by Thomas Craig
Call signs, IDs, radio routine, cover story. It was all there, flashing in his mind like scattered, bright lights. Give them everything. It will all be so familiar maybe they won't even bother to check. He knew they would. Someone would. The mission's luck was running that way; was at the point where he had to begin to think in terms of luck. Kabul contained enough of a full army GHQ organization to nm down, and disprove, his cover story in a matter of — in less time than it would take to reach the Soviet border. LCSFA GHQ was inside the Soviet Union, at the headquarters of the Turkestan Military District — but Kabul was good enough and big enough to blow his cover without reference north to GHQ. An unlogged, private flight he might call himself, but…
In his mirrors, Garcia s Mil skimmed over the tiny group of dim lights, over the huddle formed by a bulky, high-sided truck and its screen of a tumbled stone wall, pale in the moonlight. Nothing more than a truck! The skeletons of antennae and dish aerials threw shadows on the white wall. Gant's passive sensors picked up radar emissions. He heard the radio.
"… please identify immediately. We do not have you logged. Over."
Almost polite. His MiL, the Hind-D, skimmed on like a flung stone.
… attached to 105th Guards Airborne Division," his cover story flowed on, "Kabul. Transfer of top-classification documentation from Army HQ, Kabul to Central Asia Military District HQ, Alma-Ata. That's all you're allowed to know, Mobile Unit 476. Over." Despite his tension, he grinned. The last elegance of the bluff, not letting everything spill out with the haste of denial of a child caught with the jam still on his face.
Gant's eyes scanned the black, star-pricked sky. Scanned his engine instruments and flying displays out of habit, wishing he could use other sensors and radar but knowing he must now preserve his cover story. On such a mission he would be flying visually. Even on the mission he would eventually admit to.
They were out there, like sharks waiting to smell blood or feel movement through the water, and the mobile listening post could guide them to him the moment he failed to satisfy it. He could outrun none of the aircraft. He couldn't even outrun another Hind.
Peaks loomed ahead. Cover. He scanned the sky, the gaps between the mountains to the west of him, then the northwest — there! He swallowed. Red and blue dots that were not stars, but tiny navigation lights winking on two fuselages catching the moonlight.
Cockpit lights, fuselage lights, the silver of metal. Less than two miles away.
"Major—"
"I see them," he snapped into the transceiver. "Leave it to me, Garcia. Out."
Speed of the lights and the flash of metal against the background stars—? MiL's. Gunships, like his own. Drawing his gaze away from them, he quartered the sky — no fighters, nothing but the two helicopters. Two against two — come on, come on, swallow the story!
There was no alarm, not yet, no request to the helicopter patrol to investigate.
He eased his speed to one twenty, one twenty-five, checking in his mirrors to see that Garcia was scuttling to keep up with him. Yes.
The mountains of the Kwaja Muhammed range neared, promising obscurity, loss of detection. But they knew he was here, now. Unless they accepted his story and allowed him to continue unmolested and uninvestigated, they would want to find him again. Everyone would want to find him. On how many screens was he pinpointed by now? The two MiLs had him, the AWACS Ilyushin would have seen him. How many fighters? They had to believe his story.
The aircraft, including the Ilyushin, would all be from Parwan; thus his cover story had his flight originating in Kabul. The capital's squadrons of MiGs, Sukhois, and MiLs operated mainly to the south and west of Kabul, those at Parwan against the rebels in the Panjshir. They would accept his story; should accept it. He felt the tension tighten in the wrist and hand that held the stick. Sweat prickled his forehead, spreading like some oily measurement of time as the seconds passed. The ether roared emptily in his ears like the noise of his own blood.
"Helicopter 2704, please confirm your point of departure. Over."
Digging. Not deeply, but digging. Garcia's image in his mirrors was like a wasp on his windshield, something dangerously distracting. The 24A dogged him faithfully, but he was responsible for it. The lights of the two MiLs to port seemed to have neared; the two gunships flashed more brightly in the moonlight.
The mountains crowded ahead like an encouraged illusion. He flicked his Hind-D to one side, jumping a ridge of rock like a flea. He lost sight of the two approaching helicopters. He drove into a narrow, high pass where snow gleamed and his own shadow pursued him across its whiteness. Perfect for a visual sighting, a difficult place in which to maneuver.
He did not climb or alter course. His first — only — priority was to answer the mobile unit, to answer the single voice before other voices took up the questioning, began to bully for answers.
"Origin of flight, Frontal Aviation central airfield, Kabul. Over."
"Thank you, 2704. Please hold this frequency."
"Mobile Unit 476—I am under orders to maintain strict radio silence. Can we get this over with? Over."
"I'm sorry, 2704. We have no record of your flight plan logged with Parwan. We have to check with Kabul. Over."
Gant believed he could see the rigidity of tension in Macs hunched shoulders just below him in the forward cockpit. The narrow pass opened out ahead. He squeezed the Hind over and around a naked outcrop, bobbed over a huge flying buttress of rock, then dropped into a wide valley. He glanced at the moving map. Assured himself of his position, his course.
Checking with Kabul—
He hesitated, then gambled; felt an exhilarated fear. Give them everything.
"Unit 476—ease up, will you?" The mountains were beginning to break up the signal on the HF radio. But he had to satisfy the unit before he lost contact with it, had to dissipate any idea of pursuit.
He climbed. He bobbed out of cover like a startled bird, hanging in the clear dark sky with the mountains below him. Garcia followed like a cork rising to the surface of the thin air to starboard. Gant slowed his airspeed to less than one hundred, as if someone idling in a conversation, not quite walking away from a companion. Bluff. Whoever was watching would have him pinpointed now. For the moment, he had thrown away all secrecy. They mustn't check with Kabul
He wondered whether to employ his own radar, to know how many there were out there, and exactly where; then decided against it. If the cover story didn't work, then would be the time to know the odds. The Soviet border was now less than a hundred miles to the northwest of his position at its nearest point.
Now, he told himself.
"Mobile Unit 476—whoever else is out there — I repeat, go easy." He scanned the sky. Yes, distant winking stars and the mirrorlike fuselages of the two MiLs. Not hurrying to close the gap of dark air between themselves and him, not yet. Now. "I — look, it's not documentation. We're empty at the moment. Got that? Empty. Understand? Over."
Sweat dampened his shirt beneath his arms. His free hand, having released the collective pitch lever, quivered with tension. Not too much, he hadn't said too much, not yet. Let the revised cover story drip like water onto a stone.
"Helicopter 2704—please explain. Over." It was still the voice of the operator from the mobile unit, at the prompting of his officer, who couldn't be more than a lieutenant at most. The MiLs were hanging back, waiting.
"I — it's a private flight. I'll be in trouble with very senior people if you check with Kabul. I'm — not supposed to be here. Be discreet, huh? Over." He grinned quiveringly.
The Hind-D was swimming slowly through the thin air, operating close to its service ceiling. Perhaps still a mile away, he could see the two Russian helicopters, their shadows moving beneath them across rock and snow; across the peaks and the high glaciers and ice fields. The world seemed shrunken. He could almost believe himself to be in a jet. The Hindu Kush climbed away to the southeast as far as eyesight could reach. A huge army of mountain peaks marchin
g on China through Kashmir. High above him, against the star-filled blackness, he saw the silhouette of something swift — MiG or Sukhoi — crossing his course at perhaps forty thousand feet. He was swimming slowly forward and the hunting fish had caught his scent, his movement.
Come on, figure it out, you bastard. Don't be dumb, his thoughts insisted, their urgency mounting. He willed realization on them. Reach out and grab the answer that's in front of your face. Come on, come on…
A minute of silence.
'Two seven zero four—" He was startled by an unfamiliar voice. "Are you on a shopping expedition? Over."
One of the two approaching gunships was now less than five hundred yards away, well within rocket or cannon range. It waggled its stubby little wings. A pleased, waddling dog recognizing another dog. He moved his own column, flicking the Mil slightly from side to side.
"You said it, Lieutenant, I didn't," he replied with evident relief. That would fit the cover story; it didn't matter if they thought he was scared. "Glad someone understands, at last. Thanks. Over."
The closest of the two Russian helicopters passed across his nose, slightly above him. The pilot and the gunner, who would have been listening, Tx)th waved. The gunner raised one fist, his other hand at the elbow of his bent arm, signifying sex. Gant raised his thumb in acknowledgment.
They understood now; he was explained. It was one of the smuggling runs for senior officers. Runs that were frowned upon, then ignored, even encouraged, but were always carried on under a cloak of fictitious secrecy. He might have been on his way to collect sex videos from army HQ, pop records, drink by the case, cigars from Cuba, women — oh, yes, most importantly women. Flown in for parties or changed whenever the local girls, the mistresses, or the last imported batch of whores — top-class, indubitably clean, and expert — became tired or overfamiliar. The gunner in the Russian Mil probably imagined he had six or more girls aboard and was on his way to Alma-Ata to make an exchange. He grinned.
The second of the two Russian helicopters slid nearer, as if to contradict hope. Gant swallowed. The pilot of the second one waved, too, then both of them dropped away toward the mountains. He heard the patrol leader inform the mobile, unit, the AWACS aircraft, and the MiG that had passed overhead of the purpose of his mission. Fantastic detail flew and gossiped over the air. Coarse laughter, envy.
It was working. They were satisfied.
"Christ, Major, you did it — they're going!"
"Can it, Garcia," he snapped back, hearing the relieved chatter of Garcia and his crew over the transceiver; sensing Mac's relief; his own, too.
"Sorry to have troubled you, 2704," he heard the original voice murmur, amusement in the operator's tones. "Good hunting. Over and out."
"OK," Gant said into the transceiver. "Let's ride with the luck while we can. Forty minutes' flying time to the border. But don't count on a free ride all the way."
"What's wrong?" Garcia asked warily.
"Maybe those pilots have flown sex missions before — they swallowed it. It only needs some suspicious little Party shit on the AWACS aircraft to call Kabul — just to make sure — and we're blown wide open. So look sharp."
"Uh-huh."
He watched the two Russian MiLs diminishing below and to port. Heading west, back to Parwan. Even if not at once, or in half an hour, someone was eventually going to suspect — know. Long before he got to Baikonur and back out again, someone would have checked, and they'd be waiting. Looking and waiting. He ground his teeth audibly, then lunged the Mil toward the mountains that stretched away toward the river Oxus where the border lay.
The wind raced almost horizontally across the frozen marshes. Filip Kedrov teetered against its force as he crossed the long, dipping plank of wood from the rotting mooring to the hulk of the houseboat. Thankfully, shivering, he stepped onto the deck of the boat, rubbing his gloved hands together with the cold and genuine relief. He bent his head into the wind as it sliced down the flank of the houseboat, blowing sleet into and through the gaps in the decks planking and the panels of the main cabin.
He shut the door behind him and wedged it with a thick sliver of wood. Then leaned a decrepit old chair against it, too. The door rattled on its hinges with the force of the wind. He flicked on his torch, spraying its feeble light around him until he located the steps. He clattered down them, afraid each time one creaked, afraid of falling, of breaking his neck. The houseboat groaned and sighed and seemed to be made of rotting cardboard. The wind howled.
It was small and low and no one had used it for years. Kedrov could not imagine who might ever have done so. Perhaps some officer's sexual hideaway, perhaps it had belonged to someone before the army came — one of the entrepreneurs the old town used to boast? It did not matter. It suited him. Long, low, bargelike. Just holding together enough to keep most of the weather out. He saw in the pool of yellow light from his flashlight that the blankets on his bed were damp; sleet had been blown through cracks in the peeling woodwork and soaked them. His breath smoked in the light and dark of the room. He washed the flashlight over the main cabin. He was alone.
He unslung his haversack, laying his flashlight alongside it on a cheap wooden table in the center of the boat's one main cabin. The windows were wet, blank squares of darkness. Swiftly, he drew the thin curtains and pinned them together at each of the windows on either side of the cabin; it was a practiced, almost effortless task. His breathing sounded loudly, above the muted noise of the wind. At each window, his breath formed a targetlike circle of fogged glass. When he had finished, he returned to the table, then lit an oil lamp that sat in its center. It smoked and glowed and smelled in the narrow, confined cabin. He coughed.
He needed coffee, some of the canned food he had stored there a week ago, and a check on the transponder, which was his lifeline to the rescue. Don't think about it, he warned himself. Don't start all that again.
But he knew the thought would return. He had rushed upward, as if on a child's swing of hope, after his escape from the silo complex; he would swing down again, just as certainly.
He drew the transponder from the haversack. It looked like a transistor radio. Cheap, Russian-made, unreliable — thereby attracting even less attention than a Japanese portable would have done. Its cheap look depressed him; as if it foretold the malfunctioning of the thing, indicated that the Americans held him in no great esteem, had spent no money or effort on his rescue — stop it! Oh, stop it.
He was an explorer in a strange new country. All the nervousness, the exhilarating fear and tension of the past weeks of his spying paled into insignificance now, beside these — terrors that leaped out at him. This was territory he had not visited before, and its landscape enclosed him, wore him down.
Tonight was the earliest they could possibly come — but tonight was Tuesday. If they intended rescuing him, if they meant to come, it would be tonight. Had to be, otherwise they would be too late. He understood their schedule, by instinct rather than information. They expected to be able to use the photographs — those he had had to abandon in the paint cans in the garage — on television, in the newspapers, to expose what was intended at Baikonur; to prevent the launch. They had to get him to the West before Thursday; they knew that, so tonight was the earliest and the latest they could come…
… and would not come — oh, stop it, stop it please!
The cheap cabinet of the transponder made it impossible to envisage the complicated microcircuitry inside. If he used it, even then, he would not know whether it worked — a light was supposed to come on, but what would that mean? — and he would hear nothing. It was simply a homing device, sending out a carrier wave that only his rescuers could receive — science fiction! His own expertise, his own technical background availed him nothing. He simply stared at a toy he was certain would not work. It had been given to him just to keep him quiet, keep him working.
He tried to sigh, but the noise became a sob in his throat. His mouth was filled with saliva, which he found
difficult to swallow. He was shaking. He distracted himself by looking at the lamp, trimming it, then at the walls and fixtures of the boat. He had repaired some of the worst gaps in the planking and paneling, he had hidden food here, the lamp, beer. He shuddered as he remembered the closeness of his brush with the GRU, hugging his hands beneath his armpits. Hour after hour in the freezing cold, all day and most of the evening, until he had worked his way on foot to this last safe house. He was intensely weary—
— which was why he was so uptight, so frightened. The explanation paled, overcome by the noise of the wind, the groans of old, rotting wood. Ice, the soupy slush around the hull, grumbled beneath his feet. Sleet puffed like thin cigarette smoke through gaps in the wooden walls of the cabin.
He slumped onto the bunk, all his anticipation and returning warmth seeming to evaporate. It was impossible to sustain the fiction of rescue here, with the occasional cries of a night bird and the disturbed honking and barking of wildfowl in the darkness outside. The Americans would not come.
Please let it be tonight, please let it be, he kept repeating. Please.
He was worn almost transparent with fear. His doubt had increased, gnawed its way to full growth. He had nothing left, no reserves with which to fight it.
Please let it be tonight, please.
He huddled into himself on the bunk, the transistor radio unnoticed in his lap. Knees drawn up, cradling it. Presently, he began to sob with self-pity.
It was eight-thirty in the evening. He cried, oblivious of the passage of time.
Katya Grechkova took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Looked at her watch. Eight-forty. She yawned, tiredness and satisfaction mingled in the stretching of her arms and back. She stood up, lit a cigarette, and walked to the other side of her small office— the office she had shared with Viktor Zhikin. Her head was aching, but its dull throbbing failed to blunt the edge of her pleasure.
