Eagle Station

Twenty

“We are four minutes out from the LZ,” Nadia announced. She glanced up from the computer-generated map showing their projected course. “Still no further signals from Ms. Kerr or anyone else in the covert ops team.”

Despite her deliberately unruffled tone, Brad could sense her growing tension. He shared it. Apart from a brief acknowledgment of their first message, they’d heard nothing more from Scion’s intelligence agents. But by now Sam and the others should have reached the edge of their planned landing zone and reported whether or not it was clear. Their continued radio silence was increasingly worrying.

He looked ahead through his HUD. They were flying south at four hundred knots, skirting along the western edge of the Yenisei valley. Low, forested hills rose off to the right. Higher, more rugged elevations were visible across the river on the left. At this altitude, the clearing they’d selected was still just over his visual horizon.

Brad banked a couple of degrees, starting a wide, curving turn that would bring them in from the northwest, along the LZ’s long axis. He frowned. “We’re getting really close to a ‘go’ or ‘no go’ decision on landing.”

If he waited much longer to start configuring the Rustler for a rough field landing, they’d be coming in too hot and have to go around again — wasting precious time and fuel… which was definitely not a good idea this deep in hostile territory. To buy a little more time, he throttled back and climbed slightly, reducing their airspeed to three hundred knots. He pushed a button on his stick, shutting off their terrain-following system to take full control over the aircraft. “DTF disengaged.”

A cursor flashed onto Brad’s HUD, marking a lighter-colored patch among the otherwise almost unrelieved green of the pine forest. “Okay, I have the LZ in sight.” He glanced across the cockpit. “See if you can get a better read on this situation. I really don’t want to land blind.”

“Copy that,” Nadia said. Her fingers flew across one of her MFDs, ordering their computer to scan through multiple radio frequencies for any indication of trouble. Abruptly, she stiffened as a slew of frantic Russian voice transmissions sounded in her ears. “Brad! Something very bad is happening!”

She switched the active channel to his headset.

“Zimodorok Piyat’ ne rabotayet! Sem’ po marshrutu!” he heard through hissing static. “Baza, nam nuzhno bol’she voysk zdes’! Seychas!”

Suddenly Brad spotted columns of smoke curling up out of the woods ahead of them. Simultaneously, the Rustler’s threat-warning system went active — bracketing three distant green-brown specks. It identified them as a Russian Ka-52 helicopter gunship and two Mi-8 troop transports. They were clattering just over the treetops, circling low above the rising smoke. More threat icons blazed across the horizon, highlighting another wave of enemy helicopters much farther out, but definitely coming this way. He shook his head in disbelief. “Christ, it looks like we’re headed straight into a pitched battle. So much for the subtle approach.”

Reacting fast, Nadia brought the XCV-70’s forward-looking passive thermal sensors online. In fractions of a second, the aircraft’s computer analyzed the data it was receiving and transferred the resulting images to one of her MFDs. “I count two downed helicopters and the wreckage of one ground vehicle.” She hesitated. “It could be the team’s van.”

“Hell,” Brad said, feeling sick. “We’re too late.”

“Maybe not,” Nadia said quickly. She leaned forward, zooming in on another faint thermal image their sensors had just picked up. Whatever it was, it was headed toward the LZ, weaving back and forth at high speed between the trees. Was that some kind of motorcycle?

A com icon flashed urgently in the corner of her left-hand display. She stabbed at it. “Scion aircraft, this is Sam Kerr,” a familiar voice gasped through their headsets. “I’m coming as fast as I can… But Marcus and Davey aren’t with me…. I don’t know if they’re alive or dead.”

Brad made an instant decision. “We’re go for landing,” he snapped. He clicked the intercom. “Ian, you’d better get set. We’re coming in hard and fast. And the LZ is about to turn hot.”

“So I guessed,” Major Schofield replied crisply from the troop compartment. The Canadian special forces expert sounded cool — almost as though he’d just heard they were arriving at a vacation resort. “I’ll be ready to move the second you drop the ramp.”

Nadia swore under her breath. “Gówno. Shit.”

“More trouble?” Brad asked, entering a short command on one of his own displays. He’d just instructed his flight computer to configure the aircraft for a short-field rough landing.

“New Russian radio transmissions,” she told him. “That gunship pilot is claiming they killed at least two enemy agents. He says they were trying to escape in a vehicle his gunner destroyed with rocket fire.”

Brad grimaced. That made Sam Kerr the only survivor of the Scion covert ops unit.

Another quick control press on his stick selected a touchdown point at the western edge of the clearing. Obediently, his computer drew a glowing line across his HUD — giving him a visual cue. They were about three nautical miles out.

He throttled back more. Losing speed fast, the Rustler slid lower. Hydraulics whirred as computer-directed control surfaces opened. The muted roar from their four turbofan engines diminished. “Sixty seconds.”

“Vrazheskiy samolet v pole zreniya!” he heard a Russian pilot yell over the radio circuit. “Enemy aircraft in sight!”

Nadia looked out her side of the cockpit, seeing the Ka-52 swinging toward them. “Hostile inbound!”

Focused entirely on the clearing rushing up toward them at nearly two hundred knots, Brad could only spare a single glance at his threat display. “That guy’s not carrying air-to-air missiles.”

Nadia shook her head decisively. “He has antitank missiles and a 30mm cannon. And we will be a sitting duck once we are on the ground.” Her fingers flashed across her displays. “Weapons control transferred to my station.”

“Make it fast,” he warned. “I’m getting ready to lower the gear.”

Nadia nodded. The moment that happened the Rustler’s computer would automatically lock out all their offensive weapons. No sane aircraft crew wanted to risk firing a missile right through their own landing gear.

An image of the Russian gunship, now approximately five miles off their starboard wing tip, appeared on one of her MFDs. The glowing brackets highlighting the Ka-52 flashed red and a shrill, warbling tone sounded in her headset. “Target locked on.” She tapped a missile-shaped icon. “Fox Two!”

Bay doors whined open. Instantly, an AIM-9X Sidewinder heat-seeking missile dropped out into the open air. The Sidewinder’s solid rocket motor ignited before it had fallen more than a few feet… and it streaked out from under the Rustler — already curving hard to the right as it homed in on the Ka-52 at nearly two thousand miles per hour.

Alerted to the missile launch by his own sensors, the Russian pilot did his best to evade. The Ka-52’s long nose dipped as it banked into a tight turn. Flares tumbled away from under the wildly maneuvering enemy helicopter, each a miniature sunburst against the bright blue afternoon sky.

The Sidewinder ignored them — slashing in to explode just a few feet from the gunship. Thousands of razor-edged titanium shards sleeted through its cockpit and fuselage with enormous destructive force. Caught partway through its evasive turn, the Russian helicopter tumbled out of control, plunged into the forest, and blew up.

“Good kill,” Nadia confirmed. She saw the two surviving Mi-8 troop carriers in range suddenly veer away. Staying low, they fled southeast. The phalanx of other approaching Russian helicopters farther off altered course at the same time, also turning away. She smiled fiercely. Like all scavengers, they were afraid of any prey that bared its own teeth and claws.

With muffled bumps and thumps below the cockpit, the Rustler’s landing gear came down and locked in position. The clearing they were aiming for grew steadily larger through the forward canopy.

They came in low and slow, practically brushing against the treetops. Suddenly the green line marking Brad’s preselected touchdown position flared brighter.

“Hang on!” he warned, chopping his throttles almost all the way back.

Robbed of the last few knots of airspeed that kept it aloft, the Scion aircraft dropped out of the sky and touched down with a tooth-rattling jolt. Brad swiftly reversed thrust to brake even faster, slamming them forward against their straps. Decelerating hard, the batwing-shaped Rustler bounced across the ground in a whirling storm cloud of dust and torn grass. They rolled to a stop not far from the tall trees lining the eastern edge of the clearing.

Grinning with relief, Brad pushed his throttles forward just a notch, feeding their engines just enough power to let him swing the Rustler through a 180-degree turn. Once he was lined up and ready for an immediate takeoff, he throttled back again and hit the ramp release.

Cameras set to cover the XCV-70’s rear arc caught Ian Schofield darting out into the clearing. Bulky in his body armor, the Canadian dropped prone, covering the southern edge of the clearing through the sights of a long-barreled HK416 carbine. He had a man-portable antitank missile launcher slung across his back. Evidently, he’d taken his assignment as their one-man army quite seriously.

And then Sam Kerr burst out of the forest. Leaning far over, she slewed her small motorbike almost sideways through a sharp turn — straightening out only when she was headed right at the Rustler. She skidded to a stop just yards short of the ramp.

Wearily, she climbed off the motorcycle. But then, both physically and emotionally spent, she slumped to her hands and knees. In a flash, Ian Schofield was on his own feet. Slinging his carbine, he threw one arm across her shoulders and helped her up. Together, they staggered across the clearing and up the ramp into the waiting aircraft.

“Go! Go! Go!” Schofield yelled. “I have Ms. Kerr! We’re inside!”

“On it,” Brad replied. He tapped a control on his display. A high-pitched hydraulic whine penetrated the cockpit as the ramp closed and sealed. He advanced the throttles. Outside the cockpit, the Rustler’s four large turbofans spooled up. He glanced at Nadia with a crooked grin. “Okay, now comes the hard part.”

She nodded silently. They’d lost the element of surprise. The Russians knew they were here. And now their only way home meant crossing almost two thousand miles of heavily defended hostile airspace… in broad daylight.

Inside the Rustler’s cramped passenger compartment, Ian Schofield finished strapping himself in. He studied Samantha Kerr for a few moments. The slender Scion agent looked exhausted and deeply sad. He unclipped a hydration pouch from his combat webbing, unscrewed the top, and offered it to her.

She took a small sip. Her eyes widened slightly. “That’s not water.”

“Indeed not,” Schofield agreed. He took out another pouch and raised it in a toast. “To absent friends and comrades.”

Blinking back tears, Sam imitated him. “To Marcus and Davey. They were the best,” she said quietly.

Schofield nodded. “That they were.”

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the bulkhead as the aircraft lifted off and banked sharply back to the north.