He pointed at the five men as he passed them, heading to the cockpit. “Keep those seatbelts buckled tight! We’ve got less than thirty miles! It might get worse!” Rushing to the cockpit, he fastened the seat harness, then put on the headphones, adjusting the mouthpiece. More gunfire erupted. Adler kept firing in quick, short bursts.
“How much farther?” Grant shouted at Moshenko.
“Maybe forty kilometers!” Moshenko continually maneuvered the chopper from port to starboard, trying to gain altitude, trying not to become an easy target. But if he climbed too high then lost control, they wouldn’t have a chance when they went down. His best bet was to keep outmaneuvering the attackers, while he hoped there weren’t any aircraft in pursuit or up ahead.
Gunfire again. More bullets ricocheted off the port side, this time under the cockpit.
“Where the fuck did they come from?” Grant shouted. He dialed the emergency frequency. “Panther calling Legs! Panther calling Legs! Come in!” Silence. “Panther calling Legs! Come in, Legs!”
“Legs here! Over!”
Grant yelled, “Taking fire! Taking fire! We’re about twenty-five miles out!”
“Stay with me! Keep that mike open!” Mullins shouted back.
More hits on the chopper. Adler rammed another clip into the Uzi, and resumed fire.
Suddenly, the chopper pitched violently. Moshenko gripped the stick with both hands. They started losing altitude. Off course now, they were south of Berlin.
Adler scooted to the other side of the door, holding onto a safety line. He leaned out as far as he could, seeing a stream of fuel. “Fuel leak!”
Grant shouted to Mullins, “Losing altitude! Fuel leak!”
“Gimme your position!” Mullins shouted back.
“Fifty-two degrees north, thirteen degrees east! Repeat! Fifty-two degrees north, thirteen degrees east! We’re going down!”
“On our way!” Mullins yelled, with his heart thumping against his chest.
Adler slung the Uzi’s strap over his head, scurried to a seat, snapped the belt closed, then yanked it tight. He shouted at the men in front of him. “Hang tight! The colonel’s the best there is!”
Moshenko still had some control, enough where maybe, just maybe, he could prevent a tragedy, but the ground was getting closer at an alarming rate.
“Over there!” Grant pointed.
A clearing, just at the edge of a forest. Fighting to maintain control, Moshenko banked the chopper. It started resisting his control. Aiming for the outer edge of the clearing, he was trying to come in parallel to the tree line. He was trying to reduce speed, struggling to adjust the angle, trying to prevent a direct hit. But they were coming in fast.
“Come on, Grigori! You can do it!” Grant shouted, as he grabbed both straps of the harness. Then over his shoulder he warned, “Brace yourselves!”
The sound and tremendous force when it plowed into the earth was horrendous. Almost instantly, it rebounded for a brief second, then hit again, skidding on its belly. Dirt, grass, rocks shot up from every angle. The ass end smacked hard, snapping off the twin tail fins, causing the undercarriage wheels to rip off. Still skidding, it rolled on its side, causing first the left then right nose wheels to collapse, then break off, sending the forward section into a nose-dive. The upper swirling rotor blade broke, spiraling away in different directions. The radar under the cockpit and half the cockpit were partially buried in soil.
Suddenly, it was over. Grant shook his head, raising it slowly. The sudden jolt of the hit, made him feel like his spine had been shoved up into the top of his head. Shattered pieces of windshield were sprayed around the cockpit, on him and Moshenko. He was still strapped in, feeling the pressure of the harness against his chest. Fumbling for the harness release, he called, “Grigori!”
“Yes. Yes.” He automatically released the seat harness.
“Come on! We’ve gotta get outta here!” As he got off the seat, he readjusted the holster, feeling for the Makarov. He felt off balance, almost disoriented, as he started for the cabin. He rubbed his neck, moving his head side to side, as he shouted, “Joe!”
“Here, skipper!” Adler was shaking his head, and rubbing his face. He unsnapped the seatbelt, got up slowly, then made a dash to get extra clips for the Uzi.
Grant rushed to the men. They were all alert, but shaking almost uncontrollably. A couple of them had their head between their knees, their breathing coming in short, quick breaths. All of them fumbled for a seatbelt release. “Everybody okay?” Five heads nodded. “Come on! Let’s go!” He helped them with the belts, then stood by as each man passed him. Their legs were unsteady as they headed for the door.
“Grigori! Come on!” he yelled.
From the angle of the chopper, they’d have about a six foot drop to the ground. “Joe, get out and help them!” Adler jumped down, immediately reaching to help each man to safety.
Moshenko was behind Grant. “You okay, Grigori? Nothing’s damaged?”
“I am okay.” He was still amazed they were all walking. He lowered himself out the door.
Gripping the pistol with one hand, Grant yanked the Uzi and extra clips from his satchel, then slung the strap over his shoulder. “Joe!” He handed both satchels to Adler, before he jumped out.
He immediately started scanning their surroundings, looking for a safer place. Then he pointed, “Over there! Get away from the chopper!” A smell of fuel hit their senses. They started running, when they heard the sound of a chopper. “It’s gotta be Tony!” Grant yelled, swiveling his head, finally spotting the helo coming from the northwest.
Out of nowhere, shots rang out. They all dropped to the ground, snapping their heads around. Running out from the trees were uniformed men, Russians and East Germans, more than twenty of them, firing with AKs and pistols.
“Stay down! Stay down!” Grant ordered, pointing at the men. He, Adler, and Moshenko positioned themselves in front of them. “Come on, Tony!”
The three returned fire, taking down two of the advancing assailants. But bullets continued hitting dirt around them, zipping by their heads, hitting the KA-27.
The rescue chopper started descending about thirty yards behind them, preparing for touchdown. Grant shouted, “Grigori! Here!” He gave Moshenko his satchel. He and Adler already had all the ammo. “Take the men! Go! Go!”
Moshenko followed close behind the five. They had some protection by putting themselves between the downed chopper and the incoming one. They zig zagged as they ran toward the helo, ducking low and covering their heads with their arms. One man fell to his knees. Moshenko grabbed his arm and jerked him up, then pushed him forward.
Grant’s Makarov ran out of ammo. He pulled his Uzi off his shoulder and started firing. Adler was next to him, using his Uzi, when Grant yelled, “Gimme that!”
“What…?”
Grant yanked the weapon from Adler’s hands, immediately slinging the strap over his shoulder, then he resumed firing with his Uzi in short bursts at the oncoming attackers. “See they all make it! That’s an order, Joe! Go! Go!” The two looked at each other for a split second, then Grant turned away, resuming fire. Another Russian went down.
Adler drew his pistol, as his mind was screaming, Fuck that order! But this was one time he was going to follow Grant’s order. He fired off rounds as he quickly backed up toward the waiting helo.
Moshenko was out of ammo, but someone stood above him in the chopper’s doorway, firing at the attackers, at the same time trying to help him get the men to safety.
Tony Mullins grabbed Moshenko’s hand, and pulled him into the helo. The five men scrambled behind a bulkhead, taking cover, trying to make themselves as small a target as possible.