Defcon One (1989) (35 page)

Two with a copy, Pete Barnes radioed.

Three. Charbonnet said, rechecking his armament panel.

Buchanan looked at Higgins. How long 'til we get to Novgorod?

Ah... Higgins punched three buttons, then waited a second.

Fourteen minutes, Buck.

Looks like the visibility is improving, Buchanan said, then noted the overcast. We've got four hundred, maybe five hundred over now.

Yeah, Oaks responded. Hope the zone is cold.

No one answered as the Night Hawk gunship raced toward Novgorod. The radar altimeter continuously chimed warnings as the S-70 oscillated above and below one hundred feet of altitude. This was contour flying on the ragged edge.

John, double-check the A.D.F, Buchanan instructed, and go ahead and broadcast Scarecrow identification for our agents.' Now, Buck? Higgins asked. We're still a ways out.

Can't hurt, Buchanan replied. Sooner we make contact, the better off we'll all be.

Roger, Higgins said, then pressed the transmitter key on the discreet frequency radio. Scarecrow calling Sandman.

Scarecrow One to Sandman.

The copilot waited three seconds, then tried again to reach the CIA agents. Scarecrow One to Sandman.

The receiver remained quiet, emitting occasional broken static.

Higgins adjusted the volume.

Try every thirty seconds or so, Buchanan ordered. We gotta have contact.

Will do, Higgins answered, fine-tuning the radio receiver.

Should be in range in a minute or two.

Buchanan scanned his instruments, then looked at the soft glow under the overcast. A small town or village was providing enough light to see the bottom of the low-hanging clouds clearly.

Light snow continued to drift slowly from the thick overcast.

Scarecrow One was looking at the settlement, wondering whether or not the CIA agents were still alive, when his headphones came to life.

Buck, the cat is out! Pete Barnes radioed his leader as he initiated a stem conversion to jump the Soviet helicopter gunships.

Roger, Pistol! Buchanan replied excitedly. Pump the bastards and rejoin ASAP!

Comin' to ya, Barnes groaned under the G-forces as he pulled up steeply, performed a wingover, then dove into an attack position on the nearest Russian gunship.

The Soviet pilots, caught off guard by the frontal assault, countered with a steep upward spiral, oblivious to Scarecrow Three.

Charbonnet raised the nose of his S-70, turned into and under the Soviet Mi-28 Havoc combat helos, then loosed a salvo of air-to-air missiles.

Both Russian gunships exploded, one spiraling down in ever-widening circles. The other helicopter, trailing orange flames, plunged straight into the ground, exploding again on impact.

Goddamn, Jungle, Barnes yelled over the radio. How about a warning next time! You almost took us out.

Sorry, Pete, Charbonnet responded, apologetically. I forgot to holler.

Buchanan broke in. Clear the radios and smoke it up here.

Roger. Buck, Barnes answered. We splashed both intruders and we're on our way. Buchanan checked the INS again as Higgins continued to transmit to the CIA agents.

Scarecrow to Sandman. Higgins waited ten seconds.

Scarecrow calling Sandman. Copy, Sandman? Higgins waited, then tried again. Scarecrow to Sandman. Do you read, Sandman?

Intermittent static was the only sound Higgins heard from the small transmitter.

Blackie Oaks keyed the intercom system. Sounds like Cap'n Charbonnet got a kill.

Steve Lincoln, sitting across from Oaks, pressed his intercom.

Two kills, gunny.

Buchanan interrupted. Cut the chatter. Too many distractions right now.

Yes sir, Oaks replied in a respectful manner.

Wilkinson watched Shcharansky tentatively accept the Moscow direct line telephone. The deputy foreign minister was clearly nervous, eyes blinking continuously.

The Soviet ambassador, Krikor Gerasimov, normally verbal and animated, sat quietly in his chair. He hadn't said a word since the president had issued his order.

While the White House staff and Russian officials waited for the Kremlin call to be completed, Wilkinson leaned over to the president.

Sir, do you want the carrier air groups to launch some leverage?

Let's see what develops from this effort first, the former carrier pilot quietly answered. If your hypothesis is correct, Zhilinkhov may use this situation to break the logjam he developed.

Wilkinson nodded his head in agreement.

The president suddenly snapped his fingers, then turned to Herb Kohlhammer. Get the linguist, the Russian interpreter, in here.

Yes, sir, Kohlhammer responded, pressing a code into his console.

She is in the waiting room.

Shcharansky winced when a burst of Russian shot through the phone receiver. The deputy foreign minister attempted to speak several times, openly flinching at the rebukes, then loudly exclaimed that he was at the White House.

At the White House with the president. A very upset American president.

Shcharansky explained the extreme situation in Russian to the Soviet general secretary, then fell silent.

The interpreter, skipping the profanity, repeated both sides of the conversation.

The deputy foreign minister was taking a severe tongue-lashing, knowing his career was over. He, too, thought the general secretary of the Communist party, psychologically, was not a well person.

Comrade General Secretary, Shcharansky said as forcefully as he dared,' I am making an attempt to convey the situation as it sta The telephone line went dead as a chagrined and humiliated Boris Shcharansky, former Soviet deputy foreign minister and rising political star, hung up the phone. He spoke slowly, haltingly.

The general secretary will comply ... with the wishes of the United States.

No one responded as the two Soviets, now standing, placed their coats over their arms.

The president stood up, followed by the rest of the White House staff, then spoke to the Soviet delegates.

Thank you for your efforts, gentlemen. You may have made a significant contribution. The president, unsmiling, stepped forward to shake hands with the Russians. Thank you, again.

Both Russians nodded in acknowledgement, then quietly walked out the door.

Well, the president exhaled, then sat down, we'll see what the next few hours bring.

Wilkinson and Cliff Howard, hearing the vice president gasp, turned to see what was happening. An Army lieutenant colonel, serving as a White House aide, was conferring with Blaylocke.

His face was a grim mask of pain.

The president, noticing the exchange, spoke to his vice president.

What is it, Susan?

Blaylocke thanked the officer, then turned toward the president as the aide left the room.

Gentlemen, you better have a seat. I have some bad news to report. No one said a word, including the president, as everyone sat down.

We have lost the shuttle, Blaylocke said, squeezing one hand with the other. Columbia crashed into the water off southern California. They are launching search and rescue efforts at this time, but the SAR people, and NASA, don't have much hope of finding any survivors.

The president sat back and closed his eyes. Fifteen seconds elapsed before he opened them again, turning to the secretary of defense.

Cliff, I want the Navy to sink the three Soviet submarines off the coast of Florida.

Kohlhammer and Howard, both shocked, tried to respond at the same time.

The secretary of state deferred to Howard.

Mister President, the general secretary is backing off. I am not sure we want to send the wrong message at this crucial time.

Yes, the president said, staring into Howard's eyes, and Zhilinkhov knows our shuttle crashed because he ordered it attacked, along with the Tennessee, the Virginia, and our fighter planes. Order the attack.

DIMITRI AND WICKHAM The snow had begun to fall more heavily as the two CIA agents struggled along the edge of the riverbank. Slipping, stumbling, and occasionally falling, the operatives slowly distanced themselves from the group of spetsnaz commandos in the inflatable raft.

Overhead, the Russian gunship helicopters continued to orbit in ever-widening circles. Their spotlights looked like dancing luminous spheres, darting at times, against the dark overcast.

Wickham, feeling sluggish, slipped and fell sideways on his limp right arm. Stifling a loud groan, the American felt Dimitri trip over his legs, then watched him fall headfirst down the muddy embankment.

The opposite side of the river was teeming with Soviet special forces troops, each carrying a powerful flashlight or spotlight.

Dimitri lay completely exposed to the light beams arcing randomly back and forth across the partially frozen river.

Oh, God, Wickham pleaded in frustration and weariness, please help us.

The CIA agent first crawled, then slid down the muddy slope of the riverbank, inadvertently kneeing Dimitri in the side.

Fortunately, Dimitri was only frightened by the unexpected fall, not hurt.

As the two men struggled back up the slippery incline, Wickham was startled to hear his miniature radio receiver transmit a message.

Sandman, do you read Scarecrow? There was an urgency in the voice.

Do you copy. Sandman?

Hurry, Dimitri, they're here! Wickham encouraged the young agent to move up the embankment faster, so they could conceal themselves and communicate with the rescue helicopters.

Scarecrow calling Sandman, Higgins called, annoyance in his voice.

Come in. Sandman.

Buchanan looked at his copilot, then spoke without using the intercom.

If they aren't there ... Shit! We may get gamahooshed for nothing.

Yeah, Higgins keyed the intercom, they may already be dead, and we're

going

We're going' into a trap, Buchanan finished the grim statement for his friend.

Scarecrow One to Sandman! Higgins said into the radio.

Copy, Sandman?

Wickham pulled on Dimitri's coat sleeve as hard as he could with his left arm. The young operative finally struggled over the lip of the riverbank and rolled under a clump of low shrub trees.

Both agents could clearly hear the excited barking of dogs in the inflatable boat. The Russians were almost across the river, slowed only by thin ice along the bank. Time was rapidly running out for the two CIA operatives. The Russians were closing fast, aided by the highly trained attack dogs.

Wickham tugged at the combination radio/homing beacon, folded out the antenna, flipped the automatic direction finder to the on position, then transmitted over the radio.

Scarecrow, Scarecrow, this is Sandman, over! Wickham's voice quivered from the freezing cold and adrenaline rush through his body.

Sandman! the surprised voice responded immediately.

Stand by one.

We can't stand by! Wickham angrily transmitted back.

We're surrounded by Russians!

Okay, Sandman, Higgins radioed, we've got a sweet beacon. Hang on.

We're seven out and rapidly closing on your position.

Wickham could hear the sound of the engines and beat of the rotors over the radio. He turned the volume down as far as it would go. The American agent knew the real worry was the Soviet gunships.

The senior agent turned to Dimitri and spoke reassuringly.

Seven m-miles out. Three minutes at the outside. Sweet Jesus, w-we're going to make it! We're going to make it, Dimitri.

Wickham, using his left arm in a backwards motion, slapped the young agent across the shoulders in a gesture of friendship and elation.

Dimitri, half smiling, tears streaming down his cheeks, turned to Wickham. W-we're going home, we're going home, he choked.

Snap out of it, Dimitri! Wickham ordered, then continued.

Take off your coat and get ready to run. Your s-sole mission is to concentrate on getting into the chopper, okay?

Y-yes, Dimitri replied, shaking violently, that's all I want to do.

Wickham looked down the river at the inflatable raft. They had reached shore and the two dogs were leaping from the boat to the muddy edge of the river.

Wickham pressed the radio transmit key again.

Scarecrow, Sandman. Urgent!

Copy, Sandman, Higgins instantly replied. Go!

Be advised, Wickham paused, counting, there are approximately forty, maybe fifty, ground troops around us, plus two helicopters.

Wickham waited, without hearing anything, not even an acknowledgement, for ten, then fifteen seconds.

Say type of helicopters, Higgins said.