The Ghost Pattern

…7

Andrew Klapov checked his watch nervously, for the third time within five minutes, then checked the cockpit instrument panel again. Everything was normal on their flight to San Francisco. Altitude, 36,000 feet and holding. Vector 062, as per the flight plan.

Captain Gibson had switched the aircraft to autopilot soon after takeoff, and was flipping through the pages of a magazine, reading quietly. Gibson rarely engaged his copilot in idle conversation. Klapov had always suspected Gibson despised him, particularly because of his numerous flings with flight attendants. But Gibson and his opinions were about to become irrelevant.

Klapov pushed away the coffee cup delivered earlier by Lila, and took a small thermos from his case. Who knows what that bitch might have spiced up that coffee with? He wasn’t going to risk it. Some of these broads never understood their role in the grand scheme of things, and had the temporary delusion that they somehow mattered. Strangely enough, Klapov found himself entertained by Lila’s bitterness, almost flattered. Ha! If she only knew, she’d probably stop trying to do whatever she was trying to do with her snide remarks and snotty attitude. There was no way in hell he was ever going to care about anything she did or said. In his mind, women were single-use, consumer goods, and he was an insatiable consumer with an eclectic taste. He enjoyed the hunt more than even the sex, and once a woman had fallen prey to his charms, she simply ceased to exist, as he moved on to his next target.

Klapov checked his watch again; two more minutes had passed. It was about time. He checked the horizon line, and this time he saw it. Small, barely visible at first, another jet was approaching.

Then his satellite phone rang, a first ever in all of Klapov’s flight hours with Captain Gibson.

“What’s that?” Gibson asked, surprised.

“Just my phone,” Klapov replied, then picked up the call. “Hello?”

Gibson frowned, and Klapov turned slightly toward him, keeping a close eye on every move the captain made.

“Yes, I can see it, I’m ready to proceed,” Klapov said, before ending the call.

“Proceed with what?” Gibson asked, frowning.

“We have traffic,” Klapov said, instead of replying to Captain Gibson’s question, and pointing toward the approaching Challenger.

Gibson turned to observe the approaching aircraft, and didn’t notice Klapov pulling a silenced gun.

“I’ll call it in,” Gibson said, and reached for his comm.

“No, you won’t,” Klapov replied, and then pulled the trigger twice, in rapid sequence.

Gibson’s head fell on his chest, but he remained strapped in his seat, held back by his harness. Blood started dripping from the two bullet holes in his chest.

Klapov took the Boeing 747–400 off autopilot and, with smooth maneuvers, aligned it with the Challenger, as the other aircraft flew in position right above the Boeing. Klapov changed vector to 070, turning slightly southeast and leaving the assigned flight path. Then he took out a small, encrypted radio.

“Challenger, do you read?”

Static crackled for a second, then a strongly accented voice confirmed.

“Read you clear.”

“Maintain course and speed, and wait for my signal to switch transponders,” Klapov instructed.

“Copy that.”

He put the radio down, and called the flight attendant. Before he could do anything, he had to deal with the passengers.

Lila put in her code and opened the cockpit door, then froze as soon as she saw the blood pooling at Gibson’s feet. She gasped.

“You bastard,” she said, “what did you do? What did you fucking do?” The pitch of her voice climbed as she spoke.

“Lila baby, you have two options,” Klapov said, patting the handle of his gun. “You can go to pilot heaven with dear old Gibson, or you can do your job and keep the passengers safe. What will it be?”

She clenched her jaws and pursed her lips, staring at him with eyes glinting with pure hatred. The bitch’s contempt was entertaining.

“What do you want?” she finally asked.

“I want you to tell the passengers we’re detouring a little to avoid some turbulence, maximum delay 30 minutes or so. I want them strapped in their seats, quiet, off their fucking sat phones. Flight attendants too. Let’s try to avoid more people being shot as part of today’s flight plan, all right? Can you do that for me, baby?”

His charm wasn’t working on her any more, that was obvious. She would have probably killed him on the spot if she caught a chance. Somehow, despite the job he had to do, the thought of Lila trying to kill him gave him an erection. He almost smiled.

“Why are you doing this?” Lila asked. “What are you doing?”

“Just taking a little detour, nothing more,” he said, grabbing hold of his gun and releasing the safety.

Lila flinched. “All right,” she said in a trembling voice, “I will tell them. Then what? You’re gonna kill us all? I knew you were a prick, but this?”

“Then you keep the fuck quiet and keep everyone calm, seated, buckled, and safe,” he said, patronizing her.

Sheesh! Women and their entitled questions, he thought. “Remember, I don’t really need you to do this job,” he added, liking her reaction to his threat.

She looked past him and noticed the shadow of the Challenger.

“Who are they?”

“Doesn’t matter. Go!” Klapov gestured her with his gun to get out of the cockpit.

Moments later, he heard Lila making the turbulence announcement through the PA.

Then he picked up the radio.

“Challenger, do you read?”

“Go ahead,” the heavily accented voice replied through static crackles.

“Ready to kill transponder. Fire your transponder up, on my count. Three, two, one, go!”

About two hundred miles away, a Tokyo ATC radar operator saw the beacon code for flight XA233 flicker for a second, then continue on its path across the Pacific. He thought nothing of it.