The Bonds of Family — ch1
Course Change — The End of Flight 360
“I’m telling you something feels wrong, cap,” the co-pilot said.
“Valletta Tower, this is one delta three. Request clearance to land,” the co-pilot of Trans World International asked for the 4th time in the last two minutes, “Valletta Tower, this is one delta three. Request clearance to land.”
“There’s nothin but static down there,” navigator Taylor Johnson said.
Taylor, usually a calm professional, felt a cold sweat spread across his back as he reached into his lapel pocket, pulled out the fuse he had removed an hour ago, and put it back into the spot for the multi-frequency radio. His real name was Ivan Immetevich, a defector, formally of the Union of Soviet Socialists Republic. He was recently found by the second directorate of the KGB and forced to obey a fatal set of orders or suffer the death of his mother and father back home in Gorky.
“One delta three sixty, Valletta tower, you are cleared to land on runway two, “ the air traffic controller replied.
“Harry, this can’t be right,” the co-pilot said. The direction of the tower signal was off a good 15 degrees, “We’re off course.”
“Is that GPS the one that malfunctioned over Rome last week?” chief pilot Tony Wasse asked.
“Same.”
“Let it go. We have tower confirmation of our landing position. I can see the lights..now. Look.”
“One Delta Three, Valletta tower, we have you in sight. You are cleared for landing. Confirm when you are wheels down.”
“Valletta tower, One Delta three complying.”
Tony Wasse was too busy with the landing checklist to notice the high cliffs and deep valley below was different from the tropical look of a Mediterranean island nation. His co-pilot was trying to look down. It was night, but the gibbous moon was bright in a clear sky. He only saw large rocks and tan clay and sandy brown clearings.
“Harry, something doesn’t look right down there,” the co-pilot said. He began looking straight ahead and down, “What the hell is that?”
“What’s what?”
“Harry, when does a modern fucking runway not have a macadam surface! Pull up!”
Chief pilot Wasse panicked but was too late to notice. He was wheels-down and began to feather the turbine’s impellers when he saw two high-powered lights heading straight for them.
Two men on top of a metal tower opened fire with multi-burst MK87 flare cutters that tore through the cockpit, killing and incinerating the three-man crew but leaving the rest of the plane intact. The locked cabin door was bulletproof. The aircraft rolled at high speed, but as the front wheels rolled over a cable, it was pulled up to be caught by the rear landing wheels connected to two ten-wheeled tractors rolling at 10 miles per hour in their lowest gears. As the plane climbed the incline of the runway, the two armored personnel carriers engaged and brought the aircraft to a halt. The Colonel didn’t think it would work and owed his crew many bottles of good vodka.
A squad of men rose from behind their transports as the plane stopped. The men were all dressed in white outfits designating the Valletta International Emergency Response Team or VIERT. The men spread out along the plane.
As the emergency exit chutes were deployed, people started coming down the inflatable ramps into the hands of the men. One tall blonde man was looking at a photograph and gritting his teeth. He looked up in relief as his target, a tall, handsome gentleman not unlike Cesar Romero in Ocean’s Eleven, emerged from the aircraft and slid down the chute. As soon as the man’s feet touched the ground, he began to look closely at his surroundings. Will Gordon was 52 years old, born in South Boston but raised in Southborough, Massachusetts, as a ward of the state. His parents gave him up at an early age. He grew up on the Sheriff’s farm with strict rules and sometimes violent foster parents who would beat him and the other enslaved children. He would work all day long, except for school, which he excelled at, and was forced to eat dinner on the unwashed plates of his foster parents and their children after their meal. No one came to their rescue from the state or local governments. He would remain there until he joined the Navy at 17. His street smarts were honed to a razor-sharp edge, and he knew there was a problem when the plane touched down. Malta was one of his favorite places in the world, and this was not it. He remained calm and looked for the ambassador’s daughter, but she was ahead of him and heading for transport with the others. Will should have known the East Germans would try something this big. She had too many secrets to tell, and he knew them all. It was his business, and he did it well.
A tall blond man approached, took Will’s arm, and said, “Right this way, sir.”
Will asked, “Where are they going?”
“Same place as you but the Prime Minister wanted you in safe hands as soon as possible.”
“So you are from the German embassy?” Will asked.
“Of course,” the tall blond said, opened a door, and eased Will into the Mercedes transport.
Sitting comfortably among five other men, Will listened to the radio transmissions. The language was German, but the dialects were completely off. Will looked around and saw that the runway was on top of a mountain, a long plateau just long enough and angled enough to land the commercial airliner at full speed. Looking at the plane, he noticed the ridge line and steep descent.
“This isn’t a rescue, is it?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Gordon, this is day one of your new life.”
Will did not feel the needle pressed into his neck as he slipped away into darkness.
This fourth man withdrew the needle and laid the American on the seat. He was sweating profusely despite the cold night air. He spat on the ground and looked at the other men in the transport.
A red-haired sergeant came running up to the transport with his MK47 in hand. He looked at his Captain, Sergey Antonin, saluted, and put his weapon behind his back using his sling.
The captain said, “Place this man in my car and stay with him.”
The sergeant called over two men, picked up the American, and moved toward the car.
Major Ivan Dotoyevski of the Russian special purpose regiments or Spetsnaz came up behind the captain. He was smoking a clove cigarette. He drew slowly but with strength, released a thick cloud of smoke, and said, “This is bad business. When we die, we go straight to hell!”
The captain knew enough to nod his head and say nothing. He knew when his Comrade Major was in an evil mood.
It had been less than 10 minutes since landing. The cold air didn’t have enough time to hit the shocked passengers, who were kept tightly together by emergency response team members.
“If everyone will come this way, there’s a bus waiting at the front of the plane,” a senior emergency response member said.
All 36 remaining passengers of One Delta 360 boarded an ancient-looking bus, but not before looking at the smoked and blackened cockpit above them. Thankfully only 37 seats out of 80 were filled, and no children were aboard except for a 16-year-old girl.
“Everyone, please find a seat together or in the aisle, and we will be off in just a minute,” Captain Antonin announced. He smiled and got off the bus. All the passengers were looking forward as a large transport bumped them from behind and pushed the bus and its occupants over the canyon wall into a ravine six thousand feet below. The high-pitched screams could be heard all the way down.
“Prestupleniye!” the sergeant said to his comrade (crime), “Why not a gulag?”
“That is why,” his colleague said and lowered his head in shame.
The men looked at the plane. The hose to the left wing’s fuel cell was removed. Without a word, the Colonel gestured to the aircraft as a transport pushed One Delta 360 into the ravine. It took a few seconds, but the crash and twenty pounds of C4 ignited 1000 pounds of jet fuel. The sound echoed throughout the valley below.
“We should be shot.”
The men pulled off their white emergency suits and emerged in their uniforms.
“Why so many? This makes me sick,” the corporal whispered to his comrade sergeant.
“Do not argue with orders. Move out.”
The senior man watched his junior comply but felt the bile rising in his throat. “We are dead men,” he whispered, knowing he had started the rise of the Soviet star again or the end of his beloved USSR.
