Authors: Stephen England
In a modern transmission, the gears would have been cut on an angle to ensure a quieter operation. Unfortunately, in 1949, no one had figured out how to do that—or cared, apparently.
A hand on his arm, Han’s lips forming the word,
Ready
.
Harry nodded, motioning back toward the cabin. “Look after her.”
He couldn’t even hear his own words, but the SEAL nodded and disappeared. His gloved hand closed over the collective lever, gently increasing the power as the Sikorsky began to taxi across the floor of the hangar.
Taxi might have been the wrong word—it was more of a drunken stagger. He tapped the tail rotor pedals to steer the Sikorsky toward the open door, trying to keep his feet out of the linkage, a spider’s tangle of cables and chains connecting the pedals to the large tail rotor.
A muffled
thump
, as though from an explosion, struck his ears even over the persistent roar of the engine. Harry looked back just in time to see the massive door connecting the hangar and bunker fly inward off its hinges, dust and smoke billowing from the gaping hole.
The flash of red lasersights cutting through the cloud, through the darkness. Korsakov’s men. It was well past time to go.
A downdraft buffeted the helicopter as it left the hangar’s shelter, the Sikorsky’s wheels skidding sideways in the wet snow. He heard a death rattle of bullets striking the fuselage as the
Spetsnaz
opened fire and whispered a prayer, easing the cyclic stick forward.
The helicopter’s wheels left the ground, rising into the teeth of the wind. Harry seized the collective with his left hand, coaxing more power out of the aged engine.
He saw him out of the corner of his eye, raising the RPG-7 to his shoulder.
The fool
. A single press of the trigger and the helo would be immolated. “Cease firing!” Korsakov bellowed, his words whipped away by the wind as he raced to Yuri’s side, knocking the rocket tube aside just as it fired.
Searing hot air from the backblast of the RPG fanned the assassin’s cheek as the grenade arced through the night, striking the side of a mountain hundreds of meters away. “What were you thinking?” Korsakov demanded, his nostrils flaring with anger. “She’s no good to us dead—we don’t get
paid!
”
For a long moment Yuri met his gaze—hatred flashing in those dark eyes—then the man from Leningrad turned away, apparently accepting the rebuke.
Korsakov nodded, walking to the edge of the helipad, his booted feet leaving tracks in the snow. In the light of the moon, he could still see the helicopter, maybe a thousand meters off now, fighting for altitude.
He raised his right hand to his brow, snapping off a mock salute.
May you survive—until we meet again
.
11:37 P.M.
They found Klaus Jicha where he had fallen, blood staining the snow around his body, a tight grouping of bullet holes in the back of his neck, inches above the armor vest.
Marika felt for a pulse, but the body was already cold and stiffening. “He’s dead,” she announced.
Vic nodded, standing there with his Colt Delta Elite clutched in his left hand. “Never knew what hit him.”
None of them had. The mountain was silent now, but she couldn’t escape the feeling that their assailants were still out there.
The Russians, the bogeymen of her life. There was no mistaking that language—the orders she had heard barked out through the storm of gunfire.
She rose from her crouch beside Jicha’s body, a
bitter curse escaping her lips.
Russ met her gaze, the hostage negotiator looking strangely out of place with the submachine gun in his hands. Uncomfortable.
Marika shook her head. They were both way too old for this crap. Too old and too weary.
A bone-chilling wind howled across the West Virginian mountaintop, but she was past feeling it, hatred burning like fire deep within her soul. “We’re going to kill them
…”
11:49 P.M.
Andrews Air Force Base
Washington, D.C.
Low. Fast. A pair of F-15s flashed past overhead as President Hancock descended the stairs from Air Force One, his Secret Service surrounding him like a Macedonian phalanx.
Loud didn’t begin to describe the fighter jets—his ears ringing from the noise.
Marine One sat fifty yards off on the tarmac, rotor blades turning. The Marine guard waiting beside it was wearing camouflage BDUs instead of dress blues, and he carried an M-16A4 at the ready.
Something was wrong. “What’s going on?” Hancock asked.
Hawkins materialized at his side, taking hold of his shoulder and hustling him into the Marine Whitehawk. “The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team was ambushed in West Virginia,” the agent responded, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the engines. “At least thirty agents are dead—my orders are to get you to safety, Mr. President.”
“Shapiro? Haskel? They were supposed to be here—to meet me,” Hancock protested.
“The directors will be following in one of the decoy choppers. Now, we need to get you airborne, Mr. President.”
1:31 A.M., December 16
th
The Sikorsky
West Virginia
They were out of the mountains now, flying west-southwest on a compass heading of 224 degrees. Out of the mountains, but not out of trouble. Not by any definition.
Harry’s gaze swept from right to left across the cockpit, watching the gauges, focusing on keeping the rotor RPM in the safe green arc, between 170 and 245.
He’d flown Sikorskys before—a lot of them had what pilots called a “heavy” collective, meaning that if you didn’t hold it up manually, it was going to drop, effectively cutting thrust to the main rotor and taking the chopper down with it. Something you rather wanted to avoid.
His left arm was numb, braced against his side as he grasped the collective—it felt like he was lifting the chopper up with one hand.
Despite the engine noise, the deafening roar of gears behind his head, he felt Han before he saw him, his head poking up from beneath the co-pilot’s seat, from the narrow passageway leading down into the passenger cabin.
“How is she?” It felt like he was shouting into a barrel, his voice ringing and reverberating in his own ears.
“Okay,” was the shouted reply as the SEAL hoisted himself up till his mouth was only inches from Harry’s ear. Han looked tired, his face pale in the control panel lights.
“Where are we?”
Harry shrugged. “Flying southwest, bro. Hanged if I know anything more. Been too busy keeping this heap of junk in the air. Passed over a river about five minutes ago, might have been the Kanawha.”
He saw his old friend’s eyes drift toward the gauges and Harry nodded. “Switching over to the reserve in ten—we used a lot of fuel getting out of the Alleghenies.”
“The reserve isn’t going to last long—we’re going to have to find a place to set down.”
These truths declare themselves to be self-evident. A bright glow appeared on the horizon—probably a city. Something to be avoided—they were pretty near invisible as long as they avoided densely populated areas.
With a sigh, Harry mashed his foot against the right tail rotor pedal, guiding the helo away from the lights and further west. At their current rate of consumption, they had another hour—hour and a half, in the air.
Maybe less.
2:03 A.M.
Pendleton County
West Virginia
It would have taken a drunk not to realize something was wrong as Tex and Thomas pulled into the small Sunoco off US Rt 33. Even the brandy wasn’t affecting him
that
much.
There were five patrol cars in front of the convenience store, three state and two bearing the logo of the Pendleton County Sheriff’s department. Either they’d had one deuce of an armed robbery,
or…
His gaze drifted across the parking lot to the van emblazoned with the FBI shield. This wasn’t some hick cash-drawer-and-cigarettes holdup.
“Take a pass?” Thomas asked, glancing over at his companion.
The Texan shook his head, guiding the Malibu toward the only empty gas pump. “Not an option.”
The needle
was
dangerously close to “E”.
“Stay here,” Tex cautioned, removing the holstered Glock from inside the waistband of his jeans and tucking it under the seat. No sense in causing problems.
He swung his door open and stepped out into the chill night air, striding toward the convenience store, his Stetson pulled low over his eyes.
“Hundred and twenty on pump five,” he announced, sliding six bills across the counter toward the teenaged attendant. Gas money didn’t go very far these days.
The kid seemed to be moving on autopilot, his attention and that of several other patrons focused on the TV mounted in the corner. “What’s going on?” he asked, catching a glimpse of a blonde reporter on-screen, backlit by flashing lights. Your typical newsbabe.
“Where you been, dude?” the kid asked, tapping the amount into his register. “You see all the feds? Bunch of them got whacked over in Randolph County, just up the road from here. Something like thirty of ‘em dead, they got people comin’ in from all over.”
He knew it, even before the map came flashing up on the TV screen, a cold feeling gnawing at his insides. The map was only confirmation.
Thirty agents dead.
And Harry was involved. No, he was more than involved. He was at the bottom of it…
2:23 A.M.
West Virginia
The boy hadn’t spoken a word since they’d returned to the vehicles. Hadn’t even been able to look him in the eye.
His own anger was responsible for it, Korsakov realized, eyeing the boy in the rear-view mirror, Viktor’s face illuminated by the pale glow of his laptop. Misplaced anger. If it hadn’t been for Viktor’s insistence on the tracking chip in the beginning, they would have lost their target long before this.
Things looked dark enough as it was. He had gambled and lost with the FBI—and lost another four men in the process. He swore under his breath, trying to remain focused on the road as they sped south, out of the mountains.
He’d underestimated the CIA agent, underestimated his resourcefulness, his capacity for violence. It wasn’t going to happen again.
Inside the pocket of the assassin’s shirt, his cellphone began to vibrate, throbbing with an incoming call. Korsakov let out a long, weary sigh—one hand on the wheel as he plucked the phone from his pocket.
The number was blocked, but he didn’t need to guess at the identity of the caller. He knew. A long moment passed as he stared at the screen, then he slowly pressed the REJECT button.
The time for talk had passed. This mission was taking on a life of its own.
2:43 A.M.
The Sikorsky
Kentucky
Night landings were something a helicopter pilot tried to avoid. Even with the moon, there were far too many things that could go wrong.
It wasn’t like he had a choice. Nearly four hours after departing from CHRYSALIS, they were over northern Kentucky and bingo-fuel. A helo wasn’t like a plane—you didn’t have a prayer of gliding.
If it hadn’t been for Carol…Harry glanced down at the luminescent screen of Han’s phone. It was a prepaid Tracfone—Internet capable and equipped with GPS. It was Carol who had figured out how to use it to pinpoint their own position—and located the small private airfield to their west. According to the website, they didn’t conduct night operations. It should be deserted.
Harry shut the phone down and pulled his night-vision goggles down low over his eyes, guiding the Sikorsky on a western course. Should be only a couple more minutes.
The landscape shone dark green in the glow of his night-vision, the helo’s downwash buffeting the leafless trees below them.
He eased off on the throttle, deliberately bleeding away airspeed as they closed in. They wouldn’t have time or fuel for a go-round. The airfield had a single runway, running east-west. Just a couple hundred feet, long enough for a Cessna…or a helicopter.
The cyclic came back in his hand, the Sikorsky rising slightly as they came up over the hill overlooking the airfield. Lights. Glare. Pain.
Blast it!
Harry ripped the night-vision goggles off his eyes, throwing them against the side of the cockpit. The long, slow rotor blades of the Sikorsky began to whip with the sudden movement of the stick and he fought for control of the aircraft, struggling to keep it to a steady airspeed of 55 knots.
The airfield was lit up like New York Harbor on the 4
th
of July, flares outlining the dirt runway, the headlights of a pickup truck aimed at a Cessna parked near the western end of the strip. Men running back and forth, shadowy forms flickering in and out of the light.
They didn’t have another choice. It was this—or crash in the trees. Harry pulled gently back on the cyclic, flaring the S-55 as they came in, tail-low.
Taking his hand off the collective for the fraction of a moment, he rapped hard on the cover of the co-pilot’s seat.
Be ready
.
2:59 A.M.
The double-wide
Graves Mill, Virginia
It was his bladder that roused him, but it was the sound of the TV that brought him fully awake.
Reaching for his crutches, David Lay swung himself out of bed, grunting as his feet hit the floor. Losing some weight wasn’t a bad idea.
He’d only been out of bed a couple times since Rhoda had brought him to the trailer. She didn’t think he was ready.
Ready
. He pushed open the doorway of the bedroom and tottered out into the hallway. She’d been sleeping on the couch ever since his arrival. There had been a time when that might have been different, but neither of them had been prepared to commit. Once burned, twice shy, as the saying went.
Rhoda was sitting at the table, her back turned to the hallway, a glass of milk in front of her. The channel changed just as he entered the kitchen. “What are you doing up, David?” There were moments when he could have sworn the woman was psychic.
He eased himself forward, bending down to kiss her dark lips as she turned to face him. That was how he remembered her. The smell of pot filled his nostrils and he grimaced. Yes, another of the reasons the relationship hadn’t worked out.
“What were you watching?”
She smiled, gesturing at the TV. “Cooking. Old re-runs of Paula Deen.”
Another time he might have found the response humorous, but not now. “Don’t lie to me, Rhoda,” he retorted, an edge of steel creeping into his voice.
Her gaze faltered and a cold chill seized his heart. Before she could react, the remote was in his hand and he pressed the button for channel return. CNN.
“…the death count is still climbing in West Virginia, with 34 FBI agents now counted among the fatalities. Sources within the administration have confirmed that the ambush of the Hostage Rescue Team was connected with the ongoing search for the rogue CIA agent. If you have information regarding this case, please contact…”
The voice of the anchor seemed to fade away, the room beginning to swirl around him. He felt his fingers grip the edge of the tabletop as he sank back into the chair, burying his face in his hands.
What had he set in motion?
3:01 A.M.
The airfield
Northern Kentucky
The lights of a pick-up truck pierced the cockpit as Harry guided the Sikorsky to a rolling stop, placing the right side of the helo away from the Cessna and the lights. “Ready?”
Han nodded before ducking back down beneath the seat, disappearing. Harry reached into his jacket and extracted his Colt 1911, screwing a long suppressor into the barrel of the weapon. Who they were dealing with, he didn’t know—but it wasn’t legitimate.
And illegitimate meant people with guns.
He swung his legs out the window of the helicopter and clambered down. The cabin door was already open. Han wasn’t wasting any time.
Footsteps as he rounded the bulbous nose of the Sikorsky. Five men, moving across the runway toward him, their figures backlit by the lights. Amateur hour.
“Who the devil are you?” the leader demanded, a Kentucky twang flavoring his words. He was a big man, heavy. Some people might have said he had a beer belly—it looked more like he had swallowed the keg. “What you doing here?”
Harry smiled, taking in the odds. Five men, three white, two Hispanic. Only one visible weapon, a pistol-gripped Mossberg shotgun, but this
was
Kentucky.
“My name doesn’t matter,” he replied, shrugging. “I’m not a cop. As for what I’m doing here—just passin’ through. Ran out of fuel.”
The big man took a step closer, running a hand across his beard. At length he shook his head, spewing a viscous stream of tobacco into the dirt. “You sure picked a bad night for it.”
Sammy should be almost ready.
Harry inclined his head, measuring the distance between them. “I agree—for you.”
At his words, a pair of muffled shots rang out from Han’s suppressed Sig-Sauer, sounding like hammer blows in the night. The headlights of the pick-up went out almost simultaneously, plunging the airfield into a darkness punctuated only by the eerie orange light of the flares.
The big man swore, reaching inside his jacket, but Harry’s Colt was already in his hand. “Don’t even think it. Light ‘em up, Sammy!”
The SCAR’s laser came flickering out of the darkness, centering on the head of the redneck with the Mossberg. For a moment it looked like he might drop the scattergun and flee.
“Tell your men to put their guns on the ground.” The leader’s hand reached toward his belt, but Harry shook his head. “Left hand. Pull it out with your fingers.”
“What do you want, man?” the leader demanded, his words almost a hoarse scream. He was wearing a long-barreled .44 Smith & Wesson—too long for a good draw.
It fell to the ground with a dull thud.