56 |

Somewhere over the Atlantic

 

Kozhin rushed toward the cockpit as the plane banked hard to the left, Anokhin, the former major in charge of the Medved Corps mercenaries he was employing, hot on his heels. He yanked open the cockpit door and pushed inside, the pilot and copilot shouting at each other as they pushed the Il-80 to its limits.

“What’s going on?”

The pilot ignored him, leaving the copilot to answer. “Four tangoes are closing on our position. They’ve ordered us to return to Russia. General Gorokhin is dead.”

Kozhin frowned.

That’s disappointing.

He couldn’t care less that Gorokhin was dead. The man was a corrupt bastard, but he had served a purpose, a purpose that he unfortunately still needed served. He turned to Anokhin. “What’s your recommendation?”

“Obey their orders until we can execute the contingency plan.”

Kozhin closed his eyes, tossing his head back as he gripped the doorframe, the plane finally leveling out. The contingency plan was insanity, and it had never occurred to him that they might actually need it. If he had, he never would have agreed to it, and demanded another plan.

But now, here they were, stuck.

“There they are!”

The pilot pointed slightly to their left and Kozhin stepped closer, peering out the cockpit window as four dots screamed toward them, the refueling aircraft banking away. Kozhin slammed his fist into the back of the copilot’s seat.

“Shit! How are we for fuel?”

The copilot checked the gauge and shook his head. “If we want to get back to Russia, we have to leave now.”

Suddenly the pilot cursed, and all their jaws dropped.

 

Apocalypta watched in shock and awe as a missile streaked from the weapons pod of the lead Sukhoi, the air-to-air weapon leaving a trail of spent fuel behind as it rapidly closed in on its target. She activated her comm as she watched the tanker bank away from the incoming missile, chaff erupting from its defense pods as it tried to escape the incoming certainty of death.

And it worked.

The missile veered left, slamming into the false heat signature and exploding, the shockwave pulsing through the air in all directions. But the reprieve was short-lived, two more missiles already tearing across the crisp blue sky.

“Let’s back off some more. We don’t want any of those missiles getting confused and locking on to us.” She slowly banked away, doubling the distance, before leveling out so she could watch the show, the tanker continuing to turn, continuing to deploy chaff, when suddenly the decoys stopped.

They must be out.

Two missiles closed the gap, the massive tanker helpless, and Apocalypta silently said a prayer for its crew, whoever they were, as the missiles slammed into the fuselage. It erupted into a massive fireball, larger than anything she had ever seen, the 300,000 pounds of fuel on board putting on a display that would rival anything Hollywood could imagine.

“They’re bugging out!”

Apocalypta checked her scope to confirm what she had just heard, then turned to see if she had missed the destruction of the focus of their attention.

It was still there.

I wonder why they left them alive.