The morning sun’s rays are just visible through the overcast as we rocket off the rain-soaked concrete, two water-logged falcons searching for the crystal-blue Crimean skies. Looking at my knee-board, I chart the Turk’s predicted course and call Vasily.
“We will be on him soon. Be ready.”
“If he does not change his plans, Sacha. Have we an alternate plan? We must not fail.”
“He will be there. I feel it.”
“I feel this turbulence! I hope that FSB dog was right.”
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We break out of the cloud cover at 4000 meters, as the meteo officer promised.
“Vasily, radar on, please. Begin the search.”
“Da.”
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