The Valhalla Prophecy

by Andy McDermott

  “Keep down,” Kagan warned. They all hunched lower. A few shots cracked after them, but none hit.

  “We’re out of range,” Nina said in relief.

  Eddie dampened her mood. “We won’t be for long,” he warned, glancing back at the pursuing vehicles.

  Kagan checked his gun’s magazine. “I only have seventeen bullets. It will not be enough to hold them off.”

  “We need more guns …” Eddie looked again at the Bear. They were approaching the huge bomber from behind—and he saw windows at the very end of the fuselage beneath the tail, a turret mounted below it.

  A turret from which jutted the long black barrels of two AM-23 autocannons.

  “And we’ve got more guns,” he concluded.

  “Where?” Nina asked, not seeing any in the UAZ.

  “There.” He pointed at the turret.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope!” One of the ladders led into the tailgunner’s compartment. He looked under the wings. Pylons were loaded with sleek gray shapes: The Bear was fully armed with Kh-101 cruise missiles. He hoped the cannons were combat-ready too. “Nina, Tova—go up the front ladder and get Kagan to the radio. I’ll hold ’em off with the guns.”

  Kagan shot him a sharp look. “You are going to kill Russian soldiers?”

  “No, just scare ’em—unless they’re stupid enough to keep coming!”

  He brought the smoldering UAZ onto the taxiway, the jeep bouncing hard over the edge of the concrete. Two men with thick parkas over grubby overalls were working on the landing gear. They looked around in surprise as the four-by-four skidded to a halt, then hurriedly backed away as Kagan pointed his gun at them. He limped for the steep metal steps leading into the forward fuselage, Nina and Tova going with him.

  Eddie, meanwhile, clattered up the aft ladder. A confused face peered down through the hatch at him, asking a question in Russian.

  The Englishman reached the top and replied with a punch. “Sorry, mate,” he said, pulling himself up into the cramped compartment and dropping the dazed airman out of the opening. The fall was about twelve feet; the man hit the runway hard and yelled in pain, but no bones were broken. “If I were you, I’d shift your arse!”

  He turned to survey his surroundings. The tailgunner’s station was cut off from the rest of the bomber’s interior, a lonely, claustrophobic, and noisy eyrie whose sole saving grace on the Bear’s long patrols would be a spectacular vista beyond its panoramic windows. The current view of the flat and bleak expanse of Engels was less inspiring, but Eddie was more concerned with targets than scenery. The incoming jeeps were barreling down the taxiway toward the Tu-95.

  He squeezed into the gunner’s seat. “Think in Russian,” he said to himself as he looked over the instrument panel. The controls all had Cyrillic labels, but he didn’t need to be a linguist to work out the function of the red button on the handgrips beneath the swiveling gunsight mount. The twin cannons were currently pointed skyward in their fail-safe position; he rectified that by the crude but effective method of flicking every switch he could see until the guns lowered with a hydraulic whine.

  An experimental push on the handgrips was met by the turret tracking to match the movement. Eddie squinted through the gunsight, aiming at a spot on the runway a short distance in front of the racing four-by-fours. “Hope they’re loaded …,” he said as he pushed the button.

  They were.

  The chain-saw snarl of the twin 23mm cannons ripping through twenty rounds per second was almost deafening. Eddie winced as the noise pounded his ears. Flames from the muzzles obscured his view—but through the flashes he saw concrete shattering as the storm of explosive shells chewed across the taxiway. The incoming jeeps swerved to avoid the line of destruction as he guided it toward them, one losing control as it turned too hard on the wet surface and flipped onto its side.

  Eddie took his thumb off the firing button just before the shells hit the overturned vehicle. The guns went silent, leaving his ears ringing. The remaining jeeps were now heading away from him—but, he realized, they weren’t all fleeing. Some were curving around the bomber, intending to come back in from beyond the turret’s arc of fire. He unleashed a few more brief bursts in the hope of discouraging them, then spotted a set of bulky headphones and put them on. “Nina! You in the plane yet?” he said into the microphone.

  She was—and was holding Kagan’s gun on the shocked flight crew as the Russian pulled the communications operator from his rearward-facing seat. He donned the man’s headphones, then cocked an eyebrow in surprise and gestured at another headset. “It’s for you.”

  Tova passed the headphones to Nina, who wedged the steel container securely behind Kagan’s seat before fumbling them into position with her free hand. “Eddie?”

  “No, it’s Leon fucking Trotsky,” said a familiar Yorkshire voice. “Of course it’s me!”

  “We heard shooting—was that you?”

  “Yeah, I scared off those jeeps, but they’re going to come back at us from the sides, where I can’t aim the guns. Is Kagan there?”

  “I hear you,” said Kagan as he examined the radio’s controls.

  “Tell the pilot to pull up the steps and start taxiing before we get swarmed. How soon can you get your bosses in Moscow to call ’em off?”

  “Two or three minutes. I will have to go through procedures to confirm my identity.”

  “Then bloody get on with it!”

  Kagan relayed the order to the pilot, who protested briefly before Nina’s jab of the gun at him convinced him to change his mind. He made a rapid check of the instruments, then released the brakes and eased the four throttle levers forward. The rumble of the propellers rose in pitch and volume, the entire airframe trembling as the Bear started to move. The forward stairway retracted into the plane’s belly, the ladder to the tailgunner’s compartment falling away with a clang as the ejected airman scrambled out of its way.

  Eddie looked out of the side windows. Some of the jeeps had almost overtaken the trundling bomber, closing in once more. “They’re going to try to block the runway,” he reported. “Don’t let the pilot stop—for anything.”

  “What if they shoot at us?” Nina replied.

  “They will not,” Kagan cut in. “This plane is fully armed with missiles—it is too valuable to damage.”

  “Hope they’ve been told that,” muttered Eddie. He looked back toward the bunker. Some sort of large truck or tracked vehicle was heading from the base’s outer periphery toward the burning blockhouse, presumably to collect Slavin and his men, but the drifting smoke from the gas explosion made it hard to identify.

  In the forward compartment, Kagan began to send his radio message. Nina turned her attention back to the Bear’s crew. As well as the pilot and copilot up front in the cockpit, there were four other men in the cabin, and all looked as if they were considering playing the hero. “Hey! Handski upski,” she snapped, seeing one man’s arm creeping toward a compartment beside his seat. He retreated. Through the porthole next to him, she saw two jeeps overtaking the bomber and turning to rejoin the taxiway ahead of it. “Oh crap. Eddie, they’re getting in front of us!”

  “Tell the pilot to go faster” came the reply. “If they get aboard, we’re fucked. How’s Kagan doing?”

  Kagan was still speaking into the microphone in Russian, breaking off to say: “I have made contact and given them my pass codes. Once they confirm who I am, they will put me through.”

  “I hope your bosses aren’t having a coffee break,” said Nina. Keeping a wary eye on the men behind her, she moved up the cabin to stand behind the pilots and looked through the cockpit windows. Off to starboard, two UAZs hopped over the curb from the frozen grass onto the concrete. They immediately swung in front of the aircraft, a man leaning from one of the jeeps and gesturing furiously for the bomber to stop. The pilot’s hand tightened on the throttle levers as if to pull them back. “Ah-ah,” Nina warned. The middle-aged man glared over his shoulder at he
r. “Kagan! What’s Russian for ‘go faster’?”

  “Idti bistryeye,” he called out.

  “What he said,” she told the pilot. He reluctantly pushed the levers farther forward. The Bear picked up speed. One of the UAZs hurriedly moved clear, but the other held station, the soldier still gesticulating—then he stopped and pulled inside.

  Only to lean back out a moment later—holding a Kalashnikov.

  “Shit!” Nina cried, ducking as he opened fire. Bullets clunked against the bomber’s nose, punching through the aluminum skin and smacking into structural members beneath. Tova shrieked and dropped to the deck as one of the windows crazed. “They won’t shoot, huh?” Nina yelled.

  The pilot pulled back the throttles, prompting an angry shout from Kagan, followed by: “Dr. Wilde! Put the gun to his head!”

  “What? I’m not gonna shoot him!”

  “He doesn’t know that—they don’t speak English!”

  “You hope,” she said, before hesitantly pushing the gun’s muzzle against the back of the pilot’s skull. “Idti bis … istry—that thing he said again!”

  Even with her mangled Russian, the pilot got the message. He moved the levers forward once more. The plane picked up speed, closing on the UAZ.

  The soldier kept firing. This time, one of the bullets ripped through the pilot’s console—and hit the pilot himself, blood spurting from his left shoulder. He cried out, letting go of the control yoke to clasp his right hand to the wound.

  The copilot had also taken his hands off the controls, shielding his head as he ducked. More shots hit the plane, another window cracking—

  Nina lunged and jammed the throttle levers forward.

  The Bear roared as all four engines surged to full power. The communications officer, left standing in the gangway after being yanked from his seat, stumbled and fell. Eight enormous propellers spun up to maximum speed, the great bomber charging along the taxiway—

  Straight at the UAZ.

  The gunman saw the silver machine’s hefty forward landing gear bearing down on him and yelled for the driver to swerve, but his companion had already seen the whirling propellers on each side in his mirrors and realized the jeep had nowhere to go. He bailed out, bouncing hard off the cold concrete and flattening himself on the ground as the bomber swept overhead. The other man stared stupidly at him for a moment before throwing himself from the careening four-by-four.

  Driverless, it veered to one side as the Tupolev caught up—

  The twin contra-rotating propellers on the port inboard engine nacelle scythed through the UAZ, shredding its bodywork like paper. What was left of the jeep was spat out from under the wing and flung off the taxiway, chunks of mangled metal cartwheeling through the snow.

  Warning buzzers sounded, a red light flashing on one of the control panels. The copilot grabbed his own set of throttle controls and pulled them sharply back, shouting in panic at Nina. “He says an engine is damaged!” Kagan told her.

  “We can’t stop!” she replied, pointing her gun at the copilot and gesturing for him to reapply power. He looked helplessly at his commander for advice, but the older man’s eyes were clenched shut in pain. With no choice, he grudgingly opened three of the throttles again, leaving the damaged engine at idle.

  Eddie’s voice sounded in Nina’s headphones. “What the fuck was that? Did we hit something?”

  “We’re experiencing turbulence,” said Nina. She looked back at Kagan. “Have you gotten through to your bosses yet?”

  “I am … on hold,” he admitted, slightly sheepish.

  “Oh great!” She looked ahead once more. The Bear was approaching a parked line of its sister aircraft, beyond them several of the threatening stiletto jet bombers she had seen on arriving. In the distance, but drawing ever closer, were bright lights marking the end of the taxiway. A glance through the side windows revealed jeeps still keeping pace with the aircraft, but after what had happened to their comrade’s vehicle, the drivers were not inclined to play roadblock. “Eddie, we’re going to run out of runway soon. Are there any more of them chasing us?”

  In the tailgunner’s compartment, Eddie saw another clutch of vehicles coming from the air base’s main buildings. “They’ve sent out everything short of the fucking bin lorry. What’s happening with Kagan?”

  “He’s still waiting.”

  “What, have they put him on hold?”

  “Ah … actually, yes.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake! How long before we reach the end of the taxiway?”

  “A minute, maybe?”

  “Shit.” He surveyed the view behind the bomber again. The tracked vehicle had now apparently picked up Slavin and was tearing across the open ground in pursuit, headlights glaring. The long main runway ran parallel to their current route, stretching away into the distance. “Okay, tell ’em to turn onto the runway—we’ve got to keep moving for as long as we can. But we need some way to hold ’em off …”

  The first of the parked bombers swept past. He grinned and swung the gunsight around. The cannons followed his movement. “Did you just cackle?” Nina asked.

  “Remembered my training,” he replied, lining up the sight and pushing the red button.

  The guns blazed again, even the headphones doing little to muffle the din. But Eddie didn’t care, walking the line of fire along the rank of bombers. A stream of 23mm rounds blasted holes in the fuselages of the stationary Tu-95s, aluminum shreds scattering like confetti.

  “Chase!” demanded Kagan. “What are you doing?”

  “Keeping ’em busy!” he shouted back over the noise. “Don’t worry, a friend of mine once told me Russian planes are easy to fix.” The bulbous radar dome beneath the chin of one of the Bears disintegrated as he concentrated his fire upon it. “Bit of work with the tin snips and a hammer, that’ll knock right out.”

  “Chase!”

  “Just talk to your fucking bosses, all right?” He switched his aim to the Tu-95’s forward landing gear. The leg collapsed under the onslaught. The Bear’s front end dropped to the ground, the fuselage smashing flat like a dropped egg and breaking the aircraft’s back.

  Most of the more distant pursuers abruptly slowed. The message had got through: Back off or I take out your entire fleet. The UAZs hounding the hijacked Tupolev came back into view, veering away. Eddie stopped firing. Turning the AM-23s on them would result in a massacre, and he had no enmity toward the base personnel.

  More bombers rolled past, the old turboprop behemoths followed by newer and even larger swing-wing Tu-160 jets. Eddie was sorely tempted to put a few dozen explosive rounds into each to make life easier for NATO, but held his fire; even if they survived long enough for Kagan’s superiors to call off the hunt, they were already in enough trouble with the Russian government—and diplomatic immunity would only extend so far.

  Eddie’s voice came through Nina’s headphones. “They’ve pulled back.”

  “Good,” she replied, looking ahead. “We’re almost out of road!” The end of the long concrete taxiway was now only a few hundred yards away. She gestured with the gun for the copilot to follow a connecting lane around to the main runway. The Tupolev swung onto its new course, the nosewheel tires squealing in protest at the fast turn.

  Kagan spoke in urgent Russian, briefly holding a hand over his microphone to say to Nina, “I am through,” before continuing.

  “Thank God,” she replied. “Eddie, Kagan’s gotten through to his bosses.”

  “Great,” he said. “Let’s hope they don’t get put on hold when they try to call the base!”

  The pilot gasped in pain. Nina saw blood spreading across his shirt. She searched for some way to help him. A white box marked with a red cross was attached to one of the sickly green-painted cabin walls. “Tova, do you know first aid?” The Swede nodded. “Grab that and see if you can help him. I’ll make sure nobody tries anything stupid.”

  Tova collected the medical kit and came into the cockpit. The copilot appeared briefl
y confused that his hijackers were also willing to help his injured comrade, but turned his attention back to the view outside as the Bear approached the main runway. “Go onto it,” Nina told him, accompanying the command with a hand signal. He worked the controls to turn the bomber. “Kagan, what’s happening?”

  “I have told them about Slavin,” he replied. “They are going to tell the base commander to cancel the shoot-on-sight order and hold everyone until the truth can be determined.”

  “How long will that take?” The base’s main runway, almost two miles long, swung into sight ahead.

  “Not long—Unit 201 has a high—”

  The Bear shuddered as its flank was hammered by a series of explosive impacts.

  Holes ripped open in the fuselage. The communications officer was practically cut in half by shrieking metal, his blood splattering the back end of the cabin as shrapnel tore through him.

  “Holy shit!” Nina yelled as she crouched. “What the hell was that?”

  The copilot screamed into his headset. Nina didn’t need to understand his language to know that he was begging whoever was firing on the bomber to stop. It had no effect, another fusillade hitting the wing. Black smoke belched from the outermost engine nacelle.

  Astern, Eddie swore as he shoved the gunsight as far over as it would go, but to no avail—the Tu-95’s turn had put their attacker out of sight. But he knew what it was—and who. “It’s Slavin!”

  The Russian officer had commandeered a ZSU-23-4—a tank-like anti-aircraft system armed with four 23mm autocannons much like those the Englishman was controlling. In his desperation, he was willing to destroy the entire aircraft to silence anyone who could expose his treachery. The guns would cut the Bear to pieces—and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

  Unless …

  More pounding blows shook the bomber. Eddie twisted to look through a small side porthole, glimpsing the ZSU under the port wing. “Go! Full power, get us moving!” he shouted into his headset.