by Tom Hron
He heard three sharp snaps on his radio—Simon signaling he’d found a place to land. Following close behind, he watched him hover into a small clearing in the trees a mile off the channel. Fatigue tested his strength and he blinked his eyes, wishing Simon would hurry up. The Werewolf was a handful to fly and exhaustion was clouding his depth perception. Luckily, he remembered to lower the landing gear. Little harm would have occurred had he forgotten it, but Simon would have forever teased him. Friends never cut you much slack when you flew like a fool.
He felt the Werewolf settle onto its wheels, then pulled the fuel controls, shutting down the turbines. He waited, feeling exhaustion overtaking him. They had survived everything imaginable in the last day and a half and gotten rich when they’d least expected it, all without any sleep. His mind visualized the rose-colored diamonds and he smiled. Then strange images of boyhood memories filled his eyes. What was wrong? Someone shook him.
“Jake, wake up,” said Molly. “Climb down and sleep in the Hip. Sasha and I’ll trade watches and let Simon and you get some rest. Listen to me and go lie down.”
He let her lead him to the Mi-8, wondering how both women could endure so long and still find the strength to stand guard in shifts. He saw that Sasha had made him a bed in the back of the helicopter. Rolling into the blankets, he looked up at her, forcing himself to stay awake for a second. She seemed more peaceful now, and they kissed.
The night passed with him only waking twice. Once he’d heard Simon snore a little, then later felt the Hip rock when Molly and Sasha changed places, letting the other sleep. But he’d stubbornly stayed in bed, sleeping until he couldn’t sleep any more. Tomorrow they’d face the greatest challenges of their lives . . . at least he would. One never could tell about Simon, because Lord only knew what he’d done in his life. The man was a complete mystery.
“Jake, wake up, there’s a barge coming upriver.”
He opened his eyes. Simon was standing over him with a grin on his face.
“What time is it? I didn’t hear a thing.”
“It’s daylight, so get your butt up. The time has come for us to play pirate and take that yonder ship.”
“How the hell did you find one so soon?” He sat up.
“Molly did. She stayed up half the night prowling around like a housecat. Went upriver at daybreak and saw one plowing low in the water, which means its full of fuel oil.”
Standing, Jake shook his head in disbelief. What would they ever do without her, since she’d proven herself so often?
“Follow me aboard the barges, land behind me, and keep your engines running.” He glanced at Simon. “They’re always locked together so they form a flattop almost the size of an aircraft carrier, and so we’ll have plenty of room. Once we set down, walk forward and pretend to be General Kozlov. We have enough of his clothing and paperwork, so I’m sure the tug captain will believe you. But, just in case, take him off to one side and flash a few bills at him. Tell him we want everything filled.”
Simon grimaced. “We need to do something about their radios, because every tug has a high-frequency transmitter.”
“I’ll drag my landing gear through his antennas. He’ll get sore about it but tell him it’s the first time I’ve flown the Werewolf, then make him think he can sail away with a small fortune.”
They shook hands, again letting their friendship speak about their mutual trust, then stepped out of the Hip. Molly and Sasha waited nearby, watching with dark shadows under their eyes, having lost so much sleep. Jake smiled and flashed them a thumbs up. The time had come to make a run for it. He walked to the Werewolf.
The turbines screamed alive, and he lifted the collective and hovered to the river, seeing the tug in the distance, pushing its flotilla of barges upstream. White foam and bow waves rolled behind as its screws beat the water, and no other boats were in sight. He accelerated, held his airspeed at thirty knots . . . no one aboard the boat had any idea that he was closing on them from behind. Snap-turning sideways, he held his forward speed and rammed the Werewolf’s belly into the antennas on top the tug. Spinning ninety degrees once again, he flew backward next, purposefully aiming his cannon at the pilothouse, synchronized his speed to the barges below, and landed. The captain’s face told him that he and the crew had already surrendered. He watched Simon set down behind him.
After a minute Simon, dressed in jackboots, green uniform, and flat-topped cap, strutted past him, looking exasperated. Stopping, he stared up at the broken antennas with his hands on his hips, then spun around and waved his arms, seemingly cursing him. Struggling to hold a straight face, Jake lowered his head, pretending to be ashamed. He watched Simon march off, jump onto the tug’s bow, and climb to its pilothouse.
Good, he told himself, Simon was behaving just like a lieutenant general. A few minutes passed. He saw him shake hands with the captain and wave his arms once more, pointing at the Werewolf. Finally, both walked out of sight . . . then came back. Now the captain looked pleased. He handed Simon a cup, poured something from a pot, and spoke to two crewmen. Both ran from the pilothouse, jumped onto the deck, and pulled a hose toward the helicopters, struggling with its bulky weight. Jake smiled. It looked like they were going to get away with it.
But he began to worry about the greatest danger of all, getting blown out of the sky. He knew they could avoid the military radar by flying low, using the terrain that lay ahead to their best advantage, making it very difficult for any fighter pilot to spot them, but there was Russia’s infrared technology to reckon with. Their air force had previously shown the Mig 29, Fulcrum, at the Farnborough Air Show in England, and to the West’s absolute panic, would-be experts, the very ones who’d assured the Pentagon that Russia had no advanced infrared attack system, saw a small glass bubble on the nose of the fighter. Suddenly, everyone learned that not only did the Russians have one, they had the best in the world.
When General Kozlov had told him about the Werewolf’s defense systems, he’d pointed out its flare bombs, incendiary devices that fired overboard in order to fool infrared guided missiles. He would be safe if a jet fighter tried locking-on with its missiles. In addition, his killercopter cooled its exhaust internally, eliminating its heat signature, used stealthy skin to deflect radar, and carried its own missiles, rockets, and guns. It would take a lucky shot to bring him down.
But Simon’s chopper was an entirely different matter. Its turbines pumped out hot gases like mad, moved along like an old plow horse, and carried no weapons at all. Not only was it a sitting duck, it was a big fat dumb one, besides. Buzzing along the surface would help, but his friends’ lives would be in grave danger if anyone saw them. Simon and he must improvise, and luckily Kozlov had given him an idea.
He saw Simon join the two men who were struggling with the hose and watched him pantomime with both hands, ostensibly explaining how to refuel both helicopters, including the reservoirs inside the Hip. Then he climbed the side of the Werewolf and began yelling at the top of his voice at him, above the whining engines.
“They’re on their way to Yakutsk and so far the captain has bought my story. I told him we were on a training exercise and that you’d gotten lost and run us low on fuel. He’s suspicious but wants the cash in my pocket. Maybe when his two men see Sasha and Molly and tell him that we have women on board, he’ll think we’re out joyriding with our girlfriends, a good enough reason for us to be acting strange. Should help him feel less skeptical.”
“Buy all his emergency flares when you go back,” said Jake. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
Simon wrinkled his brow. “Now he’s really going to get suspicious. What’s the reason?”
“We’ll need them when the air force starts shooting at us.”
“That’s a very good motivational speech.” Simon’s face paled. “Hope you realize the guy’s going to think I’m crazy.” Shaking his head, he jumped down and walked back to the pilothouse.
Jake watched the two crewmen fill the Were
wolf’s tanks and pull the hose over to the Hip. Again, Simon stood in the pilothouse, talking and waving his arms, but the captain didn’t look very convinced about what he was being told. Still, Simon came back, carrying a cardboard box under his arm, and climbed the helicopter’s side again.
“I told him we wanted them for target practice, that we’re going to put on a light show for the ladies after dark. He thinks we’re out having a good time, and I gave him five thousand bucks to keep his mouth shut.”
Simon’s story might very well come true, Jake thought to himself, and there might be a light show later on, because the final challenge still lay ahead. “Let’s use the same procedure as yesterday,” he said. “Snap your mike button when you’re ready to leave. I’ll watch these guys for a minute and then follow. Are you ready?”
Simon nodded his head, stepped down, and walked away with his box of incendiaries. They were homeward bound.
He heard two sharp pops on his radio and watched Simon fly off, buzzing eastbound over the river. Checking his wristwatch, he waited, eyeing the crew who now stood on deck, watching him. He didn’t blame them a bit—his departure would be quite an air show if they were to believe Simon’s story. He waved at them and pulled up into slow roll, inverting the Werewolf on the way around. He wondered if he’d made their day with his impromptu air show.
Hours passed. He followed Simon over the Werchoyansky Mountain Range, soaring like snowy ramparts just east of the Lena River. They flew through every nook and cranny of the ruggedness below them. He trailed him down the other side, crossing all the lower mountains reaching toward the Indigirka River, the second principal watershed of Siberia. There were no roads or towns or people, and it was total desolation, sublime and endless. He wondered what kind of animals lived there.
They stopped to refuel and stretch their cramped legs, then headed east again, hugging the cranberry bushes that were turning red. August had come and the country was changing to its autumn colors—crimson, amber, and light green, the soft colors of fall. He started to worry again.
He hadn’t used the space-age helmet that had hung beside him in the cockpit for so long. He had been too busy flying the Werewolf visually, learning its characteristics the oldfashioned way, by the seat of his pants, but now things were different. The time had come to familiarize himself with its weapon systems. The helmet was wired to the killercopter’s integrated flight director, the electronics uniting its computer, television, laser, infrared sensor, night vision, and heads-up display into one big automated system that gave the pilot instant readouts either on the optics in front of his eyes or on the windscreen. In addition, the nose cannon fired in the direction the pilot turned his head, lessening the need to maneuver the helicopter while firing. Modern attack helicopters had become very sophisticated.
He pulled on the helmet and started turning on the avionics one by one. First, he activated the flight director in its manual mode, letting him fly just by moving the tiny orange bugs on the cockpit’s video displays, instruments that allowed the pilot to steer left and right, up and down, or in any combination of the directions he wanted.
Bump—the Werewolf climbed on his command input. Bump—it turned left. Bump—now it followed the terrain, a very scary experience because you had to believe the gadgetry really worked, difficult to do when you were going like a bat out hell only a few feet above the trees. Next, he tried to decipher the commands reflected on the heads-up display. The forward speed, altitude, and heading looked sensible . . . but what were the additional numbers all about? They must relate to target acquisition. Now came the complicated part. He double-checked the weapon annunciator panel, confirmed everything was locked off, and started experimenting with the target sighting that fed electronic images to the heads-up display and helmet optics. He turned on the target finder and sighted on Simon’s Hip, watched the system lock-on and track the big chopper. Cool . . . But maybe he shouldn’t tell his friends that he’d used them as a drone, because sometimes people got a little touchy about such things.
The second thing left undone was as low-tech as the world could get. They needed to pick up some firewood. Not to burn, although that might become an added bonus, but to use as floats for their flares when they were over the Bering Straits, presuming the Russians came at them over the water. He wasn’t a military expert and didn’t understand the technology of smart weapons very well, but he suspected they all turned goofy when they tried choosing between helicopter exhaust, airborne flares, floating flares, forest fires, or whatever else you could use to create hot spots. The simplest things sometimes worked best.
They flew on, stopping now and then to refuel, went past the Kolyma River, the last large waterway before the Far East and the territory called Chukotka, the large wedge of continent just west of Alaska. Now they’d have to watch out because their escape route had narrowed to a defined area, no matter what path they chose.
He watched the skies. Moments later, he heard Simon snap his transmitter, signaling that it was time to stop once again. He slowed and landed beside him on a river bar below a bluff. They would refuel, find some driftwood, and buck up their courage. So close, yet so far. He wished the weather would turn bad.
Simon walked over and waited for him to climb down, then they stood together for a moment without saying a word. Molly and Sasha waited by the Hip, staring at them, waiting for some sign of reassurance.
“Well, we’ve been lucky so far,” Simon said. “All I’ve seen is a few native settlements along the rivers. Better still, the radio scanner has been deader than a box of rocks. Maybe we’re going to make it after all.”
It had been surprising, Jake thought, but that didn’t mean things couldn’t change in a hurry, and it had been too easy, which usually meant trouble was waiting ahead. There was only a little of Chukotka left . . . right where he’d wait if he wanted to ambush somebody.
“How many flares do you have?” he asked.
“We’re in fat city. A dozen common flares and a gun with two dozen rounds of incendiary shells, which will light up the sky like the Fourth of July.”
“Make sure you miss your main rotor if we get into a dogfight,” said Jake. “Zigzag and give yourself clear shots.”
“I’ll let Molly do the shooting because I want to fly.”
“Pick up some driftwood to use as floats on the other flares. Then it won’t matter where they fall.”
Simon nodded. “Good idea, and I can have Sasha throw them out.”
“I played with the weapon systems on the Werewolf and it has flares of its own.”
“What if we see fighters?”
“Stay low because I’ll be overhead blasting away with everything I have, flares, rockets, missiles, cannons until I run out.”
“You’re a goner as well if they hit me with a missile.”
“Why should I want to live?” Jake faked a smile. “You’ve got all the diamonds.”
Walking to the Hip, they pulled out the fuel pump and began filling both helicopters, an hour of hand-pumping. Molly and Sasha joined them and helped finish the job, and at last they were ready for the final run.
Jake looked at the eastern sky, turning murky with the coming night. In a couple hours they’d see the straits, at least as much as you could without night vision. Their goggles had been lost in the Super Cubs, but maybe it was better that Simon faced the night without his, because mercifully he’d never know what hit him.
It was a cruel way to think, but why watch your own death in living color. He would rather fly blind if he could, only the Werewolf’s integrated system wouldn’t let him. Bells and whistles would go off in the cockpit, and his secret eye would see the vapor trail. He shook away the fear and looked back at his friends.
“Love you guys and good luck,” he said, “and don’t be afraid to use the radio if we run into trouble. English won’t matter at that point.”
They stood still and looked back at him. What could they say, and maybe they’d jinx him if they a
nswered, anyway? He waved to them and walked off. A little more terror lay ahead.
He trailed Simon toward the Chukchi Sea, lying north of the last of Siberia. They would hug the coast and come down its inner waterways, the long lagoons of saltwater running between the mainland and the barrier islands thrown up by the tides. He liked their choice of routes. Radar couldn’t track them, and they’d always be hidden by the high banks of sand, rock, and willows. Also, the course would let Simon see the phosphorescent milky-white surf after dark, letting him stay on the deck, despite not having night glasses. Navigation wouldn’t be a problem either, because the northern coast of the Chukotka Peninsula ran right toward the little Yupik village of Wales, on the western part of Alaska, across from Siberia. They were headed straight for it.
Two hours passed. Jake felt the tension building in the sooty night that hung around them. Another hour or so and they’d be free. He watched Simon skim over the seawater ahead, hopping over the spits that got in his way. The guy could really fly and still had the eyes of an eagle. They crossed Kolyuchin Bay and started down the last stretch of beach. Where were the fighters? Had he wore out his eyes for nothing?
Suddenly, he saw them up high, circling. Damn them. Somehow he had known they’d be waiting in the last fifty miles from freedom. Damn them again. He recognized his military fighters well enough to know them by name—two Sukoi 25 Frogfoots were spiraling down at them. Warning lights blinked and whistles screamed in the cockpit. They were in big trouble. He fired off a burst of flare bombs, hit full power, and clicked the mike button.
“Simon, there’s two fighters overhead, fire your flares as fast as you can. I’m right behind you.”
The night exploded in white streamers, red rockets, and sparkling flares falling down. A slip-second later he saw distant flashings of yellow in the darkness, the Frogfoot’s missiles had detonated too soon, fooled by the fireworks below them. He snap-turned, armed his own infrared missiles, and fired. Click. Nothing.
