Defcon One (1989) (38 page)

Pete, Buchanan shouted over the radio, I need more fire on the riverbank, north of the gunship!

Buchanan heard static, then the reply from Scarecrow Two as the S-70 turned on its side in preparation for another strafing attack.

Rolling in now. Buck, Barnes reported, sweeping low over the elite spetsnaz troops. Two rockets landed in a concentration of Soviet soldiers as Barnes pulled up sharply, completing a modified hammerhead turn. Racing back down, Barnes switched to guns, leveled out, and sprayed the entire group of Russian troops, slowly walking his pedals back and forth.

Buchanan turned the hovering Sikorsky ninety degrees to the right, which pointed the tail toward the Soviet troops. The cockpit was already damaged from small-arms rounds and he was the only pilot controlling the gunship.

Come on, Jim, Buchanan said to himself as he watched Charbonnet embrace the rescue seat, then push off the side of the downed Night Hawk. There was no sign of the fourth crewman.

Buchanan, breathing a sigh of relief, added more power in preparation for the transition to forward flight.

Buchanan scanned his instruments, then looked down at Charbonnet. The pilot was slowly revolving on the rescue seat, framed by the turbulent rotor wash and foaming water.

PZZINNNG!

Another round caromed off the side of the cockpit, creating a crack in the windscreen directly in front of Buchanan. The scene was unbelievable.

We're going' to move out, Buchanan shouted to Lincoln.

I'll slow down so you can get him in when we clear the fire zone.

Yes sir, the paramedic replied, pushing the hoist cable away from the door as the S-70 began to accelerate and climb into the darkness.

Buchanan looked down at the same instant Charbonnet, fifteen feet below, slumped forward into the cable, rolled off the seat, and plummeted seventy feet into the riverbank. The pilot was dead before he impacted the thick mud.

Pete, Buchanan radioed, we lost Jim. Cover us. I'm off two-six-zero.

Gotcha in sight, Barnes radioed. We've got company.

Gunships four or five closin' like bats out a hell!

Stick tight, Pete, Buchanan ordered, then concentrated on flying as low and fast as humanly possible.

Rog, Barnes replied, twisting the throttle to the limits.

He watched the engine gauges closely, noting the powerful turboshaft engines were beginning to overtemp.

They're closin' onus, Cap'n, the crew chief of Scarecrow Two yelled, knowing his pilot was nursing every ounce of horsepower from the screaming, straining engines.

Buck, they've got a runnin' start on us, Barnes radioed.

I'm gonna have to slow them down.

Silence followed the radio transmission..

You copy. Buck? Barnes asked.

Yeah, Buchanan answered, knowing his friend, along with the crew of Scarecrow Two, would be annihilated if they engaged the division of approaching Soviet gunships. I copy, Buchanan answered, feeling his stomach twist into knots.

You owe me a beer! Barnes radioed back, then pulled up hard into a high yo-yo.

Buchanan didn't answer, thinking instead about the letter he would have to write to Cindy Barnes.

Scarecrow Two rolled out of the steeply banked maneuver, facing head on to the three Mi-24 Hind-Ds, trailed by two Mi-28 Havoc advanced gunships.

Barnes fired the remaining air-to-air missiles, then switched to his Galling gun.

Open up, Barnes shouted to his gunners as a Hind-D exploded directly in front of the Sikorsky, lighting the night for a mile in every direction.

Holy shit, Barnes yelled, pulling hard on the collective.

The S-70 shot skyward, silhouetted in the flaming explosion, then rolled almost inverted. Barnes lined up a shot at another Hind-D as the Russian gunship raced past him.

Steady on... Barnes said to himself as he prepared to squeeze the firing button.

That was the last thought Pistol Pete Baraes would ever have. The Russian gunner in the lead Havoc had placed his second SA-14 missile into the inlet particle deflector of the S-70's right engine.

The ensuing explosion decapitated both pilots, sending the Sikorsky Night Hawk out of control. The spinning helicopter plunged straight down, plowing into the ground in a thunderous fireball.

Steve Lincoln watched in total disbelief as Scarecrow Two exploded on impact. Captain Barnes went in, sir, Lincoln shouted into the intercom.

I know, Buchanan replied, straining to see through the snow shower they had encountered.

Dimitri, shivering uncontrollably, crawled next to Wickham, who was breathing in shallow, quick gasps. The senior CIA agent was lying in a pool of his own blood.

We're on our way out, Dimitri said to Wickham. You'll be okay as soon

as we

Dimitri, Wickham interrupted, tell the pilot ... to get your ...message out. Top priority...

Okay, Dimitri responded quietly, covering the agent with a thin medical blanket.

What'd he say? Lincoln asked, glancing back and forth between the cabin and the pursuing gunships.

The pilot ... can he send a m-message? An important message to the to Washington? Dimitri asked, shivering violently in the cold cabin.

Yeah, Lincoln replied, glancing back to the Soviet helicopters.

But now ain't a good time. Wait 'til we shake these guys, then I'll ask.

Okay, Dimitri responded, then looked at Wickham. The young agent was stunned by what he saw. Wickham looked dead. His eyes, still open, had rolled back almost out of sight.

No! Dimitri cried, wringing his hands, totally devastated.

Oh, no...

The agent, tears rolling down his cheeks, slowly pulled the blood-soaked blanket up over Wickham, covering his head.

Dimitri, in the dark cabin and shivering with shock, couldn't see that his friend, Steve Wickham, had only passed out but was still breathing.

You might as well cover the gunny, too, the rescued copilot said as he struggled to enter the cockpit. He died a couple of minutes ago.

Suddenly, two bright streaks raced past the Night Hawk, lighting the interior.

Christ, Buchanan shouted, popping off containers of metallic chaff.

Here come the missiles.

Use some help? the copilot of Scarecrow Three asked, climbing into the vacant seat.

Damn right! Buchanan answered, noticing the trickle of blood on the pilot's arm. You okay?

Think so, the former Marine first lieutenant replied.

Nothing too serious.

Two, three, then four more streaks of light went flashing by the racing Night Hawk. A fifth missile tracked into a burst of decoy chaff, exploding fifty yards behind the Sikorsky.

Line, Buchanan shouted, can you get a shot, any shot, at those bastards?

I think so, sir, Lincoln replied, leaning out his side door as far as he dared without a restraint.

CRACK!!

The S-70 slewed sideways, then righted itself as Buchanan frantically scanned the engine gauges.

We've been hit, Lincoln groaned as he fell backwards, stumbling over the body of Blackie Oaks.

Dimitri could see that Lincoln was bleeding profusely from chest and head injuries. The paramedic had taken a good deal of the impact explosion from the Russian missile.

Get back there and see what we have, Buchanan ordered the copilot, then glanced at the blinking radar altimeter. Goddamn!

Buchanan quietly admonished himself. Pay attention, you stupid shit.

Two kitchen-staff servers gingerly placed large platters of zakuska on Zhilinkhov's dining table, then hastily exited the room.

The brutal interrogations by the KGB had left deep psychological scars on the servants.

Come, comrades, Zhilinkhov said to his ill-at-ease friends.

Let us enjoy these fine delicacies.

The general secretary motioned for the men to take a seat, then half-fell into his large chair at the head of the massive wood table.

Viktor Pavlovich, Dichenkovko, his oldest friend, said softly, we need to talk with you about this plan.

Tension hung in the air, pressing from every corner like walls converging on the individuals present in the dining room.

What do you wish to talk about? Zhilinkhov stopped smiling, squinting menacingly. You do not like you do not have the stomach for this plan? For world dominance?

Deadly silence filled the room, making it very uncomfortable for Dichenkovko and the other members. They knew their friend and leader had changed drastically in a short period of time.

The five men were frightened, frightened for themselves and the future of the Soviet Union.

Well, Zhilinkhov said loudly, banging both fists on the table. He growled again, Say what you mean.

Aleksandr Pulaev cleared his throat. We think now is not the opportune time to attack the Americans. Their allies will counterattack us, too.We have aroused a sleeping giant, along with his friends. We must allow time for a return to normal.

Left to you, my friend, Zhilinkhov smiled crookedly, there would never be an opportune time!

Viktor Pavlovich, Dichenkovko intervened, let us discuss this matter

when we are refreshed and have a better assessment of the

We will discuss the matter now, Zhilinkhov said heatedly, then downed his vodka. You surprise me, my trusted friend.

All of you. Look where ... what I have accomplished. I am on the brink of... of global conquest...

Zhilinkhov suddenly stopped, rising from his chair, tumbler in hand, to fix another drink.

Now you tell me you have no stomach, no desire to fulfill our destiny, our commitment to the Party, Zhilinkhov said as he turned around from the portable serving bar and waited for an answer.

No, Viktor Pavlovich, Yevstigneyev, the Politburo member responsible

for party discipline, explained, we believe, like you, in the Party,

our goals for the Motherland, our sense of respon

Without warning, an aide urgently rapped on the door and stepped into the room.

Zhilinkhov, surprised, knocked his drink into the sunken ice container, then turned around in a rage.

Damnit, Colonel, what is it? Zhilinkhov yelled, causing the senior officer to flinch.

General Secretary, the colonel pursed his lips, the spies have escaped.

Zhilinkhov turned crimson, then hurled his tumbler at the wall, shattering glass across the room.

OUT, Zhilinkhov bellowed, enraged. Get out! Get me Air Marshal Khatchadovrian NOW!

The colonel, eyes wide in terror, backed toward the open door, barking orders to a subordinate.

The Inner Circle members were stunned and frightened by the behavior of their general secretary. He was clearly out of control.

Zhilinkhov turned toward his fellow conspirators, talking softly at first. General Vranesevic is ... he is dead, Zhilinkhov yelled, then clutched his chest and staggered to the couch.

Call the doctor! Yegoery Yevstigneyev shouted to the colonel as he was closing the door. The senior Politburo member then went to the aid of his stricken friend, the general secretary of the Soviet Communist party.

Chapter
Seventeen.

Buchanan, half-turned in his seat, yelled to his new copilot.

What's the damage?

The right gear. The missile took out the right gear and damaged the fuselage, the young pilot answered, trying to help the wounded paramedic.

Buchanan turned around and looked down and back from the cockpit. What he saw made him realize the helicopter might roll over on landing. The entire wheel and structural mounts were missing. Fuel streamed along the underside of the S70's fuselage, vaporizing as it departed the tail assembly.

The copilot donned a headset, then switched to hot mike, freeing his hands. Major, we're in for a rough landing. Yeah, Buchanan said grimly, inspecting the damage, if we have anything left to land.

The coast was only minutes away for Scarecrow One and her crew.

Buchanan glanced quickly at his engine instruments, still overtemped, then looked at the small chart strapped to his thigh. The map was highly detailed, narrow, and folded accordion style to facilitate monitoring.

Buchanan's flight path was clearly denned, including known obstacles circled in dark rings. The chart extended only five nautical miles on either side of the planned egress route.

How close are those Buchanan was cut off as another missile flashed by the right side of the helicopter. The pilot punched the chaff button again, then watched the missile arch into the ground with a brilliant flash and explosion.

Ho, Sweet Jesus, Buchanan swore out loud. How close are those bastards?

The copilot leaned out the side door as far as he dared, holding onto the overhead. The windchill was rapidly numbing his appendages, and he couldn't see clearly in the haze of snow whipping by his frozen ears.