The Kremlin Phoenix (33 page)

“Glide slope captured,” Sorokin announced
as the A320’s velocity dropped to landing speed and the aircraft descended
towards the runway.

“Two minutes to landing,” Colonel
Balard announced over the intercom.

“Auto throttle on speed,” Sorokin
said, “Auto brakes off, ram air on, autopilot disconnected.”

Sorokin now used the joystick at
his left hand to fly manually towards the airstrip. The edge of the runway
raced towards them while the fuel display counted down to zero. The one good
engine sputtered as it burned through the last of its fuel and fell silent.
Sorokin nosed the airbus down toward the ground, picking up a little speed,
then when they passed over the end of the runway, he pulled back, flaring the
nose up slightly. For a few seconds, all they heard was the whistle of air as
the A320 became a glider, then Sorokin switched off both engines, even though
they were already dead.

“Engine masters off!”

The airbus settled onto the
runway in a scream of metal on concrete and slid down the runway on a cushion
of sparks, balanced on its two engines and its tail. Sorokin used the joystick
to steer with the tailplane’s rudder alone, while the big engines acted like
skates on the runway. They’d lost over half their speed when a great metallic
shriek sounded as the wrecked starboard engine tore away from the wing. The big
engine bounced into the air behind them while the airbus lurched to the left
and the port wing dropped towards the runway.

“We’re losing it!” Colonel Balard
said through gritted teeth as the left wing tip struck the runway and the outer
half of the wing ripped away.

Behind them, emergency vehicles, lights
flashing and sirens wailing, came racing out from the terminal as the A320’s
underbelly touched down, now no longer protected by the starboard engine. The
aircraft bucked, then the port engine sheared off and rolled away like a
bouncing ball. The port wing dropped as the airbus corkscrewed half a turn,
slid another fifty meters and came to a stop. Behind the airbus, the runway was
strewn with engine and wing debris for more than a kilometer, avoided by the emergency
vehicles now swarming towards the plane.

They exchanged relieved looks,
grinned and shook hands.

“Good job,” Colonel Balard said.

Craig climbed out of the engineer’s
seat and patted both Sorokin and his father on the back, joining in shaking
hands.

“Good landing Aeroflot heavy,”
the super hornet leader sounded one last time over the radio. “We’re out of
here.”

“Thanks for the escort,” Colonel
Balard radioed as the super hornets climbed away and headed out to sea. He switched
to the intercom. “Welcome to Japan! Your captain and crew hope you enjoyed the
flight. Now let’s get the hell off this thing!”

A round of cheers echoed through
the plane as emergency slides were activated and old men ambled to the exits. Outside,
Japanese police and emergency vehicles pulled up around the aircraft, followed
by green army trucks.

“At least we won’t have to walk,”
Craig said jovially.

The fire trucks began spraying
foam over the aircraft as a precaution, although with scarcely a drop of fuel
left, there was little risk of fire. Overhead, news helicopters began circling,
filming the shattered aircraft, as old men slid down escape chutes, one at a
time. Several of the oldest men had to be helped, and the wounded air force
soldier was lowered gingerly to waiting ambulance staff.

Craig retrieved the Zamok Branka
dossier from the seat he’d left it on, then when the plane was empty, he took
turns with his father and General Sorokin jumping on the emergency slide. At
the bottom, a mix of Japanese medical and police staff helped them to the army
trucks, now full of tired old men. When fully loaded, the trucks headed across
the runway towards a small building south of the main terminal.

Craig watched the terminal slide
past, and noticed police were everywhere keeping reporters and curiosity
seekers at a distance. “Is it just me, or are you guys getting the feeling
someone wants to control who we talk to?”

“Let’s hear what they have to
say,” Colonel Balard suggested, “before we jump to conclusions.”

The military trucks drove into
the emergency services building, and parked where fire trucks normally would
have. Once inside, the doors were closed and locked. Outside the building,
armed Japanese soldiers took up station inside a police cordon.

One by one, the Zamok Branka
detainees climbed down from the trucks as tables were set with food and drinks.
Several Japanese military officers and a handful of westerners in business
suits stood talking to one side. While the old men drifted towards the food
tables, the civilians approached them with clipboards and began recording their
identities. Soon, a silver haired man with a van dyke beard approached Craig
with a look of recognition.

“Welcome gentlemen!” he said with
a smile that seemed too congenial. “My name is Dale Tagitt. I’m with the US State
Department. I know you’ve had a long flight, but we need to get your names,
ranks and serial numbers, then we’ll give you a thorough medical examination. After
that, we’ll move you to comfortable accommodation.”

General Sorokin stepped forward. “I
am General Karol Sorokin, Russian Air Force, and representative of Prime
Minister Gundarovsky.”

Tagitt flashed a smile to Sorokin.
“A pleasure, General.”

“We have three fatalities – the
aircraft’s pilots. All Russian citizens. I would like their bodies attended to
until we can return them to their families.”

Tagitt’s smile was immediately
replaced with a practiced look of empathy. “Of course, General. We’ll make all the
necessary arrangements.”

Valentina whispered in Craig’s
ear. “It’s time you fulfilled your part of the bargain.”

“It is,” he said, then turned to
Tagitt. “I need a computer, with internet access.”

“Yes Mr Balard, of course. I was
told to offer you every assistance.” He motioned for them to follow. “This
way.”

* * * *

Nogorev’s ears still rang from the
deafening noise of the belly landing. In the rear cargo compartment, he’d been
thrown wildly around, being closer to the runway than anyone else on the plane.
When the airbus came to a halt, he crept through the wheel bay, now slippery
from the hydraulic fluid that had sprayed freely after the MiG’s cannon fire had
shredded the hydraulics. There were holes in the fuselage near the wheels, but
they provided only a limited view outside.

He crept through the avionics bay,
emerging warily into the now abandoned flight deck. Nogorev stayed low as he peered
out through foam covered cockpit windows at the emergency vehicles parked
around the aircraft. Fireman were completing their safety precautions, while banks
of floodlights were being erected to illuminate the wreck. Overhead, news
helicopters circled slowly, transmitting pictures live around the world.

A rustling noise from the
passenger compartment caught his attention. He slipped through the open flight
deck door into the forward galley, where he spotted a Japanese man in a loose fitting
black jacket inscribed with both Japanese characters and the letters JTSB. The
Japanese Transport Safety Board officer was moving slowly towards the rear of
the aircraft, making notes on a tablet device.

Nogorev darted silently toward the
JTSB officer, reaching him before he realized he was not alone. He snapped the officer’s
neck in a single deadly strike, then stripped him of his jacket and black cap. They
were a tight fit, and Nogorev was far too tall to pass for Japanese, but in the
dark, at a distance, the disguise might not be penetrated. He hid the officer’s
body in one of the toilets, then cautiously approached the emergency exit in
the center of the fuselage. The escape chute from the forward exit was still in
place, but stairs had been wheeled up to the middle exit for the investigators.

The airport terminal was visible
from the open door. A line of police and soldiers had erected a cordon around
the south end of the building, while news helicopters floated above, filming
the scene. He guessed that was where the Zamok Branka survivors had been taken.

No one paid him any attention as
he walked down the stairs and strode briskly out across the runway towards the
south end of the terminal. Any eyes that glanced his way saw JTSB on his jacket
and cap, and immediately lost interest as he melted away into the darkness.

* * * *

Dale Tagitt led them through the emergency
services department headquarters, past rows of tightly packed cubicles, to the department
manager’s office.

“Help yourself,” Tagitt said, motioning
towards the computer on the desk. He handed Craig a piece of paper with the
computer’s network access details.

“You seem to have thought of
everything,” Craig said as he placed the Zamok Branka dossier on the desk and logged
onto the computer.

“We like to be thorough,” he
said, showing no sign of leaving

Craig waited, watching him.

Tagitt nodded obligingly. “I’ll
wait outside.”

“Accommodating isn’t he?” Craig
muttered suspiciously after Tagitt had closed the door, then he logged into his
Swiss bank’s web site. Once he reached the account log-in screen, he picked up
the phone and dialed his mother’s house.

“Hello?” his mother answered
uncertainly.

“Hi Mom.”

“Craig! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Can you get the note
I–”

“I’m sorry, Craig. They searched
the house. They found it–”

Joan Balard’s voice faded as the
telephone was pried from her hand by a middle aged man in a well tailored suit.
Several other men in dark suits had taken up position at the front and back
doors, and two more sat watching Rick Harriman and Hal Woods, sitting side by
side on the sofa. Their unloaded shotguns lay on the floor behind the men
watching them. Neither weapon had been fired. Once it was clear the men who
came to the house were FBI agents, Harriman and Woods had no choice but to
surrender their guns.

“Mom? Are you there?”

The middle aged man spoke calmly
into the phone. “Mr Balard, this is the FBI.”

“What are you doing to my
mother?”

“She’s quite safe.” The FBI agent
turned the envelope Craig had sent his mother over in his hand. “And you will
be too, once you give us the password.”

“What password?”

The FBI special agent smiled. “To
your Swiss account, of course. We have the account number, all we need is for
you to give us the password, and all charges against you will be dropped.”

“Blow me!” Craig said and hung
up.

Valentina watched with growing
concern. “What happened?”

“I can’t get the account number.”
His brow furrowed deep in thought, then his eyes flashed with an idea. “Lock
the door. Don’t let anyone in.” While Valentina did as he asked, Craig logged
into his Twitter account and tweeted the time and a description of his
location.

A moment later, Mariena appeared
in the center of the room. “Why did you do it,” she demanded, “after everything
I told you?”

Do what?
Craig tweeted.

“Give the money to the US
government!”

Craig gave her an astonished look
she couldn’t see.
I haven’t transferred any money yet!

Mariena looked puzzled, then her
eyes widened. “The time stamp on your tweet is a few minutes before the
transfer.”

I’m trying to give the money
to Valentina, not the US Government.

“That’s not what happened!”

Craig rubbed his forehead, trying
to understand how she could see something he hadn’t done yet, and wasn’t
planning to do. He winced, confused.

“What is she talking about,
Craig?” Valentina asked. “How could the US government get the money?”

“Beats me,” he said, then
tweeted,
I’m trying to make the transfer now – to Valentina. Can you tell me
what my Swiss account number is?

“Don’t you know?”

I can’t recover the account
number. You have all the records. Can’t you find it?

Mariena took a step to the side,
causing half her body to fade from view, and spoke quickly to Zikky and Wilkins.
After a moment, she stepped back into the center of the holographic sensor. “We
don’t have access to those records. The Swiss banks were even more secretive in
our time than they were in yours.”

Can’t you steal them?

Again Mariena turned away for a
brief discussion. When she returned, there was doubt on her face. “I’m not sure
we can ever reach them. You don’t understand what we’re dealing with.”

I’ll wait.

Mariena vanished.

* * * *

May 9, 2285