Atcho rushed upstairs and found Rafael keeping watch over Fierko. “Where’s the briefcase?”
“Yermolov took it to the latrine. Sofia’s searching for it.” He stared at Atcho’s bloodstained clothes, torn and dripping with sweat.
Atcho gestured toward Fierko. “Is he secure?”
“He’s not going anywhere.”
“Make sure, and then go help Sofia find the briefcase. The bomb is already active. Yermolov set it by remote. I’m going to the flight cabin.”
***
Sofia had found the latrine, and now searched frantically for the briefcase by the dim light on the wall. It was not on the floor, or behind the commode. She opened a cabinet door, but it too was empty. She looked along the wall for an opening, and on the ceiling, but found nothing. She looked again at the commode, but the opening at the bottom was too small for a briefcase.
Rafael showed up behind her in the door. Her look told him her effort so far had been futile. He looked over the latrine just as she had, but saw nothing different.
Sofia looked up at the ceiling again. “What about up there?” she suggested. “Maybe that ceiling raises.” It was beyond her reach, but when Rafael stood on the commode he could push up on it slightly, and found that it raised. He tried to reach around beyond the ceiling tile, but found nothing, and in any event, could not reach far.
“Here, I’ll lift you,” he told Sofia. She moved out of his way while he positioned himself. Then he put his hands together with fingers interlocked, and leaned down. She stepped into them, he hoisted her as far as he could, and she grappled around in the dark space beyond the opening, out to arm’s length.
Just as Rafael thought he would drop her, Sofia’s hand hit a boxlike object. At that moment, a high pitch electronic sound blared from inside the opening. Her heart dropped. “I think I’ve found it,” she called.
Rafael struggled for better position, and Sofia tugged at the object until she found a handle and could grasp it securely. As Rafael’s strength gave out, she held on to it firmly, and when they went down, the object fell with them. It was a briefcase, and the electronic sound came from inside it.
“Get to the flight cabin,” Sofia yelled. “Let Atcho know we’ve got it. It sounds like it’s been armed.”
Rafael struggled back up and bounded out the door, while Sofia examined the briefcase. It looked ordinary, brown, with a hard surface and a regular latch. She turned it over and examined the other side, but could find no indication of where a trigger mechanism might be.
Gingerly, she pressed the latch release, and held the spring-lock so that it opened gently. Inside, she saw the metal sheet that covered the contents, but nothing that indicated a trigger mechanism. As she held it, the high-toned noise continued, jarring her nerves, and then a control panel popped up. It had a counter, and immediately started counting down. Sofia’s blood froze, and she felt suffocated. The counter crossed the three-minute mark.
***
The airplane had flown straight and level for a while, but started to bank left again. Soon it would begin its final descent.
When Atcho had entered the crew compartment a few minutes earlier, Ivan stood behind the pilot’s seat. He wore a headset, and he looked relieved to see Atcho.
The crewmembers stared at him, taking in his battered appearance. Gun in hand, he pushed past them to the cockpit.
Lieutenant-Colonel Zhukov and the copilot concentrated on gauges and switches, and the sky. Each had a hand on three of the six throttle controls between them. The aircraft rocketed toward the ground. In a few minutes, they would flare for touchdown.
Atcho tapped the pilot on the shoulder. Zhukov’s shock on seeing Atcho’s bloodied clothes registered on his face. He shifted his eyes and locked them on Ivan. “This is one of your KGB colonels?” he demanded. Ivan confirmed with a slight nod. Zhukov scoffed, and returned his attention to flying the aircraft.
Atcho grabbed a headset from behind the pilot’s seat. “Do you speak English?” he asked Zhukov.
The pilot turned to him in surprise and nodded, but quickly returned to his controls. “I’m busy.”
“Listen carefully. Don’t land this airplane.”
Zhukov whirled. He stared at Atcho and then glared at Ivan. His expression became grim. The copilot overheard the conversation. He turned and saw Atcho and his pistol. The blood drained from his face. Pilot and copilot returned to their task of landing the airplane.
It straightened into final descent on its glide path. Within minutes, it would experience turbulence under the wing as it approached the ground and flared. A miscalculation could be catastrophic.
“Zhukov,” Atcho said, and as he did, he brought the pistol to the side of the pilot’s head. “You cannot land. People will die.”
Zhukov swore. “We’ll sort this out on the ground,” he growled. “Step back.”
“There’s a bomb on board. Increase power and take this plane back up!”
“I don’t believe you.”
Atcho glanced out the windshield. In the distance, lights indicating the glide path flashed at him in rapid sequence. Already he could make out the near end of the runway. He jabbed the pistol against Zhukov’s cheek. “Take it up. Now!”
Ivan crouched at Atcho’s back. He had pulled his pistol, and pointed it at the crew. The navigator and one of the engineers were on their feet. They appeared to be calculating a rush. Their expressions registered both dread and resolve.
The door at the rear of the compartment burst open. Rafael entered and sized up the situation. He pulled his pistol and gestured to the crewmen to sit down. “Do your jobs,” he ordered. “Do you understand?” Deflated fury flashed from their eyes, but they sat down. Then Rafael looked at Atcho. “She found it,” he called. Atcho wheeled slightly and returned his grim stare.
On the right side of the cockpit the co-pilot pushed the throttles for more power. Zhukov reacted angrily. “I’m the pilot,” he shouted. “Do as I say.”
Atcho whirled back around, holstered his pistol, and wrapped his arm around Zhukov’s neck in a chokehold. The man struggled against Atcho’s grip. Atcho held firm, and lifted him so that his flailing arms and legs did not collide with flight controls. Twenty seconds later, Zhukov slumped in his seat.
“Help me!” Atcho called to Ivan. They pulled the sagging figure backward onto the floor.
At that moment, Sofia entered. Atcho was shocked by her appearance. Her face was drained of color, and perspiration streamed down her neck. She leaned against the doorframe. In her arms, she carried the open briefcase.
Sofia staggered to Atcho. Inside the briefcase, he saw the flat metal panel that covered the interior, including the etched shape that resembled a small rocket. The digital counter centered at the top flashed past the two-minute mark.
“I think I tripped a fail-safe when I tried to grab it,” Sofia said, her eyes wide in uncharacteristic panic.
Atcho stared. “No, you didn’t. Yermolov set it off by remote.” He saw faint, brief relief cross Sofia’s face. Then he looked over his shoulder at the empty pilot’s seat. “Can you fly?”
Sofia shook her head. “You know I can’t.”
“Then you’ll have to disarm the bomb.” He pulled the NukeX from his jacket and shoved it at her. “Here! You know what to do. I’ve got to help fly this plane.”
Sofia gaped, indicating the bomb. “Where’s the trigger?”
Atcho stared at it. “Use your judgment. Think like the bomb-maker. It’s not large. It has to be at one end or the other of the briefcase.” He climbed into the pilot’s seat and put on the headset.
Sofia staggered to the back of the cabin, with the bomb and the NukeX.
“I’ve never flown a jet this big,” Atcho called to the copilot. “I don’t know Russian markings. Tell me what to do.”
Despite his terror, the copilot functioned competently. He pulled on the yoke, rotating the Mriya’s nose skyward to begin its flare preliminary to touching down. “Keep pressure on the throttle,” he shouted, panic in his voice. “Keep the yoke steady. I’m resetting switches.” Seconds later, he called over the radio to Moscow’s control tower. “Landing abort! Landing abort!” The aircraft continued to settle toward the ground.
“Lower the nose,” he told Atcho. “We have power. We need airspeed!” He glanced over nervously. “We’re going to touch the ground. Just for a moment. We’re off center. If the wheels land on soft earth…” He shook his head.
Looking out the windshield, Atcho saw that they had veered right of the runway’s centerline. He felt pressure on the yoke, and followed the copilot’s movement.
They felt a thump as the landing gear touched down. The Mriya began to yaw. Ivan and the crew were tossed to one side. They grabbed for handholds, their eyes terrified.
At the back of the cabin, Sofia went to her knees, the briefcase wide open in front of her. Was the bomb-maker right-handed or left-handed? She guessed right-handed, and turned the briefcase so that the lid was to her left. That would seem to put the trigger mechanism at the opposite end in the left corner, within the etching, where working on it would be easier. She pressed the NukeX down on the bomb there, and pressed the red button.
The device hummed. She pressed the yellow button, and a light indicated that it functioned properly. Then, she pressed the black button, and felt heat rise from around the edge of the device. The counter crossed the 60-second mark.
Sweat poured from Sofia’s brow and dripped from her chin onto her already damp shirt as she watched the numbers counting down to 35 seconds. Smoke poured from inside the briefcase, setting off blaring overhead alarms. The stench of melting plastic and metal filled the cabin.
A thought struck Sofia. What if the bomb-maker is left-handed, or the trigger is in the middle? Swallowing panic, she slid the NukeX slowly along the length of the etching to its bottom end, and held it there as the countdown continued.
Meanwhile, the copilot fed power into the right-hand engines and adjusted the flaps. The plane straightened out. It rolled along the ground, with the right landing gear half on, half off the tarmac. Then, it lumbered back into the air. As it did, it yawed right. He fed more power to the right engines. The plane straightened and climbed smoothly.
Ivan stayed crouched behind Atcho, still covering the crew with his pistol. Relief spread across the crewmen’s faces. He felt it too. Then he looked at Sofia.
Sweat soaked her clothes. She hunched directly over the bomb, applying all the strength and weight of her upper body. Her arms trembled. She watched the counter with fascination. It moved past the 15-second mark, then the 10 second mark. Sooner than she could believe, it was on final countdown. Three, two, one…zero. Sofia closed her eyes, her whole body clenched, and she said final prayers. Then, nothing.
She looked up, shaking. Ivan and the crew stared at her. She looked back down at the NukeX and released the button. Then she clambered to her feet and leaned against the back wall, exhausted. Gradually, the ventilation system cleared the smoke.
In the cockpit, Atcho glanced at the copilot. He had smelled the smoke and heard the alarms behind him. His eyes showed grim determination. “You’re doing great,” Atcho called to him. “Climb to cruising altitude and head west.” He exhaled.
***
In the cargo bay, the loadmaster struggled against his bindings, in vain. He gave up. A few yards away, pain seared through Yermolov’s leg with each bump and jolt. When the aircraft touched ground, he screamed in agony. No one heard him, not even the loadmaster. The erstwhile general dared not move his wounded leg for fear of loosening the tourniquet. Mercifully, he swooned into unconsciousness.