Oath of Office

“Three hours and thirty-seven minutes, Colonel,” the navigator said. “Winds are on the nose most of the way. A Ural Airbus 320 coming in from the south reported heavy turbulence at flight level one-nine-zero.”

Mikhailov nodded, unperturbed. “Very well,” he said. “Let us be on our way. I know a woman there who makes very good mutton stew.”

“It is probably Kazakh horse cock,” First Officer Cherenko said and chuckled as he stowed the preflight checklist in the binder beside his seat.

“Whatever it is”—Mikhailov shrugged, deciding he did not like the man—“the stew is delicious.” He checked his watch—0104 hours — and leaned forward, adjusting the radio to hear the latest flight information service broadcast. He listened to the recorded message play all the way before giving a nod to the first officer. The trip from Migalovo the day before had established that Mikhailov preferred to let his copilot run the radios while he flew the airplane.

“Ground,” Cherenko said. “Antonov 2808 ready to taxi with information Bravo.”

“Antonov 2808,” a male voice said. “Hold short Runway One-Two, monitor Tower on one-one-niner-point-five.”

Military pilots spoke in Russian among themselves, and, to the consternation of pilots transiting from other countries, the tower sometimes did as well. But English was the international language of aviation, and this airspace was controlled by civilians. The tower controller put them in line behind an Il-76 heavy, cautioning them of wake turbulence from the departing giant.

“In line behind the heavy,” Cherenko responded. “Antonov 2808.”

A moment later the forty-six-meter, four-engine Ilyushin Il-76 lumbered down the runway, leaving invisible vortices of whirling wind behind it.

The controller spoke again. “Antonov 2808 clear for takeoff on Runway One-Two, fly runway heading until five thousand feet. Contact Moscow Departure.”

Cherenko read back the instructions as Mikhailov pushed the throttles forward slowly. The airplane began to shudder in place as he babied the four Lotarev D-18T turbofan engines for almost five full minutes before he released the brakes and began his takeoff roll. Slowly, steadily, the great bird picked up enough speed to heave herself off the runway.

“Positive rate of climb, Colonel.” Cherenko’s voice came over the intercom in Russian now, eyes on the altimeter. “Landing gear up.”

The massive Antonov was a touchy bird, but in Mikhailov’s capable hands more than a half-million pounds of airplane, fuel, and secret cargo flew with remarkable grace.

* * *

Air traffic controller Svetlana Minsky licked chapped lips and pressed slender fingers against her headphones — as she was wont to do when she grew nervous. Her idiot boyfriend had convinced her to stop smoking, and she was feeling it tonight. A motivational poster tacked to the wall above her said in Cyrillic: The same hammer that shatters glass forges steel. The notion would have been hilarious had it not been so sad. The hammer that was Air Traffic Control was plenty capable of shattering steel. And anyway, Minsky was far too busy doing her job to be reading bullshit motivational posters. She and the dozens of other controllers on watch inside the windowless blue room of Moscow Center took care of the airspace for seventy airports in and around Moscow. Tonight was extra hectic, and she cursed her boyfriend for stealing her cigarettes.

The agitation in her gravel voice was apparent over the radio, earning her a side-eyed warning from her supervisor, who sat birdlike at a row of desks behind her, in the middle of the bullpen.

She watched a numbered blip appear on her radar screen as the sweep came around.

A new voice to go with the blip crackled in her headset. Thickly Slavic, the English would have been almost impossible for anyone but another Russian to understand. “Moscow Departure, Antonov 2808 leaving eight hundred feet for five thousand.”

“Antonov 2808, radar contact. Continue climb as directed.”

The Short-Term Conflict Alert on Minsky’s computer showed a second Antonov, also with the Russian Air Force, bypassing Zhukovsky on a heading that would intercept 2808 at present speed and altitude. The planes were still eight miles apart. This gave her three miles before she’d have an “incident”—when two planes got closer than five lateral miles or a thousand feet of altitude.

Minsky dealt with other aircraft for a time, and gave a phlegmatic cough when she turned her attention back to the two Antonovs. All the open miles in the sky and these two bastards were determined to fly directly into each other.