conspiratorially, “like I said
before, if there’s one thing we all love to do, it’s drink.” The comment took
Tracie by surprise and she laughed. “But since we can’t be doing that, the
next-best thing for us is flying. We love it, and believe me when I say this is
not work for us.”
He lowered his
voice, as Captain Berenger had done. “Even for Major Sourpuss in there,” he
said with a wink. “Now that the introductions are over,” he said, “feel free to
check out the rest of the aircraft. Try not to get lost back there, though.
I’ll let you know when it’s time to buckle in for departure.”
12
May 30, 1987
10:30 p.m. EST
Somewhere over the North
Atlantic
The B-52 floated across the sky
nearly five miles above the vast, empty expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The air
was smooth, with only the occasional light bump of turbulence—like a city bus
driving over a pothole—and the roar of the eight jet engines had been muted in
level flight to a steady thrumming that was felt more than heard inside the
cabin.
At the controls,
Tom Mitchell felt as though his stomach might launch its contents all over the
instruments at any moment. The gentle rocking of a large aircraft in flight had
never affected him in this way before. But then he had never been about to
murder four people—including himself—before, either.
He could barely
think straight. He was a traitor, although no one would ever discover that
devastating fact. Crashing the BUFF into the Atlantic after killing everyone
aboard would eliminate any evidence of foul play, satisfying the Russians and
sparing his family. There was no radar coverage hundreds of miles off the
United States’ coast, so by the time air traffic controllers realized the B-52
was missing, most of the aircraft and debris would already be beneath the
water’s surface, well on their way to the ocean floor.
Add to that the
fact that the area to be searched would be massive, thousands of square miles
of uninterrupted watery desolation, and Tom Mitchell knew the odds of his
treachery being discovered were astronomically long.
So that was the
plan. Crash the airplane into the ocean.
The problem was
that Tom was having a hard time executing the plan, not to mention everyone aboard
the aircraft. It wasn’t that he was afraid of dying—not exactly. Anyone making
a career out of military service eventually found a way to reconcile the
possibility of sudden violent death. Not to do so was to risk a mental
breakdown. Tom had long ago made peace with that concept.
Murdering three
innocent people, though, had never been part of those calculations. There was a
world of difference between being blown out of the sky by an enemy missile
during a bombing run and placing his service weapon inside his mouth and
pulling the trigger after first shooting everyone else aboard an airplane. So
he delayed the inevitable, stomach jumping and rolling while he desperately
searched for another way out.
Working with the
KGB had been simple at first. A Godsend. He had raked in some serious cash—two
grand a month was a lot of money for a United States Air Force officer—in
return for passing along what often seemed like relatively harmless minutia:
aircraft specs or division personnel rosters or armament information.
Tom wasn’t stupid—he
had known he was crossing a line from which he could never return when he
relayed that first bit of intel to the Russians, but keeping a German mistress
was damned expensive. Besides, serving in the USAF was boring as hell. Acting
as a go-between—he refused to consider himself a spy, although late at night,
unable to sleep, tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling, he had to
acknowledge that was exactly what he was—brought a bit of excitement into his
life.
But that was before,
when Soviet expectations were low. Last night’s phone call had hammered home
with crystal clarity the horrible mistake he had made. He had been tempted to
tell Boris
before, if there’s one thing we all love to do, it’s drink.” The comment took
Tracie by surprise and she laughed. “But since we can’t be doing that, the
next-best thing for us is flying. We love it, and believe me when I say this is
not work for us.”
He lowered his
voice, as Captain Berenger had done. “Even for Major Sourpuss in there,” he
said with a wink. “Now that the introductions are over,” he said, “feel free to
check out the rest of the aircraft. Try not to get lost back there, though.
I’ll let you know when it’s time to buckle in for departure.”
12
May 30, 1987
10:30 p.m. EST
Somewhere over the North
Atlantic
The B-52 floated across the sky
nearly five miles above the vast, empty expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The air
was smooth, with only the occasional light bump of turbulence—like a city bus
driving over a pothole—and the roar of the eight jet engines had been muted in
level flight to a steady thrumming that was felt more than heard inside the
cabin.
At the controls,
Tom Mitchell felt as though his stomach might launch its contents all over the
instruments at any moment. The gentle rocking of a large aircraft in flight had
never affected him in this way before. But then he had never been about to
murder four people—including himself—before, either.
He could barely
think straight. He was a traitor, although no one would ever discover that
devastating fact. Crashing the BUFF into the Atlantic after killing everyone
aboard would eliminate any evidence of foul play, satisfying the Russians and
sparing his family. There was no radar coverage hundreds of miles off the
United States’ coast, so by the time air traffic controllers realized the B-52
was missing, most of the aircraft and debris would already be beneath the
water’s surface, well on their way to the ocean floor.
Add to that the
fact that the area to be searched would be massive, thousands of square miles
of uninterrupted watery desolation, and Tom Mitchell knew the odds of his
treachery being discovered were astronomically long.
So that was the
plan. Crash the airplane into the ocean.
The problem was
that Tom was having a hard time executing the plan, not to mention everyone aboard
the aircraft. It wasn’t that he was afraid of dying—not exactly. Anyone making
a career out of military service eventually found a way to reconcile the
possibility of sudden violent death. Not to do so was to risk a mental
breakdown. Tom had long ago made peace with that concept.
Murdering three
innocent people, though, had never been part of those calculations. There was a
world of difference between being blown out of the sky by an enemy missile
during a bombing run and placing his service weapon inside his mouth and
pulling the trigger after first shooting everyone else aboard an airplane. So
he delayed the inevitable, stomach jumping and rolling while he desperately
searched for another way out.
Working with the
KGB had been simple at first. A Godsend. He had raked in some serious cash—two
grand a month was a lot of money for a United States Air Force officer—in
return for passing along what often seemed like relatively harmless minutia:
aircraft specs or division personnel rosters or armament information.
Tom wasn’t stupid—he
had known he was crossing a line from which he could never return when he
relayed that first bit of intel to the Russians, but keeping a German mistress
was damned expensive. Besides, serving in the USAF was boring as hell. Acting
as a go-between—he refused to consider himself a spy, although late at night,
unable to sleep, tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling, he had to
acknowledge that was exactly what he was—brought a bit of excitement into his
life.
But that was before,
when Soviet expectations were low. Last night’s phone call had hammered home
with crystal clarity the horrible mistake he had made. He had been tempted to
tell Boris
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