The Charm School

by Nelson DeMille

  Hollis took the controls on his side. “Take a break. Stretch.”

  O’Shea released the controls and the stretched his arms and legs. “Do you want to fly it from the right-hand seat?”

  “No, but I don’t want to try a crossover either. I’ll let you sit in the pilot’s seat as long as you don’t take it seriously.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hollis knew that helicopter flying, which needed continuous concentration and constant hands-on, could fatigue a solo pilot within an hour. O’Shea had been behind the stick for close to two hours, alone with the falling fuel needle.

  Hollis said, “Let’s go upstairs.” He increased the collective pitch for a slow rate of climb, increased the throttle, and held the craft level with the cyclic stick. The increased torque caused the nose to yaw to the left, and O’Shea reminded him, “It’s backwards.”

  “Thank you, Captain. Does that mean our fuel level is rising?”

  “No, sir.”

  Hollis pressed down on the right rudder pedal and put the helicopter in longitudinal trim. “It seems to handle all right. But I wouldn’t want to have to try something tricky like landing on a pitching ship in the dark with a strong wind.”

  O’Shea glanced at Hollis to see if he was making a joke. O’Shea said, “Well, I’ve logged enough time on this to give it a try. But if you want to take it in, you’re the skipper.”

  “We’ll arm-wrestle for the honor as we make our final approach.”

  Mills looked from Hollis to O’Shea. Pilots, he thought, like CIA operatives, resorted to black humor when things were least funny.

  Hollis watched the altimeter needles moving. At three thousand meters he arrested the ascent, and the airspeed climbed back to 150 kph. The ground-speed indicator read nearly the same. “That’s better.”

  O’Shea said, “Maybe I should have climbed earlier.”

  “Maybe. Maybe the headwinds were stronger up here earlier.”

  “It’s hard to know without being able to call for weather conditions.”

  “Right.” Hollis familiarized himself with the controls and with the instruments. He played around with the data available: speed, altitude, load, fuel, elapsed flight time, estimated distance to landing—but he couldn’t say with any certainty whether or not they’d see the Gulf of Finland before dawn or for that matter even see the Gulf of Finland or the dawn.

  O’Shea seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “If we spot a landmark, we can figure our distance to landing. But I don’t have a feeling for that fuel gauge.”

  Hollis replied, “We have the speed we need to arrive on time at the only landing site we have. Those are close parameters, and there’s nothing more we can do at the moment.”

  O’Shea said, “Maybe we’ll pick up a tailwind.”

  “Maybe.”

  Mills, who had been listening intently, asked, “What if we pick up another headwind?”

  O’Shea glanced back at him. “No use worrying about something we can’t do anything about.”

  Mills said to Hollis, “Basic question, General—what are the odds?”

  Hollis replied, “I just got here. I’m not giving odds on your game plan.”

  Mills asked, “Look, would it help if we dumped some weight?”

  “I assume you’ve already done that.”

  O’Shea replied, “Yes. Coats, baggage, drinking water, some hardware, and all that. Lightened us maybe a hundred pounds.”

  Mills said, “I had something else in mind.”

  Hollis inquired, “Whom did you have in mind, Bert?”

  “Well… Dodson or Burov, I guess.”

  “You need them,” Hollis said. “Would you like me to jump?”

  “No. I don’t want Captain O’Shea flying again. He makes me nervous.” Mills smiled, then added, “Look, we can get rid of Burov if it would make a difference.”

  Neither Hollis nor O’Shea replied.

  Mills said, “Well, forget it. I’m not playing that lifeboat game. That’s your decision if you want to make it.”

  Hollis rather liked Mills when Mills was being Mills. But when Mills was trying to be Alevy, the result was an affected cynicism without his boss’s style or moral certainty.

  Lisa, who hadn’t spoken in some time, said, “I don’t want to hear about any more murders, please.”

  No one said anything, and the only sound was from the turbines and rotor blades.

  Hollis asked O’Shea, “Have you sighted any aircraft?”

  “No, sir.”

  Hollis nodded. He didn’t think anyone at the Charm School had had the opportunity or ability to radio out any information. But by now, the Soviets might have discovered that their facility had been wiped out, and they might have made the connection between the missing Aeroflot Mi-28 helicopter and the disaster at the Charm School. And if they had put it all together, they were probably thinking of the only safe place other than the American embassy that an Mi-28 could reach: the Gulf of Finland.

  Hollis turned to Mills and asked, “Did you people consult any Air Force types when you put this scheme together?”

  “Of course,” Mills said in a slightly offended tone.

  “How did you expect to escape Soviet radar detection?”

  “Well,” Mills replied, “the Air Force guys we spoke to figured we’d be out of reach of Moscow’s radar by the time they drew any conclusions. We knew we couldn’t be spotted visually with our navigation lights off.” Mills said to O’Shea, “You have some technical written orders, don’t you?”

  O’Shea replied, “I was supposed to get down low to avoid airborne radar—to blend in with the ground clutter—and take an evasive course toward the gulf. But I sort of figured that the available fuel wouldn’t allow for that.”

  “You were sort of right.” Hollis said, “Even if they’re not looking for us, we’re going to show up on somebody’s screen as we approach Leningrad’s air traffic control area.”

  O’Shea said, “At that point we’re going to have to get in low, below the radar. We can risk a visual sighting over a populated area at that time because we’ll be in the home stretch. We should be landed before they can scramble a flight to intercept us.” He looked at Hollis. “What do you think?”

  “I think someone forgot to consider Red Navy radar that watches everything in the gulf. I think if they’re specifically looking for us, they’ll find us. I’m going on the assumption they haven’t connected an Mi-28 Aeroflot helicopter bearing a certain ID number with the nerve gas attack on their training facility outside of Borodino.”

  Mills said, “We’re gambling that no one even knows that the Charm School is dead until someone comes by in the morning with a delivery or someone calls from Moscow or something. As for this helicopter, I changed the ID number, and they’re probably still looking for the crash site of P-113. This is a very compartmentalized country, and information does not travel freely. Therefore connections aren’t easily made. That’s working in our favor.”

  Hollis replied, “You may be right.” He asked O’Shea, “How are we supposed to rendezvous with the ship in the gulf?”

  O’Shea glanced at a piece of paper clipped to the instrument panel. “Well, first we look for Pulkovo Airport, which you and I would recognize from the air. Then we drop below two hundred meters to get under the radar. About a klick due south of the control tower, we take a three-hundred-ten-degree heading. We’ll pass over the coast west of Leningrad and continue out until we see the lighthouse on the long jetty. From a point directly over the lighthouse we take a three-hundred-forty-degree heading and maintain a ground speed of eighty kph for ten minutes. According to what it says here, somewhere down in the main shipping lane we’ll see three yellow fog lights that form a triangle. Those lights are on the fantail of a freighter heading out of Leningrad. The lights won’t blind or project a beam that might attract unwanted attention. But they should glow bright enough for us to see them at two hundred meters’ altitude and about half a klick
radial distance around the ship—even in one of those gulf fogs. We land in the center of that triangle, deep-six the chopper, and the ship takes us to Liverpool.” O’Shea added, “I’ll buy dinner when we get to London.”

  Hollis glanced at O’Shea but said nothing.

  They continued north for another fifteen minutes, and Hollis saw that the ground speed was dropping, indicating they were picking up headwinds again. The needle on the fuel gauge was buried in the red zone. One of the things Hollis recalled from the Mi-28 manual—which he’d purchased indirectly from an Aeroflot mechanic for blue jeans and American cigarettes—was that the fuel gauge shouldn’t be trusted. In fact, he noticed that though the needle was deeper in the red, the fuel warning still wasn’t on.

  O’Shea said, “Want me to take it?”

  “No. I need the practice.”

  A few minutes later O’Shea said, “We should have seen the lights of Leningrad by now.”

  Hollis nodded.

  Mills asked, “Will we have any warning before the fuel runs out?”

  Hollis replied, “Do you want a warning?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you want to land in Russia?”

  “I guess not. I guess we just keep flying until we go down.”

  “I guess so,” Hollis replied.

  Five minutes later the fuel warning light flickered. A few seconds after that a reedy voice said in Russian, “Your fuel reserves are nearly gone.”

  O’Shea replied to the recording, “Screw you.”

  The voice said, “Make preparations to terminate your flight.”

  Hollis and O’Shea exchanged glances.

  Mills asked, “What did he say?”

  Hollis replied, “There’re only forty-two shopping days left until Christmas.”

  Lisa said to Mills, “Fuel is low.”

  Mills nodded. “I figured that’s what he said.”

  They continued on north through the black night. No one spoke, as if, Hollis thought, everyone were waiting for the sound of the turbines to cut out. Finally, Lisa leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder. “How are you?”

  “Fine. How’re things back in business class?”

  “You tell me. How much fuel is left after that announcement?”

  “It’s more a matter of how much flight time you can get out of the available fuel. That depends on load, temperature, humidity, winds, altitude, speed, engine performance, maneuvers, and the good Lord.”

  “Should I pray?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  “I’ll let you fly.”

  “Okay. You pray. I’ll fly. Later we’ll switch.”

  Lisa looked at Hollis’ hands on the controls. This was a different Sam Hollis from the one she’d known in Moscow or in the Charm School. It struck her that he belonged in this aircraft, and she recalled what Seth Alevy had said to her at Sheremetyevo Airport about the world of pilots: They were a different breed, but she thought she could love him just the same.

  The voice said again, “Your fuel reserves are nearly gone,” then, “Make preparations to terminate your flight.”

  No one spoke for some minutes, then O’Shea said, “Hey, did you hear about the Aeroflot pilot who ran low on fuel crossing the ocean and dumped fuel to save weight?”

  No one laughed, and O’Shea said, “It’s funnier on the ground.”

  Hollis looked at the instrument panel clock. It was 6:59. Sunrise was in twenty-three minutes, after which time the freighter was to turn off its landing lights, making it indistinguishable from any other freighter in the area. At their present speed they could cover about sixty kilometers before sunrise. But for the last ten minutes of the flight they would have to reduce their speed to eighty kph, according to the instructions. Hollis said to O’Shea, “Our options are two: We can decrease speed, conserve fuel, and we’ll probably make it to our rendezvous, but it will be well after dawn. Or we can increase speed and our rate of fuel consumption, which is the only way we could possibly make our rendezvous before dawn. Of course, if we increase fuel consumption, we may not get that far. What’s your professional opinion, Captain?”

  O’Shea replied as though he’d given it some thought. “I’m betting that there’s more fuel left than we think. That’s just my gut feeling. I say full speed ahead.”

  Mills said, “I vote to cut speed and conserve fuel. Our primary obligation is not to get to that freighter before dawn—it’s to get out of the Soviet Union, and out of the reach of the KGB. I want to make sure we reach the gulf. I’d rather go into the drink than have them get their hands on us. We know too much.”

  Hollis replied, “You have no vote, Bert. This is a technical matter. But your opinion is noted. Lisa?”

  “I’m with Bert. I’d rather drown than run out of gas over land.”

  Hollis nodded. “Should we wake Brennan for his opinion?” Hollis heard the sound of popping bubble gum, followed by Brennan’s voice saying, “We dead yet?”

  Mills replied, “We’re working on it.”

  Brennan stretched and cleared his throat. “Hey, Colonel, glad to see you up and around. How you doing?”

  “Fine. I’m a general.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. Hey, did we do a tit for tat on them, or what? I mean to tell you, we kicked some ass. Right?”

  “Right. Did you hear our problem?”

  “Yeah. That’s a tough one. Whatever you guys decide is okay with me.”

  Hollis wished everyone was as unopinionated.

  Brennan added, “I hate flying. Glad we’ll be down soon.”

  O’Shea said, “Your call, General.”

  The disembodied voice said again, “Your fuel reserves are nearly gone. Make preparations to terminate your flight.”

  “Full speed ahead.” Hollis pushed forward on the cyclic stick, dropping the craft into a nose-down attitude, and simultaneously increased the throttle and adjusted the collective stick. The airspeed indicator rose to 180 kph with a corresponding rise in ground speed. Hollis said, “Never believe a Russian.”

  They continued north. The fuel warning light glowed steady red, and the recorded voice gave its warning in the same indifferent tone. Hollis had always thought that these cockpit recordings should get shriller each time they came on. But tape players did not fear death.

  O’Shea called out, “Look!”

  Hollis, Mills, Lisa, and Brennan looked to where O’Shea was pointing. Slightly to starboard of their flight path, on the black distant horizon, they could see a faint glow. Hollis announced, “Leningrad.”

  O’Shea said, “About twenty klicks. Maybe seven minutes’ flight time.”

  Hollis looked at the clock. It was 7:04. Eighteen minutes to sunrise. If they got to Pulkovo in seven minutes and changed heading, they would get to the lighthouse in about another five minutes. Then a ten-minute flight to the rendezvous point with the freighter. That sounded like twenty-two minutes.

  O’Shea said, “We’re racing the sun now, General.”

  Hollis replied, “I thought it was the fuel gauge. You’re confusing me.”

  O’Shea smiled grimly.

  Hollis increased the craft’s speed to two hundred kph.

  O’Shea observed, “We’re operating at full power at the end of a long flight. Do you trust these turbines?”

  Hollis glanced at his instruments. The turbine outlet temperature was redlined, and so was the oil temperature. “Never trust the reds.” Hollis called back to Brennan, “So what made you come back for this, Bill?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Seth Alevy said you were in trouble. That’s why Captain O’Shea volunteered too. Right, Captain?”

  “Right.” O’Shea said to Hollis, “I want you to reconsider my evaluation report.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Hollis began a long sloping descent. O’Shea said to him, “How many hours of rotary wing do you have, General?”

  Hollis glanced at the clock. “Counting the last thirty minutes, one hour.”

  O’
Shea said, “Seriously.”

  “I don’t know… ten or twelve. Is this a test?”

  “No. I’m just wondering who should put it down.”

  “If it’s a power-off landing in the freezing gulf, you can do it. If it’s power on, on the deck of the freighter, I’ll do it.”

  “Okay.”

  The Mi-28 continued descending, and Hollis noticed its ground speed bleeding off, indicating increasing headwinds. At five hundred meters its airspeed was still 200 kph, but its actual speed relative to the ground, which was the speed that mattered, was not quite 130 kph. Hollis knew they were encountering those infamous winter winds from the Gulf of Finland, winds so strong and steady that they sometimes caused the gulf to rise as much as five feet, flooding Leningrad. He thought about heavy seas and their freighter rising, falling, rolling, and pitching in them.

  Hollis could now see the main arteries leading into the city and saw some predawn traffic below.

  Leningrad. The most un-Russian city in Russia. A city of culture, style, and liberal pretensions. But a city where the KGB was reputed to be particularly nasty, a counterweight to the westward-looking populace. Hollis had sometimes liked Leningrad and felt some sense of loss as he flew over it for the last time.

  O’Shea said, “I think that’s the Moscow highway down there. So Pulkovo should be to port.”

  Mills said, “I haven’t heard the recording for a while.”

  Hollis replied, “I think he gave up on us.”

  O’Shea said, “Is that it?” He pointed out the left side window.

  Hollis looked and saw the familiar blue-white aircraft lights. “Yes.” He added, “That was a remarkable piece of land navigation, Captain.”

  “Thank you, sir. I tried to allow for wind drift, but I wasn’t sure how much we were being blown off our heading.”

  “Apparently not enough to miss a whole city.” Hollis banked left as he increased the rate of descent. The altimeter read two hundred meters, and he leveled off. He estimated he was a kilometer south of Pulkovo’s tower, and he took a heading of 310 degrees. They were so low now that Hollis could make out passengers in a bus below. He saw a few factories slide by and saw a train speeding away from the city. To the north, the great city of Leningrad seemed to grow brighter minute by minute as it wakened from its long autumn night.