“Don’t know,” Brentwood said. Then they could hear the steady chopping of the air that marked the approach of helos in the mist.
“Everybody,” Brentwood ordered, “defensive positions.” Within seconds the SAS/D had all but disappeared between the rocks along the foreshore, or in their white overlays were lying inert against the snow.
“It’s all right!” Brentwood shouted. “Must be the Paves.” There were three rope ladders dangling from the mist. Aussie and the other SAS/D men materialized from their hiding places to go up the rope ladders, the mist and fog rolling down the mountainsides and mixing in a bone-chilling whiteness that completely obscured the sight of the helicopters that were hovering in the pea soup, presumably no more than forty feet above them.
But the ChiComs from Damquka could be heard — a kind of eerie shuffling noise — obviously hoping to kill the Americans before they could get anywhere near the rope ladders and disappear into the churning mist and fog, the deadly stutter of Chinese T-85 submachine guns complimented by a lot of shouting. The sound of a Chinese bugle and the chatter of older but effective Soviet-made PPSh-41 submachine guns that filled the air was coming closer with dramatic suddenness. The initial wave of fifteen or more Chinese was cut down by the defensive circle of SAS/D troopers, but at the cost of four men from Salvini’s group.
The second wave, taking advantage of the first wave’s shock, took protective positions amid the many rock spills and boulders that lay covered in snow. Brentwood grabbed the radio and warned off the Pave Lows and the fighters, even as he was struck by the irony of having the world’s best strikers above him while he was unable to call them in as TACAIR, given the close proximity of SAS/D and ChiCom troops. And he knew that the longer he waited to call in the helos the more fuel they’d burn up, to a point where they would have to turn back as their fuel was consumed in the waiting.
Meanwhile, the Chinese were lobbing stick grenades all over the place. A few SAS men tossed the grenades back, but in all it was mainly a game of bluff on both sides— neither knowing exactly where the others were. Now the fog and mist became thicker, and Brentwood didn’t hesitate. “Withdraw to purple!” he called, and fired the flare, guessing the distance at about a hundred yards — nearer the edge of the lake. Reverse overarch — that is, retreating in stages of overarching protective fire — was something the SAS/D troops had rehearsed and performed elsewhere many times. The fog made it more difficult and dangerous, but still they could do it, and in squads of four they began the withdrawal to the purple smoke — a purple halo in the falling snow, the sound of the choppers near but out of the purple corona and glow that would have given them away to the Chinese.
Seven more SAS/D men were lost during the pull-back, but those that made the purple were next to two SAS/D from Salvini’s troop — or rather, what was left of it — and were pointed in the direction of the hanging rope ladders just beyond the penumbra of light cast by the flare. In another five minutes most of the remaining fifty-three SAS/D troops had made it to safety beyond the surreal purplish world of swirling snow, whiteout, and the deafening sound of rotors, approximately seventeen men allotted to each of the three Pave Lows. In another ten minutes they should be safe.
“After the swelling goes down,” the makeup artist told Chairman Nie, “I’ll need four — perhaps six — hours.”
“I can keep the cameras far enough away,” the “All China News” producer added. “No closeups of course.”
“But
The makeup artist shrugged. “I’m no doctor, but I’d say four — six — days. Good food — fresh air.”
“All right,” Nie said, decidedly unhappy about the turn of events but seeing that he couldn’t do very much about it at the moment. The trouble was, the Politburo was becoming impatient. There had been widespread reports of “hooliganism” in Harbin and to the south in Fuchow province just across the straits from Taiwan.
“Hooliganism” was now even a wider net, meaning anything from reading a capitalist newspaper from Hong Kong to actual insurrection. It could also get you shot.
Nie needed a confession coming from her own lips. That was the propaganda he wanted. Instead of her starvation diet they would feed her well, fatten her up a little, get her looking healthy. In Harbin they had captured four undercover conspirators, and in Beijing jail they still had the American SEAL, Smythe. If she did not confess he would have the four conspirators and Smythe all shot in front of her, not at once but as the questioning proceeded.
That evening one of the night nurses on her rounds came to the prisoner’s bed and could not see her. The nurse panicked and had almost sounded the alarm when she thought to check the lavatory, and found the Malof woman there. All her bandages were off, and she had a gruesome black eye that she did not have before.
It was self-abuse, they told Nie, to get more time in hospital, the action of a coward.
No, Nie said, it certainly wasn’t the action of a coward but of a “brave enemy agent.” Yes, she no doubt had given herself a black eye and unbandaged herself to delay her recovery, to delay her questioning, and that told him that she was afraid of something happening, that finally her will would break under the pain.
Aussie and the two men with the Stingers waited till last before they began their climb up into the mist, voices lost to the wind under the roaring of rotor blades. As he began his climb, Aussie heard a sound like firecrackers in the distance and then mortar fire, not toward him but out on the lake. Beneath a long tongue of mist he could see water spouts as mortar rounds hit the lake, and then a strange mist — or was it fog? — seemed to rise up from the enormous lake to join the mist above.
Salvini, Choir Williams, and Aussie Lewis were the last three to approach the last Pave Low, ten men having gone before them, one badly wounded and bleeding profusely. The trooper beside him gave him a shot of morphine from his helmet pack then proceeded to make a tourniquet out of his belt.
“Last three!” Salvini yelled up at the two chopper crewmen at the door. One of the crewmen, despite the strain, the expectation that any second a wild burst of ChiCom machine gun fire from the pickup zone might riddle him and the chopper, still found time to laugh, calling out to the other crewman, “These guys might be tough ‘uns, but they sure as hell can’t count!”
“Whaddya mean?” the other man shouted back, barely audible over the noise of the rotor slap. The other crewman pointed down. “There are four of ‘em, not three.”
The other trooper shrugged — what did it matter? long as they didn’t leave anybody, and they could only wait another five minutes before the fuel gauge would dictate they head out.
Aussie was carrying the Haskins sniper rifle, weighing twenty-three pounds, and in the swirling vortex of wind caused by the prop wash he was trying to make sure that the last trooper, below him, wasn’t bothered by the muzzle brake and the end of the barrel, which had a tendency to swing a bit like a pendulum in the high wind, despite its weight.
“You okay, mate?” he yelled down.
There was no answer. “Hey buddy, you okay?” Aussie yelled, letting the barrel tap the man’s helmet. “You in trouble?” Suddenly he saw a black blob pass him into the open door. He heard a shout from above and saw the grenade come out again, bursting open about ten feet below him, and felt a hot sting in his right buttock. By now realizing the man below him was a ChiCom, he let the barrel of the Haskins swing in close directly above the man’s white overlay hood. The ChiCom’s right hand came up to push the rifle away, his left hand holding another grenade.
“You—” Aussie began, and pulled the trigger on the Haskins, sending a.50 depleted uranium slug right through the ChiCom helmet, exiting from the man’s chest in a crimson cloud of pink snow, the man, or rather his corpse, falling quickly to the ground, already lost to view in the snow.
“Cheeky bastard!” Aussie yelled as he was helped aboard the Pave Low, saw the rope ladder coming up after him, and felt immediate relief. Then as the Pave Low started off along with the other two southwest across the lake and began climbing, he sensed a sudden tension inside the chopper. He heard a bump, then another, and could feel the Pave Low yawing hard to the right, and he could hear the pilot’s voice. “Go for height, damn it! Height!” His voice shouted with urgency, and Lewis could hear another pilot’s voice but was unable to make out what he was saying over the sizzling noise of static. Then he heard, quite clearly, “I’m going down.” Seconds later there was a muffled explosion.
“She’s gone!” Brentwood said. There were several more bumps hitting the fuselage. “Gone where?” Aussie asked. There was no answer, and Aussie made his way through the tightly packed troops to the pilot and copilot’s
