Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (61 page)

“I suppose all of you were in on this from the beginning?” Sen'kov asked.

“Not right away, but by the time you told the Americans what my plan was, we all agreed that you could no longer lead this country forward,” Gryzlov said. “You have been tainted by corruption and have been forced to accede to threats from the United States to survive. We cannot sit by and watch you flush our future down the toilet. Everyone in this room is in agreement. Everyone else—the vice president, the prime minister, the speaker of the Duma, and a few members of the cabinet—well, they cast their vote with their last living breath. Just as you are about to do.

“Now, you had better get going, Mr. President,” Gryzlov said. “You'll probably have to equalize pressure between the cabins to open your door. Just flip the red-guarded switch inside the panel on the port side of the door. According to our calculations, if you manage to get control of the plane, you will still have plenty of fuel to make it back to St. Petersburg, or the fighter pilots will lead you to an alternate base in Sweden or Finland with a very long runway. You can still be the hero here, Sen'kov. Oh, and you'd better dress warmly—it's liable to be cold up front. Take several deep breaths before you open the cabin door. To disconnect the autopilot, simply turn the control wheel hard left or right—you'll have to overpower the computer, but you can do it. Pull the throttles back all the way, start a steep turn—forty-five degrees of bank should do—find the gear handle and lower it. You can do it, Mr. President.”

“I'll see you in hell, Gryzlov,” Sen'kov said. “To the rest of you—I hope you lie awake thinking about what you've done here tonight. The lives of every innocent man and woman on board this plane will be on your heads.” He slammed the phone down.

Sen'kov was shaking so hard he could hardly don his overcoat, hat, and gloves. As he dressed, he took several deep breaths to flush the carbon dioxide out of his lungs—after doing so he found he could hold his breath for about sixty seconds. He rehearsed the route he had to take several times in his head. After nearly passing out from hyperventilating, he found himself remarkably calm. This was possible, he thought. The smug bastard Gryzlov had given him everything he needed to know to do it.

The Russian president went to the door and tried it. Sure enough the higher pressure inside the VIP cabin was holding it closed. He located the pressure-relief switch in a panel behind the door, took several more deep breaths, held it, and flipped the switch. He heard a loud
whisssh!
and a thin fog immediately formed inside the VIP cabin. It was instantly thirty degrees colder. Oh, shit . . .

He flung open the door and started forward. The main cabin was like a freezer. Every man and woman inside had an oxygen mask on—and every one was soundly sleeping. How could anyone—even that sick, homicidal maniac Gryzlov—do such a thing to his
own people?

It took him just ten seconds to reach the cockpit door—thankfully, it was not locked. The pilots, navigator, and flight engineer, all wearing quick-don oxygen masks, were unconscious. Sen'kov dragged the pilot out of his seat—and nearly jumped out of his skin when the pilot moaned; he'd forgotten that no one on board the plane was yet dead—sat down, and examined the controls and instruments. He recognized the artificial horizon and the altimeter—the metric one read eleven thousand six hundred meters—saw the red line on the airspeed indicator, and found the throttles and gear handle. He grasped the control wheel and tried to turn it, but the autopilot fought back. He turned harder, but it fought harder. He finally yanked it over with all his might. A red light marked master caution snapped on, and another red light marked autopilot disconnect came on. Forty seconds to go.

He pulled the power to idle, grabbed the gear handle and pulled it down. More red lights—he didn't try to identify them. He grabbed the control wheel and pushed the nose over. The airspeed needle immediately crept toward the red line. What had Gryzlov said? Put the plane in a steep bank to keep the wings from ripping off? He turned the wheel left to the first large mark, thirty degrees, and the airspeed stopped increasing but the vertical speed increased. He put in more bank angle, to the next large mark, sixty degrees. The airspeed was actually slowing, and the descent rate was pegged at five thousand meters per minute. “Great! I can do this!”

Then he realized he hadn't
thought
that last remark—he'd
said
it. He couldn't hold his breath any longer. The final clock was ticking now. He was surprised to find he could breathe normally—he thought he'd be gasping for air. Maybe he had more time than he thought.

Sen'kov increased the bank angle even more. Now the altimeter was
really
unwinding. The heading indicator was also spinning wildly, but he didn't care. The airspeed needle was very much lower than the red line—just what he wanted. He pushed the nose even lower. My God, it was
working!
That rat bastard Gryzlov really underestimated him! He saw with glee that one of the fighter jets escorting him was visible out the copilot's side window. Pretty damned fancy flying, he thought. He was in a very steep bank, but the fighter was right there with him as if they were welded together. The altimeter swung past eight thousand, then seven thousand, then six thousand meters, that fast—just a few more seconds and he would do it! Already he was feeling better—my God, he was going to make it!

There! Five thousand meters! He turned the control wheel to the right and was surprised to feel how easy it was to turn. The artificial horizon was spinning like a top that was about to fall off its pedestal. He could breathe! He'd done it! He'd saved everyone on board! Now he could get control of this thing, bring it home, and then exact his revenge on Gryzlov for trying to kill him. The copilot moaned loudly. Sen'kov prayed he would wake up.
“Copilot! Help me!”
Sen'kov screamed. “Wake up, damn you!
Wake up!
”

Four thousand meters . . . three thousand . . . Sen'kov pulled back on the control column. It came back easily enough—maybe too easily. The control column was loose and floppy in his hands. It was hard to stay upright in his seat. Although he felt as if he had things pretty well under control, the plane felt as if it was still spinning. The artificial horizon was flipping and flopping, blurring almost into a continual shade of gray—what was wrong with
that
thing now? Two thousand meters . . . Shit, how was he supposed to stop this thing from . . . ?

“I see. Very well. Instruct them to report their position to the Swedish radar controller, and then they may return to base.” Gryzlov replaced the phone in its cradle, then turned to the men around him. “I regret to inform everyone that it appears that President Sen'kov's plane has crashed. The MiG-29 pilots escorting his plane saw him take the controls, then put the plane into a steep spinning dive. The bank got steeper and steeper until the plane entered a vertical spin, from which it was unrecoverable. The pilots observed the president's plane hit the ground through their night-vision goggles.”

General Gryzlov took a briefcase from an officer and nodded. The officer removed a key and gave it to the general. “Because of the unexplained disappearance of the vice president, prime minister, and speaker of parliament, the normal order of progression has been interrupted, and I find it necessary to impose martial law in the Russian Federation.

“The first order of business is control of the special-weapons-unlock keys. As you can see, I now have the master special-weapons-unlock code key; Minister of Defense Bukayev still has the secondary key. The nuclear weapons of the Russian Federation are secure.

“We shall inform the people of the Russian Federation and the world of this tragic accident, the heroic efforts of President Sen'kov to save the lives of the crew, and of the smooth, peaceful transition of power. A search will begin immediately for the missing members of the executive and legislative branches. Until then I will assume responsibility for the central government as well as for the defense of our homeland.”

Gryzlov stepped behind the president's desk, leaned over it with his knuckles pressed to the smooth top, and added, “Our first order of business: launch an immediate strategic and tactical bomber attack on the city of Chärjew in the Republic of Turkmenistan. I don't want one Taliban sympathizer or foreign interloper alive to threaten us again. We must recapture the oil and gas pipelines in that country and be sure they remain secure. Have ground-invasion forces standing by.”

Less than two hours later

“We're outta here,” Hal Briggs said. He had jet-jumped to where Chris Wohl was standing guard with his electromagnetic rail gun. “The folks in Uzbekistan are airborne. We'll rendezvous just before the Afghanistan-Turkmenistan border.”

“Outstanding, sir,” Chris Wohl responded. “I'd rather not stick around.”

“Mount up, then,” he said. He then turned to Jalaluddin Turabi, who was speaking with a large group of Central Asian soldiers. “We need to be airborne in just a few minutes, Turabi,” he said. The computers in his battle armor translated his words into Russian for him. “What's the verdict?”

“The Turkmen representatives have decided to allow me to lead their armies,” Turabi replied proudly. “We are getting ready even now to set up barricades and defenses around Chärjew.”

“Well, you deserve it,” Briggs said. “I never thought I'd say it, but you're a good man, Turabi. You're a good leader. The Turkmen made a wise choice.”

“Thank you for saving my life and helping my fighters, Taurus,” Turabi said, using Briggs's call sign while in his Tin Man battle armor. “I will be forever grateful.”

“I'll be grateful to you if you'd lead this country out of the dark ages of fundamentalism and help them rebuild themselves,” Briggs said. Turabi looked quizzically at him. “I wouldn't want this country to turn out like Afghanistan did under the Taliban.”

“I don't know how it will turn out,” Turabi said. “If the leaders of this country turn to the Taliban for help in rebuilding this country, I would be happy for that.”

“If that happens, I hope we'll never meet again, Turabi, especially if you intend to keep on raiding United Nations convoys,” Briggs warned him. “We might find ourselves on opposing sides—again.”

“I will remember that, Taurus. But I am Taliban. I will follow my God and the leaders of my clan and try to be a loyal servant—to them, to my family, and my conscience.”

“My advice to you: Serve yourself and your family first, and then listen to your chiefs. Their goals may not be the same as yours,” Briggs said. “I wish you luck, Turabi—because if you're ever in my sights, I won't hesitate to blow your shit away. Count on that.” He turned and walked toward the waiting MV-32 Pave Dasher, loaded and with its engines spooling up, getting ready for takeoff.

Just then he heard, “Bandits, bandits, bandits. All Battle Force units, this is Bobcat One-three. Numerous bandits inbound, bearing two-niner-zero, one hundred ten miles bull's-eye, very low altitude, speed six hundred knots.”

Briggs didn't hesitate. “Tin Men, dismount,” he ordered. “Take defensive positions
now!
Everyone else, stay on board.” He turned to Turabi and said, “You'd better get your men into shelters, Turabi. The Russians could strike at any moment.”

Turabi ran off, waving for the others—Turkmen and Afghans alike—to head for underground shelters.

“We've been ordered to depart!” the pilot of the MV-32 radioed back. “They're still at least ten minutes away—we've got time to make it out.”

“I said Tin Men,
dismount!
” Briggs repeated. “Bring your gear! Spread out to the northwest. Dasher, as soon as my men are out, you split. Get across the Uzbek border to Samarkand.”

“Damn it, Briggs, we can
all
make it out!” the pilot argued. “Why in hell are you staying?”

“I said
get going!
” Briggs shouted. As soon as the eighth and last Tin Man was out of the tilt-jet aircraft, he jet-jumped to the northwest. The other Tin Men spread out with him, deploying about two miles apart so they could concentrate their firepower, cover as much territory as possible, and avoid being caught in one single-weapon attack. Each Tin Man commando carried an electromagnetic rail gun with plenty of tungsten-steel projectiles, plus a support bag with spare battery packs and spare parts for their battle armor and powered exoskeleton.

The MV-32 Pave Dasher lifted off in a blinding cloud of dust and sand and had just started rotating its engine nacelles from vertical lift to airplane mode . . . when the first Russian cruise missile hit. Several fuel-air explosions bracketed the MV-32 perfectly, creating a gigantic viselike crushing machine that shattered the tilt-jet aircraft and its passengers and crew into several thousand pieces and slammed it all into the sand.

Eight
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