Then his satellite phone rang, a first ever in all of Klapov’s flight hours with Captain Gibson.
“What’s that?” Gibson asked, surprised.
“Just my phone,” Klapov replied, then picked up the call. “Hello?”
Gibson frowned, and Klapov turned slightly toward him, keeping a close eye on every move the captain made.
“Yes, I can see it, I’m ready to proceed,” Klapov said, before ending the call.
“Proceed with what?” Gibson asked, frowning.
“We have traffic,” Klapov said, instead of replying to Captain Gibson’s question, and pointing toward the approaching Challenger.
Gibson turned to observe the approaching aircraft, and didn’t notice Klapov pulling a silenced gun.
“I’ll call it in,” Gibson said, and reached for his comm.
“No, you won’t,” Klapov replied, and then pulled the trigger twice, in rapid sequence.
Gibson’s head fell on his chest, but he remained strapped in his seat, held back by his harness. Blood started dripping from the two bullet holes in his chest.
Klapov took the Boeing 747–400 off autopilot and, with smooth maneuvers, aligned it with the Challenger, as the other aircraft flew in position right above the Boeing. Klapov changed vector to 070, turning slightly southeast and leaving the assigned flight path. Then he took out a small, encrypted radio.
“Challenger, do you read?”
Static crackled for a second, then a strongly accented voice confirmed.
“Read you clear.”
“Maintain course and speed, and wait for my signal to switch transponders,” Klapov instructed.
“Copy that.”
He put the radio down, and called the flight attendant. Before he could do anything, he had to deal with the passengers.
Lila put in her code and opened the cockpit door, then froze as soon as she saw the blood pooling at Gibson’s feet. She gasped.
“You bastard,” she said, “what did you do? What did you fucking do?” The pitch of her voice climbed as she spoke.
“Lila baby, you have two options,” Klapov said, patting the handle of his gun. “You can go to pilot heaven with dear old Gibson, or you can do your job and keep the passengers safe. What will it be?”
She clenched her jaws and pursed her lips, staring at him with eyes glinting with pure hatred. The bitch’s contempt was entertaining.
“What do you want?” she finally asked.
“I want you to tell the passengers we’re detouring a little to avoid some turbulence, maximum delay 30 minutes or so. I want them strapped in their seats, quiet, off their fucking sat phones. Flight attendants too. Let’s try to avoid more people being shot as part of today’s flight plan, all right? Can you do that for me, baby?”
His charm wasn’t working on her any more, that was obvious. She would have probably killed him on the spot if she caught a chance. Somehow, despite the job he had to do, the thought of Lila trying to kill him gave him an erection. He almost smiled.
“Why are you doing this?” Lila asked. “What are you doing?”
“Just taking a little detour, nothing more,” he said, grabbing hold of his gun and releasing the safety.
Lila flinched. “All right,” she said in a trembling voice, “I will tell them. Then what? You’re gonna kill us all? I knew you were a prick, but this?”
“Then you keep the fuck quiet and keep everyone calm, seated, buckled, and safe,” he said, patronizing her.
Sheesh! Women and their entitled questions, he thought. “Remember, I don’t really need you to do this job,” he added, liking her reaction to his threat.
She looked past him and noticed the shadow of the Challenger.
“Who are they?”
“Doesn’t matter. Go!” Klapov gestured her with his gun to get out of the cockpit.
Moments later, he heard Lila making the turbulence announcement through the PA.
Then he picked up the radio.
“Challenger, do you read?”
“Go ahead,” the heavily accented voice replied through static crackles.
“Ready to kill transponder. Fire your transponder up, on my count. Three, two, one, go!”
About two hundred miles away, a Tokyo ATC radar operator saw the beacon code for flight XA233 flicker for a second, then continue on its path across the Pacific. He thought nothing of it.
…8
Myatlev ate seated at his massive desk. He took a couple of spoons of hot chicken soup, dressed with sour cream and feta cheese, and closed his eyes halfway in ecstasy. The soup had filled the room with its unmistakable aroma. Each spoonful took a little bit of his stomach pain away, and he mumbled his appreciation. This cook was good; he’d make sure he never leaves. He took another spoonful, savoring it, and a small bite from a slice of white bread toast with it.
Preceded by a quick tap on the door, Ivan walked in hurriedly.
He watched him walk in and frowned. Ivan needed to brush up on his skills. Myatlev hated to be interrupted from his meals, and his assistant knew better.
“Boss? Major Ignatiev wants to speak with you.”
Division Seven Major Ignatiev, one of the rising stars of the new KGB, was leading Myatlev’s operations in the Russian Far East.
He wiped his mouth and replied begrudgingly, “Put him through,” then picked up the phone as soon as it rang. “Da.”
“It’s Ignatiev, sir. Just letting you know we’re ready to receive them. I have everyone’s files, and the Challenger took off an hour ago.”
“Good,” Myatlev said. “Whatever you need, let me know. And keep that idiot, Bogdanov, in check.”
He hung up the phone, and let a cryptic smile flutter on his lips. He loved it when a plan came together, even if this particular one required him to use his own plane, and to push the envelope to unprecedented limits. Hopefully, President Abramovich would never find out.
…9
Lila entered the first-class lavatory and looked at her image in the mirror. Her dilated pupils and frozen lips expressed the terror she felt. What was going on? Where the hell were they going? She swallowed a sob. They’ll find out soon enough. Oh, God…
She sprinkled a little water on a paper towel and patted her burning forehead with it, then wiped the back of her neck. Klapov was many things, a fuck-fest enthusiast and an incorrigible, selfish bastard, but he was not terrorist material. Or, at least, so she had thought he wasn’t. Some judge of character she was… Captain Gibson was dead, at the hands of a terrorist. Her opinion of Klapov, especially her ability to see who the man really was, had miserably failed. Again.
Klapov was a terrorist, by all evidence. And for terrorist attacks in midflight, there were procedures. If only she knew who the air marshal was on this flight. But no, the schmucks had to play it all undercover, refusing to identify themselves to the flight crews.
She needed to think fast and decide the amount of risk she was willing to take. She didn’t know where Klapov was taking them, how much flight time they still had left, or what his plan was. This was probably a hijacking, for money or political reasons, like freeing some other terrorist.
Then another thought froze the blood in her veins. There could be other terrorists on the plane, among the passengers, maybe even the flight attendants. No one hijacks a 747 by themselves. It never happens. The anti-hijacking training for civil aviation aircraft crews taught them to assume they don’t know who all the players are, and to behave normally. That was going to be hard.