by Sean Heary
“I’ll freeze to death in here,” the driver protested, as Rossi manhandled him into the boot.
“Easily fixed,” Cathy said, training her gun at his head.
Without further grievance he lay down and Rossi slammed the boot shut.
The driver’s phone beeped in Cathy’s hand. “I bet you that’s not his mother,” Rossi said.
“You’re right. It’s a response from the dispatcher. It tells him not to do anything stupid…”
“Too late for that.”
“And to drive as slowly as possible to the terminal while he contacts the police.”
“Now, Plan B?”
“No,” Cathy said decisively. “We stay on plan.”
“Are you crazy? We’ll be driving straight into an ambush.”
“We still have time. You know how these things work. Right now the dispatcher will be trying to connect to the airport. And after he gets through, the airport security, the local police, OMON Special Forces and the Russian Air Force will all argue amongst themselves about who’s in charge.”
“So how much time do we have?”
“At least fifteen minutes,” Cathy said, with a confident nod of the head.
“Is that enough?”
“If we run. But first let me finish sending a response.” Thumb typing, Cathy informed the dispatcher that the whole thing had been an unfortunate case of mistaken identity. “Done.”
“That should buy us a few more minutes,” Rossi said, jumping in behind the wheel and hitting the accelerator. “By the way, what’s Plan B?”
“Have you ever seen Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?”
“Of course, it’s a classic.”
“Do you remember the ending?”
“Butch and Sundance were surrounded by the entire Bolivian Army and instead of surrendering they went out all guns blazing?”
“That’s Plan B.”
“What sort of plan is that?”
“That’s why Plan A is better,” Cathy said.
“I think I’m getting the hang of this CIA spy stuff. Mission success is directly correlated with selecting the least worst option.”
“Pure mathematics,” Cathy said. “Now let’s check whether my old friend Billy’s waiting for me as promised. The Kazakh steppes are not the best place to be stuck without a ride.” Cathy grabbed the satphone and dialled.
Airport car park now visible, Rossi slammed his foot on the brake. Cathy looked up startled thinking something was wrong.
“Let’s not make it too easy for them,” Rossi said. He crunched the gear stick into reverse and backed up twenty metres. To their right was a derelict pump station. He swung left down a barely visible driveway and pulled up behind the crumbling cream brick building and killed the lights.
“ETA twenty-five minutes,” Cathy said, waiting for confirmation before ending the call.
Rossi grabbed the torch from the backpack and jumped out. “I love it when a plan comes together,” he said.
Cathy threaded her arm through Rossi’s as they followed the driveway back to the approach road. An Arctic wind swept in from the north across the steppes carrying ice crystals that stung their eyes.
“I wish I had packed my sable,” Cathy said.
“You would’ve never got it through customs.”
“Yeah, I hear they’re strict out here.”
Rossi shone the torch beam across the frozen steppes, parallel to the faint silhouette of the airfield’s peripheral fence. “How far is it from here?”
“About three k’s. Twenty-five minutes at a reasonable clip.”
“That’s if we don’t break an ankle,” Rossi said.
“Didn’t you do cross-country at school?”
“Sure, but the conditions were a little more Mediterranean. And rarely at night.”
“A pampered childhood,” Cathy quipped, jogging off in the direction marked by the torch’s beam.
They covered the first two kilometres in no time flat, pushed on by adrenaline and the thought of being together in Rome.
“We’re out of range, Enzo. Give me a minute to check our bearings. I don’t want us ending up in Mongolia.”
While Cathy checked the GPS, Rossi glanced back towards the road.
“If this device can be trusted, we’ve got less than a kilometre to go.”
Rossi switched off the torch. “Let’s hope it’s not a kilometre too far.”
Cathy followed Rossi’s gaze back across the steppes. Police vehicles converged from both directions in front of the old pump station.
“I guess they found the taxi.”
“I told the driver not to worry,” Cathy said, checking the GPS one more time. “We need to veer left.”
“Well let’s keep moving. There’s no sense in giving them a sniff.”
68
Captain Igor Blokov fired up the powerful gas turbine engines and engaged the coaxial rotors of his 2-seat Ka-52 Alligator attack helicopter. As he taxied out to the runway at Orsk airport, co-pilot Lieutenant Chayka rechecked the weapons systems. Mounted to the fuselage was a 240-round, 30mm cannon, and under each wing were six Vikhr AT-16 laser-guided beam-rider anti-tank missiles.
This was no training exercise. Their mission was to make an unauthorised incursion into Kazakhstan, and with deadly force eliminate two foreign agents who had just crossed over from Russia.
“Let’s go barbecue ourselves some American imperialists,” Blokov said, opening the throttle and pulling up on the collective lever. The Alligator launched forward and climbed effortlessly into the dark, overcast sky.
Away from the airport, the steppes were sparsely populated. The absence of town lights and surrounding features required Blokov to fly at an altitude higher than he would’ve liked. But tonight it was to his advantage, as the rolling terrain gave the fugitives few places to hide. And with the Alligator’s state-of-the-art night vision systems, and the pilot’s in-helmet rangefinder and night vision eyepieces, target acquisition would be routine.
“Nothing better than fresh meat,” Chayka said, as the Alligator banked right and headed west towards the point Rossi and Cathy were thought to have crossed.
***
Down below, Rossi and Cathy entered Kazakhstan without a shot being fired. The chasing pack had given up and were heading back to the road. Rossi allowed himself to relax as he followed Cathy towards the coordinates shown on the GPS device.
“Darn cold out,” a man’s voice came from out of the darkness.
“Billy,” Cathy shrieked, rushing forward and throwing her arms around her compatriot. “Am I glad to see you!”
“Y’all got yourselves in a bit of a pickle I hear.”
“You could say that.”
Rossi thrust out his hand and introduced himself. They then stood around chatting while Billy smoked a cigarette.
“We should get going,” Rossi said suddenly, as though he had just remembered a dental appointment.
“Don’t get your cows runnin’, Sheriff,” Billy said, winking at Cathy.
Rossi stood perplexed.
“Billy’s from Texas,” Cathy said, as though it explained everything. “He means to say let’s wait a few minutes to see how the Russians respond. We don’t want to go running into trouble.”
“Look yonder,” Billy said, pointing across the steppes to the retreating policemen. “If the foot soldiers ain’t comin’, it means they’re sendin’ in the fly-boys. There’s positively no navy in these parts.”
“Would the Russians do that?” Rossi asked.
Cathy nodded. “It would be categorised as an accidental air incursion. You appreciate how inventive the Kremlin is with the truth.”
Billy held up his hand, motioning for silence. “That there’s a Ka-52 Alligator,” Billy said.
Billy, whose duties included intellige
nce gathering on Russian military technology, prided himself on being able to identify a helicopter type based solely on its sound. A unique feature of the Alligator is its coaxial rotor design in which the two main rotors contra-rotate one above the other, which eliminates the need for a tail rotor – the source of much of the noise in conventional helicopters. Billy recognised the Ka-52’s distinctive soft noise profile immediately.
“We need to hightail outta here before they make Texas barbecue outta us.”
Rossi stood for a moment longer, gazing towards the dark, distant sound. The thought of the Russians hunting him for the rest of his life popped into his mind.
“This way,” Billy cried, bounding towards a rocky outcrop that separated them from the Orsk-Aktobe highway – the only road out.
Rossi and Cathy scampered after Billy, all the time wondering if the Alligator had them lined up in its sights.
“In here,” Billy yelled, vaulting over a large boulder. On hands and knees he led them into a small natural grotto in which he had been sheltering for the last five hours.
The foreigners held their breath as the Alligator approached and hovered nearby, searching for evidence of their crossing. Rossi stared into Cathy’s tired eyes and gave her a reassuring smile.
“Won’t they spot your vehicle?” Cathy asked, after a nervous silence.
“This ain’t my first rodeo, good-looking,” Billy winked. “My ride’s been under a camo tarp for the last five hours. It’s as cold as a Texas beer.”
“No thermal image,” Cathy translated.
Before long the Alligator approached, then flew in an ever-expanding square pattern around the grotto. Ten minutes later the sky above them was once more silent.
***
“They can’t be this far west,” Captain Blokov said, flying low over the deserted Orsk-Aktobe highway.
“They must be hiding in the rocks.”
Blokov banked the Alligator hard left, and in a narrow creeping line pattern, flew slowly east over the rock formation.
“Target at four o’clock,” Chayka said, glancing at the video feed from the Gator’s nose-mounted camera. The monitor showed the thermal image of an idling SUV and three people. One at the wheel, another two standing behind the vehicle; one possibly armed.
“That’s strange! Why would they do that?” Blokov said. “They must have known we would double back.”
“The head count’s correct.”
“If it’s not them, who else could it be out here at this hour?” Blokov said, still wavering. “But it’s not a mistake you’d expect from a CIA operative.”
On the ground, the taller of the two men aimed his weapon towards the sound coming from behind the clouds. He mimicked a shot with an exaggerated recoil, then threw the rifle into the back of the SUV.
“He’s taunting us,” Chayka said.
“It makes little sense. Do they really think they’re safe just because they’re in Kazakhstan?”
Suddenly the quarry scrambled into their vehicle. The clouds had rolled back, revealing the Alligator silhouetted against a full moon.
“They’re on the move,” Chayka said, urgently.
Lurching forward, the SUV plunged down a shallow gully and took off west towards the highway. Blokov glanced at his co-pilot and nodded.
“Target confirmed,” Chayka said, his tone intense.
Blokov glanced at the screen. “A compact Subaru. Not exactly the CIA’s vehicle of choice,” he said. But there was no other explanation, and he wasn’t prepared to blow the mission on a hunch.
“Target designated.”
Blokov’s lips moved, but nothing came out.
“Weapon launched,” Chayka said. An evil smirk on his face as the Vikhr AT-16 missile, with its High-Explosive Anti-Tank (HEAT) warhead, corkscrewed its way to the target.
In an instant, the Subaru was consumed in a ball of fire and light. Metal and dust filled the air.
“I may have overcooked it,” Chayka said, laughing.
Blokov turned the Alligator for home.
69
Five hundred metres to the west, Rossi and the two Americans were showered with debris from the grotto’s ceiling as the blast impact shook the ground.
“What the hell was that?” Cathy cried.
“That there’s a case of mistaken identity,” Billy said, blessing himself with the sign of the cross.
“Maybe they’re trying to flush us out,” Rossi suggested, puzzled by what Billy meant.
Cathy grabbed Rossi’s arm as the Alligator approached for a second time and then hovered overhead. “They’ve spotted us,” she whispered, bracing for the worst.
***
Above the grotto, Captain Blokov was not convinced they’d liquidated the right target. So he made one final pass.
“The kill was good,” Chayka insisted, surprised that Blokov had doubts. “Besides, if we’ve messed up no one will be the wiser.”
Blokov laughed dismissively. “If we’ve messed up and our targets make it out alive, I’m sure the entire world will know.”
“But we haven’t messed up.”
“Let’s hope,” Blokov said.
With an uncomfortable sensation in his gut, Blokov tilted the cyclic control forward, opened the throttle and headed back towards the Orsk airfield for clearance to land.
***
When the sky fell silent, Billy ushered his charges out of the grotto and bustled them towards his nearby silver Ford.
Rossi folded up the camouflage tarpaulin while Billy warmed the engine. Cathy, still shaking from the notion of being buried alive, climbed in the front and turned on the radio in search of news.
“Let’s get out of here,” Rossi yelled, jumping in the back.
“What y’all do to get the Russkies so rattled?” Billy said, hitting the accelerator.
“Long story, Billy.”
“Hell, you weren’t involved in Volkov’s death, I hope?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Shit, no,” Billy said, scanning the horizon for a way out. “You Yankees fixin’ to start a war?”
“I’m messing with you Billy. The CIA would never involve itself in the affairs of another foreign state.”
“Shit, it’s great to see ya again, Cathy. I’ve missed your sassy sense of humour – not to mention your short skirts.”
“How long’s it been, Billy?”
“Too long.”
In the back of the vehicle, Rossi gazed up at the clearing sky.
“They’re not comin’ back, Inspector General,” Billy said, glancing in the rear-view mirror at Rossi’s tired face.
“What makes you so confident?”
“Because you’re already dead,” Billy said, pointing to a smouldering tyre, caught in the SUV’s headlights.
“I’m sorry,” Rossi said.
“The explosion you heard earlier. That was a Russian Vikhr AT-16 laser-guided missile hittin’ the wrong target.”
“You mean…”
“Uh huh. They think you’ve already gone to visit Elvis.”
“But how – who?” Cathy asked, surprised that in such a godforsaken place an alternative target was even possible.
“Lady Luck,” Billy said, kissing the horseshoe ring on his little finger. “When I arrived, I did me some recon – lookin’ for alternative ways out in case there was a chase. I stumbled across a small group of Russian geologists over yonder. I listened for a while. They were packin’ up to go home after a week in the field. Then at the last minute one of them produced a large bottle of vodka. Likely they got themselves drunk as a fiddler’s bitch, then woke up at precisely the wrong time.”
“That’s ghastly,” Cathy said.
Billy chuckled. “One man’s loss is another man’s gain.”
Cathy and Rossi tossed f
rom side to side as Billy manoeuvred the SUV down a rocky embankment onto the frozen creek bed that led to the only road out. “Shaken but not stirred,” Billy said, glancing at Cathy, who was almost asleep.
Fifteen minutes later they were on the Aktobe-Orsk highway heading south-east. Rossi, alone in the back and exhausted beyond caring, felt an upsurge of relief and delight so powerful that tears welled up in his eyes. God’s in His Heaven – all’s right with the world.
70
Having slept most of the 170-kilometre drive from the Kazakh border, Rossi and Cathy felt relatively fresh as they boarded their covert flight to Rome.
“Inspector General, there’s a master stateroom with a shower at the rear if you would like to freshen up,” the flight attendant whispered in his ear. “We have another hour before take-off.”
“Yes, of course,” Rossi said. As he rose, he glimpsed his reflection in the silver champagne bucket on the table in front of him. I hope I don’t smell as bad as I look.
“We also carry spare designer clothes for emergencies,” the flight attendant added. “Please help yourself. I’m sure you’ll find something in your size.”
The customised Boeing 737 business jet was like nothing Rossi had ever seen. The interior was configured to carry a mere eighteen passengers. It included a plush living room and a high-tech boardroom. There was even a fully equipped kitchen with a centre island for preparing gourmet meals for the most discerning palate. Looks more like an upmarket Manhattan apartment than a plane, Rossi thought as he moved towards the back.
“We also have a range of ladies wear, Agent Doherty,” the stewardess said, her tone flat. “I’ll let you know when the stateroom is free.”
Cathy sat for ten minutes stewing before ringing the call button. The flight attendant appeared promptly with a fresh bottle of champagne.
“You called, Ms Doherty.”
“Ah, you read my mind,” Cathy said, holding out her glass.
As the stewardess removed the foil from around the cork, Cathy rose abruptly. “On second thoughts, I should really go and help the Inspector General wash his back,” she said with a wink as she strutted off.
***