Shadow Wars, page 30
Voronov’s eyes darted about the parking lot. There were no other targets. You are now the next—no, the final—deer. The sound of bullets slamming into the parked cars around him was punctuated by shattering glass. He was unsure of his next move until he caught sight of a woman sitting behind the wheel of a car less than twenty meters away. The engine was running and she could have driven away, out of range of the firefight. Yet she sat perfectly immobile, both hands on the steering wheel, her face frozen in terror. This was it, his only chance—my last chance! the only one … last … !
Ducking low, he raced toward the car, dodging between others. Glass burst all around him. A rocket exploded into the car ten yards behind. But they were guessing. They couldn’t really see him until he yanked open the driver’s door and pushed the woman across the seat. He jammed the car into gear as he jumped into the driver’s seat. The wheels spun in the snow and the back end whipped left and right as it lurched forward. The tearing sound of bullets puncturing the metal body coupled with the windshield shattering into their laps. But he was already careening through the parking lot and then onto the Leningrad Highway. A rocket exploded ahead of him. He held the wheel tightly as they bolted through a blinding cloud of snow. They were still in one piece when they came out the other side.
Then Voronov was racing toward Moscow. The rear window shattered as he yanked the steering wheel from right to left and back again. The twang of bullets ripping into the car’s body heightened the fear and excitement as he swerved back and forth hoping against hope that a bullet or rocket wouldn’t find him.
A hundred yards … two hundred … three hundred … in his rearview mirror, he could vaguely see men still shooting wildly at him as the car gained speed. He glanced across the seat to the terror-stricken woman. She was leaning awkwardly against the car door, blood oozing from a hole in her neck, her eyes opened wide in death.
Once again, Voronov … you lucky bastard!
14
Dissent
Carl Halder studied the second car through his binoculars. He was invisible, tucked in on the side of the old gas station, and could enjoy the luxury of observation without worrying about being discovered. He wasn’t concerned about Norman Smith right then because that other car, an older, nondescript, brownish Mercedes, had reacted to Smith’s BMW. The snow was too bright for Halder to make an accurate identification. He thought it might have been military but he couldn’t see the license plate clearly. But that was still reason enough to contact his duty officer at Fürstenwalde.
This was no time for military procedure. “Is that you, Kleist?” he asked softly when he heard the short response to his call. Halder, himself, had issued orders to keep electronic communications to a minimum when they were so close to moving. Although it was unlikely they’d create suspicion if one of their transmissions was overheard, he’d limited voice radio to necessities.
“Kleist here,” came the response.
“Do you have a warm bird on the pad?”
“As you ordered.”
“Launch immediately on a southwest course. His orders are to stay low to avoid early visual contact by his target. I’m about forty kilometers away and will assume control when I have him visually. Switch him to this channel now. Out.”
If Kleist was as efficient as he thought, Halder was sure the pilot would come up on the circuit within seconds, and he would be visual within three to five minutes. Once again, he picked up the binoculars. He watched Smith’s green BMW as it moved down the lake road, the retired general unaware he was being followed. The other car hovered about five hundred yards back. As far as Halder was concerned, that was a dead giveaway. Someone was on to Smith.
For the first time since their initial meeting at Smith’s home on the Mediterranean, Carl Halder experienced an uneasy sensation. Until just a moment ago, when he spotted the two cars, his confidence had continued high even though he was willing to admit the pressure was increasing more rapidly than either of them anticipated. He remembered Smith’s long, cognac-accented lecture about the condition of Europe and how logical it was that everything would fall into place. The man had rambled along about economics and politics and cultural barbed wire that resisted the most well-intentioned negotiations. Eventually—and Halder would soon learn that Smith would always finish with the same points—the retired general angrily punctuated his main theme with the shattering of The Wall, the removal of medium-range missiles, the arms reduction pacts, and mutual withdrawal of troops and conventional arms.
Halder remembered that deep voice as if Smith were sitting beside him right at that moment rather than taking a ride around the lake. “It all ties in,” he’d said, staring angrily at a point in space with his steely gray eyes, “with the demise of American influence. Castration. That’s what it is. Our balls have become European toys.” Then he’d risen and walked across the broad deck that faced the Mediterranean and paused as if listening to something on the water. Then he’d whirled and pointed at Halder. “Castration,” he repeated, his voice now so soft Halder could barely understand. Then he’d shouted, “But they’ve cut off your balls completely and taken them away … and you may never find them … unless …” And that’s how it had all started.
That was also how he’d met Wallace Ellyson, the man who hoped to use their success as a stepping-stone to a cabinet position in order to substantiate the positive influence of a new Cold War. They all wanted something different, working mostly on an independent basis to avoid any hint of a conspiracy, yet their individual objectives shared a common goal. Everyone could claim a benefit from the operation. And each one of them never actually doubted the outcome. They considered the chaotic conditions affecting the Eurasian continent as the main vehicle to effect the changes they desired. They were simply catalysts to hasten the collapse. Their plan might have seemed impossible to an outside observer, but their confidence in themselves and the eventual shifts in power was absolute.
“This is Wolf One. Awaiting instructions.” The voice crackled over the radio lying on the car seat and startled Halder. No more than three minutes had passed. If only each step would be as efficient.
“Roger, Wolf. I am at the southeast end of the lake beside a building just off the Teupitz Road. There is a road circling the lake. Can you see it yet?”
“Negative. My orders were to hug the ground. Do you want me to climb?”
“How close to the lake?”
“Approximately six kilometers northeast.”
“Don’t bother. You’re too close to your target. How familiar are you with the area?”
“We trained here a few weeks ago.”
“There are two automobiles on that road circling clockwise. Actually they will be headed almost directly at you as you reach the lake. There is a green one in the lead. That one is very friendly. Five hundred yards behind it is an unfriendly light brown one. Destroy it.”
“Roger, understand destroy. Standby.”
Halder placed the radio back on the seat and studied the two cars through his binoculars. It still struck him as odd. Smith must have gone to the farm outside Dresden. What the hell is he doing out here? We were going to remain separate.
When the low-flying helicopter seemed to pop up directly ahead of him, Norman Smith’s foot went instinctively for his brakes. He had no problem in identifying the Soviet-made Havoc helicopter coming directly at him. He’d memorized its familiar outline as well as anyone else in the army. It was no more than twenty meters off the ground and moving fast. Even in the long shadows of the late afternoon sun he could see it was bristling with machine guns and rockets. The speed. The surprise. It seemed it would fly right through the BMW. He could see the pilot and copilot, one behind the other, when it was almost on top of him. But the shock that drained the blood from his face came with the flash and instant puff of smoke as one of the rockets fired.
With a roar, the Havoc passed overhead. Norman Smith allowed his car to plow nose first into a snowbank as he turned around in the seat to look behind. He watched a brownish car about five hundred yards to his rear disappear in a cloud of snow as the rocket exploded twenty meters ahead of it.
“Shit!” That was the only word to explode from Ryng’s mouth when they were suddenly confronted with the Havoc bearing down on them. Because Adolph Geyer had again brought up the Stasi, Ryng hadn’t really been paying attention as he gazed out at the frozen lake. But something had caught his eye and that word—shit—that had escaped his mouth was the same word he’d uttered in the past when he’d seen other enemy helicopters bearing down on him. It was a universal response.
Geyer recognized the Havoc and the familiar approach at the same time. His reaction was instantaneous. He began to jerk the wheel back and forth until he realized there was nowhere to dodge with the snow piled high on either side of the road. They were a perfect target.
The flash as the rocket was fired was too short a warning to allow a reaction. There was no time to avoid, no time to stop the car and run for cover. Suddenly their world was pure white as the rocket burst in the snow slightly ahead.
“Can’t see a thing!” Geyer managed. He didn’t want to stop until he could see again. Better to be moving than sitting ducks. Then they were on the other side of the snow burst and the flickering lights in the nose of the Havoc appeared at the same time as the puffs of snow to one side veered into puffs of asphalt as the trail of machine-gun bullets raced toward them.
“Into the snowbank,” Ryng shouted.
Geyer had already whipped the wheel to the right. The car ricocheted off a bank too high to penetrate. The windshield shattered inward with a hail of glass shards. The car turned hard across the road, mounting the bank on the other side and then launching itself up and over. The front wheels had been jammed hard to the left. They dug into the deep snow on the other side and the car seemed to hang for an instant, nose buried in deep snow, engine racing, then it gradually rolled over onto Ryng’s side. Geyer landed hard on him, pinning him against the door.
“He’ll swing around again,” Ryng shouted, pushing against Geyer. But the man was a deadweight. “Move it, Adolph. Open your door.”
“Bernie,” Geyer moaned. “I’m hit … can’t see.”
Ryng grabbed Geyer’s shoulders and struggled to turn him. Gushing blood poured down his wrists. Geyer’s face was red pulp. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes, or even distinguish his features. “Adolph,” he shouted, “can you move?”
There was no answer. But Ryng could feel the other struggling with himself.
“The car rolled over onto my side,” Ryng shouted. “I can help you if you get off me. Reach up to your left. Use the steering wheel to pull yourself up off me.”
Geyer reached out blindly, his hand flailing until he brushed the steering wheel. Then he gripped it and a moan escaped as he reached out with his other hand and lifted himself.
Ryng felt the weight ease off just enough for him to wiggle out from under Geyer. When he looked up he could see the dark blue of the sky and feel cold air flowing over him. The driver’s window had been shattered. Ryng reached into the back and grabbed the two assault rifles and the pouch of clips that had fallen against the rear door.
“Stay right there, Adolph. Just hold on another couple of seconds. I’m going to climb through the window. Then I’m going to pull you out.”
He pushed the two rifles outside onto the side of the car. Then he poked his head out the window and searched the sky in the opposite direction from the first attack. He could see that the Havoc had already come around and was making a second run. Quickly hoisting himself up through the window, he turned and reached down for Geyer. But there was no one to grab. Peering inside, he saw the man slumped against the far door.
“Adolph,” he screamed, “give me your hand.”
Geyer turned his head painfully. A hole appeared where his mouth had been and he moaned, “Get out. Get out.”
“Adolph, they’re making another run on us. Put your arms up, goddamn it!” he shouted. “I’ll lift you out.” He looked over his shoulder and saw the Havoc bearing down on him. “There’s no time!” Why hasn’t it fired yet?—shit, why should it?—the target’s not moving.
“Get out,” Geyer moaned again.
Ryng didn’t need to look back over his shoulder. Time had expired. He grabbed the assault rifles and leaped off the car into heavy snow, struggling against the weight dragging against his feet as he watched the Havoc grow larger. The flash of another rocket winked at him. He took another few steps, then threw himself to the ground.
It was a direct hit. The brown BMW seemed to leap into the air as the explosion of the warhead combined with the burst of the gas tank. The shock rolled over Ryng with a brilliant flash and intense heat. The car was an instant ball of flame. Then he was up and running, his heart pounding to the beat of machine guns. They can hit a running target just as easily as a sitting duck from up there.
Ryng dropped to his knees and whirled, blinded by the cloud of snow, one of the assault rifles propped against his chest. He squeezed the trigger and held it, firing where he knew the Havoc should be. The roar of the engine and the steady chatter of its machine guns surrounded him. Snow was swept up by the rotors, turning the world around him a ghostly white.
Then it was close enough—too close, as if it would land on him. He could make out the Havoc’s black outline and the red flashes from its guns. Slugs popped all around him as the bulk of the helicopter expanded until it filled the white sky completely. When he realized that the rifle was no longer bouncing in his arms, he dropped it and picked up the second and began firing in automatic. This time he held it to his shoulder, aiming directly into the huge black shape that was about to squash him.
The downdraft as it passed rolled him over in the snow. The whirling snow was so intense that the flaming Mercedes disappeared from view. Then the roar of engines and guns passed behind him. No time to watch it turn, Bernie. Ryng was up and running toward a building he’d seen. No way you’ll be that lucky again out in the open. As he ran, he fumbled in the pouch for two more fully loaded clips and shoved them in his outside pockets. So little time, Bernie … so little time …
Looking over his shoulder, he saw the Havoc’s tail lift slightly into the air as it pivoted for a return run. The building was a small one-story house. There was a driveway from the road that had been plowed into a garage that was separated from the main building. It seemed so close—thirty yards, maybe forty—but the deep snow clutched at his feet with each step.
Another glance confirmed what his ears already had explained. The Havoc, the roar of its engines increasing rapidly, was closing again. His mind was playing evil tricks—he was positive he could smell the hot oil and grease as the engines strained to overtake him.
Twenty yards … ten yards … he was almost to the house.
But they’d seen what he was planning. A rocket flared into life. Ryng dove into the snow wishing he could bury himself—make like a snow snake, Bernie!
The nearest corner of the house erupted with a bright flash. Wood splinters flew in every direction. Then he was up and running again. He could actually look into a bedroom of the house through the hole in the side as he dodged around the corner. A pattern of bullets followed him, raising tiny puffs of snow that ran by his heels and into the garage as he dove out of sight.
He crammed a clip in one of the rifles and brought it to his shoulder. As the Havoc passed close by in another blinding flurry of snow, Ryng emptied the clip where he was sure the Perspex canopy should be. Then he raced for the garage. That would cover him when the Havoc reversed course and came back again.
He waited, listening to the engine roar as it drew away, anticipating the change in sound as it turned. But the Havoc continued on, the sound diminishing.
Halder slowly lowered the binoculars. The last time he’d witnessed live firepower like that was in a planned exercise. How could anyone have escaped from that first attack? Yet someone must have gotten out of that car alive because the Havoc made two more passes to finish him off. No one could have survived what followed.
The Havoc swung around and appeared to be heading back to Fürstenwalde without reporting the completion of their mission. He keyed the mike and called the helicopter. There was no response. A radio problem, he decided. They wouldn’t head back if they thought someone was still alive. But there was no need to worry about it now. He was heading for Fürstenwalde, too. And it was definitely time to go. The lake would be swarming with police after what had just happened.
When Norman Smith’s BMW came to the stop sign at the end of the lake road, Halder pulled out into the main road waiting for Smith to recognize him. A gray-faced Smith pulled over and acknowledged him with a wave.
Halder shouted across the space between them. “How did you find that display?”
“What was that for? You’ll have every law officer in Germany here.”
“You were being followed. Maybe you were also being targeted. Aren’t you going to thank me for saving your life?”
“Couldn’t you have accomplished the same thing without going to extremes?”
“No reason to take a chance on either of our lives. There’s also no time left, Norman. Someone is quite obviously aware of us.” Then he shouted that he was heading for Fürstenwalde. “If there was one of them, there may be more. We’ll use the back roads instead of the autobahn. We’ll talk when we get there.”
A pale Norman Smith simply nodded, pulled in behind Halder, and prepared to follow him. They would learn that the Havoc’s pilot, as well as the radio, had been hit by fire from the ground. It seemed obvious to the helicopter crew that whoever had been following Smith was an expert with weapons. They couldn’t say definitely that he was dead though neither of them could imagine anyone surviving those attacks. Halder would order a search team back to the lake to account for the bodies after he heard the other crewman’s action report.
