The River of Bones v5 (20 page)

Turning away from the Selenga, he steered for the summits off his right—the snowy skyline between the bottom of Baikal and Mongolia.  He would find out how the young pilot liked canyons, plus the higher ground would help break up any calls for help.  Both would go mano-a-mano and may the best pilot win.  To hell with the heavy load.

Minutes later, he saw the other Antonov gaining in their long climb over the rising terrain.  Both would soon reach the first mountains and the endless labyrinth of cliffs, ravines, and canyons.  Airspeed control, steep turns, and depth perception would rule, and the first one to blink would lose.  When a pilot rolled perpendicular in a box canyon, he’d better have the distance eyeballed precisely, because he’d crackup on a mountainside otherwise.  Airplanes couldn’t be stopped and started over.  You lived or died by your decisions, without any second chances.  He saw Simon’s eyes widen once more.  His friend knew what was coming.

He rolled to the right and dove into a dark valley, wondering if it would lead to a slope too high to climb over.  Glancing out the window, he saw the Russian turn as well.

Damn the world’s young pilots, he thought.  They never knew enough to feel afraid, like older pilots after a few thousand hours of flight.  The human mind could only endure so much terror, then you learned to back off, although your experience let you fly around with the best of them.  You began to perceive the easiest way to stay alive was just to say no and that good judgment always let you live another day.

This better work out or the Russian would have him cornered.  It would soon become a matter of who could turn the tightest for the longest time, knowing the plane on the inside always won the fight.  It was a matter of geometry, the smaller circle being the shorter distance to fly, thus the fastest.  Even modern fighters hadn’t overcome the basics of dogfighting.  The only good thing about the situation was in the fact the enemy didn’t have any guns.

Then he remembered
he
had guns.  Undeniably, they were small, but that didn’t mean they weren’t deadly at close range, which was bound to happen.  He turned to Simon.

“Turn upside down in your seat and kick out the plexiglass over your head.”

Simon looked at him with his mouth falling open again.  “Have you gone crazy?  What good will that do?  Has something hit you on the head?  You’re acting really strange.”

“Listen.  Once I reach the end of this valley I’ll have to turn, then keep turning.  The guy behind us will turn inside because he’s lighter, and in less than a minute he’ll be right on our tail.  That’s when I want you to shoot him with both Uzis.”

Simon’s eyes brightened.  “I guess you’re not so crazy after all, and why didn’t I think of that?”  He snapped off his safety belt, somersaulted, and perched himself upside down on the copilot’s seat.  Again and again, he kicked his feet, smashing the window above until the wind started whistling in the opening.  He sat up once more and said, “I’m ready.”

“Don’t kill him if you can help it, just shoot him down.  We’ve got enough blood on our hands, and he only wants to force us down.”

Simon nodded his head.  They had been young once, in their twenties and full of piss and vinegar, and both would rather see the Russian live to fly again.

The valley closed in, changing to steep rock walls breaking up green ridges and high snowfields.  A blue glacier waited at the far end, and no single-engine airplane could ever climb over its top.  Both planes would have to bank around just below the shining ice.

Be careful, Jake’s mind pleaded.  The hardest thing in flying was judging a turn against steep terrain.  A pilot’s whole world suddenly became a confusion of angles, the mountainsides running every direction, the sky off one way, the ground another, nothing having any levelness to it.  You quickly lost track of the vertical lines, distance, and finally your life, forfeiting it on a rock wall.  High winds waited for you too, deadly gusts bred by the air masses on the other side of the summits, waiting to scream out of the sky and smash your airplane.  Mountain flying was best left to soaring birds, rather than humans.  You were bound to die if you flew the mountains long enough.

He flew past the black moraine at the foot of the glacier, then past the first fingers of the ancient ice, colorless in the gray light below the peaks, below the icy wall making up the rampart of snow up to the distant top.  Favoring the right side of the gorge, he waited . . . waited until the crevices had become well defined and his best friend had quit breathing.  Then he banked like never before, praying he hadn’t gotten too close.  Lifting his head, he looked out the overhead window and saw the Russian roll as well.  Pulling hard on the controls, he tightened the turn, next released the pressure and let the other AN-2 gain on him.  Around he went again, looping away from the glacier the second time, building the Russian’s confidence to come close behind him.  He watched Simon snap off the safeties on the Uzis and crouch on his seat, ready to stand up.  They must get the other Antonov within a hundred feet.  He released a little more back pressure and widened the turn.  Now the deadly game would become pure guess work.

“Now!” he yelled.  “Stand up and shoot him!”

Simon wedged his upper body in the hole above him, leaving only his waistline below.  Jake heard the rattle of the machine guns.  His friend would empty both ammunition clips, and there was no danger of him falling out, not with all the G-forces of the steep turn, since things weighed twice their normal weight.  Finally, he saw Simon sit down again.

“I smoked him and he’s going down.  Hope the hell he can fly away from the glacier.  There’s some flat ground about a mile off and maybe he can land there.”  Simon looked sad, and his hair and clothing were badly messed up by the slipstream.

Leveling the plane, Jake steered out of the valley, watching the other Antonov.  It was falling in flames, heading for the bottom of blue ice and black moraine.  With luck, the young pilot would get the airplane down on the dirt.

He watched him make it, plowing into the ground, ripping off the landing gear, skidding to a stop against an embankment, which crushed the wings.  Seconds after, he saw a figure jump from the fuselage and run, then an orange explosion
. 
Thank God the pilot had survived
.
  He circled back, waggling his wings in the age-old salute.

“Drop the emergency locator beacon,” he said.  “It’ll activate when it hits the ground and help search and rescue find him.

Simon pulled the Antonov’s ELT from its cockpit bracket, opened his side window, and threw it out.  Jake waggled his wings once more.  The young pilot had been very, very good.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE BRATSK AIRPORT

Zorkin tossed
Bratsk’s daily newspaper on the commandant’s desk.  “Read the front page and you’ll see I’ve been right all along.  Two men stole an Antonov filled with fuel in Ulan Ude, and I’m sure the Americans are the ones who did it.  We should fly north and wait for them.  Sasha Pavlov’s in the middle of this, and I can feel it in my bones.”

Lieutenant General Kozlov smoothed the newspaper and studied it, mouthing every word as he read, peeping like a mouse, a habit that drove his staff crazy.  It drove Zorkin crazy as well and made him wish he could kill him.

After a minute Kozlov asked, “How can you be so sure they were Americans?  This article says the airport heard them speaking Chinese, and the Antonov flew south to Mongolia.  The only thing you have to support your suspicion is the pilot said the man who shot him down didn’t look Asian, hardly reliable when you think how shocked the poor fellow must have been.  This whole story is unbelievable, and what the hell is happening to our motherland?  No one would have dared such an atrocity when the Soviets ran our country.”

“Commandant, think about it.  What are the chances the Chinese would bother coming to Ulan Ude to steal an Antonov, or gasoline for that matter, and fly off to Mongolia?  Then consider what two Yankees might do if they were planning to smuggle diamonds.”  He sat down and took a deep breath.  “Remember the fuel tanker that was stolen in Yakutsk last March and       exploded outside town without any explanation of how it happened.  Telephone the Chukotka District Guard in the Far East and ask if there’s been any sighting of strangers coming across the barren ground.  Maybe someone has seen something suspicious.”

Kozlov leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, another annoying habit of his, then reached into his uniform’s front pocket and pulled out the diamond he’d been given earlier.  He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger.  Finally, he lifted the telephone, spoke to the base operator, and hung up.

“Whenever I doubt you, this little diamond helps remind me that you just might be telling the truth.  But if this escapade of yours goes bad on me, I’m blaming you for everything and ordering my men to arrest you.  Moscow might let me keep my rank afterward.  I’m warning you, don’t mess with me.”

“I’ve told you the truth,” said Zorkin.  “Why would I confess to murder and beg you to be my partner if I were lying?  What more can I do?  Remember, when two people dislike a deal equally, it must be fair.”

The phone rang, filling the room with its noise.  The general lifted it, listened, and hung up again.

“You amaze me,” he said.  “How could you have guessed some
Americans would be crazy enough to come to Siberia looking for diamonds?  Last month a Yakut in Chukotka reported seeing two strangers in small airplanes
. 
They paid him in U.S. hundred dollar bills for fuel.

“The damn fool should have kept his mouth shut because the district guard kept the bills for themselves, and his honesty cost him thirty thousand rubles, a lifetime of work for him.”  He leaned back, laughing and shaking his head.

Zorkin waited.  Now it was a matter of suggesting the right plan, meanwhile persuading Kozlov that it was his own idea.  One had to be careful around military officers—the armed  forces always protected its own.  If he fucked up, he’d be left facing the commandant’s men all alone, and they wouldn’t give a damn that he’d once been the Second Chief Directorate of the KGB.  That alone might be reason enough for them to kill him. 
Chekists
had never been liked very much by anyone.

“Commandant, your grid plan undoubtedly would be the best deployment for you to make, and your soldiers have said you are the best at establishing listening posts.  You and I could wait at my old base camp until one of them radios he’s seen the Americans.”

The general blinked, then smiled.  “Why . . . I’m surprised my men feel that way.  Yes, we could pick out ten good men, like you said before, and assign each several square kilometers, letting us guard a large area.”

“What helicopters should we take?” asked Zorkin.  “We need a Hip . . . but what if the Americans start shooting at us?  Maybe we should take along a gunship.  You have any in your wing?”

“
Nyet. . . . 
Though, I know where to get one, the best.  Your newspaper reminded me there’s a Werewolf based in Ulan Ude.  We keep it there to watch the border.”  He looked at the paper again.  “You know . . . maybe the Chinese
did
come across and steal the Antonov
. 
Now that their market economy is so strong, they’re getting very bold, and gasoline is valuable on the black market in Ulaan Baator, the capitol of the People’s Republic of Mongolia.  Did you know Ulaan Baator means Red Hero?”  The general stared at the ceiling again.

Zorkin gritted his teeth because the man was such an idiot
. 
“Excuse me, how can you commandeer a Werewolf for the summer?  Won’t Moscow disapprove?”

“Not if I supply the fuel.  My pilots are desperate for practice and have fallen way behind in their combat readiness.  Our trip to the Sakha Republic can be disguised as a training mission.  No one need know . . .”  Then a long sigh mixed with his voice.  “Now I remember I haven’t any fuel, and no money, either.  Maybe I can find enough for one helicopter, but not two.  We’re in trouble already.”

“I have money in a secret account at the
Irkomsotsbank
in Irkutsk.  We can use that to buy fuel.”

Kozlov’s eyebrows lifted and he quickly leaned forward.  “Tell me how near you think the diamonds are to the old crash site.  Wait, wait, let me have my sergeant bring us a map so we can draw our grid lines.”

Zorkin smiled.  Show some happiness, build his confidence, make him think they were best friends, bent on a common purpose.  Wait for the right moment and kiss him on both cheeks the good old Russian way.  Thing were finally coming together.

But . . . something else seemed out of place, not quite right with the world.  What person was brave enough to stand
half out of an Antonov, firing two submachine guns at another airplane?  He could see the spectacle in his mind.

The downed pilot had said he’d banked almost perpendicular to stay on the tail of the Antonov he was chasing.  The gunman must have been very strong to overcome all the G-forces.  And what an awesome sight that must have been, set against snow-white mountains, not a level place in sight.  For some reason it reminded him of a spy he’d once hunted in the same area, the secret agent who had driven the KGB wild for years.  They had finally named him the Snowman, or Yeti, after the Abominable Snowman of Tibetan folklore, and they might as well have hunted the mythical man-bear of Tibet.  No one had ever come close to catching him, and he had always slipped away at the last moment.

“What are you daydreaming about, Zorkin?”  Kozlov’s voice broke the silence.  “I’m beginning to worry about you again.”

“Have you ever heard of the Snowman?”

“
Da
. . . the spy you were never smart enough to catch.”  The Commandant grinned.  “Whatever happened to him?”

Zorkin slowly shook his head.  “The Central Intelligence Agency repatriated him after he made a fool out of me.  His greatest stunt ruined my chance of becoming a member of the Politburo.  Just when my name was being mentioned in all the right places in the Kremlin, he fucked me good.