Nighthawk

37

A half mile away, in the dark throat of a barren cave, there was no sense of victory or even hope for the men imprisoned in it. Only cloying darkness, cold, bone-aching dampness and noise. Constant, unending noise.

The bulk of the waterfall dropped downward just beyond the mouth of the cave. Its tumbling white water hid everything beyond, causing vertigo to anyone who stared into it for too long and blocking out all semblance of detail.

What it hid from the eyes it hid also from the ears as its endless roar echoed off the stone walls, drowning out soft speech, clear thought and even the din of modern men out on the lake.

The two men sitting in the cave hadn’t heard the approach of the helicopter this morning nor the outboard motor of the Zodiac nor the excited shouts of discovery that came shortly afterward. Not even the endless rattle of the air compressor could penetrate the wall of sound that shielded them. It was isolation of the body, soul and mind and it had taken its toll already.

After days in this condition, they were numb to it. They sat with their backs to the wall, their knees up and their heads down; an upright version of the fetal position. Their hands were chained in front of them while their ankles were bound together and hooked to heavy iron weights that made walking a difficult task.

Days of growth covered their faces while a layer of grime covered their uniforms. Beneath the dirt, oil and dust could be seen the double-headed eagle of the Russian Air Force and the squadron patch depicting the great claw of a flying raptor grasping another bird from the sky. A star on one man’s shoulder indicated his rank as Major. A set of wings on his chest overlaid with measuring tongs indicated he was a test pilot.

He stared in the darkness, weakened by the cold and a lack of food, but in his mind churned thoughts of revenge. So dark was his mood that it took him a moment to notice a shaft of light appearing in the back part of the cave.

The light came down from the surface, through a narrow vertical chute that the two Russians had been forced to descend at gunpoint days before. After reaching the bottom, they’d been chained up and then abandoned by their captors, who had climbed up the shaft, pulled up the rope and blocked out the light by sliding a trapdoor across the top.

The appearance of the light meant the door had been moved aside. It meant something would change. Good or bad, Major Yuri Timonovski welcomed that.

“Someone’s coming,” he said.

The second man looked up, his eyes bloodshot and jittery. “Maybe they’re going to feed us.”

“Or kill us,” Timonovski replied. “I’d take either at this point.”

The end of a rope dropped down the shaft, hitting the ground and curling up like a snake. The hanging part writhed back and forth as someone descended it.

Timonovski stood, ready to face whatever was about to come his way. His legs ached, his back hurt, and he waddled awkwardly in the direction of the intruder, dragging the weights with him.

The weights didn’t keep him from moving but were enough to prevent him from climbing. And they made jumping into the lake a suicidal notion. Something he might consider if circumstances did not improve.

Boots appeared at the bottom of the shaft and a rangy man with a heavy beard dropped the last few feet into the cave. Timonovski recognized him instantly: the Falconer, the man they’d been working with since day one. The man who’d promised to deliver the Nighthawk to them by hacking its guidance program and overriding the American directives coming from Vandenberg.

Timonovski also knew him as a betrayer. He was certain the Falconer had done something at the last minute that caused the Nighthawk to break loose from Blackjack 1. And when he’d attempted to break off pursuit and head for the refueling rendezvous, the Falconer had slit the throat of Timonovski’s copilot, pulled a snub-nosed pistol and threatened the Major and his flight engineer with death if they didn’t do as he ordered.

After following the Nighthawk down and watching it parachute into the lake, the Falconer had directed them to a narrow landing strip seven miles from the lake. A group of armed men waited for them and, after being taken hostage, any hopes of escape vanished.

“You’re awake,” the Falconer said as he came closer. “Excellent.”

They spoke English to each other, the only common language between them.

“It’s impossible to sleep in here,” Timonovski said.

“Some people find waterfalls soothing.”

“Not when they’re right on top of your head.”

The Falconer shrugged.

“I see you’re alone,” Timonovski said. “Have you run out of friends?”

“On the contrary,” the Falconer insisted, “I am collecting them by the handful as I once collected you.”

Major Timonovski could barely stand the arrogance, but he could do nothing about it. “What do you want from us now, Birdcaller?”

“I’ve come to feed you,” the bearded man replied. He shrugged off a backpack, unzipped the top and placed it in front of his captives.

The Major kept his eyes from it, but he couldn’t keep the aroma from his nostrils. Perhaps starvation heightened the senses.

Still sitting, the flight engineer scrambled toward the backpack and began plucking items out of it. A plastic container filled with soup came first, bottles of water with added electrolytes were next, followed by a couple of wrapped items.

“Sandwiches,” the engineer said, unwrapping one.

Timonovski found his mouth was watering. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“Not at all,” the Falconer said. “You’ll need your strength if you’re to fly out of here.”

“Fly?”

“You can pilot a helicopter, can’t you?”

“Of course,” the Major said. He’d flown everything in the Russian inventory. “Do you have one?”

“My new friends do,” the Falconer said.

He nodded toward the lake, invisible beyond the mouth of the cave. “What you can’t see — one of the many things you can’t see — are American agents submerged in the water and securing the Nighthawk as we speak. They’re preparing to remove it from the depths. Once they do, I shall take it from them and you will deliver it to the runway where Blackjack 2 now waits. You will finish your mission, refuel over Venezuela as planned and cross the Atlantic, returning to Russia as great heroes.”

Timonovski was stunned. “I don’t understand. Now you want us to take it back to Moscow? But we already had it. You’re the one who set it free. If you hadn’t woken it up after Blackjack 1 captured it—”

“Had I let you proceed, I wouldn’t have been able to extract the full payment I desire. But now the price to be paid will be equal to the pain. Indeed, it’s much higher than you can possibly imagine.”

“Blood money,” the Major said.

“All wealth is blood money,” the Falconer said. “In one form or another.”

Major Timonovski just stared.

“If you prefer, I can leave it to the Americans and leave you both here to rot away while going mad from the noise.”

“If this is a trick—”

“Then you will endure it because you have no choice in the matter.”

Timonovski fumed. The Birdcaller was in complete control. But even that had its limits. Even this master manipulator had to deal with gravity. “We’ll never get off the ground,” he said. “The runway is too short, the Nighthawk too heavy. We’ll never clear the trees with that thing on our backs.”

The bearded man cocked his head. “Leave that to me.”

He turned, walked back to the rope and wrapped his hands around it and began to pull himself up. The rope vanished moments later and the column of light was cut off.

Gray darkness and white noise engulfed them once again.

“You should eat,” the flight engineer said. “Whatever happens, we will need our strength.”

Timonovski ignored him for a moment, pondering the situation, before giving in to the lure of the food. He didn’t believe a word of what the Birdcaller promised; somehow, it would be another lie, he was certain of it. But it seemed far better to die on a full stomach than to starve.