Countdown to Midnight

Twelve

A twin-engine An-72AT cargo plane sat on the airfield’s long concrete apron. Painted in the subdued white and gray colors of the Russian Air Force, it was dwarfed by the dozen or so much larger Tu-160M2 swing-wing supersonic bombers lined up nearby. Dubbed the “Cheburashka” after a famous Soviet-era children’s cartoon animal with huge eyes and huge ears, the An-72AT had two enormous jet nacelles mounted above its wings and very close to the fuselage. The extra lift provided by engine exhaust blowing over its wings made it a short-takeoff-and-landing aircraft able to operate from rough, improvised airstrips.

Cradling AK-12 combat rifles, security troops in body armor formed a perimeter around the plane. No one without express written authorization from the base commander could approach within a hundred meters of the An-72AT’s open rear ramp and forward fuselage door. The officer in charge, a major, walked slowly around the ring of soldiers, making sure they were alert and prepared for anything.

Abruptly, his phone beeped. He answered it impatiently. “Yes? Mishnev here.”

“This is Captain Storchak at the main gate, sir. The convoy from the Saratov-Sixty-Three Weapons Storage Complex has cleared our position and is heading your way.”

“Understood, Storchak. We’re ready.” The major ended the call and stuffed his phone back into a pouch clipped to his battle dress. Briskly, he rubbed his gloved hands together trying to work some warmth into his fingers. Spring was still a few weeks away and it was bitterly cold.

“Here they come,” one of his men called out. The major peered toward the airfield’s southwestern edge. There, about a kilometer away, he saw the weapons convoy turn off an approach road and drive onto the apron’s wide, concrete surface. A column of several heavy-duty Ural-5323 cargo trucks lumbered along behind a single, olive-drab GAZ Hunter four-wheel drive out in front. They were closely escorted by lethal-looking, low-slung BTR-82 wheeled armored fighting vehicles.

The jeep-sized Hunter accelerated ahead of the rest of the slower-moving convoy and pulled up in front of the major. He stiffened to attention and saluted as two officers, a colonel and a lieutenant colonel, swung down out of the vehicle. Their shoulder flashes bore the badge of Russia’s 12th Main Directorate — a red shield topped by a silver mace inside a stylized atom symbol.

The senior officer returned his salute rather causally. “These are your troops, Major?”

“Yes, sir.”

The older man nodded abruptly. “Right, then. I need you to widen your security perimeter. Nobody gets within two hundred meters of my trucks or that aircraft. Not your regimental commander. Not the general in charge of this base. Not even the Archangel Michael himself. Is that clear?”

The major nodded. “It is, sir.” He hid his irritation. The 12th Main Directorate’s specialists — directly responsible to the Minister of Defense for Russia’s strategic and tactical nuclear weapons stockpiles — had a widely known habit of throwing their weight around when dealing with line officers. But there was nothing to be gained from pushing back. Their expertise and the overwhelming importance of their mission made them effectively untouchable by anyone outside their direct chain of command. Instead, he snapped another parade-ground-quality salute and spun around to shout new orders to his men.

Obeying immediately, they spread out across the airfield apron — adopting wider intervals as they moved farther away from the An-72 cargo plane.

Colonel Mikhail Krylov concealed his satisfaction as the Engels-2 security troops dispersed to their new stations. Even from a hundred meters, there hadn’t been much danger that the major, his junior officers, or any of their enlisted men would notice anything amiss. But why take unnecessary chances?

He turned to watch the rest of his truck convoy arrive. The big 8x8 cargo carriers pulled in and parked close to the An-72’s tail section. Their armored BTR-82 escorts rolled into position to ring the aircraft, well inside the loose perimeter formed by the ground troops. Their turret-mounted autocannons swiveled outward, covering every possible approach to this section of the airfield. If any of the base security soldiers noticed they were also covered by the arcs of fire from those 30mm cannons, they kept their mouths shut. When it came to protecting the powerful weapons in their charge, the 12th Main Directorate’s personnel trusted no one.

The rumbling noise made by the Ural truck motors died away as their drivers switched off. For a long moment, absolute silence reigned, without any sign of movement among the parked vehicles.

Krylov turned to his ranking subordinate, Lieutenant Colonel Potkin. “Note the time carefully, Andrei.”

“I’m ready, Colonel,” the other man assured him. He held an old-fashioned stopwatch in one hand.

Nodding, Krylov pulled a whistle out of his breast pocket and blew three shrill blasts. In response, the officers and men waiting aboard his trucks instantly swung into action — clambering down out of cabs and over back tailboards. Within minutes, they had lowered a pair of forklifts out of one of the trucks and were using them to unload sealed metal crates from the others. Every green-painted crate bore radiological warning labels indicating it contained a live nuclear warhead or bomb. Each also had a unique serial number to identify the precise weapon stored inside.

Krylov watched closely while one of the forklifts carefully hoisted the first of the unloaded weapons containers. Slowly, it trundled up the An-72’s rear ramp and into the cargo compartment. A group of his officers and senior enlisted men shepherded the forklift at every step. As far as the air base command staff and most of his own subordinates knew, this was a strategic readiness exercise designed to test the Saratov-63 depot’s ability to rapidly transfer its stored weapons in the event of a major international crisis. If events appeared to be sliding toward all-out war, large numbers of those nuclear missile warheads and air-dropped bombs were supposed to be flown to the different airfields and missile complexes dispersed across Russia’s vast territory.

Today’s drill was expected to evaluate how well the 12th Main Directorate’s procedures and personnel performed under pressure. That was true as far as it went, Krylov knew. But the real purpose of this exercise was actually a carefully hidden secret, one known only to a small, tight-knit group… starting at the very top, with Russia’s President Zhdanov, and working down from there to Krylov and two of his junior officers.

Inside the An-72’s spacious cargo compartment, Major Anatoly Yakemenko supervised the crews tasked with stowing the heavy crates and securing them to the aircraft’s deck. They were following a carefully drawn up loading plan. Each container was assigned its own precisely calculated place inside the plane. Too much weight stowed either forward or aft of the cargo jet’s center of gravity could lead to a crash — an unthinkable prospect for an aircraft that would be carrying megatons of fission and fusion weapons if this exercise were the real thing.

“That’s the last of them, Major,” a young lieutenant reported, pointing to where a group of senior NCOs were methodically tightening the restraints used to latch a crate into position on the An-72’s deck.

Yakemenko nodded. Under his careful eye, the crew checked its work and then stepped back. He tugged hard at one of the straps, making sure there wasn’t any excess give. Satisfied, he spoke into his handheld radio, “Colonel, this is Yakemenko. The loading phase is complete.”

“Roger that, Anatoly. Your crews have worked hard and done very well,” Krylov responded. “As a reward, we’ll give everyone a thirty-minute rest break before concluding the exercise.”

The colonel’s whistle shrilled again, this time ordering his men back outside the cargo aircraft. Yakemenko stayed right where he was. Instead, he watched through narrowed eyes while all of the others trotted down the An-72’s ramp. They were in a hurry to get back to the relative warmth of their trucks.

When the last man was off the ramp and out of sight, he moved to the cargo compartment’s forward bulkhead and rapped twice on a locked door that sealed off the An-72’s crew area and cockpit. It opened at his signal, revealing a group of four solidly built men in Air Force flight suits. The uniforms were a cover, since he knew these men actually worked for the Raven Syndicate.

“All clear?” one of them asked.

Yakemenko nodded. “You’ve got twenty-nine minutes,” he warned. He stepped aside to clear the way.

Without bothering to reply, the four Raven Syndicate operatives bent over and picked up what looked exactly like another weapons crate from inside the An-72’s crew area. Straining under its weight, they muscled it awkwardly through the door and into the cargo compartment. Carefully, gingerly, they lowered the heavy container to the deck. Any loud noises now would be disastrous.

Captain Leonid Kazmin, the youngest of the select group of 12th Main Directorate officers now secretly in Pavel Voronin’s pay, followed them out. He flashed Yakemenko a jumpy, nervous half smile. “Is my special package ready, Anatoly?”

Yakemenko pointed to one of the first warhead crates that had been loaded aboard the An-72. It was tied down not far from the cargo compartment’s forward bulkhead. “Right over there, Leonid. And it’s all yours.”

With a tight nod, Kazmin signaled his work crew. As quickly and quietly as possible, they loosened the straps holding the real crate to the deck. Once the container was free, they lugged it across the compartment, faces purpling with effort, and set it down next to the duplicate they’d just brought out from concealment.

Kazmin knelt beside the two crates, making one last check. First, he compared the placement and appearance of their respective radiological warning labels. They matched perfectly. So did the serial numbers prominently displayed on each container. Just as promised and planned. He breathed out in relief.

Scrambling back to his feet, he gestured for his men to replace the real weapons container with its phony twin. Sweating, they moved the fake crate into position and refastened all the straps and tiedowns.

Impatiently, Yakemenko watched Kazmin and the others finish up by manhandling the genuine container back through the door into the cargo jet’s crew area. When it closed and latched shut behind them, he quickly ran his eyes over the rows of crates secured to the An-72’s deck. Nothing seemed out of place. Mentally, he crossed his fingers. Now it was time to find out if all their careful planning would pay off. Presidential authorization or not, Voronin had made his expectations of absolute secrecy in this carefully contrived shell game abundantly clear.

An hour later, with the truck convoy safely on its return trip to the Saratov-63 Nuclear Weapons Storage Complex, Pavel Voronin watched the An-72 taxi onto the rightmost of the airfield’s two long runways. It held in place there for a few moments, waiting for permission to take off.

“Freight Seven-Two, Engels Tower. Winds light at zero-one-five, cleared for takeoff on runway zero-four right. Safe flight,” he heard the controller radio.

“Thank you, Tower. Freight Seven-Two, cleared for takeoff, zero four right,” the cargo jet’s pilot acknowledged.

The An-72 ran its twin turbofan engines up to full power, released its brakes and rolled down the runway — picking up speed until at last it lumbered heavily into the air. Slowly, it climbed higher and banked to the south, turning onto a flight path that would carry it high above the vast open steppes east of the Volga River.

With a gratified smile, Voronin lowered his binoculars and glanced at the Air Force general standing at his side in the Engels-2 Control Tower. “That was a most impressive exercise, General Turgenev,” he said politely. “I very much appreciate being allowed to observe it.”

Turgenev, the commander of this vital strategic bomber base, seemed unsure of the best tone to take with his unusual guest. Only a direct order from President Zhdanov himself had persuaded him to allow a mere civilian to witness this classified nuclear weapons drill. He cleared his throat. “You’re very welcome… Mr. Voronin,” he grunted at last, opting for a measure of courtesy he would ordinarily have reserved only for high-ranking political dignitaries. Highly irregular as this visit was, the president’s intervention strongly suggested this man Voronin was much too powerful to risk offending.

Voronin ignored the interplay of emotions crossing the general’s craggy face. Instead, he raised his binoculars again, refocusing on the now-tiny dot of the An-72 as it flew onward — bound for the Shahrud Missile Test Facility in northeastern Iran.

After months of careful preparation, MIDNIGHT was moving into high gear.