Alpha One had activated its decoy flare system, which fired eight blinding magnesium flares into the air behind it, rendering his night vision equipment useless. The flares landed on the ground and completely illuminated the entire valley, including his own helicopter. He couldn't see Alpha One beyond the burning flares, but a crunching explosion and a billowing orange pillar of fire didn't leave much to Tischenko's imagination. He needed to get out of here before the insurgents could reload their rockets.
"Chief, how much longer?" he yelled into the helmet microphone.
"Half of the team is out. We're doubling up on the ropes. Five more seconds," came the abrupt reply.
One of the cockpit window panels above his copilot's head shattered, and a bullet ricocheted through the cockpit. Several more bullets struck the reinforced glass around them, which miraculously held. The miniguns belched sustained bursts of withering fire back at their targets as Tischenko counted the seconds aloud. Seven seconds later, his crew chief screamed through the headset that they were "all clear."
He decided to skip the low level egress route chosen by Alpha One and pushed the cyclic and collective together, favoring the collective. Alpha Two rushed forward, ascending rapidly. His IR missile sensors started to flash and a harsh tone blared in his headset, but he resisted the impulse to launch his own flares, knowing they would likely rain down on Alpha Three. The missile threat never materialized, and Tischenko's helicopter rose above the valley, racing for an adjacent range of hills. He could see enough without the night vision goggles to keep them safe for now, until they were inevitably called back into the valley to pick up the Spetsnaz.
"You need to redesignate helicopters, Captain," the copilot said.
"Standby," he said and opened a channel to the ground force commander and the other helicopter.
"Redesignate call signs. Flight Hotel Victor Four Three Two is now Alpha One. Flight Hotel Victor Four Three Three is now Alpha Two, over," he said.
"This is Alpha Command. Out."
"This is Alpha Two. Out."
Tischenko enjoyed a few more seconds of peace, hovering in what he hoped was safe airspace.
"Alpha One, this is Alpha Command…request close air support in vicinity of Assault Point. Alpha Strike units will designate targets for your gunners using IR pointers, over."
Shit, this was going to be the longest — or possibly the shortest — night of his life. At least he wouldn't need his night vision goggles. The flares and burning wreckage had transformed the valley into an inferno.
"This is Alpha One, thirty seconds from commencing gun run. Mark targets in two-zero seconds," he said.
"This raid better be worth it," he muttered, as the orange glowing valley reappeared ahead of them.
Chapter 3
Anatoly Reznikov squeezed the armrest tightly as the Hawker 800 business jet floated above the runway for two seconds, then abruptly dropped onto its landing gear. He felt the airbrakes decelerate the sixteen-thousand-pound aircraft from one hundred and sixty miles per hour to less than twenty in fewer than five seconds, pressing his abdomen uncomfortably against the lap belt. It wasn't the smoothest landing he'd ever experienced, but he understood why the pilots had chosen to sacrifice comfort on this particular approach.
Cross winds from a massive storm system north of Nizhny Novgorod had plagued the small aircraft since the pilots started their decent, and had intensified as they lined up with the runway. Reznikov had considered requesting that the pilots divert the flight to a different airport, but his arrangements for a hassle-free transfer had been made for Strigino Airport and couldn't be guaranteed anywhere else. He was carrying a suppressed pistol and two stainless steel cooling cylinders, a combination of items unlikely to pass through even the most cursory security checks typically associated with private business travelers, especially if special monetary arrangements were not already in place.
The aircraft slowed further, and Anatoly loosened his safety belt. The first person he expected to see upon exiting was Gennady. The man had already been paid half of a very generous fee to personally ensure Anatoly's uncomplicated transfer to a rental car. He had met Gennady once before, immediately prior to arriving in Kazakhstan to begin work for his former "friends." Knowing that he would not be theoretically allowed to leave the laboratory site again until the work was completed, he had made all of these arrangements in advance. All Gennady needed was a phone call, and he could have a business jet flown from Novosibirsk to Semey within four hours, all at considerable cost, of course, which was why Anatoly expected to see Gennady himself personally standing at the bottom of the Hawker's cabin door stairs. Gennady's absence would signify a considerable problem, one that could only be solved with the pistol readily accessible in his black backpack.
He glanced through the rain-splashed cabin window at the scene unfolding on the edge of the runway. The private terminal area loomed ahead, and shadows of the runway crew hurried through sheets of rain to prepare for the jet's arrival. The shiny concrete was illuminated by massive terminal lights, which dimmed with each passing rain squall. The sun had risen a half hour earlier, but the heavy rain clouds shielded the airport from any signs of dawn. Now that the aircraft was still, he could hear the rain pummeling the aircraft's thin metal shell and feel the wind buffeting the aircraft's frame.
After a few minutes, the jet moved forward into its final position in front of the terminal and stopped. Waiting at a safe distance, several airport personnel converged on the aircraft, disappearing underneath the cabin. He heard the usual assortment of sounds associated with post-flight maintenance and spotted a fuel truck speeding toward the aircraft. The jet would undoubtedly be back in the sky within the hour, headed toward its next thirty-thousand-dollar passenger. It was money well spent on his account. The flight had put him within a reasonable three-day driving range of his target. Unfortunately, his budget didn't allow for another flight like this one, or he would have flown all the way to St. Petersburg. From St. Petersburg, he'd face an easy, one-day drive to the Kola Peninsula.
One of the pilots stepped back into the cabin. "Sorry about the landing. I wanted to get this thing down as quickly as possible in those winds. We'll have you on your way in a few minutes. Feel free to empty the minibar. The company stocks premium liquor, and it's a little known secret that everything is included in the price of the flight," he said, tipping his pilot cap.
"Thank you. I think I might take a few bottles for the road."
Reznikov unbuckled his seatbelt and made his way over to the minibar near the front of the cabin. Upon opening the small refrigerator, he smiled. Indeed, they’d spared no expense with the liquor selection. He placed several miniature bottles of vodka in the side pockets of his backpack and secured the straps. A hand touched his shoulder, startling him.
"Don't forget to take this. Glen Ord, thirty year, single malt. $300 a bottle," the pilot said, pulling a bottle out of the cabinet above the minibar.
"Now I understand the cost of the flight," he said, accepting the bottle and then handing it back. "I never developed a taste for Scotch. Vodka is my poison."