Another Russian popped up from one of the chairs on his left. Avery caught a glimpse of black metal in the Russian’s hand and shot him twice in the chest, then again in the throat as he went down to his knees. Blood speckled across the upholstery as he plopped over, his head bouncing off the corner of the table before he hit the carpet.
Avery advanced another four feet down the aisle.
No targets presented themselves.
He approached the next sections of seating cautiously, expecting to find another Russian or two using the furniture as concealment, waiting for him.
The first groupings of seats were clear on either side.
But the next four chairs in the line weren’t.
A Russian was crouched down behind the table on the right side, aiming his gun over the surface of the table. Avery blasted the Slavic face looking up at him and swung his aim around to the chairs on his left.
Empty.
The cabin was clear.
Avery sank into one of the armchairs, keeping his eyes locked on the cockpit door, the only source of possible further targets. Within the cabin’s close confines, the pervasive stench of cordite and burnt gunpowder lingered in the air.
A whir of movement recalled his attention, and Avery snapped the GSh-18 back up, finger tightening over the trigger.
He lowered the gun when he saw Aleksa coming through the connecting hatchway. She shut the hatch and ran over to him.
“Oh my god, are you all right?”
Her voice sounded muffled, like he had cotton stuffed in his ears. Both their ears were ringing. “Yeah, just a little beat up. Are you hurt?”
She looked him over. “I don’t think I’m in any position to complain.”
Avery went to the kitchen space and rinsed his mouth out with water, spitting blood and chunks of vomit out into the sink, then took a long gulp of water to hydrate. “We need to access the cockpit,” he said. “Otherwise this plane’s still set to land at Ayni, and we’ll be right back where we started.”
He’d already tried the latch and wasn’t surprised that the cockpit was locked. The pilots had likely heard the gunshots and knew that something was wrong. That meant they’d already radioed ahead and reported there was trouble. The entire Russian military contingent at Ayni would be waiting for the plane to land.
With Aleksa’s help, he memorized in Russian how to give the order to open the cockpit door or he’d blow off the heads of the surviving crew back here, and he delivered the line with his angriest, most dominating voice. When the pilots called his bluff and failed to respond, he fired a shot into a nearby body and repeated the command.
This time, after several seconds as the flight crew debated their options, the cockpit door opened. Avery stormed in and pointed the GSh-18 at the pilot’s head, screaming at him in English to keep his hands on the controls. The pilot stared blankly at him and responded in Russian.
“Translate for me,” Avery told Aleksa. “Tell him to divert the plane and land at Dushanbe International. He can declare an in-flight emergency, or whatever the fuck he needs to do, to get landing clearance. And tell him to stay off the radio. If he contacts anyone other than Dushanbe air traffic control, he’s dead. Tell him.”
Kabul or Bagram, where the US military could secure the aircraft and its cargo, would have been the ideal choice, but Avery didn’t know anyone offhand he could contact in Afghanistan with that kind of clout. Looking at the console gauges, it didn’t look like they had the fuel anyway. Six thousand miles pushed the Antonov’s maximum range.
Aleksa repeated the instructions in Russian to the pilot and translated his response. “He said that you won’t shoot him. Who would fly the plane?” Her tone indicated that she saw the pilot’s point and thought this an exercise in absurdity.
“Tell him that you will,” Avery said without hesitation.
Aleksa arched an eyebrow and relayed the command.
The pilot smirked and responded.
Aleksa shook her head. “He said that he doesn’t believe you.”
“Whether or not he believes me,” Avery said, keeping the pistol pointed at the pilot’s head, “ask him if he really wants to call my bluff and find out. And let him know I’d rather go down in this plane than land and end up in the hands of more Russian assholes.”
She translated again. The pilot considered his options, looked back at the blood and bodies strewn about the passenger compartment, exchanged looks with his co-pilot, who shrugged, and gave his response.
“He said that he’ll cooperate,” Aleksa said.
Avery knew that he would. This guy simply flew where Litvin told him in exchange for cash. He probably had no idea what the cargo was and didn’t care. He wasn’t hardcore mafiya like the dead Russians in the back, and he wasn’t going to risk his life for Litvin. Plus, Avery was sure that he was looking pretty deranged right now to the pilots and, in their eyes, that made him unpredictable and a man not to be trifled with.
“He’s altering course now,” Aleksa reported.
After a couple minutes, Avery felt the aircraft bank slightly left. He asked Aleksa to search the bodies in the passenger compartment for keys or a phone, while he stayed with the pilots. She came back several minutes later. She couldn’t find handcuff keys or bolt cutters or anything that could be used to pick the lock, but she handed him a cell phone.
Avery entered Poacher’s number and sent a text, identifying himself by his call sign and telling him to be at Dushanbe International in the next two hours or so. He also told Poacher to alert Gerald Rashid at the embassy.
Poacher responded several minutes later, asking for the pre-arranged authentication code to confirm his identity. Avery provided it, and Poacher acknowledged. Avery knew that Poacher must have a dozen questions, but he’d understand that Avery had sent the message from an unsecure phone and would neither expect nor ask for specifics. Avery anticipated an earful from Poacher once they met up again, and this time he’d be happy to hear it.
Aleksa sat down in one of the plush arm chairs in the passenger cabin. Avery remained in the cockpit, watching every move the pilot made. His whole body ached, but it felt good to have a break from people trying to kill him.
TWENTY-THREE
Seventy miles from Dushanbe, the pilot radioed the control tower, identified himself, and requested clearance for an emergency landing. In order to avoid answering any of the control tower’s questions about his plane’s destination and point of origin, the pilot tried to sound frantic, and he stressed the urgency of the situation, stating he had two engines out and an onboard fire. A few minutes later, after getting approval from a supervisor, the irritated-sounding Tajik air traffic controller granted the Antonov clearance to land, then aligned the pilot with the approach corridor, cleared a runway, and delayed all other inbound flights. A Turkish Airlines Airbus that had been due at this time was directed instead to circle Dushanbe until the emergency was resolved.
In addition to contacting emergency services, the air traffic control supervisor alerted airport security officials, who in turn relayed the information to GKNB. Aware that it was a Russian commercial flight, GKNB immediately informed the Russian embassy of the situation. Within fifteen minutes of the control tower receiving the transmission from the GlobeEx pilot, the Russian embassy’s intelligence chief was made aware of the unfolding crisis and began issuing orders to his subordinates.