Each Viking carried four depth bombs internally plus two bombs on the wing pylons.
“Hummer, Fishhook Seven-Oh-Seven, flight of four,” Lt. Cmdr. Spencer Rainer radioed the Hawkeye.
“Fishhook, we’ve got the coordinates and the clearance. CINCLANT authorization.”
“We’re ready, Hummer.”
Rainer listened to the controller while his copilot copied the coordinates for two of the three Soviet submarines, then read them back.
“That’s affirm, Fishhook,” the Hawkeye controller said. “Seven-Oh-Seven and Seven-Oh-Four will take target one. Seven-Oh-One and Oh-Six take target two. We are vectoring two P-3s at the third target.”
Rainer keyed his radio. “Four, let’s come starboard one-zero-five.”
“Roger.”
“One and Six,” Rainer continued, “we’ll see you at the boat.”
“Ah … roger,” the second section leader radioed, leading his wingman to the second submarine. “Good fishing.”
Rainer clicked his mike twice in acknowledgement, then keyed the ICS. “I don’t know what the hell is going on, but we’re stepping into deep shit.”
Dimitri lay spread-eagled in the shrubs as Wickham frantically gave instructions over the small radio.
“You’re about a hundred fifty yards away! Straight ahead, along the shore,” Wickham yelled into the radio. He looked around at the advancing spetsnaz troops. They had spread out and were firing at the approaching Night Hawk.
“Dimitri,” Wickham shouted, “fire in the vicinity of the troops! The ones off the boat!”
Wickham pulled out his Beretta and aimed in the general direction of the advancing Soviet troops. Even if the agents didn’t hit the Russians, the rounds whining overhead would keep the troops at bay, or at least slowed.
“You’re only a hundred yards away,” Wickham shouted into the radio. “Straight ahead!”
P-ZZZING!!
The high-powered round ricocheted off a tree two yards from the agents, causing both men to drop prone on the frozen ground.
“Dimitri,” Wickham barked, “start crawling toward the chopper. GO! GO!”
Dimitri dropped his weapon and started crawling on his hands and knees.
Wickham turned toward the Russians, then froze in panic when he saw one of the killer dogs snarling twenty feet away. The animal had hesitated for a split second.
“Oh, shit,” the agent said quietly as he gripped the Beretta with both hands, aimed at the middle of the dark, growling canine, and squeezed the trigger.
The Doberman staggered backwards, emitting a mournful howl, then fell over a stump and died.
Wickham fired the remaining rounds at the advancing Russians, then dropped the Beretta and started crawling after Dimitri.
“Keep movin’! GO,” Wickham yelled to the struggling figure in front of him.
Wickham caught the flare of an explosion, then felt the concussion, as a helicopter thundered into the ground next to the roadway. He fervently hoped it wasn’t an American chopper.
“Sandman! Sandman!” Higgins urgently radioed, trying to expedite the rescue effort. “We’ve got to set down here. It’s the only clear spot. Can you make it?”
Wickham looked up, judged the distance to be sixty yards, at most, then frantically keyed his transmitter. “Yeah! On our way. We need cover fire!”
The CIA agent grabbed Dimitri by the collar. “Come on! GO! GO! RUN,” Wickham shouted, racing for the settling Night Hawk. “Run, Dimitri!”
Fifty yards, Wickham judged as the two men stumbled through the low shrub trees. Their numbed appendages refused to respond in a coordinated fashion.
“Forty yards! Just forty yards,” Wickham shouted to Dimitri. His arm and shoulder shot excruciating pain through his body every time his right foot hit the ground. Wickham forced his mind to block the pain as he stumbled through the shrubs, limping, in a crouch to reduce the target area.
Buchanan saw a stream of fire trailing along another helicopter on the far side of the river. He took his eyes away to orient himself, then glanced back to see tracer rounds continue to pour from the stricken gunship as it slowly rolled over and flew into the muddy river.
“RUN! RUN,” Lincoln screamed as Wickham fell over the back of Dimitri.
“Move it! GO,” Wickham cried breathlessly as parts from the crashed helicopter rained down amid the chaos.
“Twenty yards,” Wickham shouted to Dimitri, then forcefully shoved the young CIA operative.
An automatic weapon opened up from the far side of the river, kicking up pieces of shrub tree immediately behind Scarecrow One.
Blackie Oaks returned fire with his M60 machine gun, silencing the heavy weapon, then sprayed the entire riverbank with tracer rounds.
“Major,” Oaks shouted over the intercom. “Three is in the river! Some got out!”
Buchanan yelled over the intercom. “Keep ’em covered, Gunny!”
Oaks answered with a hail of machine-gun fire directed back and forth over the downed Night Hawk.
Wickham and Dimitri reached the side of the Sikorsky as Lincoln jumped out to assist in boarding. The rotor wash was like a hurricane, whipping everything into a blur of dust and weeds.
Dimitri fell, picked himself up, then reached for the door as Lincoln thrust him bodily into the cabin. Wickham shoved on Dimitri, too, as the young agent rolled sideways into the fuselage.
Wickham reached up, grabbed the door, lifted his leg, then stopped in mid-stride as if someone had hit him in the back with a sledgehammer. He fell into the side of the fuselage, then rolled on his side, moaning.
Lincoln grabbed the agent and yelled for Gunny Oaks. Buchanan was shouting into the cabin as Oaks leaped out to help Lincoln get the CIA operative into the helicopter.
“What about Three?” Higgins shouted to Buchanan as the pilot added power and pulled up on the collective. “We can’t leave them here.”
“Goddamnit! I know that,” Buchanan shot back, raising the Night Hawk into the air, then pivoting around to face the river as Oaks scrambled aboard after Lincoln. Wickham was lying face down on the floor, bleeding profusely from the back wound.
“Pete, cover me while I try to get Jim’s crew out,” Buchanan ordered as he eased the Şikorsky toward the far riverbank.
“Roger,” Barnes replied. “We’ve got a Hind down. The other is running.”
“Stay in there,” Buchanan said, turning the Night Hawk so Lincoln would have a better view of the downed crew. “Pete, spray the shoreline left of the gunship wreckage, the one you bagged.”
“Will do,” Barnes radioed as he swept low over the river in a forty-five degree bank, then pulled up steeply in preparation for a strafing run.
Buchanan could clearly see the crashed S-70 as he crossed the riverbank. “We’ve got survivors in the water. They’re on the side of the Hawk.”
“I see them,” Barnes replied, then fired a stream of cannon fire down the length of the riverbank, concentrating the barrage where Buchanan had asked.
“Lower the chair,” Buchanan commanded, inching closer to the twisted wreckage. “Keep up the fire, Gunny!”
“You got it, Major!” Oaks replied, raking the shoreline with his M60. “Cap’n Barnes is givin’ ’em some kinda hell.”
Buchanan didn’t reply as he maneuvered the nimble Sikorsky over the downed sister ship. He could see three people hanging from the side of the overturned helicopter, clinging to a twisted rotor blade.
“We’re going to be heavy, Major,” Lincoln said over the intercom.
“Who gives a shit,” Buchanan barked. “We aren’t leaving anyone.” The pilot waited a second, then added. “Just keep firing, Linc, and I’ll handle the decisions.”
Grant Wilkinson walked into the Oval Office, followed by Susan Blaylocke. The president was sitting in his recliner next to the crackling fire. Snow mixed with sleet fell steadily outside the warm office.