heater on. Hot air gouted out under his feet, and he felt the Bermuda sun on his skin again.
The flight line technician fastened his ejection harness, double-checked that the safety retaining pins were removed, showing them to Korsov for his inspection. Behind him, his copilot did the same. Then, as the technicians climbed down and, even before they were on the ground, bad guys slid the canopy forward and locked it into place.
In front of him, another ground traffic controller stood in front of the aircraft, lighted wands held steady in front of him. When all the other technicians cleared the area, Korsov was signaled to proceed, and then handed off along the line to a second technician, who guided them toward the runway. As he reached the apron, the second ground tech snapped off a sharp salute with his lighted wand and pointed toward the runway. Korsov turned and continued his taxi.
He paused for a moment at the end of the runway, stepped hard on the brakes, and ran the engines up to full military power. They sounded sweet, operating perfectly. There was no tower to control takeoffs or landing — they had all been killed during the first rebel attack on the airfield. Not that there was much need for them now — the only aircraft coming in or out were his, and he knew when each was scheduled.
It has not been a fatal mistake to warn base operations of his departure that afternoon, he admitted. He would have done so himself, but certainly not that far in advance. No, half an hour before his intended departure would be fine to prevent any confusion in the antiair batteries.
“Ready?” he asked his copilot.
“Yes, comrade,” the man replied.
“Well, then…” He let off the brakes, and the MiG surged forward evenly. She bolted down the runway, gathering speed every second, and leaped in the air as though she were going home.
Their next stop would be in Bulgaria, both as a brief maintenance stop and to rendezvous with a squadron of MiGs that would be joining them there. Korsov wasn’t entirely sure what Maskiro had told the squadron commander, a subordinate of his in the Black Sea Fleet, but Maskiro appeared confident that the MiGs would be there. He relayed that information to his copilot, who had not known until the time where they were headed, although he certainly had been able to guess the final destination.
“Comrade! Air contact, bearing one one zero, range six miles!”
“Speed, four hundred and twenty knots, altitude eighty seven hundred meters,” the copilot continued, thus eliminating that possibility. “Comrade, it must be a military transport — there are no civilian flights scheduled.”
It was just as he had feared — someone knew that he was leaving the airfield, someone knew.
His copilot’s voice trembled. “Radar in search mode only, sir. No targeting. Should we radio a warning back to our operations center?”
They’d know in a few minutes. Know, and pay for their mistakes.
There had been no air transport scheduled to evacuate them in ninety minutes. In fact, there had been no provisions made for them at all. As he watched the unidentified aircraft descend, turning toward the air base, and then descend again, he knew exactly what it was. There was only one particular mission that fit that flight profile. Soon enough, the operations center would know as well.
“No,” he said. “They have detected the contact on their own radar by now.”
“But, sir, if they haven’t, we must warn them.” The copilot said disbelievingly.
A babble of voices, some shouting, some crying, came over the tactical frequency now. Korsov smiled grimly. There was no need to warn them now — they knew exactly what was coming.
Starskii stared at the screen. There was no doubt in his mind what the blip represented, not with that flight profile. Even now it was decreasing speed, descending again, and any second it would—
“Everyone out!” he shouted, his gaze still glued to the radar screen. Korsov’s aircraft was just rolling off the runway, and they surely must see the incoming contact. And would have seen it before the controller, since his greater altitude was giving him a longer range. “There’s only one target — I know what that is, on that flight profile. Everybody out! Get as far away as you can!”
The fifteen remaining watchstanders needed no further urging. They abandoned their consoles, some of them running away with headsets still on, and headed for the single door leading into the reinforced structure. From there, they raced down the short passageway separating the operations center from the unclassified portions of the building. A few shouted warnings to the others as they ran, but did not slow to assist them.
Once outside, they headed in various directions. Starskii himself ran straight ahead, heading for the gate, shouting at the guards to unlock it. They had no way of knowing he was the senior person in charge of the operations section and were slow to obey him. A few men ahead of him started climbing the fence, frantic to be clear of ground zero.
Even an Olympic medallist would not have been able to run fast enough to make any difference. The controller and his own compatriots might be battle-hardened soldiers, but they were hardly world-class runners. They ran nonetheless, praying, some of them for the first time in years, hoping against hope somehow to make it far enough away to survive.
Tombstone rolled back over into level flight and continued his descent. By now the targets were clearly visible just in front of them. It was a ramshackle cinder block building, the exterior in severe disrepair, and surrounded by a rusty chain link fence.
“Man, look at that,” Greene said, leading forward and watching over Tombstone’s shoulder. “They’re running like ants.”
“You would be, too.” Tombstone was intent on making minor corrections to his lineup.
“For all the good it will do them,” Greene said.
“Time to release?” Tombstone said.
“Ten, nine, eight…”
Tombstone stared forward, now close enough to see their faces. Without exception, stark terror distorted their features into something almost less than human. He felt a flash of pity for them, and then remembered the pictures of the dead civilians in Bermuda.
“Seven, six, five, four…”
Despite the best intentions of military men and women everywhere, it came down to this, didn’t it? There was no way, despite the long-standing American dream, of limiting casualties to just the military. No way at all. And, no, the men running away from him below might not actually have been on the ground in Bermuda, but they were just as responsible for what had been done there as if they had been.
“Three, two…”
“Hunter, abort! Target is gone — repeat, your target is gone!” Russo’s voice broke through the cockpit like a wave of cold water, shocking each man.
Without even acknowledging, Tombstone broke hard to the right.
“What are you doing?” Greene howled. “Tombstone, we’re only two seconds—”
“You heard the man,” Tombstone snapped. “There was only one real target on this mission, and he’s gone.”
“How do you know that? How do they know? What is this, waiting until the last minute? Hell, it would have been safer to release than to abort, you know that!”
“We have our orders. And we’re going to follow them.”
But—” Greene broke off as a movement on his screen caught his attention. “That must be him, Stony! That air contact — it’s another MiG. We can catch him. We can put an end to this right now.”
Tombstone knew Greene was right. That was their target flying the other MiG. It was close, so close — only one minute separated them. They were within range even now.
“Forget our load out?” Tombstone snapped.
Greene swore violently, directing his oaths equally at the Russians and the Armenians, and the ordnance techs who’d loaded the MiG only with ground attack weapons. Short of dropping an iron bomb on top of the other
