by Thomas Craig
Scraps of paper, red-white, white, whirling and spinning. A pelican's body, headless, thudded against the cockpit, nauseating him; he understood what had happened. The course of the Galaxy had been closer to the water s edge, to the sandbank and the drifting, nervous birds. They had scattered into the air in front of the Galaxy as if thrown up by a giant hand, startling the pilot, making him twitch the stick and jerk the transport off course for an instant.
The main canopy opened its colorful mouth behind him, obscuring everything else. The Mil was tilting nose up, falling. The bird's decapitated body had disappeared from the Plexiglas, leaving a red smear that shadowed the glint of the sun. Other scraps of white flew or twisted above and beyond the MiL.
Split seconds… the sun blinded… Mac was muttering, but he hadn't reached his third expletive when the pallet struck the sand. The impact rendered him breathless. For an instant, he was the life-size dummy in an accident test. He fought for breath. Feeling returned in the gouging of the harness. His eyes opened. He could see nothing. A huge mask of flying sand had been thrown up all around the MiL. Water glinted and sparkled within it, raining down on the Plexiglas like a storm on corrugated tin. Darkness.
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus….." Mac recited his litany.
The straps of the harness bit. Gant realized his body was at the wrong angle. He was sitting tilted forward and to one side in his seat. Hanging there. Splintering noises. Great, aching, tearing noises, and now a steadier though intermittent groaning; the occasional snap.
The sun came back.
"Gant, are you all right? Gant?" It was the pilot.
"Alive," he murmured, unconcerned. The inquiry was irrelevant. "Mac?" he asked.
"Christ! OK, skipper." Mac's voice was small and shaky, as if lost inside his stunned frame.
"Major? Major?" Garcia over the transceiver.
"OK, Garcia, OK."
The great pall of sand and spray fell lazily, half translucent, half opaque, into the sea, all around him; even the pelicans were beginning to fall easily out of the pale sky, to settle gingerly on the water, farther off from the — the sandbank, jutting out from the beach, half enclosing the little bay of cool water.
The sand slid down the Plexiglas like a drawn-back curtain. It stuck to the pelican blood, was plastered in streaks by the water that had been thrown up with the sand. Light flashed through the streaked cockpit from the Galaxy's wing as the aircraft curved gently away in a climbing turn.
The pallet had landed at an angle. Gant realized he was staring into the water — transparent, mercury-veined water, smooth once more after the pall of sand's disturbance.
With a shuddering lurch, the Mil shook off the remaining sand like a dog discarding water from its coat. The horizon was more tilted, the water discernibly nearer. A cold chill gripped his heart. When he looked up, the Galaxy had altered course, heading away behind him, toward its landfall at Karachi. Its diminishing seemed like an act of desertion. The voice of the pilot and the anxious murmurs of Anders filled his headset.
"OK, OK," he snapped. "Get out of my head!" His voice was urgent, tinged with panic. The broken pallet beneath the helicopter groaned, then slithered. The cockpit lurched.
"Skipper—"
"Mac, stay cool. Stay still," he warned. "Don't move."
"Your angle of impact," the pilot was repeating, his words irrelevant. The cockpit seemed as close and final around him as — as the oxygen tent that had shrouded his father's last days. He shuddered, shaking off the image.
"Skipper — and you, Anders — there's nothing you can do, nothing. Get the hell out of here."
"Gant—"
"Don't bother me now."
He flicked off the VHF set, then reached up and drew off his helmet. The cries of pelicans like the magnified tearing of paper or cardboard. The almost still lapping of the tired, cool water. The creaking of the pallet's remnants as they moved uncertainly — downward.
Garcia's voice in the cockpit. Figures along the beach, running as if labored and laden through the sand. The glinting, retreating dot of the Galaxy. Spars and slivers and torn spears of wood littering the sandbar.
"Just stay cool," Gant murmured, releasing his harness gently from his bruised body. Slowly, he levered himself up from his seat and reached for the pilot's door. Gripped its handle, turned it.
The Mil lurched, sliding another foot and more toward the water—
— which, he saw clearly, was not as shallow as it seemed, but was deep enough to submerge the helicopter as far as the main cabin.
He looked up. The locked rotors lay along the fuselage. The Mil could not fly; it was drowning.
There was nothing he could do. As he swung the door gently open over the water, the Mil slid again, with an accompanying groan from the broken pallet. The sea idled, deceptively innocent, less than a foot below the sill of the cockpit. When it moved again, water would begin to slop in. He looked down over the gunners cabin. Mac's face stared up at him, bemused and afraid. The water lapped against the Plexiglas, level with Mac's arm.
Gant's body felt frozen, immobile, as he waited for the next, inexorable movement of the Mil into the sea.
"He was there and yet you managed to miss him? He eluded your search?" General Lieutenant Rodin asked. Serov's admission had distracted him from the ponderous, dinosaur movement of the vast platform on which lay the booster that would carry the laser battle station into orbit aboard the Raketoplan shuttle craft.
Serov studied his superior's features before he replied. They were pale and drawn into intent, grim planes by his mood. Rodin was taller than the GRU colonel, and seemed especially aware of the feet at that moment, even though both of them were dwarfed by the booster. The diesel locomotives protested outside the vast hangar as they strained to move the booster's platform from the assembly building along the first yards of the miles of double railway track to the launch pad. The noises of the platform's first movements were hideous, making Serov's teeth ache.
"Yes, he had indeed been there," he confirmed in a neutral voice. "My people may — or may not — have alarmed him. Anyway, there was no trace of him in the warren of tunnels and rooms. We were thorough."
"And what are you doing now?" Rodin asked in an imperious tone. It was as if he drew something of an added authority from the scene around him; as if he had chosen a setting that displayed him to advantage. Serov had not dared keep the information regarding Kedrov a secret from Rodin. His temerity in suggesting the son be sent away from Baikonur would have earned a greater rebuke if
Rodin had found out about Kedrov's disappearance from anyone but himself. He had, of course, minimized the extent of the carelessness the telemetry officer had displayed.
Serov was aware of the scents and noises of the place, aware of the technicians swarming over the platform and the booster, whose great bunch of rocket engines had passed out of the hangar into the pale winter sunlight. The chill of the day stood next to him in the assembly hangar like a heavy body leaning against his frame. His breath clouded around his head.
"Extending the search. Surveillance on all known associates. Well get him, comrade General," he added reassuringly, with studied deference. Rodin seemed to smile in a thin-lipped, momentary way, as if sensing the change that had occurred in their relative positions since their telephone conversation. "I think Kedrov will head for open country now. He knows we'll be looking for him."
"And you're certain he knows little or nothing about Lightning?"
"Less than the actor, I imagine," Serov replied quietly.
Rodin turned away abruptly. Serov enjoyed the general's brief discomfiture.
A flock of technicians and members of the scientific staff walked funereally in the wake of the platform. Rodin was watching them as if — as if he owned them, Serov thought. At the far end of the hangar, where the light appeared dusty and inadequate, the shuttle craft lay on a similar, much smaller platform. Teams of people swarmed over it, bees around honey, obscuring any sight from where
Serov stood of the almost assembled laser weapon. He had a minimal interest in it as a machine; its power interested him a great deal more. Mere technology wearied him. It was, ultimately, a civilian world.
Chessboard patterning decorated the stages of the booster. Gleaming metal, curving, strong lines, a sense of massiveness; power, too. Serov, with Rodin's back to him, shook his head with cynical ruefulness. A gigantic badge of authority and power.
"I — have confined my son to his apartment for — the remainder of this week," Rodin announced without turning around.
"Very well, General. As long as—"
"He will speak to no one, he will not leave the place. Is that clear? Meanwhile, warn his friends to stay away from him."
"Yes, comrade General," Serov murmured. It had to be accepted. Rodin was using the advantage of Kedrov's disappearance to ensure that his decision was accepted.
As if pressing home his reasserted authority, Rodin asked: "What of the KGB's interest in this Kedrov?"
"Pure accident — drugs, we believe."
"Perhaps. But what consequences might follow?"
A group of senior officers was moving toward them. The third stage, the smallest, of the booster passed their position like a slow, submarine creature, out into the sunlight. There was sufficient clear sky for the American spy satellites to observe the moving of the booster. But then, a Soviet shuttle flight had already been announced to the world by Nikitin as a gesture. A rendezvous with the American shuttle in a mission of peace to symbolize the implementation of the treaty. Rodin merely flicked one hand toward the approaching group, and they halted, still some distance away.
"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 wate
r 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 Plexiglas 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…