Mark Blair - Stroika

The cloud broke. They had come in too low. The mountain rose up in front of them, a flat wall of stone. Derevenko reached for the throttle. He had only seconds to correct the Antonov’s height before they flew into the cliff face. Pulling back on the yoke, he throttled the engine to full power and applied left rudder with his foot to prevent the aircraft turning round on itself. A fraction’s delay and the engine kicked in. The nose of the aircraft lifted, hauling its load upwards, the noise deafening. Loose objects clattered to the deck. Slowly at first, but with gathering momentum, the aircraft began to rise.

Too slow… too slow ! thought Yuri. Like a siren, the mountain beckoned them forward.

Seconds later, it was upon them. The screeching and rending of metal seemed to go on forever. Yuri imagined rock ripping undercarriage panels and lights.

‘Air traffic control,’ said the captain, ‘we’re over. We’ve incurred damage. We are beginning our final descent.’

Final descent , Yuri said to himself.

Derevenko made one final check. ‘Everyone strapped in? General?’

Yuri fastened his seat belt as tight as it would go.

‘Flaps half down, Anatoly.’

Derevenko tipped the controls forward and throttled back. The aircraft nosed down towards the forest that stretched for a mile directly in front of the runway.

‘Eighty-five knots,’ Derevenko read from the airspeed dial. ‘Wheels down,’ he said calmly.

Anatoly pulled the lever to lower the landing gear, but nothing happened – the undercarriage display flashed fault . It must have been damaged in the scrape.

‘Air traffic control, we have no landing gear. I’m going to crash-land. Brace to my order.’

Nineteen kilotons of metal hurtled earthward. Yuri could see the forest immediately below and then, in front, the runway welcoming the Antonov to her final resting place.

Derevenko lifted her nose a fraction. She was parallel with the surface now. Eighty-five knots and they crossed the runway’s edge.

‘Brace!’ he shouted, and plunged the controls forward. Anatoly, on cue, cut all power to the engine.

All that was aeronautical flight vanished in that instant. The stricken aircraft lost all lift and collapsed onto the runway. Torn by gravitational force and mortally wounded, she began to disintegrate as she hurtled, sparks flying, along the landing strip, a half-dozen emergency vehicles in pursuit. There was nothing they could do now until the aircraft came to a halt, exploded, or both… except pray.

Finally unable to bear the stresses pulling her in every direction, the Antonov snapped. The starboard wing tore free of the fuselage as the Antonov abandoned its preordained route and ploughed off the runway into the mud and quite suddenly stopped.

Silence replaced the ear-splitting sound of rending metal. Frozen for seconds that seemed like minutes, Yuri’s hearing adjusted to the sound of burning and fire engines. The engineer was only semi-conscious and bleeding from a cut to the face. Yuri hit the release of his safety belt and wrestled him from his seat. How long they had before the whole aircraft went up could only be seconds. The captain and co-pilot opened the emergency exit and helped lower the engineer to the ground, Yuri followed, and the captain jumped last. Four firemen rushed up and pointed towards the fire trucks. They staggered thirty feet before the fuel tank ruptured and the explosion blew them off their feet. A hand pounding his back told Yuri he was still alive. He looked up at Derevenko’s mud-covered face.

‘Still with us, General,’ he said, laughing and crying at the same time, no doubt in disbelief that they were here, alive, in one piece.

LENINGRAD

Viktoriya sat on the edge of her bed in the windowless cell. She had slept fitfully on the hard horsehair mattress, randomly disturbed by cell checks and the incomprehensible shouts of inmates.

The noise of door hatches being opened and shut again and the rumbling of a trolley alerted her to the sound of breakfast. She had not had anything to eat since the night before and realised now how hungry she was. Her hatch slid open and a steaming bowl and a mug of something were placed wordlessly on the inside shelf. Viktoriya picked them up and carried them to a narrow shelf table. She was surprised how good oatmeal porridge and stewed tea could taste.

A half-hour later, the sound of the lock turning in the door brought her to her feet. The sergeant from the previous afternoon led her back to the interview room where the other officer sat with his now familiar brown file.

This time he produced a police photograph of the girl she had seen that last time in Kostya’s office.

‘Do you know this woman?’ he asked.

‘ Know is probably not the operative word. I have seen her once or twice at a friend’s club. I have never spoken with her.’

‘And is this friend Konstantin Stolin?’

Viktoriya couldn’t see how she could avoid a straightforward answer and told him that was the case.

‘This woman has confessed to falsely implicating you in the murder of Pavel Antyuhin… All the same I find it all very convenient, as is the disappearance of your old flatmate.’

The sergeant sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and looked at her belligerently.

‘If it wasn’t for pressure from on high, I wouldn’t be releasing you.’

‘So you are letting me go?’

‘Yes, you are free to go, once you have signed your release papers.’

He got up and left the room.

‘You’d better watch out if you don’t want to land up back here,’ the sergeant whispered, clearly aggrieved that she would not be staying longer.

‘I don’t like being intimidated,’ said Viktoriya, ‘Sergeant…?’

‘Sergeant Bobrika,’ she replied looking slightly rattled.

The sergeant led her resentfully up to the reception hall. On the other side of the glass partition she saw Misha talking with Ivan. He caught sight of her and signalled.

‘Just sign here,’ said the sergeant aggressively.

Viktoriya gave the form a cursory review and added her signature.

Misha greeted her with a much-needed hug.

‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

‘I certainly don’t want to be visiting here again anytime soon,’ Viktoriya replied, staring at the sergeant through the glass.

‘I had a call from Kostya, an hour ago. Some girl that works for him fitted you up. She’s been taken into custody.’

‘I’ve been told.’ Viktoriya wondered what Kostya had done to force a confession. ‘Can you please take me home? I need a shower and a change of clothes. Have you heard from Yuri?’ she asked, half expecting him to be there.

‘ Constantly , it took all my persuasion to stop him getting on a plane to Leningrad. I told him he would be more use in Moscow if we could not secure your release. He’s on some mission out east, top secret and all that. He’s been calling me every few hours asking about you, although he seems to have gone silent this morning. Maybe he’s lost interest… you two clearly hit it off in Smolensk,’ Misha said, smirking.

Viktoriya felt unexpectedly relieved, as if a niggling doubt she had been unaware of until then had been suddenly exorcised.

Outside, Ivan waited with the security detail. Viktoriya took in the scene: two men at the bottom of the steps; a half-dozen more across the street, their backs to the iron railings of the square, Kalashnikovs idled at waist height, three cars, engines running, tight against the kerb. A guard threw away his cigarette while another pushed himself off the railings. Eyes turned in every direction. A passing motorist slowed, curious, and was waved quickly on.