The American reached over the radar operator and punched at the keyboard. The inverted green V turned red. A warning light flashed and the display went to a backup mode. “I’ll be damned,” the American said, “he’s jamming us. I didn’t know the Ilyushin had a jamming capability.” His hand reached for the antijam circuits on the overhead panel.
The SPS officer grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “This is a special flight. We don’t want to scare them off. I want him to land.”
“But eastbound flights never land,” the radar operator said.
“This one will,” the SPS officer predicted.
Now they had to wait. With each passing minute, the SPS officer looked more worried. Finally, the altitude readout on the target started to decrease. “The Ilyushin is descending,” the radar operator said. “He’s on track for Modlin Air Base.”
A look of triumph flashed on the SPS officer’s face as he reached for the telephone. “Put me through to Jerzy Fedor at the Council of Ministers,” he told the operator. As expected, Fedor could not be reached and the SPS officer left a message. “Please tell Mr. Fedor that we have a Russian aircraft landing at Modlin Air Base without diplomatic clearance.”
The Ilyushin coming from Europe touched down just before midnight and squealed to a halt, its brakes howling from the heat generated by landing on the short runway. Its rear cargo doors opened and armed men wearing camouflaged uniforms streamed out to secure the area before the plane taxied in. They were not regular military but a special unit recruited from disaffected former members of Spetznaz, Russian special forces. They ran into the surrounding trees and set up a perimeter. Satisfied the area was safe, they radioed the area was secure.
But they should have gone fifty feet deeper into the trees.
The Ilyushin lumbered clear of the runway and moved slowly to the parking ramp where a bank of portable floodlights were switched on, creating an island of light around the Il-76. The aircrew shut down engines as a fuel truck drove up under its wing. The pumper got out of the cab and connected the hose to the single-point refueling valve. Following procedures, the aircrew shut off all power and then got off the aircraft with the remaining guards. The older Ilyushins had a bad habit of not grounding correctly and generating unwanted sparks, which could be very unhealthy during refueling.
The men guarding the perimeter were tired and bored. They had gone through a similar drill at six pickup points in the last fifteen hours without incident. Soon, they removed their night-vision goggles and cigarettes were passed around. They came alert when the convoy approached. Eager to finish, they pulled back to the edge of the trees as a dark gray Mercedes led the three armored trucks up to the Ilyushin. One heard some movement in the trees behind him. He listened for a few moments and then wrongly decided it was an animal disturbed by their presence.
It all happened at once. The pumper disconnected the fuel hose from the aircraft, the men standing around the Mercedes-Benz collapsed to the ground, and the portable floodlights went out. The rear doors of the armored trucks burst open and men wearing gas masks poured out, surrounding the aircraft. A hail of gunfire rained from the trees and cut down the perimeter guards. It was over as quickly as it had begun.
Men dressed in black fatigues emerged from the trees and quickly examined the guards. No mercy was given and twice, a single shot rang out as they finished their work. Without a sound, the men dragged the dead guards into the trees and, except for the pools of blood, no trace was left. Four men emerged from the trees and sprinkled an absorbent material that resembled Kitty Litter on the blood. They swept it into a box and then disappeared into the shadows.
Two trucks drove up as the team who had assaulted the aircraft gave the aircrew and remaining guards an injection. They would be unconscious for another two or three hours. More men joined the assault team as they rapidly unloaded the aircraft, passing bag after bag of money down the ramp and throwing it into the trucks. Then came the suitcases and boxes filled with negotiable securities. The two trucks drove away and a cargo loader drove up. Off-loading the gold was another matter. Two pallets of gold bullion rolled out the back of the Ilyushin and the cargo loader groaned under the weight. The aircraft seemed to ride higher on its landing gear.
The cargo loader drove slowly away as two more trucks approached. But this time, they carried a grisly cargo for loading. The bodies of the perimeter guards were carried one by one onto the cargo deck and carefully arranged with their weapons and equipment. Then the aircrew and guards who were still unconscious were loaded into the trucks and driven to safety.
The commander of SPS drove up in his Humvee. He got out and inspected the area, obviously very pleased with the operation. He checked his watch. They were ahead of schedule. He gave an order and thermite charges were placed in the Ilyushin. The last went into the single-point refueling valve. Radio-controlled igniters were inserted and the men moved away. The commander gave the order and the thermite charges were sequentially detonated. A small explosion flashed and the right wing of the aircraft crumpled to the ground, severed at the wing root. A series of explosions tore at the aircraft as flames engulfed the fuselage. Soon, it was a roaring inferno sending a beacon of flame and smoke high into the night sky.
“Sparks during refueling,” the commander said. “The politicians in Warsaw will understand.”
The blue-and-white helicopter circled the still smoldering wreckage before landing. Little was recognizable of the Ilyushin other than black scorch marks that roughly outlined the airframe. Jerzy Fedor got off the helicopter. His normally lean and ravaged face was even more cadaverous as he spoke to the cluster of officers and firemen waiting for his arrival.
“The survivors are all requesting political asylum,” the base commander told him.
“Why?” one of Fedor’s assistants asked.
Fedor snorted. “Consider who we’re dealing with. If you were a Russian who survived this, would you want to go home?”
“But it was a refueling accident.”
“A very convenient accident, yes?” Fedor climbed back into his helicopter and took off. But instead of returning to Warsaw, it headed for an old country manor house that had served as a resort for the Communist elite and their families during the heyday of Soviet rule. Now, it was a dilapidated eyesore. The helicopter landed in the paddock beside the stables and Fedor climbed out and walked quickly inside where the commander of SPS greeted him.
“Why wasn’t I told of this?” Fedor demanded.
“I thought you were,” the commander replied. “Perhaps you should speak to President Lezno.”
“I will.”
The commander led Fedor into the stables. Fedor froze, struck dumb by the sight. “How much is here?” he asked.
“We haven’t even tried to count it.”
Fedor’s face became alive and animated. “My God! What do we do with this much money?”
A very worried group of men clustered around Geraldine Blake on the main floor of the Action Room in Vashin Towers. “I think you should wake him and tell him now,” one of the men counseled. She hesitated, not sure what to do.
“Treat it as a state crisis,” another offered.
“Do you know what was on that airplane?” she asked. No answer. “Thank God it was an accident.”
“Mikhail Vashin does not believe in accidents,” a third voice said. From his tone, he was dismally contemplating his longevity.