Vektor (50 page)

“I suggest we keep the helicopters in place so that we have the capability to honor the deal if they cross into Kazakhstan,” Director Copley said.

“What if the Russian helicopter doesn’t back off at the border?” the president asked.

“Let’s cross that bridge when we reach it.”

The president considered his comments for a moment and turned to General Gordon. “Rescind my previous order. Black Magic will remain on station until the pickup time has expired.”

“What about the enhanced rules of engagement?” the general asked.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we reach it,” he said, staring at Director Copley.

Manning released all of the tension in his body and allowed the agents to whisk him away down the hallway, satisfied that he had done everything possible to give Farrington’s team what little chance they might have to escape Russia.

Chapter 68

4:46 AM

3 Kilometers from the Russian Border

Kazakhstan

Major Borelli eased Black Magic Zero One into a hover forty feet above the ground and glanced through one of his left cockpit windows. Through his panoramic night vision goggles, he saw Zero Two’s dark green form pull even with his helicopter, roughly one hundred meters away. Zero Three remained two kilometers behind them, watching the area to the west and standing by to replace either one of them at a moment’s notice. They were back in position to extract the special operations team. He had no idea what was going on at SOCOM, but he was glad to be back. It didn’t feel right to abandon the team so close to the end.

“Blackjack reacquired,” he heard through his helmet’s communication suite.

The Forward Looking Infrared (FLIR) pod mounted in the nose of his MH-60K Stealth Hawk had quickly found the friendly Tiger. The 160
^th
Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR), aptly named the “Night Stalkers,” had taken possession of the three prototype stealth helicopters ten months ago, putting the highly modified Black Hawk frames through hell and back for U.S. Special Operations Command. Major Borelli had been quietly assigned to lead the assessment, which still remained a secret within a secret at the 160
^th
SOAR, frequently vanishing with his handpicked flight crews to Area 51, where the prototype helicopters were hidden from prying eyes.

The birds looked ungainly sitting on the ground, built wider and longer than the standard Black Hawk to accommodate the angled hull designed to defeat aerial search radar waves. In the air, the Stealth Hawk performed reliably, though the controls behaved sluggishly compared to the MH-60K. Built on the Black Hawk frame, designers still struggled to distribute the additional weight of the extended hull in correct proportion to the original design. Every time they returned to fly the prototypes, the helicopters looked different. Still slightly unstable, the helicopters had come a long way since his initial flight.

“Distance to Blackjack?” Borelli asked.

“Twenty-six hundred meters,” the sensor operator replied.

The Stealth Hawk was configured with an electronics warfare console mounted directly behind the copilot and manned by a specially trained member of the 160
^th
Special Operations Aviation Regiment. The console operator controlled the FLIR pod, monitored hostile electronics emissions, and managed their outgoing radar profile, freeing the pilot and copilot for the near impossible task of flying nap-of-earth through enemy territory at night. If necessary, the console operator would join the crew chief and man one of Zero One’s M134 miniguns to defend the aircraft or provide suppressing fire during a “hot” extraction.

His helicopter was the only prototype fitted with an organic weapons platform. Zero Two and Zero Three were unarmed, except for the personal weapons carried by the crew. SOCOM planners had wanted to send all three helicopters into Kazakhstan unarmed, but Borelli had pressed the issue, insisting that the task force have some defensive capability other than stealth. SOCOM compromised by arming Zero One with two M134 systems. A stream of tracers appeared above the horizon and bounced off the landscape in a cascade of green sparks several meters to the north of Blackjack.

“Mills, track that hostile contact. I don’t want any surprises.”

“Tracking,” his sensor operator said.

“Are we heading over to help, Major?” Sergeant First Class Papovich asked.

“My orders are to wait for them to cross the border,” Borelli said.

“Don’t forget the two-thousand-meter restriction, Boogie,” his copilot said.

“And that,” Borelli mumbled.

“The two thousand meters only applies if they’re under fire from a hostile force,” Papovich said.

Another line of tracers raced to the ground in the distance, sputtering skyward after impact with the ground.

“They’re engaged by a hostile force, Pappy. I can’t touch them,” Borelli said.

“Then we might have to remove the hostile force, so we can comply with our rules of engagement,” the crew chief said.

“I’m not even going to ask how you came up with that.”

“Simple, Major,” Papovich said. “It gets pretty confusing on these operations and this is a prototype aircraft prone to bugs and glitches. As long as we bring them back, nobody’s gonna give a shit how far we were from the border.”

“Distance to Blackjack?”

“Twenty-four hundred meters.”

With the Hip conducting gun runs, the Tiger wasn’t making enough progress to reach the border in time, and there was no way he could keep the Stealth Hawks on station past 4:55. He needed a thirty-minute high-speed run before sunrise in order to clear any inhabited areas near the border and arrive at FARP “Blacktop” undetected. There was no way the Tiger would make it if they didn’t intervene. He nudged the helicopter forward at a steady fifty miles per hour.

“Revised distance to Blackjack?”

“Twenty-four fifty. They lost some distance zigzagging,” Mills said.

“Pappy, help him with the laser rangefinder, I’m getting some strange readings on my helmet-mounted HUD,” Borelli said.

“Roger that, sir,” Papovich replied. “I never did trust all of the gizmos in this thing. I’m reading nineteen hundred meters and closing.”

“Can you confirm that, Mills?”

“Affirmative. Nineteen hundred meters and closing,” Mills said, finally climbing onboard the bullshit bus.

“Gentlemen, my sensors indicate that Blackjack has crossed into Kazakhstan,” he said, keying the taskforce communications net.

Chapter 69

4:48 AM

350 meters from the Kazakhstan border

Russian Federation

Richard Farrington’s shoulder slammed into the front passenger door as Misha yanked the wheel left to avoid the Russian helicopter’s next fusillade of projectiles. Halfway through the turn, he heard the AGS-30 automatic grenade launcher start to discharge rounds at its cyclic rate, in a futile attempt to disrupt the attack. The Hip’s pilots and gunners had conducted five gun runs at this point, and it was only a matter of time before they figured out how to compensate for Misha’s evasive tactics. If his Tiger didn’t reach the border within the next seven minutes, the Russians would have all day to figure it out. When a second stream of tracers struck the ground in front of their vehicle immediately after the first, he realized the chase had come to an end.

The entire cabin erupted in a blinding green light as tracers bounced off the hood and streamed past his face. His night vision goggles disappeared in a flash of heat. His ears filled with an incredible racket that sounded like multiple jackhammers pounding away at the sheet metal. Human screams competed unsuccessfully with the intense noise, barely registering. A warm spray blurred his vision…and the storm ended just as quickly as it started, leaving him stunned in his seat.

The Tiger slowed to a stop, with smoke pouring from its partially open, punctured hood. It was still too dark to see inside the cabin without night vision, but he didn’t need to visually confirm the fact that they were combat ineffective. Misha’s head leaned against the steering wheel, his hands still tightly gripped in the ten and two o’clock position. He muttered unintelligibly, or maybe Farrington was still too dazed to comprehend what he was saying. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Gosha lying on the deck of the rear compartment, trying to raise himself up on an elbow.

The deep thumping sound of the Hip’s rotors jarred him back into action, and he opened the door, gripping his AK-107 rifle. He hopped down from the vehicle, expecting to fall into the tall grass on useless legs, but instead landed in a steady crouch. Grateful that he had somehow escaped the maelstrom unscathed, he reached instinctively for his missing night vision goggles. Failing to find them attached to his helmet, he cursed and moved to the back of the Tiger, hoping to spot the lumbering beast against the early dawn sky.

He caught a glimpse of the dark shape moving right to left and considered climbing up the side of the Tiger to use the grenade launcher. He knew it would be pointless. The Russians would engage the vehicle from behind, rendering the AGS-30 useless. His only course of action at this point was to drag his team clear of the vehicle and try to reach the border. The thought was insane, given what he had seen inside the Tiger, but it was the only plan he could conjure while tracking the Hip’s movement against the royal blue strip of horizon. The terrifying buzz saw sound of the Russian helicopter’s miniguns filled his ears, causing him to involuntarily brace for the inevitable green storm that would unceremoniously tear him to shreds three hundred meters from the Kazakhstan border. They’d almost made it.

The sound of rapid gunfire continued, but he didn’t disintegrate along with the Tiger. Instead, a long line of red tracers raced toward the Russian helicopter, bouncing off the Hip’s metal hull like a Fourth of July sparkler. The visual effect gave the deceptive impression that the Hip was impervious to the gunfire, but Farrington knew better. For each tracer that bounced off the Hip’s thin aluminum hull, at least fifteen 7.62mm steel jacketed rounds pounded the helicopter in a continuous stream of kinetic energy. The three-second burst of tracers put well over three hundred high-velocity projectiles into the Hip, most likely killing it.

A second crimson stream reached out and connected with the Russian helicopter. Before the minigun’s deadly echo had faded, a tremendous explosion lit the ground to the east, briefly exposing the black helicopter that had undeniably saved their lives. Farrington turned to the Tiger and opened the rear hatch, using the light from the burning wreckage to survey the damage. The blood-slicked deck didn’t buoy his hopes.

“Blackjack elements, report!” he yelled, checking Sasha’s pulse, which was strong.

“I’m hit in at least two places,” Gosha whispered, “left shoulder and hip.”

“Looks like you got hit in the head too,” Farrington said, searching his vest for a flashlight.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Gosha replied.

“Misha?” he said, getting no response.

He slid along the left side of the Tiger to the driver’s door, directing his flashlight through the smoke to assess the damage. The hatch showed several sizable, paint chipped dents, where rounds had bounced harmlessly off the vehicle’s armor plating. The window frame showed similar damage, which made him wonder how many of the projectiles had passed through the open window, potentially striking Misha. A bloodied hand appeared and gripped the bottom of the window frame.

“Misha?” Farrington repeated, exposing the operative to the bright LED beam.

“Yeah, I’m fucked up,” he grunted.

“Can you move?” Farrington said, trying to open the door, which was stuck.

“I don’t think so. I’m hit all over,” he whispered.

Farrington pulled on the door several times, finally dislodging it. Misha’s assault rifle tumbled to the ground, landing under the Tiger. Glistening scarlet ribbons lined the instrument panel and center column, extending across the dashboard to the passenger side. The operative turned his head toward the light and smiled weakly. In the bright LED beam, Misha looked pale and listless. A deep gash ran across his chin, dripping blood onto the bottom of the steering wheel.

“We made it,” Misha said.

“Somehow,” Farrington said. “Let’s get you out of there.”

A gust of wind poured through the cabin from the open passenger side door, pelting his face with dirt. Squinting to see through the door into the murky darkness beyond, he detected the presence of something big lowering to the ground beyond the Tiger. Not wanting to take a friendly bullet between the eyes less than three hundred meters from the Kazakhstan border, he put his hands over his head and stepped back from the vehicle. Moments later, six heavily armed, dark-clad figures sprinted through the swirling cloud of dirt and descended on the vehicle.

“I need two stretchers!” one of them yelled, hopping down from the rear hatch and walking up to Farrington.

“We need to get out of here, sir. The entire 21
^st
is headed right to this grid square. I don’t know what you did, but you sure as shit pissed them off!” the commando said.

“You have no idea,” Farrington said.

He grabbed the Delta operator’s shoulder before the man had a chance to turn.

“I’ll take care of the KIA,” he said.

Farrington slung his rifle and helped the soldiers lower Misha onto one of the foldable stretchers produced by the helicopter’s extraction team. By the time he had finished securing Misha to the stretcher, the rest of his team had been spirited off into the night. He pulled Seva’s body out of the Tiger’s troop compartment and heaved it over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.
No man left behind
. He raced through the choking swirl of Siberian dirt to catch up with the men loading Misha’s stretcher onto the strangest helicopter he’d ever seen.