Air Battle Force

realized that until too late. Everyone in the main cabin should have been unconscious from hypoxia by then, and a few minutes later the flight crew would have succumbed to oxygen starvation. Right about now your plane should be on autopilot, cruising over western Finland with everyone on board unconscious — except you. Remember, don’t open your cabin door — your cabin is sealed pretty well against pressurization loss.”

Sen’kov leaped to his feet and pounded on the cabin door, but no one answered. He checked the peephole — sure enough, the security guards were sound asleep. This can’t be happening! he screamed to himself. This was a nightmare!

He looked out one of the portholes on the starboard side of the Tu-204 and was surprised to see a Russian air force MiG-29 in close formation with him. He waved, and the pilot waved back. Relieved, Sen’kov went back to his desk, punched another satellite channel, and waited to be connected.

“I have requested that all communications to your flight go through the president’s office, Sen’kov,” he heard Gryzlov say. “I’m here in your office with the members of the general staff, the deputy speaker of the Duma, and the cabinet. We are all very concerned about your safety, but I’m afraid there’s not much anyone can do right now.”

“You bastard, Gryzlov!” Sen’kov screamed. “You’ll burn in hell for all eternity for this!”

“Not exactly, Sen’kov,” Gryzlov said. “What will happen is that you will die when your plane either runs out of fuel or turbulence trips off the autopilot and you crash somewhere between Sweden and the Arctic Ocean. Unfortunately, the air will eventually leak out of your cabin as well, and you’ll be unconscious, too, so you probably will not experience the thrill of hitting the tundra or the ocean at terminal velocity or feeling the wings rip off your plane—”

“You’re a sick, twisted bastard, Gryzlov. How dare you just snuff out the lives of all these innocent men and women on board?”

“You have one chance to save them, and I’ll tell you how you can do it, Mr. President,” Gryzlov went on. “You must hold your breath, run to the cockpit, take control of the plane, and then descend below three thousand meters so you can breathe. You would have to descend at, let’s see… seven thousand meters per minute to make it down in time. The way to do it: pull the power back to idle, lower the landing gear and flaps, lower the nose, and fly in a very steep banked turn. Then you can descend quickly without ripping the wings off. Remember, you’ll have about twenty seconds after you let your breath go to do it — that’s the average time of useful consciousness with your cabin altitude above eight thousand meters. For the sake of those fighter pilots who are trailing you, you must try it. If you crash, it will be a horrible and terribly tragic accident that will be witnessed by those brave fighter pilots that are feverishly trying to figure out some way to get you down safely. God, I hope they won’t be scarred for life. Good luck, Mr. President.”

“I suppose all of you were in on this from the beginning?” Sen’kov asked.

“Not right away, but by the time you told the Americans what my plan was, we all agreed that you could no longer lead this country forward,” Gryzlov said. “You have been tainted by corruption and have been forced to accede to threats from the United States to survive. We cannot sit by and watch you flush our future down the toilet. Everyone in this room is in agreement. Everyone else — the vice president, the prime minister, the speaker of the Duma, and a few members of the cabinet — well, they cast their vote with their last living breath. Just as you are about to do.

“Now, you had better get going, Mr. President,” Gryzlov said. “You’ll probably have to equalize pressure between the cabins to open your door. Just flip the red-guarded switch inside the panel on the port side of the door. According to our calculations, if you manage to get control of the plane, you will still have plenty of fuel to make it back to St. Petersburg, or the fighter pilots will lead you to an alternate base in Sweden or Finland with a very long runway. You can still be the hero here, Sen’kov. Oh, and you’d better dress warmly — it’s liable to be cold up front. Take several deep breaths before you open the cabin door. To disconnect the autopilot, simply turn the control wheel hard left or right — you’ll have to overpower the computer, but you can do it. Pull the throttles back all the way, start a steep turn — forty-five degrees of bank should do — find the gear handle and lower it. You can do it, Mr. President.”

“I’ll see you in hell, Gryzlov,” Sen’kov said. “To the rest of you — I hope you lie awake thinking about what you’ve done here tonight. The lives of every innocent man and woman on board this plane will be on your heads.” He slammed the phone down.

Sen’kov was shaking so hard he could hardly don his overcoat, hat, and gloves. As he dressed, he took several deep breaths to flush the carbon dioxide out of his lungs — after doing so he found he could hold his breath for about sixty seconds. He rehearsed the route he had to take several times in his head. After nearly passing out from hyperventilating, he found himself remarkably calm. This was possible, he thought. The smug bastard Gryzlov had given him everything he needed to know to do it.

The Russian president went to the door and tried it. Sure enough the higher pressure inside the VIP cabin was holding it closed. He located the pressure-relief switch in a panel behind the door, took several more deep breaths, held it, and flipped the switch. He heard a loud whisssh! and a thin fog immediately formed inside the VIP cabin. It was instantly thirty degrees colder. Oh, shit…

He flung open the door and started forward. The main cabin was like a freezer. Every man and woman inside had an oxygen mask on — and every one was soundly sleeping. How could anyone — even that sick, homicidal maniac Gryzlov — do such a thing to his own people?

It took him just ten seconds to reach the cockpit door — thankfully, it was not locked. The pilots, navigator, and flight engineer, all wearing quick-don oxygen masks, were unconscious. Sen’kov dragged the pilot out of his seat — and nearly jumped out of his skin when the pilot moaned; he’d forgotten that no one on board the plane was yet dead — sat down, and examined the controls and instruments. He recognized the artificial horizon and the altimeter — the metric one read eleven thousand six hundred meters — saw the red line on the airspeed indicator, and found the throttles and gear handle. He grasped the control wheel and tried to turn it, but the autopilot fought back. He turned harder, but it fought harder. He finally yanked it over with all his might. A red light marked master caution snapped on, and another red light marked autopilot disconnect came on. Forty seconds to go.

He pulled the power to idle, grabbed the gear handle and pulled it down. More red lights — he didn’t try to identify them. He grabbed the control wheel and pushed the nose over. The airspeed needle immediately crept toward the red line. What had Gryzlov said? Put the plane in a steep bank to keep the wings from ripping off? He turned the wheel left to the first large mark, thirty degrees, and the airspeed stopped increasing but the vertical speed increased. He put in more bank angle, to the next large mark, sixty degrees. The airspeed was actually slowing, and the descent rate was pegged at five thousand meters per minute. “Great! I can do this!”

Then he realized he hadn’t thought that last remark — he’d said it. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. The final clock was ticking now. He was surprised to find he could breathe normally — he thought he’d be gasping for air. Maybe he had more time than he thought.

Sen’kov increased the bank angle even more. Now the altimeter was really unwinding. The heading indicator was also spinning wildly, but he didn’t care. The airspeed needle was very much lower than the red line — just what he wanted. He pushed the nose even lower. My God, it was working! That rat bastard Gryzlov really underestimated him! He saw with glee that one of the fighter jets escorting him was visible out the copilot’s side window. Pretty damned fancy flying, he thought. He was in a very steep bank, but the fighter was right there with him as if they were welded together. The altimeter swung past eight thousand, then seven thousand, then six thousand meters, that fast — just a few more seconds and he would do it! Already he was feeling better — my God, he was going to make it!

There! Five thousand meters! He turned the control wheel to the right and was surprised to feel how easy it was to turn. The artificial horizon was spinning like a top that was about to fall off its pedestal. He could breathe! He’d done it! He’d saved everyone on board! Now he could get control of this thing, bring it home, and then exact his revenge on Gryzlov for trying to kill him. The copilot moaned loudly. Sen’kov prayed he would wake up. “Copilot! Help me!” Sen’kov screamed. “Wake up, damn you! Wake up! ”

Four thousand meters… three thousand… Sen’kov pulled back on the control column. It came back easily enough — maybe too easily. The control column was loose and floppy in his hands. It was hard to stay upright in his seat. Although he felt as if he had things pretty well under control, the plane felt as if it was still spinning. The