Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “J. C.? What’s that stand for?”

  As if in reply Powell suddenly heeled sharply up and over to the left and executed another tight combination aileron/barrel roll over the MiG that had been on his left wing. In the blink of an eye Powell was now flying in perfect formation with the Russian-made fighters, just off the left wing of the second MiG. The pilot of the second MiG gave Powell an appreciative wave, which Powell quickly returned.

  McLanahan’s reaction was: “Jesus Christ, Powell . .

  And, so saying, realized that he had answered his own question.

  The Cuchillo pilots executed a Navy-like overhead pattern before landing. They and Powell’s aircraft flew straight down the main runway at five hundred feet altitude, but instead of using timing to gain aircraft separation, each plane in the formation executed a tight left mid-way down Verrettes’ main runway at the same moment, using only the severity of their turn to gain separation. The first plane pitched out at six Gs, turning so hard that the pilot’s heart, which normally weighed about five pounds, now weighed thirty; the second plane pitched out at four Gs, and Powell pitched out at two. The result of the variable left pitch-out turn was that each aircraft was separated by about six seconds after completing a hundred-eighty- degree turn. As they crossed parallel to the approach-end of the runway, each lowered his landing gear and flaps, then made another left turn and landed, one behind the other.

  Powell used the Sukhoi-27’s unusual ability for high angle-of-attack flight and low maneuvering speed to land at the very end of Verrettes’ eight-thousand-foot-long runway, stopping the forty-thousand-pound fighter in less than two thousand feet. He taxied to the nearest perpendicular exit but did not taxi off the runway—the smugglers would have to block both the runway and the taxiway to prevent his Sukhoi-27 from departing . . .

  Which they promptly did. Two Jeeps screeched to a halt directly in front of the fighter, both carrying three soldiers armed with AK-47 and AK-74 automatic rifles, and a fuel truck pulled up behind. A third Jeep drove up the taxi way and parked in the middle of the narrow roadway. Powell’s Sukhoi was surrounded.

  Salazar climbed out of the Jeep parked on the taxi way and put his fists on his hips like II Duce, waiting as the Sukhoi-27’s engines were shut down, then moved toward the Sukhoi. As he did the canopy swung open and the man in the rear cockpit, still wearing a camouflaged flight helmet with his visor down, aimed a Uzi submachine gun at the ex-Guban Air Force officer. Guns were immediately drawn and cocked all around him, but Salazar realized that the Russian crewman in the back seat would get him before any of his men could return fire. Moving out in the open was a bad idea, Salazar realized after the fact, but who would have expected these Russian pilots to carry such weapons?

  “Prerodigh, ” the Sukhoi pilot called out, removed his helmet, set it on the canopy sill in front of him and hopped out onto the canopy rail. This time in English he said, “At ease, everybody. I’m coming down.” The young pilot climbed down off the Sukhoi-27 and trotted over to Salazar, extending a hand to him. “Buenos dies, senor. That about exhausts my Spanish, sir. You must be Colonel Salazar. I am Flight Captain Viktor Peytorvich Charbakov.”

  After a long moment, Salazar took the pilot’s hand. He was studying the man’s eyes, his uniform, his mannerisms. He saw the pistol holster on the pilot’s survival harness—it looked European or even American, not Russian. “You are a pilot in the Soviet Air Force, Captain Charbakov? What unit?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, sir,” Powell told him. “I am assigned to the Revolutionary Air Forces in Cuba. Beyond that, I cannot answer your questions.”

  “You fly a Russian fighter but you do not wear a Russian flight suit or use a Russian flight helmet. Very unusual. It will be necessary to hold you and your crewman until we receive verification of your identity.”

  “That’s not very hospitable, Colonel.”

  “You are on my base. I make the rules here.”

  Powell shrugged, turning toward McLanahan in the Sukhoi, who still had his Uzi aimed at Salazar. “That’s fine, Colonel. You do what you like. But if Boris back there doesn’t make a radio call in five minutes, my squadron comes looking for me. There’s my wingman in another Sukhoi-27 and two Sukhoi-24 bombers airborne right now from Santa Clara, and a helicopter ground assault team will be airborne behind them.” Powell folded his arms casually, looking at the growing circle of pilots and soldiers around Salazar’s Jeep. “Now, you people are good, Colonel. Very good. But do you really want to mix it up with the Pedyesyaht-Ahdyen Sukhoputnyye Voyska and my squadron?”

  Salazar nodded at that last question. He did indeed recognize the name of the Fifty-First Shock Troops, the elite Russian marine expeditionary unit assigned to Havana. The strategic mission of the Fifty- First, apart from its “public” mission as training advisors to the Cuban Army, was to decimate coastal American defenses and bases in case of a conflict, and to continue on to destroy communications and transportation lines within the United States. Salazar knew them as the toughest, best-trained, and best-equipped military unit in the world—they could sweep through Verrettes’ defenses with their eyes closed.

  The Russian pilot noticed that Salazar had indeed recognized the name and importance—and the threat—of the ground-assault unit designated to come to his rescue, and he put an arm around Salazar’s shoulder, turned him, and gently steered the exiled Cuban commander to his Jeep. “Now, Colonel, I’d appreciate it if you moved all those Jeeps off the runway and away from my plane. I’d also appreciate it if you would sell me a few thousand liters of gas—fully reimbursable, at whatever price you determine, by the full faith and credit of the Soviet Union, of course.” He could see Salazar's faint smile—obviously Salazar wouldn’t be averse to making a fat profit from the Russian military. “Then I’d like to look around your fine base here. In exchange, I will show you my Sukhoi fighter, and I will debrief your pilots on our exercise this afternoon. And I trust we may dispense with all this mistrust and suspicion now.”

  Salazar swallowed hard. “Of course, Captain. Invite your crewman to come along as well.”

  “Unfortunately he has his own tasks to perform. He will remain with the plane. He would have little appreciation for what we have to discuss in any case.”

  “Why is that?

  “He is a Special Forces security officer,” Powell said. “His job is to see to it that his plane does not fall into the wrong hands. He knows how to operate that machine gun, the radios and the ejection handles, and little else. If he even suspected me of defecting or escaping inflight he would shoot me and eject. If any of your men took one step toward the Sukhoi he would hold you off long enough to push the button on a destruct mechanism in the plane. The marines would then have destroyed your base in a follow-up attack.” Powell smiled. “I may be able to walk away from that plane, Colonel, but my leash is very real. And now it encircles you and your men as well. I suggest you do as I say.”

  Salazar, knowing more than a little about the Russian elite force and security people from his days before exile, tried hard to swallow his earlier doubt. Never mind glasnost, the old guard was far from impotent or defeated. Especially in Cuba. And the Soviet Air Force would never allow an aircraft such as a Sukhoi-27 to fall into enemy hands. They would destroy everyone and everything around to see that no unfriendly forces got too close.

  The ex-Cuban officer turned and waved a hand at the Jeeps and trucks bracketing the Sukhoi-27, and they rolled away immediately. The gun in the hands of the man in the back seat of the Sukhoi did not waver.

  “Thank you, Colonel,” Powell told him. “I would like to supervise the refueling and hear about your base here, and then, as promised, I would be happy to show you my jet.”

  Salazar picked up his walkie-talkie and ordered the fuel tank to refuel the Sukhoi-27. Powell did not understand the words, but the fuel tank parked in back of the Sukhoi moved quickly to the left side of the advanced Soviet fighter near the refueling/ground-service panel.
Powell directed the ground crew on where the single-point refueling port and fuel-tank valves were located, then began a walk around of the jet with Salazar while it was being refueled. The man in the aft cockpit stayed put even during the refueling. “He does not care that the plane could explode any second if there is an accident?” Salazar asked, motioning to McLanahan.

  “He doesn’t understand about accidents and refueling. He understands his orders, that’s all.” Powell paused, then asked, “So. You have two MiGs and a couple of other planes. Is this a detachment of the Haitian Air Force or . . . something else?”

  “You understand the need for secrecy on my part as well as your own, Captain. We are indeed part of the Haitian reserve militia. Their government is very unstable, as you know, but more than that I cannot tell you. We too have our orders. We are a very well- equipped unit, fortunate enough to have acquired considerable aircraft and weapons. We are not, I assure you, any threat to Cuba. Cuba is my birthplace. It is sacred to me.”

  “I understand. But how does a militia in Haiti get such weapons when the standing Haitian military does not have them?”

  “We have need for skilled, fearless pilots, such as yourself, Captain Charbakov,” Salazar said, a forced smile appearing. “Your skills are impressive. Your questions, however, show a certain lack of . . . discipline. What was that last maneuver you accomplished over the runway? I have never seen it before.”

  “The tail-first flying maneuver? It is called Pougachev’s Cobra,” Powell said. “An emergency deceleration technique. The alpha limiters on the Sukhoi-27 are deactivated to allow flight at up to one hundred twenty degrees angle-of-attack for brief moments.”

  “Have you ever considered a flying career in Haiti, Captain? We are very well paid by our clients—our government. You would command our training unit, second in command to myself and my aide, Field Captain Hermosa there.”

  “It is a tempting offer, Colonel.” They watched as the refueling lines were disconnected and the fuel truck moved off the runway. “I thank you for the fuel. Now, I would like to meet with your pilots, if I may.”

  Salazar nodded, then motioned to Hermosa. “Stay with the fighter.”

  Powell glanced at McLanahan in the Sukhoi’s cockpit. He was still standing there, the Uzi in his right hand now aimed upward away from Salazar. It appeared he had not moved, but Powell immediately saw that McLanahan was holding onto the headrest on the forward seat with three fingers of his left hand visible in a prearranged signal. Three minutes until the F-lll showed up. Ten minutes after that, if they weren’t airborne, the MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter from Hurl- burt Field in Florida with a dozen Air Force Special Operations troops would attack the base in an attempt to rescue them. At least that was the plan.

  Powell didn’t want to stray too far from the flight line, but Salazar was already motioning him to a seat in his Jeep and he had no choice but to follow. He took a seat in the front, Salazar and another soldier in the back seat.

  He had climbed into the Jeep and they had started away from the flight line when Powell noticed a covered truck screech to a halt at the far end of the aircraft parking ramp. Several armed soldiers jumped out and began taking positions behind the truck, concealing themselves from McLanahan in the Sukhoi. Powell put a hand on the doorway of the Jeep to help himself jump free, but he felt a hard object placed roughly on the back of his head.

  “Relax, Captain Charbakov, if that is who you really are,” Salazar said. “We will take good care of your plane. Now put your hands on the dashboard. Do not move or we will be forced to—”

  Powell did not wait for the rest of it. fie reared back with his left foot and kicked the gear-shift lever between the two front seats, slamming the transmission from second gear into reverse. The Jeep screeched to a halt and the soldier in the back seat flew forward up against the driver. His rifle muzzle scraped along the left side of Powell’s head and was only a few inches in front of his face when the rifle went off.

  Propelled partly by the concussion of the rifle, Powell threw himself out of the stalled Jeep. He landed on his right shoulder, rolled and tried to get to his feet. But the blast from the rifle had turned his vision into yellow-and-white stars of panic. He could not make his legs and feet respond. He heard loud shouts in Spanish, a shuffle of heavy-booted feet, and the sound of a gun being cocked behind him . . .

  Shots and screams, the sound of bullets plowing into metal and concrete, but he was still alive. McLanahan had opened fire on the Jeep from the Sukhoi-27. “Powell, goddammit, run!”

  The ringing in his head was still disorienting, but McLanahan’s warning came through. Powell tugged his pistol from his holster and, moving sideways, headed for the Sukhoi-27—the rifleman in the Jeep beside Salazar raised his rifle and Powell took quick aim and got ofiF a shot. The soldier, uninjured but surprised at the return fire, jumped out the other side of the Jeep away from Powell and McLanahan’s fire and took cover.

  Salazar, disgusted, muttered his feelings to the soldier, climbed out of the Jeep and stood facing Powell, who was about twenty meters away, half the distance to the Sukhoi, popping ofiF random shots in Salazar’s direction. Salazar reached into his right riding boot, extracted a long, thin throwing knife, and like a baseball pitcher winding up for a fastball, threw the knife at Powell with all his skill and force . . .

  Almost there, Powell thought. The rifleman from the Jeep was gone, Salazar appeared to be unarmed and McLanahan had pinned down the riflemen in the truck. “Major,” Powell shouted. “Start the APU. Get her ready to—”

  Powell heard a thin, whispering hiss, like a bumblebee flying near his head. A thin piece of steel had imbedded itself into his left arm just above his elbow. Blood spurted through his flight suit’s sleeve, staining the fabric with inky black circles. He dropped the pistol, grabbed at the knife with his right hand—and the pain hit him with full force. He felt the point of the stiletto scrape against bone and half-stumbled as his face flushed and the fingers of his left hand grew numb. The pain traveled up his left arm, sending a jolt through his spine to his brain. His feet felt like concrete weights, and he couldn’t seem to make them do what he wanted any more.

  “Powell, quick, this way ...”

  Thank God McLanahan was still calling out. Powell regained his balance, headed toward the sound of the Sukhoi’s high-pitched whining auxiliary power unit—and ran headlong into the Sukhoi-27’s fuselage. He crawled under the nose, found the built-in handholds and toeholds in the left side of the Russian fighter and began to crawl into the cockpit. He had almost reached the safety of the cockpit when he felt a hand tug at his right leg.

  Strength washed out of his body, his energy spent. His left arm felt dead. “Major, help,” Powell muttered.

  McLanahan aimed the muzzle of the Uzi over the edge at Field Captain Hermosa, who now had his hands high over his head. A slip of paper was in one hand.

  McLanahan kept a careful watch on the soldiers off the right side of the Sukhoi, but kept the Uzi pointed at Hermosa. “What the hell do you want?”

  Hermosa tossed the slip of paper into the cockpit. “I know who you are,” he said. “I have seen you on television, you are one of the Hammerheads of the Border Security Force . . .”

  The whine of the Sukhoi’s number-one engine grew louder, threatening to drown out Hermosa’s voice. Yelling, he continued, “I have pulled the wheel chocks on your jet. You must return that list to your headquarters. It is very—”

  A shot rang out, and Hermosa collapsed onto the runway. McLanahan took aim and fired at soldiers who had gotten around to the left side of the plane. One fell, the other scurried away and jumped down the slight embankment on the left side of the runway.

  “Hit it, Powell,” McLanahan called as Powell dragged himself into his seat and wearily began preparing his systems for takeoff.

  The right engine had just started and was winding up to full power when Powell put on his helmet, released brakes and shoved the left throttle forward. McLa
nahan emptied the Uzi’s last clip at soldiers near the truck who were moving toward them, tossed the weapon clear of the rolling fighter, sat in his seat and motored the canopy closed. The thick glass-plastic laminated canopy had already been starred by several bullet holes.

  “Look,” Powell shouted, his head clearing. Out ahead of them, nearly at the end of the runway, sat trucks blocking the departure end of the runway. Soldiers had already fanned out along the runway with weapons aimed at the Sukhoi. Powell slammed on the brakes and brought the throttles of the big Russian fighter to idle.

  “Can you get over them?”

  “I think so . . . they’re parked nearly at the end of the runway, which leaves us about four thousand feet. But they’ll hose us for sure when we go overhead ...”

  “It’s our only chance,” McLanahan said. “This thing has some armor around it—maybe we’ll get high enough to survive it—”

  McLanahan stopped abruptly as they saw two soldiers raising what appeared to be bazookas or a shoulder-launched heat-seeking or wire-guide missile launcher down the runway. “They’re not going to wait for us to surrender,” McLanahan said. “They’re going to blow us away right now ...”

  Two large puffs of smoke erupted from the large man-carried weapons in front of them, and two yellow streaks of fire arced away— but the missiles didn’t hit the Sukhoi-27. The two missiles, fired from SA-7 infrared anti-aircraft weapons, roared overhead and down the runway behind them.

  “By God,” they missed,” Powell said, not believing it. He painfully reached for the latch mechanism to the canopy, preparing to fling it open. “Let’s get out of here—”

  “No, they didn’t fire at us . . .”

  McLanahan, it seemed, was right. As the smoke from the SA-7s cleared they could see the soldiers in the barricade beginning to scatter. Suddenly the trucks in the barricade exploded into flame. Smoky streaks flashed overhead into the inferno. In moments the entire line of trucks blocking the runway was burning fiercely. And then they saw a lone jet aircraft flash through the smoke and disappear.