Survivalist - 17 - The Ordeal (11 page)

The helicopter from which he swung was going for

elevation, the G-forces against him pushing him down, his hands fighting to keep their hold. And then the gunship dove. Rourke’s face was twisted against the pressure of wind and gravity, but he felt the corners of his mouth rising into a smile; the Soviet pilot’s cleverness would be his undoing. As the chopper dove straight for the treetops, the restraining pressures of the climb were reversed and Rourke could move more easily along the rope now, at times the rope more vertical than diagonal in relation to the gunship. He had nearly reached the top.

And suddenly the machine veered upward and left, the rope whiplashing forward and right, John Rourke’s body with it, the motion so violent his arms were nearly wrenched from their sockets. No longer could he climb. He could only hold on. The machine dove again, the tail of the rappeling rope snagging in the treetops over which the gunship passed, the rope suddenly going taut, vibrating, Rourke’s body pulsing with it, then the rope springing, a massive segment of the treetop tearing away from the main trunk, slamming toward him.

Rourke buried his face against his shoulder, the impact coming, lacerating his back and shoulders and legs. His legs lost contact with the rope and he clung now by his hands only. He was spinning, spinning, his stomach churning, his vision blurring, the muscles in his back and shoulders and neck feeling as if they were on fire.

The helicopter began to climb, Rourke’s fists numbed, fingers stiff, but as it climbed suddenly, the rope was pulled taut beneath it and Rourke’s right calf twisted into it and he steadied himself, climbing again, his head reeling, the contents of his stomach rising into his throat.

The machine was ski-fitted, and John Rourke reached up, his left fist getting to the ski, then his left elbow slipping over it.

He breathed, almost vomiting.

He moved his right arm, over the ski, then his right leg, the open fuselage door just above him.

He started to reach for it.

A face appeared in the doorway, a pistol in a black-gloved hand. There was no time for anything else. John Rourke reached up, grabbed for the BDU front and threw his body weight back. As the pistol discharged, a bullet whining off the ski inches from Rourke’s right leg, sparks flying from it, Rourke wrenched his body back, the black-BDU-clad Elite corpsman tumbling from the fuselage door and falling, Rourke’s eyes automatically following him as he fell. Arms and legs thrashed maddeningly and John Rourke thought he heard a scream.

Rourke’s left hand reached up, caught the lip of the fuselage doorway and he pushed himself up, the door suddenly beginning to close, another Elite corpsman—but it wasn’t. It was the pilot. The door was wedged against Rourke’s left hand, the man’s full body weight against it, Rourke screaming with the pain, then shouting, “Damn you—no!” Rourke’s right leg was braced on the ski and he pushed, launching his upper body upward, into the opening for the doorway.

Blows rained down on his head and neck, Rourke’s right hand groping for any part of his enemy, his left hand still numbed with pain, the fingers possibly broken. As a boot missed his face by inches, Rourke’s right fist closed, at the apex of the triangle made by the KGB pilot’s legs, scrotum crushing in Rourke’s grasp, the pilot screaming hideously.

John Rourke was up, hurtling the pilot against the opposite bulkhead, the pilot’s right knee smashing upward, John Rourke twisting left, taking the blow against his left hip, Rourke’s right fist hammering upward, impacting bone hard, the pilot’s head snapping back.

Rourke’s numbed left hammered forward, into the solar plexus, a powerful left crossing John Rourke’s jaw, Rourke’s head snapping back, his mind momentarily stunned. The Soviet pilot’s right fist rammed forward, Rourke twisting away just in time, taking the blow on the side of his neck. Rourke’s left backhanded across the bridge of the Soviet pilot’s nose,

blood spraying against the starboard side of the fuselage. As Rourke’s right hammered forward, the helicopter’s orientation to the ground suddenly shifted and John Rourke’s feet were swept from under him; he sprawled forward along the cargo area, into a metal ammo cannister, his left shoulder taking the impact.

And he suddenly realized what should have been obvious. The Soviet gunship was on auto pilot. And something had gone wrong.

The pilot—a short man but stockily built, barrel-chested— half sprawled, half threw himself toward Rourke. Rourke’s body twisting right, his left throwing forward, impacting bone, a scream from the pilot. Rourke was up, falling against the fuselage, almost falling through the open doorway. And then the machine’s attitude shifted, the fuselage door starting to slide to violently. Rourke moved his head, the door slamming closed, then as the aircraft shifted again, the door slid back, the roar of the wind again, the fuselage doorway fully open.

The pilot lunged, John Rourke’s fists hammering him down, the pilot’s head burrowing into Rourke’s abdomen, fists flying toward Rourke’s own abdomen and crotch.

Rourke bunched both fists together, hammering them down over the back of the pilot’s neck; then suddenly Rourke’s legs were ripped from under him and the helicopter changed attitude once again.

Rourke fell back, the upper half of his body extended over nothing but air, the Soviet pilot’s right, then his left, then his right, hammering at John Rourke’s midsection.

Rourke’s left—the fingers barely moved—grabbed at the man’s face, catching hold of the right ear, ripping, a hideous scream issuing from the pilot’s twisted lips.

Rourke released the ear and made a short, hard jab with his left, the pilot’s head snapping back.

Rourke edged back, inside, the pilot’s knee smashing upward, Rourke’s right thigh blocking it from its intended target. Rourke was on his knees, hauling the pilot’s head up for

a blow; then suddenly the pilot’s left fist held a knife. As it flashed forward, John Rourke’s right snapped out, catching the man under the left eye.

The pilot’s right slammed into Rourke’s left temple and Rourke’s balance was gone. He sprawled back. The knife thrust down toward him and Rourke’s left knee smashed up, the pilot lurching away, the knife stabbing into the fuselage decking. Rourke’s left fist crossed the pilot’s jaw. The pilot fell away.

Rourke started to his feet, a solid kick to his midsection sending him back. And then the pilot’s full body weight was behind the door, the helicopter’s attitude changing again, the pilot’s body sprawling forward, the door slamming, Rourke’s neck in its path. Rourke’s right foot kicked outward and upward, into the pilot’s groin, Rourke’s right hand bracing against the door.

John Rourke looked down once, the gunship skimming over the snowladen treetops, ice spicules pelting Rourke’s face in the main rotor’s downdraft.

Rourke crossed the pilot’s jaw with a left, then another and another and another, the pilot’s body sprawling back. Rourke slumped back. The door was slamming closed and he moved his head, a few hairs from the top catching in it, tearing out.

Rourke was up, the pilot up only to his knees, John Rourke’s right hammering down, then his left, then his right, Rourke’s left knee slamming upward, into the pilot’s jaw.

Rourke reached for the arm, dragging him up to his feet, the helicopter shifting attitude again, Rourke’s balance gone. Still holding the Soviet pilot, Rourke fell back. The pilot’s left crashed across John Rourke’s face, impacting Rourke over the cheekbone, and Rourke’s head slammed against the fuselage.

Rourke’s grip loosened.

The pilot tore away from him, a right and then a left, Rourke feebly blocking them.

The pilot bent over, wrenching the knife from the decking, then ramming it down and forward in a dagger thrust for John Rourke’s chest.

John Rourke wheeled left, losing his balance as he kicked, his right leg sweeping against the pilot’s left knee, the knife leaving the pilot’s hand, stabbing into the bulkhead fabric as Rourke’s left fist rose up, catching the pilot on the right side tip of the jaw, the Soviet pilot’s head and neck and back arching away, spilling into the open fuselage doorway, a look of terror in the man’s eyes. And then the gunship lurched once more and the body sailed outward and the fuselage door slammed and there wasn’t even a scream.

John Rourke sank to his knees, the gunship’s attitude to the ground changing again, the door slapping back open. The pilot was gone.

John Rourke was up, half falling forward, grasping for the pilot’s seat, slumping into it.

Through the chin bubble, he could see ground, jagged and rocky. Rourke’s hands clenched around the joystick. Autopilot. There was a disengage switch.

His head swam with nausea and pain.

He shook his head.

John Rourke reached up. The red switch to disengage autopilot. He flipped the toggle. It broke. “Shit!”

The gunship was skimming low across the ground now, the starboard ski tearing through a pine tree, branches hurtled up into the main rotor overhead, shredding as they sprayed over the Plexiglas surrounding him.

The joystick still wouldn’t respond.

Rourke’s right fist punched upward into the autopilot control panel.

Rourke tried the joystick again.

A missile contrail crossed his nose, the gunship vibrating from the slipstream.

Another gunship, tongues of flame licking from its mini-guns.

The fingers of John Rourke’s left hand found the haft of the LS-X knife and he ripped it from the leather. “Damn you!”

Rourke stabbed the knife into the overhead autopilot panel, sparks of electricity arcing across the blade as his right hand reached for the joystick. He had control.

Rourke left the knife where it was, his eyes scanning for the weapons console. “There!” A second chopper crossed his nose and mini-guns blazed toward him, a spiderwebbing gouge across the chin bubble below him, but the integrity of the Plexiglas still holding.

Missiles.

Armed.

John Rourke shifted targeting to manual from auto. The portside package.

Rourke took the gunship down, then hauled on the joystick, the gunship rising as Rourke arced it around a full one hundred eighty degrees, one of the two gunships after him making a pass. Rourke engaged one from the portside package, then another, the contrails crisscrossing each other as they homed toward the target.

The second gunship was coming in fast and dead on.

John Rourke took his gunship into a dive as the first of the two enemy ships exploded, a fireball washing across the air above him.

Snow and ice pelted against his windshield, the windshield wipers working furiously now.

Mini-guns blazed toward him, Rourke activating a rearward-firing missile as he skimmed over the treetops.

His mouth was bleeding from the fistfight.

A missile contrail skimmed beneath him and he climbed, realized it was a mistake, started the dive as the second contrail arced over his nose.

The corners of John Rourke’s mouth turned up. He was tired, hungry for real food—and frightened more than he ever had been in his life because of Natalia.

“Eat it,” Rourke almost whispered.

The terrain followed, then rotated one hundred eighty

degrees and started to climb. The remaining Soviet gunship was coming for him, dead on, mini-guns firing. A missile contrail.

John Rourke’s finger rested over the last of his aft-firing portside missiles.

He let the machine turn one hundred eighty degrees, tail rotor facing the enemy, and touched fire control, the gunship vibrating, Rourke starting the machine into a dive as he looked back.

A missile contrail passed over him. A missile contrail was vectoring for the last gunship’s underbelly.

The air seemed to pulse with the explosion.

Akiro Kurinami’s readout indicated that he would be impacting the west wall of the canyon with the tips of his main rotor blades in ten seconds, but if he slipped to starboard, he’d do the same on the opposite side. And his instincts told him he would make it.

He followed his instincts.

“Set your guidance computers to my exact coordinates. Do not deviate,” he had told the men of his squadron as he had revealed his plan for the raid along the canyon route to the south of the Soviet staging area. He would soon find out if they had listened.

The readouts were set, after all, to provide a margin for error.

His hands were balled tight on the controls, his knuckles almost white.

Snow was falling heavily here, but the swirling snow helped him to read better the eddying updrafts and downdrafts of the canyon.

He judged it would be five minutes or less until they came in range of the machine gun batteries and the surface-to-air missiles which haphazardly guarded this unlikely approach to the staging area for the gunships. And until the first shots were exchanged, radio silence had to be maintained.

If his squadron had listened, they would make it through.

There was not enough maneuvering room between the

canyon walls to employ missiles safely from the weapons pods against the emplacements. It would be guns only.

He was terrain-following with the German gunship, but laterally as well as in elevation, an outcropping of rock suddenly appearing, all his senses immediately responding as he made minute course adjustments, always going forward, the estimated distance to the defensive positions guarding the canyon approach now only three minutes away.

He could not take his eyes from the canyon long enough to double-check his guns. Kurinami called to his doorgunner, but by voice only. “Corporal—be ready! As soon as firing begins, slide that door open and take whatever targets of opportunity present themselves. After we have passed by the defensive positions, reload quickly, because we will be encountering heavy resistance within minutes and be almost directly over the staging area.”

“Yes, Herr Lieutenant!”

Kurinami’s head ached with the strain; he was afraid even to blink.

One minute at the outside now.

He could not look back to be certain the other machines of his squadron were still with him. Radio silence could not yet be broken.