Shadow Wars, page 39
Kat closed her eyes. Oh, Bernie … oh, God, Bernie … I hope there’s some way …
Halder was in a detached mood, pleased with his decision to attack the Super Cobras. “We almost succeeded there. With a little more luck, we might have eliminated them.”
“Or all of us. You didn’t have to attack those helicopters,” Wallace Ellyson said bitterly. “You could have kept going. You didn’t need to take that chance.”
“Never allow an enemy to live. You Americans don’t seem to understand that. All you do is allow someone to come back to kill you later.”
They landed at a field in the countryside, outside of a small city named Kobrin which was east of Brest. The airport had been practically abandoned by the air force after the Warsaw Pact collapsed. A few old helicopters, some ancient transports, and some training planes, all covered with snow, were parked to one side of the main hangar. The ramp in front of the hangar and a single runway had been poorly plowed. The Belarussian flag hung limply outside the hangar.
A very old air force major stepped out of a door to one side of the hangar, shading his eyes against the sun. He stared with surprise at the four helicopters, one of them with a section blown out of the upper fuselage. They still exhibited the old Soviet markings but no one had said a thing to him about their arrival.
Halder strode up and addressed the man in his broken Russian. “We’re making a cross-country flight and we’re low on fuel. I’m told you have a supply.”
The uniforms the major saw were not Soviet. Some of the people who climbed out, one of them a woman, wore civilian clothes. “Authorization …” he managed. “I need some sort of authorization to release my fuel.”
Halder pulled the Beretta from his belt and pointed it at the man’s belt. “Where do we turn on the pumps?”
What might have been an effort at bravery collapsed with the appearance of the Beretta. The major led them to the pump room, assisted in starting the pumps, and led them inside to a dusty mess room.
“Where are your other people?” Halder inquired suspiciously.
The major looked at his watch. “Another hour.”
The four American helicopters landed on a rise a few miles back from the river. One was too badly damaged to bother with. The engine on the second was questionable. Ryng contacted Voronov while fuel was siphoned into the Black Hawk and the untouched Super Cobra from the other two.
“You’re no longer in a position to fight them,” Voronov commented. “That means we do it our way.”
“I will have two birds ready to fly in five minutes, maybe less. I intend to cross the border and conduct a search regardless of what the politicians have to say. But I need your help, Voronov. I haven’t any Russian charts aboard. I don’t know where there might be a place for Halder to refuel.”
Voronov responded. “They won’t bother with Brest. There’s a fairly good-size air force detachment there that could bother them. We have old fields that might help them at …” He paused before observing, “… well, maybe I’m wrong. Most of them may not be of use. If they don’t go to Brest, Pinsk would be the obvious place, but I don’t think they have the range to get there, especially after the fuel they expended in that little fight with you. The only one in this region would be Kobrin and I don’t know whether that’s still in use. I’ll be coming up on that field in a few minutes. I’ll make a pass.”
Ryng turned as Chance tapped him on the shoulder and whispered that they were ready. “I’m ready for takeoff now. We’re about ten miles south of Brest. I need a bearing to Kobrin.”
“I know I’m going to hate myself for this, Ryng. But my president gave me orders to work with you. Fly zero seven zero from where you are. Kobrin isn’t a big city.” There was a pause before Voronov finally said, “The field is south of the main highway that bypasses the city. But I can assure you I’ll get there first.”
“Voronov, I want to know what you find.” Ryng felt his teeth grind together until they hurt. It was an impossible situation. He was helpless if Voronov decided to blast all of Halder’s birds. “It’s important to me. It’s so important that if anything happens to that girl you’ll never get rid of me.”
Voronov ordered his pilots to fly at treetop level. He approached the tiny airport downwind to minimize the chances of being heard on his approach. When they were approximately a kilometer away, he ordered his pilot to pop up high enough to see the airfield.
“I have the target,” he announced triumphantly as he sighted three Havoc helicopters and the larger Hind through his binoculars. “There are people milling around in front of a hangar. Still refueling. Drop her again,” he ordered.
He held the mike in his hand and glared at the tuner on the board in front of the copilot. With just the touch of a finger, he could be talking with Ryng. Or, with a simple order to his pilots, they could sweep in and devastate the helpless helicopters on the ground. He thought back to the previous encounters with Ryng. Each time … yes … each time he had escaped because …
“I want to speak to the American,” he said so softly that both the pilot and copilot turned around. “Please. Push the button.”
He spoke only two words. “It’s Kobrin.”
“And?” came the one-word response.
“I haven’t been seen yet.”
“Why?”
“We’re a kilometer downwind, almost on the deck.”
“Are you going to wait?”
“I will if they stay on the ground.”
“I don’t know how far away I am from you.”
“Can you see Kobrin?”
“It’s just ahead of our beam. We’re at a sharp bend of a major highway that seems to bend south of the city.”
“Just a couple of minutes away. Your birds are fast, Ryng.”
“There’s just two of us. The others were casualties.”
“Then you need me, Ryng. You can’t do this by yourself.”
There was a pause. “I need your help, Voronov.”
“You are my guest here, Ryng. If you want my help, then I give the orders.”
“Okay. You give the orders.”
“There are a number of people around the helicopters on the ground because they have to be outside the birds when they’re being refueled. I don’t want to take the chance of any of them getting into the air. Agreed?”
“How are you going to take them out?”
“They’re on the ground, just like tanks, except they’re not moving. Easy targets with a missile.”
“All right. I agree. What about your Hostage Rescue Unit? Will you use them to get the girl?”
“We’ll try but I’m not going to order my men to commit suicide to rescue an American. You can die if you want to, Ryng. We’ll watch while you die.”
“Wait … I think I have the field in sight.”
“How far?” Voronov asked.
“Two kilometers directly ahead.”
“I’m going in then. The targets on the ground are mine. I’ll let my Hostage Rescue Unit land as soon as I have definite kills. I warn you, Ryng, don’t try going in until I’m finished.”
When Voronov gave the order, his Havocs popped up in unison, spread into a wing formation, and raced in toward the field. On his order, they fired missiles targeted by their own laser systems.
Halder turned at the shout from one of his pilots. He was met with the sight of Havocs like his own, their heavily armed shapes ugly and graceful at the same time, and the frightening vision of missiles, their exhausts bright in the chill sunlight, all bearing in as if he alone were the target.
The word he shouted in German was—“Down!”
But what he said didn’t matter. Every one of them moved, some running before they dove, others leaping as if they’d been shot. But it was in unison, an instinctive effort to distance oneself from what was about to happen.
Each of the missiles were direct hits. They pierced the fuselage of their targets before detonating, destroying the insides as they would a tank. Fuel vapor that had permeated the area exploded in a tremendous blast that sucked the oxygen out of the air before bursting in a fireball that enveloped them. Those closest to the blast were killed or knocked unconscious instantly.
Halder, his face bleeding where it had been ground into the runway, rose to his knees, his eyes darting in every direction. The surprise had been perfect. His helicopters—his means of escape—were destroyed. He was completely on the defensive. Now it was important just to survive, survive until an opportunity appeared.
He could see some type of transport helicopter boring in on them while the Havocs that had fired held back. A very dead Wallace Ellyson lay on his back on the tarmac nearby, burning fuel lapping at his feet. His face was untouched but the back of his head had been blown off. He also saw Norman Smith a few feet away stagger to his feet, sweeping up a nearby AK-47. Another survivor, a good man to have on your side.
Smith looked around, waved when he saw Halder upright, then, shielding his face from the intense heat, headed toward the hangar.
Kat Ellyson’s blonde head rose and she struggled to her knees, her gaze darting about until it fixed on her father’s corpse. She stared blankly at the body until her questioning eyes fell on Halder. He was still on his knees, hands on his hips, eyes searching the devastation that surrounded them. Then he spotted what he wanted. Rising to his feet, he moved as close to the flames as possible and lifted an AK-47 from a dead Stasi. Then he went to Kat. Extending his hand, he shouted above the roar of the flames, “Inside. The Russians”—he turned and indicated the helicopter that was descending as it came closer—“won’t be taking any prisoners today.”
When she failed to take his hand, he reached down and grabbed her arm, jerking her roughly to her feet. “You don’t understand, do you? You and I aren’t finished yet. The Russians will kill you without a thought. You’re more valuable to me alive than dead.”
Halder hadn’t been able to hear the American helicopters coming in another direction from the Russian transport helicopter. They touched down at about the same time. The members of the KGB Hostage Rescue Unit leaped from their craft and dashed to one side of the flaming wreckage.
Two of them moved among those sprawled on the runway shooting any that might still be alive.
The other four, with Ryng following a few steps behind, raced to the corner of the building. There was no visible resistance. They dodged to either side of the door. That was when Ryng was noticed for the first time. Instantly an automatic rifle was level with his belly and a finger was tightening on the trigger. The one in charge uttered two quick words. The rifle was raised. It had all occurred as a flicker in time. The next flicker would have been instant death.
Their commander spoke quickly to Ryng in Russian, much too fast to be understood.
Ryng shook his head but managed to say the one word in Russian that he’d been trying to remember since his Black Hawk started making its approach—woman.
The Russian, who’d received orders from Voronov, nodded his understanding and pointed inside with a questioning look on his face.
Ryng nodded once. They agreed.
Two of the men produced stun grenades which their leader pointed out to Ryng.
Ryng indicated his understanding again and repeated the word for woman, pointing at himself.
The Russian seemed to agree, tapped Ryng on the chest, then repeated the word for woman, meaning, Ryng hoped, that he understood Ryng would get the woman. Then he barked an order to his men.
The lock and handle on the door disappeared in a burst of automatic fire at the same time the single window was smashed in. As the noise ceased, the door was pushed inward. Stun grenades went through the window and door. The flash of the two detonations came as one along with the deafening blast that followed.
Ryng was first through the door, two Russians using him to launch themselves to either side. There appeared to be one large room, shrouded in smoke. More than a half-dozen men lay in awkward positions where they’d fallen momentarily senseless. A half second behind came a third Russian firing short bursts into the air as he dropped to his knees near Ryng.
Ryng’s eyes darted frantically around the room until they settled on the familiar blonde hair spread across a filthy green carpet. Kat lay amid the litter of the blast, eyes closed, as still as death itself. He dropped his rifle and crawled over to her side.
Ryng was on his knees, his hands under her arms, when a burst from one of the Russians cut down a man just swinging a weapon in their direction. The shock on the face of the man whose chest was torn by half a dozen expanding rounds brought his name to Ryng’s lips, “General Norman Smith!”—the name he had tried to remember the afternoon before when Smith had passed their car at the lake.
Ryng rose to his feet and again lifted Kat’s body gently. One of the HRU team members began systematically putting a bullet in the head of each body to avoid another incident. A second moved outside to guard the door. But as Ryng was in the process of easing Kat over his shoulder, a burst from the automatic weapon of one of the Stasi in the far corner of the room cut down the Russian to his left. The other reacted instantly, firing a burst that knocked the Stasi backward.
They all turned as one when, outside, the explosion of rocket warheads in a burning Havoc shook the building. In that split second the same Stasi in the corner had rolled over, his automatic weapon still in his arms. The AK seemed to move in a painful slow motion in Ryng’s direction in sync with Ryng’s head turning back toward him.
Dropping Kat, Ryng dove over her body, pulling the Beretta from his belt as he fell. The barrel of the AK-47 seemed to move in a slow arc toward Kat as the trigger was squeezed. Ryng fired—one, two, three, four shots. Each one hit and as the fourth one struck, the big, gray-haired man rolled over. The final slugs from his AK-47 smashed into the ceiling.
Ryng stared over his shoulder at Carl Halder’s still unmarked face as he lifted Kat into his arms and stumbled toward the door. It seemed to him that if the man came to life one more time he would finally be successful in killing Kat.
And then they were outside where the whole world seemed to be on fire. He dodged to his left and stumbled into the arms of David Chance.
Ryng glanced back over his shoulder at the building and snarled four words. “Burn the hangar, too.”
He was carrying Kat’s limp form across the runway toward the Black Hawk when Paul Voronov fell in step beside him. “Your lady, Ryng?”
Without looking up, Ryng answered, “My lady.”
“She is lovely.” Kat’s face, her eyes still closed, was smeared with blood, her blonde hair singed by the flames.
“She is very lovely,” Ryng murmured to himself.
“The local theater commander has alerted his forces that the borders have been breached. It is very Russian to react violently when that happens. When you are ready, we will fly on either side of you to the Polish border. They won’t fire on us.”
For the first time, Ryng looked over and held Voronov’s eyes. “Why did you decide to let me go in there with your men?”
“The lovely lady,” Voronov answered. “Everyone should be allowed to escape at least once.”
Epilogue
A man of habit, Henry Hunter had always knocked at Gilbert Crandall’s door, waited a few seconds, and then stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. It was neither presumptuous nor rude because Crandall found that an acceptable way to do business. Hunter was not only an astute politician and adviser, he had been a friend long before the White House years.
This time, Hunter stopped by the familiar side door to the Oval Office, pivoted like a Marine to face it, then reached forward tentatively with his fist to knock. But he drew it back, letting it fall to his side. He stared down at his polished shoes, bit his upper lip, then the lower one, took a deep breath, and rapped politely. But instead of then turning the handle and pushing in, he waited.
“Come on in, Henry,” Crandall’s voice boomed.
Hunter stepped into the office, his face fixed in what he assumed was an expressionless but polite aspect.
“Your knock hasn’t changed, Henry. One sharp, a slight pause, and two quick ones. Habit, I’d say.” The president was smiling pleasantly. “Come on in, come on in. Don’t stand there like a lost soul. The world hasn’t come to an end.” He pointed at the chair in front of his broad desk. “And sit yourself down. You look tired.”
“The past few days have been rather long, sir. I guess you’re more able to take them than I am,” he said, sitting down gingerly on the edge of the chair. He sat with his back straight, hands on knees, rather like a student called into the headmaster for punishment.
“A happy ending for everyone,” Crandall offered. “Wouldn’t you say so, Henry?”
Hunter held his lower lip in his teeth again before responding. “I’m not quite sure I know how to answer that, sir. I guess … maybe if you …”
“What I mean is that we got off relatively clean. Minimal casualties. Never minimal to the next of kin, but relatively speaking it could have been a lot worse. Ryng and his people are in one piece. Markov’s back in the saddle and it looks like he ought to be there for quite a while now. I think we’ve got quite a bit more breathing space in Eastern Europe and I think those nations will eventually fall into step with the European Community, even though I’ll probably be long gone by then. And we got rid of our bad seeds without having to make it a public relations flop. Almost a fairy-tale ending, wouldn’t you say?”
Hunter licked his lips. “I suppose I have a lot to learn, sir.”
“I’d say so.” Crandall raised his eyebrows and repeated himself, “I’d say so. But at least you admit it, Henry.” He folded his arms and leaned forward. “Waiting for the other shoe to drop, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Hunter’s response was soft and toneless. “Well, let me be frank. Over the past few days, there were enough people in and out of this office who knew your opinions and heard what you had to say so that I’d lose face if I kept you on. For a presidential adviser, some of your advice was dead wrong.”
