: the target drone would descend to two thousand feet above the desert floor, then take up a straight and level path at two hundred and fifty knots. There would be no evasive maneuvering, no countermeasures of any kind. The one thing he’d not dictated was the course, and when the drone rolled out of its turn it seemed to be rushing straight at him. Was Tikhonov aware? Had he planned it this way? Zhukov recalled with unease the pool of charred earth he’d seen where one of the jets had crashed.
He pulled his eyes away from the glasses and tried to spot the MiG. The problem was that he didn’t know from which direction the jet would come. It had to be near, and flying far faster than the target—this too was in the profile. Zhukov began to alternate, scanning the sky with his naked eyes, then using the binoculars. The target drone was getting bigger, no longer simply an orange silhouette, but an aircraft with wings and a top-mounted engine. When it was inside two miles, still headed straight at him, the binoculars were no longer necessary.
Was there a technical problem with the MiG? he wondered. A failure of some kind?
Then it came out of nowhere.
In an explosion of noise the fighter rushed no more than fifty feet over Zhukov’s head. The jet was going so fast, he would later realize, that it was nearly outrunning its own sound signature. A shock wave hit, an incredible wall of noise. Caught by surprise, Zhukov instinctively stepped back, and in doing so stumbled on a rock and ended up on his ass. His water bottle bounded from his thigh pocket and splattered him with water.
Even so distracted, Zhukov never let his eyes waver from the MiG. He watched the two forms merge with a nearly head-on aspect. Watched the distance between them close in a blur. Hitting a bullet with a bullet. That was how Tikhonov had described it, but it didn’t do justice to what he was witnessing. The MiG tipped one wing in the final instant, a last desperate correc
tion, and then the predestined end: an incredible midair collision.
Zhukov recoiled at the sight of what looked like two meteors colliding. Orange flames burst outward in a ragged sphere, a release of energy that for an instant overpowered the midday sun. The sound wave was next, and even half a mile away Zhukov felt the conflagration’s heat as it spread across the desert. When the nova of bright orange flames receded, it was replaced by smoke and spinning fragments of wreckage. He heard skittering sounds in the desert all around, and knew instantly what they were: bits of fiery shrapnel finding their everlasting homes.
The explosion dissipated gradually, like a wave on the beach backing into the sea. Zhukov pulled himself to his feet, his burst water bottle in one hand, the binoculars still in the other. The desert in the distance was littered with smoldering wreckage, and a few final pieces of debris fluttered to the ground, tracers of white smoke marking their path like so many sputtering fireworks. The next thing Zhukov heard was rolling laughter behind him. He turned and saw Tikhonov at the top of the steps. He had one hand on the door of the control truck, and the other pointed a finger as he laughed.
Zhukov looked down. The front of his pants were sodden—surely from the open water bottle. He let the engineer have his moment.
Tikhonov suddenly fell distracted. He reached out and removed a jagged piece of metal that had embedded in the outer wall of the truck. The engineer studied it for a moment, then tossed it aside. “That was perhaps a bit too close,” he said. Without waiting for a response, he descended the stairs. “Come, Colonel, let’s have a closer look.”
They walked across hardpan desert to the smoldering debris field. On arriving, both men meandered amid the bits of twisted metal, avoiding stands of scrub that had caught fire. The acrid smell of jet fuel laced the air.
They paused near the largest section of wreckage, the MiG’s vertical tail, which was largely intact. The engineer looked at him triumphantly. “And there you are. We now have proof—the system works. I have done everything you’ve asked.”
