“We’re fucked.” General Titov from the Berlin residency didn’t bother introducing himself. “That drunk, Voronin, just called me from Bonn. His people got a bomb onto the plane they believed FedEx was on.”
“Goddamn it! We’ve got to get that plane on the ground.” He yelled for his secretary without bothering to put his hand over the receiver. “Pyatiletka, get me the supervisor at Moscow Air Traffic Control at once.” He spoke into the phone. “Gennadi, what flight did you say your man followed FedEx onto?”
“I just had that fucking number in front of me,” Titov said, then continued to swear as Stukoi listened to him rustle through papers. “Wait a minute. Here it is: Pan Am 1072.”
Another phone rang. Stukoi dropped the one with Titov onto his desk and could hear him ranting. Pyatiletka introduced the new caller as the senior supervisor of Aeroflot’s Area Control Center.
“There might be a problem with an inbound Pan American flight,” Stukoi said.
“We’re working it right now.”
“Is it still in the air?”
“It’s up, proceeding to Sheremetyevo.”
“How long until it’s there?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes-if it makes it.”
“Make sure you get it there.” Stukoi hung up. “Or I’ll have your ass.”
Titov was still carrying on about the incompetence of the Bonn residency and hadn’t noticed Stukoi’s absence. Stukoi grabbed the other phone. “It’s all going to hell!” He threw down the receiver and shouted to Pyatiletka, “Get my car. Now!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
108 NAUTICAL MILES FROM SHEREMETYEVO
Faith worked her way toward the hole, not sure what to do next and hoping that the sagging floor held. She shivered. It had to be well below zero. Several passengers were bloody from the flying debris. The purser, who had apparently been in the lavatory, throwing his guts up during the explosion, sat, strapped into a jump seat, making the sign of the cross. Over and over. The two men seated behind the galley’s bulkhead were missing. So was their entire bank of seats. In the next row two women sat with their feet dangling over open air. One was screaming, the other staring straight ahead as if engrossed in an in-flight movie.
Faith turned toward the rear of the plane and pointed at the operative. She motioned for him to come. He got up and hurried to her, his gaze fixed on the hole.
She shouted into his ear. “Deutsch? Russkii?”
“Russkii.”
“Name?”
“Call me Igor.”
Faith screamed in Russian and pointed to the two women. “The floor’s collapsing. I’m not sure how long it’ll support the weight. Can you help me get them out?”
He nodded. Faith moved the passengers from row twelve to the rear of the plane. She and the operative slid into the row behind the women. Faith yelled to the one in the former window seat, first in English, then in German and Russian, “We’re getting you out. When we get a firm grip, I’ll tap you on the shoulder. That’s your signal to unbuckle the seatbelt.”
Igor slipped his powerful arms underneath those of the woman. Faith tapped her shoulder. The woman sat there frozen, staring straight ahead. Her face and left arm were bleeding. Faith hung over the seat, almost dizzy from the view to the ground. She reached to unbuckle the woman. The woman slapped her away. Faith tried again. The woman slugged her.
“This is nonsense,” Igor said.
He struck the woman on the back of her head, stunning her. He grabbed her under the arms while Faith unclasped the seatbelt. In a single movement, he hoisted her over the seats and plopped her down on the row behind them. The second woman stopped screaming and latched on to Igor’s arms. He and Faith hauled her over the seat. They walked the women down the aisle to the last row.
“You strap them in. I’ll be back.”
Faith went into the lavatory and grabbed a handful of paper towels. She returned to the injured woman. Blood streaked from her eyebrow to her chin. Faith wiped the blood from her face, but didn’t see a wound. She felt a wave of nausea when she realized what had happened. The blood must have spurted on the woman as an injured passenger was sucked from the plane.
The other woman’s arm was bleeding. Faith pressed the towels onto the wound. “Keep pressure on it until it stops.” She repeated herself in the two other languages. She turned to Igor and shouted into his ear, “You just got a field commission. You’re part of the crew now. I know the KGB’s trained you in first aid. Treat the worst first. Check the overheads. One should have a first-aid kit. Go.”
The plane was in stable flight at fourteen thousand feet, and the two remaining engines were hanging in there-for the moment. Frosty couldn’t raise the cabin crew on the intercom. The captain ordered him to go back and survey the damage. Ian had throttled back a little, so the sound had dropped a few decibels along with the airspeed. He took off his oxygen mask and was greeted by a lot of fresh air. He stepped from the flight deck, expecting a mess, but wasn’t prepared for what awaited him. The galley was missing-along with the last starboard row of first class and the first row of coach. The armrest of 10C was twisted so that he feared they’d lost at least one passenger on the port side as well. Mountings for a bank of overhead lockers were visible underneath the stringers and tattered insulation. He could see the fuselage frame, but didn’t like the distorted floor panels and support beams. Catastrophic structural failure wasn’t far away.
As he inched past the chasm, he felt the floor buckle a little under his weight. Not good. A stewardess was ripping a blanket into strips, he guessed for bandages. She seemed very familiar. Too familiar. He hoped to God he hadn’t slept with her.
“Frosty!” Faith turned around and hugged him.
“Alooo-ha.” The wind whipped around them. He stood close to Faith’s ear as he spoke over the din. He pointed to the galley. “What’d you do to my plane?”
“It was a bomb. I saw the flash.” She didn’t smile. “We lost at least two passengers and three are unconscious. Several have pretty bad lacerations.”
“The crew?”
“Eating in the galley when it happened. All except him.” She pointed to the purser. He sat in a jump seat, moving his lips and crossing himself. “You’re looking at your crew: me and KGB Igor over there.” She used her head to point out the operative.
“I don’t want to know.” He held up his hand. “I’m just glad you’re here. We’re limping toward Moscow. The paranoid SOBs won’t let us land anywhere else. We’re about eighty miles out. We’ll start the descent when I get back up front.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Can you get everyone ready for landing? I don’t like the looks of it over there. I could feel the floor move as I walked over it. Reseat anyone within three rows of the hull breach, including those to port. Spread them out. This isn’t the time to mess with our center of gravity.”
“Are we going to make it?”
“You betcha. You’re flying with the dynamic duo.” Frosty winked at her. “I don’t know about the landing. Get them prepared for a rough one. When we come to a full stop, evacuate them. Do you know what to do?”
“In theory. I always prep my covers.”
“There’s a megaphone stowed in an overhead up front. When it’s time, take the front jump seat by the Holy Father and pray along with him.” He hugged her. “You’ll do great.”
Back on the flight deck, Frosty reported the situation to Ian, but omitted the identity of the remaining crew. “I’d say you’ve got one shot to land it. I wouldn’t like to see the stress on the airframe from a go-around. If the floor collapses, God knows what might fly out and into those engines.”