by Lee Jackson
“We’ll be on the ground in about twenty minutes,” the pilot called to her in Russian over the intercom.
“Thank you,” Sofia called back. She did not relish the idea of commandeering a vehicle. I hope my Russian accent is still good enough!
Just then, the radio channel that fed directly to McFadden back in Moscow crackled in her ear. “Sukhoi 35, do you copy?”
“I hear you loud and clear,” she replied. “Go ahead.”
“Be advised that your target is already on the field. It is in the largest aircraft, and now preparing for takeoff. You must get aboard. Do you copy?”
Sofia inhaled sharply. “Good copy.” She repeated her instructions. How do I ask if both Yermolov and Atcho are on board? “Are both the fox and the hound there?”
The channel was silent a moment, and then McFadden transmitted again. “Affirmative. The good shepherd tells us they are both present, and the aircraft is moving from parking position to runway.”
“Roger. Out.” Sofia assumed that the “good shepherd” referred to the priest at the Nevsky Cathedral, and that he had provided information on Atcho’s whereabouts and the status of the aircraft.
She called to the pilot on the intercom. “There is a very large aircraft on the field now preparing to take off. You must delay it.”
The pilot’s annoyance was palpable. “The only way I can do that is to call an emergency and request immediate landing.”
“Then do it. If I need to order you, I will.” She hoped her bluff worked. The mission had been put together so rapidly that lines of authority had been all but ignored. The presence of the Soviet general at the aircraft just prior to takeoff should help.
“I’m low on fuel,” the pilot called back. “I’ll use that as an excuse.” He flipped a switch. “Mayday. Mayday. Request immediate landing.”
The fighter jet’s nose lowered, and they descended rapidly. Then it leveled out as a column of lights pointed the way onto the field. Flying skillfully, the pilot lined up and prepared for final descent. At the near end of the runway, the largest airplane he had ever seen waited, and he recognized the Antonov 225 Mriya. He sucked in his breath.
Behind him, Sofia had scrunched around until she could just see over his shoulder, and she caught a glimpse of the massive orbiter shuttle. “Fly as low over it as you can,” she ordered, “and stop short enough on the runway that it can’t take off.”
The pilot gave a quick nod.
***
Below, in the loadmaster’s office of the Mriya, Atcho and the others felt the aircraft lurch to a halt. The engines wound back down to idle.
Upstairs in the cockpit, Zhukov watched the emergency landing of the Sukhoi unfold. He saw the two figures emerge from the cockpit. One ran to a rescue vehicle. Then, to his astonishment, that vehicle sped directly toward the left side of the Mriya.
Just as it moved out of sight below, Yermolov appeared in the cockpit behind Zhukov’s seat. With an air of mild curiosity, he took in the events occurring beyond the windshield, asked a question, and then returned to his cabin.
A message in Zhukov’s earphones from the tower informed him that someone was seeking entry through the crew door. “Everyone stay in place,” he instructed his crew. “I’ll see to this.”
He hurried down into the cargo hold and opened the door. A woman in a Soviet uniform with KGB markings climbed up to meet him. “I must see Colonel Chekov,” Sofia demanded in Russian, “by order of General Secretary Gorbachev.” She produced a letter.
Obviously frustrated, Zhukov motioned for her to follow, and led her to the loadmaster’s office across the cargo bay. “Will you be flying with us?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied, “but my presence—”
“I know,” he interrupted, arching his brows, “top secret.” He ushered her through the office door, and went to close the crew hatch. Then he made his way quickly back to the cockpit.
Inside the loadmaster’s office, Atcho, Rafael, and Ivan heard the door open and close, and in the dim light saw the figure of a woman, and then heard a female voice call out in Russian. “Colonel Chekov, are you in here?”
Atcho’s heart thudded. He recognized the voice. “Sofia? Is that you?” He crossed the small space rapidly and stood in front of her, his heart beating furiously. Anger, fear, relief, dread, and every emotion conceivable intruded between them. And then he reached forward and seized her in his arms.
“Are you crazy? What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
Sofia reached into her jacket. “The priest at the Nevsky Cathedral told us where you were,” she said. “Gorbachev supplied a jet with pilot. I brought you this.” She held in her hand a small box. On its side was the word NukeX. “You’re going to need it.”
***
McFadden walked into the office of the US Ambassador to the Soviet Union. “Sir, I have bad news,” he said. “It’s an emergency.”
The ambassador stiffened, alert. “What is it?”
“There’s a rogue Russian general on a plane bound for Moscow.” McFadden raised his eyebrows. “He has a nuclear device.”
The ambassador stared. “Does the Kremlin know?”
McFadden nodded. “We told them. We think the general intends to use the bomb to blackmail the Kremlin. Our eavesdroppers in France picked up on that, but we haven’t been able to trace the source. The bomb-maker never surfaced.”
“And the intel is credible?”
McFadden nodded. “Our analysts have been all over it.”
“Why didn’t Gorbachev order him arrested before he got on the plane?”
“It’s complicated, but essentially, he could not be assured that the arrest order would be carried out.”
The ambassador mulled that over. “Then why don’t the Russians shoot the plane down before it gets here?”
“He’s on the Mriya. I’m sure you know about that aircraft.” The ambassador nodded. McFadden went on, “And unless they kill him immediately, he’s lunatic enough to set the bomb off. We have a joint Russian-American team on board to seize him and the bomb.”
“That’s comforting.” His tone was just shy of sarcastic. “What do we do meanwhile?”
“Right now, we have to get ready in case that nuke goes off near here. The general is a survivor, so I don’t think he intends to detonate it, but his target is probably the Kremlin, and if he gets cornered…” His voice trailed away momentarily. “Our underground bunker is hardened against a direct hit,” he continued, “but the Kremlin is only two miles away. If it goes off there—fallout.”
The look on the ambassador’s face showed that he took the threat seriously. “Are the Soviets doing anything about it?”
“I’m sure they are. It’s too late to evacuate. It’s a small bomb, a tenth of a kiloton. If it blows on the ground, the blast area will be about a mile wide. If it goes off in the air over Moscow or the airport?” He shook his head. “Anything can happen.”
44
Colonel Dmitri Drygin strode through the halls at the Lubyanka, headquarters of the KGB. He always felt a mix of sensations when visiting this control center of the Soviet state.
Simultaneous with being a participant in the exercise of power, this organ of tyranny generated in him a sense of destiny. For better or worse, the future—his future—was shaped in these halls.
In his view, the supremacy of the state depended on terror of retribution, especially among those who used it to acquire and retain power. He smirked. The strength of the system is that no one trusts anyone. The weakness of the system is that no one trusts anyone.
Usually, when walking through this edifice, he felt privilege and resulting superiority. Today, uncertainty invaded the arrogance he had guarded against for his entire career. It sharpened his senses. He steeled himself to maintain a neutral countenance.
Within a day, the Soviet Union was scheduled for historic upheaval, and at the end of it a new national leader would dominate the Kremlin. He, Drygin, would partic
ipate in that, yet the prospective general secretary, Colonel General Borya Yermolov, regarded him with suspicion. In the culture of fear that had guided the Soviet polity for seven decades, that could be as good as a death warrant.
He shook his head at the irony. I’ve always been a good soldier. In his quest to avoid arrogance, he practiced erring on the side of doing what was right per Party doctrine, even when difficult and often when unpopular.
He remembered when Fierko, his once and current commander, had recruited him into the conspiracy by appealing to his sense of duty to the Party. Fierko had introduced him to KGB Chairman Nestor Murin early on. Concern over the damage Gorbachev’s reforms were doing to the Party had been enough to convince Drygin that a change of regime was necessary.
The chairman had recognized Drygin’s talent and had convinced him to go into deep cover with his current alias, and to act as liaison with Yermolov during last year’s failed conspiracy. Murin had further directed Drygin’s actions personally in shaping Yermolov’s return to Moscow. Drygin chuckled. Fierko wouldn’t be happy if he knew that.
Drygin had thrown himself into all assignments with professional enthusiasm and attention to detail. He had worked diligently during the planning of the assassination, and not one single element had gone awry until plan execution. The plot failed because Yermolov selected Atcho to be the primary assassin.
A further irony was that, on arrival in Moscow yesterday, he had reported immediately to Chairman Murin, who put him in charge of checking security arrangements for Yermolov’s arrival in Moscow. I’m supposed to ensure the safety of the man who wants to put me away. A faint smile formed on his otherwise implacable face.
He arrived at the chairman’s suite of offices. Murin was sitting at his desk when Drygin entered. “You asked me to report back when I’d checked all preparations.”
“Are we ready?”
“Yes. The aircraft will park away from any terminal or regular cargo area as always when security risks are anticipated. Given that the Mriya is arriving to be commissioned, that’s easily explained.”
He briefed that a limousine would draw up to the aircraft as soon as it landed. It would bring General Fierko and his guest directly to the Lubyanka. They would come through a basement entrance, and take secured elevators and halls to Murin’s office.
The route from the airport would be secured with the normal contingent for a visiting colonel general, and would be augmented by unmarked vehicles and plainclothes KGB officers. Several security teams would be on hand to board and inspect as soon as the aircraft landed. Drygin would be there to hold them back until Fierko and Yermolov were safely away from the airport.
“Good!” Murin dropped his chin into his hands in thought. “We’ll use similar procedures to take Yermolov to the Kremlin tomorrow. I’d like for you to be present when we visit Comrade Gorbachev.”
More ironies. “As you wish. Now I should go. The Mriya will be on the ground within the hour.”
45
In the loadmaster’s office near the stairwell of the huge cargo plane, Atcho stared at the NukeX in his hand. It had an irregular oval shape, was flat on the bottom, and had a contoured back, textured to allow it to fit snugly in his hand without slipping. On one end were three buttons.
The cabin was closed off from the cargo bay and had soundproofing, but the roar of engines, the rush of wind on the skin of the jet, and the typical creaking and groaning of a cargo plane nevertheless made talking difficult. Sofia and Ivan crowded around Atcho. Rafael was checking his gear in another corner.
“It’s simple to use,” Sofia said. She took the NukeX and demonstrated. “This red button powers it up. This yellow one tests it without turning on the heat, and this black one does the job. After you power it up, you put it flush against the bomb’s trigger area, and hold the black button down.
“It takes fifteen seconds to reach maximum heat, and about thirty seconds to do its job. If you’re not blown up, it worked.” She smiled grimly, and handed the NukeX to Atcho, who stuffed it in his jacket. “So, what’s the plan?”
Atcho and Ivan stared at her. “We hadn’t really discussed one,” Atcho said awkwardly.
Sofia glanced at him reproachfully. “Doing things the Atcho way?” she kidded.
“We should plan what we are going to do when we get on the ground,” Ivan interjected.
“What do you think we should do?” Atcho asked him.
Ivan straightened with a questioning look. “We don’t know what kind of reception there’ll be in Moscow. We can stay on board until the crew leaves and go with them. Any security teams sent to inspect the plane should have left by then.”
Rafael joined them. Atcho acknowledged him and faced Ivan. “I have a different idea.”
Ivan drew up sharply. The tone in Atcho’s voice invited wariness. “What?”
“The priority now has to be to seize control of that bomb, preferably before Yermolov arms it. Then we have to deliver him into custody.” He stared straight into Ivan’s face. “This aircraft can travel over nine thousand miles on a full tank. We took off with a full tank.”
As understanding dawned, Ivan glowered. He drew close again. “I’m not a traitor,” he bellowed. “I will not let you steal this airplane.”
Atcho stood. “We’re not going to steal your airplane.” He grasped Ivan’s shoulder. “Your job now is to make sure Yermolov fails—that’s what your general secretary expects.” He pulled back and studied Ivan’s face to see if he understood. Satisfied, he went on. “If we land in Moscow, anything could happen. We can’t even guarantee that we can get off the airplane safely, much less that we can stop Yermolov, and we could lose that bomb.”
“I’m listening.” Ivan’s chin jutted out in defiance. “But we will not land on American or NATO soil. I won’t allow it.” He was silent a moment as another thought entered his mind. “If that was your plan, why didn’t we take over the plane shortly after takeoff? Doing it then would have been a lot less dangerous.”
“Maybe,” Atcho replied, “but we had a lot of ground to cover before we would be out of Soviet airspace, with the crew to control, and the whole Soviet air force alerted. This way, we’re much closer to international waters. By the time they can react on the ground, we’ll be almost clear of the Soviet border and in international airspace.”
Ivan mulled that a moment.
“Don’t worry,” Atcho continued. “There’s a place where the US military has landing privileges. It has a runway that will handle this aircraft. The Soviet Union and its allies also landed there. I know because Cuba used it as a way station when they sent troops to Angola.”
Understanding dawned on Ivan’s face. His angst receded a bit. “I know where you mean, but I’m not convinced.”
“We don’t have time to powwow. If you have a better suggestion, let’s hear it.”
Ivan grimaced, then gestured consent. “I’ll hold you to your word.” Atcho gave him a thumbs-up.
Sensing that a meeting of the minds had taken place, Sofia and Rafael crowded in. Atcho went over his plan.
46
A slight change in the engines’ pitch and an increase in the pressure against his ears informed Yermolov and Fierko that the big jet had begun its initial descent. Yermolov stood.
“I’m going to the latrine before they tell us to strap in,” he said. “It’s been a good flight.” He indicated his briefcase. “I want to freshen up a bit.” He stepped out and strode past the stairs to the restroom, taking his briefcase with him.
A few minutes later, he left the latrine, closed the door with an audible click, and mounted the two stairs in front of the flight cabin. He entered and walked its short length, and stood behind the pilot’s seat. “We’re circling now, sir,” Zhukov told him. “We’ll start our final descent shortly. Now is a good time to buckle up.”
Yermolov nodded. He retraced his steps past the flight crew, and walked down the two stairs to the crosswalk.
***
Atcho also felt the change in flight attitude as the Mriya began its descent. The rest of the group had noted it too. He signaled to them. “Weapons ready?” he called. They nodded and stood up.
With Atcho in the lead, they stole into the cavernous cargo hold. Dim lights outlined its massive dimensions, stretching far into darkness. They crept to the center of the aircraft and then toward the stairwell that led up to the crew level and the cockpit.
“Let me lead,” Ivan called into Atcho’s ear, “in case we run into Russian speakers.”
Atcho stepped back and let Ivan proceed ahead of him. They came to the stairs. It was a steep, two-tier set extending up in opposite directions with a landing between them.
Ivan went up the first set and stopped on the landing. Atcho followed, with Rafael and Sofia close behind. Ivan started up the second flight. He peered over the top onto the crosswalk, and then heard a loud click to his right. A foot and then a leg appeared out of the shadows. Ivan pulled his head down and shrank into darkness. The others froze.
Peering through subdued light, Ivan saw the tall figure of Yermolov loom with his back to the stairs. The general had just left the latrine, took the two steps leading into the flight cabin, and disappeared into its interior.
Ivan turned and moved silently back down the stairs. “Yermolov went into the flight compartment,” he told Atcho, who nodded and looked at his watch. As the plane continued its descent, air pressure increased. Ivan moved back to his position on the stairs.
Moments later, Yermolov left the crew compartment. He descended the two steps to the walkway, and had turned to go to his cabin when movement in the stairwell leading down to the cargo bay caught his attention. He leaned to take a closer look. In the shadow, he saw a dark mass, and then the face of a man.
