Andreev squeezed out of the vent into the dim light of dawn; he crouched amid the hedges that concealed the air shaft from view. He breathed heavily. Sweat soaked the dark trousers and white dress shirt that he wore under the ballistic vest and bandoliers full of ammunition. He peered through the bushes. Russian army troops were forming into ranks in the headlamps of armored fighting vehicles whose hatches were thrown wide open. The lick of flame from a doorway and from the wrecks of a couple of cars were the only evidence of the fierce fighting that had raged across the old fortress’s grounds.
The sound of gunfire beyond the Kremlin walls, however, could be heard from all directions. The commander of the motorized rifle regiment sent to relieve the beleaguered Kremlin defenders had radioed that they had been ambushed by anti-tank missiles on Gorky Street. Andreev’s men all looked at each other in silence — jaws agape as the ferocious, ripping sounds of firefights filled the fresh early-morning air. The Kremlin was roughly in the center of Moscow, and it seemed as if the entire city was engulfed in war. It was a sound that meant only one thing — the end of the Republic of Russia.
Andreev found their best route through the darkness to the ancient stone wall and the relative safety that lay beyond. The wall there appeared to be lightly defended. The dark forms of only two soldiers were profiled against the city lights. One was walking slowly along the wall away from them with his rifle slung over his shoulder. The other was peering intently through binoculars into the distance. Andreev led his men in a quiet dash across an open road just under the crest of a hill that shielded them from the busy main Kremlin square.
Andreev crept up the steps toward the soldier with the binoculars. His men were close behind with weapons raised. When he reached the top, he saw that the second soldier had rounded one of the towers that dotted the high walls and was now out of sight.
‘Don’t move,’ Andreev said in a low voice. The soldier’s binoculars sagged, but otherwise he stood stock-still. He wore the blue-striped shirt of a ‘Desantnik’ — a paratrooper — under his full combat gear. Andreev’s men quickly disarmed the frightened soldier, then dropped a rope over the wall to the park-like grounds below. The soldier was forced to kneel and put his hands on his head. He stared down Andreev’s rifle through wide eyes set in a face blackened with grease paint.
‘What unit are you with?’ Andreev asked as his men rappeled one-by-one down the wall.
When he didn’t answer, a grizzled sergeant in Andreev’s security force pulled a knife from its scabbard. Its menacing, serrated edge drew a darting look from the frightened paratrooper. ‘104th,’ he answered.
‘From Omsk?’ Andreev asked, and the man nodded. They had come all the way from Siberia. That meant Air Force transport. That meant the rebellion was widespread and coordinated. ‘Why?’ Andreev asked without thinking. The private’s mouth hung open. He clearly didn’t know how to reply. ‘What did your officers tell you your mission was?’
He closed his mouth and swallowed, taking one more look at the large blade before replying. ‘They… they said we would save Russia.’
The rope shook — slapping at the stone. All of the men were now safely on the ground, and they were anxious for Andreev to join them.
‘Get down to the men,’ he ordered the sergeant.
As the sergeant rappeled down the wall, bright lights lit the tops of trees. Andreev dropped to one knee behind the low stone wall. Across the open central square that had been their brief battleground, a five-car motorcade pulled up — their brilliant headlamps lit. They were unconcerned with security now. They were in complete control. Emerging from the black limousine in the center was a lone figure.
Andreev instantly recognized the short, balding man in the blazing headlights. He wore a broad smile on his face and shook hands with a tall officer in full combat gear. They both then strode briskly toward the Palace of People’s Deputies. The civilian’s round glasses — like those worn by academics — gave him away. It was Valentin Kartsev, former general in the KGB and now the acknowledged ‘leader’ of the Anarchists.
That son of a bitch, Andreev thought. So he’s behind this.
Andreev raised his rifle. Resting the barrel on the stone in front of him, he brought the fixed iron sight onto Kartsev’s mid-section. At just over a hundred meters, Andreev knew he wouldn’t miss, even in the poor light. Die, you little piece of shit.
The rope slapped at the wall again. Andreev’s men would be holding the rope stiff at the bottom of the wall — standing there exposed while they dutifully waited for him.
His job was done. The President had fled God knew where.
Andreev had other things to think about. His young wife Olga. Their two little girls. Kartsev’s back was to him now, and Andreev’s aim had moved unconsciously to follow his target. Staring down the rifle at the man, he felt the tension in his finger hard against the trigger. The slightest pressure now would loose the sear, and the single bullet would shatter the bastard’s back.
It was his chance. Andreev knew Kartsev. The man deserved to die.
The rope slapped the stone again.
Andreev closed his eyes and took a deep breath, carefully easing the tension on the trigger. He rose to a stoop, leaned over the young Desantnik and raised his finger to his lips. The boy nodded. Andreev rappeled quickly down the rope to the grass at the base of the wall.
I had the shot, the thought nagged him. I had the shot.
‘I’ve got the lights,’ the co-pilot said out of habit.
The flight computer flew the huge A-400 Airbus in for its automated landing. The pilot kept his hands lightly on the wheel — also out of habit — as the computer trimmed the plane for its near-perfect descent onto the well-lit runway seven miles ahead. The night was clear. Often the autopiloted landings on calm nights like this were so soft the passengers had to be awakened from their slumber at the gate. The flight from Hong Kong had been uneventful.
But not so their departure from Hong Kong. Several Hong Kong newspapers had openly sided with protesting students in Beijing. Armed troops had shut them down a few days before. On board the flight was Great Britain’s Foreign Secretary, who was returning from a well-publicized protest. The airport’s tarmac had been lined with chanting anti-western demonstrators.
The engines throttled up just slightly, and then up a little more — noticeably louder.
‘Must be some headwind,’ the pilot commented.
‘Airspeed two twenty,’ the co-pilot replied. The sound of the engines rose a little more, and the pilot could clearly feel the acceleration press his back into the seat. ‘Two thirty-five,’ the co-pilot announced.
That was too fast, and their airspeed was climbing.
‘Flight Niner-Two-Niner,’ the control tower said, ‘you’re above the glide path. Please reduce speed to two ten.’
‘Roger that,’ the pilot replied. ‘I’m disengaging the autopilot.’
The ‘fly-by-wire’ flight controls were responsive to even the lightest touch. The flight crew had to be extremely careful not to brush the wheel during normal autopiloted flight. The computer interpreted any movement of the yoke by the pilot or co-pilot as a manual override.
The pilot pulled back on the wheel and the throttle in a smooth, coordinated motion.
Nothing happened.
‘Speed two forty-eight,’ the co-pilot said.
The pilot jerked the wheel. Nothing. Even the lumbering airbus should have lurched at that much control pressure. He looked at the altimeter. Five hundred meters.