The Charm School (91 page)
“I figured that the gauge was an extension of Soviet life. They don’t trust people to make rational choices, so they lie to them for their own good.” O’Shea smiled, then added without humor, “But I think by now that empty means empty.”
Mills stopped looking out the window and sat back on the floor between the seats. “Well, good try though.” He produced the flask, took a swig, and handed it to Brennan. Brennan drank and gave it to Lisa. She offered it to Hollis and O’Shea, who declined, O’Shea saying, “I’m flying.” Lisa, Brennan, and Mills finished the flask.
Hollis looked out at the water below. The seas were high, and he could see white curling breakers rolling from north to south. At two hundred meters’ altitude, his range of vision encompassed an area large enough to insure that he wouldn’t miss the freighter even if he was two or three kilometers off course. Something was very wrong, and the thought crossed his mind that this was yet another Alevy double cross, a joke from the grave. But even if Alevy had wanted O’Shea, Brennan, and Mills silenced, he had apparently promised to deliver Burov and one American, so it couldn’t be that. Hollis realized just how much Alevy’s thinking had affected
his
thinking for him to even consider such a thing. Yet, he would wager that the same thought had passed through everyone’s mind.
his
thinking for him to even consider such a thing. Yet, he would wager that the same thought had passed through everyone’s mind.
O’Shea said, “See those buoys? We’ve crossed out of the shipping lane.”
Hollis nodded. He suddenly put the craft into a steep right bank and headed southeast, into the rising sun, back toward Leningrad.
Mills asked, “What are you doing?”
Hollis began a steep descent. Ahead, he could make out the lights of Leningrad about fifteen kilometers away.
Mills repeated, “What are you doing?”
Hollis replied, “I’m going on two assumptions. One is that the freighter did not reach the rendezvous point in time and is still steaming out of the harbor. Two, if that holds true, then the skipper of that boat feels some sense of failed duty, and if he sees us, he will do what any sea captain would do for a seacraft or aircraft in distress—he will come to our aid.” Hollis leveled the helicopter at less than one hundred meters above the churning sea and cut the speed to a slow forty kph.
O’Shea said, apropos of nothing, “I feel fine. We did good.”
Mills concurred. “We beat most of the odds, didn’t we? We’re here.”
Brennan said, “We stole this chopper, got into the Charm School, rescued Dodson, kidnapped Burov, shot our way out, flew cross-country over Russia, and got to where we were supposed to be. Shit, as far as I’m concerned, we made it.”
Hollis said, “I find it hard to refute that logic, Bill. If we had a bottle of champagne, I’d say pop it.”
Mills said, “Damn, Seth was supposed to buy champagne at the Trade Center.”
At the mention of Alevy’s name, there was a silence during which, Hollis thought, everyone was probably cursing him and blessing him at the same time. Such was the fate of men and women who move others toward great heights and dark abysses.
Lisa said to Mills, “Change places with me.” She got out of her seat and knelt on the floor to the side of Hollis. She said to him, “I know you can’t hold my hand now. But if you don’t have to hold the controls in a minute or two, can you hold my hand then?”
“Of course.”
O’Shea took the controls. “I’ve got it, General. Take a stretch.”
Hollis released the controls and took Lisa’s hand.
The helicopter continued inbound, toward Leningrad, and no one spoke. The steady sound of the turbines filled the cabin, and they listened to that and only to that, waiting for the sound to stop.
O’Shea cleared his throat and said in a controlled voice, “Twelve o’clock, one kilometer.”
Brennan, Mills, and Lisa stood and looked out the front windshield. Steaming toward them was a medium-sized freighter, and on its fantail were three yellow lights.
Hollis released Lisa’s hand and took the controls. He figured they needed about thirty seconds’ flying time if he brought it in straight over the bow. But if they flamed out, they could smash into the freighter, and neither the freighter nor its crew deserved that.
He banked right, away from the oncoming ship, then swung north, approaching the freighter at right angles, flying into the strong wind for added lift. He noticed that the three yellow lights were off now, which probably meant they’d seen him making his approach.
O’Shea said, “General, we have to get some altitude for a steep approach.”
Hollis knew that a shallow approach from a hundred meters was not the preferred way to land a helicopter on a moving deck. But a flame-out during an ascent was no treat either. All his instincts and what was called pilot’s intuition told him that his remaining flight time could be measured in seconds. “Relax.”
“Your show.” O’Shea scanned the instrument panel as Hollis concentrated on the visual approach. O’Shea called out airspeed, tachometer readings, torque, and altitude. He said, “Ground speed, about thirty.”
Hollis saw that the freighter’s stern was going to pass by before he reached it, so he put the helicopter into a sliding flight toward port as he continued his shallow powerglide approach.
He adjusted the rudder pedals to compensate for the decreased torque, keeping the nose of the helicopter lined up with the moving ship, while continuing a sideways flight.
He tried to maintain constant ground speed by use of the cyclic pitch, coordinating that with the collective pitch and the throttle.
O’Shea called out, “Ground speed, forty.”
Hollis pulled up on the nose to bring down the speed.
O’Shea said, “Altitude, fifty meters.”
Hollis kept the nose lined up amidships. The distance to the freighter was about one hundred meters, and he estimated his glide angle would take him over the stern for a hovering descent.
“Ground speed, thirty; altitude, thirty.”
A horn sounded, and O’Shea said, “Oil pressure dropping. We must have popped a line or gasket.”
The recorded voice, which had stayed inexplicably silent about the fuel, said, “Imminent engine failure. Prepare for autorotative landing.”
They were within ten meters of the ship’s upper decks now, and Hollis picked up the nose of the helicopter, reducing ground speed to near zero. The ship slid past, and the aft deck was suddenly in front of him. The deck was pitching and rolling, but never had a landing zone looked so good to him. He felt his way toward the retreating deck, and as he passed over it, the helicopter picked up ground cushion and ballooned upward. “Damn it.” The stern was gone now, and he was over the water again. Without the ground cushion, the helicopter fell toward the water.
Hollis quickly increased the throttle and the collective pitch of the blades, causing the helicopter to lift, seconds before the tail boom would have hit the churning wake. Hollis turned the nose back toward the stern and followed the ship, focusing on its stern light, trying to hold it steady in the strong crosswind. He felt like a man trying to grab the caboose rail of a moving train.
Written in white letters across the stern of the ship was its name, and Hollis noted it irrelevantly:
Lucinda.
Lucinda.
The recorded voice said, “Imminent engine failure. Prepare for an autorotative landing.”
Hollis pushed forward on the collective stick, increased the throttle, and literally dove in, clearing the stern rail by a few feet. He pulled back on the collective pitch, and the helicopter flared out a few meters from the rising quarterdeck.
O’Shea shut the engines down as the rear wheels struck the deck and the Mi-28 bounced into the air. The pitching and rolling deck fell beneath them, then rose and slammed the two starboard wheels, nearly capsizing the aircraft. Hollis yanked up on the brake handle, locking the wheels.
Finally the helicopter settled uneasily onto the moving deck. Hollis looked up at the ship’s mainmast and saw it was flying the Union Jack.
No one spoke, and the sound of the turbines and rotor blades died slowly in their ears, replaced by the sound of lapping waves. A salty sea scent filled the cabin, and the relatively smooth flight was replaced by the rocking of a wind-tossed ship. Hollis saw that there were no crew in sight and assumed that all hands had been ordered below.
O’Shea cleared his throat and said quietly, “I don’t like ships. I get seasick.”
Brennan said, “I fucking
love
ships.”
love
ships.”
Mills said to Hollis and O’Shea, “You both did a splendid job. We owe you one.”
Hollis replied tersely, “If ‘we’ means your company, Bert, then we all owe you one too.”
Lisa suddenly threw her arms around Hollis’ neck. “I love
you
! You did it! Both of you.” She grabbed O’Shea’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you both.”
you
! You did it! Both of you.” She grabbed O’Shea’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you both.”
O’Shea’s face reddened. “I didn’t do . . . well, talk to him about my efficiency report.”
Hollis smiled. “I’ll reconsider it.”
O’Shea said to Hollis, “Right before I shut the engines down—”
“I heard it.”
“What?” Mills asked.
“One of them,” O’Shea replied, “went out. There isn’t enough fuel in the tanks to fill a cigarette lighter.”
“Well, we don’t need any more fuel. See, it worked out fine.” Mills reached under his seat and pulled out a plastic bag filled with black ski masks and handed it to Brennan. “Here, everyone put on one of these. No talking to the crew, no names.”
Mills went to the back of the cabin and slid a mask over Dodson’s face. He looked at Burov and said, “Well, Colonel, the good guys won.”
Unexpectedly, Burov laughed. “Yes? The CIA are the good guys? Your own countrymen don’t think so, no more than my countrymen think the KGB are the good guys. You and I are pariahs, Mr. Mills. That’s what sets us apart from humanity.”
“Could be. Glad to see you learned something in your own school.” Mills took a Syrette from his pocket and jabbed the spring-loaded device into Burov’s neck. “You talk too much.” He slid a ski mask over Burov’s head. “That’s much better.”
Brennan slid open the door, and a rush of cold air filled the heated cabin. Brennan jumped down onto the rolling deck, followed by Lisa, O’Shea, and Hollis. Mills got out last and said, “I’ll have Dodson and Burov taken to the infirmary.” He looked up at the Union Jack. “I sort of figured it would be British. There aren’t many of our intrepid NATO allies we can count on anymore.”
Hollis observed, “For this operation, I don’t even trust our allies in Washington, Bert.”
“Good point.”
Lisa asked, “Are we home free, or not?”
Hollis didn’t think they would ever be home free as long as they lived. He replied, “We’re in the right neighborhood.”
The door of the quarterdeck opened and six seamen dressed in dark sweaters appeared. They approached the helicopter and looked at their five passengers curiously: four men, one woman, all wearing black masks. Three men were in Russian uniforms, one in a sweat suit. The woman wore a sweat suit and parka. And on board the helicopter, Hollis thought, were two unconscious and battered men in black masks, one in pajamas and one in a shredded sweat suit. If the seamen had been asked to pick out the good guys from the bad guys, Hollis realized, they would probably guess wrong.
One of the seamen made a pushing motion toward the helicopter as if he didn’t think anyone spoke English. Mills shook his head, held up two fingers, and pointed. The six men went to the helicopter and removed Dodson and Burov, laying them on the cold, wet deck.
Hollis jumped back into the cockpit and released the brakes, then joined O’Shea, Brennan, and the six sailors in rolling the helicopter to the portside rail. One of the men swung open the gangplank section of the railing. They all pushed from the rear of the fuselage, sending the Mi-28 over the side, nose first, its long tail boom rising into the air as the front plunged down toward the churning sea. Instinctively, they all went to the rail and watched as the helicopter bobbed a moment until the sea rushed into its open door and it slid, cockpit first, into the dark water. Its tail section seemed to wave a farewell, and Hollis found himself touching his hand to his forehead and noticed that O’Shea did the same.
The crewmen moved quickly to the three fog lights, which were portable and connected by cords running to electrical outlets. They disconnected the lights and threw them overboard. Hollis thought there was something disturbing about that. Getting rid of the helicopter was an obvious thing to do. But getting rid of three small lights indicated that the captain was taking precautions in the event of a possible boarding and search by Soviet authorities or at the very least a flyover. Hollis wondered what other evidence the captain was prepared to throw overboard.
Hollis looked over the port rail to the south and saw two ships on the distant horizon. They may have seen the helicopter landing, and through binoculars they could have seen it pushed overboard. If they were Soviet ships or even East Bloc craft, they might radio a report. More to the point, Red Navy radar had probably picked up the unidentified flight and had recognized its flight characteristics as that of a helicopter. They could have seen the blip descend to sea level, and perhaps had even concluded that it had landed on the ship that also appeared on their screens. Three-mile limit notwithstanding, the Soviets claimed this whole part of the gulf as their private pond.
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