Winter Hawk mg-3

by Thomas Craig

  For the messages of spies; agents-in-place.

  "Where is he?" Priabin repeated.

  Orlov shook his head, his face hidden in his gnarled hands. He had crumbled rather than broken; each piece and component of the transmitter had been another wave battering at a worn cliff, eroding it Orlov had slid quietly and quickly into total defeat.

  "I don't know. He didn't tell me. He called from a phone booth last night — that's all I know." He muttered into his dirty-nailed fingers. Priabin sipped his second cup of coffee and slid his legs out from the table, stretching.

  "Don't know or won't say?" he inquired. Zhikin stood, arms folded, at the kitchen door. The others were taking a break at a small, grubby workers' cafe down the street from the shop; another poor, dirty fragment of this run-down district of Tyuratam. Priabin recited, perhaps for the dozenth time, the litany of threats. "Sons, daughters, grandchildren, aunts, nieces, nephews… schools, party, prison, unemployment, hospital — it could all happen." He sighed, as if the subject bored him. Zhikin nodded approvingly at his tone.

  Orlov sobbed, almost retching in fear.

  "I don't know!" he wailed. "He instructed me to send a final message, that's all I know. That's all."

  Priabin snapped: "What did this message contain?"

  "I — can't remember—"

  "Remember!"

  Orlov twitched in his chair. Its legs scraped on the kitchen tiles. His face was white. Priabin nodded at him to speak.

  "He — he said he was being followed, that he would go into hiding, until — until they came for him—"

  "Came for him?" Zhikin asked in frank disbelief.

  Orlov continued to look at Priabin, afraid of the sudden excitement on the KGB colonels features.

  'They intend to come for him?" Priabin asked.

  "He thought so," Orlov replied.

  "How do they intend to — rescue him?" he asked, half mocking.

  Orlov shook his head. He shivered continuously now, despite the kitchens damp warmth. The fire in the grate had been banked up by Priabin. It smoked.

  "He never said. He believed it, though." His tone implied that neither Orlov nor the colonel would have believed such a blatant lie.

  "What else was in this message? You sent all the messages, I suppose?"

  Again, Orlov shook his head. "Usually, Filip did so himself. To be secure, he said. Last night, he had to tell me the procedure before I could send the message. It took some time before I understood clearly what to do. He had to repeat the codes many times before I understood."

  "The message?"

  "He asked them to hurry — something, he said, called Lightning, of the utmost—"

  "Lightning Priabin asked eagerly. "He said Lightning?"

  "Yes."

  "What did he mean?"

  "He didn't say."

  It was true, Priabin realized with intense, almost childlike disappointment. Kedrov knew. He knew about Lightning.

  He had to clear his throat before he could speak. He said: "Then I have to have him. I believe you, Orlov. You must tell me where he is. You must tell me what the Americans know."

  "I can't!" Orlov protested. "I would if I knew, I swear to you. He didn't tell me." He blamed Kedrov now — it was all Kedrov's fault, dropping him in the shit up to his eyebrows. Orlov would have told him anything he wished to know at that moment — but he knew so little.

  "Do you know where he might be?"

  Orlov shook his head, moaning softly to himself, his face once more hidden in his hands. Old, feeble, weak hands. Priabin despised himself for an instant.

  "Did he have anything the Americans might still want?"

  "I don't know. I did it just for the money," Orlov wailed; the final, complete answer.

  "For your favorite charity, of course. Or the family," Zhikin sneered. Again, Orlov did not turn his head.

  Priabin said, in a not unkind voice, "The Americans will not bother with him. But he may have travel documents, money, an escape route of his own?"

  "I don't know, comrade Colonel, believe me, I don't know. I can only tell you that he seemed sure they could come."

  Then he won't be making his own way out, Priabin thought. He's waiting around — to get himself caught, he concluded with a firm, decisive pleasure.

  "Viktor," he said, looking up, "take some of the men. Get over to Kedrov's flat and search it. Yes, I know it's been searched. Do it again, and thoroughly."

  "Sir." Zhikin nodded, approving Priabin's conduct of the interrogation, and the order he had issued. Priabin felt a momentary resentment of the older man, his subordinate officer. It passed almost at once.

  Zhikin left the kitchen. Priabin heard him barking into his walkie-talkie as he clacked down the linoleumed passageway. He heard the shop door slam, its bell jangling wildly like a warning. He felt hot, despite having removed his overcoat. Excitements and tensions jumped in his body like sparks, little muscular tics and spasms through his frame. Fear was present, the sense of danger, of a perilous course ahead of him. He was a frail canoe rushed forward by white water toward rapids, toward a narrow gap between high cliffs. He could easily be wrecked, drowned by events. But if he played quickly, decisively, with nerve, then—

  — get Kedrov under lock and key, get Lightning out of him, get, get — out of here, back to Moscow — the conquering hero.

  "OK, Orlov, get your coat."

  "What?"

  "You're coming down to the office. You haven't even started yet."

  He looked at his desk, still flecked with drying spots of paint of various colors: a vile green, white naturally, pink, gray — presumably undercoat — yellow. A dot puzzle, in color, which, if the dots were joined, would reveal the features of Filip Kedrov, spy. Priabin sighed. They'd found the rolls of film in the garage, waterproofed and hidden in cans of paint. Quite clever. A few scraps of paper, notes of instruction and record, the camera inside the plastic frog, but hardly anything else.

  Orlov had confirmed that Kedrov had delivered nothing to the Americans except his radio messages. No courier had been in the area since the transmitter had been delivered, he was certain of that. So he had expected the Americans to come, he had a photographic record for them. But would they come? Priabin shook his head. It was impossible to believe. What kind of rescue operation could they mount? And Kedrov had pressed the panic button only hours before. No. Kedrov was stranded inside Baikonur. But—

  — where?

  Priabin looked at the first of the hastily developed films. The prints were still sticky, too glossy, But everything was there. He had been a good agent — a complete photographic record, punctilious and exhaustive, of the last weeks of the laser weapon project. From the weapons arrival at Baikonur from Semipalatinsk, almost. The American espionage effort had been motivated by increasing desperation. Everything had depended on Kedrov.

  He put down the prints, rubbing his tacky thumbs against his fingers. He might have to destroy at least some of the films — by the time he came to use them, the army would wonder how long he'd known, why he'd not informed them or acted sooner. Peril. The word rather than the sensation appeared in his head. Yes, perilous. But he sensed now he could win. Progress convinced him — these films, for one thing. He was getting somewhere, and quickly.

  If, if he could win now, Rodin and Rodin's father would be powerless against him. Moscow Center would have its prodigal son back with open arms and the fatted calf. He might even be able to press a narcotics charge against young Rodin.

  He grinned; swallowed at once as the sense of danger formed a dry lump in his throat. He essayed a laugh. The dog looked up from its position near the radiator, then settled once more, its shaggy red coat looking almost more ruglike than the rug near which it lay. He regarded the dog fondly for a moment, then swung his booted legs onto his desk, unmindful of the still-tacky prints and the spots of drying paint. He lit a cigarette. He'd be back in Moscow, all right, just as soon as he dug up Kedrov. Moscow Center s gratitude for giving the a
rmy the shaft, in Baikonur, would be boundless. He could become the youngest general in the service! He'd get Kedrov straight onto a special flight, as soon as he caught him. Yes, he felt confidence now, a new undented confidence. He'd find the son of a bitch, and soon.

  Priabin stared absently at the Party photographs on the opposite wall while he luxuriated in his thoughts and the cigarette. Grim, unsmiling faces they might be, but they no longer disapproved of or suspected him. They were faces he had somehow outwitted, like the cleverest but most disliked boy in his class.

  So, he thought eventually, stubbing out the remainder of the cigarette, sitting upright at his desk now, why persist with Lightning? At least, why draw attention to it by sending Viktor after Rodin's latest boyfriend, a queer actor? Perhaps he had been foolish there — young Rodin would certainly get to hear about it, might blab to Daddy? Mm. Perhaps it was a mistake; precipitous.

  The telephone rang. He snatched it up, as if it might be someone with the authority, the cunning, to scotch his dreams.

  "Yes?"

  "Viktor, sir."

  "Oh, yes, Viktor. What is it? Look, I've changed my mind—

  "I'm at the theater, sir." There was an excitement in Zhikin's normally bluff, unmoved voice. "He knows, all right. Says he doesn't know anything except the word, but there's more to it than that."

  "LightningP"

  "Yes, sir. Lightning. He nearly went berserk when I dropped the word out. He's had something whispered in his ear, all right, and by young Rodin."

  "Bring him in, Viktor. Bring him in." Forget your change of mind, Dmitri, he told himself. What a stroke of luck. "He won't be hard to frighten — he's a civilian and a queer!"

  "He phoned, sir — caught him ringing someone while he pretended he wanted the bog. I didn't realize they had a phone in there."

  "Who did he call? Rodin?"

  "He's not saying, but that's my bet."

  "OK, charge him now — with sodomy. Get him down here right away. Once he's in here on a criminal charge, Rodin won't be able to get to him. We'll have everything he knows in a couple of shakes."

  "Got you, sir — with you in, oh, half an hour. I'll come the roundabout route, just to make sure he's not spotted."

  "Good man. When you bring him in, have a real go at him. Play the nice guy. I'll be with our friend Orlov after lunch. I'll join you in your office when I've finished with him."

  Priabin put down the telephone. Stretched his legs and inspected his boots. Tiny spots of paint had adhered to their shiny surfaces. He stood up, stretching luxuriously. Danger tingled, but it was only one element in his excitement. The dog stirred at his approach. He soothed it back to sleep, looking fondly at its gray muzzle. Then he returned to his desk.

  He began scribbling questions he would press on Orlov — and questions, too, for the little queer after Viktor had played the nice guy with him. He shook his head, smiling. His was the heavy's part. As easy as opening a can of — worms?

  "I'm coming with you."

  "All the way?" Gant replied, smiling sarcastically.

  "Just as far as Peshawar."

  "Just to make sure we don't turn around at the border?"

  "I do what the man says, Gant, just like you." Anders sighed. "OK, let's move it."

  Anders looked at his watch. Midnight. The repairs to the Mil-24A were completed, had been tested. Satisfactory. Forty-eight hours maximum, from now. The mission clock was running. Gant could have Kedrov out and safe by early Wednesday, Washington time. Time? It had to be enough.

  He watched Gant pick up a parka and wrap it around himself then he followed him from the room. The TV set was showing cartoons. To Anders, there was little appreciable difference between the dashing cat and mouse and the program that had preceded their antics. Gant had similarly failed to remark the change. Just stared at the screen, hunched within himself, saying little. Anders had left him alone for long periods, hurrying between the hangar and the secure fine to the Oval Office. A heavy weight fell on the cat, which shattered slowly like an old vase. It seemed significant, especially as he followed Gant's retreating form along echoing corridors and out into the chill of the night.

  Cold moonlight made the snow-covered hills ghostly around the air base. Light snow flew across the gap of darkness between them and the hangar. The massive bulk of the C-5 Galaxy transport was nose-out from the hangar, its engines still silent.

  Anders felt the desert wind cut through his warm clothing. The cartoon image of the shattering cat remained in his mind. Winter Hawk was just as fragile. Even though inches taller than Gant, he seemed to be scuttling after the other man's stride.

  They walked beneath the huge port wing and its two Pratt & Whitney turbofans. The wind hurled itself into the hangar and around the fuselage. The place was filled with people, and it dwarfed them, as did the aircraft. He nodded to the engineering officer who had reported completion to him. The gunship had already been stowed in the cargo hold of the Galaxy. He took the portable phone from his parka and began speaking into it even as he climbed the personnel steps aft of the wing, behind Gant.

  The door slammed behind them. He spoke to the colonel who captained and flew the transport. "Yes, Colonel," he acknowledged. "You can engine-start. We're in your hands." He switched off the portable phone and thrust it into his clothing.

  Almost at once, he heard the first rising whine of the four huge engines. The wind had disappeared. In its place, the noises of activity, the sounds of routine. Twelve-five. The note of the engines rose and strengthened.

  The two helicopters sat on pallets near the tail, rotors folded like the wings of great insects. One mechanic was peeling away a stencil card from the flank of the gunship Gant would fly, the 24D, to reveal white numerals. Unit, base, designation, something of the kind. The U.S. Army drab in which the two ships had been painted during training had disappeared, to be replaced by the olive and yellow camouflage of Soviet Aviation Army units on duty in Afghanistan. Below the camouflage, the bellies of the gunships were painted a sharklike gray. Another stencil was peeled away after white paint had puffed from a spray gun. Cyrillic lettering. Warnings, red stars, instructions were all blossoming on the flanks of the two MiLs. Bolted and tied to their pallets, the two machines appeared strange, unknown. Becoming once more the two helicopters he had seen captured in the Lebanese desert.

  The scene oppressed Anders with the sense of its fragility. The machines might be almost ready; it was the crews who were not. Gant himself, Mac, his gunner, and the second crew, headed by Garcia. None of them, not even Gant, was ready. There were too many factors in the matrix, like a complicated jigsaw puzzle knocked from a table, the pieces all separated and making no sense.

  The cockpits of both MiLs were open. Heads and upper torsos bobbed, appearing and disappearing as the flight systems were checked. Anders had a fleeting impression that the machines were still under construction, unfinished. The on-board computers and moving-map displays were being updated. The main cabin doors, too, were open. Auxiliary tanks had been fitted to both helicopters to increase their range. Only by carrying twice his normal fuel and having the 24A similarly fueled could Gant make the thousand-mile journey from the Pakistan border to Baikonur and retain sufficient resources for the return flight. They would abandon the 24A once they had transferred its fuel to the other gunship, and make the return crowded into the 24D, together with Kedrov — the lost scientist, he added bitterly.

  Weapons, too. Disguised or adapted U.S. weapons to complete the MiL's armories. On the short, stubby wings, four rocket pods and four missiles, four-barreled machine guns mounted in each nose. The weapons were real, but their purpose was disguise. It was a charade required for Afghan airspace, a charade played hour after hour — weapons, markings, call signs, IDs, Gant's ability to speak Russian — thin, so thin as to be almost transparent. Later, hour after hour in Soviet airspace… transparent.

  Mac and the transport helicopter's crew moved toward Gant and himself. The Galaxy seemed to shr
ug at a weight of air pressing on it, against the wind, then began to roll out of the hangar. It was as if the cargo hold was suddenly bathed in a greater light, or some charge of static had built up. Everything seemed clearer, skeletal, stark. A long row of fold-down seats lined the bulkhead. Fasten your seatbelts, extinguish your cigarettes—time to go.

  Work continued on the two helicopters.

  Anders sat down and slipped the belt across his lap. He felt the huge Galaxy turn. Through the window at his side, he saw the maw of the hangar, like a whale's mouth lit from within, retreat into the darkness of the night. Sunday night.

  He studied the crews like a diagnostician looking at X-ray plates. Mac was the best of them. Garcia, the second pilot, was good, but no better than good. His copilot was older, wiser, but no better than Garcia. Chameleon Squadron had lost a better pilot two months before, when their only surviving Mil crashed in East Germany. Before the Israelis had been blackmailed into stealing these.

  Lane, the copilot, was OK. Kooper, Garcia's gunner, was better. Gant — was Gant; he'd chosen the 24D, Anders knew, because there was no copilot. Just a gunner. And Gant trusted Mac.

  The Galaxy turned again. Anders glimpsed runway lights and felt the aircraft pause.

  "At least those guys got off their butts!" Garcia exclaimed, sitting down with a nod to Anders, ostentatiously buckling his belt. "Jesus, are we lucky?"

  Anders watched Gant's face twitch with mistrust. Anders sensed Gant's dislike of Garcia. The second pilot's tension seemed too febrile, wild; like the reaction of a man who had too heavily mixed his cocktails.

  Anders studied the others, then the fold-down table near them, the plugged-in computer terminal, the screen, the rolls of charts and sheafs of photographic prints. Too much, there was still too much to do — thin, thin, transparent, his thoughts chorused.

  The Galaxy surged forward. Anders felt tension grip and hold him. He saw Gant staring at him. The man's eyes were blank and yet fierce; alien, somehow.

  Men were sitting down hurriedly now, at the sound of a horn through the hold. The MiLs were left alone, vulnerable. The load-master was talking to the flight deck over a telephone link. The show was about the hit the road. For a second, Anders thought of voicing the idea, but Gant's stare disconcerted him. He looked away, at the table. He could distinguish the highest-resolution images of the Baikonur area — one area in particular. A tiny island, kidney-shaped, surrounded by wet salt marshes. Reeds, swirls of shallow water, a white smear in one corner of one picture that might have been water fowl taking off. Could Gant find that at night, with minimal use of the gunship's lamp? That agreed rendezvous?