Defcon One (1989) Page 24

  That's right, Wickham responded, then added, wwe've got to get into t-he 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 mid-sentence, 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.

  Chapter Fifteen.

  SCARECROW FLIGHT

  The three Sikorsky S-70 Night Hawks, completely blacked out, raced across the Gulf of Finland. Snow and freezing rain reduced the forward visibility to less than a quarter mile. The weather conditions forced the pilots to fly solely by reference to their instruments.

  Navigation was the easy part. The crews relied on their inertial navigation systems to supply the heading, distance remaining, and time of arrival at Novgorod. The INS navigation gear would place the Night Hawk pilots within one-sixteenth of a mile of their destination.

  The pilots, concentrating intensely, watched their radar altimeters and scanned the flight instruments continuously. The radar altimeters, set at seventy feet, would be reset to one hundred feet when the helicopters passed the Russian shoreline.

  The Night Hawks had passed between the Soviet-held islands of Gogland and Moshchnyy. Landfall would be in eleven minutes, thirty-five seconds, according to the soft, green glow of the INS unit in Scarecrow One.

  Brad Buck Buchanan checked his fuel gauges, then focused on his engine instruments. He noted everything in the green as the powerful General Electric turboshafts, delivering over 1,700 shaft horsepower, generated a deep, pulsating roar.

  Look clear between here and the coast, John? Buchanan asked his copilot.

  John Higgins, without taking his eyes from the radar screen, replied.

  Don't see a thing, Buck.

  Good, Buchanan answered, then checked with his other crewmen.

  Blackie, you and Steve ready?

  You bet. Major, the former Marine gunnery sergeant replied, then added, just like old times.

  Buchanan and Higgins laughed quietly at the forced bravado of their crew chief.

  All three flight crews, includin
g the crew chiefs and gunners, had been Marine Corps helicopter pilots and crew members.

  The Night Hawk crews worked in harmony and retained their military roots, including rank at the time of discharge. Every crew member, whether former officer or enlisted, had been handpicked by the CIA from the best in the Marine Corps.

  Buchanan thought about the mission, especially the last-minute briefing, as he continually scanned his flight instruments.

  He realized this was going to be a tough, if not impossible, extraction.

  Too many obstacles between here and the recovery ship.

  Buchanan's thoughts were interrupted by his copilot, former captain John Higgins.

  Buck, looks like a possible, two o'clock, eight miles, Higgins reported, adjusting the intensity of his radar scope.

  Yeah. Don't know what it is.

  Christ, Buchanan replied, just what we need.

  Yeah, Buck, it's a ship alright, Higgins replied. We better come left ... let's see ... twenty degrees and see if we can skirt around it.

  Okay, left twenty, Buchanan answered. Sure hope Two and Three are paying attention.

  Stop worrying. Buck, Higgins said, grinning, they're going to be just fine.

  The crew of Scarecrow One remained quiet, listening to the powerful throb of the big turboshaft engines.

  Suddenly, Higgins gasped. Uh-oh ... Oh, shit! They've got a radar lock on us.

  Buchanan heard the same electronic warning tone in his helmet. The ruse may be over, gents. Buchanan looked back at his crew. Hold on ...we may have to do some violent maneuvering. Major, Oaks said, ten to one that sumbitch is a Russian trawler.

  Probably so, Buchanan answered, knowing Oaks was right. The Night Hawks had been discovered.

  THE GANYUSHKJNO The Soviet intelligence-gathering and surveillance vessel had been headed for the island of Kronshtadt, forty kilometers west of Leningrad, when the radar operator detected the unidentified helicopters.

  The captain of the Soviet ship confirmed the sighting, then broadcast a mandate for the low-flying craft to identify themselves.

  After repeated efforts to communicate with the suspicious intruders, the captain of the Ganyushkino radioed the Soviet Air Force Northwestern Air Sector Control. The Soviet Air Defense Force and surface surveillance ships enjoyed a close relationship in thwarting intruders.

  The Russian Air Defense commander, hampered by the inclement weather, couldn't launch his potent jet fighters against the low-flying helicopters. Instead, the Soviet commander elected to launch seven gunship helicopters from the Coast Aviation Brigade. Within minutes of the sighting, four Mil Mi-28 Havocs and three Mi--24 Hind-D combat helos were airborne.

  The captain of the Ganyushkino continued to relay position and heading information to the Air Defense Command Post until the unidentified helicopters disappeared in radar ground clutter after crossing the beach.

  Two of the Soviet gunships, based at Narva, twenty kilometers west of the Night Hawks, were already airborne when Scarecrow Three raced low across the Russian shoreline.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  The Soviet deputy foreign minister, trailed by the Russian ambassador, walked briskly into the Situation Room. The atmosphere was cold and aloof, without pretense of convivial posturing.

  Both Soviets looked extremely uncomfortable.

  Herb Kohlhanuner, as secretary of state, was the only member of the president's staff to offer a greeting to the Russian politicos.

  Please have a seat, Kohlhanuner gestured to the end of the expansive table.

  The Soviets, looking pensive, sat down holding their coats.

  The deputy foreign minister nervously ran a handkerchief over his forehead, then cleared his throat.

  The president spoke to the Soviet deputy foreign minister first.

  Mister Shcharansky, your country, your government has elected to place the United States in an awkward and very delicate position.

  The president paused, waiting for a response. Both Soviet officials remained quiet, avoiding the American leader's eyes.

  The president, becoming visibly irritated, continued.

  Your government ...No, Soviet leadership. General Secretary Zhilinkhov, has plunged our two countries into a combative posture.' The president stared at the Soviets. Does that concern either of you?

  The president fixed his gaze on Shcharansky, then turned to the Soviet ambassador, Krikor Gerasimov. Both Russians remained silent, glancing down at the surface of the table, then back to the American leader.

  The president, showing restraint, lowered his voice and spoke to the Soviets. Do you understand English?

  Yes, of course, the shocked Russians responded in unison.

  Good, god damnit, the president boomed, surprising his own staff and startling the Russians.

  This is not a pleasant time for us, I can assure you, the president continued. Your government is responsible for placing the United States in a position of imminent nuclear confrontation.

  The president was livid.

  In addition. General Secretary Zhilinkhov is responsible for the deaths of twenty-three American servicemen. He is also responsible for causing severe damage to our space shuttle and for the death of one of our astronauts!

  The president glared at the Soviets. Do you deny those facts?

  Shcharansky blinked his eyes several times before responding.

  Mister President, I am not at liberty to discuss those issues. We have been informed that ... that our government is only responding to American aggression. We ... have no comment.

  Then why the hell are you taking up space here? The president, catching Wilkinson's eye, calmed himself before continuing.

  I am formally requesting that you contact General Secretary Zhilinkhov, here and now, on our direct line, and explain our position.

  The president lighted a cigar, then outlined his ultimatum to the surprised Soviets.

  Very simple, gentlemen. We are not budging another inch.

  You understand? The president was pleased to see both Russians nod in acknowledgement.

  General Secretary Zhilinkhov, and the Soviet government, have six hours to turn everything around. Everything, for your clarification, includes bombers, submarines, tanks, and troops-everything!

  The president placed his cigar down and folded his hands on the table.

  If Zhilinkhov doesn't comply, the Soviet Union can anticipate immediate retaliation.

  The room remained silent until the president spoke again.

  Do you have any questions ... either of you? the president asked, staring intently into the Soviets' eyes.

  Shcharansky, unsure of himself, spoke first. No questions, Mister President.

  The deputy foreign minister, fidgeting, continued. But I do not have

  the authority to conduct such discussions directly with the general

  secretary and I have never attempted to cir

  I don't give a damn, the president responded. I'm giving you the authority! We're out of time and options. Mister Shcharansky.

  Everyone in the White House Situation Room knew this was an unprecedented move by the president. Forcing the Soviet hand was a departure from normal relations.

  Mister President, Shcharansky responded nervously, I have been ordered not to enter into any discussions without the express consent of the foreign minister.' That's probably true, sir, Wilkinson interjected. Zhilinkhov is not a solo player, as we've witnessed.

  Well, the rules are changing, the president stated, motioning to Kohlhammer. Herb, get the Kremlin on the line, and make Mister Shcharansky comfortable.

  DIMITRI AND WITKHAM Grasping frantically with his good arm, Wickham managed to impede Dimitri's sudden thrust toward the surface of the freezing river. The CIA agent yanked violently on Dimitri's pant leg, slowing the panicked agent from surfacing until the spotlight had passed over their position.

  Dimitri surfaced, coughing and gagging, as the Soviet Havoc gunship continued to sweep the river with its powerful h
alogen lamp. Wickham surfaced a second after Dimitri and began tugging the gasping agent toward shore. The sound of the two helicopters masked the splashing and coughing of the two soaked agents.

  Come on, Dimitri, Wickham pleaded. You've got to hang on. Think about your girl Svetlana.

  Wickham paused, sucking in air as the two men lay on their backs, feet still in the river.

  Think about her, Dimitri. Wickham slowed his breathing, glancing at the supine form next to him. Dimitri struggled, chest heaving, as he tried to catch his breath in the gently falling snow.

  Dimitri, if you'll give me every last ounce of strength until we get out of h-here, Wickham shivered, I promise to do everything possible to reunite you and Svetlana back in the s-states. In America.

  Dimitri turned his head toward Wickham. Svetlana, Dimitri half-choked, you w-would help my Svetlana?

  Anything, Wickham responded, in my power. Just hang in th-there ...

  for both of us, Wickham breathed deeply, and your girl ..

  .Svetlana.

  Wickham struggled to his knees in the mud and broken ice, then helped Dimitri to his hands and knees. Both men crawled up the muddy embankment, shaking from the numbing cold, and rolled into the shelter of the shrub trees.

  Wickham could see the Soviet troops gathering around the area where he and Dimitri had circled across the road. It would be only a matter of time until the Russians discovered the point of entry into the river.

  You will h-help my Svetlana? Dimitri asked again, crawling further under the shrubs.

  Yes, Wickham responded. I give you my word. But you've got to help me, Dimitri. We've got to get out of here.

  Alive, Dimitri.

  Wickham jerked around, not quite sure of what he had heard.

  The night was ink black. He listened intently, senses keyed in frightened anticipation.

  You hear that, Dimitri? Wickham asked. There it is again.

  Wickham waited a couple of seconds, listening. That was a splash.

  Dimitri strained to hear but couldn't make out anything. It was too dark to see well and his ears ached from the ice-cold water.