The Persona Protocol

by Andy McDermott

  Tony knew what had happened. ‘Kyle! Was that you?’

  No answer. Kyle had used the UAV’s self-destruct to make a kamikaze attack on the helicopter – but with the drone destroyed, they had also lost its communications relay. Their headsets, and Adam’s earwig, only had limited range and power. Transmissions to the op centre aboard the plane were now blocked by the hills.

  ‘Sounds like it’s landing,’ said Baxter. The rumbling slap of the Hind’s rotors changed in pitch as it moved into a hover. ‘We’re gonna be outnumbered any minute!’

  ‘Adam!’ shouted Tony as two scurrying figures approached. ‘Can you fly the plane?’

  Adam jumped down into the cover of the jetty, Bianca following. ‘Touch and go,’ he said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Baxter demanded.

  ‘It means we’ll either go, or we’ll touch something – very hard.’

  ‘Make it the first one,’ said Tony. He glanced at the Beriev. ‘How long will it take to get that thing moving?’

  ‘I can do an emergency start-up quickly enough – it’s getting it into the air that’ll be tricky.’

  ‘Get aboard,’ Tony ordered. He called out to the others. ‘Everyone give Adam cover!’

  ‘Bring Qasid,’ Adam told him.

  ‘It’s too risky,’ Baxter objected. ‘If we waste time moving a prisoner while under fire, it’ll get someone killed!’

  Tony was silent for a moment, then nodded to Adam. ‘We take him with us,’ he announced. Baxter was about to protest, but he cut him off. ‘No arguments – get him on that plane.’

  Adam gave Tony a nod of thanks, then rose. The Hind had landed somewhere on the other side of the woods. The Russian soldiers would be here in a few minutes – but al-Rais was already somewhere much closer. Even without the terrorist leader’s persona, Adam knew he would try to stop the Americans from leaving with the RTG.

  No sign of him, though. ‘Okay, I’m ready.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Tony.

  Adam jumped up on to the jetty – and ran.

  Despite some of the covering snow and ice being cleared by the men carrying the RTG, the surface was still slippery. The tip of the Beriev’s starboard wing reached halfway back along the hundred-foot pier. He passed it, skirting a dead terrorist. If al-Rais were going to take a shot, it would be now—

  A sharp crack of gunfire – but he had already ducked. The bullet snapped over him and punched a hole in the Beriev’s fuselage.

  More shots, these from a G36 as a teammate opened fire on the terrorist leader’s position. Boots skidding over the old planks, Adam threw himself through the open hatch into the Be-200’s cabin. He rolled into cover – and hit something hard and heavy.

  The RTG. The nuclear battery squatted inside its protective frame, secured to the deck by thick straps. The core’s green paint was cracked and flaking, exposing the metal of the casing.

  The shooting stopped. He glanced through the hatch. Tony and the others still had guns at the ready. They hadn’t hit al-Rais. Beyond the trees, he heard the throb of the Hind’s engines at idle. The pilot probably had no idea what had hit his aircraft, and was unwilling to risk the Americans having more of them.

  But Adam knew that as soon as the Beriev started up, Sevnik would not allow the gunship to remain grounded.

  He hurried into the cockpit. A moment of terrified shock as he saw the dead pilot still slumped in his seat, the Barrett round having blown half his head away. But he suppressed the young co-pilot’s horror at the sight of his dead instructor and friend and dropped into the empty second seat. The Beriev was a modern aircraft with a relatively high degree of computerisation; he engaged the auxiliary power unit to activate the main systems, then began the procedure for an emergency start-up.

  Holly Jo ran back into the Global 6000’s cabin from the cockpit. ‘Better strap in!’ she warned Kyle as she sat and buckled her own seat belt tightly.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Kyle said as he followed suit. The lights flickered, then the airframe trembled as the engines rose in power. There was a whine as the thrust reversers opened. The plane began to move – backwards, trundling towards Provideniya’s main runway.

  Holly Jo put her headset back on. ‘Oh, they are not happy about this,’ she said as she heard the control tower’s demands to know what was going on.

  ‘They want us to stop and power down,’ said the pilot. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘We’ve got our orders – take off and get to US airspace,’ she replied, looking through a porthole. A couple of Russian officials were running across the snow-covered concrete after the retreating jet. ‘Uh-oh.’

  The plane swung sharply through ninety degrees to face down the runway. Kyle peered through the window. ‘What’re they gonna do, try to shoot out the— Oh shit. Oh shit! They’ve got guns – they are going to shoot out the tyres!’ He reactivated his own headset. ‘Dude, get us out of here!’

  ‘Miss Voss, can you keep your people’s chatter down, please?’ the pilot replied testily. The thrust reversers retracted, the jet lurching to a stop.

  ‘What?’ snapped Kyle. ‘No, wait – I’m not her people! She doesn’t give me orders!’

  ‘You are such a gynophobe, Kyle,’ Holly Jo said, clutching her armrests as the engines shrieked to full power.

  ‘No, I’m not, whatever that is – oh Jesus!’ The Russians were taking aim. ‘Go, go go go!’

  The pilot released the wheelbrakes. Holly Jo and Kyle were shoved back in their seats as the jet surged forward. One of the Russians gawped at the Global 6000 as it raced past.

  The younger of the pair opened fire—

  He was aiming at the wheels rather than the fuselage. His bullets hit nothing but concrete and snow. The plane left the officers behind in moments and took to the sky, climbing steeply and banking to head south-east.

  Holly Jo was still monitoring the radio traffic. ‘They’re warning the Russian air force about us,’ she said, alarmed.

  Now that they were airborne, Kyle had relaxed. ‘Pfft. What’re they gonna do?’ he asked dismissively. ‘They can’t even afford to keep up a proper interceptor screen. Besides, we’ll have an F-22 escort as soon as we’re out of Russian airspace. Nothing’ll be able to touch us.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Holly Jo, less convinced. ‘But we’ve got to get out of Russian airspace first . . .’

  A rising shrill announced to those on the shore that Adam had started the Beriev’s engines. Baxter waved to his men. ‘Let’s go, let’s go! Bring the prisoner!’

  Spence hauled Qasid upright and pushed him along the cutting. The two other soldiers quickly caught up.

  Tony kept a close watch on the buildings. Al-Rais had fired from behind the largest one, its wooden wall now ravaged by G36 bullets – but he was certain the Saudi had escaped unharmed.

  Al-Rais was no longer the only threat, however. Sevnik’s soldiers were somewhere in the woods – and getting closer. ‘Okay, John,’ said Tony, ‘get Bianca to the plane. I’ll cover you.’

  ‘You should take her,’ Baxter said.

  ‘There isn’t time to argue. Go!’

  Baxter frowned, but helped Bianca up. ‘Can you carry both those cases?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re heavy, but – yeah, I can,’ she said, realising that he was effectively offering to take one himself, which would leave him holding his rifle one-handed.

  ‘Good.’ He turned to cover the cutting’s southern side. ‘Okay, head for the plane as quick as you can. Go!’

  She swung the cases on to the jetty, then clambered up. Baxter hopped on to the structure with considerably more grace. Arms straining, she scurried along the pier. The Alabaman moved at a backwards trot behind her.

  ‘Movement in the woods!’ yelled one of the men on the shore. ‘South-west!’

  Tony looked past the derelict buildings, seeing shadowy figures ducking between the snow-laden evergreens about a hundred yards distant. Three, maybe four men – which meant the rest of
Sevnik’s squad would be moving in from a different direction. ‘Suppressing fire!’ he ordered. ‘Get to the plane!’

  Spence drove Qasid towards the pier as the other two men opened up, firing three-round bursts into the trees. The shots weren’t intended to kill, simply to force the approaching Russians to drop and find protection – preventing them from shooting back. Bark splintered, white powder exploding from the drooping branches. The soldiers scrambled for cover.

  Tony checked on Bianca and Baxter. They were halfway along the jetty, Baxter still watching the shore. ‘Tony!’ the ex-Marine shouted, gesturing with his rifle.

  More figures in the trees, these emerging from behind the buildings to make a pincer movement along the lagoon’s edge. Baxter fired a burst in their direction. The Russians hurriedly pulled back.

  ‘Come on, move!’ yelled Tony as Spence and Qasid passed him. The remaining two men backed towards the pier as they unleashed bursts of fire into the woods.

  ‘Reloading!’ said Levin, ejecting a spent magazine. He crouched behind a pile of mine debris and fumbled for a replacement. Fallon reached the jetty.

  ‘Levin, hurry up!’ Tony yelled as he climbed on to the wooden structure to start his own retreat. Another look back. Bianca boarded the plane, Baxter pausing to untie the mooring rope. ‘We are leaving!’

  Levin finally loaded the new mag. He popped up to fire across the cutting, then raced for the jetty.

  One of the Russians in the woods shot back, his Kalashnikov on full auto. Some of the rounds were tracers, lines of green fire streaking like laser beams across the tracks.

  Homing in—

  A shot ripped through Levin’s left shoulder with a spray of blood.

  ‘Man down!’ Tony cried, seeing him fall. ‘Cover me!’

  He opened up with his SIG at the shooter, who ducked into cover. The men on the jetty also fired, Baxter and Spence aiming at the soldiers behind the buildings while Fallon put down more suppressing fire on Tony’s target. Tony ran to the fallen man. ‘Can you move?’

  Levin had dropped his gun, his free hand clamped over the bloody wound. ‘I – I think so.’

  Tony hauled him to his feet. ‘Get going – I’ll give you cover. Run!’ He picked up the G36 and backed up, firing into the trees.

  Baxter pulled the last loop of the mooring line free. ‘Get that asshole aboard!’ he shouted to Spence, who forcefully shoved Qasid through the hatch before turning to continue shooting. ‘Tony, come on!’

  Tony fired one last burst – then his rifle clicked empty. He dropped it and ran, quickly catching up with Levin and pulling him with him.

  Baxter retreated into the plane, the others following suit. Despite their suppressing fire, retaliatory gunshots rattled from the shore. Bullets clunked against the Beriev’s hull. Bianca shrieked, flattening herself on the deck and shielding her head. ‘Get moving, go!’ shouted Tony, waving furiously for the plane to set off.

  In the cockpit, Adam saw him and pushed the throttles. The engines rose in power. The float on the seaplane’s starboard wing would have hit the pier if he had simply gone forward, forcing him to engage reverse thrust and back the thirty-ton jet away from it.

  Still hauling Levin with him, Tony reached the open hatch just as it slipped from the end of the jetty. Hands dragged them inside.

  ‘They’re aboard!’ Baxter yelled to Adam, before leaning back out of the door to resume firing. ‘Get us out of here!’

  Adam pushed the port engine’s throttle further forward. The extra power on that side drove the aircraft into a slewing turn, its tail swinging towards the shore. Ice crackled under the hull. He looked through the side window. Was the float clear?

  A hailstorm rattle of bullets told him that it would have to be. He closed the thrust reversers and pushed both throttles forward. The Beriev’s nose tipped upwards like a surging speedboat before the water’s drag on the aft fuselage slammed it back down in an explosion of spray. Shouts came from the cabin as people were thrown off their feet.

  Fear gripped him, the co-pilot’s inexperience fuelling the emotion. I’ve only done this twice before – and Stepan is dead! He worked the controls, extending the wing flaps for maximum lift. With the RTG aboard, the Beriev was heavily laden, its hull low in the water and both wing floats carving deeply into the lagoon’s surface. The nose thumped through the choppy waves as the plane moved out into open water. What do I do? Elevators – use the elevators, set the right pitch angle . . .

  Adam made the adjustments, the seaplane’s nose slowly tipping back up. Another wave impact, but this time the Be-200 skipped over it rather than ploughing through. He increased power and looked ahead.

  Hills filled his vision. The plane’s turn had left it pointing diagonally across the long lagoon. He needed to head due south to have enough room to take off. I’ve never turned at this speed! We might capsize!

  Despite the persona’s warning, he pushed his foot down on the rudder pedal. The Beriev changed course, centrifugal force rolling it heavily on to its left side. Slower, slow down!

  But he couldn’t. Off to his right he saw movement above the woods. The Hind had taken off again.

  Sevnik was trying to stop their escape.

  34

  Outflanked

  Adam pushed the rudder pedal down harder. The Beriev tipped further, the pilot’s corpse flopping grotesquely over the armrest. The hillside swung away. Grey sky almost touched grey water in the distance ahead, separated only by a thin bar of land across the lagoon’s mouth.

  He eased pressure on the rudder, lining up the plane with the open sky. The Hind pulled ahead, sweeping out across the water. He realised what Sevnik was doing. The Russian didn’t want to risk losing the RTG – maybe he even had some sliver of conscience that drew the line at poisoning the Motherland with five kilograms of strontium-90 – and rather than destroy the seaplane, he was trying to stop it from taking off.

  The easiest way to do that would also be the simplest: block its path.

  Adam opened the throttles, changing the elevator pitch to bring the nose back up. The Beriev bounced over the waves as it gained speed. It needed at least a kilometre of open water and to reach 120 knots to take off. The Hind could easily match its pace and move to obstruct it. A collision would be catastrophic for both aircraft, and Sevnik was surely banking that the American team was not on a suicide mission.

  Tony entered the cockpit and braced himself against the dead pilot’s seat. ‘Can we make it?’

  ‘Yes – if we can get past the Hind!’ The gunship was now directly ahead, slowing to a hover and turning to face the oncoming seaplane.

  ‘Is he playing chicken?’ Tony said in disbelief.

  ‘If we hit him, we’ll lose the tail and probably the engines too. All he has to do is force me to cut power and splash down again, and I won’t have enough room left to get back up to takeoff speed.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Adam indicated the body. ‘He’s the one who’d know what to do. I’m just trying to stop this thing from nose-diving into the lake!’

  He checked the airspeed indicator. Fifty knots and rising. The Beriev crested a wave with a loud whump, spray speckling the windshield. More pitch on the elevators! He adjusted the trim. The young Russian was at least a qualified pilot in conventional aircraft, even if his seaplane experience was far too slim for comfort. It was only then that Adam realised he didn’t even know the man’s name. Gennady, the persona told him, almost indignant. Always the middle brother, always overlooked . . .

  Orange flashes from the Hind’s cannon. Waterspouts kicked up in the Beriev’s path. Sevnik was giving him a shot across the bows, trying to scare him into aborting the takeoff.

  Eighty knots. The Be-200 skipped over each wave, producing a momentary roller-coaster sensation in his stomach before the keel sliced back into the water. Ninety knots. ‘Everybody hold on!’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  More flames – this time from one of the gunship’s r
ocket pods. Two great white geysers erupted just ahead of the seaplane, the Beriev ploughing through the spray. Adam’s view through the windshield was obliterated, water gushing into the cockpit through the bullet hole. It took him – rather, Gennady – a moment to remember where the wiper controls were. He found the switch, the blades squealing across the rectangular panes.

  The Hind was dead ahead, an ugly bug-eyed creature hanging above the lake.

  He applied more rudder as the Beriev bounced up again, the seaplane curving to port. The gunship tilted to follow. The way was still blocked. One hundred knots.

  Another burst of cannon fire—

  This time, the Be-200 hit the line of waterspouts. There was a piercing bang somewhere below the cockpit’s right side. Adam felt the jolt of impact through the joystick. His eyes snapped to the display screens. The computers weren’t reporting any damage – but that did not mean the wound was harmless.

  One-ten. He jammed the throttles to the detent and pulled back on the stick. The Beriev was still short of takeoff speed, but if it didn’t get airborne now it would never clear the gunship.

  Another wave – and the seaplane’s nose pitched upwards. A hundred and fifteen knots. The hull cleared the surface completely . . .

  It wasn’t enough.

  He felt the roller-coaster sensation again as the plane reached the top of its arc. The Hind hovered gloatingly ahead, weapons pods curled down like mantis claws. If he didn’t cut power immediately, he would crash into it—

  The flash of lunatic inspiration was not Gennady’s, but Adam’s own. He didn’t pull back the throttles. Instead he shoved the joystick forward, throwing the plane into a power dive. The Beriev pitched down sharply, water rushing up to meet it . . .

  The seaplane hit the lake hard, another eruption of spray blinding its pilot – as he yanked the joystick back and slammed the elevators to their maximum pitch.

  The Be-200 skipped off the surface like a thrown stone and climbed again—