“Adam Lezno is laughing. First, he steals my money and now this. A Pole laughing at me! I won’t have it.”
Yaponets tried to soothe him. “He’s a dead man the moment he flies in his…”
“He didn’t do this alone. Who helped him?”
“The Americans, of course. The new ambassador is in league with the devil.”
“I want him sewn up. Dead. With Lezno.”
Yaponets nodded. “We can do that.”
Bender and Jerzy Fedor stood together as Adam Lezno’s limousine arrived at the aircraft. “I appreciate the chance to go with the president,” Bender said. “I’ve never seen a ship launched.”
“I suggested it when they were arranging the christening. It’s the first of our new Gdansk-class frigates. Very modern and powerful. Besides, you’ll have a chance to meet Lech Walesa. A most unusual individual.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
Lezno got out of the limousine and sat in a wheelchair designed for boarding aircraft. “Good morning. Mr. President,” Bender said. “A nice day to fly.”
“I prefer the train,” Lezno replied. “But I’ve got to be back this afternoon.” An aide tugged the wheelchair up the stairs. “Jerzy, I want everyone in place when I return.”
“We will be ready,” Fedor assured him.
“You’re not going?” Bender asked.
“A last-minute change of plans. A bureaucratic, what do you Americans say, snafu?”
Bender laughed. “Situation normal, all fouled up.”
“I thought the f stood for a much better word than ‘fouled.’”
They shook hands and Bender climbed the steps and entered the two-engine business jet that served as the Polish president’s official aircraft for travel in Poland and Europe. Because it was crowded, Bender had to sit at the rear for the short twenty-five-minute flight to Rebiechowo, the airfield on the western side of Gdańsk where they would land. Lezno turned around and asked, “Is it true pilots hate it when they are not at the controls?”
“Absolutely,” Bender replied.
“Once a pilot,” Lezno said, “always a pilot.”
Bender gave him his best fighter pilot grin and strapped in. The takeoff was as expected and the weather cooperated for the short hop. Bender tried to relax and gazed out the window, taking in the landscape. As he was near the engines, he heard the change and pitch as the aircraft started to descend. When they were established on an arc around the southern side of Gdańsk and passing through 4,000 feet, he leaned back and tightened his seat belt.
A loud explosion rocked the aircraft and the window out of which he had been gazing moments before shattered in a shower of acrylic, peppering the woman across the aisle from him. At the same moment, he saw a bright flash off the left wing and, again, the aircraft rocked from the blast. A man tumbled into the aisle, screaming in pain. Lezno turned to Bender and shouted, “What’s happening?” Fear was writ large on his face as the aircraft nosed over and banked to the left.
Bender was out of his seat. “Two fucking missiles,” he shouted, pulling himself forward.
A woman grabbed at him. “We’re going to die!”
“Not if I can help it,” he growled. He pulled free of her grasp and fought his way forward. A blast of air beat at him and he could see the copilot slumped over the center console on the flight deck.
The man rolling in pain in the aisle clutched at Bender’s legs and wouldn’t let go. It was a death grip Bender couldn’t break. “Let him go!” Lezno roared, his voice carrying over the chaos. The man eased his grip and Bender kicked free, stepping over him. The aircraft’s bank tightened into a spiral as Bender pulled himself into the narrow space between the pilots. The copilot was dead and the pilot slumped forward over the controls.
The ground was rushing at them and they only had seconds to live.
Bender’s reaction was automatic, honed by years of experience and flying combat. He grabbed the pilot’s shirt and pulled him off the controls, back into his seat. He reached for the control column. “Come on!” he shouted, bringing the nose of the aircraft to the horizon. With agonizing slowness, the nose came up and the sink rate slowed. “You can do it,” Bender cajoled. Finally, they were level at less than 300 feet above the ground.
Twenty-six miles away, in a wooded clearing, two men were loading an aluminum case that resembled a small coffin into a van. Their radio squawked, telling them the aircraft was still airborne. Without a word, they opened the cover and pulled out the deadly Strela-3, the shoulder-held, surface-to-air missile that NATO called “Gremlin.”
A fire-warning light flashed at Bender. “Left engine,” he said, more to himself as he pulled the left-engine control lever to the off position. He didn’t realize he was shouting. The pilot’s hand moved toward a T-handle on the top of the instrument panel. Then it fell away as he passed out. But it was enough.
Bender pulled the handle and felt it go into a detent. He twisted and pulled again, firing the halon fire extinguisher. The fire light went out. “I need help,” he shouted. A man appeared behind him. “Help me with the pilot.” He released the pilot’s safety harness while he flew the aircraft with his right hand. Together, they managed to drag the unconscious pilot out of his seat. Bender slid into the pilot’s seat, aware that his left hand and arm were covered with blood. He pulled the pilot’s headset on and hit the radio transmit button on the yoke. “Mayday, Mayday.”
A cool voice answered him. “Aircraft calling Gdańsk, please identify yourself.”
“This is Falcon One with an emergency. We have been hit by two missiles. Left engine out, pilots incapacitated. President Lezno is on board, condition unknown.”
“Identify yourself and say the condition of the president,” Gdańsk answered.
Bender silently cursed the controller. He was concentrating on the wrong things and would have to be told what to do, the one thing Bender did not have time for. “I’m declaring an emergency and want a discrete frequency for vectors to the nearest airport. Scramble the crash crews and clear all airspace.” He ignored the controllers repeated request for identification and concentrated on flying the aircraft. He scanned the flight and engine instruments to see if everything agreed. It did. He checked the hydraulic pressure. It was slowly bleeding down. “How long?” he wondered aloud. And what systems would he lose? He slowed the aircraft and ran a controllability check. The jet responded as it should.
To be on the safe side, he reduced airspeed even more and lowered the gear. Three lights flashed green on the instrument panel as the gear clunked down. He turned in his seat and yelled. “Everyone strap in!” The controls started to feel heavy and he knew he didn’t have much more time. “Gdańsk approach, I have a field in sight. It is to the west of town with a long west-to-east runway. I am losing my hydraulic pressure and am landing. Clear all traffic and request tower frequency.”
“Falcon One,” the Gdańsk controller answered. “Do not land without proper identification. I repeat, do not land.”
Bender shouted, “Fuck you in the heart, buddy!” He punched at the radio, finding the frequency for Guard, the universal emergency channel. “Airport west of Gdańsk, this is Falcon One with an emergency, left engine out and losing hydraulic pressure. I am five miles for a straight-in landing”—he checked his compass—“on Runway one-one. President Lezno is on board. Scramble emergency vehicles.”
A different voice answered. “Rebiechowo Tower has you in sight. Wind is easterly at seven kilometers. You are cleared to land. Emergency vehicles are scrambled.”
Bender worked to control his voice. “Rog Rebiechowo.” Fly the airplane! he yelled to himself. He checked his airspeed. “Too slow.” He pushed the right throttle full forward. But the controls were growing more stiff. “Rebiechowo, I’m experiencing control problems.” He looked out the left-side windscreen. Too many trees. If it had been open farmland, he would have sucked up the landing gear and made a controlled crash landing. But the trees were growing heavier as he approached the field.