“It’s the Vulkani” exclaimed Romanov.
“Hold this imbecile while I confirm the release code.”
The copilot’s icy grasp replaced Romanov’s. With his arms held painfully from behind, Yakalov watched the radio expert hurry over to the transmitter.
Not even taking the time to seat himself, he began signalling a Morse-coded message that Yakalov easily translated:
“Roger, Vulkan, this is May leader. We confirm alert code Red Flag, launch priority one. Release code.
Delta-Bravo-Delta-Alpha-one-zero-one-niner-Foxtrot.”
Romanov repeated the message; its implications set Yakalov’s head spinning. Though the code at that time was different, he had participated in a war-alert exercise once before, and knew that he was hearing orders instructing a Soviet submarine to release its load of missiles. Were they, indeed, at war? Then why had the captain been murdered, and what was the reason for his current criminal treatment?
No one in their right minds would deliberately start World War III, would they?
Yakalov trembled with dread as a simple morse coded response broke from the transmitter.
“Red Flag alert confirmed. Vulkan.”
A shout of glee broke from his captors throats.
“The First Deputy will be most pleased,” added Romanov.
“Now, what should we do with Yakalov here?” “Whatever we do, it had better be quick,” said the copilot.
“We’ve got to get into our parachuting gear.
The rendezvous spot is only minutes away.”
Romanov removed a hand-sized, hard rubber truncheon from the pocket of his flight suit. Smacking it in the palm of his hand, he approached his prisoner.
“Enjoy the rest of the trip, Comrade Yakalov.
There’s enough fuel to keep you airborne for another four hours. I’m afraid though that the landing may be a little bit wet.”
A malicious gleam poured from Romanov’s eyes as Yakalov struggled to free himself.
“You men are mad!” Any further comments from Yakalov were silenced by a painful crack on the forehead. Cold, black unconsciousness followed.
He came to groggily a half-hour later. Beyond the pulsating pain in his skull, the young Ukrainian was instantly aware of a frigid draft.
His thoughts still hazy, he rolled over and attempted to orient himself.
As the outline of the communications compartment came into focus, his jaw dropped as he saw the plane’s forward emergency exit wide open.
Satisfied that he had found the source of the draft, he allowed the steady drone of the IL-38’s engines to further clear his tangled mind.
The shock of total realization hit him several minutes later. Was it but a horrible nightmare, or had Romanov and Pilyar indeed killed the captain and then issued orders to begin World War III?
His hair was matted with dried blood. Slowly, painfully, he tried to sit up. A wave of dizziness was suddenly compounded by nausea, and for a second he thought he might black out again. Fortunately, his lightheadedness passed and, with an effort, he was able to stand.
His first duty was to close the emergency hatch.
Carefully, he proceeded to the open doorway, using the equipment-packed wall of the fuselage to keep him balanced. He peeked outside and took in the vast, surging Pacific below. Thankfully, they were far below cruising altitude, eliminating the need for a pressurized cabin. He hit a button that sent the door slamming shut with a loud hiss.
The quiet was immediate, and it was soon noticeably warmer. Quickly now, Yakalov determined his next priority. Though he would have liked to do something about’re contacting that submarine, his continued survival took precedence. Gently massaging his swollen forehead, he made his way to the flight deck.
Gregor Silkin’s corpse was a bloody reminder that he had not merely awakened from a bad dream.
Seated on the left side of the cockpit, the pilot looked as if he had received his death blow while in mid-sentence.
Trying to ignore his startled, vacant stare, Yakalov positioned himself in the copilot’s chair. He broke into a cold sweat and fought back panic as he surveyed the complex mass of instruments and remembered that he had yet to take his first official flying lesson!
Thankful for those precious patrols when his curiosity and persistence had drawn him to the flight deck, he was able to identify the altimeter, the horizontal-situation indicator, the airspeed counter and the fuel-quantity meter. He was extra cautious not to disturb the pearl-handled throttle to his left or the flap-control petals, which were recessed into the floor board.
So far, the automatic pilot had done an admirable job of flying the lumbering aircraft. The weather remained clear and the fuel gauge showed at least another hour’s worth of available flight time. Yakalov looked out into the vibrant, cloudless blue sky and visualized the moment when the four Ivchenko engines would guzzle their last drop of petrol. Unforgivingly, the IL-38 would plummet into the waiting sea below.
Vainly, the junior lieutenant searched the cabin for any type of manual that could explain the flight systems in greater detail. He grinned sardonically upon uncovering the only printed matter in sight-four dog-eared Swedish porn magazines.
Desperately, he attempted to clear his cluttered mind. There had to be some way out of this predicament.
The answer presented itself when a throaty blast of static emanated from the headphones clipped to the left side of his headrest. Of course — he’d use the radio! At least he had had some experience in operating that system.
Fitting on the rubber-padded headset, he easily located the communications panel, set within arm’s reach, to his right. Though his knowledge of transmitting frequencies was limited, he did know the band reserved for emergencies. Fighting to keep his hand from shaking, he dialed in the proper wavelength on the digital selector and hit the transmit button. The static immediately stopped its scratchy roar as he spoke into the chin-mounted microphone.
“Mayday! Mayday! This is May leader zero-two niner requesting emergency assistance. I repeat, this is May leader zero-two-niner requesting emergency assistance.”
He listened intently to the receiving speakers, but heard only a lonely pulse of static. Faced with no alternatives, Yakalov sat forward and again hit the transmit button.
“Skipper, we’re picking up some kind of transmission on the international distress band. You’d better take a listen. I think it’s Russian.”
Lieutenant Bill Todd, pilot of the Grumman E2C Hawkeye early-warning aircraft, utilized the plane’s intercom to reply to his Tactical Coordinator, Mac Arnold.
“Roger, Mac. How about playing this call over the system so that we all can have a listen?”
Quick to accommodate his commanding officer, Arnold diverted the transmission so that the entire crew could hear it. It proved to be the copilot who identified the distant signal.
“It’s Russian all right. The bogey refers to itself as “May leader zero-two-niner,” and they are indeed requesting emergency assistance.”
“Where’s that signal coming from?” Lieutenant Todd asked.
Arnold responded instantly.
“Our AL-F-59 shows them at the limit of our northern periphery, some 500 miles distant.”
“Who’s working that district for the good guys, Mac?” the pilot queried.
Arnold checked the radar screen.
“Tomcat two-zero-zero pulled that duty this afternoon, sir.”
Todd’s voice boomed with authority.
“We’d better pull two-zero-zero off his cap station and have him take a look. Mac, beam this distress call down to the Kennedy. I think the Admiral would like to take a listen.”
Bill Todd turned off the intercom. The tanned, curly-haired aviator turned to his right and caught the eye of his copilot.
“Well, Lieutenant, do you know enough of that Ruskie lingo to try a response?”