Snow Falcon

the pilot of one of the MIL-24s ahead of them say:

'North Star 92 to unidentified helicopter — identify yourself, and state mission.'

'North Star 86 to North Star 92 — mission to assist search,' their pilot replied, the gun digging painfully into the back of his neck.

'Acknowledged North Star 86. What in hell's name have they sent you for?'

'I have troops on board — hi the event. Any sign yet?

'No. Ground radio claims five of our men dead. It should be a sizeable party, but no sign of anything. Over and out.'

Ilya released the pressure of the gun-barrel, and patted the pilot on the shoulder.

'Good,' he said. 'Nice touch, that, about the troops. Now — what is going on?'

'Enemy agents, I should think. Firefight of some land, not long ago by the look of it. They're looking for the agents.'

'This is bloody Finland, not Russia!' Ilya exploded.

The pilot turned his head. Ilya could see the humour around the mouth, the contempt displayed in the nostrils, the eyes. The pilot was pitying his ignorance.

He sat back, the gun relaxing from the pilot's head. It was — he could not explain the pilot's moods a frightened man who yet talked as if they were flying over Russia, not a neutral neighbour.

Then, ahead of them, they saw the red lights of one of the MIL-24s dip down below their view.

'Follow him!' Ilya snapped, and pressed the gun back against the neck, which wrinkled with disgust and fear. The cabin seemed to alter its angle suddenly, and the ground moved up to meet them. The road was a ghostly ribbon now, but along it, headlights blazing, an open vehicle was moving at perhaps fifty miles an hour — a suicidal speed.

'What the hell is that?'

'It must be them!' the pilot shouted, his caution swallowed in excitement.

'Who?'

'Enemy agents — the bastards!' It was as if they were no longer with him, or he their prisoner.

Ilya could not believe what happened in the next moment. The MIL-24 which had swept down upon the jeep on the road below them launched two of the small missiles slung beneath its stubby wings, then pulled ahead of the racing jeep.

Flickers of fire beneath the wings, then bright bursts of flame, gouts of snow and packed earth ahead of the jeep — almost in the same instant. It was incredible; his mind refused to countenance what it perceived. He watched the jeep.

It bucked wildly, then swung off the road, leaping like a mad horse across the ditch, and disappeared under the trees. The headlights flickered off. In the moment before it slid under the trees and under the belly of their chopper, Ilya saw a white face looking up, then obscured by something dark held out — and he realised, ludicrously, that the passenger in the jeep was taking photographs of them.

The MIL-24 was flicking round on its course, to make another run at the road. Then the intercom crackled in the cabin.

'You'll have to put your troops down and cut them off!' the pilot said without introduction or call-sign. In his voice there was an aftermath of dangerous elation, and a rising panic. 'Follow me!' The MIL-24 slid away from alongside them, stretching to a lead of two hundred metres, flying less than fifty feet above the trees. It was a dark bulk ahead of them, lights flashing, the carpet of trees below them revealed nothing of the whereabouts of the jeep or its two occupants.

A beam of light flicked down from the MIL-24 ahead, bathing the tree tops in white light. They glistened with ice and snow. It was an affecting scene, brilliant and harmless. Ilya shook it off.

'What happens when they find out we have no troops to put down?' Maxim asked.

'We'll have buggered off, won't we!' He prodded the gun into the neck again. 'Time to go!' he snarled. 'We have a long way to go before any of us gets to sleep tonight.'

'Where?'

'Murmansk, brother! All the way, no stops!'

'What?'

'You heard. After all,' he added turning to Maxim, 'we have a star witness here, haven't we? After what we've just seen, together with what they can get out of him at the Centre…' He chuckled. 'We're home and dry, eh?' He laughed, infected with the same excitement they had heard in the pilot's voice a little earlier. A pendulum of success had swung in their direction now.

'And what is going on ? 'I don't care to think about that,' Ilya said flatly. 'Someone else can find that out. I don't think it bears thinking about, do you?'

'I agree.'

'Right, alter course, Comrade Pilot! Take us just a little south of your HQ — and fly very very low! Understand?'

The pilot nodded. The chopper banked, sliding across the trees to retrace their outward course.

When they were settled on course, Maxim said, 'And what are we going to do to make sure that we aren't followed and overtaken by those gunships — or the other two I spotted at HQ? Those aren't fireworks they carry under those silly little wings, you know.'

'We're going to fake a forced landing — give our position, and then get the hell out of there while they spend their time looking for us!' Ilya spoke in an intense whisper, his face gleaming with pleasure. He tapped his forehead with the forefinger of his left hand.

'Mm. Do you know, I actually approve,' Maxim said, his face breaking into a rare smile. He was a man not without humour, but who often appeared to lack the necessary facial muscles to smile or laugh.

'I knew you would you dear old thing,' Ilya said.

They flew just to the south of the village, and crossed the border at an unmanned point. They reached the first trees on the Russian side, the MIL flying barely twenty feet above them. They were travelling fast, over a hundred miles an hour perhaps.

He said, 'Now, comrade, a little fault is about to develop. Radio in a convincing fault that will mean you have to force-land. And radio a position…' He reached forward and picked up the pilot's map which lay on a tiny folding rest at his side. He glanced at it, then:'… a position on the other side of the wire. Understand? Be very careful of what you say.'

The pilot nodded, opened the channel, and said, 'North Star 86 — North Star 86 to base. I have developed turbine surge. I have to set down quick. Repeat — turbine surge, am forced to land. My position is — ' The gun pressed more attentively against his stiff neck. He gave the position, and repeated it quickly. Ilya strained to read the coordinates on the pilot's map, gave up the attempt, and nodded to Maxim as if he had checked the position. Neither of them knew that the pilot, who was beginning to sweat with relief, had given their present position.

'Down there!' Ilya snapped, motioning towards a small white patch in the darkness.

'What for, man?' Maxim asked. 'We've sent them the wrong way. Let's get going 1'

'No! Just in case we're spotted going the wrong way. Sit tight for a little bit, then up and away.' Maxim looked doubtful, and Ilya shouted, 'We can't afford to cock it up now! As you said, those gunships don't carry fireworks. We can't afford to be seen, from the air or the ground!'

Maxim looked down. The chopper was circling the tiny clearing, and its landing light had flicked on. The snow appeared rutted, lunar, beneath them.

'All right. We don't move until they're looking the other way.'

'Down!'

The chopper settled slowly, nose slightly up. Snow began to blow in the downdraught, fanning out beneath them, whirling up alongside the cabin as they sank lower. Gently, the MIL seemed to be coming to rest. Fifteen feet, twelve, ten The pilot moved the stick suddenly, and the tail boom of the helicopter dropped. It thumped into the surface snow, and there was a tearing sound, the magnified noise of a pencil snapping as the whole tail boom broke away under the impact.

The incident happened so swiftly that Ilya and Maxim were entirely its victims. They were not observers, but sufferers. The pilot, seizing his one opportunity, had sabotaged the helicopter.

The fuselage immediately began to wobble from side to side without the appropriate balancing effect of the