Winter Hawk mg-3

by Thomas Craig

  He reached up, after glancing down at the water rising toward the weapons pylons beneath the wings. He pressed the two start buttons adjacent to the throttle levers. He advanced the levers to a ground-idle setting. His arm quivered with weariness and a new sense of urgency. If the water beat him now…

  The two Isotov engines growled to life. He checked the main panel, monitoring the small percentage of instruments and functions he required to fly the two hundred yards to the safety of the white sand. The whine of the turbines reached a higher note. Water splashed against the weapons load beneath the wings.

  He watched Garcia, Mac, and the others retreat in his mirrors, wading back through the water. The sandbar had disappeared. They were thigh-deep in water, walking along its hidden spine. He reached up to the throttles and advanced them to their flight-idle setting. The turbines screamed, the rotors quivered, held by the rotor brake. He stared at the rotor tips to port, then starboard. Six inches, perhaps five—

  — released the rotor brake. They began moving, turning as if in amber or thick jelly. Slowly, slowly. Distressing the water over which they passed. He held his breath. Quicker, quicker.

  The rotor disk shimmered, the tips lifting well above the water. The Mil seemed to shuffle, as if impatient but still restrained by the water. His eyes were blinking away perspiration as his left hand raised the pitch lever, increasing the engine power. His right hand eased the column toward him, lifting the helicopters nose.

  The Mil lifted clear of the water and sand as if climbing out of molasses. The water rippled outward from the downdraft, puckered by streams falling from the undercarriage and fuselage. He lifted the Mil over the staring, waving group wading toward the beach, heading for the trees.

  He began to breathe more easily. He lowered the pitch lever and gently applied pressure on the rudder pedals. He dropped the helicopter high up on the beach, the fine white sand beyond the tide line whirling up around the cockpit. Then the thought struck him — the Galaxy… did it make Karachi?

  6: In Foreign Places

  Dmitri Priabin watched the dogs tail wagging lazily just below the television set. He was leaning one elbow on his desk, holding the telephone receiver to his ear. Nodding occasionally, as he listened to the surveillance report on Valery Rodin from one of Du-dins teams attached to the Tyuratam office. They were established in an empty flat opposite the refurbished mansion where Rodin owned — owned, not rented — a small, expensive apartment.

  On the television screen, half a world away and hours earlier, Soviet ice skaters danced a jigging, doll-like finish to their routine and bowed, then slid toward the camera that would study their faces while they waited for their marks. Another of the endless repeats Soviet television relied upon to fill its program schedule. The movement of the dogs tail seemed to dismiss their performance. He watched the skaters' shiny, heavily breathing feces, grinning, and recognized a common identity with them. They were spiritual cousins. Their marks stuttered along the top of the screen. Disappointing. Behind the East Germans. He sensed their anxiety, but without his customary cynicism. They might well be anxious for their new flat with all the modern conveniences — would the second-ranked Soviet pair overtake them, and thereby take over the flat? He smiled. It was what they were all after, just as he was — a flat on the Kutuzovsky Prospekt. The place had never seemed as inviting to the skaters or to himself as at that moment.

  He recognized that his mood had lightened.

  "He's been what?" he asked sharply, startled out of his half-attentive mood. A photograph of Rodin lay clipped to the first page of the file opened on his desk. The narrow, sensitive face looked up at him scornfully. The eyes were sharply focused; not as they must be now.

  The marks for artistic impression were better. The skaters waved with renewed energy. They might yet get to keep their flat on Kutuzovsky Prospekt.

  He listened carefully. "You're certain?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir. Silver spoon, sniffing it right up his little red nose, sir," the KGB man assured him. "He's practically in a dead faint right now, stretched out on the bed. Silk sheets, sir," he added leeringly.

  "After drinking, too?"

  "Yes, sir. Brandy and coke."

  Priabin laughed. "Tell me about the telephone calls."

  "Must have made twenty, sir. Do you want the exact log?"

  "Not now. Just your impressions."

  Other skaters smoothed onto the ice, bowed, and curtsied. Canadians, threatening the Russian medal places.

  "Most of them were members of his little gang, sir. The booze, barbiturate, and buggery boys." Again, Priabin chuckled. "Tried his father a couple of times, but the general's down at the assembly building — they're rolling out the booster this morning."

  "I know." He'd watched, from his window. "Go on."

  "All his friends hung up. Couldn't wait for him to get off the line. They must have decided he's caught AIDS, mm, sir?"

  "Get on with it."

  "We've got everything on tape. The bug's working beautifully at the moment. He's been crying and shouting all over the place, pleading and begging. I almost feel sorry for the poor little twink?" He offered the remark tentatively, as if testing the water of his colonel's bigotries.

  "Daddy's put him out of circulation, then?"

  "He did order some groceries, sir, and a lot of booze. That was before he started calling his friends."

  "He's been told to stay in. And not to talk to anyone, no doubt. Now, watch him carefully — I mean carefully. I want him soft, pliable, but not useless. When you think he's ready for a visit, call me and I'll come over straightaway. When he's lonely enough to talk to me."

  With their telephoto lenses and high-powered glasses, they were just a few floors above and almost directly opposite. They couldn't miss the signs. Rodin had no need to draw his curtains for hours yet, and before nightfall he should be ready.

  "Sir, we won't miss him picking his nose or scratching his bum, if that's what you want."

  "Anyone else watching him—?" He broke off as the door opened. Katya Grechkova entered, a sheaf of papers and files held against her breasts. He waved to a seat opposite him. She turned her attention to the skaters, but only momentarily. The second-ranked Soviet pair were on the ice now, gliding into a lift and throw. The girl, in emerald green and white, flew through the air and landed safely. "That you can see, that is?" he finished.

  "Don't think so, sir."

  "Make as sure as you can. I don't want to be seen going in there, when the time comes. Stay out of sight. I don't want GRU interested — we are not interested in Rodin ourselves. Got it?"

  "Invisible men, sir, me and Mikhail." Priabin heard a distant chuckle. Mikhail was at the camera's viewfinder or the surveillance glasses on their tripod

  "Keep it that way," Priabin replied dryly, putting down the receiver. He tapped at his teeth with his thumbnail. A moment of irritation on Katya Grechkova's pale, freckled features, as Priabin looked up at her. "What's all that?" he asked.

  "Kedrov, sir."

  He waved his hand almost dismissively. Grechkova was punctilious in her respect for his rank. It had taken months to persuade her that it was largely unnecessary, entirely unsought. He watched the dog get up, stretch, idle its way as if propelled by the wagging of its tail over to her, who fondled its shaggy hair, stroked and patted it. The dog licked her hand.

  Then she looked up, as if caught in some dereliction of duty. Priabin saw the vulnerability that normally remained private. She had an estranged husband in the army — this military district, but at army headquarters in Alma-Ata. Had the husband ever seen that small, vulnerable look? She was in the process of obtaining a divorce. Priabin was certain, and relieved, that she carried no torch for her commanding officer. Though he liked her.

  "Anything new?" His tone was detached, but not without interest, though he had come more and more to persuade himself that the solution to his problem lay with Valery Rodin. Who knew everything about Lightning, without doubt �
� and who helped kill Viktor. If he found Kedrov, the agent-in-place, of course it would do a great deal of good.

  "It's not confirmed, sir. Sorry — it seems the GRU may have discovered his hiding place a few hours ago. No, he wasn't there," she hastened to reassure.

  Suddenly, Kedrov was the infinitely desirable, captive. The GRU mustn't get hold of him before he did.

  "Thank God," he breathed. "Where?"

  "An abandoned silo complex. He was camped out there, as far as I can discover. But he must have heard them and got away. It's here, sir. Only gossip, but it sounds likely to be true."

  "What else have we got?"

  "Not much."

  She tossed her head after frowning over a summary sheet on her lap. She stood up and passed him the documents, tapping at the top sheet, running her unpainted nail down the list it contained. She placed the file on Kedrov over the picture of Rodin.

  The second Soviet couple had finished their routine. Good marks for technical merit.

  "Hm….." Priabin studied the digest of reports on Kedrov— friends, acquaintances, hangouts, social habits, sexual involvements. There really was very little that was new. It was the file of an agent who had disappeared; a spy there seemed little more to learn about. "Not much, is there?" he commented finally, lifting the file nearer to him so that the picture of Valery Rodin was once more revealed.

  "Sorry," Katya replied, as if being personally blamed.

  Rodin's features stared up at Priabin. Just a matter of time now, he thought, and felt the impatience vie with the sense of danger. Was he being reckless? Did the danger attract as much as the hope of a solution? I'll get the bastards, Viktor, any way I can, he swore silently, reaffirming a purpose, clouding his self-doubt.

  "Can't be helped," he murmured. He flicked over the pages of the file. Drinker, occasional lecher, cinema buff, hi-fi enthusiast, bird-watcher — his hobbies seemed to offer little or no illumination. "No, there's nothing here." He sighed.

  Concentrate, he instructed himself sternly. You have to find him before the GRU — time's running out, if they're chasing close behind. If they find him first, whatever he knows or doesn't know, you'll be right in the shit! They'll find out you knew all about his activities and never let on.

  "Is anything wrong?" Katya asked.

  He looked up abstractedly. "What?"

  "Is anything wrong?" she repeated. She pursed her lips as she saw his face become secretive, closed. "You look worried."

  "I just wish we could find him, Katya. We have to, before those goons in GRU do the job for us. If they even suspect that we were on to him and let him get away — you can imagine the consequences in this place."

  "Why are they looking for him?"

  "Presumably, just because he's missing from his work. Let's hope it's nothing more." He shook his head.*"They can't know anything, not yet." He stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets. Then he crossed to the window. The booster was almost out of sight now. A snaillike hump in the distance, without real shape or identity, way beyond the assembly building that still contained the shuttle and the laser weapon. Sunlight gleamed on metal; everywhere. "He could be anywhere out there," he murmured. "But where?"

  "Don't they always run to somewhere they know?" Katya prompted.

  "Mm?"

  "To feel safe?"

  "Oh, yes, that's the theory anyway." His attention had moved from the main assembly complex and the railway leading toward the distant scrawl of gantries that marked the launch site, toward the chimney smoke that was shaded like charcoal scribble along the horizon above the serrated silhouette of Tyuratam. Rodin was there, he thought; he has the key. I know where to find him. "Yes, they do," he repeated. But not Rodin — he doesn't feel safe in his flat, just abandoned.

  Impatience seized him once again, and he turned abruptly to Katya. She was looking at him, awaiting orders. He wanted to ignore her and leave at once, but her gaze seemed to prevent him. He must attend to the matter of Kedrov. He sighed and threw up his hands.

  "Well, my lady, have you any suggestions?" he asked good-humoredly. Katya wrinkled her nose as if she suspected patronage in his familiarity.

  "I — well…"

  "Come on," he chided, "just because I've been slow on the uptake and have only just realized you've got an idea. Out with it. Don't be coy."

  "I'd like to look at the abandoned silo, and try to assess how much he'd prepared the hiding place."

  "All right. Unless it's staked out or sealed off by GRU. Now— why?"

  "If he'd had it in mind for weeks, then there might be another place somewhere else just like it. The GRU will be busy searching every other abandoned silo and underground complex."

  "And get to him first? They've got the troops to do it."

  Katya shook her head. "He's not stupid. He wouldn't use two hideouts that were exactly the same."

  "So — where and what?"

  "Hide — hideout," she replied mysteriously. Her pale cheeks were slightly flushed; self-congratulation and excitement. She was clever, intuitive, thorough. This was one of her little leaps in the dark. He smiled, encouraging her to explain.

  "Well, it's flimsy, but—"

  "Come on, Katya, forget the false modesty. You don't believe that for a moment."

  "Bird-watching. Something he took up about a month or so ago, that's all. His latest hobby. Soon after he started using the transmitter to talk to the Americans, as far as we can tell."

  "Yes? Go on." Priabin felt an unfocused excitement. It sounded like nonsense, but…

  "He'd never shown an interest before that. There are maybe a dozen or more applications in his name for passes into prohibited areas."

  "To assist his spying?"

  She shook her head vigorously. "Not in the marshes, it wouldn't. Mostly that's where he wanted to go. The reason he gave was ornithology. Time and again — ornithology."

  "Well? You searched his flat. Did you find his books, notes, and sketches?"

  "Yes."

  "Well?" He had caught her excitement like an infection. Rodin receded in his mind. His gesturing hands hurried her theory, her guesses.

  She tugged her halo of tightly curled red hair back with her long fingers. "A couple of very ordinary books. I checked them out."

  "He's a beginner, it's a new hobby."

  "I realize that. The binoculars could have been a lot better. His notes are all right — but they don't improve. He's an enthusiast in everything he takes up — spends money on his hi-fi, on cinema history books. Here, he hasn't. But he went out a lot. I don't think he was learning anything."

  "Sketches?"

  "A few attempts."

  "A cover, then?"

  Katya shook her head. "Not quite — but not a real hobby. Not important enough to him to justify so many trips to the marshes."

  "Then?"

  "Then that's where I think he might be — sir," she added care-folly, looking away from his praising smile. He grabbed her by the upper arms and stood her up. He was laughing.

  "Get on with it — and tell no one, understand?"

  "You mean—?"

  "I mean you could be right. Or you might be wrong. Find out."

  "Yes. Now?"

  He nodded. "Now. Take the dog with you, too — you know how he likes your company. Misha, come on, boy."

  The dog, which had returned to the rug in front of the television, shook itself upright, its great tail banging from side to side. Katya grinned at it.

  "Come on," she murmured coaxingly. "Thank you, sir."

  "Find something, that's all I ask. And go carefully." His own impatient excitement possessed him once more. Tyuratam, the flat of a privileged young officer, a drugged man sprawled on silk sheets — he couldn't wait much longer. He'd talk to Rodin today, hit him hard, get at the truth.

  Things were moving. The inertia of events swept him up. He ushered Katya from the office, his hand firmly on her shoulder. The dog waddled ahead of them down the corridor.

  "Take
a gun," he warned softly. "Just in case."

  The sea shimmered in the afternoon sun. It was slightly cooler in the shade of the palms. Netting covered the two MiLs, reducing them to shapeless lumps without purpose or identity. They were parked, like automobiles, as close to the tree line as it was possible to land them. The tide had begun to retreat; its depth, as he knew because he had swum out there, would have been enough to submerge the helicopter on the sandbar. The flotsam of his impact had been drawn slowly, garlandlike, out to sea. The pelicans were diving for fish or floating like toys on the glaring water. The dead and maimed ones had been taken away by the retreating tide.

  Gant wiped perspiration from his forehead. Mac lay near him, smoking, propped on one elbow like a vacationer reading a paperback. His posture suggested rest, but the nervous tension induced by waiting — four hours of it now — seemed electric in the heavy air. Kooper and Lane dozed or chatted desultorily, disguising the passage of time. Garcia was in the cockpit of Gant's MiL, taking his turn on radio watch; waiting for the signal that must arrive, and soon.

  The Galaxy had made it to Karachi. To be precise, it had put down with the last dregs of its usable fuel at the military airfield west of the city, and only by declaring an in-flight emergency. Anders' voice, almost unrecognizable as it emerged from the decoding process of the quick reaction terminal attached to the satellite transceiver, had told them — wait, just wait.

  Four hours of waiting. Reassurances had come through the communications system Gant would use over Afghanistan and inside Soviet airspace, but no decision; no permission. The mission was still like flotsam on this beach, its clock running away, racing ahead of them. He had to be in Peshawar by the evening, with a thousand miles of enemy airspace to cross to Baikonur. Six hours' flying, minimum. And he had to reach Baikonur that night.

  Pakistani air force jets had made two passes overhead three hours earlier. Swept down at them, and passed seaward, into the haze, glinting like midday stars. Establishing the fact of a covert mission stranded inside their territorial border. Gant and Anders hoped the mounting nervousness would lead the government in Islamabad, however outraged, to agree to Anders' request in order to move on the unwelcome visitors, camped like gypsies on the beach.