Reluctantly, slowly, the three Russians pulled the pouches from the cargo hold, dragged them to the Gulfstream, and shoved them in. Kalinin’s head throbbed. What was happening felt surreal.
Grant heard Stalley in his earpiece, “All clear.”
“Back to the plane,” Grant ordered. It was time to make a decision. What to do with the Russians, especially Kalinin?
The three Russians walked toward the plane, with Grant and Adler covering them. They were just beyond the cargo hold when, without warning, Vikulin fell to his knees, pulled another weapon from an ankle holster, then turned, and aimed it directly at Kalinin. In a split second, Grant reacted, tackling Kalinin from behind. Both men landed hard on the tarmac. The stray bullet from Vikulin’s weapon punctured the fuselage under the passenger compartment. Three rapid, muffled shots rang out, all finding Vikulin’s chest, all from Adler’s .45. Slade rushed from the cockpit. Standing in the open doorway, he kept his weapon aimed toward the cockpit.
The sound of the Gulfstream’s engine may have masked the gunfire, but the Team couldn’t count on it and had to act fast.
Adler immediately aimed his weapon at the remaining KGB man. Grant jumped up, grabbed Kalinin’s arm and jerked him to his feet.
Novak and James stayed in place, waiting for Grant’s orders. Stalley left the cockpit, then he ran down the stairs, and immediately took up a defensive position near the nose.
Grant made his decision. He pointed to the uninjured Russian, then to the man laying on the tarmac. “You! Get him onboard!” He looked up at Slade and pointed to Vikulin’s body. “Get the crew!” Within a couple of minutes, all Russians were onboard… except for Kalinin.
Kalinin was astounded, part from Vikulin wanting him dead, and part from the efficiency with which this team of men carried out the operation. All he could do was wonder who they were… and what were their plans for him?
Grant pressed the PTT. “Five-Two, are we clear?”
“Clear.”
Grant signaled for Novak and James to come in, then he turned his attention to Kalinin, and said to Adler, “He’s coming with us. Put him onboard. I’ve gotta finish here. Tell Matt to hold off on final takeoff procedures.” Kalinin was led away. Once he was onboard, Adler came out of the plane, standing watch with Stalley.
Novak shoved Kalinin toward the rear of the plane, then motioned with his weapon for him to sit.
“I speak English,” Kalinin stated.
Novak laughed. “Well, of course you do! Silly me!” He backed up, but continued keeping his weapon aimed at the Russian.
Grant hustled into the Russian plane, taking a quick look at Vikulin’s bloody body laying in the aisle, aft. The injured Russian was laying on a bench seat, looking pale and in obvious pain.
Grant walked closer to the cockpit, making sure the two men were paying attention. “You will start takeoff procedures in exactly five minutes. We will be waiting until you have departed. But, be aware that we have the ability to monitor your transmissions, so you should be careful what you say and who you say it to.” He made eye contact with each man, before looking at KGB, then moving slowly toward the exit door, he said, “And in case you are wondering why… there is a device planted under this aircraft.” He went quiet for a moment. “Once you have reached fifteen thousand feet, we will no longer have the ability to activate it. Need I say more?” Absolute silence. “Idti (go),” he said to Slade. They rushed down the steps, one behind the other, then picked up the Russians’ weapons that were laying on the ground.
As they ran to the Gulfstream, Slade laughed. “Monitor transmission? Activation? Christ, boss! You sure as hell know how to weave a tale!”
“Worth a shot!”
Without saying a word to anyone, or looking at Kalinin, Grant headed to the cockpit. Climbing into the co-pilot’s seat, he put his .45 on his lap, then pulled the face mask over his head, brushing a hand quickly over his hair.
“What now?” Garrett asked.
Grant glanced at his submariner then refocused again on the plane. “Gave them five minutes to start takeoff procedures. Once they’re rolling, contact the tower. I’ll fill you all in once we’re underway.” He hit the switch, securing the steps and door.
He and Garrett went through the checklist for takeoff procedures. They were almost through the list, when the Antonov’s lights came on, engines wound up. A marshaller posted himself at the front, then signaled with lighted wands. The plane began rolling, passing along the starboard side of the Gulfstream.
As it made the turn toward the runway, Grant breathed a sigh. “Okay, Matt. Our turn.”
Garrett adjusted his headphones and mike, set the frequency, then contacted the control tower for permission to taxi. Takeoff was from Runway 024, right behind the Russians. Garrett received heading and altitude. Following the airport marshaller’s signals to proceed toward the runway, Garrett gave a quick salute.
Grant glanced over his shoulder, into the darkened cabin. Kalinin paid no attention to the aircraft leaving without him, but stayed focused on the cockpit.
“They’re underway,” Garrett said. The Antonov lifted off the runway. It began a slow, wide turn, putting it back on an easterly heading. Before long, its navigation lights were no longer visible.
Garrett contacted the tower. “Shannon Tower, Mike 581 (M581) ready for takeoff.”
“Mike 581. Cleared for takeoff Runway 024.”
“Cleared takeoff Runway 024. Mike 581.”
The Gulfstream was at cruising altitude twenty-nine thousand feet. Head winds were strong. Flight time to D.C. was estimated to be close to eight hours.
“Matt, do you need anything to eat or drink?”
“Maybe a Pepsi. I’ll eat something later.”
Grant came out of the cockpit. “Hey, DJ. Get Matt a Pepsi.”
James came forward with the drink and Grant said, “Stay with him for a while, okay?”
“Sure, boss.”
The rest of the Team knew it was time for Grant to meet Kalinin. They remained quiet, but heads turned as he started down the aisle. Adler stopped him, saying softly, “Listen, Skipper, back there… I should’ve searched that guy.”
Grant just nodded, laying a hand on Adler’s shoulder, then he continued toward Kalinin.
Stopping by the compact refrigerator, Grant took out two Cokes. He turned, seeing the Russian sitting on the edge of a seat, leaning forward with his head hanging down.
“How about something to drink?” Grant asked, as he held the can toward Kalinin. The Russian reached for it, but didn’t look up. Grant popped the top on the can, then sat opposite him.
The only intelligent, non-combative conversations Grant ever had with a Russian were with Moshenko. That friendship started when Grant rescued his now very good friend from a sinking chopper. This was going to be a helluva lot different.
As he downed a good portion of soda, Grant told himself he had to get into the guy’s head. Even without speaking to him, he had a feeling they were on the same level playing field.
Kalinin finally looked up. He had to agree. They did resemble one another, except the American had brown eyes, more scars, and maybe was a few years older. His eyes dropped to Grant’s hands, scarred and obviously strong.
The silence between the two men was about to be broken. “Why’d you save me back there?” Kalinin asked.
Grant put the can in a cup holder, then scooted closer to the edge of the leather seat. “Because it’s my job to take you back to the States… alive.” He locked eyes with Kalinin’s, then added, “Or maybe it was pure reaction to protect a defenseless… ”
“Don’t consider me ‘defenseless.’”
“Okay. Maybe poor choice of words, but you didn’t have a weapon, did you? And you sure as hell weren’t diving for cover.”