“Mister President,” Shcharansky responded nervously, “I have been ordered not to enter into any discussions without the express consent of the foreign minister.”
“That’s probably true, sir,” Wilkinson interjected. “Zhilinkhov is not a solo player, as we’ve witnessed.”
“Well, the rules are changing,” the president stated, motioning to Kohlhammer. “Herb, get the Kremlin on the line, and make Mister Shcharansky comfortable.”
Grasping frantically with his good arm, Wickham managed to impede Dimitri’s sudden thrust toward the surface of the freezing river. The CIA agent yanked violently on Dimitri’s pant leg, slowing the panicked agent from surfacing until the spotlight had passed over their position.
Dimitri surfaced, coughing and gagging, as the Soviet Havoc gunship continued to sweep the river with its powerful halogen lamp. Wickham surfaced a second after Dimitri and began tugging the gasping agent toward shore. The sound of the two helicopters masked the splashing and coughing of the two soaked agents.
“Come on, Dimitri,” Wickham pleaded. “You’ve got to hang on. Think about your girl — Svetlana.”
Wickham paused, sucking in air as the two men lay on their backs, feet still in the river.
“Think about her, Dimitri.” Wickham slowed his breathing, glancing at the supine form next to him. Dimitri struggled, chest heaving, as he tried to catch his breath in the gently falling snow.
“Dimitri, if you’ll give me every last ounce of strength until we get out of h-here,” Wickham shivered, “I promise to do everything possible to reunite you and Svetlana back in the s-states. In America.”
Dimitri turned his head toward Wickham. “Svetlana,” Dimitri half-choked, “you w-would help my Svetlana?”
“Anything,” Wickham responded, “in my power. Just hang in th-there … for both of us,” Wickham breathed deeply, “and your girl … Svetlana.”
Wickham struggled to his knees in the mud and broken ice, then helped Dimitri to his hands and knees. Both men crawled up the muddy embankment, shaking from the numbing cold, and rolled into the shelter of the shrub trees.
Wickham could see the Soviet troops gathering around the area where he and Dimitri had circled across the road. It would be only a matter of time until the Russians discovered the point of entry into the river.
“You will h-help my Svetlana?” Dimitri asked again, crawling further under the shrubs.
“Yes,” Wickham responded. “I give you my word. But you’ve got to help me, Dimitri. We’ve got to get out of here. Alive, Dimitri.”
Wickham jerked around, not quite sure of what he had heard. The night was ink black. He listened intently, senses keyed in frightened anticipation.
“You hear that, Dimitri?” Wickham asked. “There it is again.” Wickham waited a couple of seconds, listening. “That was a splash.”
Dimitri strained to hear but couldn’t make out anything. It was too dark to see well and his ears ached from the ice-cold water.
“Let’s go!” Wickham nudged Dimitri, then pointed downstream. “We’ve got to m-move out … get farther away. They’re gaining on us.”
Dimitri shoved himself up to his hands and knees, crawled from under the shrubs, and focused down the river. His heart received a shock when he saw what was happening on the opposite bank.
“Come on, Dimitri,” Wickham yelled softly. “Move it! Follow me.”
“Okay,” Dimitri replied, looking over his shoulder at the inflatable rubber boat being placed in the water at their original point of entry into the river.
The three Sikorsky Night Hawks were twenty kilometers west of Gatchina when Scarecrow Three detected two fast-moving radar blips approaching the S-70s.
Capt. James E. “Jungle Jim” Charbonnet decided it was time to break radio silence.
“Scarecrow Lead, Three,” Charbonnet said into his microphone.
“Lead,” came the brief reply from the flight leader. The pilot was concentrating on the terrain rushing under his helicopter.
“Mother-in-law at sixteen hundred,” Charbonnet responded, referring to bogies approaching from the four o’clock position.
“Okay,” Buchanan replied. “Two and Three, go high and engage.”
“Two with a copy,” Pete Barnes radioed.
“Three.” Charbonnet said, rechecking his armament panel.
Buchanan looked at Higgins. “How long ’til we get to Novgorod?”
“Ah …” Higgins punched three buttons, then waited a second. “Fourteen minutes, Buck.”
“Looks like the visibility is improving,” Buchanan said, then noted the overcast. “We’ve got four hundred, maybe five hundred over now.”
“Yeah,” Oaks responded. “Hope the zone is cold.”
No one answered as the Night Hawk gunship raced toward Novgorod. The radar altimeter continuously chimed warnings as the S-70 oscillated above and below one hundred feet of altitude. This was contour flying on the ragged edge.
“John, double-check the ADF,” Buchanan instructed, “and go ahead and broadcast Scarecrow identification for our agents.”
“Now, Buck?” Higgins asked. “We’re still a ways out.”
“Can’t hurt,” Buchanan replied. “Sooner we make contact, the better off we’ll all be.”
“Roger,” Higgins said, then pressed the transmitter key on the discreet frequency radio. “Scarecrow calling Sandman. Scarecrow One to Sandman.”
The copilot waited three seconds, then tried again to reach the CIA agents. “Scarecrow One to Sandman.”
The receiver remained quiet, emitting occasional broken static. Higgins adjusted the volume.
“Try every thirty seconds or so,” Buchanan ordered. “We gotta have contact.”
“Will do,” Higgins answered, fine-tuning the radio receiver. “Should be in range in a minute or two.”
Buchanan scanned his instruments, then looked at the soft glow under the overcast. A small town or village was providing enough light to see the bottom of the low-hanging clouds clearly. Light snow continued to drift slowly from the thick overcast.
Scarecrow One was looking at the settlement, wondering whether or not the CIA agents were still alive, when his headphones came to life.
“Buck, the cat is out!” Pete Barnes radioed his leader as he initiated a “stern conversion” to jump the Soviet helicopter gunships.
“Roger, Pistol!” Buchanan replied excitedly. “Pump the bastards and rejoin ASAP!”
“Comin’ to ya,” Barnes groaned under the G-forces as he pulled up steeply, performed a wingover, then dove into an attack position on the nearest Russian gunship.
The Soviet pilots, caught off guard by the frontal assault, countered with a steep upward spiral, oblivious to Scarecrow Three.
Charbonnet raised the nose of his S-70, turned into and under the Soviet Mi-28 Havoc combat helos, then loosed a salvo of air-to-air missiles.
Both Russian gunships exploded, one spiraling down in ever-widening circles. The other helicopter, trailing orange flames, plunged straight into the ground, exploding again on impact.
“Goddamn, Jungle,” Barnes yelled over the radio. “How about a warning next time! You almost took us out.”
“Sorry, Pete,” Charbonnet responded, apologetically. “I forgot to holler.”
Buchanan broke in. “Clear the radios and smoke it up here.”
“Roger, Buck,” Barnes answered. “We splashed both intruders and we’re on our way.”
Buchanan checked the INS again as Higgins continued to transmit to the CIA agents.
“Scarecrow to Sandman.” Higgins waited ten seconds.
“Scarecrow calling Sandman. Copy, Sandman?” Higgins waited, then tried again. “Scarecrow to Sandman. Do you read, Sandman?”
Intermittent static was the only sound Higgins heard from the small transmitter.