DEFCON One

Chapter Fourteen

The gunships continued on their search path, alternately turning forty-five degrees left and right of their base course.

The two Soviet Mi-28s were almost a kilometer away before the American spoke. “Come on. Easy, don’t startle the sheep. We’ve got to get near the pickup point and dig in.”

Dimitri responded with a grunt, wiping his coat off as he got to his feet.

“Hang on and stay close,” Wickham ordered as they started across the field.

The cold was becoming sharper as the last shades of light disappeared. Light snow continued to fall in the black void of night, chilling the two agents to the marrow.

Wickham and Dimitri, after stumbling in the dark for an hour and a half, finally reached the edge of the partially frozen river. They were as close to Novgorod as they dared venture. Exhausted, the men collapsed on the bank, cold, frightened, and hungry. The American suffered excruciating pain whenever he bumped his right shoulder, but the penetrating cold had partially numbed all sensations.

Wickham collected his thoughts and spoke to Dimitri in whispered tones. “As soon as you get your breath, we’ve got to move about a half kilometer upriver and conceal ourselves.”

Dimitri, listening intently to Wickham, heard the approaching trucks first. “Shh- I hear some—”

“Shut up,” the American snarled, yanking Dimitri flat on the ground next to him.

Both agents, lying on their stomachs, crawled up the embankment to peer down the road through the underbrush. They could see a multitude of lights, twinkling in the dark, reflecting off the falling snowflakes.

“Keep your face down and smear it with dirt,” the CIA agent ordered, spreading the moist, cold semi-mud over his forehead, cheeks, ears, and neck.

“We’ve got problems …” Wickham said, scooting back down the muddy embankment.

“What d—?” Dimitri’s eyes bulged.

“We’re close, almost home, but we’ve got problems,” the American whispered.

Dimitri nodded in the dark, swallowing continuously. He sensed the CIA agent’s agitation.

“Dimitri, that has to be the GRU. They’ve got some very elite troops, the kind they turn loose to locate Kremlin spies. You read me?”

“Y-yes. What are—?”

“I’m sure they’ve got dogs with them. You hear them howling?” Wickham was listening with his hand cupped to his left ear. “That’s the same way we came. They’re right on our trail. Shit!”

Dimitri remained silent, aware of the sounds of the Russian GRU troops growing closer.

Wickham leaned closer to Dimitri. “We’re going to cross the road, make a large circle, then cross back to this same position.”

Dimitri looked at Wickham as if he were seeing a ghost.

“The dogs will track across the road and become confused by the circle. We’ll retrace our steps, then cross the river, make the other side upstream, and head for the rendezvous point.”

Wickham listened a moment, then again spoke to Dimitri. “We’re going to freeze our asses, but it’ll throw the dogs off our trail for awhile.”

The American paused, observing no reaction from Dimitri.

“Better than a goddamn firing squad. Let’s move out!”

The two men scrambled up the bank, darted across the paved road, ran forty meters into the sparse trees, and completed a large circle. Both agents, stopping momentarily at the edge of the pavement, ran back to their original position, then slid into the ice-cold water as quietly as possible. The numbing cold literally took their breath from them. The respiratory shock was almost overwhelming to the exhausted agents.

“O-kay, Dimitri … just dog paddle. S-stay with me…”

Lt. Comdr. Doug “Frogman” Karns snapped a salute and braced his helmet. “Here we go.”

“Shhhiiittt …” Rick Bonicelli replied, barely able to talk during the catapult stroke.

Karns felt the powerful G-forces pressing him harder and harder into the seat back as the F-14 raced off the end of the giant carrier.

Karns popped the gear lever up, trimmed the nose down, and watched the airspeed indicator. Accelerating through 220 knots, Gunfighter One selected flaps and slats up, then waited for the wings to sweep back.

“Okay, baby,” Karns said to himself passing three hundred knots indicated airspeed, “here we go.”

The Tomcat smoothly rotated skyward, climbing vertically in afterburner as Karns looked back over his shoulder. Gun Two was just beginning to raise the nose of his fighter.

Back on the gauges as the accelerating F-14 penetrated dense clouds.

“You with me, Two?” Karns asked his usual flying mate, Steve Hershberger.

“Yeah, but I lost you in the clouds,” Hershberger radioed. “I’ll ease off a bit and catch you when we’re on top.”

“Okay, Hersh,” Karns replied as his Tomcat shot through the top of the cloud layer. “You’ll be out in a couple seconds. Switch to button seven.”

Karns turned on his scrambler, then tuned to the E–2C Hawkeye’s frequency. “Stingray, Gun One up, flight of two, standard ordnance, squawking. What have you got?”

“Turn right, heading two-three-zero, and climb to angels three-one,” the Hawkeye controller ordered. “Two Air Force F-15s tangled with a division of MiG-29s due east of the Iceland MADIZ (Military Air Defense Identification Zone). Four MiGs jumped ’em, just outside of the zone, and the Fifteens dropped one of the MiGs. The Eagles had to disengage because of low fuel, so we’re vectoring you for an intercept.”

“Roger,” Karns radioed, as he slowly lowered the nose, pulled the throttles out of afterburner, and turned to the southwest heading. He looked over his right shoulder in time to see Hershberger slide smoothly into a nice, loose parade position.

“Two’s aboard,” the lieutenant (junior grade) radioed. “Looks like we’re going to have some more fun with these assholes.”

“Afraid so,” Karns responded. “Let’s arm ’em up. Switches hot, and goin’ combat spread.”

“We’re hot and moving out,” Hershberger replied in a calm voice, flipping his Master Arm switch to ON. “My man ‘Gator’ says it’s time for a little yankin’ and bankin’ today.”

“Yeah,” Karns replied, “but cover your ass. These guys are a lot better than the Libyans.”

The “Miniwacs” controller spoke. “Guns, your bogies — looks like three of ’em — are one hundred and twenty at angels two-niner, crossing left to right.”

“Copy,” Karns replied, then switched to ICS. “You got ’em, Bone?”

“That’s affirm; we’ve got a sweet lock.”

The Eisenhower’s Combat Information Center broke in.

“Gunfighter flight, you have permission to engage. Repeat, you have permission to engage. White House authority.”

“Roger, Tango Fox, Gunfighters engaging.”

Karns shoved the throttles full forward again. “Goin’ burner, Hersh.”

“We’re with you,” Hershberger responded, advancing his throttles to the stops.

The Tomcats accelerated through Mach One, as the two opposing flights rapidly closed on each other.

“Forty miles,” Gordon “Gator” Kavanaugh, breathing hard, said to Hershberger over the ICS.

“Guns, Stingray. Bogies are jinking back at … turning into you.”

“We’ve got ’em,” Karns radioed. “Stand by, Hersh.”

“Roger.”

Both pilots watched the MiGs close rapidly. The Russians had already cost the Ike two Tomcats. Karns and Hershberger had a score to settle with the Fulcrum drivers.

Karns keyed his ICS. “Centering the T … come on. Centering the Dot.”

“Lock him up, Frog,” Bonicelli said in a strained voice. “Lock him up.”

“I’m trying …. No tone,” Karns said, then added. “I’ve got it. Got a tone.”

“Tally — ten miles,” Karns radioed to Gun Two. “Stand by … FIRE!”

Both pilots squeezed off AIM-7M Sparrow missiles and prepared to counter the Russians’ evasive maneuvers.

“Fox One,” Karns yelled as he watched the two missiles track straight for the Soviet fighters. He could see the MiGs snap into a high-G turn at seven miles. “Bogies breakin’ right!”

Karns had barely finished the sentence when the lead Fulcrum disintegrated in a mushroom of orange and black explosions.

The second Sparrow missed and flew out of sight.

“Let’s go high,” Karns ordered, seeing the MiGs turn hard to his left. “Switchin’ to guns.”

“Two!”

Karns rolled almost inverted, pulling the nose down to the horizon, then further below to track the second MiG.

“Check six, comradski,” the Top Gun graduate said under his breath. He was almost in the perfect firing solution … almost.

“Aw … shit!” Karns swore, watching the wily Russian simultaneously “dirty-up” and pull into his Tomcat.

“Idle and boards!” Karns warned. “He’s trying to get me to overshoot. This son-of-a-bitch is good.”

Gun One yanked his throttles to idle, extended his speed brakes, dropped the flaps, allowed the F-14 to decelerate, then slapped the gear lever down. The big Tomcat dug into a 7–G, gut-twisting turn as Karns cross-controlled to pull inside the MiG-29.

“We’re droppin’ anchor, Ivan,” Karns groaned under the punishment he was imposing on the straining F-14. He could hear Bonicelli grunting in the back seat.

Karns pulled even harder, feeling the stall buffet, as he closed inside the Russian. He had a perfect gun shot.

“Say goodnight, comrade,” Karns said as he squeezed the firing button on the 20-mm M61 Vulcan cannon. The aircraft vibrated as three short bursts erupted from the forward fuselage of the F-14.

Karns and Bonicelli watched, fascinated, as the Fulcrum trailed oily smoke, then fire, as the entire tail was engulfed in flames. The MiG then slow-rolled to the left as the nose fell through the horizon.

“Good hit!” Karns radioed. “Good kill!”

The MiG pilot ejected as the aircraft continued to an inverted, nose low position.

“Ivan stepped outside,” Karns said over the radio. “Splash two!”

“Watch it, Frog!” Hershberger yelled over the radio. “The other asshole is bouncing you — low at your eight o’clock.”

“Tally!” Karns shouted as he snapped his head as far to the left as possible. His left hand shoved the throttles into full afterburner, retracted the speed brakes, then slapped the gear lever up. A split second later the flaps were retracted as Karns turned into his adversary with a 7–G effort.

“Goddamnit,” Karns groaned as the Russian pilot, going at Warp speed, pulled hard into the vertical. “Going for separation.”

“I’ve got him … rolling in,” Hershberger radioed in an excited voice. “Meat on the table … bear meat.”

Karns hauled the screaming Tomcat around in a painful high-G turn as Hershberger fired his Vulcan cannon. Karns could see debris being blasted off the Fulcrum, but the MiG continued to fly.

“Don’t get too close!” Karns warned Gun Two. “You’re almost up his ass!”

Hershberger didn’t answer as he continued to hose down the MiG driver with his smoking Vulcan. The Russian pilot kicked in a boot full of right rudder, then cross-controlled the Fulcrum, which resulted in the fighter departing controlled flight.

The MiG-29 tumbled right in front of Hershberger as he snatched the stick into his gut, sending the Tomcat out of the tracking and firing envelope.

“Ho … shit!” Hershberger said in amazement. “These bastards are crazy!”

“I’m in,” Karns replied, snap-rolling the F-14 to catch the MiG in his sights. “He’s got it recovered. One of his burners is out.”

Doug Karns then talked to Bonicelli over the ICS. “Okay, just a few more seconds and we can break for lunch.”

Karns stared through the HUD (Head Up Display) and placed the gun sight on the nose of the Fulcrum, then squeezed the trigger two short times. He couldn’t believe the impact the cannon had on the MiG. The canopy disintegrated in a shower of sparkling fragments as the pilot slumped forward.

“Good kill! Splash Three!” Karns radioed exuberantly as he rolled his Tomcat 180 degrees, passing over the MiG canopy to canopy. The Russian’s torso was shredded and his lifeless face was smashed into the instrument panel.

Gunfighter One watched the MiG nose over, then disappear through the clouds in a classic graveyard spiral. Karns rolled the F-14 right side up and noticed Hershberger closing for a rendezvous.

“Bring it aboard, Hersh,” Karns said, then addressed the carrier. “Gun One and Two comin’ home.”

“Copy,” Captain Greg Linnemeyer responded. “We’ve got it on tape, Guns. Really super.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Karns replied, loosening his oxygen mask and rubbing his sweat-soaked jaw.

“We’re breaking out the medicinal spirits on your arrival,” Linnemeyer radioed, “so stroke the burners.”

Brad Buchanan watched the radar altimeter warning light blink on and off. “Keep an eye on me, John.”

“Gotcha covered,” the copilot responded, concentrating on the airspeed, compass, INS inertial navigation, and radar altimeter.

The three Sikorsky S-70 Night Hawks, painted in Russian camouflage, raced across the Gulf of Finland, due south of Helsinki. Rain showers had plagued the flight for the past thirty miles.

Buchanan, call sign Scarecrow One, had his hands full maintaining exactly fifty feet over the turbulent ocean while traveling at 170 miles per hour.

The black, overcast sky made contact flying extremely difficult, if not impossible. The intermittent showers caused a feeling of vertigo in the command pilot.

Without the aid of a definable horizon or light source, Buchanan had to rely solely on his instruments.

“Coast coming up in seven minutes,” John Higgins, the copilot, announced to Buchanan.

“Thanks,” the pilot replied, not moving his eyes from the instrument panel. “Let me know when I can go visual.”

“Will do.” Higgins looked through the spray-soaked windshield. “Should have the shore lights in four or five minutes, according to the box.”

The Night Hawk combat rescue helicopter carried two other crew members behind the cockpit. “Blackie” Oaks, the crew chief, and Steve Lincoln, paramedic, listened to the pilots over the intercom. Both Oaks and Lincoln doubled as door gunners, using two M60 machine guns pintle-mounted in the open side doors.

“I sure hope Two and Three aren’t having any problems,” Buchanan said to Higgins as they neared the first set of coastline lights.

“Yeah, should be okay,” the copilot responded, thinking about the night vision goggles the other two copilots were wearing. Higgins had decided against using the special vision aids.

The three Night Hawk crews had briefed to keep radio silence, except in the case of an emergency, during their run to the rendezvous point near Novgorod.

Buchanan and Higgins were startled when the radio crackled to life. “Interrogative, Crow.”

Buchanan recognized the voice of the number two gunship pilot, Pete Barnes. “Go, Pistol.”

“We lost you in the shore lights, Buck. Say position.” Barnes sounded cool, relaxed.

“Two clicks right of the big, lighted boat, heading zero-two-zero, feet dry,” Buchanan answered the number two pilot, adding, “Copy, Three?”

“Scarecrow Three … ah … we’ve got ya.”

“I’ve got the pad in sight,” Buchanan informed his crew, then banked slightly to the right.

Everyone knew this would be a quick turn, engines running, then back into the air for the dash to Novgorod. The Night Hawks would traverse the entire route at an altitude of two hundred feet or lower. The only hitch would be towers or power lines not on their charts.

The general secretary removed his shoes and stared at the crackling fire. The warm glow reminded the Soviet leader of the hunting lodge he had enjoyed for so many years. The lodge, located in the central Ural Mountains near Krasnovishersk, was a favorite retreat for the Russian political hierarchy.

Light snow continued to fall as the temperature plunged with the onset of nightfall. Zhilinkhov, relaxed, spilled an ounce of his drink on the thick bear rug as he observed his coconspirators refresh their vodkas. The evening was young and the six men had much to discuss.

“It is good to be home, comrades,” Zhilinkhov smiled, inwardly pleased with his progress.

“It is good to be with you, Viktor Pavlovich,” the elder statesman replied, proposing a toast. “We salute your efforts, Comrade General Secretary. To the Motherland.”

The six men joined in a toast, spilling more vodka as the glasses loudly banged together. A discreet chime interrupted the group as Zhilinkhov unwrapped a cigar and sat back in his chair.

Yevstigneyev, responsible for party discipline, went to the massive doors leading to the general secretary’s private quarters.

Zhilinkhov tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed deeply, closely watching the heavy doors. He was surprised to see Colonel General Vranesevic, the GRU commander, standing at the entry.

“Come in, Comrade General,” Zhilinkhov yelled across the room, motioning with his arm outstretched. “You have good news for us, eh?”

Vranesevic, clearly pensive, entered the large, warm room and stood at attention. “Comrade General Secretary, I regret to inform you—”

Zhilinkhov stopped the GRU boss. “Relax, General. Have a seat,” Zhilinkhov said, pointing to the large couch directly across from him. “You will have a Stolichnaya with us, General?”

Vranesevic looked nervous, obviously shaken, as he replied. “Sir, I am afraid I have unpleasant news to report about the two American—”

“What unpleasant news?” Zhilinkhov bellowed, blood vessels bulging from his neck and temples. “Speak out, General! You cannot find the spies?”

“Sir, we have the spies contained.” Vranesevic squirmed uneasily, then continued in a more confident manner. “It is only a matter of time before we kill them.”

“The unpleasant news, General,” Zhilinkhov said more quietly, then raised his voice again. “What is the problem?”

Vranesevic coughed, clearing his throat. “We interrogated the two women at the restaurant where the spies made initial contact—”

“Give me the news, General,” Zhilinkhov ordered. The general secretary had a threatening look on his face.

“The old woman overheard the two spies talking in the kitchen. She speaks reasonable English. The kitchen is very small and it is easy to—”

“What is it?” Zhilinkhov yelled loudly, totally enraged at the GRU commander. “Get on with it!”

Vranesevic looked pale, almost in shock. “She testified, under pressure, that your domestic, the Kremlin resident, reported to the American,” Vranesevic swallowed, “of your intention to bomb the United States.” A rivulet of sweat rolled down the general’s forehead, glistening in the firelight.

Zhilinkhov shoved himself forward in the big easy chair, knocking his drink over. “Who else knows about this?” The general secretary had a malicious look on his face.

Vranesevic looked at the floor, then back to Zhilinkhov before answering. “Only two of my men, sir, and the two restaurant workers, the women.”

Zhilinkhov stared at Vranesevic with piercing eyes. “Are you positive, General? Absolutely positive?”

“Yes, sir,” the GRU officer replied, slightly relieved. “All four are in my office now. They have not talked with anyone, I assure you. My office is under guard until my return, sir.”

“You had better be right, General,” Zhilinkhov said in the low, guttural, vehement voice.

The room was silent as Zhilinkhov contemplated this latest surprise. He picked up the fallen glass and motioned to Yevstigneyev for a fresh drink. He could see the uncertainty in the GRU officer’s face.

“Comrade General,” Zhilinkhov began, smiling, “you will terminate the two women, immediately, and confine your two men in isolation until you hear from me.” Zhilinkhov watched the unblinking general. “Do you understand, clearly, General?”

“Yes. Your orders will be carried out immediately, sir.” Vranesevic started to rise.

“Sit down, General,” Zhilinkhov ordered, beckoning the other Politburo members and the defense minister to join Vranesevic.

The aging politicians, along with Minister Porfir’yev, had been startled by the general secretary’s order to kill the women. The men, hesitant, sat down with Zhilinkhov and the GRU commander. The Politburo members exchanged dour looks but remained quiet.

Zhilinkhov fixed his cold eyes on Vranesevic again, raised his glass to his lips, and talked over the rim.

“Comrade General, you must know how sensitive this information is to our country. Do you not?” Zhilinkhov lowered his glass, then relighted his thick cigar.

“Yes, sir. I fully understand the magnitude of your endeavor, sir,” Vranesevic answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Good,” Zhilinkhov answered, staring into the general’s pale blue eyes. “Then there won’t be any misunderstandings between us, General.”

Vranesevic looked perplexed. “Misunderstandings, sir?”

Zhilinkhov leaned forward again, exhaling smoke in the officer’s face. “Only the seven of us in this room know, or will know, about our operation. Correct, General?”

“Yes, sir,” Vranesevic replied, “I understand completely, sir.” The rivulet of sweat had returned, gleaming anew.

Zhilinkhov had reserved his harshest obloquy.

“Not completely, General,” Zhilinkhov responded, the vehement voice returning. “You will rue this day if the cowardly spies are not dead by this time tomorrow. Use everything at your disposal, including the spetsnaz commandos, but capture and kill the Americans. Twenty-four hours, General,” Zhilinkhov continued in the menacing tone, “or I will personally see you executed!”

Zhilinkhov leaped out of his chair, mouth quivering. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Vranesevic, visibly shaken, replied with a hoarse croak. “Yes, Comrade General Secretary. I will take my leave and personally see to the—”

“Twenty-four hours, General!” Zhilinkhov pointed his pudgy finger in Vranesevic’s face as the GRU officer quickly rose from the couch and rushed for the two huge doors.

The GRU commander didn’t want to tell the general secretary that he was already using a spetsnaz commando unit.

As the massive doors closed, Zhilinkhov turned to his coterie. “We will be okay. Our plan is intact, my friends.”

The room remained quiet a few seconds as the fire crackled, popping occasionally. Aleksandr Pulaev spoke first.

“We have been compromised, Viktor Pavlovich. We simply don’t know if this information has leaked out somewhere bef—”

Zhilinkhov interrupted, feeling the need to instill confidence quickly. “We have not been compromised, my friends. The only possible obstacle, in my view, would be the escape of the American spies.”

“That is the point, Viktor Pavlovich,” the friend of many years explained. “If they are allowed to escape, you, all of us, will be ruined.”

Zhilinkhov looked at Dichenkovko, then the defense minister, then the three current Politburo members. He stared into the fireplace for a long moment, then spoke in his menacing tone.

“They will not escape me!” Zhilinkhov never flinched as the crystal tumbler shattered in his powerful grasp.

Both agents lay sprawled on the riverbank, shivering and gasping for air. They had broken through twelve feet of thin ice to reach the muddy shore.

Wickham’s right arm, though useless to him, was completely numb and caused very little pain now.

“Dimitri,” Wickham asked, “can you make it up to the brush line?”

Dimitri rolled his head over, tilting it back to see up the steep slope. Light snowflakes fell on his face, hampering his vision.

“Y-yes,” Dimitri shivered in reply. “I can m-make it to the top okay.”

Dimitri and Wickham pulled themselves up the muddy incline, inch by inch, digging their fingers deep into the soggy ooze. Wickham, using only his left arm, struggled to keep his balance.

As they reached the top of the muddy bank, exhausted and covered with slime, the GRU point patrol sounded a shrill whistle.

“Hear the dogs?” Wickham whispered to Dimitri.

The young agent cocked his head, shaking uncontrollably in his freezing clothes. “They’ve … the d-dogs have found our c-circle?” The response from the frightened young man came out as a question.

“That’s right,” Wickham responded, then added, “w-we’ve got to get into t-the brush.”

Dimitri, wondering if he would ever see a sunrise again, crawled after the American.

The barking seemed to intensify as the dogs ran back and forth around the false trail left by the CIA agents. A large Soviet armored personnel carrier arrived at the scene and disgorged a dozen elite GRU troops.

Dimitri was shaking violently, teeth chattering loudly, as he stared at the scene across the river. His mind was unable to deal with the harsh realities of his situation.

“Come on, Dimitri,” Wickham encouraged, “j-just a little longer. You’ve g-got to hang on—”

Wickham stopped in midsentence, sensing something threatening. “Oh, Jesus …” The American’s voice trailed off in weariness, then resurged. “Dimitri, t-the choppers are returning.”

The distinct sound was clearly the two Mil Mi-28 Havocs.

Wickham felt he was in the grasp of defeat. If the Night Hawk rescue team roared into this ambush, which seemed inevitable, no one would survive.

Dimitri tensed. He too could hear the rhythmic beat of the Soviet gunships approaching the growing contingent of GRU troops. The helicopter’s bright halogen spotlights turned the scene into a surrealistic nightmare. A deadly nightmare, Dimitri thought as he turned to face Wickham. “We aren’t going to get out of—”

“Dimitri, listen to me,” Wickham said, trying vainly to rekindle the young agent’s spirit. “We’ve got to k-keep it together.”

The former Marine Corps captain yanked Dimitri’s collar. “LISTEN. Your message has got to reach the president … We’ve got to get it to the White House, even if we die in the process.”

There was no response from the lethargic agent.

Wickham didn’t have the strength to push or prod Dimitri much further. “Dimitri,” Wickham said quietly, “do you want to die? Just lie here and give up?”

No response.

“They’re going to kill us,” Wickham stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Execute us right here.”

“I d-don’t care,” Dimitri responded, shaking spasmodically in his soaked clothes.

Wickham knew it would require an insuperable effort to save Dimitri at this point. He had to get the agent’s adrenaline pumping again. He had to get him back to Washington to give credence to the incredible situation that could destroy the world.

“Dimitri, if you die, I die with you,” Wickham said in a harsh, low tone, “and I d-don’t intend to go out whimpering!” Wickham paused, then growled into Dimitri’s face, “Suck it up, for Christ’s sake!”

Dimitri moaned in response, hugging the ground. “I’ve got to rest.” He couldn’t control the spasms shaking his body.

Wickham stopped talking when a bright spotlight suddenly played across the river. Both Soviet gunships had been circling the scene, lighting a large area for the Soviet ground troops.

The American watched as one Mi-28 Havoc started down the river, away from their position, sweeping a powerful searchlight from shore to shore. His relief was short-lived when the second gunship crossed the river, then proceeded up the shoreline, sweeping from bank to bank with the stunningly bright spotlight.

Wickham turned to the inert young operative. “Dimitri, we’ve got to get back in the water.”

The debilitated agent tilted his head up, vainly trying to focus on Wickham. “Y-you are crazy,” he sputtered, breathing heavily.

The American slapped Dimitri across the face with his left hand, almost losing his balance as he sat upright in his stiffening coat. “Goddamn it,” Wickham spat in Dimitri’s face, “th-they’ve got infrared! We’ve got to dissipate our body heat until the chopper passes over us.”

Wickham was more frustrated than frightened. His mind knew what had to be done, given the exigencies of the current situation, but dealing with Dimitri was exacting a high toll.

Dimitri didn’t respond to the slap or verbal abuse. He looked at the American and slowly moved his head back and forth, shaking violently.

“Bullshit,” Wickham barked under his breath. “You’re going to move it. NOW.”

The American grabbed the young agent by his collar.

“We’ll only be in the water a minute or so,” Wickham explained, dragging Dimitri down the muddy bank. “You’ll have to hold onto me. I can’t move my right arm,” Wickham continued, skidding on his buttocks while he pulled his heavy burden down the bank and into the frigid, ice-packed water.

The Russian gunship was rapidly closing on their position as Wickham, dragging Dimitri, stumbled into the river. The American hoped the Russian chopper crew wouldn’t notice the broken ice. The two agents were standing in five feet of water, surrounded by large slabs of ice.

“Dimitri, when I tell you NOW, I want you to hold your breath and duck under the water with me.”

Wickham waited for a response, but received no answer, only unintelligible moans.

“You’ve got to duck under the water, Dimitri. Understand? For just a couple of seconds.”

Wickham glanced over his shoulder at the approaching Soviet gunship, engines pulsating in the black night. “You can whack it!” Wickham firmed his grip on Dimitri, then gave the command. “NOW,” Wickham yelled, sucking in his breath and submerging with Dimitri in his grasp.

Wickham opened his eyes to a completely void, black world. He continued to grasp Dimitri with his left arm, then felt the young agent grab his arm, gripping tightly with both hands.

Time seemed to pass in slow motion. Wickham, eyes still open, could feel the pain mount in his lungs. Just a little longer, he continued to tell his oxygen-starved mind.

The seconds became eternity as Wickham’s lungs ached in searing pain. His mind, disciplined by years of training and conditioning, told him to hang on for a moment longer.

The water suddenly seemed to glow, then turned bright, as Wickham realized the gunship’s spotlight was sweeping their position. He could see a multitude of particles and organisms, miniscule in size, drifting lazily in front of his eyes.

Wickham was caught unprepared when Dimitri wrenched his arm loose and lunged for the river’s surface.