Ghosts over the Zambezi

The transition back into the sky was a violent relief. Once the landing gear retracted and the cabin pressure stabilized, the crew underwent a transformation. They moved with a mechanical efficiency, as if the silence of the desert had been replaced by a mandate for excess.

The scent of heating aluminum and savory oils filled the cabin as the attendants began preparing the meals—far more than the manifest would ever justify for a crew of their size. It was a silent acknowledgement of our presence, a way to provide for us without officially recording our existence.

"Eat everything," Boris muttered, staring at a tray of braised beef and root vegetables. "In my experience, the more they feed you on a flight like this, the longer the next stretch is."

"He's right," I added, popping the seal on a second bottle of water. "They're fattening us up for a long haul flight."

We ate until the hollow ache in our stomachs was replaced by a heavy, lethargic fullness. The adrenaline that had sustained us since Moscow was finally ebbing, replaced by the crushing weight of exhaustion. As the trays were cleared, we began to drift apart, claiming empty rows to stretch out and find whatever sleep the steady drone of the engines would allow.

I was settling into a seat near the bulkhead when I saw the cockpit door cycle open. The captain stepped out. He wasn't wearing a standard commercial uniform; he was in a dark, tactical flight suit that lacked insignia. As he scanned the cabin, his eyes met mine, then he jerked his head slightly toward the galley.

I stood up, my joints cracking from the lingering tension, and followed him into the narrow, stainless-steel space. He didn't wait for me to speak. He was already checking a tablet clipped to the galley wall, his movements clipped and professional. He wasn't a comrade; he was a transporter, and we were the liability he was paid to carry. The captain—a very attractive middle-aged man named Ivan—spoke in a voice that rivaled Henry Cavill’s.

"We’ve cleared the most contested airspaces," he said. "We’re over the ocean now, running dark on most transponders. We’ll be maintaining this heading for the duration."

"How long?" I asked.

"About ten hours from the moment we left the tarmac in Dubai," he replied, finally looking at me. "I'm giving you the heads up so when everyone wakes up, you can share this with them. It’ll be easier if they know what to expect when we land. It's going to be a long stretch before we're on the ground again."

I felt a clarity settle over me. Ten hours from Dubai, heading south-southwest at this velocity. Another ten hours of being ghosts, moving further away from the life we had left behind in Moscow. The math was simple, and the destination was unmistakable.

"Ten hours," I repeated. "That puts us deep into the interior. We're heading for Zimbabwe."

Ivan didn't confirm it with words. He just gave a slow, measured nod before turning back toward the cockpit door.

"Ivan," I called out. He stopped, his hand on the latch. "Once I’ve had three hours of sleep, come wake Boris and I. We’ll take over for a few hours so you and your co-pilot can get some rest as well."

Ivan turned back fully, raising an eyebrow in a look that bordered on derision. "Are you even licensed to fly a plane?"

I didn't blink. "I hold one hundred and eighty-nine pilot licenses from around the world. Boris holds one hundred and five."

The skepticism didn't leave his face, but his posture shifted slightly.

"Just so we’re clear," I added as I walked closer, "all of our licenses are active and in good standing. I also don’t appreciate the skepticism or your lack of belief in me and my licensures."

Ivan stared at me for a long beat, calculating the weight of those numbers against the exhaustion pulling at his own eyes. "Get your three hours," he said finally. "Then we'll see."

He stepped into the cockpit and closed the door.

I walked back to the bulkhead row, my legs feeling like lead. I didn't bother with a blanket or a pillow; I simply stretched across the three empty seats, adjusted my jacket under my head, and let the white noise of the engines pull me under. I fell asleep before I could even process the vibration of the floorboards.

Three and a half hours later, a firm hand shook my shoulder. I was awake instantly, my hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there before my eyes even focused. It was Ivan. He stood over me, his expression unreadable in the dim cabin lighting.

"It's your turn," he said shortly. "I had my people run a background check on you while you were out. I had to be sure about those licensures. They came back clean. Every single one of them."

The sleep-haze evaporated, replaced by a searing, cold anger. I sat up, staring him down.

"You had me investigated?" I snapped. "I offer to do you a favor—to keep this plane in the air so you don't drop out of the sky from fatigue—and your first instinct is to run a check on me? I told you that my licenses were in good standing. My word should have been enough, especially considering I'm the reason you have a paycheck for this flight. My safety and my life – as well as my brother’s - are at constant risk as a direct but distant descendant of Tsar Alexander III. If it gets out that my real identity is found out and the fact that by my brother and I are on this flight, there could be threats against our lives."

I stood up, moving as close to him as the cabin allowed. "If I wanted to sabotage this flight, Ivan, I wouldn't need a pilot's license to do it. Next time I tell you I'm qualified, you believe me. I don't care how many people you that you trust on the other end of a sat-link but know that I care about keeping my brother and I alive. Don't ever waste my time or your resources doubting me again."

Ivan was too stunned to apologize, but he didn't argue either. He just stepped back, gesturing toward Boris. I didn’t bother to wake Boris and headed to the cockpit to fly the plane myself.

The cockpit was bathed in the dim, rhythmic glow of the avionics suite. The co-pilot looked up, his face gaunt with fatigue, and glanced at Ivan for confirmation. Ivan gave a short, stiff nod. As they vacated their seats, I slid into the left chair, feeling the weight of the aircraft settle into my hands.

I flew solo for the next four hours. The stars were vibrant above the Indian Ocean, a dusting of diamonds over a void of black water. The steady thrum of the engines was hypnotic, but the anger from the encounter with Ivan kept me sharp. Around the fourth hour, the cockpit door hissed open. Boris stepped in, looking slightly more human after his rest. He slid into the right-hand seat without a word, checking the gauges before settling in to assist.

"I heard what you said to him," Boris said after a long silence, his voice barely audible over the cockpit hum. "I am very proud of you for standing up for yourself. And for our brother. You handled that well."

"Thank you, Boris," I replied, my eyes fixed on the horizon. I felt the tension in my shoulders ease slightly, but another thought had been gnawing at me since the desert. I turned my head just enough to give him a sharp side-eye. "Boris? Did you really mean it? What you said about marrying me once we get situated in my home country?"

Boris didn't hesitate. He looked straight ahead at the navigation display. "I meant it."

I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a whisper that even the flight recorder might struggle to catch. "I don't believe you."

He finally turned to look at me, his expression earnest. "I will prove it to you when we get there. When we are finally safe, you will see."

I let out a slow, cold breath. "I know that Polina isn't truly your sister, Boris. She's your former lover and you guys almost married several years ago."

The cockpit went silent, the only sound the rushing air against the glass. Boris didn't look away, but the muscle in his jaw tightened. For ninety more minutes, we flew that plane together in a shared, heavy atmosphere before Ivan and his co-pilot returned to take the controls for the final few hours.

When Boris and I exited the cockpit, I moved ahead of him, my pace quick and my gaze fixed on the floorboards.

"Wait," Boris said, reaching for my arm as we entered the galley. "We need to talk about what you said. About Polina."

I pulled my arm away, not looking back. "There is nothing to talk about. The truth is out. Save your breath for the landing."

I moved past the galley and dropped into a jump seat near the exit. Boris started to follow, his face shadowed with a mixture of frustration and something I couldn't quite name. A flight attendant caught my eye as she was securing a galley latch. She noticed Boris trailing me, then looked at my face—tight and pale. She gave a small, understanding nod, stepping slightly into Boris’s path as if to check a supply bin, effectively giving me a second of cover. She glanced back at me, signaling she was okay with me sitting there.

"I need time, Boris," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the cabin. "Go back to the row where your stuff is."

He hesitated, then turned and walked back into the dim cabin.

I needed to be alone, and this was as alone as I could be right now. The vibrating wall of the aircraft was the only thing supporting me. I had to come up with a game plan on how to tell Bob and Polina that we were going to land in Zimbabwe. I knew in the past Polina had struggles in Zimbabwe before moving to Moscow so I had to get us out of there fast.