Chapter 47
The Maghreb
Al-Jaghbub Airfield
The runway was freshly swept, no trace of contaminants remaining. The same could be said of the airfield perimeter. The security team was fully staffed and actively patrolling the fence line. No locals had been spotted all morning.
In a sweeping left-hand turn, the aircraft configured for landing and touched down with surprising smoothness.
None of its suspect tires failed. The thrust reversers kicked up a massive brown cloud until the jet reached taxi speed.
The captain veered onto the only taxiway that wasn’t covered in sand and parked the jet directly in front of the hangar.
With one final application of the brakes, the transport’s nose tipped down as if taking a bow.
Soon the entry door opened, and the aft cargo ramp began motoring down. Malenkov walked out to engage the crew.
The captain came down the steps wearily.
He had probably been on duty for more than twenty-four hours.
Not that Malenkov cared. This same TransAvia crew had performed all the logistics flights in recent months, an essential bit of opsec to minimize the chance of leaks.
They’d been told what they were hauling on today’s flight was none of their business, and were being paid a premium not to ask.
No crew from FedEx or DHL would ever have accepted such an assignment.
Nor would they have been offered it. TransAvia had long operated on the fringes of the air cargo world, complying with regulations when it suited them, dodging them when it didn’t.
It was lucrative and dangerous work, and everyone knew it.
“Well?” inquired Malenkov as soon as the captain set foot on the ramp.
“I’m sorry we are late. We had another mechanical—”
“Your excuses are pointless!” Malenkov snapped. “The cargo?”
The Belarusian seemed to shift mental gears. “Twenty-nine casks, the full load.”
“No complications? No damage or leakage?”
“Nothing the loadmaster has told me about.”
Malenkov glared at the man, but decided to move on.
“Fuel?”
“We have enough for the outbound flight.” This was the standing procedure. There was no jet fuel available at Al-Jaghbub, meaning enough had to be “tankered” in for the subsequent outbound flight. Never had that been more important than today.
Without comment, Malenkov hurried up the steps. He paused when he reached the cargo bay. To his right the cavernous fuselage stretched back twenty meters. The casks were spaced out evenly on the steel deck, secured with heavy chains.
Malenkov moved aft and encountered the loadmaster. He was already loosening the tie-downs on the aft-most cask.
“At least someone is doing their job.”
The loadie looked up. “We can have them off quickly,” he said.
“No issues with the cargo?”
The rough-hewn man looked at him curiously, then glanced down at a film badge attached to his coveralls. “Apparently not.”
This gave Malenkov pause. He had been coordinating this mission for months, moving money and equipment.
But now, for the first time, he was close enough to reach out and touch the containers.
By this time tomorrow, what they held would be triggering shock waves around the world.
He himself was not wearing a radiation badge.
Qasim had offered one earlier, but he’d declined.
Some things were better left in the dark.
A small forklift appeared at the aft ramp. Qasim was at the wheel, and he maneuvered expertly up to the first cask.
Malenkov quick-stepped down the ramp. Once outside, he paused and looked up at a cloudless sky.
He hoped that would hold for another day.
Clear skies would simplify the mission. Yet they also carried a downside.
The airfield would be visible from above, and this was the most vulnerable moment.
The hangar was too small to house the Il-76 along with the drones and equipment.
The transport would remain parked through the night.
Then, as soon as the strike was complete, it would be their ticket out.
Khartoum, Sudan, would be the first stop on their escape, a simple three-hour flight.
There Malenkov would disembark with Bojan, and the aircraft would be refueled for the final flight, a six-hour repatriation to Minsk for the rest of the team.
A flight that would end badly for all on board.
Bojan had arranged everything. He would leave two heavy rucks behind, buried in a pallet amidships.
Each contained enough explosives to blow a hole the size of a truck in the fuselage.
The bombs would be activated by a shared barometric switch, with a second installed as a backup.
A clean and certain means to tie up the remaining loose ends.
He and Bojan, the one man he trusted without reservation, would fade into the lawless frontiers of Sudan. It was regrettable, in a way. Malenkov had actually taken a liking to Gamling, and also a few of the security men. But given the stakes, there was no other way.
Before the end of the week he and Bojan would reach their final destination. It was the only place on earth that could provide permanent refuge. Malenkov’s last safe house. And there he would live out his days in obscurity and comfort.