DEFCON One

Chapter Sixteen

Buchanan and Higgins rapidly scanned the ADF, then back to the INS. The ADF needle pointed straight ahead, not wavering. The inertial nav showed 3.4 nautical miles to the rendezvous point.

Buchanan glanced at Higgins with a look of resignation, then pushed his intercom switch. “This is for real, guys. Don’t screw the pooch.”

“You got it, skipper,” Oaks replied, looking at Lincoln, the paramedic-turned-door gunner.

Buchanan leaned toward Higgins. “Ask Sandman his exact position, and see if he can describe the disposition of the ground pounders,” Buchanan said, as he started slowing the agile Night Hawk.

“Sandman, Scarecrow,” Higgins radioed, watching the mileage wind down in the INS.

While Higgins awaited the information from Wickham, Buchanan talked to the other pilots and crews over a separate radio.

“Scarecrow Flight, listen up!” Buchanan ordered the other two command pilots. “I’m slowing to ninety knots at this time, going to approach from one mile upriver. We’ve got two gunships and approximately fifty grunts on top of our troops.”

“Two,” Barnes replied in clipped fashion.

“Three!” Charbonnet responded, highly charged from the airborne engagement.

“Two, you jump the gunships,” Buchanan ordered, “and Three, you strafe the troops.”

“Two,” Barnes replied, rechecking his cannon.

“Three will take the troops,” Charbonnet responded, adding power to close on his leader.

“Two, you break off now and hit the gunships broadside,” Buchanan instructed his old friend.

“Copy, Buck,” Barnes said. “Here we go.”

“Three, you stick with me and keep their heads down while I go in,” Buchanan ordered Scarecrow Three.

“Right on your tail,” Charbonnet replied.

Higgins pressed the intercom switch. “Most of the troops are on the east side of the river between the road and the riverbank.”

“Beautiful,” Buchanan replied. “Are the gunships in the air or on the ground?”

“Our man says they’re airborne, apparently circling the area at a leisurely pace,” Higgins answered, then remembered the important part of the message. “The spook confirmed there are two of them, but they’re on the opposite side of the river from the planned pickup point.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Buchanan didn’t wait for an answer, knowing it was category three information at this stage of the rescue. “We’ll just have to grab ’em the best way we can. I may not be able to land, so we better prepare to haul ’em in from a hover or use the ladder.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Higgins answered. “Ah … one other detail, Buck. They’ve got troops and dogs closing on them on their side of the river.”

“Jesus!” Buchanan replied. “This is turning into a major cluster-fu—”

The pilot’s statement was cut off as Scarecrow Two, traveling at a high rate of speed, flashed into view spewing cannon shells at the Russian helicopters.

Buchanan and Higgins were stunned, not expecting Barnes to engage the Russian gunships as quickly as he had. The sky seemed to glow brightly under the overcast as various weapons opened up amid the confusion.

“We’re coming up to the river now, so let’s pick it up,” Buchanan radioed Charbonnet.

“Three is accelerating. Got you in sight,” Charbonnet replied as he lowered the nose of his Sikorsky to gain more speed. “I’ve got the river.”

Scarecrow Two rocketed between the two Soviet helicopters in a hail of ground fire.

“Okay, Jim, check your switches,” Buchanan ordered. “I’m goin’ to need a lot of suppression.”

“We’re hot,” Charbonnet responded, rechecking his arming switches. “I see the major concentration of troops.”

Buchanan keyed his intercom. “Gunny, you engage the troops on the far side of the river while Steve handles the guys closing on our agents.”

“Will do, Major,” Oaks replied, giving Lincoln a reassuring thumbs up gesture.

“I’ve got a tally!” Buchanan said over the radio. “Pete, try to work ’em on the east side!”

“Best … we … can … Buck,” Barnes groaned, obviously under stress from the violent maneuvers he was performing. “Bastards. Pretty quick!”

Higgins was yelling over the discreet frequency to Wickham. “You’ll have to guide us over your position, copy?” The copilot couldn’t hear amidst the clattering of the machine guns. “Speak up! We can’t hear you! You’ll have to guide us in!”

PING!!

THUD!

Two rounds hit the aft left side of the main cabin. One penetrated the fuselage, missing Lincoln by three inches, while the other ricocheted upward into the rotor blades.

“We’re takin’ rounds, Major!” Oaks said over the intercom. “Big stuff.”

“Better slow it down!” Higgins told Buchanan, pointing to a spot across the river from the planned rendezvous point. “There they are … I think.”

“Yeah, I have ’em,” Buchanan responded. “Shit! The grunts are almost on top of ’em.”

“Buck,” Higgins glanced at the commander of Scarecrow One. “This don’t look so good.”

“Launch the Vikings. Launch the Vikings,” blared the flightdeck loudspeakers as the catapult crews hustled out from under the two S-3B ASW aircraft.

The twin engine jet on cat number one roared down the pitching deck, lifted off, and started a turn to the right as the landing gear retracted. Seconds later, engulfed in a cloud of catapult steam, the second Viking streaked into the air and turned to rendezvous with the leader.

Two additional Lockheed S-3Bs taxied into position on the forward catapults. The four VS-30 “Sea Tigers” would join up five minutes after the last sub-killer was airborne.

Each Viking carried four depth bombs internally plus two bombs on the wing pylons.

“Hummer, Fishhook Seven-Oh-Seven, flight of four,” Lt. Cmdr. Spencer Rainer radioed the Hawkeye.

“Fishhook, we’ve got the coordinates and the clearance. CINCLANT authorization.”

“We’re ready, Hummer.”

Rainer listened to the controller while his copilot copied the coordinates for two of the three Soviet submarines, then read them back.

“That’s affirm, Fishhook,” the Hawkeye controller said. “Seven-Oh-Seven and Seven-Oh-Four will take target one. Seven-Oh-One and Oh-Six take target two. We are vectoring two P-3s at the third target.”

Rainer keyed his radio. “Four, let’s come starboard one-zero-five.”

“Roger.”

“One and Six,” Rainer continued, “we’ll see you at the boat.”

“Ah … roger,” the second section leader radioed, leading his wingman to the second submarine. “Good fishing.”

Rainer clicked his mike twice in acknowledgement, then keyed the ICS. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but we’re stepping into deep shit.”

Dimitri lay spread-eagled in the shrubs as Wickham frantically gave instructions over the small radio.

“You’re about a hundred fifty yards away! Straight ahead, along the shore,” Wickham yelled into the radio. He looked around at the advancing spetsnaz troops. They had spread out and were firing at the approaching Night Hawk.

“Dimitri,” Wickham shouted, “fire in the vicinity of the troops! The ones off the boat!”

Wickham pulled out his Beretta and aimed in the general direction of the advancing Soviet troops. Even if the agents didn’t hit the Russians, the rounds whining overhead would keep the troops at bay, or at least slowed.

“You’re only a hundred yards away,” Wickham shouted into the radio. “Straight ahead!”

P-ZZZING!!

The high-powered round ricocheted off a tree two yards from the agents, causing both men to drop prone on the frozen ground.

“Dimitri,” Wickham barked, “start crawling toward the chopper. GO! GO!”

Dimitri dropped his weapon and started crawling on his hands and knees.

Wickham turned toward the Russians, then froze in panic when he saw one of the killer dogs snarling twenty feet away. The animal had hesitated for a split second.

“Oh, shit,” the agent said quietly as he gripped the Beretta with both hands, aimed at the middle of the dark, growling canine, and squeezed the trigger.

The Doberman staggered backwards, emitting a mournful howl, then fell over a stump and died.

Wickham fired the remaining rounds at the advancing Russians, then dropped the Beretta and started crawling after Dimitri.

“Keep movin’! GO,” Wickham yelled to the struggling figure in front of him.

Wickham caught the flare of an explosion, then felt the concussion, as a helicopter thundered into the ground next to the roadway. He fervently hoped it wasn’t an American chopper.

“Sandman! Sandman!” Higgins urgently radioed, trying to expedite the rescue effort. “We’ve got to set down here. It’s the only clear spot. Can you make it?”

Wickham looked up, judged the distance to be sixty yards, at most, then frantically keyed his transmitter. “Yeah! On our way. We need cover fire!”

The CIA agent grabbed Dimitri by the collar. “Come on! GO! GO! RUN,” Wickham shouted, racing for the settling Night Hawk. “Run, Dimitri!”

Fifty yards, Wickham judged as the two men stumbled through the low shrub trees. Their numbed appendages refused to respond in a coordinated fashion.

“Forty yards! Just forty yards,” Wickham shouted to Dimitri. His arm and shoulder shot excruciating pain through his body every time his right foot hit the ground. Wickham forced his mind to block the pain as he stumbled through the shrubs, limping, in a crouch to reduce the target area.

Buchanan saw a stream of fire trailing along another helicopter on the far side of the river. He took his eyes away to orient himself, then glanced back to see tracer rounds continue to pour from the stricken gunship as it slowly rolled over and flew into the muddy river.

“RUN! RUN,” Lincoln screamed as Wickham fell over the back of Dimitri.

“Move it! GO,” Wickham cried breathlessly as parts from the crashed helicopter rained down amid the chaos.

“Twenty yards,” Wickham shouted to Dimitri, then forcefully shoved the young CIA operative.

An automatic weapon opened up from the far side of the river, kicking up pieces of shrub tree immediately behind Scarecrow One.

Blackie Oaks returned fire with his M60 machine gun, silencing the heavy weapon, then sprayed the entire riverbank with tracer rounds.

“Major,” Oaks shouted over the intercom. “Three is in the river! Some got out!”

Buchanan yelled over the intercom. “Keep ’em covered, Gunny!”

Oaks answered with a hail of machine-gun fire directed back and forth over the downed Night Hawk.

Wickham and Dimitri reached the side of the Sikorsky as Lincoln jumped out to assist in boarding. The rotor wash was like a hurricane, whipping everything into a blur of dust and weeds.

Dimitri fell, picked himself up, then reached for the door as Lincoln thrust him bodily into the cabin. Wickham shoved on Dimitri, too, as the young agent rolled sideways into the fuselage.

Wickham reached up, grabbed the door, lifted his leg, then stopped in mid-stride as if someone had hit him in the back with a sledgehammer. He fell into the side of the fuselage, then rolled on his side, moaning.

Lincoln grabbed the agent and yelled for Gunny Oaks. Buchanan was shouting into the cabin as Oaks leaped out to help Lincoln get the CIA operative into the helicopter.

“What about Three?” Higgins shouted to Buchanan as the pilot added power and pulled up on the collective. “We can’t leave them here.”

“Goddamnit! I know that,” Buchanan shot back, raising the Night Hawk into the air, then pivoting around to face the river as Oaks scrambled aboard after Lincoln. Wickham was lying face down on the floor, bleeding profusely from the back wound.

“Pete, cover me while I try to get Jim’s crew out,” Buchanan ordered as he eased the Şikorsky toward the far riverbank.

“Roger,” Barnes replied. “We’ve got a Hind down. The other is running.”

“Stay in there,” Buchanan said, turning the Night Hawk so Lincoln would have a better view of the downed crew. “Pete, spray the shoreline left of the gunship wreckage, the one you bagged.”

“Will do,” Barnes radioed as he swept low over the river in a forty-five degree bank, then pulled up steeply in preparation for a strafing run.

Buchanan could clearly see the crashed S-70 as he crossed the riverbank. “We’ve got survivors in the water. They’re on the side of the Hawk.”

“I see them,” Barnes replied, then fired a stream of cannon fire down the length of the riverbank, concentrating the barrage where Buchanan had asked.

“Lower the chair,” Buchanan commanded, inching closer to the twisted wreckage. “Keep up the fire, Gunny!”

“You got it, Major!” Oaks replied, raking the shoreline with his M60. “Cap’n Barnes is givin’ ’em some kinda hell.”

Buchanan didn’t reply as he maneuvered the nimble Sikorsky over the downed sister ship. He could see three people hanging from the side of the overturned helicopter, clinging to a twisted rotor blade.

“We’re going to be heavy, Major,” Lincoln said over the intercom.

“Who gives a shit,” Buchanan barked. “We aren’t leaving anyone.” The pilot waited a second, then added. “Just keep firing, Linc, and I’ll handle the decisions.”

Grant Wilkinson walked into the Oval Office, followed by Susan Blaylocke. The president was sitting in his recliner next to the crackling fire. Snow mixed with sleet fell steadily outside the warm office.

The Joint Chiefs of Staff, except Air Force General Ridenour, airborne in the “Looking Glass” command post, sat across from the commander-in-chief.

“Have a seat,” the president motioned to the vacant divan facing the military commanders.

“Thank you,” Wilkinson replied as he waited for Blaylocke to sit down, then joined her.

The president looked at each individual in the room, studying them at times, before speaking. “Anyone have any questions, or, for that matter, suggestions, in regard to my actions thus far?”

“Sir,” Blaylocke paused, composing her words, “there are some members of Congress who are less than pleased with the lack of information fr—”

“The bottom line,” the president interrupted. “Please, Susan.”

The vice president, controlled, replied. “They have been demanding an audience with you.”

“You know my feelings about that. You handle them, at least for the time being. I don’t have the patience to endure any congressional pontificating at this time.”

The president shook his head in disgust. “They all want more face-time on the evening news, so let them bellyache for the time being. I’ve got enough problems.”

“Yes, sir,” Blaylocke answered, formulating a response for the congressmen.

“Any word on the Soviet submarines, Cliff?”

Howard turned toward the chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Grabow. “Admiral?”

“The Saratoga’s ASW aircraft should have been over their targets five minutes ago.”

The president sat back.

“Your thoughts, Grant?” the president asked. “I need some objective opinions.”

“Mister President,” Wilkinson said quietly, “I would like to make a couple of observations before I suggest a possible course of action.”

“By all means.” The president reached for another cigar. “We have a lot at stake, and I want everyone in this room to speak his mind honestly and openly. I want us to be perfectly candid with our thoughts, and, more to the point, our suggestions. Go ahead, Grant,” the president said, unwrapping his rum crook.

Wilkinson leaned forward slightly, as he always did, when he addressed a serious matter.

“Time is short. The point is, in my estimation, that it is finally time to stop placing any faith in the Soviet system. We have been made to look like fools again and again, sir, and I strongly believe we need to stand our ground. Even push a little, if we have to. I support your decision to sink the Soviet submarines.”

The president remained quiet. He looked over to Susan Blaylocke. “You must have some feeling about our response.”

“Sir, I have never advocated using force to seek solutions with the Soviets.” Blaylocke smiled at Wilkinson in a friendly manner, then continued her conversation with the president.

“However, I agree one hundred percent with Grant. We are dealing with a stubborn, belligerent, and probably deranged Soviet leader. Zhilinkhov is threatening our future, our survival, and I endorse standing our ground on this issue. I don’t see any other reasonable choice.”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs raised his hand slightly, indicating he wished to respond.

“Go ahead, Admiral,” the president said, relighting his cigar.

“From a military standpoint,” Chambers looked at the other Joint Chiefs, “we are on the razor’s edge now. Sinking their submarines is a major step toward declared war.

“As Mister Wilkinson suggested earlier, sir,” Chambers continued, “we could continue to press the Soviets with our carrier groups. However, I personally believe that would lead to open hostilities on a global basis.”

The president thought for a while, then asked the chairman a question. “If that becomes the case, Admiral, do you believe we could contain the skirmishes to conventional weapons?”

Chambers looked uncomfortable. “The members of the Joint Chiefs are in agreement that a regional conflict could be contained. Nuclear weapons, most likely, would not be used, although there is no guarantee.”

“But since this situation is global in nature,” the president responded, “I assume you believe it would escalate into a full nuclear confrontation.”

“No doubt about it, sir.” Chambers paused, glancing at Wilkinson, then back to the president. “Especially with Zhilinkhov at the helm.”

Wilkinson leaned forward again, addressing the president. “Perhaps we should wait and see what Zhilinkhov’s reaction will be after losing his submarines.”

“I agree,” the president responded, “but I am going to press harder if he doesn’t back off within the time frame I set. I am convinced Zhilinkhov will be quelled by the Politburo when they realize we are deadly serious. Serious enough to start sinking submarines.”

The president frowned. “If not, I will order conventional strikes aimed at their airborne bomber forces, in addition to striking any Soviet submarines we feel are a threat to national security.”

An aide stepped into the office, unobtrusively carrying a message.

“Yes, Colonel,” the president said, surprised.

“Sir, General Ridenour is on the scrambler.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” the president responded, picking up a receiver to one of three phones at his side. “General, how is everything?”

The Joint Chiefs, along with Blaylocke and Wilkinson, spoke quietly among themselves while the president listened to the Air Force general in the airborne command post. The group fell silent when the president placed the receiver back in its cradle.

“Well,” the president turned to Wilkinson, “good and bad news. The submarines — all three — apparently have been sunk. No confirmation on one of them, but General Ridenour believes it went down.”

“The bad news?” Admiral Chambers asked, knowing the answer.

“We lost two aircraft. One crew did manage to get out safely. They’re picking them up now.”

No one said a word in response, thinking about the scenario painted by Grant Wilkinson. Was this the prelude to a massive nuclear strike on the United States?

“Also,” the president said slowly, “the two Navy fighters we cleared to engage the MiGs near Iceland — the MiGs that attacked the Air Force pilots — they shot down three, without any losses.”

Wilkinson sighed, then addressed the president in a firm manner. “Sir, I recommend that you continue to send Zhilinkhov a strong message. It’s time to follow up the submarine attack with a strike to the Soviet bomber group approaching Alaska.”

The president remained quiet, chin cupped in his left hand, studying the surprised looks on the faces surrounding him. No one said a word to the chief of staff.

“I agree, Grant,” the president replied, turning to Chambers. “Admiral, order the attack.”

“The Gunny’s hit,” Lincoln shouted as Oaks slumped to the floor, holding his stomach, then fell forward in a heap. Blood had splattered over Lincoln, warm drops in the frigid night air.

“Take his place,” Buchanan yelled. “Keep firing; keep the pressure on!”

PING!

A round hit the cockpit, slightly behind the copilot’s head, causing him to jump.

“Jesus!” Higgins exclaimed, sliding down and forward in his seat. “That was too damn close.”

“John,” Buchanan ordered, “help Lincoln get ’em aboard before we all go in.”

Higgins nodded, unfastened his seat restraints, then crawled back into the cabin of the S-70.

“Line,” Higgins shouted, “you work the winch and I’ll take the sixty!”

“Yessir,” Lincoln yelled in return, then moved across the cabin to the rescue winch.

Buchanan could see the three-pronged seat banging into the side of the downed Sikorsky. He couldn’t believe anyone could have survived the crash impact. The gunship was a twisted wreck, split open like a watermelon dropped from fifty feet.

“Come on, guys,” Buchanan said under his breath as he stabilized the Night Hawk over the crew in the freezing water. “Move it!”

Lincoln could see Charbonnet helping someone onto the chair. Time seemed to pass in slow motion as the Night Hawk’s rotor blades whipped the surface of the muddy river into a frothy gale.

“Uh …” Higgins coughed.

Lincoln looked at Higgins a split second after the copilot took a round through the neck. The paramedic watched, horrified, as Higgins dropped to his knees, clutched his bleeding throat, then fell through the open side door. Higgins’s body bounced off the tail rotor of the downed gunship, then disappeared under the surface of the churning water.

Lincoln pressed the retrieval switch on the hoist, then contacted Buchanan. “Major, Captain Higgins is dead!”

“WHAT,” Buchanan shouted, concentrating on the rising rescue chair.

“The captain’s dead, sir,” Lincoln yelled, looking at Dimitri. “I’m gonna put the CIA guy on the sixty.”

“Do it,” Buchanan barked, then glanced back down at the chaotic struggle going on below the Sikorsky.

Lincoln motioned to the machine gun and ordered Dimitri to take the position. “Start firing! Aim for the far bank. Just keep it moving.”

Dimitri responded slowly, inching toward the M60, as Lincoln grasped one of the gunners from Scarecrow Three and pulled him to safety.

More rounds impacted the hovering helicopter as the shocked paramedic quickly lowered the rescue seat into the maelstrom below.

Zhilinkhov smiled maliciously, then reached for the decanter of vodka. “The final steps are in … motion,” the general secretary slurred.

The Politburo members and the defense minister were not smiling, afraid of the consequences of this unprecedented action against the Americans.

They regretted endorsing Zhilinkhov as successor to the previous general secretary. The men knew the futility of trying to stop the momentum created by Zhilinkhov. They were implicated too deeply to salvage their credibility or their political positions. They had to rely on Zhilinkhov at this point.

“The Americans will relax, as I … predicted,” Zhilinkhov stammered. “I will crush them … destroy them … very soon, my friends.”

The general secretary laughed, tossed down another vodka, and exhaled sharply. “To our future, comrades. We will control … finally control the world,” Zhilinkhov loudly proclaimed, motioning to Pulaev for another vodka.

“To the Motherland!” Zhilinkhov proclaimed, reaching for the tumbler offered by his friend. The general secretary poured a generous amount of the clear liquid into his glass, then held it up. “To our victory, our future, comrades.”

Zhilinkhov laughed heartily, then sank back in his chair.

Buchanan watched the rescue chair descend to the water again, then added a small amount of power as Charbonnet helped his copilot onto the platform.

PZZING!

Buchanan involuntarily flinched as the small-arms round ricocheted off the side of the cockpit. He already had two holes in the windshield and one near his right foot.

“Come on, goddamnit, move it out,” Buchanan swore, feeling the perspiration running down his neck into the collar of his flight suit.

Dimitri fired at the riverbank in wild bursts. He was too cold to hold the machine gun steady, too tired to care. Finally, after the ammunition ran out, Dimitri stopped pulling the trigger and looked at Lincoln.

The paramedic, busy operating the hoist, kicked a loose M16 across the floor, hitting Dimitri in the shins. “Use it,” Lincoln yelled at the agent.

Lincoln pulled the slightly injured copilot into the cabin and immediately tossed the rescue seat out the door. “One to go, Major!” Lincoln reported, glancing down at “Blackie” Oaks.

“Hang in there, kid,” the former gunnery sergeant said in a raspy voice, choking from the blood in his throat.

“Pete,” Buchanan shouted over the radio, “I need more fire on the riverbank, north of the gunship!”

Buchanan heard static, then the reply from Scarecrow Two as the S-70 turned on its side in preparation for another strafing attack.

“Rolling in now, Buck,” Barnes reported, sweeping low over the elite spetsnaz troops. Two rockets landed in a concentration of Soviet soldiers as Barnes pulled up sharply, completing a modified hammerhead turn. Racing back down, Barnes switched to guns, leveled out, and sprayed the entire group of Russian troops, slowly walking his pedals back and forth.

Buchanan turned the hovering Sikorsky ninety degrees to the right, which pointed the tail toward the Soviet troops. The cockpit was already damaged from small-arms rounds and he was the only pilot controlling the gunship.

“Come on, Jim,” Buchanan said to himself as he watched Charbonnet embrace the rescue seat, then push off the side of the downed Night Hawk. There was no sign of the fourth crewman.

Buchanan, breathing a sigh of relief, added more power in preparation for the transition to forward flight.

Buchanan scanned his instruments, then looked down at Charbonnet. The pilot was slowly revolving on the rescue seat, framed by the turbulent rotor wash and foaming water.

PZZINNNG!

Another round caromed off the side of the cockpit, creating a crack in the windscreen directly in front of Buchanan. The scene was unbelievable.

“We’re goin’ to move out,” Buchanan shouted to Lincoln. “I’ll slow down so you can get him in when we clear the fire zone.”

“Yessir,” the paramedic replied, pushing the hoist cable away from the door as the S-70 began to accelerate and climb into the darkness.

Buchanan looked down at the same instant Charbonnet, fifteen feet below, slumped forward into the cable, rolled off the seat, and plummeted seventy feet into the riverbank. The pilot was dead before he impacted the thick mud.

“Pete,” Buchanan radioed, “we lost Jim. Cover us. I’m off two-six-zero.”

“Gotcha in sight,” Barnes radioed. “We’ve got company. Gunships — four or five — closin’ like bats outa hell!”

“Stick tight, Pete,” Buchanan ordered, then concentrated on flying as low and fast as humanly possible.

“Rog,” Barnes replied, twisting the throttle to the limits. He watched the engine gauges closely, noting the powerful turboshaft engines were beginning to overtemp.

“They’re closin’ on us, Cap’n,” the crew chief of Scarecrow Two yelled, knowing his pilot was nursing every ounce of horsepower from the screaming, straining engines.

“Buck, they’ve got a runnin’ start on us,” Barnes radioed. “I’m gonna have to slow them down.”

Silence followed the radio transmission.

“You copy, Buck?” Barnes asked.

“Yeah,” Buchanan answered, knowing his friend, along with the crew of Scarecrow Two, would be annihilated if they engaged the division of approaching Soviet gunships. “I copy,” Buchanan answered, feeling his stomach twist into knots.

“You owe me a beer!” Barnes radioed back, then pulled up hard into a high yo-yo.

Buchanan didn’t answer, thinking instead about the letter he would have to write to Cindy Barnes.

Scarecrow Two rolled out of the steeply banked maneuver, facing head on to the three Mi-24 Hind-Ds, trailed by two Mi-28 Havoc advanced gunships.

Barnes fired the remaining air-to-air missiles, then switched to his Gatling gun.

“Open up,” Barnes shouted to his gunners as a Hind-D exploded directly in front of the Sikorsky, lighting the night for a mile in every direction.

“Holy shit,” Barnes yelled, pulling hard on the collective. The S-70 shot skyward, silhouetted in the flaming explosion, then rolled almost inverted. Barnes lined up a shot at another Hind-D as the Russian gunship raced past him.

“Steady on …” Barnes said to himself as he prepared to squeeze the firing button.

That was the last thought “Pistol” Pete Barnes would ever have. The Russian gunner in the lead Havoc had placed his second SA-14 missile into the inlet particle deflector of the S-70’s right engine.

The ensuing explosion decapitated both pilots, sending the Sikorsky Night Hawk out of control. The spinning helicopter plunged straight down, plowing into the ground in a thunderous fireball.

Steve Lincoln watched in total disbelief as Scarecrow Two exploded on impact. “Captain Barnes went in, sir,” Lincoln shouted into the intercom.

“I know,” Buchanan replied, straining to see through the snow shower they had encountered.

Dimitri, shivering uncontrollably, crawled next to Wickham, who was breathing in shallow, quick gasps. The senior CIA agent was lying in a pool of his own blood.

“We’re on our way out,” Dimitri said to Wickham. “You’ll be okay as soon as we—”

“Dimitri,” Wickham interrupted, “tell the pilot … to get your … message out. Top priority …”

“Okay,” Dimitri responded quietly, covering the agent with a thin medical blanket.

“What’d he say?” Lincoln asked, glancing back and forth between the cabin and the pursuing gunships.

“The pilot … can he send a m-message? An important message to the — to Washington?” Dimitri asked, shivering violently in the cold cabin.

“Yeah,” Lincoln replied, glancing back to the Soviet helicopters. “But now ain’t a good time. Wait ’til we shake these guys, then I’ll ask.”

“Okay,” Dimitri responded, then looked at Wickham. The young agent was stunned by what he saw. Wickham looked dead. His eyes, still open, had rolled back almost out of sight.

“No!” Dimitri cried, wringing his hands, totally devastated. “Oh, no …”

The agent, tears rolling down his cheeks, slowly pulled the blood-soaked blanket up over Wickham, covering his head.

Dimitri, in the dark cabin and shivering with shock, couldn’t see that his friend, Steve Wickham, had only passed out but was still breathing.

“You might as well cover the gunny, too,” the rescued copilot said as he struggled to enter the cockpit. “He died a couple of minutes ago.”

Suddenly, two bright streaks raced past the Night Hawk, lighting the interior.

“Christ,” Buchanan shouted, popping off containers of metallic chaff. “Here come the missiles.”

“Use some help?” the copilot of Scarecrow Three asked, climbing into the vacant seat.

“Damn right!” Buchanan answered, noticing the trickle of blood on the pilot’s arm. “You okay?”

“Think so,” the former Marine first lieutenant replied. “Nothing too serious.”

Two, three, then four more streaks of light went flashing by the racing Night Hawk. A fifth missile tracked into a burst of decoy chaff, exploding fifty yards behind the Sikorsky.

“Line,” Buchanan shouted, “can you get a shot, any shot, at those bastards?”

“I think so, sir,” Lincoln replied, leaning out his side door as far as he dared without a restraint.

CRACK!!

The S-70 slewed sideways, then righted itself as Buchanan frantically scanned the engine gauges.

“We’ve been hit,” Lincoln groaned as he fell backwards, stumbling over the body of Blackie Oaks.

Dimitri could see that Lincoln was bleeding profusely from chest and head injuries. The paramedic had taken a good deal of the impact explosion from the Russian missile.

“Get back there and see what we have,” Buchanan ordered the copilot, then glanced at the blinking radar altimeter. “Goddamn!” Buchanan quietly admonished himself. “Pay attention, you stupid shit.”

Two kitchen-staff servers gingerly placed large platters of zakuska on Zhilinkhov’s dining table, then hastily exited the room. The brutal interrogations by the KGB had left deep psychological scars on the servants.

“Come, comrades,” Zhilinkhov said to his ill-at-ease friends. “Let us enjoy these fine delicacies.”

The general secretary motioned for the men to take a seat, then half-fell into his large chair at the head of the massive wood table.

“Viktor Pavlovich,” Dichenkovko, his oldest friend, said softly, “we need to talk with you about this plan.”

Tension hung in the air, pressing from every corner like walls converging on the individuals present in the dining room.

“What do you — wish to talk about?” Zhilinkhov stopped smiling, squinting menacingly. “You do not like — you do not have the stomach for — this plan? For world dominance?”

Deadly silence filled the room, making it very uncomfortable for Dichenkovko and the other members. They knew their friend and leader had changed drastically in a short period of time. The five men were frightened, frightened for themselves and the future of the Soviet Union.

“Well,” Zhilinkhov said loudly, banging both fists on the table. He growled again, “Say what you mean.”

Aleksandr Pulaev cleared his throat. “We think now is not the opportune time to attack the Americans. Their allies will counterattack us, too. We have aroused a sleeping giant, along with his friends. We must allow time for a return to normal.”

“Left to you, my friend,” Zhilinkhov smiled crookedly, “there would never be an opportune time!”

“Viktor Pavlovich,” Dichenkovko intervened, “let us discuss this matter when we are refreshed and have a better assessment of the—”

“We will discuss the matter now,” Zhilinkhov said heatedly, then downed his vodka. “You surprise me, my trusted friend. All of you. Look where … what I have accomplished. I am on the brink of … of global conquest. …”

Zhilinkhov suddenly stopped, rising from his chair, tumbler in hand, to fix another drink.

“Now you tell me you have no stomach, no desire to fulfill our destiny, our commitment to the Party,” Zhilinkhov said as he turned around from the portable serving bar and waited for an answer.

“No, Viktor Pavlovich,” Yevstigneyev, the Politburo member responsible for party discipline, explained, “we believe, like you, in the Party, our goals for the Motherland, our sense of respon—”

Without warning, an aide urgently rapped on the door and stepped into the room.

Zhilinkhov, surprised, knocked his drink into the sunken ice container, then turned around in a rage.

“Damnit, Colonel, what is it?” Zhilinkhov yelled, causing the senior officer to flinch.

“General Secretary,” the colonel pursed his lips, “the spies have escaped.”

Zhilinkhov turned crimson, then hurled his tumbler at the wall, shattering glass across the room.

“OUT,” Zhilinkhov bellowed, enraged. “Get out! Get me Air Marshal Khatchadovrian — NOW!”

The colonel, eyes wide in terror, backed toward the open door, barking orders to a subordinate.

The “Inner Circle” members were stunned and frightened by the behavior of their general secretary. He was clearly out of control.

Zhilinkhov turned toward his fellow conspirators, talking softly at first. “General Vranesevic is … he is dead,” Zhilinkhov yelled, then clutched his chest and staggered to the couch.

“Call the doctor!” Yegoery Yevstigneyev shouted to the colonel as he was closing the door. The senior Politburo member then went to the aid of his stricken friend, the general secretary of the Soviet Communist party.