Beleshayov cursed under his breath. This was a common problem whenever Russian aircraft were conducting manoeuvres over southern Georgia or the Black Sea. Occasionally the dogfights strayed a little too far south, and as soon as they approached close to Turkish airspace, a pair of fighters would be scrambled to intercept them.
Normally these incidents fizzled out well before the opposing aircraft got near each other, the Russian fighters retreating to the north-east, and the Turkish interceptors holding position close to their own territorial boundary until it was obvious that the other aircraft were heading home. That, Beleshayov knew, would not happen in this case. The colonel had made it perfectly clear that the air ambulance was to be destroyed, even if the MiG-29 was forced to tangle with Turkish fighters to achieve its objective.
The only let-out Beleshayov had was the colonel’s final, very specific instruction: if the Cessna managed to reach the coast, or even a point over the Black Sea from which the debris from its destruction could land on Turkish soil, he was to abandon the intercept. This caveat had been explicitly included in the orders issued by FSB headquarters in Moscow.
The colonel had been emphatic. ‘If that happens, just let it go. It won’t be our problem any more.’
‘There they are,’ Wilson pointed through the windscreen.
Dawson and Vassily stared in the direction he was indicating, and then both men nodded as they spotted the two fast-moving aircraft heading towards them, six thousand feet above.
Vassily pulled on his headset and depressed the transmit key. ‘Ruzgar, Romeo Charlie Three Six. Contact with the traffic in our one o’clock position.’
‘Roger.’ The controller sounded somewhat harassed, and Wilson guessed he was monitoring, perhaps even controlling, the two fighters simultaneously.
‘They’re F-16s,’ Dawson muttered, as the two aircraft passed over the Cessna.
‘Now what?’ Vassily asked.
‘Not our problem,’ Wilson said. ‘Keep heading for the border and maintain your present heading and speed. Don’t forget, we’re just an air ambulance on a mission of mercy. Whatever your lot sent up after us, I’m quite sure those two Falcons can handle it.’
Beleshayov’s Fulcrum was now twenty kilometres behind the Cessna, and he’d reached a similar conclusion to Wilson. If he tangled with those two F-16s, he knew that he’d probably come off worst.
The MiG-29 is a highly capable aircraft, and in one-to-one combat could certainly hold its own against most American air-superiority fighters — in fact, the Fulcrum was in part designed to match the performance envelope of both the F-15 and the F-16 — but up against two Falcons it would be a very different matter. And the Turkish coastline was clearly visible below and in front of him. It was going to be very tight.
He ran through a handful of scenarios in his mind, trying to work out the actions most likely to enable him to achieve his objective. Eventually, he settled on what seemed to offer the best chance of success, and that might also allow him to complete the intercept without the F-16s getting involved.
‘Zero Six Eight, request situation report.’
‘Stand by.’
Beleshayov could imagine the scene back at the air-defence centre as the controllers struggled to make sense of the contacts on their radar screens. There would now be four returns, all within about ten miles of each other, and with the very slow data-update rate — air-defence radar heads turn much more slowly than those used by Air Traffic Control units because of the need for the maximum possible range — it would be very difficult to keep track of what was going on, even using the intercept computers. But right then he had other things on his mind. He would give the controller an update only when he felt able to.
The MiG-29 was now subsonic, but still travelling at more than twice the speed of the Cessna, and heading directly towards the north Turkish coast. Beleshayov scanned ahead, checking the position of his target before confirming its identity with the data-linked symbol on his radar display. Then he turned his attention to the two Falcons.
They were about two thousand feet above, heading towards him and inside five miles, and they too had reduced to subsonic. He knew they would be carrying live weapons, but he also knew that the Turkish pilots would be very reluctant to engage him.
As the F-16s passed over his MiG-29, and began descending to follow him, Beleshayov started a gentle turn to starboard, a manoeuvre that would take him away from his target, and also away from the coast. That might convince the Turkish pilots that he was just on some kind of training exercise, and had simply strayed a little too far south. But the turn would also allow him to get close to the Cessna.
Beleshayov divided his attention equally between the radar display and the view from the cockpit, picking his precise moment. As he closed to less than a mile from the target, he tightened the turn, rolling the MiG-29 further to the right until its wings were almost vertical.
He’d timed it to perfection. As the fighter banked hard, turning starboard through west so as to head away from the coast, Beleshayov looked straight down towards the Black Sea and there, three thousand feet below him, he saw the Cessna. It was only in view for a couple of seconds before the MiG-29 accelerated away, but that was long enough.
Beleshayov, like most professional pilots, was an expert in aircraft recognition, and that brief glance was enough to identify the 340. But even if he hadn’t recognized the model, the prominent red crosses on the wings told him all he needed to know.
‘Have you informed that police inspector yet?’ Qabandi demanded.
‘Not yet,’ William Alexander replied, with a slight smile. ‘I thought you might prefer to talk to him yourself.’
‘You have his mobile number?’ Alexander passed him a slip of paper. ‘You’ve booked our flights to Dubai? And confirmed the hotel and the car?’
The inspector answered on the second ring. ‘This is Sheikh Qabandi and I have some slightly confusing information for you. I confess I don’t know what’s going on, but we’ve discovered that somebody rescheduled the flight for my horse’s journey. The air tickets have already been used, and Shaf is currently in Dubai, at the same stables we booked weeks ago. We’re going there immediately, and I suspect you might find the missing Range Rover in the Riyadh Airport car park.’
‘This isn’t just some misunderstanding? Bin Mahmoud didn’t simply decide to travel to Dubai earlier than originally planned?’
‘No. He would never have changed the reservations without telling me, and there’s still the fact that the stables were left completely unattended. I’m still convinced that bin Mahmoud has been kidnapped or more likely murdered. You may find forensic evidence in the Range Rover which could help identify the perpetrators.’
‘Very well, Sheikh Qabandi,’ the inspector sounded somewhat resigned, ‘I’ll initiate a search at the airport for the vehicle, and I’ll keep you informed.’
The three men heard the roar of the MiG-29’s turbojets as the interceptor turned directly above them. Wilson peered up in time to catch a brief glimpse of the Russian fighter.
‘What is it?’ Dawson asked.
‘A Fulcrum, and loaded for bear.’
Vassily stared upwards, his face pale, as the echo of the powerful jet’s engines faded away. Then he looked round nervously, his hand stretching involuntarily towards the throttles.
Wilson stopped his movement with a gesture. ‘Don’t worry.’