As they reached the top of the muddy bank, exhausted and covered with slime, the GRU point patrol sounded a shrill whistle.
“Hear the dogs?” Wickham whispered to Dimitri.
The young agent cocked his head, shaking uncontrollably in his freezing clothes. “They’ve … the d-dogs have found our c-circle?” The response from the frightened young man came out as a question.
“That’s right,” Wickham responded, then added, “w-we’ve got to get into t-the brush.”
Dimitri, wondering if he would ever see a sunrise again, crawled after the American.
The barking seemed to intensify as the dogs ran back and forth around the false trail left by the CIA agents. A large Soviet armored personnel carrier arrived at the scene and disgorged a dozen elite GRU troops.
Dimitri was shaking violently, teeth chattering loudly, as he stared at the scene across the river. His mind was unable to deal with the harsh realities of his situation.
“Come on, Dimitri,” Wickham encouraged, “j-just a little longer. You’ve g-got to hang on—”
Wickham stopped in midsentence, sensing something threatening. “Oh, Jesus …” The American’s voice trailed off in weariness, then resurged. “Dimitri, t-the choppers are returning.”
The distinct sound was clearly the two Mil Mi-28 Havocs.
Wickham felt he was in the grasp of defeat. If the Night Hawk rescue team roared into this ambush, which seemed inevitable, no one would survive.
Dimitri tensed. He too could hear the rhythmic beat of the Soviet gunships approaching the growing contingent of GRU troops. The helicopter’s bright halogen spotlights turned the scene into a surrealistic nightmare. A deadly nightmare, Dimitri thought as he turned to face Wickham. “We aren’t going to get out of—”
“Dimitri, listen to me,” Wickham said, trying vainly to rekindle the young agent’s spirit. “We’ve got to k-keep it together.”
The former Marine Corps captain yanked Dimitri’s collar. “LISTEN. Your message has got to reach the president … We’ve got to get it to the White House, even if we die in the process.”
There was no response from the lethargic agent.
Wickham didn’t have the strength to push or prod Dimitri much further. “Dimitri,” Wickham said quietly, “do you want to die? Just lie here and give up?”
No response.
“They’re going to kill us,” Wickham stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Execute us right here.”
“I d-don’t care,” Dimitri responded, shaking spasmodically in his soaked clothes.
Wickham knew it would require an insuperable effort to save Dimitri at this point. He had to get the agent’s adrenaline pumping again. He had to get him back to Washington to give credence to the incredible situation that could destroy the world.
“Dimitri, if you die, I die with you,” Wickham said in a harsh, low tone, “and I d-don’t intend to go out whimpering!” Wickham paused, then growled into Dimitri’s face, “Suck it up, for Christ’s sake!”
Dimitri moaned in response, hugging the ground. “I’ve got to rest.” He couldn’t control the spasms shaking his body.
Wickham stopped talking when a bright spotlight suddenly played across the river. Both Soviet gunships had been circling the scene, lighting a large area for the Soviet ground troops.
The American watched as one Mi-28 Havoc started down the river, away from their position, sweeping a powerful searchlight from shore to shore. His relief was short-lived when the second gunship crossed the river, then proceeded up the shoreline, sweeping from bank to bank with the stunningly bright spotlight.
Wickham turned to the inert young operative. “Dimitri, we’ve got to get back in the water.”
The debilitated agent tilted his head up, vainly trying to focus on Wickham. “Y-you are crazy,” he sputtered, breathing heavily.
The American slapped Dimitri across the face with his left hand, almost losing his balance as he sat upright in his stiffening coat. “Goddamn it,” Wickham spat in Dimitri’s face, “th-they’ve got infrared! We’ve got to dissipate our body heat until the chopper passes over us.”
Wickham was more frustrated than frightened. His mind knew what had to be done, given the exigencies of the current situation, but dealing with Dimitri was exacting a high toll.
Dimitri didn’t respond to the slap or verbal abuse. He looked at the American and slowly moved his head back and forth, shaking violently.
“Bullshit,” Wickham barked under his breath. “You’re going to move it. NOW.”
The American grabbed the young agent by his collar.
“We’ll only be in the water a minute or so,” Wickham explained, dragging Dimitri down the muddy bank. “You’ll have to hold onto me. I can’t move my right arm,” Wickham continued, skidding on his buttocks while he pulled his heavy burden down the bank and into the frigid, ice-packed water.
The Russian gunship was rapidly closing on their position as Wickham, dragging Dimitri, stumbled into the river. The American hoped the Russian chopper crew wouldn’t notice the broken ice. The two agents were standing in five feet of water, surrounded by large slabs of ice.
“Dimitri, when I tell you NOW, I want you to hold your breath and duck under the water with me.”
Wickham waited for a response, but received no answer, only unintelligible moans.
“You’ve got to duck under the water, Dimitri. Understand? For just a couple of seconds.”
Wickham glanced over his shoulder at the approaching Soviet gunship, engines pulsating in the black night. “You can whack it!” Wickham firmed his grip on Dimitri, then gave the command. “NOW,” Wickham yelled, sucking in his breath and submerging with Dimitri in his grasp.
Wickham opened his eyes to a completely void, black world. He continued to grasp Dimitri with his left arm, then felt the young agent grab his arm, gripping tightly with both hands.
Time seemed to pass in slow motion. Wickham, eyes still open, could feel the pain mount in his lungs. Just a little longer, he continued to tell his oxygen-starved mind.
The seconds became eternity as Wickham’s lungs ached in searing pain. His mind, disciplined by years of training and conditioning, told him to hang on for a moment longer.
The water suddenly seemed to glow, then turned bright, as Wickham realized the gunship’s spotlight was sweeping their position. He could see a multitude of particles and organisms, miniscule in size, drifting lazily in front of his eyes.
Wickham was caught unprepared when Dimitri wrenched his arm loose and lunged for the river’s surface.
Chapter Fifteen
The three Sikorsky S-70 Night Hawks, completely blacked out, raced across the Gulf of Finland. Snow and freezing rain reduced the forward visibility to less than a quarter mile. The weather conditions forced the pilots to fly solely by reference to their instruments.
Navigation was the easy part. The crews relied on their inertial navigation systems to supply the heading, distance remaining, and time of arrival at Novgorod. The INS navigation gear would place the Night Hawk pilots within one-sixteenth of a mile of their destination.
The pilots, concentrating intensely, watched their radar altimeters and scanned the flight instruments continuously. The radar altimeters, set at seventy feet, would be reset to one hundred feet when the helicopters passed the Russian shoreline.
The Night Hawks had passed between the Soviet-held islands of Gogland and Moshchnyy. Landfall would be in eleven minutes, thirty-five seconds, according to the soft, green glow of the INS unit in Scarecrow One.
Brad “Buck” Buchanan checked his fuel gauges, then focused on his engine instruments. He noted everything in the green as the powerful General Electric turboshafts, delivering over 1,700 shaft horsepower, generated a deep, pulsating roar.