The only thing he dreaded during the flights was a sense of helpless inability. That was the only stage of the mission where he did nothing to reach the disaster site quicker. He could speed up the response to get airborne. He could coordinate a quick setup and launch the rescue operation in record time once they landed. But he was powerless in making the Be-200 fly faster than its top speed. All he could do was sit and wait. He used the time to theorize, going over the data repeatedly, assessing their resources, the required actions and the possible risks. Once in a while, he would consult his wristwatch, scrutinizing the minute hand as it crawled in a lazy arc.
If there was one man who was able to push everything out of the Beriev, it was Yuri Mischenko, the head pilot in Sokolov’s team.
“How’s our flight going?” Sokolov said, poking his head into the cockpit.
“ETA is two hours,” Mischenko growled in a deep baritone. He was a heavyset man, big-boned, but by no means obese. Holding the stick with his enormous hand, he took a moment to scratch his short red beard.
“It’s your weight that’s bogging us down, Yura,” came the craggy, tarred voice of Sergei Zubov from the co-pilot’s seat. “I think he’s been stealing food supplies from our humanitarian relief program. Those poor, starving African kids…”
“No, it’s your cigarette haze that’s screwing our visibility.”
“Gene, one day we should leave Yuri behind and let me captain the plane. Since you’re our commander, I’ll let you be my co-pilot.”
“One day, I should leave both of you behind,” Sokolov said.
According to Mischenko, any natural disaster paled in comparison to his partner. They were a mismatched pair judging by Zubov’s appearance. A good ten centimeters shorter than Yuri, he was built like a sack of cement. A long nose and dense eyebrows gave his shaved head an eagle’s profile. His image would be incomplete without a cigarette in his teeth.
Yura and Serge seemed to be constantly engaged in a battle of wits, each trying to launch opportune taunts at the other. It was a game they both enjoyed. The mental gymnastics kept their grey matter alert. It also saved them from brooding over the nightmares they had witnessed in every corner of the world. Zubov’s mouth was sarcastic and cynical, but his heart was pure gold. The two airmen had developed a unique friendship that lasted almost twenty years. They trusted each other with their lives, and Sokolov knew that they would never let him down either.
Sokolov retreated back to the Beriev’s aft, where Pavel Netto, the fourth and final member of their compact crew, was snoring peacefully. He had a sharp if somewhat withdrawn mind. No matter what chaos was raging outside, the sinewy tech wizard was cool under pressure and was a quick decision-maker. Sokolov could bet that asleep, Netto was counting the digits of Pi instead of sheep.
Sokolov glanced at the dial of his watch, a Breitling Superocean chronometer.
Time. His best friend and worst enemy. Giver and crusher of hopes. Healer of wounds and cruel sadist.
Breitling SA produced the finest instruments in the world, being the only company to have all of its watches certified as “chronometers” that was awarded to only three percent of Swiss-made watches. Each model was an inspiring achievement in functionality, reliability and precision, crafted with the passion that only aviators possessed. Sokolov’s Superocean was no exception — a diver’s watch capable of withstanding a depth up to 1,500 meters, or 5,000 feet.
Sokolov looked at the Breitling emblem in the centre of the blue dial — the letter “B” adorned with a pair of wings and an anchor. Involuntarily, he reminded himself that Father, the wings, and Mother, the anchor of his family, were long gone, killed by the bone-grinding mechanism of Russian history. His Brother was missing without trace.
But he could save others. Saving lives — the purpose of EMERCOM as well as his personal one.
Saving those that could still be saved.
If the deadly tide in the Black Sea was still reaping more victims, time was his enemy. The ally of death.
Sokolov was lost in studying depth charts and maps of Sochi coast, giving extra scrutiny to the five-kilometer strip in the north affected the worst, but soon he was able to see the effects with his own eyes. Before he knew it, the Beriev was tilting in a pass over the mountains. Since Sochi was positioned at the base of the Caucasus, the only possible approach to Adler airport was seaward, the aircraft then having to make a 180-degree turn back inland towards a runway that projected into the sea. The Beriev, however, glided parallel to the coastline, skimming the waves as it descended on its way to the potential wreck site.
It was a breathtaking view, thrilling with its beauty and the fear for its fragility. The fleeting Sochi skyline of trees and high-rises illuminated against the night sky. Seaside, the beaches were lit brightly as well, but cordoned off. EMERCOM personnel were clearing away the remains of marine life. The most vivid image stamped in Sokolov’s mind was a row of dead dolphins awaiting to be driven away, so human-like in their posture, and in the needlessness of their deaths.
“Poor things,” Netto murmured next to him.
Sokolov sighed. The Black Sea, named so for the high content of iodine, renowned for its healing power, had become a killer.
The famous breakwaters, jutting a hundred meters out into the sea, and spaced equally apart, raced by like distance markers. In Mischenko’s hands, the Be-200 touched down on the water surface like a majestic swan. Once it had set comfortably in the waves, the amphibious jet continued to cruise forward, until Mischenko idled his craft to a stop not a whisker away from where he wanted it.
All around them, moonlight played on the water surface, the waves shining silver.
“Welcome to the Black Sea,” Mischenko called as he powered down the engines. “Our current coordinates match the spot where the Olympia vanished. The position is about as accurate as we can get given the computer projection of her fall to the bottom.”
“Let’s get to work,” Sokolov said. “Pasha, unleash your midget.”
Netto reached for a worn travel case, packed with equipment according to the specifics of each mission. Today Netto carried eighteen kilograms’ worth of sea-wreck exploration gear.
Sokolov’s midget comment was a tongue-in-cheek reference to a remotely operated vehicle. It had a long, forgettable name that was reduced to an acronym which read GNOM.
The Russian-made ROV was indeed a forerunner in terms of miniaturization and maneuverability. Weighing under 3 kilograms, roughly the shape and size of a 2-liter bottle, it was one of the most efficient units of its kind, able to access a 150-meter depth. The Gnome’s movement was limited only by its Kevlar-reinforced umbilical cable.
Interestingly enough, the Gnome received commands via a standard Sony Playstation controller. With the video feed from the ROV’s cameras appearing on a laptop screen, the entire operation did at times feel like an electronic game.
It took Netto all of four minutes to set up the Gnome and make sure that the ROV functioned properly, calibrating the controller’s directional sticks whilst consulting the output on the computer monitor.
As Mischenko radioed Klimov to announce their arrival, the right-side door hissed, rising out in gull-wing fashion.
Warm air flowed inside the Beriev, bringing along the smell of algae. In the silence, waves lapped against the fuselage, inviting into the sinister blackness that lay beyond the twinkling surface. Bending over, Sokolov gently lowered the ROV into the water, careful to avoid contact himself.