Robb looked startled. His mouth flapped open and shut a few times before he found his voice. “I … okay. But the point still stands! You’re in charge, and you’re letting yourself be led around by the nose.”
“And you’d tell him no?”
“You bet I would.”
“And this from the company man who’s been beating me bloody on the subject of strict compliance with all procedures?”
Robb’s right hand flew up in a gesture of disgust. “A good captain knows when to tell the company to shove it and make his own decisions!”
“So making my own decisions constitutes command decisiveness?”
“Damn right!”
“You’ve got it, mister. I’m exercising my command authority to make my own decision, and I decide that the best course of action is to follow the company’s orders and go to Africa! That’s what we’re doing. Forceful enough for you?”
“You don’t get it, do you, James?”
“Guess not.”
“Command forcefulness means saying no!”
Holland shook his head.
“I’ve had enough of this. I’m tired of your bullying, Dick. Get off my back!”
Holland leaned to his left suddenly and began rummaging around in his flight bag, then straightened up and slapped a manila training folder in Robb’s lap with surprising force.
“What’s this for?” Robb asked in surprise.
Holland leaned over the center console with genuine menace until his face seemed to Robb to be inches away, his physical size becoming intimidating. His voice was a guttural roar at low volume, but the anger welling up inside him from everything Robb had said was barely controlled.
“Okay, here’s the deal. You either sign me off this minute, you snot-nosed little son of a bitch, or have the backbone to take over!”
Robb looked him in the eye for the longest time, then finally dropped his eyes to the training folder.
Taking over—making all the decisions himself—was the last thing he wanted.
Slowly, without a word, Robb’s right hand went to his shirt pocket to retrieve his pen.
FOURTEEN
KIEV, UKRAINIAN REPUBLIC—FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22—4:28 A.M. (0228Z)
How long the telephone had been ringing in the frigid predawn darkness Yuri Steblinko couldn’t tell, but it had finally invaded his dream. He had been in space, a cosmonaut at last, on his way to … somewhere. It didn’t matter now. The images were fading fast.
He opened his eyes to total darkness. He was on his back and aware of the soft female body draped over him, her hair cascading down the side of his face, her scent in his nostrils. She was snoring softly, almost in counterpoint to the telephone’s insistent, harsh rings. He tried to move out from under her but realized with an involuntary smile that they were still coupled beneath the warmth of the blankets. There was no way but to roll her over, and he did so gently, pulling away and sliding out of bed into the icy cold of the room, making sure she was still snug beneath the covers.
He stood and listened, expecting the ringing to stop, but it continued in arrogant insistence. Sometimes the terrible Russian phone system rang for no reason. Sometimes the right party was actually on the other end.
But who would be calling him at such an hour?
Anya had not awakened, and he was glad of that. He thought of ignoring the call and returning to the warmth of her arms, but his curiosity was too strong.
By memory he moved from the bedroom across the small living room of the old apartment and found the receiver.
“Da?” he said, keeping his voice low.
The words on the other end were Russian spoken with a pronounced accent he recognized.
“Yes, this is Yuri. Who is calling?”
“A friend and potential employer,” the voice said.
“Very well. Am I to guess?”
“Yes. No names, though.”
Yuri shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He was naked and freezing. “Please wait a minute.”
There was a small lamp on the telephone table and he turned it on, spotting Anya’s robe on a chair. It was a shapeless affair, but warm, and he wrapped it around himself as he picked up the receiver again.
“Very well, we shall play games, then. What clues can you give me?”
“Remember Vladivostok, my friend?” the man on the other end asked. “Remember the individual you met at the Metropole Hotel, the one who could perhaps give you some assignments and perhaps help you make the career move you desired?”
All his instincts from twenty years with the KGB came on-line. The man didn’t want his named used. This wasn’t a game. He thought furiously, but sleep was still clouding his mind. He had last been east … when? Oh yes, two, maybe three years ago, on an Air Force matter. One of his last acts as a Russian Air Force colonel.
Wait a minute. The man had said Vladivostok, and there was only one trip he’d made to the eastern port city, and for a very personal reason.
“This person was you?” he asked.
“Correct. You sought me out. Two years ago in Vladivostok.”
The image of the man coalesced in Yuri’s head. With the U.S.S.R. in shambles around him along with his Air Force career, Yuri had indeed been looking for escape. He was merely interested then. Now, with jobs and money waning, he was bordering on desperation.
“I had almost given up hope. Yes! I remember Vladivostok, and you! I thought you had forgotten.”
“Not for a minute, Yuri. Are you still flying? Do you have access to the same equipment you discussed?”
“I am test-flying now, various airplanes. The new Sukoi supersonic business jet project, for instance. I am sometimes their chief test pilot.”
“Good. I may have an assignment for you, but we must not discuss it here.”
“Where, then? Should I come to you?”
“No. There’s no time.”
Yuri sat on the chair. The robe was hanging open, but he was oblivious to the cold now.
“If you’re still interested in the arrangement we discussed, my organization would be willing to cut such a deal, provided you can accomplish something very, very important for us immediately. It will involve securing the right equipment within hours.”
“Tell me where to come.”
“I’m going to give you an address in Kiev. I want you to be there at exactly nine A.M. your time. A Russian who will call himself Alexander will explain what we need. If you agree, you are to relay through him what you need in the way of funds, and they will be provided within, say, three hours. Can you move immediately?”
“Yes! Yes, of course!”
“Good. We have only a matter of hours before you will need to have everything in place and depart.”
In the old days, he thought, this conversation would have been impossible. No operative would have spoken such things in the clear, and on a commercial telephone.
He took down the address quickly, and the line went dead without the old familiar sound of a secondary click from some monitoring post.
Anya!
He crossed into the bedroom in an instant, his freezing hands reaching beneath the covers to startle her, and she came awake with a small shriek.
Her head emerged in a cascade of blond hair, her eyes wide, as if he’d lost his mind.
“What are you doing, Yuri?”
He put his finger to his lips to quiet her, then leaned forward and kissed her.
“I have had a wonderful call, and I’ve got to go. I may be back today, or it may be in several weeks. But when I come back, Anya, if we are lucky, we’ll be leaving here.”
“And going where?”
He kissed her again, then drew the covers down and kissed her substantial breasts one at a time before he looked into her eyes and stroked her hair.
“To a place we must not speak about right now. A place we have both discussed. A place where we can really live, Anya. Live, get married, and make babies.”
Her eyes were wide,
and a smile began to spread across her face.
Yuri smiled too, then brought his index finger to his lips.
“Just like the old days, my love, you know nothing of this, or where I have gone.”
ABOARD FLIGHT 66
Brenda Hopkins had been sleeping in her upper-deck seat when she awoke to find the captain leaning over her.
“Brenda? Sorry to wake you, but we need your help in the back.”
“I’m sorry, what?” She rubbed her eyes and refocused, recognizing Captain Holland.
“We’ve got to move Mr. Helms’s body from the crew rest loft. We need to use the same people who handled him before.”
She nodded. No need to expose anyone else who hadn’t touched him.
In the crew rest loft Brenda completed the unsettling task of sealing Professor Helms’s body in plastic bags as the mobile airstairs nudged the side of the aircraft by the left rear door. At the same moment, the seat belt sign was illuminated and James Holland’s voice boomed through the cabin:
“Folks, this is Captain Holland on the flight deck. I’d like everyone to be seated, please. While we’re not ready to depart just yet, we’ve got to open one of the doors and bring more food on board. We’ll also be delivering the body of our deceased passenger to the authorities outside.”
Murmurs of dissent rumbled lightly through the cabin, startling Brenda, who was standing in the rear galley. She peered around the corner. Halfway up the coach cabin several men stood in the aisle, refusing to sit down, and one of them had turned angrily to snarl at a seated passenger who’d shouted at him to comply. She’d seen some of them earlier demanding more liquor.
“Screw you, buddy!” the individual on his feet said with a predictably obscene gesture. “You be a sheep if you want to! I’m tired of being bossed around by some overpaid throttle jockey!”
Two other passengers raised their voices at the protester, who yelled back. Then two more leapt to their feet to argue with him, and another stood up to support him.
Holland’s voice returned:
“I’m going to give you an update now on where we are in this strange saga, folks. We’re going to be departing Iceland hopefully within a few hours …”
Applause broke out in the cabin along with hoots and supportive yells, almost drowning Holland’s voice as he continued:
“… but we’re not headed home yet. Our airline, in conjunction with the U.S. government, has decided to launch a couple of Air Force transports carrying medical people and precautionary equipment for a field hospital in the remote event that anyone on board, uh, comes down with this specific strain of virus. I can’t tell you just yet where we’ll be meeting them, but it’ll be a lot warmer and more comfortable than Iceland, and when we reach that quarantine destination, we’ll be able to get everyone off the aircraft.”
More cheers, but subdued this time. The men on their feet were shaking their heads.
“I’ve been asked repeatedly whether we’re going to make it home for Christmas. Folks, the answer, sadly, is no.”
There were moans through the cabin, and more words from the protesters.
“We’ll be together for a couple of days total, and it is possible it could be a bit longer. But we’ll get you back home as soon as they’ll let us.”
The four men on their feet had begun moving into the aisle, arguing loudly with Barb and two other flight attendants, who were rapidly losing control.
Brenda grabbed the interphone to alert the cockpit.
James Holland appeared on the main deck within forty seconds. The malcontents had backed Barb and the other two crew members forward. Brenda could hear Barb’s voice, angry and loud, countered by the men, and she could see Holland moving in the background as he fished in an overhead compartment for something.
The megaphone! He came forward suddenly, triggering the instrument. “Everybody freeze right there! You men, shut up and return to your seats instantly. This is the captain.”
Two of them quieted down and retreated, but the instigator and his friend advanced on the captain with raised voices. Holland let them come, saying nothing as they babbled their way toward him complaining bitterly about their treatment. He lowered the megaphone and prepared to answer them as Barb unwittingly stepped out of the forward coach galley in front of the two. In an instant the passenger in the lead stiff-armed her, knocking her backward in the galley, where she landed with a thud, her head slamming against the metal side of a serving cart.
The man hesitated in confusion, surprised by what he’d done, but Holland’s reaction was instantaneous. His right hand shot out and grabbed the shorter man by his shirt collar, yanking him forward into the galley and shoving him roughly against the wall. Holland could see Barb getting to her feet, stunned and furious, and he looked at her now.
“Barb, do you want to press federal charges against this man?”
Barb rubbed the back of her head and moved within inches of the frightened passenger.
“It depends,” she said.
Holland brought his face inches from the passenger’s face.
“What’s your name? NOW! What’s your name?”
“Uh … ah … I’m … Chet Walters. I’m sorry … I …”
Holland could smell the liquor on the man’s breath. “Okay, listen up, Mr. Walters. For the rest of this odyssey you’re going to be mute, do you understand me? You’ve just committed a felony. You assaulted an airline crew member and interfered with other crew members in the performance of their duties. When we return home, if you’ve even breathed too loudly on the remainder of this trip, you’re going to be bound over to the FBI for jailing, arraignment, and prosecution. As it is, the lead flight attendant here, Ms. Rollins, may well sue you separately, and I’ll be a willing witness. You understand this?”
“Yes, sir!” the man said, his eyes wide with fear.
Holland noticed the other man had beaten a hasty retreat and was nowhere to be seen.
“Ms. Rollins will make the final decision on whether the FBI gets you, or we let you go. Now you get back to your seat and keep your mouth welded shut. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Holland let him go, and in confusion and embarrassment, the man backed down the aisle to regain his seat.
“Thanks, James. We had four of them screaming at us, but he was the ringleader.”
“You okay?” He turned to her and they moved together into the galley.
She nodded, still rubbing her head. “It may get worse, you know. There were boos and rowdy reactions to your words a few minutes ago. They’re upset and restless, James, and the world’s no longer a gentlemanly place.”
He patted her shoulder and picked up the megaphone.
“Never was, Barb.”
Holland moved to the front of the forward coach cabin by door 3L and pulled out an interphone handset, activating the PA:
“Folks, we’re in this together, but I’m legally in command and I will not tolerate a riot. If there’s anyone in here who doesn’t understand that, come forward right this second and I’ll explain it to you. I’m sorry to be harsh—most everyone here is an exemplary citizen doing nothing but helping us all wait out this unfortunate turn of events. But for anyone who thinks he wants to interfere with me or one of my crew, rest assured you’ll end up standing trial for a federal felony. For the vast majority of you who are trying to help, thank you sincerely. Please stay in your seats now.”
Holland replaced the handset as a woman in her early thirties got to her feet from one of the window seats and moved into the aisle.
Oh Lord, what now? he thought.
The man next to her was obviously trying to restrain her, but she broke free and began half-running up the aisle with a wild look in her eye.
Holland stepped forward to meet her. “Ma’am, I need you to …”
She flashed past without even acknowledging him.
Holland turned to follow her as she headed toward first class. There were footsteps behi
nd him, and he turned around to see a worried man hard on his heels, obviously trying to catch up with her.
“That’s my wife, Captain. She’s not well.”
Holland nodded as they continued the chase.
As Lisa Erickson entered the first class cabin, Garson Wilson spotted the captain and got to his feet, ignoring the frantic woman.
“Ma’am! Please stop!” Holland shouted.
Lisa passed Wilson just before he stepped into the aisle, blocking Holland.
“James? I need to talk to you. Right now!” Wilson boomed.
Lisa had reached the forward bulkhead and found a door. She yanked it open, surprised to find nothing but a closet. She turned, moving back toward Wilson, who heard her approach. He turned, assessing the situation, and put his arm around the woman.
“Little lady, what’s the matter?” he said.
“My children! I’ve got to get off. I’ve got to …” She gestured weakly toward the outside as Keith Erickson passed Holland and approached her. She cowered and moved closer to Wilson as she saw her husband approach.
“NO!” she shrieked, melting into Wilson’s side.
Garson Wilson turned to Keith Erickson and raised his free hand.
“Now, leave her alone, sir. She’s afraid of you.”
“That’s … she’s my wife. She’s very upset.” Keith Erickson was fumbling for words. “She’s trying to leave.”
“Well,” said Wilson with a snort, “so happens I am too.”
“No-o-o-o!” she wailed. “He wants to take my kids!” She leaned in toward Wilson’s ear, her voice dropping to a stage whisper as he leaned down to listen. “He’s trying to get me! He’s trying to get rid of me! He wants my kids!”
A sudden fluctuation in the cabin pressure announced the opening of the left rear door some three hundred feet back at the end of the main deck. Lisa Erickson had felt it too. She looked around wildly and spotted the opposite aisle leading from first class toward the back. She pushed away from Wilson and dashed erratically in that direction.
Keith Erickson lunged for his wife, but Wilson blocked his way momentarily. Then Wilson, moving surprisingly fast for a man of his bulk, rushed toward the back himself as Holland and Erickson cut through a row of seats and went after Lisa.
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