Nighthawk

60

Constantin Davidov sat in the copilot’s chair watching the pilot and flight engineer run through their tasks. Blackjack 2 was performing flawlessly. “How’s our payload doing?” he asked.

The flight engineer looked over his board and cycled through the video cameras that were pointed at the Nighthawk. “Payload secure. No sign of any flutter.”

All of them were concerned about a repeat of what happened to Blackjack 1.

“Change course to three-five-zero,” Davidov said.

Major Timonovski glanced back at him from the captain’s seat. “Three-five-zero? That will take us to Cuba. I thought we were refueling over Venezuela and heading home.”

“That was the original flight plan, but this aircraft has been through a great deal since then. There is too much risk. We are to land at Manzanillo. An Antonov 124 transport will meet us there. It’s large enough to carry the Nighthawk internally. It will be safer that way. And it will allow us to move unseen by American eyes.”

The pilot nodded and set in the new course.

“Have you ever been to Cuba?” Davidov asked. “Either of you?”

“Not I,” Timonovski said.

The flight engineer shook his head. “Nor have I. Have you been there, comrade?”

“Many times,” Davidov said. “The first when I was a young man. A thousand years ago, it seems.”

They smiled at that. And Davidov was glad to see their spirits perking up. Both men had appeared so gaunt when they’d arrived at the airfield that Davidov had wondered if they were fit to fly. The Falconer had badly mistreated them. Once they got back to Moscow, Davidov would have to decide what to do about that. In the meantime, he wanted to reward the men for a job well done.

“You’ll stay in Havana for two weeks, recuperating. Then you’ll bring Blackjack 2 home and we’ll put it in a museum. It is my hope you will find the women and weather as comforting as I once did.”

“Will you be staying with us?” the pilot asked.

“No,” Davidov said. “I’ll be transferring to the Antonov to accompany our prize safely home. It’s high time we put this operation to—”

Davidov swallowed the last word. Perhaps it was the change in his posture, but he thought he’d felt a subtle thud reverberate through the metal floor. As he waited, the vibration came again and then once more.

Now that he’d clued in to it, Davidov could feel it continuously:… Thud… Thud… Thud… A few seconds between each impact.

He pulled off the noise-cancelling headset he wore. The whistle of air over the skin of the bomber became instantly louder, but so did the dull, repetitive impact. “Is the Nighthawk secure?”

The flight engineer ran all his checks once more. “No strain on the lockdown bolts. No sign of flutter. It’s secure and behaving perfectly.”

Davidov continued to detect the vibration. “Do you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“Something’s broken loose,” Davidov said. He reached over and pulled the engineer’s headset off. “Listen.”

The weary flight engineer cocked his head, straining to hear the sound. A life around jet aircraft had dulled his hearing, but he picked it up just the same. He put his hand on the control panel and then slid it downward until it touched the floor. “It’s inside.”

Davidov felt so, too. “We can’t afford a system failure. Not now.”

The flight engineer checked his board. “Everything’s operating perfectly. It has to be something we don’t have a sensor on. I’ll go look around.”

The engineer slipped out of the shoulder straps, grabbed a flashlight and stepped to the cockpit door. Opening it, he stepped through and into the aft section of the airplane.

Davidov followed, grabbing a flashlight of his own.

The aircraft was huge, larger than the American B-1, which it was based on. It had a cavernous bomb bay and other empty crawl spaces.

He watched as the flight engineer checked one inspection panel after another and then lingered near a small crane that was used to hoist material up through the bomb bay doors. “Anything?”

The engineer was a long way back. He turned around and shook his head.

The banging was closer now, Davidov could feel it through his feet. “What about the landing gear?”

He turned, looking for an inspection port, and heard another bang, far louder than the rest. He swung back around to see the egress hatch in the floor burst open.

He pointed his flashlight toward it and saw a man with silver hair pop up through the open hatchway. He had a large pistol in his hand. An American HK45.

“In the name of Saint Peter!” Davidov exclaimed.

“Actually, my name is Austin,” the man said, climbing out onto the deck. Another man popped up after him. “And this is Zavala.”

Davidov was familiar with the names. “NUMA.”

Austin nodded and stood while Zavala tossed out a metal bar he’d used to bash open the sealed hatch and then climbed free.

“You guys really should have a handle on the inside,” Austin said in a droll American attempt at humor. “Or at least a doorbell.”

“What are you doing on my plane?” Davidov blurted.

“We’re here to prevent you from making a very big mistake,” Austin said.

Davidov felt a wave of anger growing in him, but he realized the opportunity at hand. The Americans had been focused on him this entire time. They hadn’t seen the flight engineer sneaking up on them from the other direction.

“The mistake is yours,” Davidov shouted.

The flight engineer lunged at them, swinging the flashlight. Zavala saw him at the last moment and dodged the blow. He threw a quick counterpunch and knocked the weary engineer to the ground.

The distraction lasted just long enough. Davidov sprinted forward, rushed into the cockpit and then turned and slammed the door shut. It pressure-sealed tightly.

“What happened?” Timonovski shouted.

Davidov pressed against the door, looking through the small round peephole in the center. “We have boarders,” he said.