Part 16 (2/2)

The controller in the tower checked that runway and flight path were clear, updated the Gulfstream with weather and wind conditions, then gave clearance for it to land on Runway 06. Winds buffeted the aircraft as it began its final approach.

”Lot of lights out there,” Adler reported, as he kept scanning the area. ”Hope they won't be a problem.”

”Get ready for touchdown!” Grant warned.

A gust of wind caught the Gulfstream, just as tires were about to meet runway, slamming it hard against asphalt. Tires didn't blow. Garrett kept it under control, gradually slowing to taxiing speed.

”Target acquired!” Novak shouted. ”Three o'clock! Tail numbers confirmed!”

”Is it refueling?!” Grant asked, as he doused all cabin lights.

”Can't see it anymore, boss! Have to wait till we come around!” Everybody s.h.i.+fted to the port side, with gla.s.ses poised.

Following the controller's instructions, Garrett proceeded to a designated parking site. He made a right off the runway, then headed in the direction of the terminal. Approaching the concrete section of the airfield, he made a slight turn left, following a curving, painted yellow line.

”There it is!” Adler confirmed. ”Still no sign of a fuel truck.”

”They must've just landed,” Grant commented quietly. ”Nice job, Matt!”

Stalley swung the gla.s.ses to another area. ”Think I see fuel trucks, LT! Eleven o'clock!”

”Moving?”

”Static!”

An airport marshaller, wearing headphones and a reflective orange vest, came from around the Antonov then waited for the Gulfstream. Placing himself near the yellow line, he stood far enough away in order for Garrett to see him at all times, head-on with Garrett's left shoulder. Using illuminated wands, he signaled the plane forward. Garrett kept the nose wheel on the yellow line, rolling forward, until the marshaller held both wands overhead, then immediately crossed them. Garrett brought the plane to a stop and gave a quick salute to the marshaller, who immediately walked toward the airfield. The Gulfstream was fifty feet from the Russian plane, nose to tail, and about five hundred feet from the terminal, located at its four o'clock.

Grant and Garrett ran through the final checklist, then Grant went to the cabin and leaned toward a window. They may have lucked out. This section of the airfield had fewer lights, giving them more shadows they could take advantage of. ”Seen any civilians in the immediate area?”

Novak checked starboard side, Stalley, port. Both answered, ”Negative.” Novak added, ”But looks like maintenance workers are coming and going around the terminal.”

”Doc, keep watch from the c.o.c.kpit. Mike, starboard window.” Grant said, as he sat across from Adler, Slade and James. ”Any sign of the crew, Doc?”

”Negative,” Stalley reported. ”Wait! Both of 'em are coming out of the plane now. A fuel truck's driving across the airfield.”

They waited. ”Update, Doc.”

”Truck's within range. Parking starboard side now, maybe twelve to fifteen feet from the plane. That's where those two guys are heading.”

”We can't delay,” Grant said, adjusting his throat mike and earpiece.

”Hate to 'rain on your parade',” Adler said, ”but what about the pa.s.sengers?”

The right side of Grant's mouth curved up. ”When have we ever let small details get in our way?”

”Pretty much never. So we go with a diversion?” Adler asked, knowing the answer.

”Just like we planned, Joe.” He turned toward the c.o.c.kpit. ”Hey, Matt. You finished with the fuel paperwork?”

Garrett checked the fuel gauge, making a mental note of remaining fuel. ”Done,” he replied walking into the cabin. He dropped the paper on a seat then opened an overhead storage bin, taking out a shoulder holster holding his .45. Once he'd adjusted the holster, he put on a windbreaker and zipped it up to his throat, concealing the mike. He had to chance it that the earpiece wire wouldn't be noticed.

”Okay, you know what to do,” Grant said. ”Give us a couple of minutes first.” He leaned toward the c.o.c.kpit. ”Doc, you stay aboard. Keep those updates coming.”

”Yes, sir.”

Grant turned toward the Team and nodded. Almost in unison, five men pulled down black one-hole masks, readjusted earpieces and throat mikes. Silencers were retightened, then a sound of clips being ejected, rammed back in, slides being jacked back. Alpha Tango was ready.

”Okay, Matt.”

Garrett went to the c.o.c.kpit and hit the switch, lowering the door and steps. When he returned, Grant said, ”Time to do your thing.”

Garrett stopped at the bottom of the steps, then put on a plain cover (cap), similar to a commercial pilot's. As he walked around the nose of the Gulfstream, a blast of wind nearly took his cover. He grabbed the brim, then kept walking. It was up to him to stall the refueling of the Russian plane, keeping the pilots preoccupied as long as possible, giving the men enough time to take their positions.

Stalley reported, ”He's about halfway to the fuel truck. Doesn't look like he's been noticed yet.”

”Any time now,” Grant said softly. The Team gathered closer to the open door.

A sound of jet engines. Stalley swung the gla.s.ses toward the terminal. ”A 707's getting ready to taxi.”

”Should keep everyone busy for a while,” Grant said.

Stalley moved the gla.s.ses, focusing again on the Russian plane. ”Okay. Matt's at the truck. He got somebody's attention. Go!”

Alpha Tango moved almost as quickly as a heartbeat, getting out then lining up alongside the plane. Grant eased himself closer to the nose, then held up a fist. Taking a quick look around, he motioned with a hand, signaling Novak, Slade and James. Crouching low, they ran at an angle away from the plane, heading toward a row of parked maintenance vehicles. While Slade covered their backs, Novak and James kept their eyes on the plane, Grant and Adler.

James verified the three were ready, then he pressed the PTT. ”Zero-Niner. Six-Eight. All in position. Copy?”

As he continued scanning the immediate area, Grant quietly responded, ”Copy that.” From his position, he was unable to see the fuel truck or Garrett. He pressed the PTT. ”Five-Two, still clear?”

”Clear.”

Grant and Adler took off, running to the Russian plane's port side. Staying low, and close to the fuselage, they ducked under the wing. Adler tapped Grant's shoulder, pointing to a closed cargo door. Taking it slowly, they stopped by the stairs, immediately hearing voices inside. The conversation seemed more one-sided. Grant recognized the voice--KGB Vikulin.

On the starboard side of the plane, Matt Garrett glanced at his watch, then turned to see another fuel truck driving across the airfield. In his earpiece he heard Stalley, ”Eight-Four, everyone in position.”

Time to get refueling underway, Garrett thought. He walked toward the Gulfstream, waiting for the approaching truck.

The two Russian crewmen were obviously perturbed over the delay the American had caused. They handed over their paperwork, then backed away, as the driver began the refueling procedure.

The driver hopped out of the second truck, and Garrett handed him the paper, showing gallons and type of fuel. Following safety procedures, the driver attached a ground wire, and hooked up the fuel hose. Fuel started flowing almost immediately.

Stalley heard another sound, and focused the gla.s.ses on a small pa.s.senger bus coming toward the planes. Two men jumped out. The bus pulled away.

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