Mitchell counted to three and then yelled, “Now!” at the top of his lungs.
Without looking, Jackson, with his arms straining, swung back and threw the jerry can over his shoulder. Like a rock thrown at some Highland Games, the can shot up into the air.
Jackson instantly dove for cover.
Gritting his teeth, Mitchell pulled the trigger, sending a sustained burst of 7.62 mm rounds into the can. The phosphorous from a burning tracer round struck home, instantly igniting the fuel-and-air mixture built up inside the can. In the blink of an eye, a bright orange fireball lit up the night just as the MI-8 flew straight into the expanding explosion.
Kolikov felt the helicopter vibrate as the twin side-mounted machine guns fired towards their trapped prey. With a crooked grin on his face, he knew that there was no way anyone could survive such firepower. A small dark object suddenly appeared in front of the helicopter. Before his mind could even register what was happening, the cockpit was engulfed in a blazing fireball. A stream of burning gasoline shot in from a hole in the damaged windshield straight at the pilot’s face. A terrified scream escaped the pilot’s lips. Letting go of the joystick, the pilot panicked, trying to beat out the fire engulfing his face.
Kolikov felt his stomach drop as the helicopter instantly banked over to the left. They were flying so low there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable. A moment later, the helicopter’s rotor blades struck the edge of the dry riverbed’s bank, shattering into hundreds of deadly projectiles that flew back along the side of the chopper, decapitating an unlucky door gunner. With a loud crunch of collapsing metal, the side of the MI-8 struck the rocky ground, causing it to roll over several times before coming to a sudden halt against a massive boulder, splitting the helicopter in two. Anyone not buckled in was pulverized when the chopper tumbled along the ground, sending their battered bodies flying around inside the interior of the cabin.
For a minute, the destroyed helicopter lay there silently covered in a cloud of dust. Inside, Kolikov slowly opened his eyes and to his dismay saw that he was hanging upside down, still fastened into the co-pilot’s chair, his arms uselessly dangling down in front of him. Gritting his teeth, he tried raising his arms. Pain shot through his body. Kolikov swore. He had broken both arms when the chopper smashed into the ground. He knew he had to do something. If he stayed hanging upside down, he would surely black out and death would follow. He painfully wiggled back and forth in his chair, trying to escape the restraining device securing him to his chair. That’s when he smelled it: volatile aviation fuel was leaking all over the place. A dark, foul-smelling puddle had already formed below his head. Panic crept into his mind as he tried frantically to escape his seat.
Behind Kolikov, a spark from the MI-8’s smashed-up radio system caused the fuel-soaked interior to suddenly burst into flames. Screaming, he flailed desperately in his seat as he was roasted alive.
Mitchell lowered his rifle and watched the crashed MI-8 as it burst into flames.
“You owe me one hundred dollars for that,” said Jackson, as he watched the helicopter burn.
“We never bet,” objected Mitchell.
“Well, I did, and I want my money when we get back home.”
Mitchell shook his head at his friend. Standing there for a moment, he watched the fire consume the helicopter when it struck him: he knew exactly how he was going to rescue Jen and her mother.
“We need another jeep,” said Mitchell, looking forlornly at the remains of their jeep lying all over the dry riverbed.
“This area will shortly be crawling with bad guys,” said Jackson. “All we need to do is go to ground, and when the time is right we can borrow another one.”
“All right then, find us a good spot to go to ground, but first you need to salvage what we can from the jeep while I give Yuri a call,” said Mitchell.
Ten minutes later, Mitchell finished outlining his requirements to Yuri.
With an armload of ammunition, food and water, Jackson led the way to a small copse of brush about five hundred meters away from the burning Hip. In minutes, with their tracks covered, Mitchell and Jackson disappeared from sight and waited for someone to come along the trail that ran past their position.
Lying under the bushes, Jackson took a long swig of water and then handed Mitchell the bottle. Looking over, he saw a dogged determination in his friend’s eyes. No matter what Mitchell was planning, he did not doubt that he could pull it off. No matter how foolhardy it may be, Mitchell was not the kind of man to fail.
26
Stale cigarette smoke wafted out of the sea container like a noxious fog escaping from a polluted swamp.
It was all starting to be too much. Alexandra Romanov bit her lip while she nervously paced back and forth. She hated being there. The odious smell from the never-ending stream of cigarettes was overpowering, but Alexandra wanted to supervise the bomb preparations personally. This was her part of her father’s plan, and she did not intend to let him down. There could be no margin for error. Alexandra’s hair was pulled back in a tight bun on the top of her head. She was dressed in long dark-green coveralls with a pair of very expensive, handmade Italian leather boots on her feet. The light from the container gave her complexion an almost deathly pale look to it.
Alexandra had spent most of the night on a secure line talking with her father’s contacts who were guiding the nationalist’s activities in Russia. The government had finally taken off the gloves and unleashed the army on the rebels. Government forces, recently supplied with Western intelligence, were hammering the rebels all across Russia. They were begging for more money and resources to continue the fight. She knew that it was better to keep them strung along with promises of support rather than actually giving them what they needed. The rebels were more useful to her family if they fought for a little while longer, rather than being allowed them to topple the government before her father was ready to assume power. She knew the people of Russia were clamoring for an end to the violence, and if President Ivankov could not provide it, they were willing to let another take his place. Alexandra grudgingly agreed to a new influx of money, but kept it to the bare minimum. The rebels would have to make do until her father was ready.
The tension of waiting galled Alexandra. Not able to take it anymore, she spun about on her heels, walked inside the container, and was almost stopped dead in her tracks from the wall of foul-smelling cigarette smoke. Through the haze, Alexandra could see a thin, anorexic-looking blond-haired man hunched over one of the bombs. A lit cigarette hung limply from his lips. Alexandra thought the man looked to be in his mid-forties; a pair of silver-rimmed glasses sat perched on his slender hawk-like nose. His face was narrow and covered in multiple scars from several almost-fatal mishaps over the years. The man was wearing a set of loose-fitting worker’s coveralls and a dirty red baseball cap perched back on his head. Hearing Alexandra approaching, he stopped what he was doing, laid his tools down on the bench beside him, and looked up at her.
“Good morning, Miss Romanov,” said the man in the coveralls. “Please let me introduce myself. My name is Ivan Markov,” said the man, as he offered Alexandra a dirt-covered hand.
Alexandra reluctantly took the hand and shook it. Markov instantly gripped her hand and locked his pale blue eyes with her. Alexandra bristled at the arrogance of the man. She had no time for the childish games inferior men seemed to enjoy playing with one another and pulled her hand free.
“Mister Markov, I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Alexandra, as she looked into the cold eyes of the man standing before her. “Your reputation precedes you.”