Category Five (13 page)

“I'd have done the same thing.” Donovan knew he would have done whatever it took to get the door open and the raft into the water. “I think you should get back up here. This throws a little wrinkle in our plans.”

“I'm on my way.”

Donovan leveled off underneath the overcast and slowed down. He frowned as he studied their fuel situation. Without the ability to pressurize they couldn't climb to a fuel-efficient high altitude. Their situation had just gone from serious to critical. In a burst of understanding, Donovan made a wide turn to the west. Alaska was now out of the question. The Russian coast was their only hope of finding dry land.

“God, it's cold out there.” Michael slid into the cockpit, blowing into his cupped hands. He quickly took his seat and surveyed the instruments. A moment later, he shot Donovan a startled look. He cocked his head as he grasped the plan.

“It's all we have,” Donovan said as he shrugged. “I've never been to Russia. Have you?”

“Uh, yeah. Go there all the time,” Michael quipped. “Any idea where in Russia we're headed?”

“I thought I'd leave you something to do.” Donovan squinted at the dull light from the setting sun.

Michael grabbed the charts and began the process of finding an airport close enough for them to land. “I just hope we don't get our hands slapped for taking a plane full of sophisticated computers and technology into Russia. I seem to remember a memo to that effect once upon a time.”

“I wrote that memo. You actually read it? I'm impressed.” Donovan knew Michael had a huge aversion to paperwork. But he also remembered the meeting he had with the head of the National Security Agency. The nature of their high-tech mission put them in a classified materials status.

“It was an accident,” Michael replied as he quickly calculated a rough distance on the chart. “I thought it was a party invitation.”

“James, you still there?” Donovan transmitted.

“Yeah, I'm here.”

“We're going to have to land this thing on Russian soil. I suggest you throw out anything you don't want to end up in the
Kremlin. But leave the satellite up-link array as it is. It's our only way to reach the outside world.”

“Are you sure?” James replied. “It's on the list of equipment to destroy.”

“I'll take full responsibility,” Donovan said quietly.

“Turn twenty degrees to the left,” Michael reported. “I'm going to load the coordinates for the nearest landfall. I'm thinking we should get over land as quickly as we can. Seems our life rafts fell out of the plane.”

“You did good work back there.” Donovan turned to the new heading.

“I just hope we helped those poor souls.” Michael shot Donovan a sideways glance. “I also hope the Russians take that in consideration when they impound our plane and put us in jail. I seem to have forgotten to get a Russian visa or any landing permits before we left.”

“We'll be fine.” Donovan scanned the distant horizon, then looked at their fuel status. He hoped he was correct.

“Okay.” Michael looked up from the FMS. “Our new destination is Beringovskij. Since our database excludes Russia, it's the best I could do. Hopefully they have an airport, and the weather isn't too ugly. But most of all I hope they have some vodka. I think I might want a drink when we get on the ground.”

Donovan gave Michael a quick smile. “First round is on me. Now that we have a destination in mind, I think we should use the link with Elmendorf to let everyone know what we're doing. Maybe they can run some interference for us?”

“I like that plan. In the meantime, maybe you can practice your Russian and start looking for MIGs.” Michael switched to the cabin intercom and began to explain to the men in back what was needed.

A long twenty minutes passed before the rugged coast of eastern Russia came into view. They'd done everything they could think of to prepare themselves for their unannounced
arrival. Elmendorf had promised to try to reach the Russians. They were able to confirm that Beringovskij did have an airport, though the condition and facilities were suspect. Donovan continued to fly below the overcast. More than anything he wished they'd have at least spotted one ship headed out toward the crew of the submarine. But the ocean was as empty as the sky.

“Jesus, it's getting dark, but I think I can see some smoke or something off to the right.” Michael pointed just off the nose.” On the other side of that hill. Can you see it?”

“I'm going to slow down and go right at the town. Hopefully we'll see the airport.” Donovan's attention was glued to their fuel status as he nudged the Gulfstream into a gentle turn. They could only stay in the air for another fifteen minutes at the most.

“Don't fly low enough for them to shoot at us,” Michael joked. “I hate it when people shoot at me.”

Slowly, the gray town came into view. Smoke rose from the stacks of a factory at the water's edge. Beyond the port, apartment buildings and small houses lined the roads until civilization gradually ended. The outskirts of town were only black rocks and snow. In the haze from Beringovskij, Donovan's eyes traced the route of what looked to be a dirt road. As he'd hoped, it led to the airport. The single runway appeared to be carved out of the forbidding landscape. There was one solitary building and no airplanes to be seen. The runway itself looked less than a mile long. The width was a mystery as only the center portion was free of snow. A tattered windsock told him which direction to land. It was going to be a tight fit for the
Galileo
.

“Oh man,” Michael whistled softly, as they flew over the town. “Is there still time to go back out to sea and ditch?”

“It's not much, is it? I hope they have jet fuel, or this might be home for a while.”

“All of a sudden, Anchorage in November doesn't seem so bad,” Michael said wistfully.

“I'm going to circle around and enter on a left downwind. The wind is favoring the north runway. The plan is to plunk this thing down on the end—then try to get it stopped. I don't think the runway is much more than 5,000 feet long.” Donovan banked the airplane around the desolate airfield and began to configure the
Galileo
for landing. Michael finished the checklists as they rolled out on final approach. Donovan held the G-IV steady in the brisk wind. The runway looked even shorter than before. He nailed the exact speed they needed. The airplane was set up perfectly. The massive main gear touched down on the rough asphalt. Donovan mashed the brakes. He sensed the airplane settle as the spoilers flew up on each wing. He pulled hard on the thrust-reverse levers. The sound of the engines flooded the cockpit. He felt the anti-skid working through his feet as he kept the jet on the center of the runway. The end was coming fast…It was going to be close.

“80 knots,” Michael called out. “Don't let up!”

Donovan pushed hard against the brakes, he didn't dare release any of the pressure. The entire airframe shuddered as it rolled down the uneven runway. The roar from the reverse thrust reached a crescendo. The energy from the landing slowly diminished as they neared a giant snow bank at the far end of the runway. Donovan brought the Gulfstream to a complete stop. Only a hundred feet remained, just enough room to turn around.

“Nice job.” Michael turned to Donovan. “I wonder what else we can do for fun today?”

“We may just be getting started.” Donovan wheeled the airplane around to taxi to the ramp.

“Why don't you be in charge of dinner reservations? I'm in the mood for someplace with atmosphere. A well-stocked wine cellar would be a plus.”

Donovan nodded. “Sure thing. I'll see what I can do.”

The ramp looked deserted. Donovan maneuvered the jet to one corner and set the brakes. They started the Auxiliary Power Unit. The APU was a small turbine engine in the tail that powered the electric and bleed-air systems. Until the remaining jet fuel ran out, they'd at least have lights and heat.

Donovan felt drained. He took his hands and feet off the controls. He wasn't surprised they felt weak. He forced himself up out of the seat and followed Michael to the back of the plane. Being on Russian soil was a complete wild card. They hadn't talked with anyone, and they didn't have any kind of a clearance. He wondered if they'd been tracked by Russian radar. Donovan's overriding concern at this point was to keep the airplane from being confiscated and gutted. He knew he was taking a risk by not destroying the satellite up-link. If worse came to worst, he'd do whatever it took to keep it out of Russian hands, even if it meant destroying the fifty million dollar airplane—and their only way out.

After they waited nearly twenty minutes in the Russian twilight, a truck finally labored down the road headed in their direction. Donovan and Michael gave each other pensive looks as the vehicle parked in front of the Gulfstream. Six Russian soldiers armed with automatic weapons piled out and took up positions around the airplane. A solitary figure then waved and walked up the stairs.

“Hello,” he said, his expression as cold as the Russian air.

Surprised that the stranger spoke English, both Donovan and Michael returned the greeting and invited him into the warmth of the Gulfstream.

“You are Eco-Watch?”

Donovan nodded and motioned again for the Russian to come aboard.

“You are welcome here,” he said in halting, barely understandable English. A smile finally appeared on his leathery face.

“We had an emergency.” Donovan guessed the man was a civilian dignitary of some kind. He wore no military markings.

The man nodded each time Donovan spoke, his wide smile adding to Donovan's confusion. After nearly fifteen minutes, Donovan and his crew finally understood that word had been forwarded to make him and his Eco-Watch team as comfortable as possible. Further discussions ensured Donovan that his airplane was safe and someone was coming to help.

It took nearly two hours, but Donovan was driven in to the city and allowed to talk on the telephone with a ranking official from the closest military base. He learned that the beacon he'd dropped was being homed in on, and the survivors of the Russian submarine were in the process of being rescued. Special clearance was also being sent to Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska to allow a C-130 cargo plane with mechanics and fuel to land and assist the stranded Gulfstream. But since the C-130 wouldn't be ready to leave until the next day, Donovan and his crew were encouraged to enjoy the hospitality of Beringovskij.

Another hour passed as Donovan went back out and helped his team secure the
Galileo
. It started to snow as they huddled in the truck and bounced their way back into town. The driver dropped them in front of a plain brick building. The team hurried inside and was delighted to discover it was a hotel.

Once the first bottle of vodka was presented, and a round of toasts were offered by their Russian hosts, the night began to lose its clarity. After the third bottle was emptied amid the cheers of both American and Russian drinkers, another bottle materialized and the party continued into the wee hours of the dark Russian night.

The next day, feeling chewed up and spit out from their night of drinking with the Russians, Donovan and Michael were driven out to meet the Air Force C-130. Moving slowly, Donovan stayed with one group of airmen as they began transferring fuel from the transport plane to the Gulfstream. Michael, equally in pain,
supervised the mechanics who repaired the cargo door. Within five hours they were ready to depart. Donovan gathered up his team and after many bear hugs and salutes from their new Russian friends, finally took the runway and departed for the long flight to Anchorage. Two days later, they arrived back in Washington DC to discover they were international heroes. The media machine was in full gear and clamored all over them to interview the daring pilots who'd rescued the stricken submariners. For Donovan, a man who more than anything wanted to avoid the spotlight, it was a nightmare.

D
onovan looked up, mildly surprised to find himself turning off Prosperity Road and weaving the Range Rover down the tree-lined street that led to William's estate. He'd been lost in the memories of Russia.

Hidden behind mature oaks, a forest of dogwoods and manicured gardens, William's twenty-room colonial house was barely visible. Donovan slowed, but before he could stop and push the button, the iron gate swung open. He drove through and negotiated the brick-covered driveway that rose to the arched entrance.

Donovan smiled when he saw William standing in the doorway, his tall wiry frame topped with a thick shock of white hair. His fierce, dark eyes were surrounded by wrinkles and the inevitable lines of time. Intimidating to most, Donovan knew them as a source of great warmth. In the public arena, the seventy-two year-old man always cast an imposing presence. He was widely regarded as one of the elite, a major player in a city filled with powerful people. William's career had spanned nearly fifty years, and in that time he not only sat on the board of Huntington Oil, but he'd also been an economic and foreign policy advisor to every administration since Eisenhower. Once
named a diplomat-at-large by the State Department, he'd spanned the globe “pissing out fires” as William jokingly put it. Even today, William easily had the ear of any sitting president, as well as the chairmen of a dozen fortune one hundred companies. Donovan had no idea how many corporate directorships the elder statesmen held, or exactly how far his sphere of influence stretched. But William VanGelder was easily one of the most connected men in America. He'd been Donovan's father's best friend—they'd gone to Dartmouth together—and in the years that followed, William was considered a member of the family. It had been William who had rushed to the Pacific after Donovan had been orphaned. With the love and dedication of a parent, William became his legal guardian. Donovan loved him like a father.