Madras emerged from the tattered fuselage. “It’s an Antonov An-2, like I thought,” he said. “Very rugged, very dependable, very Russian. It’s been here a long time.”

“Can you get it started?” Connell said. “I think we could get the runway clear enough to take off.”

“Not in the cards,” Madras said, shaking his head. “This is basically the aeronautical equivalent of a planter now. No spare parts, no aviation gasoline, and it looks like they stripped it before leaving–probably to fix another Antonov. I might be able to get the radio working, or at least cannibalize it to help fix the one inside.”

“Well, that’s something I suppose,” Connell said. “Anything in there to explain why the Russians abandoned this airstrip?”

Madras looked into the cockpit, where rust-colored bloodstains covered everything and the rotted and partially mummified remains of a pilot sat still buckled in. An empty Tokarev semiautomatic pistol and spent shell casings were littered on the floor. “Not a thing. Go inside and I’ll yank the radio out and catch up with you.”

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