Charm School v1_0

by Nelson DeMille

  Hollis said, “I find it hard to refute that logic, Bill. If we had a bottle of champagne, I'd say pop it.”

  Mills said, “Damn, Seth was supposed to buy champagne at the Trade Center.”

  At the mention of Alevy's name, there was a silence during which, Hollis thought, everyone was probably cursing him and blessing him at the same time. Such was the fate of men and women who move others toward great heights and dark abysses. Lisa said to Mills, “Change places with me.” She got out of her seat and knelt on the floor to the side of Hollis. She said to him, “I know you can't hold my hand now. But if you don't have to hold the controls in a minute or two, can you hold my hand then?”

  “Of course.”

  O'Shea took the controls. “I've got it, General. Take a stretch.”

  Hollis released the controls and took Lisa's hand.

  The helicopter continued inbound, toward Leningrad, and no one spoke. The steady sound of the turbines filled the cabin, and they listened to that and only to that, waiting for the sound to stop.

  O'Shea cleared his throat and said in a controlled voice, “Twelve o'clock, one kilometer.”

  Brennan, Mills, and Lisa stood and looked out the front windshield. Steaming toward them was a medium-sized freighter, and on its fantail were three yellow lights.

  Hollis released Lisa's hand and took the controls. He figured they needed about thirty seconds' flying time if he brought it in straight over the bow. But if they flamed out, they could smash into the freighter, and neither the freighter nor its crew deserved that.

  He banked right, away from the oncoming ship, then swung north, approaching the freighter at right angles, flying into the strong wind for added lift. He noticed that the three yellow lights were off now, which probably meant they'd seen him making his approach.

  O'Shea said, “General, we have to get some altitude for a steep approach.”

  Hollis knew that a shallow approach from a hundred meters was not the preferred way to land a helicopter on a moving deck. But a flame-out during an ascent was no treat either. All his instincts and what was called pilot's intuition told him that his remaining flight time could be measured in seconds. “Relax.”

  “Your show.” O'Shea scanned the instrument panel as Hollis concentrated on the visual approach. O'Shea called out airspeed, tachometer readings, torque, and altitude. He said, “Ground speed, about thirty.”

  Hollis saw that the freighter's stern was going to pass by before he reached it, so he put the helicopter into a sliding flight toward port as he continued his shallow powerglide approach.

  He adjusted the rudder pedals to compensate for the decreased torque, keeping the nose of the helicopter lined up with the moving ship, while continuing a sideways flight.

  He tried to maintain constant ground speed by use of the cyclic pitch, coordinating that with the collective pitch and the throttle.

  O'Shea called out, “Ground speed, forty.”

  Hollis pulled up on the nose to bring down the speed.

  O'Shea said, “Altitude, fifty meters.”

  Hollis kept the noise lined up amidships. The distance to the freighter was about one hundred meters, and he estimated his glide angle would take him over the stern for a hovering descent.

  “Ground speed, thirty; altitude, thirty.”

  A horn sounded, and O'Shea said, “Oil pressure dropping. We must have popped a line or gasket.”

  The recorded voice, which had stayed inexplicably silent about the fuel, said, “Imminent engine failure. Prepare for autorotative landing.”

  They were within ten meters of the ship's upper decks now, and Hollis picked up the nose of the helicopter, reducing ground speed to near zero. The ship slid past, and the aft deck was suddenly in front of him. The deck was pitching and rolling, but never had a landing zone looked so good to him. He felt his way toward the retreating deck, and as he passed over it, the helicopter picked up ground cushion and ballooned upward. “Damn it.” The stern was gone now, and he was over the water again. Without the ground cushion, the helicopter fell toward the water.

  Hollis quickly increased the throttle and the collective pitch of the blades, causing the helicopter to lift, seconds before the tail boom would have hit the churning wake. Hollis turned the nose back toward the stern and followed the ship, focusing on its stern light, trying to hold it steady in the strong crosswind. He felt like a man trying to grab the caboose rail of a moving train.

  Written in white letters across the stern of the ship was its name, and Hollis noted it irrelevantly: Luanda.

  The recorded voice said, “Imminent engine failure. Prepare for an autorotative landing.”

  Hollis pushed forward on the collective stick, increased the throttle, and literally dove in, clearing the stern rail by a few feet. He pulled back on the collective pitch, and the helicopter flared out a few meters from the rising quarterdeck.

  O'Shea shut the engines down as the rear wheels struck the deck and the Mi-28 bounced into the air. The pitching and rolling deck fell beneath them, then rose and slammed the two starboard wheels, nearly capsizing the aircraft. Hollis yanked up on the brake handle, locking the wheels.

  Finally the helicopter settled uneasily onto the moving deck. Hollis looked up at the ship's mainmast and saw it was flying the Union Jack.

  No one spoke, and the sound of the turbines and rotor blades died slowly in their ears, replaced by the sound of lapping waves. A salty sea scent filled the cabin, and the relatively smooth flight was replaced by the rocking of a wind-tossed ship. Hollis saw that there were no crew in sight and assumed that all hands had been ordered below.

  O'Shea cleared his throat and said quietly, “I don't like ships. I get seasick.”

  Brennan said, “I fucking love ships.”

  Mills said to Hollis and O'Shea, “You both did a splendid job. We owe you one.”

  Hollis replied tersely, “If 'we' means your company, Bert, then we all owe you one too.”

  Lisa suddenly threw her arms around Hollis' neck. “I love you! You did it! Both of you.” She grabbed O'Sheas shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you both.”

  O'Shea's face reddened. “I didn't do… well, talk to him about my efficiency report.”

  Hollis smiled. “I'll reconsider it.”

  O'Shea said to Hollis, “Right before I shut the engines down—”

  “I heard it.”

  “What?” Mills asked.

  “One of them,” O'Shea replied, “went out. There isn't enough fuel in the tanks to fill a cigarette lighter.”

  “Well, we don't need any more fuel. See, it worked out fine.” Mills reached under his seat and pulled out a plastic bag filled with black ski masks and handed it to Brennan. “Here, everyone put on one of these. No talking to the crew, no names.”

  Mills went to the back of the cabin and slid a mask over Dodson's face. He looked at Burov and said, “Well, Colonel, the good guys won.”

  Unexpectedly, Burov laughed. “Yes? The CIA are the good guys? Your own countrymen don't think so, no more than my countrymen think the KGB are the good guys. You and I are pariahs, Mr. Mills. That's what sets us apart from humanity.”

  “Could be. Glad to see you learned something in your own school.” Mills took a Syrette from his pocket and jabbed the spring-loaded device into Burov's neck. “You talk too much.” He slid a ski mask over Burov's head. “That's much better.”

  Brennan slid open the door, and a rush of cold air filled the heated cabin. Brennan jumped down onto the rolling deck, followed by Lisa, O'Shea, and Hollis. Mills got out last and said, “I'll have Dodson and Burov taken to the infirmary.” He looked up at the Union Jack. “I sort of figured it would be British. There aren't many of our intrepid NATO allies we can count on anymore.”

  Hollis observed, “For this operation, I don't even trust our allies in Washington, Bert.”

  “Good point.”

  Lisa asked, “Are we home free, or not?”

  Hollis didn't think
they would ever be home free as long as they lived. He replied, “We're in the right neighborhood.”

  The door of the quarterdeck opened and six seamen dressed in dark sweaters appeared. They approached the helicopter and looked at their five passengers curiously: four men, one woman, all wearing black masks. Three men were in Russian uniforms, one in a sweat suit. The woman wore a sweat suit and parka. And on board the helicopter, Hollis thought, were two unconscious and battered men in black masks, one in pajamas and one in a shredded sweat suit. If the seamen had been asked to pick out the good guys from the bad guys, Hollis realized, they would probably guess wrong.

  One of the seamen made a pushing motion toward the helicopter as if he didn't think anyone spoke English. Mills shook his head, held up two fingers, and pointed. The six men went to the helicopter and removed Dodson and Burov, laying them on the cold, wet deck.

  Hollis jumped back into the cockpit and released the brakes, then joined O'Shea, Brennan, and the six sailors in rolling the helicopter to the portside rail. One of the men swung open the gangplank section of the railing. They all pushed from the rear of the fuselage, sending the Mi-28 over the side, nose first, its long tail boom rising into the air as the front plunged down toward the churning sea. Instinctively, they all went to the rail and watched as the helicopter bobbed a moment until the sea rushed into its open door and it slid, cockpit first, into the dark water. Its tail section seemed to wave a farewell, and Hollis found himself touching his hand to his forehead and noticed that O'Shea did the same.

  The crewmen moved quickly to the three fog lights, which were portable and connected by cords running to electrical outlets. They disconnected the lights and threw them overboard. Hollis thought there was something disturbing about that. Getting rid of the helicopter was an obvious thing to do. But getting rid of three small lights indicated that the captain was taking precautions in the event of a possible boarding and search by Soviet authorities or at the very least a flyover. Hollis wondered what other evidence the captain was prepared to throw overboard.

  Hollis looked over the port rail to the south and saw two ships on the distant horizon. They may have seen the helicopter landing, and through binoculars they could have seen it pushed overboard. If they were Soviet ships or even East Bloc craft, they might radio a report. More to the point, Red Navy radar had probably picked up the unidentified flight and had recognized its flight characteristics as that of a helicopter. They could have seen the blip descend to sea level, and perhaps had even concluded that it had landed on the ship that also appeared on their screens. Three-mile limit notwithstanding, the Soviets claimed this whole part of the gulf as their private pond.

  Mills seemed to guess what Hollis was thinking. Mills nodded toward the two ships on the horizon. “That's why we wanted a night landing.”

  “Yes, but radar works at night.”

  Mills replied, “I was told it would look like a crash at sea on radar.”

  “It might. Depends on the Ivan who was staring at the screen.”

  “Well, then this is a test to see whose side God is really on.”

  Hollis smiled grimly. “After what we did at the Charm School, I think we're on our own.” Hollis turned and walked away from the rail. Four of the seamen had stretchers now and were carrying Dodson and Burov toward the quarterdeck. One of them said to Mills, “Infirmary.”

  One of the other two sailors motioned to them, and they followed him into a door on the quarterdeck, then went up a narrow companionway to the upper deck and walked along a passageway without meeting another person. The seaman took them up one more deck and showed them into a white-painted chart room with large portholes that was located behind the bridge. The seamen left wordlessly, and Hollis pulled off his ski mask. Lisa, O'Shea, Mills, and Brennan did the same.

  They all looked at one another, not knowing what their mood was supposed to be. In truth, Hollis thought, they were all so numbed by fatigue, tension, and sadness that he wouldn't be surprised if they all stretched out on the chart tables and fell asleep.

  Finally Mills broke into a grin and said in a buoyant voice, “Well, my friends, next stop is Liverpool.”

  Brennan gave a long hoot and yelled, “We did it!”

  There was some backslapping and handshaking, and Lisa got a kiss from Mills, Brennan, and O'Shea.

  O'Shea, in an expansive mood, said to Hollis, “You're a hell of a chopper pilot, General. Where'd you learn to fly rotary wing?”

  Hollis replied, “Somewhere between Novgorod and Leningrad.”

  Mills laughed. “You fooled me. Hey, look, there's coffee and brandy.” Mills went to a chart table along the starboard side bulkhead on which sat an electric urn. He drew five mugs of coffee, then poured brandy into each one and passed them around. He raised his mug and said, “To…”

  “To Seth Alevy,” Hollis said, “and the men and women we left behind.”

  Everyone drank, but the toast had its effect of subduing the celebration. They all had more coffee and more brandy. There were chairs at the chart tables, and everyone sat but Hollis, who stood at one of the four starboard portholes and stared out to sea. The Gulf of Finland, the few times he'd seen it, reminded him of molten lead, as it did now, seeming to roll in slow motion, heavy, turgid water, all shades of greyness, its surface strangely unreflective. He saw a thin fog rolling in from the north, and through the fog, a squall suddenly burst forth like a gauze veil passing through smoke. The grey sky, the grey water, and the adjoining land masses, an unchanging landscape of grey-green pine forests, continually dripping a wetness onto the soggy earth. It was a dank and bleak corner of the world, making the Moscow region look sunny and picturesque by comparison.

  Hollis rubbed his eyes and rubbed the stubble on his chin. The anesthetic was wearing off, and he could feel his cheek beginning to throb. It occurred to him that the rendezvous with this ship should be listed under minor miracles, right after their escape from the Charm School.

  The door to the chart room opened, and a tall, red-bearded man of about fifty strode in. He was wearing a heavy white cable-knit sweater and blue jeans. He said nothing, but helped himself to a mug of coffee, then sat casually at the edge of a chart table. “Welcome aboard the Luanda” he said in a British accent. “I am Captain Hughes. Your names, I am told, are no concern of mine.”

  Hollis said, “I want to thank you for leaving the lights on beyond the sunrise.”

  Captain Hughes looked at Hollis. “I'll tell you, they were off, but I left the watch on, and he spotted you. So I argued with myself a bit and turned them on again.”

  Mills said, “That was good of you.”

  Hughes shrugged. “We were a bit off schedule ourselves. The bloody Russians don't move very quickly with the paperwork, and our pilot boat was late.”

  Captain Hughes looked at O'Shea, Mills, and Brennan in their KGB uniforms, then at Lisa and Hollis. “I'll wager you've got quite a story to tell. By the way, that landing was either the best air-to-ship landing I've ever seen or the worst. I expect you know which it was.” Hughes added, “We're carrying timber, if you're interested. Pine, birch, and aspen. They grow good wood because God manages the forests, not them.” Hughes smiled and added, “We dropped off a load of fresh vegetables. They like to lay on some nice things for the anniversary of the glorious Revolution. Can't say I approve of trading with them, but a job's a job. Which brings me to my next point. I was given ten thousand pounds to say yes to this, and I'll get another fifty thousand when I hand you over. You're quite valuable.”

  Hollis replied, “I hope we haven't cost you more than we're worth. Do you have any radar indications of ships approaching?”

  “No, but you can be assured we're watching Kronshtadt naval base very closely. Once we sail past there and get into the wider gulf water, I'll breathe a sigh.”

  “So will we all.”

  Hughes said, “There isn't enough money around to entice me to do this. They told me it was important to both our countries.”<
br />
  “Indeed it is.”

  Hughes said, “Before I left Leningrad this morning, a stevedore pressed a piece of paper into my hand.” He gave it to Hollis.

  Hollis unfolded it and saw it was a page from a one-time cipher pad. It had that day's date on it and a frequency. A handwritten note said: Sit rep, attention C.B.

  Mills looked over Hollis' shoulder and whispered, “That's our diplomatic code.”

  Hollis nodded and gave it back to Hughes. “Captain, will you be good enough to have your radio man encrypt a message from this pad as follows: 'Attention Banks. Landed this location. Situation report to follow.' Leave it unsigned. Send it out on that frequency.”

  Hughes nodded. He said, “Your two friends in the infirmary are resting comfortably. The medic would like to be briefed on their history.”

  Mills replied, “They've both suffered obvious physical trauma. Both have had sodium pentothal recently. The one in the sweat suit is the friend. The one in pajamas is not. He must be restrained for the duration of this voyage.”

  Hughes walked to the door. “I'll have a steward bring you some breakfast. I'll arrange for sleeping quarters. In the meantime, feel free to use this room as long as you wish.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hughes left the chart room.

  Hollis went back to the porthole but saw nothing out there except the thickening fog. He said, “We've all done a good job. I don't like what we did, but we did it well.”

  Mills poured himself more brandy. “Yes, and for whatever it's worth to you all, I wanted to see those men come home… with their new families.” He added, “I'm not a religious man, but perhaps they're better off where they are now. I don't think even they really wanted to go home anymore.”

  No one responded.

  Hollis' mind returned to the Landis house, and he thought of Landis' little boy, Timmy, and of Landis' saying about him, “My poor little guy,” Maybe, Hollis thought, just maybe they were all at peace now.

  Hollis sat at the chart table and found a pencil and paper. He said to Mills, “I'll write Charlie a note.”