“Ilyushin-76s.”
“Roger Vnukova flight. You are cleared to proceed on course. I will obtain clearance for you to enter Ukrainian airspace. Expect further clearance in five minutes.” They were in.
“Radar standby,” Pontowski told them over the Have Quick radio, certain that no one on the ground could monitor the transmission. They had to act like two transports and he didn’t want some air defense early-warning radar site detecting their radars. He called up his navigation display and punched in new numbers. He was a little rusty and it took longer than normal. Vashin’s flight route appeared on the screen. Pontowski punched in more numbers and let the computer work the problem. If Vashin was on schedule, they would intercept his airliner near Kremenchug in the Ukraine in fifty-two minutes.
It was a long time to fly in tight formation. “Waldo, we need to talk tactics,” he radioed.
Vashin stood at the window of the Tupolev TU-204s VIP suite immediately aft of the flight deck as they leveled off at 34,000 feet and headed south toward the Ukraine and Yalta. His hands were clasped behind his back, his feet apart.
Far beneath him, the broken cloud layer tantalized Vashin with hints of the land below. In his mind, there was no doubt that he was master of his vast domain. For a few moments, he was at peace with the world. But just as quickly, the feeling was gone, replaced by pure hate. An image of Madeline O’Keith Turner filled his mind’s eye. His fury grew as he consigned her to hell. “I will send you there,” he muttered. Be patient, he told himself. Cut off her arms and legs first.
An eager steward overheard him talking. “May I be of service?”
Vashin shrugged off the man’s offer before reconsidering. “When will Miss Blake arrive at Yalta?” The steward hurried forward to relay Vashin’s request to the communications officer on the flight deck. A warning tickled at the back of Vashin’s mind and his eyes narrowed as he stared out the window. Why had Geraldine begged off at the last minute? She had pleaded that last-minute details needed clearing up and she would follow him in a few hours. But it wasn’t like her to leave loose ends until the last minute. That bothered him. In his mind’s eye, he saw the climax he had so carefully orchestrated for the conference. Perhaps, he thought, Geraldine should be a part of it.
His eyes opened wide and fear caught in his throat when a jet fighter popped up a hundred meters off the left wing. Then a second and a third appeared, stretched out in the line tapering back to the left. He spun around and looked out the other side of the airliner. Three more fighters were echeloned to the right. He hurried forward to the flight deck and burst through the door. The pilots were gazing out the side windows and seemed totally unconcerned.
“We have an escort,” the first officer told him.
“Is there a problem?” Vashin asked.
“None at all,” the first officer assured him. He keyed his radio and spoke to the lead pilot. The fighter rocked its wings. “Think of them as an honor guard,” the first officer said.
Vashin’s euphoria was back.
The waiting was killing Zeth as the seconds turned into days. Her arm was cramping but she didn’t move, afraid to take her hand away from the flashlight.
“GO!” Brian finally yelled.
She flicked on the flashlight. Its beam cut through the night and fired the brush on the other side of the river with light. She saw the man holding a rifle and kept him illuminated. He rolled into the bushes but she kept the light on him. Finally, he disappeared. She swept the bank and focused on his car which was parked just short of the bridge. “Hurry!” she shouted.
“We need more time!” Matt answered.
A shot rang out, smashing into the far side of the truck, inches below the level of the flashlight. She saw the muzzle flash and aimed the beam at that spot. Again, she saw the shooter who was shielding his eyes from the bright light. Then he was gone. She guided the beam in a sweeping motion, still holding the flashlight at arm’s length and crouching behind the fender. Her head kept bobbing up for a quick look, first over the hood, then around the grill. She couldn’t see him but kept the light moving.
A single shot rang out and the big flashlight exploded in her hand. She almost passed out from the shock and rolled on the ground, her hand a bloody mess. She was vaguely aware that the truck was still shielding her. She reached into the backseat and found a dirty towel Sanford used to clean the windshield. She wrapped it around her hand. Two more shots rang out, this time not at her. “Watch out!” she yelled. “The bastard can shoot!”
There was no answer.
“Fuel check,” Pontowski radioed.
In order, the pilots checked in with the fuel they had remaining. Each added “Tanks dry, internal only.”
“Jettison tanks now,” he ordered. On cue, the empty fuel tanks tumbled away. This time, there were no switchology errors. He checked his navigation display. The waypoint where they would intercept the airliner was 240 nautical miles on the nose. He punched more numbers into the navigation display and selected a descent point. Once they dropped off Ukrainian radar, alarm bells should go off. Keep it high as long as possible, he thought, conserve fuel. He selected a descent point 140 nautical miles short of the intercept point when they were abeam Kiev, their supposed destination. That would look like a normal descent for landing and might delay those alarm bells.
Zeth was passing in and out of consciousness. Then Sanford was over her, water streaming down his face. “Sorry to take so long.” His skillful fingers unwrapped the bloody towel. “Matt, there’s a first-aid kit in the back of the truck. Get it. Be careful. Don’t let him get a shot at you.” He touched her cheek. “Nice work with the flashlight.” Matt handed him the kit and Sanford bandaged her hand, talking as he worked to reassure her. “Your hand must hurt like hell, but I don’t think it’s as bad as it looks. The guy’s good, but not that good. He missed me, but I slipped and fell into the water. They almost had me out when he got off the two shots at us. I could’ve sworn he was aiming at Matt.”
“Maybe Matt was the only one he saw,” Brian said.
“Maybe,” Sanford replied.
They heard the shout. “Hey! We talk, okay?”
“What kind of accent is that?” Brian asked.
“Russian,” Sanford answered. He crawled into the front seat and reached under the dashboard, extracting a 9mm Glock. “Zeth, how you doing?”
“Better,” she answered, her voice gaining strength.
“Good. I want you to do the talking so he’ll think he’s dealing with a pushover. I need some time, so count to one hundred before you start. Tell him I’m wounded and need a doctor. Tell him anything, but keep him talking. I’m going upstream and will swim across. The current should carry me to the other side. I’m gonna get behind him.” He handed the automatic to Brian. “Use this if you have to.” He pulled his own weapon out of his shoulder holster and checked it. Then he was gone.
Zeth slowly counted to one hundred. “What do you want?” she yelled.
“We talk.”
“My father’s hurt. I need to get him to a hospital.”
“I let you go after you give me the boy. A deal, yes?”
Zeth looked at the boys and whispered, “It’s a kidnapping. He must think Matt is Brian because we’re with Sanford.”
“Tell him Brian fell in the water and disappeared,” Matt said.
“Brian fell in the river,” Zeth yelled. “He got swept away.”
“Not him. The other one.”