by Gar Wilson
The massive fire was just too much and made the fight go out of the Russians.
Many of them dropped their weapons and tried to get out of the city in any direction they could.
The Phoenix team cheered. They thought they had it made. In minutes they would be airborne.
The mood was suddenly broken. "Stop," Katz ordered sharply.
Calvin James looked aghast, but drove the brake pedal to the floor.
The car went into a skid, but Katz was out of it before it stopped.
Only then did the others see the unbelievable: an Intourist bus turning a corner from the undamaged north residential side of town.
"Where the hell are they going at a time like this?" Katz asked.
His answer was a barrage of bullets that buzzed all around him.
"Let's forget it, Katz," Gary Manning yelled. "Let's get out of here alive."
Katz hesitated, then ducked and swung into the car as it leaped ahead.
For a moment there was relative quiet as they raced to the airstrip.
Now if I don't kill myself trying to fly a kite, Katz thought to himself, maybe I'll see the dawn one more time at least.
14
Inside the Intourist bus, Arnold Vulcan stood at the front as it rolled carefully through the smoldering ruins of Cheyenne. The driver swerved repeatedly to miss the dead and the dying.
The flames had begun to consume the north section of the city. People were saving their personal belongings. A few half-heartedly poured water on the flames with garden hoses.
To the south the flames had taken on the ferocity of an escaped tiger. He refused to look in that direction.
Vulcan felt nothing for the injured, the dead, or the homeless. They had brought it upon themselves. None of them had fought hard enough or wisely enough.
He had one concern. He must be out of the country before anyone in a high position learned about the catastrophe.
Vulcan still found it difficult to believe that so much carnage had been wreaked upon his beloved dreamworld in a matter of hours. And all the slaughter had been carried out by only five men, although he received reports that a full company, a platoon at least, had ravaged his domain.
The men with burned clothing and smeared faces had reported to him with awe in their voices.
"There were so few of them," one after another had said.
"Yet it seemed they were everywhere." The phrase was repeated like a scratched record, over and over.
"And so many of you," Vulcan replied in disdain.
"We could shoot, but they were always well covered."
"They changed positions so often."
"They were behind us when we thought we had them encircled."
"We could do nothing."
Except get in each other's way, Vulcan thought.
"You taught us that one or two well-trained men or women can do more damage than divisions of soldiers."
Vulcan believed that. His entire Cheyenne was based on that theory. It was particularly true in peacetime, when ponderous armies and doomsday weapons were useless. The great powers dare not show their real strength for fear of setting off a worldwide holocaust.
He still trumpeted about that the Three Mile Island incident was a massive victory his people had achieved. Actually he could not prove that his graduates deserved credit for the nuclear disaster. Afterward, though, the Politburo funded the construction of his ambitious training grounds.
Since then his graduates had achieved key positions throughout the American nuclear power system. Current orders forbade them to unleash any catastrophic explosions, but they plagued the industry so successfully that the American media and conservationists bannered the slightest incident. The growth of the nuclear power industry ground to a halt in America; the enemy became more dependent upon Middle East oil, a supply the Communists could disrupt easily whenever need be.
The Cheyenne project gloried in other successes. Vulcan's people masterminded labor strikes that disrupted the American balance of trade. They ran drugs into military bases in the States and around the world.
Their accomplishments were many, and the sphere of their operations was extensive. The Politburo would remember his successes.
These comforting thoughts, balm to his current wounds, were interrupted when Colin Edge signalled the bus to stop in front of the computer store.
Vulcan's prime assistant had soot on his face, and his clothes were bloodied. He had served as Vulcan's eyes through the night's battle.
He had his luggage in hand and discarded a gun on the sidewalk before he climbed in.
"You must clean yourself up before we reach Yalta," Vulcan chastised him.
"Yes, sir," Colin Edge agreed meekly before telling more important matters in a whisper only meant for his superior's ear. "The attackers are escaping by using the Ultralights."
Vulcan swung about. His eyes flared with anger. The planes had been Ann Cardwell's suggestion. She said they would be a good sport for his agents. Not only would the small aircraft give his people a club to join, they could be useful in surveillance. No one would shoot down such a harmless-looking aircraft should it stray over a military installation.
Ah, blame her for the escape, he thought. His genius lay in his ability to turn fault to advantage.
"Is no one stopping them?"
"Some tried," Colin Edge said. "I think the enemy is escaping anyway, but how far can they go?"
"Not far," Vulcan admitted. "Forget the invaders. They will be a minor irritation if we succeed in what we are about to do."
He returned all his attention to the people on the bus. He waited for them to quiet.
"I can now tell you your mission."
He had their attention.
"As you were briefed in the beginning, you are supposed to be an ordinary group of Americans from all over that country, which has been touring Russia by bus. You know little about the other travelers except for your husband, wife, or companion. If you have been circumspect as ordered, only Colin, Miss Cardwell, and I know your fabricated life story. Without arousing suspicion, reveal as little as possible about where you came from in the States. But if it becomes necessary to lay somebody's suspicion to rest, then do not be afraid of revealing anything we have implanted in your biography.
"We know all that," the man named Larson interrupted.
Vulcan ignored him.
"For this, the second half of your extended holiday, you will take a Greek cruise ship sailing early this morning. Actually, the ship is already waiting for us in Yalta. Your major stops will include Istanbul, Athens, Mykanos — the most beautiful of all the Greek Islands — and finally, Venice, Italy."
The bus buzzed with excited voices until a man named Morgan interrupted. For months his part in the project called for practicing welding.
"Do you mean we are going to continue in spite of the disaster this evening?" he asked.
"Would you prefer to remain behind?" Vulcan asked.
"No. No," he answered quickly, too quickly, and people laughed nervously.
None of them care for anyone else, Vulcan thought. Why should I care what happens to any of them?
"Wait. Does this mean we are not going to the United States?" a woman asked. She was an experienced secretary.
"Heavens, no," Ann Cardwell spoke up. She sat down on a front aisle seat while Vulcan remained standing. "You will continue on to your homes in the States where you will be helped to set up new lives by a field commander."
Vulcan took charge again. "Remember the résumé of your American life at all times."
"I am supposed to be a recovered alcoholic," Larson said.
A woman added, "And I am supposed to be a call girl."
"Yes. We use those backgrounds frequently," Ann Cardwell said.
"Stop it," Vulcan intervened. "I just told you not to reveal anything about yourself, even to each other, unless it is necessary." He knew there were informers among them, and already they had all revealed too mu
ch. He did not really care, but the fear of being caught breaking rules gave him a leverage over them that he needed. "Believe me, your artificial life has been assembled by experts. We have never had a casualty due to an identity problem."
"All right," Larson said. "What about the cruise?"
"What about it?"
"Why are we the only group ever scheduled to travel in such luxury?"
"You are the largest group we have ever sent out."
"Bullshit, as the Americans say. There is a secret reason behind this. This I know."
"You will be briefed aboard ship," Vulcan said. His voice was growing angry.
"Bullshit again. We have agreed, all of us, that we will not leave Russia without knowing the fundamentals of our mission."
"The cruise is mere transportation," Colin Edge spoke up, something he rarely did with Vulcan at hand.
Larson sneered at him. "We do not believe that. We are certain we have a mission aboard ship."
There had been a leak, Vulcan realized. "We?" he mocked. "Since when do you speak for others, Larson?"
A man halfway down the bus answered. "Since tonight. Since we saw other trainees gunned down in the street, since we watched strangers destroy half of your Cheyenne."
Another agreed. "Yes, Larson speaks for all of us."
"Agreed."
Others chimed in, and there was a chorus of support.
"Yes."
"We will not board without knowing."
Vulcan looked out the window. There were lights in houses lining the road, indicating that they were in the outskirts of Yalta. He had intended to hold firm to his rules, but it looked as though he would have to yield to some extent.
The rebellion drove him to a frenzy. He wished he could redirect the bus to a KGB establishment he knew about and get revenge for the insubordination.
If there was any chance whatsoever that he could strike the same target at a later date, he would have done just that. But that was impossible, nor could he form a new team in time.
"You know this borders on treason," he said.
No one spoke. He had cowed them temporarily, yet he knew he had to let them know something, or they might become rebellious and unreliable at a later time when he could least afford it.
"You are going to sink the cruise ship," he said.
"What?"
The single exclamation spoke for the entire group.
Ann Cardwell raised her hands for silence. "Don't worry. Your safe escape is all arranged. We can't afford to lose any of you. Reverend Vulcan and I will be aboard, also."
"Me, too," Colin Edge added.
"Yes, Colin will be with us. We don't have any desire to commit suicide. You will be perfectly safe."
Vulcan allowed Colin and Ann to reassure the people and give him more time to recover from his rage, which he could barely control.
"How can we possibly sink a ship?" a woman asked.
"Larson should know."
All heads turned in Larson's direction.
It seemed that some kind of understanding had dawned in his mind, and apparently he was satisfied. It seemed as though suddenly his stature had grown within the group, and he savored the glory coming to him.
Vulcan finally continued. "In your luggage we have placed all the hand weapons you will need. In your toilet articles and elsewhere in your suitcases, each of you is carrying a quantity of commercially available chemicals, which Larson, with some of you helping him, can quickly blend into C-4 plastic, nitroglycerin, PBN-1, Astrolite A-1-5. As he can tell you, some of the concoctions he can make are the most powerful non-nuclear explosives in use today. You will not find it difficult to follow his instructions."
A woman tried to speak up, and Ann answered her unspoken question. "After the regular fire drill required the first day at sea, you will be contacted. The next sound of the warning whistle will be for real. In this ship, regulations call for passengers to gather in the lounges. You will head straight for your boats. You'll be safely away from the ship before the explosions."
"So don't worry," Vulcan said. "Soon you will be aboard one of the finest ships sailing today."
He sat down and looked out the window to relax. The night was dark although it wouldn't be for long. The streets were quiet except for the drone of engines.
Strange. He could see no moving vehicles to the front or to the sides.
He felt chilled suddenly.
The engine noise was coming from above.
* * *
The car had leaped onto the airfield, its left front tire punctured by a lucky shot from a Russian sentinel at the edge of the strip.
The car struck the Russian, and his body bounced upward, then dropped across the hood, obscuring the driver's vision. But James did not let up on the accelerator. Only when they were alongside the feather-weight aircraft did he lock the brakes and skid to a stop.
On the mad dash from the smoldering town, David McCarter, who was checked out on propeller craft up to four engines, had described the Ultralights and their simple operation.
At the field, Katz sent Encizo and James to take up a holding position. Their assignment was to provide cover for the others, so they could become acquainted with the aircraft on which their escape depended.
Finally there was no more time for "flight training." The townsmen were still a real threat and could literally arrest their flight at any moment.
The engines were running. McCarter was at the controls on the right flank, strapped into the tiny bucket seat. The back of the seat was a curved, six-inch long by four-inch tall aluminum backrest. It was attached to the front mounts for the small, pusher-type engine.
A stick, two foot pedals, and a throttle constituted the controls. The instrumentation amounted to no more than a plastic tube with a hole at the bottom. A button in the middle of the tube rose or fell in ratio to the speed of the wind. It was good enough for gauging takeoff and stall speeds. It was adequate, too, for judging appropriate landing speed, though they would not need that capability.
They knew from the start that they would be using the explosive-deployed parachutes when they finally came down.
In the center aircraft was Katz. He did not worry so much about trashing himself, but he felt responsible for Calvin James who occupied the seat beside him. Before he could strap himself in, they were moving.
Manning and Katz pushed the throttles forward to keep abreast of McCarter. They were learning by actually having to do what they couldn't fully know how to do. Many others had learned the same way in the early days of the sport.
Nobody tried to see the speed indicator in the dark. When the Briton pulled back on his stick, the fragile craft started to climb smoothly.
Katz hauled back too hard, felt the engine falter and came down again with a teeth-cracking bump that damaged the fragile landing gear on the right. He pushed the throttle farther forward, lifted the right wing slightly and started a one-wheel takeoff.
He veered toward Manning, then overcontrolled to the right. The plane seemed weightless, and it bounced about in the air, with the tail intent on doing its own thing.
Katz almost wondered if the controls had any effect on the craft's capricious behavior. Being on the ground getting shot at from three directions paled by comparison.
"Hey, Katz," Calvin James called as he clung to a strut with both hands. "Katz."
"Don't bother me. I'm busy."
"The trees…"
"Oh, hell!" The trees were directly ahead of them.
Katz ignored the niceties of level flight and drew back on the stick, restraining the instinct to haul back as far as he could.
They cut through the small branches of the trees that clutched the landing gear. The very tips swiped at the legs of the fliers.
The nose dipped, and Katz corrected, then climbed at a forty-five degree angle. The craft started to stall.
He needed sixty feet to recover, according to McCarter.
He put the nose down and assessed the
situation. He jutted his chin forward in determination and opted for a bank to their left. When he spotted a slight depression in the trees, he headed in that direction.
James saw Gary Manning's fragile craft directly above the same indentation. His ship appeared to be waiting.
Katz recovered from the stall, collected a few more twigs on the tail wheel, and managed to climb up under the other Ultralight, leaving two or three feet to spare.
Slowly the Israeli gained speed and slid out from under Gary Manning. The cheerful, optimistic expression that helped his men through many crises began to return to his features. Fifty feet above the trees and flying level, Katz turned to his passenger and grinned.
"Better than a roller coaster," he said.
James disagreed. "Like hell. Just get me down."
Katz, though, was beginning to enjoy the flight. When the opportunity came, he took the lead and motioned for the others to follow him.
He saw what he wanted.
A few horse-drawn wagons and one heavy truck were the only sign of life on the highway until the Intourist bus pulled onto the regular road from the entrance lane to Cheyenne.
Several miles ahead, flashing lights signaled a roadblock. That was probably the police looking for the two men who demolished so many vehicles.
Katz directed his wingmen to pull away from the road until the bus had cleared the roadblock.
Later, where the road made a broader bare swath through the forest, Katz eased down until he was flying no more than thirty feet up. James clutched the strut with both hands, but Katz ignored the danger.
Only when he had satisfied himself that he was trailing the right bus did he climb again. In the city, following the bus became more difficult, although the relatively empty streets helped.
The port was just ahead, and James yelled in warning. "Radar. The Russians will pick us up on radar any second if they haven't already."
Katz disagreed. "We're too low."
He did a wing-over and came back, skimming a freighter on one side of the longest pier. On the far side, forklift trucks were moving luggage into a brilliantly lit cruise ship.