“Maybe Matt was the only one he saw,” Brian said.
“Maybe,” Sanford replied.
They heard the shout. “Hey! We talk, okay?”
“What kind of accent is that?” Brian asked.
“Russian,” Sanford answered. He crawled into the front seat and reached under the dashboard, extracting a 9mm Glock. “Zeth, how you doing?”
“Better,” she answered, her voice gaining strength.
“Good. I want you to do the talking so he’ll think he’s dealing with a pushover. I need some time, so count to one hundred before you start. Tell him I’m wounded and need a doctor. Tell him anything, but keep him talking. I’m going upstream and will swim across. The current should carry me to the other side. I’m gonna get behind him.” He handed the automatic to Brian. “Use this if you have to.” He pulled his own weapon out of his shoulder holster and checked it. Then he was gone.
Zeth slowly counted to one hundred. “What do you want?” she yelled.
“We talk.”
“My father’s hurt. I need to get him to a hospital.”
“I let you go after you give me the boy. A deal, yes?”
Zeth looked at the boys and whispered, “It’s a kidnapping. He must think Matt is Brian because we’re with Sanford.”
“Tell him Brian fell in the water and disappeared,” Matt said.
“Brian fell in the river,” Zeth yelled. “He got swept away.”
“Not him. The other one.”
Zeth stared at Matt, her eyes wide. “I need to think about it,” she shouted.
Near Kiev, over the Ukraine
It was time to descend. “Emil,” Pontowski said, “tell Kiev Control we have a problem with our landing gear and want to check it out during descent.” He listened on the UHF radio as Emil made the radio call. After a brief exchange in Russian, Emil’s voice came over the Have Quick radio. “We’re cleared to descend at our discretion and maneuver to check our landing gear.”
Pontowski held them at altitude for a few more minutes to keep them high and conserve fuel. The lower they went, the greater their fuel consumption. “Throttles idle, airspeed two-ten,” he ordered. It was a maximum range descent where they traded altitude for miles at the lowest possible fuel consumption.
They leveled off at 300 feet, well below radar coverage. For a moment, Pontowski was tempted to bring his own radar to life for one sweep to find the airliner. But if the TU-204 was equipped with radar-warning gear, that would set off all sorts of alarms. “Let’s do this one visual if we can,” he transmitted. “Go tactical.” Each formation spread out into a big box, roughly 3,000 to 5,000 feet on a side.
“Okay, troops,” Waldo said, “heads up. A TU-204 looks like a Boeing 757. Except it’s got winglets.”
The pilots strained as they searched the sky.
New Mexico
Zeth checked her watch. “Chuck should have made it across by now.”
“Hey!” the man yelled. “Time’s up. Give me the boy and you okay.”
Matt stood up. But Brian tackled him just as a shot rang out, splitting the air above their heads. “No fuckin’ way, Maggot. I don’t know why he wants you, but he’s gonna kill us all.” They rolled back under the truck.
“Give me the boy,” the man yelled.
“How do we know you won’t shoot us?” Zeth yelled.
They heard the car start. The headlights came on and the car slowly moved onto the bridge and stopped, blocking it. The man got out, standing in an inch of water that was still flowing over the top of the wooden planks.
“The water’s going down,” Zeth whispered, shielding her eyes from the lights. They watched as the man walked in front of the car and held the rifle above his head. He threw it into the water.
“He’s out of ammo,” Brian said.
“I’ll bet he’s still got a weapon,” Zeth added.
“Now it’s okay, yes?” the man shouted.
The teenagers looked at each other, not sure what to do.
Near Kremenchug, over the Ukraine
Blue Two redeemed himself for the switchology error on the range when he called “Tallyho! Two o’clock high. Eight miles.” Seven sets of eyes focused on that part of the sky, first one click echoed in Pontowski’s headset, then six more. They had all found the target except him. His vision wasn’t what it used to be. Then he saw it. The airliner was a speck in the sky. He was padlocked, afraid to take his eyes off it and lose contact. “Waldo, take spacing, two miles in trail.” Waldo acknowledged and flew a weave as his flight fell into trail.
The information Riley had given him was accurate. They were at the airliner’s four o’clock and closing to its deep six o’clock. He estimated they were 35,000 feet below it with a good look-up angle for an AMRAAM missile. The slammer would do the job nicely and his fangs were out. It was not the glamorous image of chivalrous knights of the air, but the work of assassins. Yet, he had no compunctions about shooting down the airliner and killing innocent people to nail Vashin. How many more innocent Poles would he save? Faces flashed in his mind and he was back in the pub with Ewa and her mother. He forced himself to concentrate. He and Waldo had done what they came for.
“Emil, take the shot. Use the slammer.”
“My pleasure,” the Polish pilot answered.
“I’ll talk you through it,” Pontowski replied.
Red Three saw the threat first. “Bandits! In trail on the Tupolev. I count six.”
Pontowski strained to make them out. Then he saw the six small specks flying a V formation with the airliner. “Escorts,” he radioed. “I can’t make out what they are.”
“Press,” Waldo said, warning him they were rapidly running out of fuel and time.
Pontowski checked his fuel. They had less than a minute’s playtime to engage the fighters and shoot down the Tupolev if they were to make it back. His orders came fast. “Waldo, lean right. Red Flight, check left thirty degrees.” Waldo’s flight turned away to the right while Pontowski’s turned to the left. Now they had the fighters bracketed as they closed. “Select heaters,” Pontowski radioed, telling the pilots to use AIM-9s for the engagement. “Master Arm on.” His voice was amazingly calm, which wouldn’t last for long. The fighters were almost directly overhead. “PULL! he shouted, shoving his throttle into afterburner. The four Vipers headed straight up for the fighters.
Fifteen seconds later, Waldo keyed his radio, his voice much calmer, “Blue Flight, pull.”
Pontowski sorted the targets as they climbed, assigning each member of his flight a target. “They don’t see us,” he radioed. “Hold your shot until you’re in range.” A low growl filled his headset. The seeker head of his missile was locked on and tracking. “Su-27s, Flankers,” he radioed, finally identifying the bandits escorting the Tupolev. But he was wrong, the six aircraft were Su-35s, a much improved version of the Su-27.
“Damn!” Pontowski shouted. A missile was streaking toward the Flankers, its smoke trail etching the sky. Emil had buck fever and had fired too soon. The missile went ballistic.
The unbelievably fast AIM-9 shot straight up, passing harmlessly between the Flankers, leaving a smoke trail that led directly to Pontowski’s flight of four Vipers. One of the Flankers rolled for a belly check and saw the fighters climbing toward him. The Flanker buried its nose and headed down. Immediately, three others followed, leaving two behind to protect the Tupolev. Two Flankers headed straight for Pontowski’s Red Flight while the other two fighters headed for Waldo’s Blue Flight which was lower and farther away.
“He’s good,” Waldo said, warning Pontowksi. He personally doubted if he could have reacted that fast and sorted out the attack, pairing two against Pontowski’s flight while peeling off two to engage Blue Flight. Neither Waldo nor Pontowski feared the Su-35, but they had good reason to fear the man leading them.
“PRESS!” Pontowski shouted. What happened next took less than twenty seconds and with twelve fighters in less than five miles of airspace, it was a
true furball as the two groups of fighters merged, the Flankers going straight down, the Vipers straight up. The only mutual support that existed was knowing there were friends in the area. But it was every man for himself.
The TU-204 rocked violently, throwing Vashin to the floor. He picked himself up and fell again, rolling forward as the big airliner dove for the ground. He was furious and struggled to his feet, half stumbling, half skidding toward the flight deck. He burst through the door. Warning bells and the shouting pilots deafened him. “What are you bastards doing?” he shouted, adding to the confusion.
“We’re being attacked!” the captain yelled.
“Where are they?” Vashin shouted back.
The captain pulled back on the control column and the big plane leveled off. “We can’t see them,” the first officer answered.
Vashin’s mouth contorted in fury, his paranoia in full flow, fully believing his own pilots were trying to kill him.
Pontowski jerked the nose of his Viper on to the lead Flanker and pointed straight at him. He had every intention of shooting him in the face. The Flanker’s nose jerked once as the pilot fought for separation. Instantaneously, Pontowski’s nose was back on him. His right forefinger was depressing the trigger as they came together in the merge. The 20mm cannon fired as Pontowski rolled ninety degrees and brought the Flanker onboard canopy-to-canopy. The Flanker’s cannon was also firing but the golden BB, the lucky round, came from the Viper. The Flanker exploded as Pontowski flashed by with less than fifty feet of separation.
Vashin found his voice. “You fools,” he rasped, “I’ll have you…” The words froze in his mouth when he saw the tumbling wreckage of one of his escorts. A fighter he didn’t recognize flashed by, going straight up. For the first time in his life, he knew true fear.
Still going straight up at .92 Mach, Pontowski twisted in his seat, searching for the two Flankers he knew had to be there. He saw a bright flash that probably had come from Blue Flight. Theirs or ours? Then he was back in it, fighting for situational awareness. Much to his surprise, another F-16 was at his seven o’clock and 500 feet away. It was Emil in a fighting wing formation. Where were the other Flankers? The Tupolev? He checked his fuel gauge as he ruddered his aircraft over and headed straight down, Emil still covering his six o’clock. Instinctively, he found another Flanker. But an F-16 cut in front of him and fired an AIM-9. Pontowski crossed less than a hundred feet behind the F-16, shaking violently when he hit the other’s jet wake. A nearby flash almost blinded him. But this time he was sure it was the Flanker.
He pulled up, yelling over the radio, “BINGO! BINGO! BINGO!” They had to disengage or they would all flame out for fuel starvation before landing safely.
But Waldo was on top of it. “Blue Three. Disengage to the west. Now. Blue Two and Four, I have you in sight, your six is clear, head for homeplate.”
Pontowski saw a Viper nose over and go past a Flanker going in the opposite direction. Then it hit him, the Flanker was also disengaging. The fight was over. “Red Flight,” he transmitted, “disengage and RTB.” He listened and his spirits soared as his flight checked in. Everyone was accounted for! “I repeat,” he radioed, “return to base.” He scanned the sky. He rolled for a belly check and saw the Tupolev in the distance, 10,000 feet below him and crossing from his right to left.
“Damn!” he raged. The airliner was too far away to chase down with the fuel he had remaining. They had come all this way for nothing and shot down three good pilots who were only doing their job. He hit the auto-acquisition switch on his throttle, bringing his radar to life. He had a lock-on in less than a second. The airliner was seven miles away, closer than he thought, and on the hot side of the intercept. The decision was there, made for him. He nosed over and shoved the throttle forward into mil power. He hit the option-select button on his right multifunctional display and called up an AMRAAM missile.
Emil’s voice came over the radio. “I’m still with you.” Then, “Bandits at three o’clock.”
Pontowski’s head jerked to the right. Two small dots were turning into them, the second a mile behind the first. They were the two Flankers that had remained behind to escort the Tupolev.
“I’m engaged,” Emil transmitted, turning into the new threat, meeting the Flankers head on. Pontowski turned to follow, his turn to offer mutual support. He zoomed for separation, hoping one, or maybe both, of the Flankers would come after him. But the Flankers didn’t take the bait and by climbing, Pontowski had effectively left Emil out in front and all alone. “Goddamn it!” he raged. He watched as Emil and the lead Flanker closed and simultaneously launched missiles at each other. Now it was a race to see who had the fastest missile as both fighters jinked wildly, trying to avoid the oncoming missile. Emil’s missile flashed by the Flanker, missing completely. At the same instant, the proximity fuse in the Flanker’s missile detonated, sending a shower of shrapnel into Emil’s aircraft.
Pontowski felt sick as Emil’s jet disappeared in the missile’s fireball. Then, the F-16 was there, still flying but trailing a plume of fire. “Eject!” Pontowski yelled over the radio. He watched in horror as Emil and the Flanker collided head-on.
“Oh, shit,” Pontowski moaned to himself. A cold anger claimed him as he looked for the second Flanker. But it was far below him, headed straight down in afterburner, running from the fight. He turned on his radar, searching for the Tupolev.
“There!” the Tupolev pilot shouted, pointing at his ten o’clock position. Vashin’s eyes followed the pilot’s finger and he saw Pontowski’s F-16 as it surged into view, dropping on them like a bird of prey. “Do something!” he yelled. The captain jerked at the controls and turned into the fighter.
It was the only thing he could do.
Pontowski saw the nose of the Tupolev turn into him and he gave the pilot high marks for trying. Without emotion, he hit the pickle button, sending a fire signal to an AMRAAM missile. The slammer came off the rail and picked the first target its radar head detected. The missile headed straight for the Tupolev. Pontowski mashed the pickle button a second time and sent another missile on its way.
Vashin saw the two smoke trails etching the sky as the missiles came directly at him. An image of the archangel Michael launching thunderbolts flashed in his mind’s eye. Then he shouted at the pilots, his voice cracking with anger. He wanted to kill them because they were so helpless. It came to him in a flash. “Geraldine!” he shouted. “You cunt!”
His fury grew into a satanic rage, consuming him with hate, as the first missile closed. “It’s not my time!”
But it was.
Pontowski climbed at mil power and headed to the west. He was alone in the sky and desperately low on fuel. He hit the navigation button on the multifunctional display and called up the nearest friendly airfield where an F-16 could land. Rzeszów flashed on the screen, 450 nautical miles away. He leveled off at 40,000 feet, read the distance to go, and checked the fuel gauge again: 3,200 pounds of fuel remaining. He wasn’t going to make it. Maybe, and with a lot of luck, he could make it to Poland.
He unclipped his oxygen mask and wiped the sweat away from his eyes. The aftershock hit him and he ached with weariness, sick of it all. “You did good,” he murmured, recalling Emil’s face.
New Mexico
“He’s just standing there,” Brian whispered. “Like he’s got all the time in the world.”
“He’s testing us to see if we’ll shoot at him,” Zeth said. “By now, he probably figures we don’t have a gun.”
“The fucker’s wrong,” Brian growled, raising the Glock Sanford had given him.
Matt saw a shadow move on the opposite bank. “Look,” he whispered. It was Sanford. They watched as the Secret Service agent raised his automatic in a two-handed stance to shoot the man in the back. But nothing happened. Sanford disappeared into the shadows.
“His gun must’ve jammed,” Zeth whispered.
“I’m coming across,” the man shouted. He started to walk ac
ross the bridge which was now out of the water.
A shadow materialized on the far side of the bridge, gliding up behind the man. “Chuck,” Zeth whispered.
Sanford was behind him and threw a carotid hold around the man’s neck, cutting off the blood supply to the man’s brain. Normally, he would have been unconscious in five to ten seconds. But Sanford slipped on the wet boards and the men crashed to the deck. Brian stood up to get a clear shot but the men were on each other, gouging and tearing at the other’s eyes and throat.
Matt jumped into the driver’s seat of the truck and switched on the headlights to give Brian more light. He started the engine. Brian tried to get off a clean shot but Sanford was in the way. The man kicked at Sanford’s knee and the agent went down. Brian fired and missed. The man kicked Sanford in the head and knelt down behind him, pulling him up by his shirt as a shield. A knife flicked open in his hand. He held the blade to Sanford’s neck.
“Throw the gun in the river!” he yelled at Brian.
Sanford’s forefinger moved in a tight circle, the signal to start engines. Then he pointed at the truck and beckoned them forward. Matt understood immediately. “Brian, do it,” he ordered. Matt slipped the truck into gear.
Brian heaved the gun into the water just as Matt stepped on the accelerator. The truck leaped ahead and onto the bridge. The man’s head jerked in surprise as Sanford kicked free and rolled off the side of the bridge. Matt mashed the accelerator. The man stood up, an automatic in his hands, and fired three shots into the oncoming truck. Matt slipped as low as he could behind the steering wheel and held it steady.
The front bumper of the truck caught the man head-on and smashed him against the grille of his car. His scream shattered the dark night.
Edge of Honor Page 45