THE RUSSIAN PILOT THROWS his paper cup onto the tarmac and walks across the pitted runway. The giant plane’s Soviet military decals are still faintly visible under gray paint.
That’s the signal. There are no words, no checks, no IDs: just a long walk in the last rays of the afternoon toward a tattered Soviet warplane so big it plays tricks with the eyes. As the engines rise to a deafening whine, I climb the ramp and twist my body into position inside the cavernous Ilyushin Il-76, code name Candid. Bathed in the bright light of the cockpit glass, the skipper kicks off his shoes, takes his seat, and flips the switches. Seconds later we’re airborne, heading into the Afghan night.
FROM AFGHANISTAN TO Chechnya, the giant Il-76 was the USSR’s ultimate warhorse. It saw action on every front, in every capacity, from commando missions to reconnaissance, military intelligence, explosives drops, arms transport, and even cosmonaut training.
At more than forty-six meters long and forty meters wide, it is one of the biggest planes on the planet. Weighing 210 tons, this superplane can fly in Arctic ice storms and African heat. It can operate from shorter, more bomb-damaged and unprepared runways than planes half its size. It can carry a staggering sixty tons of guns, soldiers, tanks, bombs, or anything else halfway around the world. And these days, for half a million dollars, anyone can have one.
But the Il-76 also carries a secret.
Beneath the floor of the cargo hold, deep in the belly of the plane, its Soviet creators added a number of extra spaces. Originally designed for escape equipment, armaments, and classified payloads, they can be hollowed out to create secret chambers. These chambers don’t appear on any cargo paperwork; they won’t be checked by customs; officially, they don’t even exist. But they are there.
And if you’re determined enough to fill them—and foolhardy enough to fly—then your plane will carry anything up to fifteen extra tons of “phantom” cargo. Cargo for which some men are willing to die and others are prepared to kill.
I had heard all about these mercenary aviators—mercs, as they’re often known in Africa. I had read the CIA dossiers and seen the crash reports. But now as the plane took off with me on it, I was about to see an operation from the inside.
The men’s names, their life stories, and even their appearances and flight patterns have been changed to protect them and me. But this is their world. From the lawless streets of Russia’s Wild East to the pirate-controlled coast of Somalia, from rogue states and rebel “ ’stans” to the shadow world of drug traffickers and black markets, this is the story of those fifteen extra tons.