Winter Hawk (20 page)

"No consequences, comrade General. Unless they find him first—which they will not."

"Make sure of that, Serov. You know, I cannot help the suspicion that your—
accident
was precipitate."

"I beg to disagree, comrade General. It was entirely necessary."

"Make sure nothing else goes wrong. Understand?"

"Nothing else will go wrong."

"At this moment, Stavka's backing is absolute. Also, that of our friends in the Politburo." Rodin essayed a smile, then seemed to reject the expression as something foreign and worthless. "But if Moscow were to be, by any means, made suspicious, even alerted— then Stavka would not go ahead with
Lightning.
There would not be a majority of the high command in favor of pursuing
Lightning
once the elements of secrecy and surprise are lost to us. That was made clear at the outset—it was made clear to you, among others." Every utterance, Serov decided, was something
ex cathedra
—Holy Writ, almost. He suppressed a tiny smile. Megalomania, raging megalomania.

"I realize that, comrade General. The high command will not openly defy the Kremlin—at least not yet. Not without
Lightning
having been put into effect."

"Therefore, find this little man who has disappeared and kill him before the KGB or anyone else stumbles across him."

"Yes, comrade General."

"We must present those old women on the Politburo with a
fait accompli
, with a result, Serov. When they see what
Lightning
achieves, the research and development budget for the battle station program will be unlimited." Rodin's eyes stared, as if he were looking into a vague distance beyond Serov. He appeared to wish to
recite
old resolutions, cherished dreams as a way of escaping from any thought of failure—or his son. This was, Serov realized, a catechism.

"I understand, comrade General," he murmured, contempt smoothed from his voice. "We must succeed." He paused, then added: "We'll find this Kedrov and dispose of*him."

Rodin nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes, of course. He has no means of escape or safety." Then his eyes seemed to narrow to a closer attention. "The army is gambling everything, Serov, in order to regain its rightful power—twenty years of power that has been thrown away or snatched from us by Nikitin and his cronies. So I do not want to step into a dog turd on my own doorstep, not now. Find this spy and get rid of him."

Sunlight spilled whitely into the hangar, seeming to bring a more intense cold to the place, now that the booster's platform had gone. In the distance, the locomotives could still be heard, murmuring in protest at the weight and the effort.

Rodin nodded once, then turned his back and strode arrogantly toward the waiting group of officers.

"If your son hadn't been terrified of you from birth." Serov murmured, then closed his mouth on the remainder of the sentiment. He would do his job, he decided, dropping his salute. He walked out into the sunlight, squinting.

He'd have Kedrov safely dead, long before Thursday. No doubt of that.

The main canopy floated on the surface of the translucent water, becoming sodden. Along the length of the sandbar, back toward the beach, the wreckage of the pallet lay like flotsam. A gouge in the sand, like the careering track of a huge, runaway vehicle, had been scraped out by the impact. Gant's awareness was calm, alert. Garcia and his crew had begun running leadenly out along the bar toward the stranded MiL, which was—

—poised. Still. He was balanced gently, hands and feet taking his weight, half out of the cockpit door as if about to alight from a bus. The pelicans' cries had stilled, the sea was calm; the Galaxy's engines had retreated beyond audibility. A strangely surreal silence bad pervaded the beach. It was almost dreamlike, except for the spars of wood, the darkly gouged sand, and the floating specks of Pelican corpses.

The intake plugs had held fast. Water had not entered the air intakes and thus the engines. All other openings remained sealed. Except for Macs cabin and his own. He breathed shallowly, his mind racing, as he watched Mac climb from the hinged canopy of his cockpit. The MiL was being rocked gently. Mac was turning his head constantly, like a doll, from the sand to Gant's face. He was treading gingerly as if through a minefield, but he was climbing out against the list of the helicopter. He should not cause it to slide farther toward the water. Unlike Gant, who could only exit from the starboard side of the 24D, into the sea—

—with the MiL moving after him?

He concentrated on Mac. One foot and leg over the sill, the slow, balletlike turn, the right leg, the pause, then the drop. Macs hands released the sill of the cockpit, and the MiL quivered. But did not move.

Mac looked up at him, grinning through the stained Plexiglas as Gant looked down.

"Easy, skipper."

"OK, OK, Mac," he snapped impatiently. He raised his voice, still poised in the doorway of his cabin. "Garcia—where's my rigging kit?" he yelled.

"All over the fucking beach, Major."

"Then for Christ's sake get it here."

"What are you going to—?"

Gant felt as if the force of his anger and urgency would topple the MiL into the sea.

"I'm going to rerig the rotors—this baby has to be flown off the sandbar." He looked down. He had no knowledge of tides. He stared into the slight haze and glitter, toward the beach. White sand, all white sand. The tide was not retreating, if there was much of a tide—he didn't know.

He glanced at the radio, then dismissed the idea of talking to the Galaxy. He studied the rotors folded along the MiL's fuselage. Five rotors, but only four of them needed repositioning. It was the only way, and if he didn't get it done, the mission had floundered finally and completely.

"Rigging kit!" he yelled. "Fuel up your MiL! In that order, Garcia."

"Couldn't we use his MiL to tow us off?" Mac began.

"Don't finesse, Mac. For Christ's sake, Garcia, get your ass moving."

"What do you want me to do, skipper?" Mac asked, wading into the water and edging around the pallet until he was looking up at Gant.

"I'll need you when I start rerigging. OK?"

"Sure. Have we gotten enough—?"

"Clearance? Don't ask! I think so. Another couple of feet nearer the water and we've had it." He was distracted. Silver fish nipped and glanced near Mac's submerged legs. "Wade out there, Mac— how deep does it get?" If it was shallow enough . . . ? He watched Mac's waist disappear, then the stain of the water creep to the shoulders of his flight overalls. Shit.

"OK, Mac."

"Too deep, uh?"

"Too deep. We have to fly her off—she won't float high enough to keep the rotor tips out of the water. The droop on the blades will dip them below the surface."

The parameters of the situation continued to narrow as they divested themselves of every shred of optimism. There was only one solution, but it appeared impossible. He had to rig the rotors. He needed Kooper or Lane and Mac around this MiL, and he needed, needed—

—fuel, the rigging kit, a rope. Rope first.

"Mac, get some rope off—get all the rope off the pallet. Don't release the chopper yet, she might slide right off We need to lasso each rotor to swing it into position."

"Sure, skipper." Mac appeared galvanized by the instruction, as if movement and purpose were reasserted and offered a satisfactory solution to their situation. Gant glanced across to the beach. Lane was in the water, pushing something ahead of him. The rigging kit, had to be. Garcia and Kooper were wearily rolling one of the huge fuel drums toward their helicopter, which seemed to sit besieged on the beach, surrounded by the fortifications its impact had dug for it.

"Come on, Lane," he yelled. Lane nodded. He was skirting the sandbar, where the water was shallow, pushing the rigging kit ahead of him on a section of pallet, its buoyant honeycomb layer intact.

Mac unthreaded a length of rope, measuring it as he did so. He was as intent as a child engaged in some secret game.

Gant's mind spun out ahead of the moment like a spiders thread. The images did not seem to reach as far as safety. Rerigging, refueling, rotors having to be clear of the water, the necessity, he now saw, to use the other MiL to ferry the fuel out, the necessity to have that MiL tow out the fuel, across the water, without approaching too close to upset his helicopter with its downdraft. The tide, too . . .

He looked down. No edge of stained sand. The tide was coming in; how fast? Would the sandbar be covered? He knew it would be—the gouge showed dark, heavy sand, not the fine whiteness of the beach near the trees. They would not even have to wait until the pallet's wreckage slid into the water; the sea was coming in to meet the MiL. Already, it was perhaps an inch, two inches farther up the flank of the helicopter, lapping gently, deceptively against the Plex-iglas of the gunner's cabin. The rotary cannon's barrel was already dipped like a straw into the water. The tip of the airspeed sensor boom toyed at the surface. The MiL was leaning to starboard and tilted nose down, too. Its weight should have been pressing the wreckage'of the pallet down into the compacted sand of the bar— should have been. But it had moved twice, three times, although only by inches. Either it would move as they began to rerig, or—or the tide . . .

"Lane! I want you in here. You do the cowhand's job, Mac."

"Sure."

"Get the rigging kit onto the sand. I need you—"

"I release the rotor brake every time you want the rotor head moved, huh, Major?"

"Got it right off the bat. Change places with me. Come on."

Lane dragged the section of pallet and the elements of the rigging kit up the slope of the sandbar, Mac wading into the shallow water to help him, the coiled rope over his shoulder. When they had finished, Mac waved.

"Ready when you are, skipper."

"OK. Lane, let's change places." He reached back into the cockpit and tugged the transceiver from its mounting, then clipped it to his pocket. "Garcia—situation report now."

"Major—we're making it," he heard Garcia breathlessly reply, his words accompanied by a soughing like that of the wind. "We got the wobble pump operational, we're fueling up now. Then we'll re-rig our rotors. Any more orders?"

"You're going to have to tow out one of the fuel cells to me. Just be ready. Out."

Lane was standing beneath the cockpit. Gant balanced in the doorway, assessed the stability of the tilted helicopter, then jumped into the shallow water. Looked up at once—the MiL had not moved. He exhaled with noisy relief.

"OK, Lane, just take your time, huh?"

Lane reached upward, grabbing the frame of the open door with one hand, the sill with the other. Like a hunchback, he placed his feet in the niches in the fuselage, hesitated, then scrambled softly into the cockpit, straightening gingerly only &fter a long hesitation. Something groaned beneath the MiL, but it had not moved. It was simply the tide that shocked—another inch, maybe two.

Swiftly, Gant rounded the drunkenly hanging nose and walked up the slope of the sandbar. The water had been warm; he had hardly noticed. The morning was still. The temperature wasn't much over sixty, but it was humid and breezeless. Tension made him sweat.

He squinted into the light, looking up at the locked rotors. Four of the blades clustered over the tail boom required moving. And first he must rerig the blade that would hang closest to the water—a measurement of the incoming tide. If it dipped below the surface, then when he started the engines it would break, stranding the MiL for good. So—

"You lasso each of the rotors, Mac, and haul them around to the rigged position. I'll lock and secure."

"Sure, skipper." Mac had taken the coiled rope from his shoulder. He grinned and wiped sweat from his forehead.

Gant touched gently at the flank of the MiL. Placed his hands firmly on the stubby port wing, above the rocket pod, which stared threateningly into his stomach. He heaved his body onto the wing. The helicopter quivered, rocked gently, settled back. There was
a
groan of splintered wood, but no sideways or forward movement. Mac's breath exhaled noisily. Gant stood on the wing, then began climbing slowly, using the handholds set in the fuselage. Tension shook his frame; sweat blinded him—just that small effort, and he felt weak, as if the air was that of some Turkish bath. He pressed his body against the fuselage, edging upward. Lane's features appeared pale and nervous through the cloudy Plexiglas to his left, beyond the plugged air intakes.

He scrambled into a crouched position atop the helicopter, near the opening of the oil-cooler intake. He nodded to Mac.

"OK—throw up the tools."

The wrench glinted in the sun. He caught it easily. Then he grabbed the second tool out of the air, clanging it down against the drum of the exhaust port, which boomed hollowly. He nodded again, paused to look across the water. In a mirror image of what he was about to attempt, he could make out Garcia atop the 24A, unlocking his second rotor. Kooper had dragged the first one into position; it was already rerigged for takeoff. It was a race, and he suddenly appeared to be falling behind; Garcia did not have the urgency of the creeping tide to prompt him.