Ivchenko A1-20 engines, reaching for her operational altitude of twenty-seven thousand feet, full tanks loaded to a capacity of five thousand two hundred Imperial gallons, offering a range of minimally less than two thousand miles with the cover of one hour's clear reserve.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the control tower that dwarfs the whitened form of the airport terminal buildings the traffic controllers were quick to observe the change of course. For a full minute the Frontier Guard commander demanded of the man who wore the headphones and who had been talking to the crew of Aeroflot 927 that he should continue repeating the instruction that the aircraft respond to its order and return to Kiev.
The controller did not turn to his superior, hovering at his shoulder, but just repeated, There is nothing, sir. No response. They ignore us. Nothing since the second pilot reported the shooting, that the captain had been hit and incapacitated.'
'But the plane is still operational, it is not flying on automatic controls?'
To a man of lesser importance than the Frontier Guard commander the controller would have been scornful of such lack of knowledge, but he answered with politeness, 'There can be no question of that, sir. The manoeuvres it has made are not those of a plane flying remote. It must be the copilot who is handling the aircraft, and she is working now to orders – that must be' the assumption. The planes are dual; she would have no difficulty in piloting on her own… only if she has to land by herself, and if she were tired and under stress.'
'What is the course?' The Frontier Guard commander could feel the initiative slipping from him, losing whatever tenuous control he had once had on the aircraft.
'Towards southern Poland, and climbing. Ultimately such a line as they now hold will bring them into the airspace of the BDR. Perhaps two hours' flying time.' He was the un- involved one, cocooned from responsibility, and in the grandstand seat to watch what his betters would make of it.
'And again, what was the last message?'
'As I told you, sir. They reported the bolting of the door. They reported they were responding to instructions to return. They reported a shot being fired at the door, that the bullet penetrated the door and struck the captain – that is, Captain Zibov. They reported the impression that he was killed instantly. They reported that they were being threatened with machine-gun fire unless they opened the door, and they reacted to that threat. There is no option, you must understand that, sir.'
As if fearful that the military would have no knowledge of the reality of an aircraft cockpit, and the weight of the burden of the lives of a cabin full of passengers, he went on: 'Not when you have such a confined space as the flight deck; the damage could have been very great. Since the opening of the door we have had vague shouts, which I could not distinguish. That will be on the tapes, but to us they were not clear – perhaps you will be able to decipher them. Pilot Officer Tashova has identified herself to the hijackers, if that is what they are, and has told them that we are talking to her and requesting her to return. There has been nothing since that.'
The Guard commander finished the scribbled note, reached for the desk telephone and dialled the militia headquarters. Operations room patched the call through to the telephone in the back of the car that was bringing the militia colonel towards the airport. The situation was relayed, the number of the nearest direct line to the Guard commander was passed on, the call was terminated.
The communications of the Russian internal security services had long been a source of justifiable pride, much admired by their opposite number in the West; the colonel was able to reach within seconds a senior official of the Ministry of the Interior in Central Moscow. He was connected directly to the Minister, one of the four most important personages in the Soviet Union, and the one who at that moment had the power and the full authority to make decisions on the future flying of Aeroflot 927. The colonel's role in the immediate course of the incident was completed. During the subsequent two minutes radio and telephone conversations were activated from the seat of government to the airforce base that lies close to the small town of Chernigov, due north of Kiev. The order for the moment was short, and very clear. The Ilyushin 11-18V should be forced to land within Russian territory.
In a flight of four the Mig 23s lifted off. Two pairs, matching and racing each other down the runway till they had achieved take-off speed, then airborne in an explosion of aviation fuel fumes, and with sheets of flame spewing from the rear engine vents. These were not the low-level ground-support aircraft with the North European theatre camouflage motif but the silver-fuselaged altitude interceptors that were held far to the rear of the Cold War front.
Closing into diamond formation as they climbed, capable of eighteen hundred miles an hour in flight, code- named by NATO planners as 'Foxbat', they made an unmercifully equal match for the lumbering, hesitant airliner which those same planners had titled 'Coot'. Four sharks thrusting their way into the upper atmosphere where they would poise themselves, biding their time till ground control gave them the precious radar bearings that they would need to lock themselves on their quarry. At the controls were young men little older than David or Isaac, but the elite of the society that they served, on whom money and expertise and time had been lavished that their effectiveness would be guaranteed. The sun burnished a reflection off the cropped, sharpened delta wings as they banked to take up the level flight that meant they had achieved the necessary altitude, in excess of forty- five thousand feet, that when they came for the airliner they would be diving. Cannon belt loaded in the wings, and slung below the snap-down missiles. Lethal and vicious, with no morality of their own, without an opinion on their orders, and now responding to instructions, feeding the information into their transistorized computer workings. Beginning the search for a creature that by comparison was unworthy of their strength, a lamed and limping prey.
David was still in the cockpit.
Isaac shooed the stewardesses back towards the main passenger cabin, gesturing them towards vacant seats with his submachine-gun, telling them to sit and to fasten their belts. Time now to see who they had on board, to evaluate the passengers. Stunned they seemed, most of them; all staring at him till he caught the individual pairs of eyes that then looked away as if terrified by what they saw.
He shouted the length of the cabin, that those at the back, seventy-five feet from him, might hear and understand and have no doubt as to his intent. 'All your hands on your heads. If you do as you are instructed no harm will come to you, but you must obey our orders, and without hesitation. All hands on your heads.' He felt a curious thrill at the depth of his voice as it echoed back at him, drowning the monotonous roar of the engine. Some reacting immediately, some so confused that they had to have the instruction repeated by those who sat beside them. Old hands that were weather-beaten and vein-ribbed and on which there were heavy gold rings, hands that were used to manual work and which showed callouses and worn skin as they were lifted. Hands that were manicured and had no bruises, hands that were young and pink and undeveloped. The small hands of the children reach-ing up to the well-washed hair of their heads. That was how he was first aware of the school party. He hadn't seen them before, not so as to register, hidden away behind their seats till their hands came up, with the popping eyes and the wide- opened mouths.
He was surprised in a way that there wasn't more hostility on the faces – but not once he'd thought about it – it was not him they were frightened of, not little Isaac, not a student with a hole in his shoe, and underpants changed once a week, and the shirt with the collar button off. It was the gun in his hands that brought the submission and the respect for his orders. Not for yourself – kick your balls halfway to Khabarovsk if you gave them the chance. The gun, that was his protection.
Isaac moved warily down the aisle, Rebecca walking backwards behind him, covering the passengers who could have turned to face his retreating back. About sixty of them in all, he reckoned, not an exact count, but good enough for his needs. All of them waiting on him, waiting for the explanation that would clarify the gunshot, and the lurches in the direction of the plane, and the sight of the young man with the curly hair and the shabby clothes, and who carried the submachine-gun at his hip, whose thumb was on 'safety', whose forefinger was abreast the trigger guard. He walked the full length of the plane, reaching with his free hand sometimes to steady himself as the aircraft pitched and fell away. His arm then close to heads that shrivelled away from him. He checked the lavatories, both empty, bar the one strewn with the wrapping paper that had parcelled the firearms. A good precaution, necessary to make certain no hero of the Soviet Union was hiding there looking for a Red Star to be pinned posthumously on his coffin. Clean at the back of the plane. Everyone in their seats and where they should
