Although he directed EMERCOM with fanaticism, just like the Ministry’s legendary founder, he loathed the bureaucratic capacity in the Government that came with the job. Klimov was an action man, so he found the weekly cabinet meetings akin to tussles in a vipers’ nest. But it was now part of his managerial duty, and it was the responsibility and loyalty to his men that made him battle the government reptiles for budget funds and approvals of development programs. To Klimov, a suit-and-tie combo was just another battle uniform, like his blue parka of old, albeit slightly more comfortable, and more suitable for his status. At forty-two, he still looked impressive in any attire. His every motion carried underlying grace, and his 190-centimentre frame was gaunt and muscular.
Perhaps the only aspect of his appearance that betrayed Klimov’s true age was his hair. Once completely raven-black, it now had streaks of white as intense as the color of pure snow. Klimov joked that his hair was a reflection of his job. Too much black and too little white. He hoped that as time passed, life would improve accordingly.
One of the few top-brass privileges that Klimov was actually grateful for was owning a home close to work, a factor ever more important in the frenetic environment of Moscow. His custom was to leave the office at ten, but not to cease his function. In fact, when he was away from his desk at the helm of EMERCOM, unable to monitor every incident on the planet in real-time, his brain was tuned to work sharper, ready to react against any arising disaster with maximum efficiency. And the worst disaster, he knew from haunting experience, tended to erupt at night.
And so he felt tickling apprehension when the call came, only an hour after he’d come back home. Such a call could only mean emergency big enough to add extra grey locks.
The location he heard over the encrypted line indicated that this was the worst crisis in the history of EMERCOM.
“Sochi.”
He was hit not by one, but two unthinkable disasters. Each was shocking in its own right, but their convergence in time and space magnified their scope beyond nightmarish.
The Presidential yacht transmitted a brief distress signal before it vanished without a trace, against a backdrop of reports that described an explosion out at sea that matched the Olympia’s last know position.
Horribly, it was as though the sea had gone mad, bearing death. Spreading from the area where the yacht had dematerialized, the waves discharged dead fish in a mass that covered the entire beach.
8
There were several Operational Departments within EMERCOM such as Crisis Management, Emergency Prevention and Response, Science and Technology, Logistics, and International Cooperation, all of which comprised the backbone of the Ministry’s daily function. At times of catastrophes that required instant deployment of the finest specialists to any corner of the globe, EMERCOM relied on its Rapid Response Teams. They were the Ministry’s elite.
EMERCOM’s Central Airmobile Rescue Detachment located at the Zhukovsky airbase outside Moscow worked in 24-hour stand-by mode, ready to take off at two hours’ notice. Past midnight, when Klimov’s Land Rover arrived to Zhukovsky, the technicians were already running final checks on their Beriev-200 aircraft.
The Ministry had a fleet of Ilyushin-76 transports as well as helicopters ranging from Ka-32 to Mi-26 birds, but the park of seven Be-200 multi-purpose amphibious planes was Klimov’s pride.
And for good reason. The Be-200 was a beautiful flying machine. Based on the Beriev A-40 “Albatross” amphibious jet, it was the most versatile airplane of its kind, capable of performing cargo and passenger freight runs, or serving as a firefighting, SAR or patrol aircraft. The trademark EMERCOM twin orange-and-blue lines painted along the airframe highlighted the unassuming perfection of its massive size. Two large turbofan engines mounted on the rear of the fuselage, close to the T-tail, were the force that carried the Beriev into the skies. Honeywell avionic instruments allowed the two-man crew to carry out any task in the foulest weather imaginable, day or night. Rough choppy seas were tamed by its curved belly and symmetrical wingtip floats.
A solitary figure was standing on the floodlit tarmac, overseeing the preparation procedure. The man was clad in the uniform of an EMERCOM officer, a Major’s golden stars gilding his shoulders. The blue windbreaker could not disguise the man’s athleticism. He was as tall as Klimov, but slightly wider in the shoulders, dominant as a lion. Arms akimbo, feet firm on the tarmac, he viewed the airplane while the air current generated by its monstrous engines toyed with his sandy hair. The Major could easily be mistaken for the aircraft’s pilot, for there was pride in the man’s stance, the romantic aura of someone who called an airfield his home. And although he was comfortable inside a cockpit of any flying vessel, he was not the Beriev’s pilot. He was the leader of EMERCOM’s primary Rapid Response Team that tackled the worst disasters around the world.
“Gene!” Klimov called out over the engine roar as he strode across the runway.
The man turned around. Klimov wasn’t surprised that the Major heard him over the engines’ din, for he was notorious for his acute auditory perception. The name badge over his left breast pocket read, SOKOLOV E.
At the sight of Klimov, Eugene Sokolov’s face beamed with a sincere smile that gave his azure-blue eyes a twinkle. His handshake was firm and confident, with not the slightest suggestion that some years ago all of his fingers had been broken.
“So how bad is it, Danya?” Sokolov asked. Despite more than a decade’s difference in age, and a greater gap in rank, they were the closest of friends. Over the years, they’d saved each other’s lives more times than anyone would care to keep track of. “What happened there is not some chemical leak.”
“What happened there,” Klimov nodded slowly, “is hell for you and me. The President, his wife and two guests are as good as dead, presumably blown up to bits on their yacht. At the same time, something kills every living creature in the sea within several kilometers. Two dozen late-night swimmers get hospitalized and three of them die. Their condition is difficult to recognize because of the symptoms — headaches, high blood pressure, fever, vomiting, rashes… all too common for anything from influenza, to food poisoning to subarchanoid haemorrhage. That’s the gist of it, Gene. The priority is top secret.”
Sokolov stared under his feet and then looked at Klimov.
“Our mission?”
“You need to reach the Olympia’s last known position before any of the FSB-Army-Navy bunch can react and crowd the area like vultures. Find out what happened to the yacht, and to the ecosystem. If we know what caused all this, we can save more lives.”
“You can count on us.”
Daniil Klimov embraced him in a bear hug.
“Be careful.”
Sokolov jogged in the direction of the Be-200 that was about to taxi out onto the runway, ready for the flight.
9
The Be-200 completed a smooth climb to 8,000 meters, banking to a southern course to the Black Sea.
As always, Sokolov sat with eyes closed, trying to occupy his mind with the monotone drone of the huge turbofan engines. His imagination projected the scene of tragedy that could await them, but his heart was heavy with the knowledge that reality was infinitely more gruesome. He had filled his teammates in on the details provided by Klimov, and the atmosphere inside the craft had become deathly silent.