Red Skies

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Far below Air Major Arege Borisov was the vast expanse of the featureless Gobi Desert. He was passing over into the airspace of the Mongolian People's Republic. Suddenly there was a disturbing awareness that there was no turning back; it was the final break, Nei Mengu, Inner Mongolia, and soon, Shaanxi. Now he could only hope that Colonel General Viktor Isotov's and Chairman Han Ki Po's plan worked.

The last of the escort planes, a MiG-31 Foxhound, had broken off radio contact at 1111 over Erzin, presumably returning to its base at Krasnoyarsk — but only after losing radio contact and reporting that the scheduled refueling rendezvous with the Su-39 over the Yenisey River had not taken place.

For the past thirty minutes, Arege Borisov had been on his own in the flight command seat of the top-secret aircraft. Komivov was slumped in the pilot's seat beside him, the thin trickle of blood from the small .22-caliber bullet hole just in front of his right ear seeping out from under his helmet and slowly coagulating into a crusted ribbon. The young test pilot had suspected nothing. The bullet had passed through both his helmet and head and lodged in the foam pad on the head restraint.

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