The helicopter’s engines continued to turn over noisily but the soldiers didn’t appear to be in any hurry. One of them held a conversation over a radio. The apparent leader, the one with the wraparound sunglasses, unceremoniously pulled Stratton away from the car and pushed him in the direction of the helicopter. Another yanked Jason in the same direction. They didn’t even bother to tie their prisoners’ hands. It was as if they wanted the Englishmen to try something foolish.
As the others walked away, one of the soldiers took a phosphorous grenade from a pouch, pulled the pin, tossed it into the back of the car among the bottles of vodka and then followed his comrades. The grenade popped loudly and the car burst into flames.
Stratton didn’t look back as the vehicle burned. He knew precisely what had happened. The operative studied the rear entrance of the chopper as they approached it. It was dark inside the narrow cabin. The unshaven door gunner squatted by the machine gun and watched the two strangers. The gun was loaded with a belt of shiny ammunition that snaked into a feeder box attached to its side. Empty bullet casings littered the floor around the gunner’s feet. He grinned, his teeth stained brown from tobacco smoke.
Stratton followed the lead soldier up the ramp and into the dimly lit cabin. In the rear section several metal war chests sat along the sides, a couple open to reveal weaponry and items of personal equipment. In the front half of the cabin basic nylon hammock seats were fixed down the sides. Opened ration boxes lay strewn about, along with empty tins and wrappings. The place certainly lacked a woman’s touch.
A man sat in one of the seats, reading a file. He wore the same fatigues as the others but no weapon harness, only a pistol in a leather holster on a belt around his waist. He looked older than the rest of them. He gazed up at Stratton as they came in. A soldier took hold of the Englishman and placed him to one side of the opening, positioning him precisely as if he was a shop-window mannequin. Jason was treated the same way.
When the last soldier was aboard, the one with the sunglasses leaned close to the man sitting down and said something into his ear. The manner in which the older man acted confirmed Stratton’s suspicion. He was their real leader, all right. The soldier wearing the sunglasses acknowledged something the man said and walked away to lean into the cockpit and chat briefly with the pilots.
Moments later the chopper’s engines increased their revs and the heavy craft rocked from side to side as the rotors took the strain of its weight. It gradually disconnected from the earth and began to rise. A few metres off the ground the Haze tilted down at the front and lumbered forward, groaning an imaginary complaint. With the rear doors open the biting wind twisted into the back, pulling at Stratton and Jason’s clothing. Stratton took hold of the bulkhead frame to steady himself while Jason, out of reach of anything else, put a hand on the operative’s shoulder.
The leader put down his file, got to his feet looking as if he’d been inconvenienced and made his way towards the two Englishmen. The rest of the soldiers, other than the door gunner, congregated in the front portion of the helicopter, some taking seats, some rummaging through the rations for a snack. All watched to see what their boss was going to do.
The Russian officer eyed Jason and Stratton with disdain. Mansfield removed his hand from Stratton’s shoulder and stood upright.
The Russian was short compared with the rest of his men, standing a few inches below Stratton’s eye-line. His red hair was cropped, his sullen eyes grey and like the others it appeared he’d had his nose broken. More than once. ‘What are your names?’ he shouted above the noise of the engines and the beating rotors.
‘Mark Davidson,’ Stratton answered, equally loudly, the name on his false passport.
‘Derek Waverly,’ Jason shouted.
The Russian simply stared into the eyes of each man as he answered.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘We’re British engineers,’ Stratton said. He doubted that the Russians knew who they really worked for and why they were there. But these soldiers obviously suspected the two Englishmen of something. If they were guilty by their association with Vasily, killing the spy had not been the smartest course of action. The man would probably have revealed everything within hours. But they clearly didn’t care about that. The men’s cover stories as engineers wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny, anyway. They could be looking at the inside of a Russian prison for quite some time. Years, in fact. Stratton wondered what London’s reaction would be. Their release would depend on their value. On the scale of things Stratton didn’t think that he was worth much at all. And Jason not a great deal more. At the end of the day, Mansfield was a scientist and Stratton a common or garden special-forces operative. Both of them were easily replaceable. He thought of his house and envisaged the lads breaking in to clear out the perishables and cover the rest in dust sheets. It would be a long time before he saw his crockpot again. Funny how the simple things in life seemed so much more important at times like this.
The officer smiled thinly on hearing Stratton’s pathetic explanation. He looked over at his subordinate in the sunglasses and gave him a nod. The blond-haired guy gestured to another soldier. The two approached the Englishmen. They grabbed hold of them firmly, pulled them harshly into the centre of the cabin and placed them side by side with their backs to the rear opening, the edge only a few feet away.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you are doing here?’ the leader asked loudly.
Stratton wondered how far the Russian was prepared to go with this intimidation technique. He could think of two possible options: one was to come up with a plausible explanation to appease the man, at least until the next level of interrogators took over back at the military establishment, wherever that was. The other was simply to keep quiet and call the Russian’s bluff. The problem was that he couldn’t think of a story good enough to cover the first option. And the second one didn’t feel right. It was never a good idea to call someone’s bluff when your own life was at stake.
‘Don’t doubt my threat,’ the Russian warned, as if he was reading Stratton’s thoughts. ‘I have the authority to deal with petty spies like you. In any way I see fit.’
Stratton doubted the claim. It would be unwise to give a field officer that much autonomy. But he seemed confident enough.
The officer nodded to his men.They responded instantly, turning Stratton and Jason around and shoving them to within a few inches of the edge of the opening. The wind whipped more violently at their clothes but neither of them could feel the bitter cold at that moment. The operative was surprised to discover that they were already several thousand feet above the ground. The patchwork steppe was white as far as the eye could see, spotted with black blotches of woodland and the scars made by roads. The squatting door gunner to Stratton’s right was looking up at him, still wearing a grin.
Turbulence suddenly buffeted the craft. Those standing splayed their feet to maintain balance. Stratton automatically reached out but he had nothing to grab. The craft’s erratic movements calmed a little and he regained his balance with the help of the soldier holding him from behind. This was not a lot of fun.
‘I will ask you one more time,’ the Russian officer shouted close to their ears. He motioned to his soldiers who leaned the Englishmen further out of the back, their toes right on the edge now. If the Russians let go they would plummet. ‘Why are you in my country?’
‘I don’t think he’s bluffing,’ Jason shouted.
Behind them the Russian officer smiled at the comment.
Stratton’s mind raced to find a solution but there was none to hand. Turbulence hit the craft once again.