Nefski called in two more guards. It was astonishing how strong even half-starved prisoners were when their fear overtook them. Besides his subaltern needing help, Nefski reasoned that with three other men as witnesses, it would put an end to Colonel “Limp Dick” talk.
She fought violently as they tussled with her. She didn’t scream, not once, but was huffing and puffing like a dumb animal who knew instinctively it was destined for the chopping block.
“No,” said Nefski, “leave her head free.” He would pull her long, black hair down behind her with one hand, kissing her neck and squeezing her breasts with the other. Suck them.
After they tied her down, her breathing became even more rapid as she made futile attempts to loosen the binding tape. Nefski took the long pair of scissors from a plastic stand on the blotter and, walking over, straddled the bench. Looking down at her, he took the scissors and slit the dress open. The three other KGB men were fixed where they stood by her saturnine beauty, the subaltern so aroused he was squeezing his tongue hard between his nicotine-blackened teeth. Nefski tossed the scissors back on the desk, spat into his right hand, and wiped his hand between her legs, then did it again and again until he thought she would be wet enough. He undid his belt and unzipped his fly, letting his trousers fall down to the bench as he lowered himself onto her. She started to whimper, and he slapped her hard, snapped his fingers for one of the men’s handkerchiefs, and stuffed it in her mouth. As he entered her they saw her stiffen, but Nefski only pushed harder, and the subaltern, trembling with envy, saw his chief’s eyes close in ecstasy, one hand clasping one of her breasts, the other wrapped in her hair, jerking her head down hard on the bench.
After, breathless, exhausted, he stepped back, almost stumbling, telling the others it was their turn for
None of them knew the rape would change the course of the war.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Pulling on Siberian uniforms taken by Freeman’s forces from Siberian militiamen captured in Khabarovsk, the twelve-member S/D, as the SAS/Delta team was designated in Freeman’s HQ, were lost in clouds of steam rising from the long-nozzled de-icing hoses spraying the rotors of the two Super Sea Stallion choppers. The Stallions, their crews also in Siberian uniforms, would carry the team seven hundred miles, skimming over the vast taiga, in a nap-of-the-earth flying mission that would take them to Tankhoy on the southeastern shore of the lake, twenty- seven miles across from Port Baikal, the latter situated on the ice-free outflow of the Angara River.
The rotors of the two escorting Cobra attack helicopters-dwarfed by the Super Stallions, much larger at 99 feet long — were already cutting into the softly falling snow. David Brentwood would have preferred a smaller- silhouette chopper, but the big Stallions had a range of 480 nautical miles, each powered by three T64-GE-416 turboshaft engines. Strong enough to lift a 150-millimeter howitzer and the gun’s five-ton truck, each of them could certainly carry four of the three-man Arrow vehicles Freeman had insisted on for the mission; above all the big choppers could carry hefty extra fuel tanks.
As important as any of its other attributes, the Stallion could be refueled in flight from a KC-130 tanker so that by using additional drop tanks for the seven-hundred-mile run in and partway out, it would be able to be refueled in the air on its way back, beyond the deadly AA missile and gun batteries around the lake. In addition, the chopper had a remarkable 27,900-foot ceiling and also had two.50 caliber machine guns mounted starboard and port beneath the engines’ cowling, which two of the S/D could handle if necessary.
Though it wasn’t snowing heavily, the snow was bothering the pilots of the two attack Cobras more than the Sea Stallion crews, who had already done a lot of bad-weather flying in “pickup and deposit” rescue missions after, and sometimes during, the Baikal-launched missile attacks, taking litters of wounded to MASH units, and in some cases flying them as far back east as Khabarovsk. One of the Cobra pilots in particular seemed spooked, grumpily ordering his weapons officer/copilot to double-check that all red tapers had been taken from the sixteen Hellfire antitank missiles. The copilot had already done so, but the pilot thought the de-icing steam had momentarily obscured the ground crew who in turn might not have seen his thumbs-up signal. Meanwhile the seven crew members flown in from the USS
Freeman shook hands with every man, including the four chopper crews who were going on the mission.
“Remember now, engineers have assured us that the noise of the Snowcat Arrows is similar to the kind of engines the Sibirs use on their snowmobiles, so the noise in itself shouldn’t draw undue attention. And as you can see, we’ve spent all night painting your transport in snow/gray Siberian camouflage pattern. So what more could you want?”
If anyone laughed, no one could hear it over the rotors of the Sea Stallion coughing to life. “If for any reason,” Freeman continued, his voice in competition with the choppers, “you can’t rendezvous after—” He meant if the choppers were unable to fly. “—remember, just keep heading northeast. Once you’re in the taiga on the east side of the lake, we’ll lock on to your location transmitters. That’ll tell us where you are within a thousand meters. And if, God forbid, you should go down, going in or coming out, deploy away from the craft. We’ll home in on the ‘bipper’ as fast as we can but I repeat, don’t stay with the chopper, no matter how tempting.”
Freeman looked up into the falling snow.”And as I told you last night, your pilots will exit our area by flying due south, then east toward Tankhoy on the east side of the lake in order to avoid any more antichopper mines the bastards might have sown directly ahead of Second Army. We’re sweeping and grading for them now, but it’ll take twenty-four hours.” The general paused. “Anyway, all this is purely academic at this stage, gentlemen. I’ve every confidence you’re not going to be spotted. Good luck!”
Aussie Lewis’s tone was easy, typical of SAS/Delta veterans who, while not contemptuous of authority, were certainly not intimidated by it. “General, you think this newly painted red star’ll get us in more trouble than it’s worth?” He gestured toward the nearest Sea Stallion. “Attract friendly fire?”
“All forward observers — including air and ground units-have been ordered not to fire on any chopper in our area for the next half hour. You’ll be out of our fire zone after that.”
“Siberians don’t have anything that looks like a Sea Stallion, do they?” asked Aussie.
“No,” admitted Freeman, “but the Cobras’ll be out front, and their silhouettes are second cousin to the Siberians’ Havoc attack helos. By the time any of ‘em spot you, the Cobras will already have spotted them.”
“Right,” said Aussie enigmatically as he grasped the cold, stiff handle of the Haskins M-500 sniper rifle case and boarded the first Sea Stallion. “Duck hunting is it, Aussie?” asked Choir as they buckled up.
“Yeah,” answered Lewis, his mood more buoyant after a night’s sleep, and reassured by the fact that the falling snow would help screw up the enemy radar.
David Brentwood and his brother were silent, both knowing they were sharing responsibility, not only for the men under their command, but for a mission that, like Freeman, they understood could turn the tide for the U.S. Second Army and win the Siberian war.
From now on the choppers were on radio silence.
“S’truth,” said Aussie, his mood changing abruptly, “these bloody things make a racket.”
No one among the other five S/D men aboard Stallion One-David Brentwood, Choir, and the three Delta men, O’Reilly, Lawson, and Salvini — or the four submariners, including Robert Brentwood, said anything, all occupied by their own thoughts.
“Jesus!” said Aussie. “We’re not going to a bloody funeral, you blokes. Lighten up! Anybody want a fag?” he asked. He offered a packet of filterless cigarettes.
“Bad for your lungs,” said Choir disinterestedly.
“Oh, spare me,” rejoined Aussie. “Where the hell you think you’re—” He stopped, nudging David Brentwood and nodding toward one of the four submariners, the sonarman called Rogers from the
“Hush,” said Choir with an edge that David Brentwood hadn’t heard in a long time, S/D volunteers being chosen for their ability to get on with one another in situations that would have other men at one another’s throats.
