by Jack Mars
He had become a pilot because he loved to fly. It didn’t hurt that there was great money in it. He had gone to work for the Chevron oil company in Saudi Arabia because that money was better than anything he’d get at the airlines. He had jumped to working for private Saudi businessmen because the money was even better. And he had taken a job with a notorious Saudi weapons dealer because that was the best money of all.
And that great money had brought him to this.
He sat in the cockpit of his boss’s Gulfstream G-650, drinking whiskey to steady his nerves. His boss was Muhammad al-Kassab—a man who was calculating, uncompromising, rich beyond measure, and totally insane.
They had flown here this morning because Muhammad had been selling anti-aircraft and heavy machine guns to the Muslim religious fanatics. They had been paying him with oil deliveries. There was enormous profit in this for Muhammad—ISIS couldn’t sell directly to the markets, so they transferred their oil to him at a steep discount. The guns were left over Soviet-era junk—essentially worthless. The oil had real value.
But ten days ago, the oil deliveries had stopped. Now it looked as if the ISIS government—the entire experiment—was on the verge of collapse.
So Muhammad (being Muhammad) had come here to collect his money. He had left the plane five hours ago with a dozen heavily armed men in four black armored SUVs. Now Mitchell was beginning to think that Muhammad wasn’t coming back.
He raised the whiskey bottle to his lips again. The fluid went down smooth, giving him a nice warm feeling in his belly.
He could leave. And do what? Return the plane to Riyadh? He supposed so. Just land the plane, walk away, and catch the first flight he could find back to the United States. Change his name. Disappear. Because if Muhammad was still alive out there, and he found out that Mitchell had deserted him…
It wasn’t something to think about.
Even so, leaving seemed like the best option right now. But the plane was covered by a sand-colored tarp—it made the plane more or less invisible from the air. The tarp was battened down. Leaving meant that Mitchell was going to have to go out there himself and remove that tarp. Stepping outside and revealing himself did not appeal to him at all.
He gazed out at the cracked and pitted runway—it was a scrape, a little bit of nothing, an echo from the past. It barely existed. Sand blew across it in weird snake shapes. Worse, there was some kind of truck out there—a black Toyota pickup truck.
How had he not noticed that before? He looked at the bottle in his hand—he had already downed half the booze.
“Drunk,” he said. “I’m a little drunk.”
As he watched, a big dark man in the bed of the pickup pointed a large mounted machine gun directly at the cockpit.
Mitchell felt his heart skip a beat. If he fired that thing…
A loud knock came at the plane’s door.
Mitchell was so startled he dropped his whiskey bottle, shattering it. One moment, it had been an expensive, very kind buzz. Now it was just broken glass and amber liquid all over the cockpit floor.
The knock came again.
“All right!” he shouted. “All right, I’m coming.”
* * *
“Where?” the pilot said.
“Georgia,” Luke said. “Pankisi Gorge. And I need to get there fast.”
The man shook his head. “This is the fastest private jet there is. But we’ll never make it. We’ll be lucky enough to take off without getting shot down. But if we do manage to take off, I recommend we fly south towards the Gulf. If we get that far, we should be okay. We can land in Saudi Arabia or one of the emirates. But north? No way.”
“We’re going north,” Luke said.
He was in no mood for arguing. The guy seemed like he was in a daze, and the cockpit reeked of alcohol.
“Sir,” the man said. “The Russians are bombing everything. If we make it through them, then we’re over Turkish airspace. They’re having a coup, in case you didn’t know. After that, Georgia? Really? They’re on red alert because of the Russians. You’re just asking me to get myself killed.”
Luke shook his head. “Mitchell, right?”
The guy nodded. “Mitchell. Yeah.”
“How about Mitch?”
The man threw his hands in the air, made a crazy shoulder roll. His eyes darted left and right. Mitchell, Mitch—what difference did it make?
Luke pulled his gun and placed it against the man’s head. “Well, Mitch, I don’t have a lot of time. You might think flying north is going to get you killed at some point, but I promise you that not flying north will get you killed right now. If you can’t take me to Georgia, then you’re of no use to me.”
The pilot squeezed his eyes shut.
Luke looked back at Ed. He was standing a few feet away, at the front of the cabin. Behind him, Swann and Nigel were buckled into seats for takeoff. Ed had already cut away the covering tarp outside. The plane was naked—clearly visible to anything that passed overhead.
“Ed, what do we call things that have no use?”
“Garbage,” Ed said.
“And what do we do with garbage?”
Ed shrugged. “We take it out.”
Luke looked back at the pilot. “That’s just our policy, Mitch. We take out the garbage. You understand. Now I’ll sit in the cockpit with you and hold your hand, but we are flying north. Make yourself useful and you’ll live a little longer. Okay?”
The man stared up at Luke with mournful eyes.
“Okay.”
* * *
“Airplane, identify yourself.”
They had been off the ground less than ten minutes. They were surrounded by Russian fighter jets—one directly to their right, one to their left, and one trailing behind. If Luke wanted, he could look out the window and wave to the Russian pilot over there.
The Russians had addressed them in three languages so far. Finally, language number four was English.
Luke picked up the mic. “We are Americans.”
A blunt, deep, and heavily accented voice came over the radio. “Identify yourself, as I said.”
Luke paused. What made the most sense here? A diplomatic mission?
No.
An aide mission?
Hmmm. Probably not in this fancy plane.
“Identify yourself or be shot down,” the voice said.
How about the truth? Well, he could try it.
“My name is Luke Stone. I’m an agent of the Secret Service, and a special assistant to the President of the United States. I have high-value prisoners rescued from ISIS aboard this plane.”
He paused. No sound came through the radio.
“And I know where the stolen nuclear weapons are.”
The pilot Mitchell looked at him now, wide-eyed.
For a long moment, Luke thought maybe the radio had gone dead. He looked at the microphone in his hand. They weren’t answering.
Nothing the Russians did now would surprise him. They could shoot him down in flames, or take him to Moscow and make him a Hero of the Revolution. Admittedly, the shoot down scenario seemed more likely, but…
“You will follow us,” the voice said.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
4:30 p.m. Russia Time (10:30 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)
Caucasus Mountains (near Mount Elbrus)
Southern Russia
They were very close to the Georgian border.
The last of the weak light was fading off to the west when they landed on the airstrip high in the rugged mountains. Nearby were snow-capped peaks. The five of them—Ed, Luke, Swann, Nigel, and Mitchell stepped off the plane, into the high winds and blistering cold. Mitchell, apparently sober now, had done a good job just setting the plane down in the heavy crosswinds.
A dozen men in winter uniforms and carrying submachine guns moved Luke’s group across the runway toward a big steel door built into the side of the mountain.
Luke glanced at Ed. Ed was noncommittal—they were outnum
bered, outgunned, and surrounded. There was no sense dying just yet.
A soldier poked Luke in the head with the barrel of his gun.
“Eyes front.”
The door slid open and they moved through a wide corridor to an open elevator. A few seconds later, they were plunging deep into the Earth. Outside the elevator window, Luke watched yellow lights flow by at some assigned interval. They were moving very fast. They went down for what seemed like a long time.
They came out in a vast subterranean chamber. The ceiling was rounded and high above their head. The soldiers moved them along toward a group of men standing far at the other side. Luke glanced at Swann and Nigel—Swann seemed to stumble along in a dream. Nigel was limping on his wounded leg, wincing with every step he took. Somehow Nigel the ISIS recruit was on the team now. He had purchased his ticket—without Nigel, they never would have found Swann.
“Two of my men are wounded,” Luke said to the soldiers around him, hoping his words would land somewhere good. “They need medical care, food, and rest.”
“Keep moving,” a soldier said.
They crossed the cavernous chamber. As Luke approached the men on the other side, one of them began to resolve into a familiar outline. The man wore a business suit, and was somewhat tall, broad, and balding. His facial features—forehead, nose, and chin—were prominent. His eyes were deep set, intelligent, and unforgiving.
Vladimir Putin.
Could that be right?
He stood with three other men in front of a giant video screen.
Luke came to within ten feet of him, then a soldier put his gun across Luke’s chest. Luke stood, facing Putin, the President of Russia and the enemy of the West.
Putin’s eyes were flat now, registering no emotion.
“You are Stone?” he said.
Luke nodded. “Mr. President.”
Putin gestured to the man next to him. He was a young guy with shaggy hair. He wore a suit with a wide collar and an open-throated dress shirt underneath. He looked a little bit like a guy in a New York City disco during the 1970s. He and Putin made an odd combination.
“My able translator, Vasil. He is the very best.”
“Vasil,” Luke said.
Putin began speaking in Russian at once. Vasil listened for a few seconds before beginning.
“We know who you are. You and your partner are American shadow operatives. We lost a helicopter with six men on board last night, and we believe you are responsible for this. You must make a full accounting of your activities in Syria during the past twenty-four hours, and of your whereabouts during the past seventy-two hours.”
“We lost a helicopter, too,” Luke said. “Three men died.”
“We are not interested in your men. Why were you in Syria?”
Luke shrugged. “We were looking for the missing warheads.”
Putin laughed and said something to one of the men next to him. Then he addressed Luke again.
“For me to accept that,” Vasil said, “I would have to believe that your government didn’t know where the warheads went in the first place. But I don’t believe that. I think they gave the warheads to the extremists. Then again, perhaps this is a game of charades the Americans play among themselves. With the right hand, they provide dangerous criminals the weapons to destroy entire cities. With the left hand, they send ignorant murderers like you to retrieve the weapons. So enlighten me, Mr. Stone. Where do you suppose the warheads are now?”
Luke stared at Putin. “Why are you here? In this place? And not in Moscow?”
Putin barked something at Vasil.
“Answer the question. No one knows where you or your men are. You could easily die here and your masters would think you perished fighting in Syria.”
Luke didn’t say a word. Putin stared back at him.
Who cares? Luke thought. Who really cares?
The bombs could go off and the whole world could end. Is that what this man wanted? Because if he killed Luke, or any of the people here with him, that’s what he was going to get.
But then Putin smiled. It was a genuine smile, and even a warm one. He spoke to Vasil in a softer tone.
“I am here for two reasons,” Vasil said. “They say to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Here I am very close to my enemies. They also say that when your enemies think they know where you are, be somewhere else.”
Now Luke smiled. If a nuclear war came, the United States would concentrate on Moscow, raining death on the Kremlin and the surrounding area. The US Strategic Air Command would hit known underground command centers in that region with bunker busters, again and again and again.
But here, high in the mountains, a few miles from the Georgian border? Did anyone even know this place existed?
“The warheads are in Georgia,” Luke said. “Pankisi Gorge. Not very far from here. That’s what I’ve been told and it’s what I believe. I have the coordinates and I can plot them on a map for you.”
Behind Putin, the giant video screen came to life. It showed satellite footage of the Earth then zoomed in on the Middle East and western Asia. It settled finally on Turkey and then Georgia.
“I need men,” Luke said. “Men to accompany me and get them out. There is no time for my country to provide these men—and I am not sure that they would, even if they could. They don’t believe me.”
Putin stared back, stone-faced.
Luke took a risk and took a step closer, needing Putin to believe him. The gun shoved him in the chest. No further.
Luke hardened his eyes to match Putin’s. He recognized the killer in them, and he wanted Putin to recognize it within him, too. For as much as Luke had reason to hate the man a few feet away from him, he also recognized something kindred within him. Something he hated to recognize, but had to admit. He was, in many ways, the same as the man a few feet away.
“My country did not unleash these weapons,” Luke continued. “My country does not support ISIS. The last thing my country would want, believe me, is a nuclear war to cover the world. The last thing they would want is the shame of losing these weapons. In our defense, the breach of security was Turkey’s fault, not ours. Nonetheless, they remain our weapons, however outdated, and thus our responsibility. I was sent to get them back.”
Putin stared back.
“And you failed your mission,” he said.
It was a rebuke, but at least in that rebuke, Luke sensed that he believed him.
Luke nodded.
“Thus far,” he admitted. “But not entirely. We know where they are now. No one else on earth does. And with a few hours work and a few hundred men, we can complete our mission.”
Putin stared at him, unflinching.
“Why would you, Luke Stone, care so much about Mother Russia?” he asked. “Why would you risk your life—and your men’s lives—to save us from a bomb that you claim you did not unleash?”
Luke smiled. And he took a chance. A tough edge was not getting through to Putin; perhaps humor would.
“Must be the Russian in me,” he said. “My grandmother was part Russian, after all. Did I mention that?”
Putin stared back for a full thirty seconds, as if stunned. Then finally, he smiled.
“I recognize something of myself in you,” he finally replied. “You are a bit crazy. And I have to say that I like you. And even, for some reason, trust you. After all, the man who killed the North Korean leader is worthy of something in my book.”
Luke smiled back, not knowing, in the long silence that followed, if Putin would not step forward and put a bullet in his head, or offer him a shot of Smirnoff.
Finally, Putin nodded.
“I will give you one hundred of my toughest killers, and I will send you both into the Gorge,” he said. “You will lead them. I am putting the lives of my finest Russian officers in your hands. Lead them well, rescue these weapons, and do not disappoint me.”
Putin turned his back as abruptly as he had entered, and disappeared back int
o the shadows, as immediately rough hands escorted Luke back to the elevators.
Luke turned and stared at Ed, who stared back, as disbelieving as he.
Finally, Ed smiled.
“Making friends in all corners of the world, are you?” he asked.
CHAPTER FORTY
5:50 p.m. Georgia Time (11:50 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)
The Skies over Pankisi Gorge
Luke couldn’t understand the instructions being given. His Russian wasn’t good enough. It all sounded like one long word.
Soon, on a signal he didn’t understand, the Spetsnaz paratroopers began to move toward the open doorway, their big combat packs strapped between their legs. Luke and Ed were last. Before them, each of the men waddled to the line, paused for a second, then jumped. No hesitation. They just went.
“You ever see these guys in a fight before?” Luke shouted.
“No!”
“They go right at the bad guys. They’re worse than the Marine Corps. They could hammer spikes into the ground with their foreheads. When we get down there, let’s see if we can try a work around. And let’s not give them any reason to shoot us. I can’t understand anything they’re saying. For all I know, it’s kill the Americans when we hit the ground.”
Ed laughed.
When Luke reached the open door, there was nothing but darkness and open space, and wind. He couldn’t see anything out there. It didn’t matter. There was a time when he lived to jump. Those times had passed, but the feeling never went away.
He pushed hard with his legs, like an eager kid jumping into a lake.
He was out.
He fell away, and the plane was gone in an instant. For a few seconds, there was nothing but the wind and the darkness. He let it take him.
* * *
He hit hard in some kid of field, and dropped immediately to the ground.
Ed came in right behind him.
All around them, the Spetsnaz were up and running. Where were they going? Suddenly, they were taking fire from a dark tree line just to the west. Tracers whizzed past. Somebody over there was worried about all the Russians falling from the sky.
