Cyborg, page 25
Was this his chance? Steve ran through all the moves open to him; decided against sudden action. Only one man of the seven in the room with them was disabled. Five murderous Arabs and a touchy, fast, capable Russian on the other side of the room with a submachine gun. The other Russians might show at any moment. He would have to kill, disable, or hold under a gun the six men now intently watching him—without having Tamara killed in the process.
The door opened. A Soviet colonel stood in the entrance, studying the scene. Behind him were two younger officers, likely his guard. Steve strained to see if there were more, but through the doorway he made out only a single jeep. That made sense. With the attack having torn up the base, there wouldn't be that many men available for guard processions. Most likely many of the soldiers were also moving out from the perimeters in search of other men who'd been dropped by parachute. But that made ten men in the room with himself and Tamara. One half-dead Arab, five very live Arabs, and the four Russians.
The colonel came in slowly, his men standing behind and to the side. The colonel pointed to the Arab doubled over, a bloody mess, and asked what had happened. He glanced at Steve, believing him responsible. The sergeant stood stiffly, explaining what had happened.
"Why didn't you kill him, then?" The colonel looked at the Arabs, spoke angrily to them in their language. Two remained, the other four left.
The colonel sat on the edge of a low table. Steve looked around the room. They'd left the door open. The two young officers were backed against a wall, observing. The two Arabs remained where they were, their guns still at the ready. The sergeant stood to the side, uninvolved now except as a further protection for the colonel. Tamara had sagged back against the wall, refusing to sit.
"What is your name?"
"Major Alexei Kazantsev, sir. From the 455th Electronics Support Detachment." He gestured at Tamara. "She is Captain Nina Tsfasman, also of the 455th. I do not understand, sir, what this is all about."
"We really do not have that much time to waste." He almost sounded regretful. "If you insist on a charade…" He shrugged. "Either way you will not leave this"—he paused and grimaced—"beautiful country of Afsir alive. But you have a choice. We will put you both before a firing squad or we will make you available to the Arabs." Without turning he extended his hand to the Russian sergeant. "Papers," he said.
They were put into his hand at once. "Everything is in order here. A beautiful job, but then the Jews were always superb at forgery. Now"—his voice lost all pretense— "I will save all of us time and, hopefully, pain. It's pure bad luck for you there is no Colonel Popovich anywhere on this base. Certainly, though, a reasonable name to use on the road guard. And the name you gave the road guard, despite these excellent documents, does not happen to be on any of our records here. More bad luck, Major Kazantsev, or whoever you are."
He studied Steve and Tamara carefully and folded his hands in his lap. "What are your real names and where are you from?"
Steve didn't answer. There wasn't much use, really. Not questions like that, anyway. He'd answer those that might buy them what he needed most of all. Time.
The Russian officer waited several seconds, then turned to his two younger officers. Gloves came out of pockets. As the two Russians slipped them on, the colonel turned again to Steve. "As you must suspect, we found your chutes south of the base. A low-altitude drop, I assume."
Stall, Steve told himself. Don't get him too riled too quickly. Only need another ten minutes or so… "That's right, Colonel."
The colonel nodded. "Good. You have found your tongue. How many were you?"
"A small force, Colonel."
"How many?"
"About thirty."
"What was your purpose here?"
"That should be obvious, Colonel. The missile radar and computers."
"Oh? Why so obvious?"
"Surely you know we're going to have to attack across the Suez. Tonight proved we can handle your new missiles without too much trouble."
No reaction. Steve waited.
"Then why would you need to send in people on the ground?"
"Insurance."
"Insurance?"
"Of course. When we commit it's got to be all the way. We'll send in people on the ground to—Colonel, I'm not telling you a thing you haven't figured out already. When we go across the Suez the next time we're not stopping until we're in Cairo. We both know that. So it's worth the extra effort to be sure we knock out your computers. Without them the missiles are useless."
"How did you two get into this base?"
"You mean through the guards?"
The Russian nodded.
"We both seem to make mistakes—I need to learn to dig deeper holes, and our intelligence people need a better checking system for phony Russian names. On your side, you could do with better internal security." He paused and the colonel waited, studying him carefully. So far, so good. The clock is moving. Keep it going… "We had a group of Arabs who work inside this base set up to meet us when we came down. We—"
"You have names, I suppose?"
"I only knew one of them by name. Hamad. He's a truck driver. He picked us up on the road south of here. We used his papers to get through the—"
"Where are your Arab friends now?"
Steve shrugged. "I don't know. We weren't briefed on what they would do after we took over the truck."
The colonel tapped the papers against the desk. "Where are your explosive supplies?"
"Our what?" Keep it casual. He's on to you…
The colonel stood, his patience gone. "You are not a very convincing liar," he said. "You, or part of your group, killed the Arabs on the truck. Our dogs found them quickly. They are good at the blood scent. Also, you did not come here to blow up any computers or radar or anything else. You were picked up on the airfield with nothing on your person. The area has been searched and you left nothing anywhere. Why are you here?"
It was time to go into his act. He asked the colonel to wait please before he did anything drastic. He clasped his hands in fear, and the Russians saw nothing unusual in the finger-clenching movement during which Steve twisted the middle finger of his left hand and locked the finger rigidly in place. He worked to release a plastiskin plug in his left wrist. When the time came he'd have to get into there quickly. He—
The larger of the two Russian officers that had come into the room with the colonel walked toward him, pulling his gloves tighter. Behind him Steve heard the colonel's voice. "He hates Jews almost as much as the Arabs do. I'm afraid he's going to enjoy this. Igor, don't kill him, there are still important questions to be answered."
Steve looked quickly about the room, a frantic expression on his face. The sergeant had his submachine gun ready. The two Arabs were more alert now, their weapons also leveled in Steve's direction. No one paid attention to Tamara, but Steve saw the sudden alertness in her eyes.
A gloved fist smashed into his stomach. Pain ripped through him and he doubled over to meet another fist coming up from far below. It snapped his head back violently, and Steve pounded against the wall behind him. God, the sonofabitch knows how to hit! He reeled, spinning about as another blow came at him. He felt blood on his lips, and then he was taking the punches as best he could, rolling with them, crying out with the pain. Let the son of a bitch think he's killing me… Several more brutal punches to the head and, as he doubled over, a swift kick to the stomach that lifted him clear off the floor and dropped him, gasping, back to his hands and knees. He couldn't take much more because the Russian could suddenly do real damage, and he also knew he was getting into a daze where he would lash out instinctively. He couldn't risk that. When the move came it had to be all the way, with precision and complete execution. He cringed as the Russian moved in for more punishment. A hand jerked him up by the collar and he felt a fist crash into the side of his face. His vision blurred. The Russian was there again, and Steve clung to the other man, asking not to be hit any more, and at the same time managing to block many of the punches. He caught a glimpse of Tamara, who stared at him with wonder in her eyes. She looked at his bleeding face, heard his pleas for mercy. The same man who in training had been able to handle some of the best commando fighters of Israel. She followed every move like a hawk.
The Russian pushed him away angrily and swung a roundhouse. Steve took it on the shoulder, infuriating the other man. Another flurry of punches and Steve hung on, tying him up, hanging in. He was close, his left hand clenching the other's uniform, when he heard it. The distant sound of jet engines, and he knew they were back for the next strike. That was to cover their escape in the stolen plane. This was their chance.
He closed his left thumb and forefinger against the Russian's collar bone; steel-finger claws snapped the bone. The man's eyes bulged and he started to scream, frozen where he stood by the pain knifing through his system. The bionics leg came up into his midsection with wracking force. Before the others in the room could move he had the gun out of the holster from the Russian's belt. No one fired, could fire, because he kept the now unconscious form of the man between himself and the others. He tossed the gun to Tamara and in the same movement pushed the body at the sergeant, who was already trying for an open shot.
A submachine gun roared to the side; the Arabs, reacting in fear and surprise, firing at where Tamara had stood. But she was already diving for the floor, cocking the gun at the same moment, pumping bullets upward into the two Arab guards. Steve also dove for the floor, bullets tearing the wall above and behind him. He steadied his left hand, thumb pressing the release in the extended ringer, and the poison darts were propelled into the sergeant. His muscles seized as the poison hit his system. Steve was rolling over the floor as both the colonel and the remaining officer went for their guns.
They had no time to use them. A string of bombs exploded outside the building, dazzling them all with the glare of the blasts, followed by a shock wave. Enough to throw them off stride. Tamara fired two shots into the younger officer as the bomb explosions made him hesitate for a moment. In that same instant Steve was across the room to the colonel, catching him with a savage blow across the side of his head. Dead or unconscious, the Russian fell like a stone. Steve got to his feet, groggy from the punches he had taken. Tamara was by his side at once, her hand going to his bleeding face. "Steve, I—"
"Never mind that now; get those machine guns from the others. We may need them." Outside the sounds of the second attack increased in violence. They could hear the shrill roar of the jets intermingling with explosions and the whoomp of exploding napalm. "We've got to get to the runway now. The attack will last about ten more minutes and by then we've got to be in one of those planes." He grunted with the effort of dragging the unconscious colonel from the floor. "We'll put him in the back of the jeep. Tell anybody stops us we're taking him to a doctor. While the shooting's going on—we'll explain later. Let's go. You drive."
They went outside, the Russian slung over Steve's shoulder. He dumped him in the back of the jeep, got into the front right seat, made sure the submachine gun he'd grabbed was cocked and had a shell in the chamber. "Let's go!" he shouted above the din. Tamara released the clutch with a screech of gears and they took off for the airfield.
At the gate the guards were frightened but determined to let no one pass. Security had been tightened, despite the clamor about them as the jets swept in low, releasing bombs, rockets, napalm, and cannon fire. "Can't you recognize the colonel?" Steve shouted above the noise. "He's hurt. We've got to get him to an aid station at once."
The guards hesitated. Steve half turned, then dove from the jeep, firing as he moved. He heard Tamara's weapon chattering. He rolled again, looked up. Four guards. Dead. He climbed back into the jeep and they were on their way again. If no one had seen the incident, the guards would appear to have been killed in a strafing burst from one of the Israeli jets. All they needed was time. Just a few minutes more.
There was a last guardpost to get through. They rushed toward it, Steve ready to fire. No need. The small building was gone, bodies strewn about. "Good job," Tamara muttered, and swung the wheel down a narrow perimeter road toward the fighter revetments. "Tamara, when we get there you talk to the guards. Ask for their help with the colonel. I'll come around from the other side. And no firing if you can help it. It's not just the noise. If someone sees the muzzle flash we've had it."
The jeep screeched around the side of a revetment, out of sight of the main buildings a quarter of a mile distant. Before they came to a stop, Tamara was shouting to the guards. They came running as Tamara explained that the colonel had been hit. Steve stepped down from the jeep, ran around the side, drawing no attention in his uniform. He killed the first guard with a hammering shot to the side of the skull. The second took a straight-edged blow to the forehead that laid bare the bone beneath. Steve turned to Tamara as the colonel stirred groggily. Tamara stepped to his side, shoved the pistol deep into his stomach and fired the last rounds in the clip.
"C'mon," Steve shouted. "That third plane down, it's on alert. That means it'll be ready to fire up." They ran to the plane—and almost into the arms of two ground crewmen. "Start the engines," Steve called to them. "We have orders to take off at once!"
He boosted Tamara into the rear cockpit, hit the ladder and climbed quickly into the front seat. The crewmen glanced at one another, then moved swiftly to the powercart. One didn't question an officer at a time like this.
In the cockpit, all the training in the MiG-21 paid its dividends. The basic cockpit arrangement of this MiG-27 paralleled its predecessor. It came back to him swiftly, and he had the help of a checklist beneath the gunsight. He looked for a helmet, cursed when he saw none. That meant no communication with the ground crew. He looked down and to his right, signaled with his hand. Moments later he heard the powercart speed up. He went through the starting process carefully and quickly. It seemed forever for the two engines to come to life, for the gauges to register proper fuel flow and pressure. There'd be a problem without the helmet—no oxygen mask, and he wasn't sure of the pressure levels of the cockpit. He could always stay below twelve or fifteen thousand feet. No problem with the Israeli interceptors. The pilots had been warned not to fire on any MiG-27 that made it into the air, to leave the enemy aircraft strictly alone.
They were ready. He had the belt and shoulder straps on, glanced in the mirror to his left. Tamara was strapped in. He signaled her to move her hands away from the edge of the cockpit. The fighter had a single clamshell canopy that would come down along a pneumatic strut and lock into place. He ignored the ejection seats and other equipment. No time. He turned again to the ground crew, signalling them to remove the chocks, and—
Headlights, coming fast. Those sparkling lights… they're firing at us! Oh, babe, it's now or never… To hell with the chocks… move out!
He was doing things simultaneously now. His left hand went full forward on the twin throttles, and he hoped he wouldn't overload the engines with too rapid a throttle movement. Thunder exploded behind him as the ship rocked wildly against the chocks. Not enough! He went full forward, past the detent and into afterburner. The thunder was a constant explosion now as flame streaked from the jets. His right hand hit the canopy bar and the big plexiglas shell came down with hard authority. The fighter lunged against the chocks. He went to emergency power, and she rocked and pitched wildly, climbing over the restraining chocks on raw power. Canopy lock; he hit the bar for that as the fighter careened forward. He didn't bother with the runway. No time. The lights were closer from the right. With the canopy closed, the ship accelerating, he could now hear Tamara trying to get through to him. He glanced into the mirror, saw her pointing to the left. More vehicles. He told her to get down, low into the cockpit, bent down himself as the jet pounded from bullets hitting the tail. They'd move the fire forward. He went down the taxiway, slamming his fist against the throttles, imploring the MiG to pick up the speed he needed. No way to take it off prematurely; he had to wait. One jeep was on the runway, racing after them, but they had speed now and were pulling away. At a hundred and fifty knots he rotated, came back gently on the stick and in the same motion hit the gear handle.
They were off. He watched the airspeed, holding her down for a few seconds more, wanting the speed to throw the ship high, to take her up steeply. Now. He came back on the stick and moved it sharply to the right for a steep climbing turn to throw off their aim.
They almost made it away clean. They were about two hundred feet up when someone got dead aim on them, leading with his fire, and the bullets started along the top of the nose, coming back. It was only a burst, barely enough, but the plexiglas to his right began to shatter before his eyes and he felt something hot stab into his right arm.
That wasn't so bad, he thought. The sudden coughing rumble behind him was far more frightening. One of the engines was going.
CHAPTER 24
AN AIRPLANE always tells you when it's ready to die. The MiG beneath his hands was no exception. He lowered the nose, trying to ease off on his need for power by climbing away from the Qena airbase at a much shallower angle than he'd planned. Without even thinking about what he was doing, he had shifted his left hand to the stick between his knees, leaving the throttles full forward. It was a bitch of a job, flying a strange fighter at night, for the moment flying strictly by instruments with the nose raised above the horizon. That, plus his need to keep scanning the instruments from the flight panel to the engine gauges, where red warning lights flashed off and on to report some emergency within the bowels of the big airplane. He knew what was wrong without consulting the gauges, but the rising temperature, fluctuating fuel pressure, and coughing rumble that shook the entire airplane pinned it down. The right engine could keep running for a while with a lowered thrust. It could, but he didn't know. All he knew was that he must gamble on its operation for some time yet, and he must try to coax it along for as long as possible.
