Countdown

CHAPTER 26

Lobo fell through space, the roar of her ejection gone now, replaced by the eerie shriek of air rushing past her helmet. A moment later, her chute opened with a savage jerk at her shoulders and groin. Looking up, she was rewarded by the heart-filling sight of an open and undamaged canopy stretching overhead.

Where was Vader? His ejection seat should have triggered an instant after she'd cleared the cockpit, but she couldn't see him, couldn't see her stricken F-14, for that matter. There was a tangle of contrails off toward the south, where Shotgun was still battling the MiGs, but she was all alone in that wide, blue sky.

No… there was something in the distance, an aircraft approaching from the south. But was it a MiG or a Tomcat? She watched it as she dropped toward a barren and empty plain.

"Hit!" K-Bar yelled. "Splash one MiG!"

"Never mind the damned MiG! Do you see any chutes?"

"Negative, Striker. Negative. No! Wait a sec! At one-five-oh!"

Yes! A parachute! But only one…

"Shotgun, Shotgun, this is Shotgun Two-two," Striker called. "I see one chute. That's good chute, good chute at, I make it, eight miles southeast of Sayda Guba. That's map coordinates Victor three-one by Sierra niner-five."

"Striker, this is Coyote. Get back to formation."

"Ah, negative, Shotgun. I can see vehicles on the road below me, heading for that chute. I'm going in to provide cover."

"Shotgun Two-two, this is Shotgun One-one. Return to formation. Execute immediate."

But Striker's full attention was on that lone chute and the vehicles on the ground nearby. Was it Vader or Chris? There'd be no way of knowing until he or she could make contact with an SAR emergency radio.

Keeping his distance, Striker pulled his F-14 into a long, easy circle about the descending chute a mile and a half away.

There was no mistaking the distinctive bulk of that aircraft, huge for a fighter, its wings swept forward for low-speed flight. A Tomcat was circling her, though at this distance Lobo couldn't tell which one it was. The F-14's presence was comforting, however, a sign that her shipmates had not abandoned her.

The ground was coming up faster now. It was close enough for her to make out details ― the twin ruts of a dirt road between large patches of mud and snow, a hut or cottage with what looked like a thatched roof, and a nearby barn. There was a town or village a few miles to the northwest. Beyond that was the gunmetal blue-gray of the sea, and a smudge of black smoke where the Marines were storming ashore.

To Hanson, the landscape immediately below her dangling feet looked unutterably bleak, a flat and barren tundra, all bare earth, brown and stunted vegetation, and scattered patches of snow. She twisted back and forth in her harness, still trying to spot McVey's chute. Where the hell was he? Had he managed to punch out? She couldn't see him and that worried her.

And what she could see worried her even more. There, to the south was a line of vehicles, their shapes indistinct, a convoy of some kind picking its way north along that muddy track of a road.

The ground was really coming up fast now. It looked like she was going to touch down close to that house and barn.

Striker brought the Tomcat almost down to the deck, screaming over flat, empty tundra, patches of snow and earth blurring with the speed of his passage to a rippling brown-white-gray. The enemy convoy was a couple of miles ahead, several trucks and at least one armored vehicle of some kind, possibly a tank.

He gentled his F-14 slightly to the left, watching the column of vehicles swell behind his gun reticle, then squeezed the trigger, sending a hail of 20mm shells slashing into dirt, machines, and men.

"Shotgun Two-two, this is Home Plate. Two-two, this is Home Plate.

Respond, please."

Tombstone's knuckles tightened around the microphone as he continued to stare at the radar display above the console in front of him. It was cluttered with aircraft, friendlies and hostiles. Russian planes had been coming up from every air base in the Kola Peninsula, and the American aircraft were fighting for their lives.

Striker had broken formation, was circling the area where Shotgun One-four had gone down. Damn it, why wouldn't he respond?

"Shotgun Two-two, Home Plate. Come in, please."

He'd lost sight of the chute. Chris ― it had to have been Chris! ― must be on the ground now.

He felt a small stab at the thought, then dismissed it. He scarcely knew Chris's RIO, McVey. It wasn't that he wanted the guy dead… but please, God, let Chris be alive and in one piece!

"Shotgun Two-two, Home Plate." That was CAG's voice. "Two-two, come in, please."

"Ah, listen, Striker," K-Bar said from the back seat. "Don't you think we ought to respond?"

"Screw 'em," Striker said. "We got radio difficulty."

"Oh. Right." K-Bar chuckled. "Yeah, I've been having all kinds of problems with this set."

"Just so you don't have any trouble tuning in on the SAR frequency."

"Roger that. I'm listening, but there's nothing yet."

"Well, keep on it, damn it!"

Shit. He was angry at himself for his own conflicting emotions, angry for disobeying orders, scared to death that Chris might be dead, and here he was taking it out on K-Bar by snapping the guy's head off. He tightened the F-14's turn, scanning the ground for more Russian troops. Several vehicles were burning on the road below, but others were still closing on the area where the chute had gone down.

There was the chute, blowing free across the ground! And had that been a lone figure he'd glimpsed running through a patch of snow?

Damn it, they needed a SAR flight in here, and right now!

"Home Plate, Home Plate," he called. "This is Shotgun Two-two. I've got a man on the ground, repeat, man on the ground. I don't think she's hurt-"

"Striker! I've got her on the SAR!"

"Let me hear!"

"… on the ground, about eight miles southeast of Sayda Guba. This is Lobo, calling Mayday, Mayday-"

"Chris!" he cut in. "Chris! This is Steve!"

"Steve! What are you doing here?"

"Looking after you, babe. Listen. I'll stay with you until a SAR chopper can reach you. Keep your head down. There are some bad guys about two miles south of you, and they looked real mad last time I got a close look."

"Christ, Steve! Get out of here!"

"Not a chance. Now find yourself a ditch and stay down!" He'd just glimpsed several more Russian vehicles to the south. Joy sang in the back of his mind. Chris was alive!

He brought the Tomcat into a long, flat trajectory, lining up for another strafing run.

"How about it, Jim?" Tombstone asked the Operations Officer. He'd heard Striker talking to someone on the ground and inferred that it must be Hanson, though her SAR radio didn't have the range for him to pick up what she'd said.

"Can we get a Search and Rescue helo out that far?"

"Not a chance, CAG. We can call the Marines. Maybe they can send something out from Red Beach. They're close enough."

"Do it, then." He raised the microphone again. "Shotgun Two-two, Two-two, this is Home Plate. RTB. I say again, return to base!" The hostiles were closing in, and one lone Tomcat wouldn't stand a chance by itself.

"Shotgun Two-two, this is Home Plate. Respond!"

Chris was on her knees on a low rise on the ground, staring toward the south. Even without binoculars, she easily recognized the squat, open-topped turret, the quad-mounted 23mm guns. The vehicle was a ZSU-23-4, a deadly mobile flak battery called a Shilka by the Russians, but popularly known as the "Zoo" among American fliers. She estimated that it was still better than a mile off, sitting in the middle of that dirt road she'd seen from the air.

She grabbed the small survival radio clipped to her flight suit, pressing the transmit key. "Steve!" she shouted. "Steve, back off! There's a Zoo-twenty-three down here!"

The turret had already slewed to the right, and its big, blunt radar antenna, code-named "Gun Dish" by NATO, was tracking something to the west and close to the horizon. She could see that the cannons were firing, raising a haze of smoke above the vehicle. A moment later, the sound reached her, a steady, far-off thud-thud-thud-thud as the Zoo tracked and fired… and then, God, God, no! There was Striker's Tomcat, streaking low across the tundra dead in the Zoo's sights, and then smoke was trailing from it, a white smear unraveling astern of the aircraft as it began to break into pieces, and she heard the roar of the Tomcat's engines rising above the thud of the triple-A guns, and then there was nothing but flame and smoke as Steve's plane slammed into the ground.

Several seconds later, the dull whump! of the crash reached her.

Oh, God, please, no!

"I'm sorry, sir. Shotgun Two-two is down."

Tombstone replaced the microphone, his eyes still on the radar screen.

That was two down out of Shotgun, plus another damaged and limping back to the boat.

"White Lightning is now over the target," the Operations Officer announced. "Lead plane has just dumped his bombs."

Tombstone dragged his attention away from the blank spot on the map near Sayda Guba to the ragged shores of the Kola Inlet near Polyamyy. The Intruders were swinging one after the other into their attack vectors, bearing down on the naval bases and depots lining the western shore of the inlet. He could hear the aviators and B/Ns calling to one another as they made their runs.

"White Lightning One-two-two! Pickle's hot! I'm going in!"

"This is One-two-oh! I'm in!"

"White Lightning Two, this is Lightning One-one. Watch that flak over the inlet. They've got some ships down there, a couple of corvettes, maybe a light cruiser. We're getting heavy fire from the face of the cliff above the base too."

"Roger that, One-one. I can see the gunfire."

"SAM! SAM! I've got a SAM launch at zero-nine-five!

"Watch for fighters. Echo-Whiskey's got bandits spotted at one-eight-zero!"

The hell with this! Angrily, Tombstone picked up a telephone receiver and punched in a number. "Fred? Tombstone. What's the status on the CAG bird?"

"Uh… she's up and ready, CAG. But-"

"Bring her to ready and put her on the line. I'll be on the roof in ten minutes."

"Aye, aye, sir."

He hung up. "Operations Officer!"

"Yes, sir."

"You've got the watch here. I'm going up there."

"Uh, yes, sir. Should I tell-"

But Tombstone had already left the compartment.

Hanson had started moving in the direction of the crash, her eyes still sweeping the leaden sky, praying for the sight of a parachute. Still, though, there was nothing… nothing… and then she stumbled into an unseen ditch and fell heavily to the ground.

She grunted with the shock, then rose, slowly, mud-covered and shaken.

Get a grip, woman! she told herself savagely. You start blundering around in enemy territory without thinking about what you're doing and you're going to end up dead!

Voices. She heard voices… and the sound of a truck's engine.

Turning, Hanson saw a light truck on the dirt road a hundred yards behind her, much closer than the Zoo. Armed men were piling out of the back, calling to one another as they began fanning out across the field.

Coming for her.

Groping at the hip of her flight suit, she drew her pistol, a 9mm Beretta automatic. She counted twelve men now, and clearly they'd already seen her.

The line was spreading out, the men on the flanks running now to get around her from either side.

She considered running… but where could she run to? They were already close enough to shoot her if they wanted to. She also considered opening fire, going down in some kind of heroic, John Wayne last stand, but that was just plain silly. At a hundred yards, she wouldn't be able to come close to hitting them with a handgun, while they were carrying AKMs, assault rifles accurate to four hundred yards or more. Hanson had never thought much of the old, ultra-macho idea of death rather than surrender.

"Stoy!"

The command snapped at her from her right, and she spun, surprised.

Damn! How had he gotten so close so quickly? A Russian was standing less than twenty yards away, his AK aimed at her.

"Stoy!" he barked again, gesturing with the rifle. "Zdavayetees!

Brawste arujyee!"

She wished that she could speak Russian. Still, it was clear what he wanted. Carefully, making no quick moves, she extended the hand holding the Beretta and dropped the weapon to the ground. The soldier stepped cautiously closer. "Rukee v'vayrh!" The rifle snapped up, a savage gesture, and she raised her hands over her head.

He looked Oriental, not Chinese exactly, but with a Mongolian's flat face and puffy, slit eyes. Those eyes widened as he got closer, and Hanson was uncomfortably aware that he had just realized that his prisoner was a woman.

He spat something harsh. It didn't sound like Russian. His eyes were twinkling and his face was marred by an unpleasant grin as the rest of the soldiers hurried up.

She stood there uncertainly, arms still raised, as rough hands groped and pawed and patted, spun her about, then groped again. One grabbed her left arm, jerked it down, then pulled off her wristwatch and pocketed it. Another grabbed her SAR radio and jerked it from her flight suit. She tried to concentrate on the uniforms surrounding her, instead of the grinning, too-eager faces. Green camouflage… but with a peculiar, high-peaked, visored cap. They wore shoulder boards with the letters BB on them in gold.

She knew that the Cyrillic letter that looked like a B was actually a V. What did VV stand for? She was sure that they weren't speaking Russian as they jabbered at one another.

After they had searched her with elaborate thoroughness, someone produced a length of heavy twine and tied her wrists tightly behind her back. She was expecting them to take her back to the truck, but the one who'd first captured her appeared to have a different idea. "Vpeeryad!" he ordered, and the muzzle of his AK jammed into the small of her back just below her bound hands.

"I don't understand you!" she told him. "I am American, understand?

Amer-"

"Skaray!" He prodded her again, this time in the buttocks, and she stumbled forward, then fell to her knees as the men around her laughed and hooted. Two of them grabbed her then, one taking each of her arms, hauling her to her feet and dragging her forward. They were taking her, she saw with mounting horror, toward that nearby barn she'd noticed during her descent.

Inside, the light falling through the gaps between the boards of the walls was filtered through drifting dust, and the air was thick with the mingled smells of hay and manure. Someone grabbed her arms from behind, holding her tightly while the rest closed in.

"No!" she yelled, desperate, angrier now than she'd ever been in her life. "No, you bastards! No!" She tried to kick, but they held her legs while a grinning Mongol stooped to unlace her boots. Another reached up and started tugging at the zipper to her flight suit.

Evidently, that proved to be too slow. Knives gleamed in the half light as three or four of them roughly began cutting every stitch of clothing from her body. It was slow going, for the material of the survival garment beneath her flight suit was thick and tough, like a wet suit. The men chatted back and forth as they worked, sometimes laughing as though at a hilarious joke.

Then she was on her back in the hay and they were all around her, pinning her down, spreading her legs, fondling her, laughing as she cursed and twisted helplessly beneath them.

The hay prickled the bare skin of her back and legs, and the air was so heavy with the stink of barn and animals and unwashed, sweating men that she could scarcely breathe. She'd heard about things like this happening, heard horror stories about Russians raping women in Germany in World War II, about Serbs raping Moslem women in Bosnia… but it couldn't, couldn't be happening to her.

Somehow, she managed not to start screaming until the first of them dropped his trousers and lowered himself onto her body.