Gant watched the distance in front of him. The star dropped toward the valley, winking palely. Gant felt a strange envy, which became anxiety in a moment. He sensed the MiG pilot s superiority, his eager, unworried confidence. The Hind was no match for the Flogger. It entered the valley perhaps five or six miles ahead of them. The two MiL's behind them would now be working with the MiG, via the commands and sightings of the AWACS aircraft, and hurrying to overtake them. He estimated they would enter the valley in no more than three minutes. At maximum speed, just over two minutes from the position they held when he had briefly used the radar. Then he and Garcia would be in a box, with the lid screwed down.
The MiG-23 howled up the valley toward them. Another sighting pass, he thought. One more look, one attempt to communicate after that. Too late to hide now; the bluff had to be continued, and it had to work.
'Arm all the firing circuits, just in case,' he said almost casually over the transceiver. Garcia would hear him; so would Mac—
— whose helmet turned. Mac looked up at him, then raised his thumb. Wide eyes, white teeth in a pale blob of face. That was all Mac was.
The MiG was level with them for an instant. A glimpse of dark cockpit, as if the aircraft were pilotless. Then it roared away, into an immediate climb and turn. On its infrared screen two spots would glow hotter than the surrounding icy rocks. Two spots, one each side of the valley. The pilot would be pleased, would retain his confidence, even though he knew the Hinds were armed and were more maneuverable in the box of the valley. He had fixed the targets, and he had assistance. Gant turned his head. Once more, a new star climbed and winked in the night.
'All weapons systems to my control,' he announced, then added: 'Garcia — do nothing till you hear from me, OK?'
Over the transceiver, Garcia's voice was tightened by tension; yet almost elated, too. It was still only training, only practice. They'd never done it for real. They did not know what real was. Could not understand it. Gant understood it too well. But real hadn't killed him yet.
'Gant, what the hell is there to do?'
Beneath the elation, Garcia was peeling open. Soon, the proximity of the rocks, the speed and armament of the MiG — AA missiles, a gun pack, look-down, shoot-down radar — all would begin to weigh more heavily. Gant was unnerved now, but even Garcia probably thought it was excitement, not fear. But Garcia's confidence was being stripped away.
'Forget it, Garcia. Set down as soon as you can, where you can. On your own. Just don't get in my way.' Because that was the only message he had for Garcia, the only one that possessed value: Don't kill me along with yourself.
The new star was felling back toward the valley once more. Gant ignored the distant speck of Garcia's Mil and its wavering shadow. The radio tuned to the Soviet Tac channel blurted in his ear. The star fell with frightening swiftness. Gant experienced it with Garcia's taut nerves, sensed him and his copilot, Lane, craning to follow its course. He was suddenly aware of how much fuel the other Hind was carrying. They were riding in a giant gas tank. Now Garcia and the others would have begun to smell the fuel by a trick of fear on their senses. Its volume and proximity would be scraping at nerve and will.
The Flogger dropped back perhaps as much as three miles behind them, its pilot's voice in his headset broken by the terrain and the slow bend in the valley that made it invisible for the moment. He sensed confidence and suspicion through the static.
'Unidentified helicopters — you are in restricted airspace without permission. Please identify yourselves. Over.'
The MiG appeared in Gant's mirrors, rounding the bend and rapidly overtaking them. Gant glanced across at Garcia. He was maintaining speed and heading, hugging the rock face, the MiL's shadow breaking up and reforming like dark water.
Gant replied at once, knowing that the cover story had been checked and found wanting. Someone in the AWACS aircraft. Just routine, but just in case.
The pilot of the MiG pounced upon the fiction.
'Unidentified helicopter — try again. Kunduz requests your positive ID for Parwan. Kabul central army aviation field has no record of your flight. Please explain your purpose and authorization. Over.'
The MiG, moving at low speed, gradually enlarged in the mirrors. The pilot was cruising along the valley at their altitude. Herding them while he waited for their answers.
'My mission has the highest security clearance from Kabul Army HQ,' Gant persisted, knowing he would not be believed. Anders was talking in his head now, and the noise angered him. It reminded him of the priorities of the mission, of the price of failure, when all that interested him was the span of a single minute and his own survival. 'Why the hell are you taking so much interest, comrade? Over,' he added. And then waited. Anders nagged again. Garcia's Hind remained steady. He could hear, where his right ear was free of the headset, the man's ragged breathing from the transceiver.
The MiG was level with them.
'Kabul won't vouch for you, comrade — no one at central airfield even remembers two Mil-24s taking off tonight. Please identify. Over.' A brash, amused, contemptuous irony in the pilot's voice; it reassured — but why?
What was in the MiG pilot's mind? It was something to do with the degree of suspicion, or the kind of suspicion… what? What did he think?
The MiG, unable to match their speed without stalling, had slowly moved ahead of them. Then it lifted sharply, just in case, aware of the armament of both helicopters. It rolled, flashing like a shark in the moonlight, then turned tightly to drop back into the valley behind them; leveling off, pursuing once more.
Deserters or unsanctioned black marketers — one or the other, maybe both — that's what he thought! Illegality, not penetration. Profit, not espionage. Gant studied his mirrors. Moonlight glinted on the MiG's sleekness, and on two more distant spots. The Soviet helicopters. There would be others gathering now — or maybe not? The degree of confidence, even of amusement in the pilot's voice? There might be no general alert, not at the moment.
What to do with the Flogger?
His mind was cold; body hot, but alert rather than jumpy. He had passed through nerves to tension. He replied to the pilot, easing the right amount of nervousness into his voice. Almost pleading.
'Look, comrade, you check with the top brass at Kabul. And I mean the
'Sorry, comrade, you'll have to do better than that. Kabul doesn't know you. Parwan wants to know why you were using the roundabout route, and Kunduz wants you to divert. Climb immediately to four thousand meters and take up a heading directly for Kunduz military air base. Confirm when you have a revised ETA. And remember, I'll be watching you. Over.'
The MiG was level with him once more. Between him and Garcia. Gant's mind was suddenly cold with doubt. The sleek air-combat fighter was only a couple of hundred yards to starboard. The pilot would be wary, but he evidently didn't expect trouble from them. Deserters or black marketers, people to be despised, even discounted.
He could see the outline of a flying helmet in the MiG's cockpit, and the AA missiles beneath the wings — and the gun and the laser range finder beneath the forward fuselage.
'I copy. Acknowledge diversion to Kunduz air base and climb to four thousand. ETA sixteen minutes.'
'You will be accompanied by the two helicopters astern of you. Take up close formation with them on rendezvous. Do you copy? Over.'
'I copy.'
Gant glanced at the moving map. The MiG was lifting away once more, burning fuel prodigally in its maneuvers. Its mission range? Would it have to return to Parwan or Kunduz to refuel in another minute or so? If so, another MiG or a Sukhoi would already be on its way to take up station. He watched it, willing it to return rather than depart. Images flashed in his head, but seemed like reflections from distorting mirrors. The Soviet border was less than ten miles away. Kunduz was fifty miles to the southwest.
'Shit,' he breathed. It was impossible to shake the MiG, and if it needed to refuel, it wouldn't abandon them until a replacement arrived. The two Russian MiLs were clearly visible in his mirrors.
