“Ground,” Cherenko said. “Antonov 2808 ready to taxi with information Bravo.”
“Antonov 2808,” a male voice said. “Hold short Runway One-Two, monitor Tower on one-one-niner-point-five.”
Military pilots spoke in Russian among themselves, and, to the consternation of pilots transiting from other countries, the tower sometimes did as well. But English was the international language of aviation, and this airspace was controlled by civilians. The tower controller put them in line behind an Il-76 heavy, cautioning them of wake turbulence from the departing giant.
“In line behind the heavy,” Cherenko responded. “Antonov 2808.”
A moment later the forty-six-meter, four-engine Ilyushin Il-76 lumbered down the runway, leaving invisible vortices of whirling wind behind it.
The controller spoke again. “Antonov 2808 clear for takeoff on Runway One-Two, fly runway heading until five thousand feet. Contact Moscow Departure.”
Cherenko read back the instructions as Mikhailov pushed the throttles forward slowly. The airplane began to shudder in place as he babied the four Lotarev D-18T turbofan engines for almost five full minutes before he released the brakes and began his takeoff roll. Slowly, steadily, the great bird picked up enough speed to heave herself off the runway.
“Positive rate of climb, Colonel.” Cherenko’s voice came over the intercom in Russian now, eyes on the altimeter. “Landing gear up.”
The massive Antonov was a touchy bird, but in Mikhailov’s capable hands more than a half-million pounds of airplane, fuel, and secret cargo flew with remarkable grace.
Air traffic controller Svetlana Minsky licked chapped lips and pressed slender fingers against her headphones — as she was wont to do when she grew nervous. Her idiot boyfriend had convinced her to stop smoking, and she was feeling it tonight. A motivational poster tacked to the wall above her said in Cyrillic: The same hammer that shatters glass forges steel. The notion would have been hilarious had it not been so sad. The hammer that was Air Traffic Control was plenty capable of shattering steel. And anyway, Minsky was far too busy doing her job to be reading bullshit motivational posters. She and the dozens of other controllers on watch inside the windowless blue room of Moscow Center took care of the airspace for seventy airports in and around Moscow. Tonight was extra hectic, and she cursed her boyfriend for stealing her cigarettes.
The agitation in her gravel voice was apparent over the radio, earning her a side-eyed warning from her supervisor, who sat birdlike at a row of desks behind her, in the middle of the bullpen.
She watched a numbered blip appear on her radar screen as the sweep came around.
A new voice to go with the blip crackled in her headset. Thickly Slavic, the English would have been almost impossible for anyone but another Russian to understand. “Moscow Departure, Antonov 2808 leaving eight hundred feet for five thousand.”
“Antonov 2808, radar contact. Continue climb as directed.”
The Short-Term Conflict Alert on Minsky’s computer showed a second Antonov, also with the Russian Air Force, bypassing Zhukovsky on a heading that would intercept 2808 at present speed and altitude. The planes were still eight miles apart. This gave her three miles before she’d have an “incident”—when two planes got closer than five lateral miles or a thousand feet of altitude.
Minsky dealt with other aircraft for a time, and gave a phlegmatic cough when she turned her attention back to the two Antonovs. All the open miles in the sky and these two bastards were determined to fly directly into each other.
Minsky wanted to curse almost as bad as she wanted a cigarette. “Antonov 2967, amend altitude to one four thousand, turn left thirty degrees for separation of company traffic departing Zhukovsky.”
There was no response.
This was not unheard of. Pilots bumped radio knobs, switched to the wrong frequency, or became engrossed in some conversation with the flight deck. Sometimes they merely fell asleep.
Six miles apart.
Minsky tried again, repeating her command for 2967 to change altitude.
No response. The term to describe an aircraft that didn’t respond over the radio was NORDO, but she didn’t take the time to use it.
“Antonov 2808, maintain one six thousand, turn left thirty degrees without delay.”
Closing in on five miles. This was too close to becoming an official “incident.”
Both airplanes now climbed toward eighteen thousand feet, converging on the same point southwest above the Moskva River.
Minsky consoled herself that only one of them had to move out of the way.
The pilot answered with a read-back of her instructions. “Maintain one six thousand, turn left thirty degrees, Antonov 2808.”
Minsky snatched up a small rubber alligator her boyfriend had given her to combat the stress of not smoking. She began to squeeze it, as if trying to obliterate the stupid thing from the world. She sighed in relief at the read-back as the number representing 2808 on her radar screen moved from its original path, following her instructions.
Inexplicably, the radar blip that was 2967 moved as well, directly toward 2808 in heading and rate of climb.
Minsky didn’t waste time on the NORDO airplane.
“Antonov 2808, turn left thirty degrees immediately.”
In the parlance of air traffic control, “immediately” meant exactly that. The pilot should not take time to disengage the autopilot or fool with the heading bug. He was to grab the yoke and turn the airplane the very moment he heard the command.
Antonov 2808 acknowledged, but did not alter course.
Fifteen feet away, across the dimly lit room, the “snitch” on the supervisor’s computer alerted him that there was a problem at the same moment Minsky reached up and snapped her fingers to get his attention. He rolled his chair across the blue industrial carpeting, eyes wide when he saw the two blips on the screen coming closer.
Minsky didn’t expect him to help, she just wanted a witness that she was doing everything by the book.
“Try the other one,” the supervisor whispered.
The conflict alert alarm sounded on her radar, signaling two minutes until a midair collision. The Americans called an incident like this a “deal”—certainly the most supreme of all understatements, Minsky thought.
She tried again.
“Antonov 2967, turn right thirty degrees, immediately. Maintain flight level one-niner-zero. Break. Antonov 2808, turn left thirty degrees for separation, company traffic three miles off your right wing. Break. Antonov 2967, turn right immediately.”
Nothing.
Minsky crushed the rubber alligator in her fist, smacking it over and over against her desk. She could have been singing “Bayu Bayushki Bayu” to these idiots for all the good it was doing.
Then, blessedly: “Left thirty degrees, Antonov 2808.”
The blip began to alter course with each radar sweep.
Minsky released a pent-up breath. “Thank you, 2808. 2967 is NORDO.”
“We will attempt contact,” 2808 replied.
Minsky allowed herself a moment to rub strained eyes with the heel of her hand, but a string of expletives from her supervisor snapped her back to attention. Antonov 2808 adjusted course as directed, but the second bird moved right along with it. At their present course and altitude, the two airplanes would very soon become a fireball over Russia.