Oath of Office

“Antonov 2967,” Minsky said again. The pleading ran like a fissure of softer stone through her granite voice. “You must maintain altitude and present heading.” She repeated the same in Russian, just in case.

The targets momentarily froze into what was called a “ghost track” as the confused radar and computer processors worked to reacquire the two airplanes.

The supervisor groaned, leaning in almost on top of Minsky for emotional support. His voice cracked. “Twenty seconds. Then we will know.”

* * *

The high perch of the Antonov’s flight deck gave 2808’s crew a terrifying view of the belly of the aircraft above as it overflew them, bearing down like an eagle swooping on her prey. Colonel Mikhailov cursed through gritted teeth, pushing the yoke forward as the other plane flew directly overhead at four hundred feet, matching course as if shadowing in a tight formation.

The instruments flickered momentarily, along with the cabin lights. Mikhailov heard the flight engineer seated behind him say something unintelligible, but his hands were full and he didn’t have time to check in.

“I have the airplane,” Cherenko said from the right seat.

Mikhailov’s head snapped around. “Negative, it is still my air—”

The cold steel of a pistol barrel against his neck caused the colonel to freeze. Very slowly, he lifted his hands from the yoke.

“You have the airplane,” he said.

He half turned to see the first engineer, unconscious in a heap on the floor, drugged or struck in the head. It was impossible to tell. The engineer he did not know held the pistol in a sure hand. Smiling serenely.

The second Antonov continued to shadow them. The transponder blinked off and then came back on, flashing a completely different ident number.

The radio squawked and a new voice came across as the second plane peeled away, wings lifting into the night.

“Moscow Departure, Antonov 2808. We are in the clear. 2967 passed directly beneath us.”

The radioman behind Mikhailov spoke now. “Moscow Departure, Antonov 2967. Sorry about that. We experienced an intense electrical storm that had us all flying blind. We have it worked out.”

“2967, do you wish to declare an emergency?” the female controller asked, her voice strained from the near miss on her watch.

“Captain advises negative,” Cherenko said. “We will land in Saratov and perform required systems check. Antonov 2967.”

The controller gave him a telephone number to call to “discuss the matter further.” A report would certainly be logged. He acknowledged receipt but did not write anything down.

Mikhailov started to lower his hands, but the engineer prodded him with the pistol until he rested them on top of his head.

“So,” Mikhailov muttered, “we have become 2967 and they are now us.” The radioman continued to speak with Departure, and Mikhailov felt the airplane bank sharply to the right, heading almost due south. He looked at his first officer, pained at the stupid futility of all this. “There are other ways for them to figure out who we are.”

“True enough,” the engineer with the pistol said. “But with the right equipment and the right people supporting…”

“What could you hope to gain? The missiles will be useless without the launch-control devices.”

“That is true as well,” the radioman said, smiling down at the two leather briefcases at his feet.

Mikhailov felt as if his insides had broken.

“I see,” he said. “What will happen when the other airplane reaches Kazakhstan with no nuclear missiles onboard?”

“It will fly in that direction,” Cherenko said. “Unfortunately, the same electrical storm we just experienced must have damaged that aircraft’s navigation and communication systems. It will drop out of radar contact somewhere over the wooded hills of the Bashkiriya forest and be lost en route. I can assure you, that plane will not be found.”

“Then what is our destination?”

Cherenko glanced sideways and shook his head. “That, I am afraid, Comrade Colonel, is no longer your concern. For, you see, you are supposed to be aboard the doomed aircraft.” He twisted a little farther in his seat to make eye contact with the radioman seated at the workstation behind him. “Yuri, it is already Thursday — little Friday. Would you be so kind as to get the colonel some vodka?”

“No… I…” Mikhailov stammered. “I… do not drink—”

“My friend,” Cherenko said softly. “Do yourself a favor and have some vodka. It will make what comes next… easier.”

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