The Kremlin Conspiracy by Joel C. Rosenberg
“You’d better go,” she said. “I’ll make sure everything’s ready.”
“Thanks,” he said to her, “for everything.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet, Ryker. Put on your headset and don’t get caught.”
She handed him a whisper mic and an earpiece, which he put on at once. She did the same. They tested them with a few sentences each. Then Marcus chambered a round in his pistol, put the gun in the holster under his jacket, and unlocked the cockpit door. He opened the cabin door and lowered the steps, and he was off.
Marcus headed straight across the tarmac for the airport security car the agents had left him. Only then did he remember that the car hadn’t been brushed off since they’d boarded the plane. It took several minutes to wipe everything down, especially the headlights, and several more to chip a layer of ice off the driver’s-side lock. It took longer for the engine to turn over and warm up. But once he had it running, he jacked up the heat and the windshield wipers and unzipped the canvas bag on the passenger-side floor.
“Operations to Post One, Operations to Post One, come in, over.”
“Post One, copy, over,” Special Agent Pavel Kovalev replied.
“We have a problem,” said the watch officer in the operations command post located in the basement of the presidential palace. “Well, a possible problem.”
“Roger that, Ops. What’s wrong?”
“I just noticed that the drapes in the president’s study are drawn.”
“And?”
“Well, sir, I’ve never seen that done in the three years I’ve been doing this job,” said the watch officer. “The drapes are supposed to remain open at all times so we can keep an eye on the president and make sure everything’s all right.”
“They’re having a very private discussion, Ops,” Kovalev replied. “The president doesn’t want any disturbances or distractions until he leaves for the Kremlin.”
“Affirmative, Post One, but the drapes are supposed to remain open for his protection.”
“Are you saying there’s a problem?”
“That’s just it, sir—how would I know?”
“What was happening inside the study before the drapes were closed?”
“We’re reracking that video now. The problem is with all the snow, the condensation on the window, and the glare, the images aren’t clear. Everything’s hazy.”
“Switch to thermal.”
“Doing that now.”
“And?”
There was a long pause—too long for Kovalev.
“What is it, Ops?” he pressed. “What can you see?”
“CODE RED, CODE RED!” shouted the watch officer, the horror in his voice palpable, broadcasting on the emergency frequency for every agent in the compound to hear. “GO IN NOW—I REPEAT—GO IN NOW!”
The submachine gun was loaded and instantly accessible.
Relieved, Marcus flipped on the orange flashing safety light on the roof and began to proceed toward his target.
The airport maintenance team was doing a decent job keeping the runways plowed. This was Moscow, after all. They had plenty of experience with snow. Still, for whatever reason, the access lanes for baggage carts, fuel trucks, and other vehicles like his were taking longer. Fishtailing his way across the airport grounds, Marcus worried he might hit something or someone in the rapidly dropping visibility.
When he finally reached the helipad, it was empty. A ground crew was waiting. That was a hopeful sign, suggesting something was inbound. But there was no chopper visible, and Marcus’s stomach tightened. He began counting to fifty but heard the roar. Then he saw it, descending rapidly from the thick cloud cover amid a swirling, billowing spray of snow and ice.
Marcus positioned the security car as close to the helipad as he safely could so Oleg wouldn’t have to be exposed to the elements for a single second longer than necessary. He reached over and unlocked the passenger door. Then he stepped out of the car and into the bitter, whipping winds. As the chopper door opened, Marcus came around the car and stood by the passenger door, ready to open it the moment Oleg emerged. But Oleg didn’t emerge. Not right away and not for several minutes.
“We may have a problem,” he radioed Morris.
“What is it?”
“The chopper door is open, but the Raven has not emerged.”
“How long?”
“Too long. I’m going to check it out.”
“Copy that. What do you need from me?”
“Just make sure we’re ready to get off the ground the second we get back.”
Marcus strode to the door of the chopper, unbuttoning his overcoat as he did to make it easier to grab his pistol if he had to.
He had to.
Just before he reached the door, a gun went off inside the helicopter, blowing out a window. Marcus heard a woman screaming and a fight break out on board. Gun drawn, he raced up the steps only to find the copilot and Oleg wrestling in the tight confines of the cabin. Marcus didn’t think twice. He double-tapped the copilot, then pivoted and double-tapped the pilot. A woman, wrapped in a black cashmere coat and furs, was screaming hysterically. Marcus had never seen her before, but she posed no threat. He grabbed Oleg by the collar and hauled him off the chopper without saying a word. Throwing him in the backseat of the waiting car, Marcus slammed the door shut, then got behind the wheel and peeled off across the tarmac.
“They know! They know!” Oleg began yelling the second they were alone. “I don’t know how, but they know!”
Oleg was hyperventilating and risked going into shock.
But there was nothing Marcus could do about it. It didn’t matter how the FSB knew or how Oleg had managed to avoid being handcuffed or shot inside that chopper. Their only chance of survival was to get back to Morris and off the ground. Even then, he doubted they had better than a one-in-ten chance of making it out of Russian airspace without being shot down by MiGs, assuming they could even could get away from Domodedovo in one piece.
As he radioed back to Morris that they were inbound, Marcus could hear sirens converging from the north and the west. Then he noted the police band radio set where the AM/FM system usually was. He switched it on and the radio crackled to life.
Marcus couldn’t understand a word of Russian, but he instantly recognized both the fear and the urgency in their voices. “What are they saying?” he shouted to Oleg in the backseat.
“They just issued my death sentence,” Oleg said.
“What?”
“The dispatcher is telling every police officer and security guard in or near the airport grounds that I’m responsible for assassinating the president of the Russian Federation and the head of the FSB,” said Oleg. “The security services are unleashing everything they have to hunt me down along with anyone helping me. Shoot to kill. No mercy.”
Marcus switched off the security car’s flashing light and then for good measure cut the headlights, too. Given the dimness and swirling snow, he hoped that would lower their profile, making them nearly invisible. Whoever was hunting Oleg was headed to the helipad. The ground crew at the helipad had surely seen him pull Oleg off the chopper and into this car, but if the car was invisible, they still had a chance. It wasn’t much to go on, but that measure of confusion might buy them the time they needed.
Just then Marcus spotted a police car—red-and-blue lights flashing, siren blaring—racing straight toward them. He slowed a bit and veered right, out of the patrol car’s path, hoping it would blow right past them. Instead, the driver hit the brakes and tried to follow them but hit an ice patch and spun out of control.
Marcus accelerated, zigzagging dangerously through planes and food service trucks.
“They’ve spotted us,” Oleg said, continuing to translate what he was hearing over the police band radio. “An officer is giving a description and our heading.”
“What else?”
“Now they say I’m with one suspect, armed and dangerous, and that we’re heading towar
Well, they had that right, Marcus thought as he spotted the G4. Then Oleg pointed out two more patrol cars converging on them. The one behind them was coming up fast.
“We’re going to be at the plane in about fifteen seconds,” Marcus said calmly. “When we get there, I want you to bolt out the right side. You hear?”
“Yes.”
“Get up the stairs and into the plane as fast as you can.”
“What about you?” Oleg asked.
“I’ll cover you. The second you get on that plane, hit the deck.”
“What does that mean?”
“Get on the floor and stay there.”
“Okay.”
“Tell the pilot to pull up the stairs, taxi, and take off.”
“What if you’re not on board yet?”
“I’ll be there.”
“But if you’re not?”
“Then I’m not coming.”
Marcus tapped the brakes and skidded to a stop in front of the G4. Grabbing the machine gun and kicking open the driver’s-side door, he looked back at Oleg and shouted, “Run!”
All three police cruisers tried to brake. One slid right past them and smashed into the side of the terminal. The others stopped more successfully, within twenty yards of them. Marcus pivoted into the snow and opened fire. Oleg watched him for a moment, then jumped out and raced up the steps of the Gulfstream while a hail of bullets erupted all around him. Marcus kept firing in short bursts as he moved around the hood of the car. When he saw he’d clipped the officer firing from beside the wrecked cruiser, he popped out a spent magazine and reloaded. Then he opened fire again—still in short bursts—as he crouched low and worked his way backward up the steps.
Rounds pinged off the metal stairs and the fuselage. Then someone opened fire from just over his right shoulder. He glanced around and saw Morris.
“Get in,” she yelled. “I’ve got you.”
Marcus turned and scrambled up the last few stairs as Morris hit the switch and the stairs folded into the plane. Together, they shut and locked the door behind them and headed for their respective seats in the cockpit.
“Take a seat and buckle in,” Marcus shouted to Oleg as Morris revved the engines and began taxiing away from the terminal. “Recline the seat all the way, and whatever you do, keep your head down and don’t look out the window.”
Suddenly rounds began hitting the side of the plane again. From his vantage point, Marcus couldn’t see who was firing, but he urged Morris to push the engines harder and stay out of the taxi lanes. This wasn’t a normal takeoff. These were combat conditions, and they needed to get this thing in the air before more police cars arrived and blocked their exit or shot out their tires or their windows.
Morris did what he told her but said nothing.
Marcus craned his neck to one side and then the other, scanning for threats. When he turned back to her, he saw her wince, then saw blood all over her jacket and shirt.
“You’re hit,” he said calmly.
“I’m fine, Ryker,” Morris replied just as calmly. “We’ll deal with it in the air.”
But she wasn’t merely wincing now. She could barely sit upright.
“You’re not fine,” he said.
“Never . . . never mind . . . me,” she gasped. “Do . . . your job.”
She was having trouble breathing as well.
“You’re not going to be able to get us off the ground,” Marcus said.
“I have to.”
“But you can’t, so tell me what to do.”
Morris tried to protest, but she couldn’t get the words out.
“Conserve your energy,” he told her. “Lean back. Point to things. Use as few words as possible. I’ll get us up.”
Finally she nodded, and Marcus took the controls. She walked him through everything even as she began coughing up blood.
Ground control was ordering them to stop. Marcus could see flashing lights coming from all directions. The G4 was approaching the first possible runway, but the ground lights were all red, indicating they had to stop for an aircraft either about to take off or land. Marcus looked to his left and saw no plane on the runway. He looked right and saw nothing on the ground, but there were lights in the sky at two o’clock. The sirens were getting louder, which meant they were getting closer. Oleg began shouting that the police cars heading toward them were being joined by armored personnel carriers with .50-caliber mounted machine guns.
That was it. They were out of time. He couldn’t wait any longer. Marcus increased speed and eased the G4 out onto the runway, turning right, toward the approaching plane.
“No,” Morris groaned. “You can’t.”
Marcus didn’t respond.
“You’re insane,” she said almost in a whisper. “Stop.”
But Marcus wasn’t listening. He checked the flaps. They were at the zero position. Preparing for a short takeoff, he throttled forward to full power while pressing hard on the brakes. The high-pitched whine of the dual Rolls-Royce engines filled the cockpit. Then he released the brakes. They all snapped back in their seats as the Gulfstream began hurtling down the runway.
The Aeroflot jumbo jet was dead ahead of them, less than a mile out, on approach for the runway they were on and putting down its landing gear.
“You’re gonna get us all killed,” Oleg screamed, watching what was happening through the open cockpit door.
Marcus didn’t respond. They were committed now. He was trying desperately to keep the plane centered on the runway with the rudder pedals, but with so little experience flying, and none in a business jet, they were veering to the right, then lurching back to the left. They were in danger of sliding off the icy runway, but they were picking up speed. There was a chain-link fence at the end of the ten-thousand-foot strip. It was covered in snow and ice, but it was coming up fast. Panicked, Morris briefly took the pedals. She recentered the jet and ordered Marcus to increase flaps to takeoff position. The moment he did, they reached 150 miles an hour.
“Now!” she yelled.
Marcus pulled back on the yoke. The instant their wheels were off the ground, he abandoned gentility and pulled harder, creating a far steeper angle for takeoff. The ground controllers were cursing at him. They were heading straight into the Aeroflot, but Marcus refused to change course. Alarms sounded in the G4 cockpit.
“Caution, obstacle. Caution, obstacle.”
The Russian plane filled with hundreds of passengers was coming directly at them. Despite the storm, Marcus could actually see the pilots in their cockpit, frantically waving them off. He could hear them yelling at him over the radio. Yet he kept increasing speed. He was not going to divert. Too much was at stake. They had to gain speed and altitude if they had any chance of survival, even if that meant playing chicken with a jumbo jet.
At the last second, the Aeroflot banked hard to the right, retracted its landing gear, and boosted power. The G4 surged by, clearing the Russian jet by less than fifty yards. Marcus raised his landing gear and pulled the Gulfstream into the clouds and the freak storm bearing down on Moscow.
Morris was ashen, but both she and Oleg were quiet. The immediate danger had passed, but each of them knew what lay ahead.
“Where’s the transponder?” Marcus asked as they passed two thousand feet.
“Why?” Morris asked, her voice thin and raspy.
“I’m going to turn it off,” he said. “We’ve got to go dark.”
Morris looked at him like he needed to be institutionalized. Marcus didn’t care. He proceeded to turn off all the external lights and all the cabin and cockpit lights as well. Only the glow of the instrumentation remained. Relenting, Morris pointed to the transponder switch, in the lower right section of the center console, then used hand gestures to indicate he should turn it three clicks to the left.
Marcus did, and their digital signature—the communications system telling air traffic controllers precisely who they were and whe
Marcus asked Oleg to come up to the cockpit and help get Jenny into one of the seats in the back. Shaken but eager to assist, Oleg responded immediately.
“They teach you any first aid in the army?” Marcus asked.
“A little.”
“Then take care of my friend. We need to get her home in one piece.”
Oleg nodded and was about to leave when Marcus grabbed him by the arm.
“One more thing,” he said. Marcus motioned for him to come in very close so Morris couldn’t hear them. “She doesn’t know what you just did, and she’s in no shape to hear it now,” he whispered. “Understood?”
Oleg nodded, a bit confused perhaps on how it was possible that Marcus’s partner didn’t know all the details. Nevertheless, while Marcus kept flying the plane, Oleg unbuckled Morris and carefully carried her out, apologizing profusely for the discomfort he was causing her.
Soon they reached a cruising altitude of forty-three thousand feet. They were racing for international airspace at a speed of nearly five hundred knots—about 575 miles per hour. Marcus engaged the autopilot. According to the extraction plan he and Morris had mapped out, they were headed for Helsinki. That was just 893 kilometers away. They’d already been in the air for twelve minutes. They had another fifty to go.
Marcus knew they’d never make it that far.
Defense Minister Mikhail Petrovsky was headed back to the war room when the call came.
He’d only gotten three hours of sleep, but at least he had been in his own bed. As his driver sped along Leninsky Avenue, parallel with the Moskva River, headed toward the center of the city, one of his bodyguards took a secure call from Nikolay Kropatkin, the deputy director of the FSB.
He handed the phone to his boss. “Kropatkin. He says it’s urgent.”
Petrovsky sighed and took another sip of black coffee from his travel mug before taking the call. When everything was urgent, was anything?