Chapter 4 – Monday, May 10th
Domodedovo, Russia
Some forty kilometres south of Moscow sits Domodedovo International Airport, Moscow’s main outlet to the Western World, the three terminals struggling to cope with some 30 million passengers per year. Around the airport, the town of Domodedovo similarly continued its own expansion, Russia’s planners doing all they could to ease the plight of its home-hungry millions. Three kilometres west of the airport, the last in a set of eight massive apartment blocks, each sixteen storeys high, waited empty and forlorn. Despite already being a month late, and at least one more from completion, the second-shift had finished some fifty minutes earlier, able finally to enjoy what little remained of the Victory Day national holiday. The building was now left safely in the hands of its two security guards and their dogs.
Baranovskiy and Nazarenko made no distinction between guards and dogs, using silenced automatics to deal with all four. Elevator and final clamber up onto the roof took some ten minutes, Baranovskiy coping with the sixteen kilograms of missile and launcher, while Nazarenko struggled with the remainder of their gear. Eglitis’ sources had said it would be at least another hour before the guards’ absence was noted, and even then the response would be fairly lax. However, just in case someone should turn up unexpectedly, Katya – the third and final member of the terrorist cell – waited impatiently on the ground floor.
Baranovskiy got on particularly well with Nazarenko, liking the other man’s confident and somewhat relaxed approach, western Ukraine home to them both. Katya might be the youngest at twenty-one but she was the serious one of the three, it the first time she had travelled outside of her native Lithuania; months earlier Baranovskiy had made a passing comment as to her diminutive stature, his arm almost broken as Katya proved she was no makeweight. For all of them, their hatred of Russia was a genuine bond, it an unfortunate truth that the only common language between them was Russian.
History clearly proved the dangers of a resurgent and assertive Russia, Baranovskiy prepared to do whatever was necessary to save his country’s future. Eglitis had promised six months of fearful anticipation mixed in with an occasional moment of gut-wrenching terror, confident now that they would be back home before the end of the month. Baranovskiy had no idea what he would do with himself when that time came, and August 14 wasn’t perhaps the ideal apprenticeship for a stable and successful career path.
The Aeroflot Airbus was late. Baranovskiy sat with his back against the metre-high parapet, concentrating on the background hiss from the VHF radio receiver resting at his feet. Restlessly, he picked up the missile launcher, running his hand lovingly along its length, before once again going through a trial run, making sure the complex set of operations was clear in his mind – grip and stance secure, battery coolant unit in place, sight assembly locked, right thumb on actuator switch... There would be no second chances, and even though the heat signature from the Airbus’ twin engines would make it a deliciously attractive target, Baranovskiy felt the need to practise each and every action over and over again. The American-made Stinger was a weapon he could admire – this wouldn’t be the second-hand thrill of a car bomb, this would be far more personal.
A sudden sound froze him into immobility. There was a second crackle of static from the radio, followed immediately by half-caught instructions in English to the Airbus’ pilot. Baranovskiy searched the murky early evening sky to the north-west, but it was several seconds before he found the aircraft as it angled down towards the runway. He pressed then released the actuator, the hum of the gyro confirming all was well. Baranovskiy braced his left thigh against the parapet, ignoring the distraction of yet more messages from the radio.
A sudden gust of wind twisted the launcher to one side; Baranovskiy wrenched it back, but precious seconds were wasted before he managed to relocate the target through the gloom, now some four kilometres distant. Body rigid, he tracked the plane as it flew south-east, the audio tone changing to confirm acquisition lock. His body tensed and almost without thinking his left thumb held the first switch closed; immediately the tone grew louder and Baranovskiy instinctively squeezed the launch trigger with his right hand.
Even as the missile leapt forward, Baranovskiy sensed something amiss. The exhaust plume momentarily blocked his view, then as he focussed again on the aircraft, he saw that the target’s profile didn’t quite match the computer simulations and despite the grey evening light the aircraft livery looked all wrong.
The Stinger missile had no such doubts, cruising safely away from the tower block before accelerating once more towards its target.
The pilot seemed suddenly to sense the threat and the aircraft banked sharply, wrenching itself around in a futile attempt to outmanoeuvre the chasing missile. The Stinger appeared to twist in mid-air, reaching out once more towards the aircraft’s starboard wing. A brief moment later the proximity fuse exploded, shredding the starboard engine and ripping a jagged hole in the fuselage. The aircraft flipped almost horizontal, the motion abruptly reversing as a piece of the starboard wing crumpled and broke off. Now totally out of control, the aircraft’s remaining engine gave a high squeal of protest before the plane spiralled downward, arcing south-west and towards the town’s suburbs.
Nazarenko dragged Baranovskiy away from the parapet, the launcher dropping from his hands, his whole body starting to shake. Even as the rolling boom of an explosion sounded from far-off, the two men were heading back down, desperate now to make their escape. Neither man spoke, Baranovskiy unable to look at his friend, his mind still struggling to accept his mistake. Almost in a daze, he followed Nazarenko out of the building, clattering down the front steps before slowing to a walk, his body still reacting to the adrenalin. Their Nissan SUV was parked some twenty metres ahead, Katya already beside the driver’s door.
Distracted by the distant wail of several sirens, Baranovskiy barely registered the sound of voices away to his left, reacting only when he heard a shouted command to halt. He broke into a run, hand reaching down into his waistband to pull out his pistol. There was another shout, followed immediately by the crack of a handgun.
Baranovskiy twisted around, trying to steady his hand before firing at a pair of shadowy figures some fifty yards away – police or security guards it was too dark to tell. The nearest staggered forward then fell to his knees, hands clawing at his chest, but it was Nazarenko who had drawn first blood. The second figure fired twice before flinging himself to the ground.
Baranovskiy sensed a bullet tug as his side then he doubled over as a second tore into his belly, a shriek of agony drawn from his lips. Fighting against the pain, he wrenched himself upright, firing wildly and emptying the clip in the vague direction of the second man.
Moments later, the Nissan shuddered to a halt beside him. From the back seat Nazarenko reached across to help drag Baranovskiy inside, bullets punching through the side window as Katya accelerated away.