Snow Wolf (38 page)

As for the Finns ... Bah!

Those reindeer-eating slobs hardly ever
crossed into Soviet airspace. Still, they had fiercely held the might of the
Red Army at bay in Karelia in 1940, he'd give them that. His own father had
been among the dead. That's why he had particularly wanted this posting. If the
opportunity ever arose and a Finn came into his airspace, Barsenko was going to
make the most of it and scorch the bastard.

The Mig bumped fast in sudden clear
turbulence, then settled. Barsenko checked his instruments. Everything was
fine, all the white pointers on the dials perfectly and correctly aligned.

Six-more minutes to go and he would be
ready to set a course home for Tallinn and base. A couple of large vodkas in
the mess and then meet Magda. His busty Estonian girlfriend could drop her
pants even faster than a Mig. Barsenko grinned at the thought of the evening's
pleasure ahead.

He had the new on-board radar switched on
and he idly twiddled the knobs until the indicator that showed the position of
the antenna inside the Mig's nose cowl pointed down into the gray mass of cloud
below. He glanced at the green illuminated glass. Nothing but clutter.

Suddenly he saw a bright white blip,
twenty miles ahead and below. Then another. And another. Three blips.

They vanished.

Fuck!

Barsenko came wide awake and rubbed his
eyes. Had he really seen something? Snow sometimes gave you @,host images in
bid weather. Or else the radar was acting up.

But three strong blips ... '?

Three fast aircraft out there in the
blinding swirl of the storm at eleven o'clock, still in Finnish airspace but
coming his way.

What the fuck was going on ... His radar
had to be playing tricks on him.

It was probably clutter. He could call up
Tallinn radar, but those lazy shits hardly ever answered in lousy weather, or
the reception was too bad to decipher what they were saying.

Still, no harm in having a look below.
The cloud was broken in places and maybe he'd see something. He eased back on
the throttle and the roar of the jet engine softened to a hush, then the nose
of the Mig dipped into a gentle dive.

Barsenko kept his eye on the radar and
anxiously fingered the red cap on the control stick.

Anyone tried to move into his territory
and they were going to get blasted out of the fucking skies!

 ... Massey stood over the stove and
nervously lit a cigarette.

His hands shook as he tried to warm them.
They were numb from the chill outside and he went to pour a glass of vodka to
stop himself shaking before he checked that the radio was still working. The
red light glowed on the panel. Good. A heavy gust of wind raged outside and he
looked up as he heard snow dash against the window clapboards. He thought,
"Jesus, what a night."

He swallowed the vodka in one gulp and
refilled the glass, then pulled up a chair beside the stove. Suddenly figures
stormed into the room out of the darkness and crashed into him. He was winded
and fell back onto the floor, knocking over a chair.

"What the ... As Massey struggled to
his feet something as hard as steel hit his skull.

Janne Saarinen had smelled trouble for
some time now. He was sweating, perspiration running down his face.

Twenty minutes after takeoff and the
Norseman was rocking violently. It plowed through the thick swirl of cloud in
blinding whiteness at fifteen hundred feet, the little aircraft tossing about
like a balloon in a hurricane. He was fighting hard to keep her under control
and some instinct told him it was going to get worse.

He turned to glance at his passengers.
The girl's face was a mask of white, and she looked as if she was going to
throw up. The American seemed calm enough, but he was gripping the seat hard to
stop himself being thrown about. Luckily the two of them were strapped into
their seats.

As the Norseman bucked wildly again
Saarinen looked back. A flash of' light appeared on the window and the cockpit
glass glowed brightly. "Thick veins of electricity coursed rapidly all
over the panes like creeping vines in a_ blowing, blue-green color, until they
covered the front wind screen. It was an eerie sight, and Saarinen shouted over
to his passengers. ,@"St. Elmo's fire- A strange phenomenon. You often
don't see it in weather like this. Don't worry, it's relatively harmless."
Stanski said, "How long before we drop?"

"About fifteen more minutes should
do it. We can't stay in this Cloud for much longer."

He turned back to scan his instruments,
fiddling with a knob on the panel while Stanski and the girl checked their
parachute harnesses.

Stanski looked at her. "OK?"

Anna's face was green. "You didn't tell
me it was going to be like this."

He smiled. "Some things you're
better off not knowing. Don't worry, we'll be out of it soon enough."

There was a sudden violent crack and the
Norseman lurched wildly, then another crack, and Saarinen had to work the stick
feverishly to maintain control as the aircraft slewed to the left. Anna gripped
Stanski's arm painfully hard.

"What's the matter?" Stanski
shouted at the Finn.

"Lightening strikes. Christ, this
buffeting is too severe. If it keeps up, it could do damage."

Suddenly a sound like machine-gun fire
hit them in a fierce wave, shuddering the aircraft, shaking it hard. The
sensation ebbed away, then slowly built up again, only this time more
intensely, until the whole structure of the plane seemed to be trembling
violently.

Saarinen shouted above the noise,
"Jesus Christ."

"What the hell's that sound?"

Sweat dripped from Saarinen's brow.
"There's hail the size of tennis balls hitting us, We've got to get out of
here fast. We'll just have to take our chances out of the cloud."

He pushed the stick forward and eased off
on the throttles and the Norseman began to nose down. The hail and buffeting
became even worse for several moments, then they broke into misty clear air at
twelve hundred feet and it subsided, wisps of thin cloud and flakes of snow
bursting past them, the frozen Baltic below. Saarinen pointed to a faint haze
of lights far over on the left.

"That's Tallinn. The drop's another
eight minutes east of here.

There was a sudden swish of violent air
and Saarinen looked up as the Norseman rocked fiercely in a wash of turbulence
and a flash of gray rocketed past on their port side.

"Holy Jesus!"

"What was that?" shouted Anna.

Before Saarinen could reply they saw a
burst of tracer fire off to the right, and another flash of gray roared past
out of nowhere.

"Fuck ... this isn't our night.
We've got company. Let's see what we can do about it."

He quickly applied power and pulled back
on the stick, dropped the flaps, and the Norseman rose back into the turbulent
cloud again, shuddering as it was sucked up into the air and the buffeting
resumed as before.

"What the hell's up?" Stanski
asked.

"You tell me," said Saarinen
frantically. "Those were Focke-Wulfs from the Finnish Air Force, I don't
understand it. Those guys shouldn't be up in weather like this. And they're in
Soviet airspace. We must have been picked up on Helsinki military radar and the
Air Force decided to investigate. They probably think we're a Russian
reconnaissance plane making the most of a bad night, that's why they're firing,
but it doesn't make sense."

"What do we do?"

"The only thing we can. Stay in the
clouds and carry on. Uncomfortable, but safer than having one of my own
countrymen shoot us out of the sky."

Saarinen quickly retracted the flaps and
checked his instruments. There was sweat glistening on his face and the
instrument panel was shaking fiercely with the turbulence. It felt as if the
little Norseman were driving over cobblestones, then the sensation slowly
reduced as the flaps came in, but it didn't go away completely.

"Another thirty seconds and we'll be
over Estonian soil@ If those Focke-Wulf pilots have any sense they won't follow
us in. Seven minutes to the drop zone by my reckoning. When I give the word,
open the door and be ready to jump. And don't hang around."

He turned back to his instruments. The
waiting seemed to go on forever as the Norseman was rocked fiercely from side
to side. Finally he roared back, "I'm coming out of the cloud. Get ready
with the door. I'm going to try and find your drop!"

Stanski and Anna readied themselves and
then Saarinen eased back on the throttle and pushed the stick forward. Seconds
later they broke cloud at twelve hundred feet into almost completely still air.
The night was still misty with light flakes of snow, but they could see faintly
the glow of Tallinn's lights again off in the distance. Saarinen had his
earphones on and he was fiddling with a knob on the radio receiver, at the same
time watching his instruments and compass.

"Shit!"

"What's up now?"

He glanced over at Stanski. "I'm
just getting crackle where the Russian beacon ought to be. It's the damned
weather."

He looked out of the side window into the
misty darkness, perspiration dripping from his temples as he tried to make out
the contour of the land below. It seemed impossible to Stanski and Anna that he
could discern anything out there, the land below all starched white in the
blackness, here and there tiny pinpricks of light, but suddenly he tensed as he
concentrated on the earphones. He fiddled with an instrument knob on the panel,
then turned back and shouted, "Got the beacon! Drop's coming up in twenty
seconds. Open the door!"

Stanski pushed open the door. A blast of
freezing air raged into the cabin. It was almost impossible to get the door
fully open, the force of the air against it like a ton weight, and then finally
it gave and Stanski locked it in place. He gripped Anna's arm, pulled her
closer and indicated that she go first.

She moved across him to the door and then
Saarinen roared, "Go! Go! Go!"

For a second she seemed to hesitate, then
Stanski pushed her out, counted to three, lunged after her and was swallowed up
by the rush of freezing air and darkness.

In the cockpit, Saarinen held on to the
stick with one hand, reached back and released the arm catch and the door
slammed shut with a thunderclap. He locked it, then turned back as the Norseman
lurched violently again, then settled.

He let out a sigh of relief, wiped the
lather of sweat from his face, then banked the plane around in a perfect arc.
He just hoped those Focke-Wulfs were not still lurking out there somewhere,
because if they were he would be in trouble. It meant he would have to stick in
the cloud, despite the risks.

He gritted his teeth and sighed again.
"Right, my sweet, let's see if we can get you home in one piece."

The blood was pumping through Arcady
Barsenko's veins like fire as the Mig tore through the cloud at five thousand
feet, with four hundred knots on the airspeed indicator.

A minute ago he had seen another blip on
the radar. Slower and smaller. A light plane, he guessed. Seconds later it had
vanished in the clutter on the screen. Barsenko frowned. He had definitely seen
the blip off to his right, maybe five miles away and moving slowly. No question
about it.

The other three blips he had detected
earlier had come and gone on the screen at intervals and he couldn't get a good
fix on them. It was the damned weather making the radar act up, but they were
definitely there. Three fast aircraft and a little light plane out there in the
blinding swirl of cloud.

It didn't make sense in these conditions.
Like playing Russian roulette. The light aircraft could be a reconnaissance
maybe, but even that didn't figure in this weather.

Unless the light aircraft was Soviet?

A reconnaissance from the Leninerad air
base that had strayed into enemy airspace and the Finns were looking for him.
It was the only explanation. Barsenko scratched his chin and glanced at the
radar.

Seconds later the three fast blips showed
up again. Five miles away, and coming at him fast. This time they stayed on the
screen. But no sign of the light aircraft. Maybe the Finns had already shot him
down'?

Barsenko grimaced angrily at that thought
and said to the three blips, "Just stay right where I can see you, you
bastards."

He decided to come out of the cloud and
see if he could make visual contact. If he could, then he was sure as hell
going to blast the Finns right out of the sky. He could argue about it
afterwards. The aircraft were damned close to Soviet airspace and by their maneuvering
and speed they could only be military. Barsenko grinned as he disengaged the
autopilot, eased forward on the stick, and pulled back on the throttle.

The Mig reduced speed and dipped into the
cloud with a terrible buffeting that seemed to go on forever, but ten seconds
later, as he broke cloud at fourteen hundred feet into a sudden clear pocket of
air and started to pull back on the stick, Barsenko's fighter dropped and his
eyes opened wide in horror.