The Ghost Pattern

…65

Dylan Bishop ended the brief conversation with his boss with a long sigh of relief. He wasn’t very brave; he had to admit. He was just a guy who liked to fly planes, nothing more. His charismatic nature, combined with his excellent record of achievement as a pilot had gained him the cushy, generously compensated job of personal pilot for the banking magnate, Blake Bernard.

Cushy until now, that was. Mr. Bernard’s typical outings were mostly business trips to a variety of American cities, or, in some cases, leisure outings to destinations like Ibiza or Paris. But Russia? With 500 pounds of guns and ammo onboard? That was scary.

Dylan shuddered. He was glad it was over; he wasn’t cut for that kind of stuff. His boss had told him to get out of there, and he wasn’t going to waste another minute. Deciding on the quickest, most superficial preflight check of his career, he hopped out of the plane and quickly circled it, removing the wheel blocks and the air intake covers. He moved fast, feeling the tingle of fear chilling his blood and creeping up his spine. He ran his hands quickly on the wings’ edge of attack, making sure no dents had appeared. Nothing could be wrong with the plane anyway; he hadn’t left it for a minute since they had arrived, too terrified to set foot outside the eerily quiet hangar. No one had even come close to it since they had landed.

The Phenom had enough fuel to make it to Japan, and was ready for takeoff. He closed and locked the aircraft’s door, securing it for departure. Then he took his seat, buckled his harness, and did a quick instruments check before starting the engines. He smiled with relief as the engines revved to life. Everything was going to be fine; he was way past ready to leave that godforsaken, creepy place.

Unseen, engulfed in the darkness shrouding the hangar, a man sneaked quietly toward the landing gear with a block of plastic explosive in his hand. He almost swore aloud when the plane’s engines came to life, startling him. He crouched lower, and nearly fell when the plane started rolling. He was running out of time.

The plane started moving faster. He attached the PVV-5A explosive to the wheel strut while walking next to it. Then running next to it. He barely managed to roll the tape around the block of explosive a couple of times, and inserted the detonating pin while wholeheartedly running right behind the Phenom’s wheel, panting hard, barely able to keep up with the accelerating plane.

Then he stopped running, breathing hard; the job was done. In a few minutes, the PVV would detonate, taking the Phenom out of the sky in a raging blaze of fire. That was his plan, and he never failed.

Just as the Phenom took off, the poorly attached PVV block fell off the plane’s landing gear and hit the ground a few yards from where the man stood, short of breath, watching the plane soar. Upon impact, the explosive detonated, sending pieces of burning concrete high in the air, and leaving a smoldering crater behind. Khabarovsk Airport was gone.

The Phenom surged and retracted its landing gear, already too far from the explosion to be impacted in any way. Immediately after that, Dylan changed the heading, eager to leave Russian airspace as soon as possible. As the plane turned, he noticed the blaze on the ground, where the airport had been.

“Holy shit,” he said, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a trembling hand, “that’s what I’d call a timely departure.”