arms fire. Practically a flying tank, with enough guns and rockets to chew his men to ribbons.
The Soviets had used HINDs in Afghanistan in the nineteen-eighties, and they’d wreaked a vicious toll on the Afghani fighters until President Reagan had authorized the shipment of shoulder-launched
A Stinger could take down a HIND gunship. A rocket-propelled grenade might manage it too, with a lucky enough shot. But the EOD team didn’t carry Stingers, or even RPGs, and there wasn’t a chance of punching through that armored Son-of-a-Bitch with the 5.56mm NATO rounds from their M-4 carbines.
The only spots vulnerable to small arms fire were the helicopter’s rotors and the tail boom, both of which were difficult to hit. It was the only choice they had, so Gunny flipped a mental coin. It came up
“Go for the tail!” he shouted. “You can’t get through the armor with M-4s. We gotta shoot the fucking tail off of this thing!”
His Marines answered with two grunts and an
He thumped the base of the magazine with the heel of his hand to make sure that it was seated in the mag well, slapped the bolt release to jack a round into the chamber, and flipped the fire selector from
Like the rest of his team, Gunny wore BlackHawk/HellStorm ECW Winter Operations gloves from U.S. Cavalry. They weren’t as cumbersome as the Marine Corps-issue cold weather gloves, but he knew from experience that they would still affect his accuracy. He couldn’t risk shooting bare-handed, because his M-4 had been exposed to the open air for hours. The metal parts of the weapon would be cold enough to stick to his skin.
He glanced at the elevation setting of the rear sight, decided that it was close enough, and sighted in on the helicopter.
The HIND’s gunner opened fire, just as Gunny Armstrong was slipping his index finger into the trigger well of his M-4. The turret beneath the helicopter’s chin swiveled in the direction of Gunny’s team, and the four-barreled Gatling gun cut loose with a sound like a high-speed jackhammer.
A swarm of 12.7mm machinegun bullets slammed into the ice a few yards to Gunny’s left, spraying showers of snow and ice fragments into the air. The Marine paid no attention. His focus was riveted on the tail of the gunship.
He popped off a three-round burst of bullets, corrected his aim, and popped off another burst, and then another. The M-4 shuddered in his hand, the shortened stock thumping hard into his right shoulder with each recoil. From somewhere to his left, he heard a scream as the helicopter’s minigun found one of his men.
Gunny rolled onto his back as the gunship passed directly over him, not more than thirty feet above the ice. The right edge of his parka hood scooped up a handful of snow as he turned, forcing it under the insulated fabric where it was jammed against his cheek and ear. The downdraft from the chopper lifted snow from all around him and sucked it into the air like a dirty mist. The sound of the rotors reached peak volume, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out a cry of pain from one of his Marines. It sounded like Travers, but Gunny couldn’t be sure.
He could smell cordite now, and blood, and the burnt kerosene odor of the gunship’s engine exhaust. He continued firing at the helicopter’s tail rotor, his weapon bucking in his hands as he unleashed one burst after another. His shell casings fell around him, the hot brass sizzling as it tumbled across the ice.
He saw a trio of holes appear in the tail boom of the helicopter, as someone’s bullets found their mark. His weapon locked open on an empty magazine, and then the chopper was past his team, banking hard to starboard and coming around for another pass.
It took the HIND a few seconds to align itself for the next attack run. Gunny used the time to eject the spent magazine from his M-4, scramble for a fresh one, and jam it into the mag well. He hit the bolt release to chamber the first round, and then sighted in on the helicopter again, watching for any sign that the bullet damage to the tail was affecting its airworthiness. The damage didn’t seem to be catastrophic, as the HIND kept right on flying.
Gunny braced himself for the next pass, but it didn’t come. The gunship came to a hover about fifty yards away, its nose pointed in the direction of the EOD team’s position.
A pair of rockets leapt from under the outboard pylon on the starboard wing, shrieking toward Gunny’s people on thin trails of gray smoke. Before they were even clear of the airframe, a second pair of rockets leapt from the outboard pylon on the opposite wing.
Gunny’s brain instinctively solved a dozen complex geometric calculations in the space of two heartbeats, and he knew that one of the rockets was headed straight for him. With a launch velocity not much lower than the speed of a bullet, the rocket crossed the distance in an instant, but somehow he saw it coming the entire way.
His finger yanked repeatedly against the trigger of his weapon, pumping bullets toward the gunship as rapidly as the M-4’s rate of fire permitted — hoping blindly to bring down the helicopter even as it killed him.
He never found out if his final wish was granted. The rocket struck the ice less than a meter from his right elbow. He had only the briefest impression of unbearable light, and heat, and sound. There was a split-second flare of pain, and then there was nothing.
CHAPTER 52
Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov wiped a trace of
Zhukov did not permit himself to frown. The overt nervousness of his assistant was almost certainly a sign of bad tidings, but Zhukov went to considerable effort to avoid directing his temper toward the members of his trusted inner circle. He kept his voice carefully casual. “What is it, Maxim Ivanovitch?”
“Comrade President,” his assistant said again, “there is news. I am afraid that it is not good.”
Zhukov laid the napkin on the table top next to his brown earthenware bowl. Gorokhovye — pea and onion soup, seasoned with pork — was a traditional Russian dish, dating back to the times before even the Tsars. It was simple, but filling and delicious. A common man’s meal, and Zhukov ate it with thick black bread, as was also the tradition.
He waved to a chair. “Please, my old friend. Sit down. Tell me this news that has gotten you so upset.”
Ustanov did not take the offered chair. “Comrade President, one of our patrol helicopters has encountered and destroyed a team of United States Marines on the ice pack, in the Sea of Okhotsk.”
Zhukov spent several seconds absorbing this news. “Special Forces,” he said finally. “They are looking for
Ustanov shook his head. “I do not think so, Comrade President. These men … these American Marines … were …” His voice trailed off.
“They were
Ustanov cleared his throat. “They … ah … They were disarming the explosives at the northeastern
“
Ustanov flinched, and took a half-step backwards.
Zhukov regained control quickly. He lowered himself into his chair, picked up his napkin, and began dabbing at the spilled soup. As he worked at the small task, he concentrated on slowing his breathing and leveling his demeanor.
