Jerry stared out at the MiG in front. He then looked up at the simulated rearview mirror and saw that the missile was not only still locked- on, but it was also gaining rapidly on him. He nodded.
“DO IT!” he bellowed. Cleo obeyed. He felt his eyes pressing into his head as he blacked out.
Viktor Chebrikov gulped when he saw the turn—almost a right angle. He knew no airplane in existence could turn like that, but this one just had. Then he saw the missile. It veered slightly as it tried to follow its target, then it turned back toward Chebrikov, thinking his MiG was the American aircraft. He tried to turn to avoid it, but in his haste he exceeded his own g-limit and blacked out for only a moment— long enough for the missile to finish his him.
Jerry fought to regain consciousness but lost the struggle. Again and again, he sensed the grayness of returning awareness, only to feel it slip away, again and again. He came to as Cleo made a sharp turn. Outside, the dark sky was filled with burning aircraft. He could see several others darting for the east.
“What happened?” he groaned. He felt nauseous and dizzy.
“I got two,” Cleo replied happily, “in addition to the one you got.”
“What?”
“I got two more,” she said slowly, as though he were a backward child.
“Two?”
Cleo made a very human sigh of exasperation. “I said that I got two more. After you went to la-la-land, they fired several more missiles. I used your trick and gave them back. I think they’ve had enough.”
“How long was I out?”
“About a minute,” she answered. “I had to use the fifteen-g turn several times, so you stayed out.”
“Let’s head for home, Cleo,” Jerry ordered wearily. “And go low. I’m sure you’re going to love that,” he added. He watched the red umbrellas beneath them begin to blink as, one after an other, they locked-on toMary Lou . “The sky’s going to be filled with SAMs in a few seconds.”
Major General Yakov Makarovich Sakharovsky was livid as he watched the MiGs retreat on the radar screen.
“Te bzduny!Those fucking cowards!” he growled. “Fire the SAMs. I want that airplane shot down!”
“But our men?” the colonel begged. “They claimed that the American made impossible turns, stole control of their missiles and then turned them against them.”
“FIRE!” General Sakharovsky reached for his pistol. The colonel immediately repeated the order. A second later, the first wave of the SAMs sped off their launchers, only to find that their target had disappeared, and so blew themselves up. One or two picked up on the fleeing MiG-39s, but soon self-destructed when they realized that even the MiGs were out of range.
Sergeant Roman Zubilin watched the aerial battle from the turret of hisShilka antiaircraft vehicle. It was impossible to tell who was winning or even what was happening. All he saw were explosions filling the night sky. First, there were several smaller flashes like fireworks exploding high in the heavens. Seconds later, there were three larger flashes, followed by flaming debris streaming downward—obviously destroyed aircraft. But whose?
He put down his binoculars as the last of the burning aircraft crashed to earth. He thought the fireworks were over until the grand finale. Dozens of surface-to-air rockets were fired in unison, only to burst prematurely in a glittering array of brilliant flashes.
General Yakov Sakharovsky was nearly apoplectic by the time the American aircraft had disappeared from the radar screen.
“Did you get it?” he screamed at the cringing colonel. The colonel shook his head.
“Nyet,” he answered, watching Sakharovsky’s plump face turn scarlet. “It dove under our radar coverage. It’s somewhere in those valleys.” He pointed to the map of the Iraqi-Turkish border.
“Idi k yobanoy materi!You motherfucker!” Sakharovsky screamed at the colonel.
After the last five minutes, Jerry found the ride through the narrow valleys almost anticlimactic—or relatively so. He grabbed hold of the grips built into the armrests of the pilot’s couch and squeezed them until his knuckles turned white. Cleo was taking no chances about being tracked by radar and remained just a few feet above the ground, flying around hills instead of over them. Still, from time to time, green tracers would stitch overhead as some gunner shot blindly at them.
The sounds of the distant battle moved steadily toward the hilltop upon which Sergeant Roman Zubilin watched from the turret of hisShilka .
“Rotate the turret ten degrees left,” he ordered over his microphone.
“What the hell for?” his corporal demanded. “We can’t see what the hell we’re supposed to shoot at.”
“Boris Ivanovich,” he replied quietly. “Stop being an ass. Do as you’re ordered.”
The turret moved slightly and now had its four 23-mm cannons aimed straight down the valley.
Satisfied he had done everything he could be expected to do, Sergeant Zubilin watched the occasional bursting flare or stream of green tracer bullets flash into the air as whatever was being shot at moved toward his position.
Cleo studied the red umbrellas that represented the radars searching for them. They formed a line completely blocking their way out. She spotted a break in the line near a small valley. Cleo headed for it.
The noise of the approaching jet grew louder as Sergeant Zubilin peered into the dark. He couldn’t see a thing and had nearly given up all hope of ever seeing the invading aircraft until he saw a shadow slide down the valley toward him.
“Fire!” he ordered. For once Boris didn’t argue.
“Look out!” Jerry yelled when he saw the green tracers arch out of the black and toward them. Cleo ducked the best she could.
THUD! THUD!
“Arrgh!”
Cleo heard the sounds and failed to recognize their significance until she noticed that Jerry’s blood pressure fluctuated and then started to fall.
“Are you okay, Colonel?” she called.
The blood pressure fell further. She began stimulation on the neural- nexus link, trying one circuit after another until she had all of them on full. Finally, the blood pressure stabilized.
“Are you okay, Colonel?” she called again, panic straining her voice.
“Father, can you hear me?” she cried, mewing like a frightened kitten.
Chapter Forty-four
“Incirlik tower,” the radio behind Colonel Fred Kelder crackled. “This is Hummer Two-three. We have injured aboard. Request immediate landing clearance.”
Fred Kelder sprang from his chair, grabbed the telephone and dialed the control tower in a frenzy. His call was answered on the third ring.
“This is Colonel Kelder. I want Hummer Two-three to land immediately and taxi directly to his hangar, do you understand? Then I want you to get an ambulance here as quickly as possible.”
Colonel Fred Kelder smashed the phone down on its hook and dashed out of the room, even as the control tower acknowledged Cleo’s call.
“Hummer Two-three,” the radio blurted, “cleared to land.…”
“OPEN THE GODDAMN DOORS!” Fred screamed as he ran into the hanger. “THEY’RE BACK!”
He raced across the empty hangar, yelling and cursing until he smashed against the hangar doors. Kelder began tugging futilely at the doors until several airmen joined him. One of them finally released the latch. They had the doors open just as the ATASF turned off the runway and began taxiing back toward the hangar at high speed. Fred Kelder ran to the center of the floor as Cleo turned onto the apron, illuminating Fred and the inside of the hangar withMary Lou ’s landing lights. He frantically waved for Cleo to taxi directly into the hangar. She slowed a little, as though indecisive. At last, she pulled in, shutting down both engines as the aircraft entered the hangar.
“Help me with this fucking ladder!” Fred began pulling on one of the maintenance ladders. Somebody turned on the lights, revealing the confusion within the hangar as some men rushed to help Fred Kelder while others hurried to close the door
s. The rotating emergency lights from the approaching ambulance flashed off the walls andMary Lou ; the noise of the still-turning jet engines drowned out its siren.
Then Fred saw the bullet hole. It was about one inch in diameter, halfway up the side of the fuselage. He paused for a second when he realized what it was.
“Oh, shit,” he cried. He dashed up the ladder to the top of the aircraft.
“OPEN UP, Cleo!” He pounded his fist against the fuselage. The pilot’s hatch cracked free and then opened, accompanied by the high- pitched whine of the motor. Frustrated by the slow movement of the hatch, Fred Kelder braced himself under it and pushed his shoulder against it, forcing it open. Jerry Rodell looked like an abandoned rag doll, slumped in the pilot’s couch, his abdomen covered with sticky, dark-red blood. Fred leaned in as far as he could and carefully removed Jerry’s helmet. He felt for a pulse on Jerry’s neck. He felt one, very faint and feeble.
“He’s still alive!” he called out. “Help me get him out of here!”
“It was my fault!” Cleo cried. “I didn’t see theShilka until it was too late. I should have seen it. We were.…”
“Cleo,” Fred snapped angrily. “Shut up!”
An instant later, he regretted his ire. “Besides, it wasn’t your fault. Sometimes shit happens. It was.…”
“Don’t disconnect the neural nexus link, Colonel,” Cleo interrupted. “I’m holding Father’s blood pressure up with it.”
Fred hesitated, surprised by Cleo’s ingenuity. Uncertain what he should do next, he stared at Jerry’s comatose form for a second, when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, Colonel,” a voice said from behind him, “but don’t you think we should be handling this?”
Fred Kelder found a young sergeant dressed in a white medical coat standing on the ladder behind him. The man was built like a weight lifter but had the gentle demeanor of a priest.
“I’m a doctor,” Fred growled, pointing to the medical insignia on his collar.
“I can see that,” the sergeant replied politely, “but you don’t know a hell of a lot about getting hurt pilots out of airplanes, do you?”
Colonel Fred Kelder shook his head. He was a doctor in name only. Although licensed, he used his degree for research. He allowed the young sergeant to take his place.
“We’re going to need plasma!” the young man called immediately. “And an adrenaline hypo. This guy is in shock. Give me a hand, Colonel. We’ve got to get him out of this hole.”
As Fred Kelder watched, feeling inadequate, the sergeant straddled the fuselage with his legs and leaned into the cockpit. He then quickly unbuckled Jerry’s harness and disconnected the various hoses and wires connecting him to the aircraft.
“Wait a minute!” Fred yelled as the sergeant reached for the neural nexus link. “Don’t touch that!”
“Sir?” the sergeant looked at Fred Kelder.
“You’ll kill him if you do,” Fred told him. “Cleo,” he added in the same breath, “can you lock the settings in the neural nexus? We have to disconnect it to get your father out.”
Cleo took a moment to respond. “Yes, Colonel. I’ve got it locked. You can disconnect it now.”
The sergeant eyed Fred Kelder and then glanced around to see where Cleo’s voice had come from.
“You didn’t see or hear a goddamn thing, Sergeant,” Fred hissed. “If just one word gets out, I’ll have your ass, understand?”
The sergeant nodded vigorously and turned back to Jerry. In seconds, he had the last of the wires connecting Jerry’s body to the aircraft disconnected. He then reached under Jerry Rodell’s arms and pulled. To Fred’s surprise, Jerry came out easily. Fred rushed to help and quickly found himself taking orders from the young man.
“Take him over your shoulder, Colonel,” the sergeant urged, “in a fireman’s carry. That’s it,” he encouraged as Fred Kelder did what he was told.
“Now back down the ladder, Colonel,” the young man coached. “Nice and easy, one step at a time. There are a bunch of people behind you ready to take the pilot from you. One step at a time.”
It seemed an eternity, even though it took only a few seconds. Encouraged by the young man’s steady stream of reassuring words, Fred Kelder moved down the ladder with Jerry’s body draped over his shoulder. He felt his burden lessen as other hands touched him, first to steady him and then to remove Jerry. Moments later, Jerry Rodell was lying on a gurney, and three men in white coats were frantically cutting off his flight suit with scissors. One was working on the arm and had an intravenous needle inserted within seconds. The other two, including the sergeant, were working on his abdomen. The sergeant whistled.
“Jeezus!” he exclaimed. “How did he survive a hit like this?”
Fred looked and nearly gagged. Jerry’s small intestines were exposed.
Fred Kelder watched the ambulance hurry off into the night. He grabbed a pair of earphones with a microphone attached and stalked over to whereMary Lou and Cleo were waiting. He opened a small panel and plugged the headset into the jack that ground personnel use to communicate with the pilot while they’re moving the aircraft around on the ground.
“Okay, Cleo,” he said gently. “You did good, real good. Jerry wouldn’t have had a chance without you.”
Cleo remained silent, causing Fred Kelder to worry about the connection. He reached up and wiggled the jack to check. It was firmly seated.
“This isn’t pretend, is it?” she inquired at last.
“No, Cleo,” he replied softly, “it isn’t.”
Again Cleo was very quiet.
“I think you should tell me all about what happened,” Fred suggested quietly. “Start from the beginning, from when you took off.”
Grigori Sechenov was seated behind his Louis XIV desk, staring at the telephone. It was late, very late, and only a few lights in the wall sconces were on.OperatsiyaBronirolovo Kulaka , Operation Armored Fist, was one of the most expensive operations he had ever run. Millions of rubles had been spent shipping entire divisions to Iraq, not to mention the border guards and other troops. Additional millions had been spent moving all the equipment into the valley and setting off the frequent blankets of smoke screens. It had been the most preposterous gamble he had ever made: millions of rubles on a single throw of the dice. The goal of the whole operation had been to draw the Americans into sending their latest technological breakthrough into their reach. The question was did they catch the American airplane and its marvelous computer or not?
Grigori peered at the antique clock ticking on the white marble mantelpiece above the fireplace. It was nearly five in the morning. He should have heard some news by now.
The ornate French telephone rang, shattering the stillness of the room. Grigori Sechenov hesitated as though fearful of what the ringing would portend: failure, disgrace, ignobility. At last, he picked it up.
“Allo,” he whispered.
The voice on the telephone mumbled apologies as Grigori’s face wrinkled and furrowed in anguish, forcing his eyes to close. The millions had been wasted.
Grigori Sechenov’s telephone rang for a second time within twenty minutes of the first disastrous phone call. He almost didn’t answer this time.
“Allo,” he answered in a whisper, hoping that it was a wrong number.
“Govorite gromche!Speak louder!” Aleksei Dekanozov, the Director of SVR, boomed over the phone. “Is that you, Grisha, or the cleaning lady?”
“Sasha?” Grigori glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was barely five in the morning. “I thought that you would still be in bed.”
“I’ve heard the news,” Dekanozov said ominously. “They got away.”
“You know as much as I do,” Grigori replied meekly.
“HOW?” Dekanozov demanded. His voice echoed off the walls of Grigori’s office.
“I don’t know,” Grigori replied. “I only know that they shot down three of our MiG-39s and got away.”
“Did they blo
w up the cannon?”
“Da.” Grigori Sechenov swallowed hard.
“Perhaps it is just as well,” Dekanozov said softly.
“Da,” Grigori agreed in a whisper.
Aleksei Dekanozov was silent for several seconds, making only breathing sounds while he pondered their predicament. “We’ll never hear the end of this from that fat pig Dobrovolsky.”
Grigori Sechenov sat waiting for his boss’ wrath to descend on him. Instead, he fell silent.
“You have to get that computer today,” Dekanozov said finally. His tone was casual, as though he was telling Grigori to purchase a loaf of bread.
“Today!” Grigori gasped in dismay. “But how?”
“Be creative!” Dekanozov snapped angrily. “That’s what I’m paying you for—not failure.”
“But in just a few hours?” Grigori uttered in dismay.
“We must have success! We must not fail!” Aleksei Dekanozov growled.
Grigori shuddered at the thought of what might come to pass, should he fail again. “But it’s out of our reach.”
“Is it, now?” Dekanozov sneered.
“You have a plan?”
“I should think you do,” Aleksei Dekanozov scoffed. “Certainly one for yourshtepsel , your preciousZerkalo , in case something goes wrong.Zerkalo does have access to the computer, does he not?”
“You mean bringZerkalo in?” Grigori Sechenov muttered nervously. “But that escape plan is only in case that he is in danger. To use it otherwise would blow the most importantshtepsel I have!”
“Better a blownshtepsel than a dead spy master, Grisha,” Aleksei Dekanozov suggested in a menacing tone. “Bullet holes wouldn’t look very nice on your pretty uniform—no better than they would on my gray suit. I want you to activate your plan immediately, only make certain than your belovedZerkalo brings the computer with him. If you succeed, then Operation Armored Fist succeeds. And if Armored Fist succeeds, then you and I are heroes. I can then tell that pig, Dobrovolsky, to shut his fat face.”
The Espionage Game Page 37
