CHAPTER
ONE
Aerosov Flight 012 from London
to Moscow had been aloft all
evening. It shouldn’t have been,
and Ron Travers knew it.
He had been a travel writer for
enough decades to know that the
non-stop should have been on the
ground at least two hours ago.
He also knew that Europe was
gripped by a sprawling winter
storm, and that the captain had
mumbled something over the PA
about having to fly around it.
But if that’s all it was, why
had he sensed such abrupt
changes of course, and all those
bouts of turbulence? And why
hadn’t the captain said a word
since?
Lack of candor on the part of a
pilot never did sit well with
Ron Travers. Nor was he amused
when some of the travel writers
with him on this junket would
call out like kids on a long car
trip, “Daddy, are we there yet?”
Ron Travers would have preferred
more decorum. And more to drink.
He surreptitiously tipped vodka
from his pocket flask to
replenish the only martini he’d
been served, and wondered idly
if this was Aerosov’s revenge.
Years ago, after an unnervingly
turbulent flight on the same
route, relieved only by a can
of tepid Pepsi, he had panned
the Soviet Union’s discount
carrier for its “early Leninist
level of concern for capitalist
comforts and proletarian
safety.”
Later, he had learned that to
the doctrinaire Communists who
ran the airline back then,
expending extra fuel solely to
avoid turbulence was a decadent
Western luxury; besides, the
airline couldn’t afford it. He
wondered what the excuse would
be this time. May as well ask
the captain. One reason for
being on this trip was to do a
before-and-after freelance piece
about Aerosov, and the PR office
in New York had promised him a
flight-deck interview. He rang
for the flight attendant, waited
a full five minutes, and rang
again.
Her flag-red lipstick only drew
Ron Travers’ attention to her
characteristically neglected
teeth. He wondered idly if so
many layers of makeup would
prevent her from smiling, and
whether she had ever said
“Coffee, tea or me?” to a
handsome, or perhaps just
promisingly affluent,
passenger. Her layovers these
days, he was willing to bet,
must be joyless times of whining
about pensions and dental
benefits, and he found himself
feeling sorry for her. He
explained his request, with she
acknowledged with nothing more
than raised eyebrows. This was
inauspicious, but to Ron’s
surprise, she returned quickly
and touched his shoulder.
“The captain is called Ivanov.
He will receive you now. Come,
there is little time.”
“Good. That means we’re finally
getting to Moscow.”
She did not respond. Ron rose
and came face-to-face with her.
Even then, she didn’t smile. Ron
told himself it was only the
makeup. Surely, the captain
would be more communicative.
Or would he? The captain must
have heard the cockpit door open
and close, but he kept his eyes
on the instrument panel. So did
his co-pilot. Ron looked at his
watch, and waited. They must be
doing something important. A
minute went by, then another.
Maybe they were too busy to
notice him. Ron cleared his
throat. The captain spoke,
although without turning around.
“Yes, your presence has not gone
unnoticed. Aerosov is honored to
have you aboard, Mr. Travers.
Have you flown with us before?”
“I have, once, but I don’t
remember much about the flight.”
“Or is there little you care to
remember about it?”
Ron smiled to himself.
Taunting this cardboard captain
about poor service could be what
it takes to get some usable
quotes. “That too, captain.
But your question strikes me as
naïve.”
“Naïve? And how is that?”
“In the old days, the KGB would
have informed you about my
previous contact with Aerosov.
And about my criticism. I would
expect no less from its
successor.”
“Nor would I. Perhaps it is
that you have become less
important.”
Ooh, good. I’ve gotten under his
skin, but now it’s time to
soften my tone.
“Ah, I suppose you’re right. I
was a foreign correspondent, you
know, and I learned many things
of no interest to American
newspaper editors. I called
them my leftovers. But juicy
tidbits, some of them. Why let
leftovers go to waste when some
people were so hungry for them?”
“People? What people?”
“Your government people. No, I
did not deal with Soviet
intelligence. It was less
risky to peddle my leftovers to
your surrogates. You know, the
Czechs, the Bulgarians and
such. They were hungrier, and
paid better.”
“Ha! And were not so demanding
of quality. Mr. Travers, I,
too, am a practical man, but
never do I betray my country.
For 25 years have I been pilot,
with 10 years trusted to fly
international routes. Even for
Aeroflot. Think of all the
times I could have defected.”
“And all the places, too. Which
country tempted you the most?”
“You think it is America, no?
Correct, but maybe not for the
reasons you think. It is that
America always trusts, Russia
always suspects. Maybe you are
a good American after all.
Please, take that jump seat.
You will join me in a toast.”
“Thanks. I thought you’d never
ask.” It sounded less an
invitation than an order, and
oh, boy, what a gem for his
story. Besides, Ron had been
too long between drinks. Still,
Ron couldn’t quite believe it
until the captain pulled a liter
of Stolichnaya from his
well-worn black leather flight
bag. Ivanov filled two
first-class tumblers to the
brim, and Ron accepted his
eagerly.
“To America!” It was Ivanov’s
toast, and Ron Travers had been
around enough to know how to
respond.
“To Russia!”
“To friendship!”
“To our families!”
And so it went, until Ron
Travers’ attempts to initiate a
useful interview grew feebler.
Seeing that Ivanov’s eyes kept
darting back to the instrument
panel, Ron automatically
followed them with his own.
“My friend, do not waste your
time. You cannot read my
instruments. No matter. Even to
me, they tell nothing. Except
crazy things.”
Ron choked and sputtered.
Crazy? Like…?”
“Like all sixes. Even with
minuses. Airspeed minus 666
knots an hour. Altitude 666
kilometers below sea level.
Attitude 666 degrees east. Fuel
supply 666 pounds…impossible,
impossible.”
Ron was relieved. “So it’s
just an instrument problem.
We’re flying just fine. I bet
if the co-pilot pushes a reset
button…”
“My friend, we have done all
that we can. And the co-pilot,
he can do no more, period. He
sits like in a, what is your
word, oh, a stupor.”
Which makes three of us.
“You mean he’s drunk…too?”
“No, not at all. He has been
this way since…something
happened.”
“Something? What?”
“We were on autopilot, of
course. Normal for this stage
of the flight. I saw our sticks
start shaking. Naturally, I
switched off autopilot and I
grabbed my stick. It swung back
and forth. It swung so hard I
had to let go. I was afraid my
wrists would break.”
“I don’t remember
that kind of
turbulence.”
“Nyet,
turbulence it was not. Something
strong, stubborn…I don’t know.
My co-pilot, he is younger. He
could hold longer on his stick.
A few seconds longer. I had
hope. But then it swung away
from him, too. So violent, it
was, that he screamed. Like
wrestling with a madman.. I saw
his head go back, then forward,
like you see it now.”
“When…when was that, captain?”
“It was a moment before the
instruments started spinning.
They did that for perhaps one
minute, like, like some wheel
for gambling. They were making
me dizzy. When there were sparks
and the smell came, I had to put
my hands over my eyes. When I
could look again, the
instruments had stopped. Like,
oh yes, like roulette wheels.
They all stopped on the same
numbers. All sixes.”
“You mean eights. Electronic
things always show eights when
they’re turned off.”
Ivanov shrugged, and looked at
his watch. “Nyet,
sixes. But what does it
matter? You asked me when. It
was all about two hours and
twenty three minutes ago.”
“That long! That
smell—was it like insulation
burning? We must have been
struck by lightning, that’s it.
Don’t airliners always survive
lightning strikes?”
“Airlines like us to
think so. When no wreckage is
ever found, who can say
otherwise? But, yes, lightning
strikes I have known.
Insulation smell I have known.
This was a foul smell, more, uh,
animal, or human. Like in a
prison, or a tomb. Or a toilet,
maybe. Ha!”
Ron shuddered.
I must get the captain back on a
rational tack, the sooner the
better.
“Sunspots, then?”
“Hmm. Some kind of radiation,
yes. As from a nuclear war. Or
lasers. Those Star Wars of
yours. Ha!”
“I prefer the sunspot theory.”
Captain Ivanov nodded
half-heartedly. “I know that
also emanations from the sun can
distort radio waves. They are
both forms of electromagnetic
radiation, about which we know
much, but also know too little.
We know they can disrupt, yes.
But can they impose order? Can
they take over my controls? I
think not, but…” His voice
trailed off.
“Oh, take over controls…yes,
have you tried to revive your
co-pilot?”
“Of course. But he has no
moving, no words. He only
breathes. I fear he is
paralyzed.”
“So, it’s all in your hands?
To land at night, with no
instruments?”
“Da
and
nyet. One instrument
only works. The radio compass
shows we are still bearing
southeast, to Moscow. And I have
my wristwatch. It is Swiss, so
it is neutral. Never my enemy.
Always, I can make rough
estimate of our speed. Soon, we
go below the clouds and look for
the lights of Moscow. You may be
of some help...”
Ron Travers grabbed the vodka
bottle from the captain’s hand,
and sucked at it noisily. “Me!
But how?”
Ivanov firmly
reclaimed the bottle, smiled
wearily, and politely passed it
back. “But you Americans, you
believe in ‘Friendly Skies,’ do
you not? To say nothing of God.”
“My captain, I’ll
tell you what I believe in. I
believe there is nothing
less friendly than an
ice-cold sky. That I always
believe. Sometimes, I believe
in God. And I know that
whenever man is flying, man is
thumbing his nose at God, at
God’s strongest law.”
“Thou shalt not…do something?”
“No. The law of gravity.”
“That law is not of God, it is
science law.”
“Well, I see I can be no help to
you, captain. I’d better get
back to my seat.”
“No. You will stay.
I am still captain.”
Ron Travers felt too weak in the
knees to defy the pilot. He
kept trying to get a grip on
himself. “If, I mean, when we
make it back, will you, uh, find
trouble?”
“Already trouble has found
Ivanov. Look out the window, to
my left.”
Ron looked. At first he saw
nothing, but then a horizontal
orange-yellow streak pierced the
clouds. It blurred and faded and
flared again, grew smaller and
then larger.
“Now look out the right.”
“It’s there, too. Too regular to
be lightning, I admit. But
what…?”
“Warplanes. An escort. Our air
force has single-jet
interceptors. They must have
been sent to assure that I do
not deviate to another country,
that I face the music in
Moscow.”
“Defect with your airliner?
Steal their plane? Don’t they
trust you more than that by
now?”
Ivanov shrugged. “Who could be
sure? My only hope is for a
rough landing at Moscow. Perhaps
what you call crash landing. At
the very least, I will have
damaged an expensive aircraft on
a prime international flight.
While carrying travel writers
only too willing to blacken
Aerosov’s name around the
world.”
“But it wouldn’t be
your fault.”
“Thank you. Now
think about this: To prove I
have much alcohol in my blood,
for the authorities that will be
easy. To prove an invisible
force took over the controls,
for me that would be
impossible. Either way, life
for me is finished.”
“There must be some
way out.”
“Yes. It is in my
flight bag. Once, I was in
Miami. There was a kind of arms
bazaar, they called it a gun
show. I was curious and like I
was saying about America, you
trust your people. Ha! You
trust even Ivanov to walk in and
pay a man my $200, and walk out
with... ”
A loud, synthesized voice cut
him off. “Fuel gone! Descend!
Fuel gone! Descend.”
For a millisecond or
two, Captain Ivanov felt a rush
of hope that other devices would
soon spring back to life. If he
were as close to Moscow as he
reckoned...but no. The voice
faltered and there was only the
unmistakable drone of dying
engines. Ron caught himself
almost savoring his exclusive
insider’s awareness.
I wonder if my buddies back in
the cabin are finally succumbing
to an appropriate degree of
panic. Then came the
captain’s command.
“Unfasten your seat
belt.”
“Unfasten?”
“Listen to me. If
we touch down tail-first, you
may be thrown clear. If you
are, you may live. Here, take
the bottle. If you live, I ask
one lie for me. Say it was
yours. We never met.”
Ron nodded, and unfastened his
seat belt. He could feel the
plane descending, slowing and
yawing for lack of power. The
cockpit door opened. In the
pale yellow emergency lighting,
Ron looked up to see the senior
stewardess brace herself on
Ivanov’s shoulders. She
massaged his neck and mumbled
something in Russian.
Ron crossed his arms
over his eyes and crouched in
the crash position. BANG! An
explosion filled the cockpit. A
second later, another BANG.
Another, and another. They
overwhelmed his eardrums and he
lost count. His shirt felt warm
and wet. He imagined being in a
warm bath, and it eased his
mind.
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