Badanov with the thick Russian accent to go to hell, had done
exactly that, in fact. The KGB could come and take him out if they wanted; he’d
probably never see it coming, and death would at least be a way out of the
corner he had painted himself into.
But the implied
threat to his family had changed everything. Tom hadn’t even realized the
Russians knew he was married until last night. He knew now how foolishly blind
he had been—of course the KGB would learn all they could about their new
employee, of course they would keep that information close to the vest,
pulling it out only when needed—but Roberta and Sarah were thousands of miles
away, safe and anonymous in Herndon, Virginia, well out of range of the KGB.
That was what he
had thought. How wrong he had been. Kopalev knew way too much about his family,
tossing the information out casually, like it was no big deal. Tom’s blood had
frozen in his veins last night with Kopalev’s threat to snuff out the lives of
his wife and child, and in the most agonizing way possible.
He thought hard,
his eyes alternating between the B-52’s instruments and the endless blaze of
impossibly bright stars outside the wind screen. Maybe he could question the
CIA agent currently dozing in the rear of the aircraft. No one besides his
Soviet contact had confirmed that she was CIA, but then, no one had needed to.
It was obvious. A civilian woman, appearing at Ramstein out of nowhere carrying
Top Secret paperwork, with instructions from the highest levels of government
for a priority lift across the pond?
CIA.
As a CIA spook,
she might be able to use her connections to protect Tom’s family. But she
certainly would ask the obvious question of why the family of an Air
Force nobody was in need of protection from the KGB, a question he could not
answer. He would be forced to kill her anyway.
Tom shook his head
and cursed under his breath. He knew Wilczynski was looking at him curiously.
He didn’t care. He was fucked. He was well and truly fucked.
As an Air Force
pilot, Tom Mitchell was intimately familiar with the concept of parallax view,
which stated that the angle at which objects are viewed will determine how they
appear to the viewer. Parallax view was one reason why a good pilot learned
early in his career to rely on his instruments when flying, even on a clear,
bright, sunny day. Eyes could be fooled. Instruments could not.
The concept of
parallax view applied to other situations, too. Look at a scenario from one
angle and it can appear completely different than when viewed from another. But
Tom realized this situation was the exception. No parallax view in the world
could change one simple fact: he was going to have to do as he had been ordered
by the KGB, or sentence his own wife and child to death.
And that he could
not do.
So the decision
was easy, but executing that decision was not, and Tom knew he was running out
of time. Soon the giant B-52 would be approaching land, flying over U.S. soil
down the east coast to Andrews Air Force Base, and while he could still carry
out the murders, crashing the jet onto U.S. soil would never satisfy the KGB.
There would be no way to guarantee the item they wanted destroyed had actually been destroyed, and his family would remain at risk.
He had to do it
soon. The clock was ticking.
13
May 30, 1987
11:15 p.m. EST
Atlantic Ocean, 150 miles off
the coast of Maine
Tracie tried with little success to
catch a few Zs in the minimally-upholstered seat. It was bolted to the side
wall of the B-52, which had probably flown hundreds, if not thousands, of
missions. The seat-back was rickety and the vinyl upholstery worn and cracked.
The ride was free,
though, and complaining would accomplish nothing, so Tracie stretched out as
well as she could and dozed, unable to manage a deep sleep. Something was
bothering her.
The sense of
unease she had felt upon meeting Major Tom Mitchell back at Ramstein Air Base
had only intensified
exactly that, in fact. The KGB could come and take him out if they wanted; he’d
probably never see it coming, and death would at least be a way out of the
corner he had painted himself into.
But the implied
threat to his family had changed everything. Tom hadn’t even realized the
Russians knew he was married until last night. He knew now how foolishly blind
he had been—of course the KGB would learn all they could about their new
employee, of course they would keep that information close to the vest,
pulling it out only when needed—but Roberta and Sarah were thousands of miles
away, safe and anonymous in Herndon, Virginia, well out of range of the KGB.
That was what he
had thought. How wrong he had been. Kopalev knew way too much about his family,
tossing the information out casually, like it was no big deal. Tom’s blood had
frozen in his veins last night with Kopalev’s threat to snuff out the lives of
his wife and child, and in the most agonizing way possible.
He thought hard,
his eyes alternating between the B-52’s instruments and the endless blaze of
impossibly bright stars outside the wind screen. Maybe he could question the
CIA agent currently dozing in the rear of the aircraft. No one besides his
Soviet contact had confirmed that she was CIA, but then, no one had needed to.
It was obvious. A civilian woman, appearing at Ramstein out of nowhere carrying
Top Secret paperwork, with instructions from the highest levels of government
for a priority lift across the pond?
CIA.
As a CIA spook,
she might be able to use her connections to protect Tom’s family. But she
certainly would ask the obvious question of why the family of an Air
Force nobody was in need of protection from the KGB, a question he could not
answer. He would be forced to kill her anyway.
Tom shook his head
and cursed under his breath. He knew Wilczynski was looking at him curiously.
He didn’t care. He was fucked. He was well and truly fucked.
As an Air Force
pilot, Tom Mitchell was intimately familiar with the concept of parallax view,
which stated that the angle at which objects are viewed will determine how they
appear to the viewer. Parallax view was one reason why a good pilot learned
early in his career to rely on his instruments when flying, even on a clear,
bright, sunny day. Eyes could be fooled. Instruments could not.
The concept of
parallax view applied to other situations, too. Look at a scenario from one
angle and it can appear completely different than when viewed from another. But
Tom realized this situation was the exception. No parallax view in the world
could change one simple fact: he was going to have to do as he had been ordered
by the KGB, or sentence his own wife and child to death.
And that he could
not do.
So the decision
was easy, but executing that decision was not, and Tom knew he was running out
of time. Soon the giant B-52 would be approaching land, flying over U.S. soil
down the east coast to Andrews Air Force Base, and while he could still carry
out the murders, crashing the jet onto U.S. soil would never satisfy the KGB.
There would be no way to guarantee the item they wanted destroyed had actually been destroyed, and his family would remain at risk.
He had to do it
soon. The clock was ticking.
13
May 30, 1987
11:15 p.m. EST
Atlantic Ocean, 150 miles off
the coast of Maine
Tracie tried with little success to
catch a few Zs in the minimally-upholstered seat. It was bolted to the side
wall of the B-52, which had probably flown hundreds, if not thousands, of
missions. The seat-back was rickety and the vinyl upholstery worn and cracked.
The ride was free,
though, and complaining would accomplish nothing, so Tracie stretched out as
well as she could and dozed, unable to manage a deep sleep. Something was
bothering her.
The sense of
unease she had felt upon meeting Major Tom Mitchell back at Ramstein Air Base
had only intensified
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