The Kremlin Phoenix (29 page)

Guessing they still had a few
hours before the plane would be ready to takeoff, they crept through the forest
south of the airstrip, crossing a taxiway that led to twelve revetments, where
combat aircraft could park safe from bomb damage. Soon they came upon a long
concrete apron, where two old IL-76 transports were parked in front of a large
white hanger. The lights in the building were out and the only sign of life
came from the control tower several hundred meters away. The tower, and the
rectangular building beneath it, were both well lit, while the Mi-26 helicopter
stood empty nearby.

Nogorev was about to break cover
and head towards the hanger when he heard movement to their right. Two base
defense troops and a guard dog strolled along the tree line towards them,
senses dulled from long months of boredom. Nogorev signaled Chernykh to wait
until the airfield guards were almost on top of them. The dog sniffed their
scent and turned towards the trees curiously, unnoticed by the guards. When the
whisper of a silenced pistol sounded, the dog yelped and collapsed, finally
drawing the attention of the confused guards. Two more soft whispers sounded,
and both guards fell to the ground before they ever understood the danger.
Nogorev and Chernykh pulled the dog and the guards back into the forest, where
they quickly stripped the soldiers of their clothes and weapons.

A few minutes later, the two
Spetsnaz soldiers dressed as base defense troops, strolled casually towards the
large building: part hanger, part warehouse. They searched the building,
finding two packed parachutes, which they slung over their shoulders like
backpacks, then walked casually past the IL-76 transports toward the passenger
jet.

The tanker crew had hoses
connected and were pumping fuel into the jet as Nogorev and Chernykh approached.
Overall clad mechanics, performing routine engine checks barely noticed them
and never wondered where the guard’s dog had gone, or why they carried
backpacks.

Several compartment doors were
swung open beneath the fuselage, as mechanics climbed in and out of the bowels
of the aircraft, readying it for take-off. Nogorev found an open cargo
compartment containing several pallet loads of freight, which the jet had been
unable to offload before being diverted to Bratsk. He ensured they weren’t
being watched, then they climbed up into the cargo compartment and took cover
behind the pallets.

For the next hour, they listened as
mechanics went over the aircraft before eventually slamming the hatches shut,
one by one. When their compartment was sealed with a metallic clang, several
tiny lights activated, giving Nogorev enough light to see by as he drew his
knife and began prying open the flimsy metal panel leading forward.

Nogorev had resigned himself to
being unable to recover the Party funds now, but he was determined to ensure they
didn’t fall into enemy’s hands. That meant he could not allow Craig Balard, or the
secret of Zamok Branka, to leave Russian air space.

* * * *

November 17, 2280

Captain Wilkins entered the control
room in the early morning, station time, bleary eyed and half asleep. “I take
it you’ve figured out why Craig Balard asked us that question?”

“I think so,” Mariena said. She’d
slept little in the nearly two weeks since their last temporal transmission,
trying to piece together what was happening at Craig’s point on the timeline.
“It’s to do with his father.”

“But we went over that,” Wilkins
said. “His father never flew in that squadron.”

“I know that’s what the official
historical record says, but Craig Balard said he was trying to get his facts
straight, facts about a US air force motto. Craig Balard never served in the
military, but his father did, in the US air force.”

“That’s a tenuous connection.”

“By itself, it is. So I asked
Commander Zikky to get every piece of information we could find on Craig Balard’s
father and run it against the entire composite dataset, everything we’ve
uploaded from all the exchanges.”

Captain Wilkins glanced at Zikky sitting
in front of his twelve screen console, four screens wide, three high. “Everything?
The sum total of human knowledge?”

“Yeah.” Zikky nodded wearily. “Nothing
fancy, just a quick first pass data match.”

Wilkins turned back to Mariena.
“You wouldn’t have a obsessive personality disorder by any chance?”

“You know I haven’t, or I would
never have qualified for the SEIII mission.”

“What did you find?”

“Colonel Jack Balard’s dental
records were in the US air force medical archive.”

“Dental records?” Wilkins said
incredulously.

“We got a match with a Russian
air crash investigation report,” she said. “Over three dozen people were
killed, most unidentified. The plane was destroyed on take-off. Unfortunately, the
forensic investigators were never able to find matching dental records to most
of the dead. Once the Russian army was running the country after the coup, they
classified the report and blocked access to overseas information – probably
because they already knew who was on the plane.”

 “After I matched Colonel Balard’s
dental records to the forensic report,” Zikky said. “I ran a search of the dental
structures of the other unknown victims against Craig Balard’s New York dental
records, and of course, he was there.”

“They were storing that information
back then?” Wilkins asked.

“Cloud data bases were just
coming in,” Zikky explained. “Nothing like our global data exchanges, but once
the data was digitized, it was stored forever, moved from server to server,
until I uploaded it to the station’s memory core.”

“There was no trace of Craig
Balard’s death,” Mariena said, “because his body was never identified.”

“When did this plane crash
happen?” Wilkins asked.

“A few days after I answered
Craig Balard’s question – in this timeline.”

“Can we fix a plane crash?”

“We have to,” Mariena said. “The
problem is, it wasn’t an accident. We know when it happened, we have
unclassified catering records that tell us when and where a small group of people
were fed, and we have detailed plans of the airport itself.”

“So you have time and place,”
Wilkins said optimistically.

“What we don’t have is a precise
fix on Craig Balard, just a guess as to the area he is located in. It means
this next transmission will be messy. We’re going to have to fire the
equivalent of a temporal shotgun to get the message to him.”

Captain Wilkins gave her a
puzzled look. “What’s a temporal shotgun?”

* * * *

Present Day

The Zamok Branka survivors slept in
the ground level of the control tower building, some in small uncomfortable
plastic chairs, others on hard floor tiles. What blankets could be found by the
air force had been distributed to the oldest men first. Craig had managed barely
an hour’s sleep sitting up, while his father had hardly stirred since midnight.
He shifted position for the hundredth time as he heard a catering van pull up
in front of the control tower. Craig watched absently as two men climbed out
and began unpacking breakfast trays prepared by the civilian canteen. It was a
simple meal that would have to sustain them on a long flight, where no meals
would be served.

A chorus of female voices sounded
in perfect unison. “Craig Balard, do not board the Airbus A320. It will be
destroyed on take-off!”

Craig snapped fully awake to see
Mariena standing three meters away. She was also standing off to his right. He
stood up, confused, and saw her again at the far end of the long rectangular
building. He spun around, finding a scattered row of Marienas stood near the
wall. Other Marienas stood on the tower stairs, in the control room above, and in
each of the lavatories and small store rooms at the back of the control tower. More
Marienas stood outside, encircling the control tower building, all speaking as
one, all perfectly identical.

Old men, Russian Air Force
officers and several armed guards looked around in astonishment, as all of the
apparitions repeated the message together. Throughout the control tower
building, men approached the holograms curiously. Some tried touching her, only
to find their hands pass through her. Others tried to speak to her, and were
baffled why she failed to respond.

Craig fished Valentina’s cell
phone from his pocket.
I’m here,
he tweeted.
How will the plane be
destroyed?

The assembled Marienas listened
as Zikky read out Craig’s tweet, then they spoke as one. “The Russian Army know
you’re there. They’re sending forces to stop you taking off.”

Murmurs of fear and confusion
spread through the Zamok Branka detainees as they realized their escape was
about to fail.

How long have we got?

“Your plane was destroyed at six
AM,” the Marienas answered as one, “on the runway.”

Craig glanced at the clock on the
wall. It was just 4.30 AM.
Do you know when the army arrives?

“No. Only that they start
shooting when you board the plane.”

Thanks
, Craig tweeted.

General Sorokin approached Craig
with an alarmed look as all of the Marienas disappeared simultaneously. “What’s
going on?”

“General, we need to go up into
the control tower, see if the army is outside the airfield.”

Sorokin suppressed his confusion,
then nodded and led Craig to the tower elevator. While the elevator rumbled
upwards he asked, “Who was that woman?”

“My guardian angel,” Craig replied.
“You can trust what she says, she’s been right before.”

When the doors open, they hurried
out into the control room where two air traffic controllers were wondering
where the female hologram had gone.

“Binoculars!” Sorokin demanded.

The air traffic controllers
handed Sorokin and Craig a pair each, which they used to scan the outskirts of
the airfield. At the far end of the runway, Craig spotted a truck moving
through the trees, towing an artillery piece. A short distance behind it, was
another.

“Over there!” he said, pointing.

Sorokin turned his binoculars
towards the approaching artillery battery. “Those guns could hit us on the
runway.”

“But the guns are being towed,”
Craig said thinking aloud. “And she said the plane blew up at six. That gives
us over an hour, General. We can still make it, if we takeoff now.”

Sorokin watched the artillery
battery a moment longer, then nodded. He turned to the air traffic controllers.
“We’re taking off immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” the senior controller
said.

When they were in the elevator,
heading back down to the ground floor, Sorokin asked, “How did she know?”

“Twenty twenty hindsight,” Craig
said.

Sorokin gave him a puzzled look
as the elevator doors opened. The general ordered his guards to move the Zamok
Branka survivors onto the A320 and sent the pilots on ahead to began pre-flight
checks.

“What’s happening,” Valentina asked.

“The army’s bringing up
artillery,” Craig said. “We’re taking off before they can fire.”

“How long do we have?” Colonel
Balard asked.

“A few minutes,” Craig said, “No
more.”

Craig and Valentina thanked
Sergeant Siyansky and Corporal Yashin, who had remained overnight waiting for a
flight back to the Krasnoyarsk Air Base, then joined the procession of old men
ambling out towards the A320. Ground crew had already towed external stairs
into position to allow them to board, having completed pre-flight fuelling and
maintenance checks. Sorokin’s lieutenant took up position at the base of the
stairs, diligently ticking off each name as the detainees climbed aboard.

Once inside, Craig and his father
selected seats in business class, across the aisle from Valentina and General
Sorokin, who would serve as the Prime Minister’s emissary while the crisis
lasted. Soon the engines began to whine as the aircraft taxied towards the end
of the runway. A nervous buzz filled the plane as the old pilots peered through
the aircraft’s windows, searching for the artillery pieces being set up just
beyond the airfield.

The plane turned onto the end of
the runway, the engines powered up, but before the brakes were released, the roar
of the engines died.

“What happened?” Craig demanded.

General Sorokin jumped to his
feet and hurried forward, followed by Craig. They burst into the control room
to find the pilot on the radio with the control tower and a third voice.

The pilot turned to Sorokin and
shook his head. “The army is radioing. They’ve ordered us not to takeoff, or
they’ll open fire.”

“They’re playing for time,” Craig
said.

“Takeoff,” the general ordered.