Yuri headed for his aircraft, walking slowly to survey the other craft parked along the line in order to later compare them with his own bird.
The MiG-31 was not a radical departure from previous airframeslighter, packed with advanced avionics, with a peculiar jutting radar dome near the front. Her skin was smooth and bright, washed daily to prevent the salt air from corroding her. She was still new, so new that no maintenance dings and dents marred her finish. The patina laid down by the factory still glistened in the sun.
He exchanged a few words with the guard, then dismissed him. No one had attempted to approach the aircraft. Despite the alleged secrecy of the project, almost everyone on the flight line knew that there was something special about this bird. Even if the rumor mill had not been operating at full force, the presence of an armed guard alongside the bird would have sparked their curiosity.
He pulled out his laminated checklist and began the preflight. Tires, strutshe jiggled each fuselage panel to make sure it was securely latched. He paused at the weapons hung on the wing, checking the safety streamers plugged into the firing circuit. His plane captain accompanied him.
Plane captain. Spy, most likely. Ukrainian politics intruded on almost every aspect of a pilot’s life. No doubt the secret police got regular reports on his conduct around his aircraft. If his political reliability were ever called into questionno, he wouldn’t let that happen.
Still, even aware of the scrutiny of the man, Yuri paused to examine the weapon more closely. It looked like any normal anti-air missile, sleek, deadly, and far larger than a civilian would have thought. There were no special markings on it, no indications of its warhead.
But there was something odd about itthere had to be, based on the mission briefing he’d been given. He spent a few more seconds looking at it, always aware of the plane captain’s scrutiny. Finally, he finished his circuit around the aircraft, and approached the pull-down stairs inset into its left side.
“A good flight, Comrade,” the plane captain said. He followed Yuri up the ladder, leaned over into the cockpit, and helped him secure his ejection harness to the safety points. Finally, satisfied that everything was in order in the cockpit, the plane captain climbed back down. He walked under the aircraft, pulled the safety streamers out of the weapons lockout, and held them up for Yuri to see.
Yuri made a motion with his hand. The technician spread the streamers out so that he could count them.
Finally, satisfied that his weapons were ready for use, Yuri gave the technician another hand signal. The plane captain nodded, moved over in front of the aircraft, and began signaling him to turn on the engines.
The light-up sequence went smoothly, the plane captain in full control of the aircraft’s conduct while it was still on the ground. After all preflight checks, and a final sweep of the stick by Yuri to ensure full and complete movement of each control surface, the plane captain snapped up to attention and rendered a sharp salute.
Yuri returned it, then slowly eased off the brakes and turned the nimble jet toward the landing strip.
With his release by the plane captain, control of his aircraft shifted to the tower. Shortly after he was airborne, the ground-control-intercept officer would take control, giving him detailed instructions and vectors.
Yet even chafing under the continuous and all-pervasive surveillance, Yuri felt the familiar sensation of freedom slip over him. At least here, inside the aircraft, there was no one watching every expression on his face. No one to comment that he took too long over lunch, was late for a political-reliability meeting, or otherwise exhibited some small sign that could wreck his career. There was no onejust him and his aircraft, with the GCI officer a tolerable annoyance as merely a voice over the radio circuit.
After waiting for a flight of MiG-29’s to vacate the airstrip, Yuri commenced his roll-out. The MiG-31 took barely one third of the runway to come up to rotation speed. He felt the general shift in the aircraft’s center of gravity as it eased up off the concrete and grabbed air, gently buffeted by ground effect. Seconds later, he rotated and was free.
Mike Packmeyer loitered at the small cafe near the Naval base. It was almost deserted, as most of its customary clientele were still at work at the base. In the next thirty minutes, the first of the early lunch crowd would start filtering in. Until then, only two other tables were occupied, and those with pensioners.
The cell phone rested on the table in front of him, fresh from the recharger. It should be good for another twelve hours, if the advertisements were correct. Still, he counted on no more than six. After that, he’d swap battery packs.
With events proceeding at this pace, twelve hours looked like a long time away.
So just what was going on?
Once again, he entered the circular logic of motives and opportunities that defined international relationships in this part of the world. He was still no closer to an answer, but his gut conviction that everyone had the wrong read on this situation was growing.
That was the reason he was here. The lunch crowd was often noisy, and he’d eaten here often enough that his presence would go unremarked by the regular patrons. A few comments, someone slipping up and letting out a small piece of the puzzle, and he’d have it. Have it, and the story would be all his. Pamela Drake might be out on the aircraft carrier, but he was right here, right here where the story was breaking. He felt a gleeful satisfaction at being the first one to beat Pamela to the punch.
The cell phone rang, startling him out of his delightful reverie of edging out Pamela Drake. He reached for it, jabbed the answer button, and snapped, “Packmeyer.”
“UhMr. Mike Packmeyer?” a voice on the other end said cautiously. “The reporter?”
“Yes. You’ve got him. Who’s this?”
Americanmost definitely, from the accent. That’s not one they acquired in four years of college or through self-study. No, that’s the genuine thing.
Still, he proceeded cautiously. “You’ve got this numberyou must know it’s me.”
“Yes. Of course. Mr. Packmeyer, my name is Commander Hillman Busby.”
“United States Navy?”
“Yes. I’m not prepared to go any further than that in identifying myself. Not on an unsecure line. There’s no chance you can get to a STU-3 phone?” the voice inquired hopefully.
Mike grimaced. “Not hardly. You folks haven’t been too eager to give reporters access to top-secret secure telephone lines.”
“The American Embassy-“
“Listen,” Packmeyer broke in, “if we go through all the security bullshit, we’re going to be sitting out in the cold. Things are moving too fasttoo fast to bother with that.”
A long silence. “I think you’re right,” the voice said finally.
“You’re on sceneI’m not. You made a call this morningis there anything I should know about? My source at this end vouches for your reliability.”
The aircraft carrier. Mike knew it to a certainty, although the solid endorsement from Pamela Drake puzzled him momentarily. His motives at this point were a little bit different from hers. “Things are gearing up. I’m at Izmiryou know it?”
“All too well. Izmir has certain capabilities. How much of that are you familiar with?”
“Very familiar with the capabilities someone in your position would be concerned about,” Mike replied with grim satisfaction. “That’s why I’m here. I’m hoping to pick up something from the luncheon trade that may shed some light on our situationsboth yours and mine.”
“No specifics yet?” The officer’s voice was suddenly hard and demanding. “I need anything you can tell mewe’ll sort it out here, but give it all to me. No filteringeven your worst rumors. And your opinions, if you will clearly indicate that’s what they are.”