Winter Hawk (26 page)

Come on, come on, Garcia—

He leveled the helicopter. Rotor noise boomed back from the pressed-close cliffs on either side. He skimrtied down the long funnel of a deep valley cleft, his eyes and hands aware of each other, his shoulders tense as if the residence of all his reflexes and experience. Stars gleamed at the end of the funnel where the land dropped away. They were cutting across the mountains at the eastern end of the Panjshir and moving northeast. Off-course, for the moment. Garcia's MiL bobbed in his mirrors like a cork afloat on
a
rocky sea.

Radio—nothing down here. He had dived into deep water, escaping almost like a submarine by going deep. It was lightless down there, and he had no idea of the whereabouts of the dangerous fish that were hunting him. Safety was a two-edged sword.

Stars, snowfields, a sense of flatness—
are they above?
—a scattering of small lights away to the east of him. The hard stars overhead betrayed no gaps or shadows that might have been the fuselage of a searching aircraft.

Radio—nothing. On the moving map, he pinpointed his position as one hundred miles northeast of Kabul, fifty miles from the air base at Parwan. Radio?

Radio.

Russian again. A mobile listening post, for Christ's sake. Here, here, close, too damn close.

Langley had logged into the onboard computer and the course coordinates every major radar installation, every airfield, every helicopter unit of the Frontal Aviation Army serving with the Limited Contingent of Soviet Forces iii Afghanistan; every air assault brigade that might have helicopters at its disposal or be flying routine transport missions, every AWACS aircraft and the regular pattern of surveillance flights they undertook—the satellite diagnosis of theii course and its dangers was full, brilliant, almost complete—

—except the mobile radar and listening vehicles. Untrackable, too many to count, scattered over the mountains and valleys. Most of them were deployed farther south or west than this.

He had to stall, use the cover story. Invite more danger by averting an immediate threat. He replied immediately, even before his voice had fully unfrozen from shock.

Call signs, IDs, radio routine, cover story. It was all there, flashing in his mind like scattered, bright lights.
Give them everything. It will all be so familiar maybe they won't even bother to check.
He knew they would. Someone would. The mission's luck was running that way; was at the point where he had to begin to think in terms of luck. Kabul contained enough of a full army GHQ organization to nm down, and disprove, his cover story in a matter of—in less time than it would take to reach the Soviet border. LCSFA GHQ was inside the Soviet Union, at the headquarters of the Turkestan Military District—but Kabul was good enough and big enough to blow his cover without reference north to GHQ. An unlogged, private flight he might call himself, but . . .

In his mirrors, Garcia s MiL skimmed over the tiny group of dim lights, over the huddle formed by a bulky, high-sided truck and its screen of a tumbled stone wall, pale in the moonlight. Nothing more than a truck! The skeletons of antennae and dish aerials threw shadows on the white wall. Gant's passive sensors picked up radar emissions. He heard the radio.

". . . please identify immediately. We do not have you logged. Over."

Almost polite. His MiL, the Hind-D, skimmed on like a flung stone.

. . attached to 105th Guards Airborne Division," his cover story flowed on, "Kabul. Transfer of top-classification documentation from Army HQ, Kabul to Central Asia Military District HQ, Alma-Ata. That's all you're allowed to know, Mobile Unit 476. Over." Despite his tension, he grinned. The last elegance of the bluff, not letting everything spill out with the haste of denial of a child caught with the jam still on his face.

Gant's eyes scanned the black, star-pricked sky. Scanned his engine instruments and flying displays out of habit, wishing he could use other sensors and radar but knowing he must now preserve his cover story. On such a mission he would be flying visually. Even on the mission he would eventually admit to.

They were out there, like sharks waiting to smell blood or feel movement through the water, and the mobile listening post could guide them to him the moment he failed to satisfy it. He could outrun none of the aircraft. He couldn't even outrun another Hind.

Peaks loomed ahead. Cover. He scanned the sky, the gaps between the mountains to the west of him, then the northwest—there! He swallowed. Red and blue dots that were not stars, but tiny navigation lights winking on two fuselages catching the moonlight.

Cockpit lights, fuselage lights, the silver of metal. Less than two miles away.

"Major—"

"I see them," he snapped into the transceiver. "Leave it to me, Garcia. Out."

Speed of the lights and the flash of metal against the background stars—? MiL's. Gunships, like his own. Drawing his gaze away from them, he quartered the sky—no fighters, nothing but the two helicopters. Two against two—come on, come on, swallow the story!

There was no alarm, not yet, no request to the helicopter patrol to investigate.

He eased his speed to one twenty, one twenty-five, checking in his mirrors to see that Garcia was scuttling to keep up with him. Yes.

The mountains of the Kwaja Muhammed range neared, promising obscurity, loss of detection. But they knew he was here, now. Unless they accepted his story and allowed him to continue unmolested and uninvestigated, they would want to find him again. Everyone would want to find him. On how many screens was he pinpointed by now? The two MiLs had him, the AWACS Ilyushin would have seen him. How many fighters? They had to believe his story.

The aircraft, including the Ilyushin, would all be from Parwan; thus his cover story had his flight originating in Kabul. The capital's squadrons of MiGs, Sukhois, and MiLs operated mainly to the south and west of Kabul, those at Parwan against the rebels in the Panj-shir. They would accept his story; should accept it. He felt the tension tighten in the wrist and hand that held the stick. Sweat prickled his forehead, spreading like some oily measurement of time as the seconds passed. The ether roared emptily in his ears like the noise of his own blood.

"Helicopter 2704, please confirm your point of departure. Over."

Digging. Not deeply, but digging. Garcia's image in his mirrors was like a wasp on his windshield, something dangerously distracting. The 24A dogged him faithfully, but he was responsible for it. The lights of the two MiLs to port seemed to have neared; the two gunships flashed more brightly in the moonlight.

The mountains crowded ahead like an encouraged illusion. He flicked his Hind-D to one side, jumping a ridge of rock like a flea. He lost sight of the two approaching helicopters. He drove into a narrow, high pass where snow gleamed and his own shadow pursued him across its whiteness. Perfect for a visual sighting, a difficult place in which to maneuver.

He did not climb or alter course. His first—only—priority was to answer the mobile unit, to answer the single voice before other voices took up the questioning, began to bully for answers.

"Origin of flight, Frontal Aviation central airfield, Kabul. Over."

"Thank you, 2704. Please hold this frequency."

"Mobile Unit 476—I am under orders to maintain strict radio silence. Can we get this over with? Over."

"I'm sorry, 2704. We have no record of your flight plan logged with Parwan. We have to check with Kabul. Over."

Gant believed he could see the rigidity of tension in Macs hunched shoulders just below him in the forward cockpit. The narrow pass opened out ahead. He squeezed the Hind over and around a naked outcrop, bobbed over a huge flying buttress of rock, then dropped into a wide valley. He glanced at the moving map. Assured himself of his position, his course.

Checking with Kabul—

He hesitated, then gambled; felt an exhilarated fear. Give them everything.

"Unit 476—ease up, will you?" The mountains were beginning to break up the signal on the HF radio. But he had to satisfy the unit before he lost contact with it, had to dissipate any idea of pursuit.

He climbed. He bobbed out of cover like a startled bird, hanging in the clear dark sky with the mountains below him. Garcia followed like a cork rising to the surface of the thin air to starboard. Gant slowed his airspeed to less than one hundred, as if someone idling in a conversation, not quite walking away from a companion. Bluff. Whoever was watching would have him pinpointed now. For the moment, he had thrown away all secrecy. They mustn't check with Kabul

He wondered whether to employ his own radar, to know how many there were out there, and exactly where; then decided against it. If the cover story didn't work, then would be the time to know the odds. The Soviet border was now less than a hundred miles to the northwest of his position at its nearest point.

Now, he told himself.

"Mobile Unit 476—whoever else is out there—I repeat, go easy." He scanned the sky. Yes, distant winking stars and the mirrorlike fuselages of the two MiLs. Not hurrying to close the gap of dark air between themselves and him, not yet.
Now.
"I—look, it's not documentation. We're empty at the moment. Got that? Empty. Understand? Over."

Sweat dampened his shirt beneath his arms. His free hand, having released the collective pitch lever, quivered with tension. Not too much, he hadn't said too much, not yet. Let the revised cover story drip like water onto a stone.

"Helicopter 2704—please explain. Over." It was still the voice of the operator from the mobile unit, at the prompting of his officer, who couldn't be more than a lieutenant at most. The MiLs were hanging back, waiting.

"I—it's a private flight. I'll be in trouble with very senior people if you check with Kabul. I'm—not supposed to be here. Be discreet, huh? Over." He grinned quiveringly.

The Hind-D was swimming slowly through the thin air, operating close to its service ceiling. Perhaps still a mile away, he could see the two Russian helicopters, their shadows moving beneath them across rock and snow; across the peaks and the high glaciers and ice fields. The world seemed shrunken. He could almost believe himself to be in a jet. The Hindu Kush climbed away to the southeast as far as eyesight could reach. A huge army of mountain peaks marching on China through Kashmir. High above him, against the star-filled blackness, he saw the silhouette of something swift—MiG or Sukhoi—crossing his course at perhaps forty thousand feet. He was swimming slowly forward and the hunting fish had caught his scent, his movement.

Come on, figure it out, you bastard. Don't be dumb, his thoughts insisted, their urgency mounting. He willed realization on them. Reach out and grab the answer that's in front of your face. Come on,
come on . . .

A minute of silence.

'Two seven zero four—" He was startled by an unfamiliar voice. "Are you on a shopping expedition? Over."

One of the two approaching gunships was now less than five hundred yards away, well within rocket or cannon range. It waggled its stubby little wings. A pleased, waddling dog recognizing another dog. He moved his own column, flicking the MiL slighdy from side to side.

"You said it, Lieutenant, I didn't," he replied with evident relief. That would fit the cover story; it didn't matter if they thought he was scared. "Glad someone understands, at last. Thanks. Over."

The closest of the two Russian helicopters passed across his nose, slightly above him. The pilot and the gunner, who would have been listening, Tx)th waved. The gunner raised one fist, his other hand at the elbow of his bent arm, signifying sex. Gant raised his thumb in acknowledgment.

They understood now; he was explained. It was one of the smuggling runs for senior officers. Runs that were frowned upon, then ignored, even encouraged, but were always carried on under a cloak of fictitious secrecy. He might have been on his way to collect sex videos from army HQ, pop records, drink by the case, cigars from Cuba, women—oh, yes, most importantly women. Flown in for parties or changed whenever the local girls, the mistresses, or the last imported batch of whores—top-class, indubitably clean, and expert—became tired or overfamiliar. The gunner in the Russian MiL probably imagined he had six or more girls aboard and was on his way to Alma-Ata to make an exchange. He grinned.

The second of the two Russian helicopters slid nearer, as if to contradict hope. Gant swallowed. The pilot of the second one waved, too, then both of them dropped away toward the mountains. He heard the patrol leader inform the mobile, unit, the AWACS aircraft, and the MiG that had passed overhead of the purpose of his mission. Fantastic detail flew and gossiped over the air. Coarse laughter, envy.

It was working. They were satisfied.

"Christ, Major, you did it—they're going!"

"Can it, Garcia," he snapped back, hearing the relieved chatter of Garcia and his crew over the transceiver; sensing Mac's relief; his own, too.

"Sorry to have troubled you, 2704," he heard the original voice murmur, amusement in the operator's tones. "Good hunting. Over and out."

"OK," Gant said into the transceiver. "Let's ride with the luck while we can. Forty minutes' flying time to the border. But don't count on a free ride all the way."

"What's wrong?" Garcia asked warily.