Minsky continued to give voice commands. Her supervisor typed the identical flight instructions into the Sintez computer system, sending them to the aircraft via electronic message. At the same time, other traffic was diverted far away from the area. The second Antonov seemed bent on a midair collision. She watched in horror as the two blips on her screen grew closer with each sweep of the radar, squawking the ident numbers of their respective transponders.
“Antonov 2967,” Minsky said again. The pleading ran like a fissure of softer stone through her granite voice. “You must maintain altitude and present heading.” She repeated the same in Russian, just in case.
The targets momentarily froze into what was called a “ghost track” as the confused radar and computer processors worked to reacquire the two airplanes.
The supervisor groaned, leaning in almost on top of Minsky for emotional support. His voice cracked. “Twenty seconds. Then we will know.”
The high perch of the Antonov’s flight deck gave 2808’s crew a terrifying view of the belly of the aircraft above as it overflew them, bearing down like an eagle swooping on her prey. Colonel Mikhailov cursed through gritted teeth, pushing the yoke forward as the other plane flew directly overhead at four hundred feet, matching course as if shadowing in a tight formation.
The instruments flickered momentarily, along with the cabin lights. Mikhailov heard the flight engineer seated behind him say something unintelligible, but his hands were full and he didn’t have time to check in.
“I have the airplane,” Cherenko said from the right seat.
Mikhailov’s head snapped around. “Negative, it is still my air—”
The cold steel of a pistol barrel against his neck caused the colonel to freeze. Very slowly, he lifted his hands from the yoke.
“You have the airplane,” he said.
He half turned to see the first engineer, unconscious in a heap on the floor, drugged or struck in the head. It was impossible to tell. The engineer he did not know held the pistol in a sure hand. Smiling serenely.
The second Antonov continued to shadow them. The transponder blinked off and then came back on, flashing a completely different ident number.
The radio squawked and a new voice came across as the second plane peeled away, wings lifting into the night.
“Moscow Departure, Antonov 2808. We are in the clear. 2967 passed directly beneath us.”
The radioman behind Mikhailov spoke now. “Moscow Departure, Antonov 2967. Sorry about that. We experienced an intense electrical storm that had us all flying blind. We have it worked out.”
“2967, do you wish to declare an emergency?” the female controller asked, her voice strained from the near miss on her watch.
“Captain advises negative,” Cherenko said. “We will land in Saratov and perform required systems check. Antonov 2967.”
The controller gave him a telephone number to call to “discuss the matter further.” A report would certainly be logged. He acknowledged receipt but did not write anything down.
Mikhailov started to lower his hands, but the engineer prodded him with the pistol until he rested them on top of his head.
“So,” Mikhailov muttered, “we have become 2967 and they are now us.” The radioman continued to speak with Departure, and Mikhailov felt the airplane bank sharply to the right, heading almost due south. He looked at his first officer, pained at the stupid futility of all this. “There are other ways for them to figure out who we are.”
“True enough,” the engineer with the pistol said. “But with the right equipment and the right people supporting…”
“What could you hope to gain? The missiles will be useless without the launch-control devices.”
“That is true as well,” the radioman said, smiling down at the two leather briefcases at his feet.
Mikhailov felt as if his insides had broken.
“I see,” he said. “What will happen when the other airplane reaches Kazakhstan with no nuclear missiles onboard?”
“It will fly in that direction,” Cherenko said. “Unfortunately, the same electrical storm we just experienced must have damaged that aircraft’s navigation and communication systems. It will drop out of radar contact somewhere over the wooded hills of the Bashkiriya forest and be lost en route. I can assure you, that plane will not be found.”
“Then what is our destination?”
Cherenko glanced sideways and shook his head. “That, I am afraid, Comrade Colonel, is no longer your concern. For, you see, you are supposed to be aboard the doomed aircraft.” He twisted a little farther in his seat to make eye contact with the radioman seated at the workstation behind him. “Yuri, it is already Thursday — little Friday. Would you be so kind as to get the colonel some vodka?”
“No… I…” Mikhailov stammered. “I… do not drink—”
“My friend,” Cherenko said softly. “Do yourself a favor and have some vodka. It will make what comes next… easier.”
2
The President of the United States set a white porcelain coffee cup on a wood coaster at the edge of the Resolute desk. There were those who thought Jack Ryan surely drank from the skulls of his defeated enemies, but in truth, the academic and former Marine much preferred his coffee from a chipped ceramic mug, the interior of which was richly stained from the many gallons of brew that had gone before. He’d make the switch to that mug later in the day, but the first meeting in the Oval Office with a newly minted Cabinet official necessitated the fancy White House china to go with the requisite photo op.
With the photographer gone now, Ryan had moved around to the front of his desk to sit in one of the two Chippendale chairs, across from Mark Dehart, the secretary of homeland security. The upholstered couches and chairs in the middle of the Oval were more comfortable, but they had a way of swallowing people up. Ryan had met with Dehart briefly once before, immediately following the last White House Correspondents’ Dinner. That off-the-cuff meeting had taken place in a tiny Washington Hilton anteroom not much larger than a phone booth. It was a bit of an ambush — as interviews with the Commander in Chief often were. Dehart hadn’t had the time or the space then to be nervous, but he appeared downright unflappable now. His eyes sparkled with intensity at this first official sit-down with his new boss. Ryan liked that. People who were comfortable in their own skin were more likely to offer honest critiques and advice. And honest critiques from within one’s own camp were in short supply when one was arguably the most powerful person on the planet.
This morning, Ryan had blocked out a full twenty minutes with his new DHS secretary. It was an eternity as Oval Office meetings went, especially when the purpose was just a friendly chat.
Ryan gave an approving nod. “I apologize for taking so long to have you in for a visit.”
“You’re a busy man, Mr. President,” Dehart said. He was a fit sixty-one years old, lean, with the hungry face of a triathlete and the crow’s-feet of a born smiler. A crisp white shirt accented a deep tan, as if he’d spent any vacation time from his previous job as a congressman plowing fields on his old John Deere tractor. Dehart was born of Pennsylvania Dutch stock; his father and grandfather before him had been dairymen. He had used the “milk money” he’d earned to pay his way through undergrad at Penn State and then for a master’s in biology from Carnegie Mellon. A scientist at heart, he was a deep, analytical thinker with a farmer’s work ethic. He was honest and well liked by most. In the Machiavellian world of D.C. politics, that meant there were plenty of people who wanted to see him crash and burn because he made them look bad.