The aircraft, including the Ilyushin, would all be from Parwan; thus his cover story had his flight originating in Kabul. The capital's squadrons of MiGs, Sukhois, and MiLs operated mainly to the south and west of Kabul, those at Parwan against the rebels in the Panjshir. They would accept his story; should accept it. He felt the tension tighten in the wrist and hand that held the stick. Sweat prickled his forehead, spreading like some oily measurement of time as the seconds passed. The ether roared emptily in his ears like the noise of his own blood.
"Helicopter 2704, please confirm your point of departure. Over."
Digging. Not deeply, but digging. Garcia's image in his mirrors was like a wasp on his windshield, something dangerously distracting. The 24A dogged him faithfully, but he was responsible for it. The lights of the two MiLs to port seemed to have neared; the two gunships flashed more brightly in the moonlight.
The mountains crowded ahead like an encouraged illusion. He flicked his Hind-D to one side, jumping a ridge of rock like a flea. He lost sight of the two approaching helicopters. He drove into a narrow, high pass where snow gleamed and his own shadow pursued him across its whiteness. Perfect for a visual sighting, a difficult place in which to maneuver.
He did not climb or alter course. His first — only — priority was to answer the mobile unit, to answer the single voice before other voices took up the questioning, began to bully for answers.
"Origin of flight, Frontal Aviation central airfield, Kabul. Over."
"Thank you, 2704. Please hold this frequency."
"Mobile Unit 476—I am under orders to maintain strict radio silence. Can we get this over with? Over."
"I'm sorry, 2704. We have no record of your flight plan logged with Parwan. We have to check with Kabul. Over."
Gant believed he could see the rigidity of tension in Macs hunched shoulders just below him in the forward cockpit. The narrow pass opened out ahead. He squeezed the Hind over and around a naked outcrop, bobbed over a huge flying buttress of rock, then dropped into a wide valley. He glanced at the moving map. Assured himself of his position, his course.
Checking with Kabul—
He hesitated, then gambled; felt an exhilarated fear. Give them everything.
"Unit 476—ease up, will you?" The mountains were beginning to break up the signal on the HF radio. But he had to satisfy the unit before he lost contact with it, had to dissipate any idea of pursuit.
He climbed. He bobbed out of cover like a startled bird, hanging in the clear dark sky with the mountains below him. Garcia followed like a cork rising to the surface of the thin air to starboard. Gant slowed his airspeed to less than one hundred, as if someone idling in a conversation, not quite walking away from a companion. Bluff. Whoever was watching would have him pinpointed now. For the moment, he had thrown away all secrecy. They mustn't check with Kabul
He wondered whether to employ his own radar, to know how many there were out there, and exactly where; then decided against it. If the cover story didn't work, then would be the time to know the odds. The Soviet border was now less than a hundred miles to the northwest of his position at its nearest point.
Now, he told himself.
"Mobile Unit 476—whoever else is out there — I repeat, go easy." He scanned the sky. Yes, distant winking stars and the mirrorlike fuselages of the two MiLs. Not hurrying to close the gap of dark air between themselves and him, not yet. Now. "I — look, it's not documentation. We're empty at the moment. Got that? Empty. Understand? Over."
Sweat dampened his shirt beneath his arms. His free hand, having released the collective pitch lever, quivered with tension. Not too much, he hadn't said too much, not yet. Let the revised cover story drip like water onto a stone.
"Helicopter 2704—please explain. Over." It was still the voice of the operator from the mobile unit, at the prompting of his officer, who couldn't be more than a lieutenant at most. The MiLs were hanging back, waiting.
"I — it's a private flight. I'll be in trouble with very senior people if you check with Kabul. I'm — not supposed to be here. Be discreet, huh? Over." He grinned quiveringly.
The Hind-D was swimming slowly through the thin air, operating close to its service ceiling. Perhaps still a mile away, he could see the two Russian helicopters, their shadows moving beneath them across rock and snow; across the peaks and the high glaciers and ice fields. The world seemed shrunken. He could almost believe himself to be in a jet. The Hindu Kush climbed away to the southeast as far as eyesight could reach. A huge army of mountain peaks marching on China through Kashmir. High above him, against the star-filled blackness, he saw the silhouette of something swift — MiG or Sukhoi — crossing his course at perhaps forty thousand feet. He was swimming slowly forward and the hunting fish had caught his scent, his movement.
Come on, figure it out, you bastard. Don't be dumb, his thoughts insisted, their urgency mounting. He willed realization on them. Reach out and grab the answer that's in front of your face. Come on, come on…
A minute of silence.
'Two seven zero four—" He was startled by an unfamiliar voice. "Are you on a shopping expedition? Over."
One of the two approaching gunships was now less than five hundred yards away, well within rocket or cannon range. It waggled its stubby little wings. A pleased, waddling dog recognizing another dog. He moved his own column, flicking the Mil slightly from side to side.
"You said it, Lieutenant, I didn't," he replied with evident relief. That would fit the cover story; it didn't matter if they thought he was scared. "Glad someone understands, at last. Thanks. Over."
The closest of the two Russian helicopters passed across his nose, slightly above him. The pilot and the gunner, who would have been listening, Tx)th waved. The gunner raised one fist, his other hand at the elbow of his bent arm, signifying sex. Gant raised his thumb in acknowledgment.
They understood now; he was explained. It was one of the smuggling runs for senior officers. Runs that were frowned upon, then ignored, even encouraged, but were always carried on under a cloak of fictitious secrecy. He might have been on his way to collect sex videos from army HQ, pop records, drink by the case, cigars from Cuba, women — oh, yes, most importantly women. Flown in for parties or changed whenever the local girls, the mistresses, or the last imported batch of whores — top-class, indubitably clean, and expert — became tired or overfamiliar. The gunner in the Russian Mil probably imagined he had six or more girls aboard and was on his way to Alma-Ata to make an exchange. He grinned.
The second of the two Russian helicopters slid nearer, as if to contradict hope. Gant swallowed. The pilot of the second one waved, too, then both of them dropped away toward the mountains. He heard the patrol leader inform the mobile, unit, the AWACS aircraft, and the MiG that had passed overhead of the purpose of his mission. Fantastic detail flew and gossiped over the air. Coarse laughter, envy.
It was working. They were satisfied.
"Christ, Major, you did it — they're going!"
"Can it, Garcia," he snapped back, hearing the relieved chatter of Garcia and his crew over the transceiver; sensing Mac's relief; his own, too.
"Sorry to have troubled you, 2704," he heard the original voice murmur, amusement in the operator's tones. "Good hunting. Over and out."
"OK," Gant said into the transceiver. "Let's ride with the luck while we can. Forty minutes' flying time to the border. But don't count on a free ride all the way."
"What's wrong?" Garcia asked warily.
"Maybe those pilots have flown sex missions before — they swallowed it. It only needs some suspicious little Party shit on the AWACS aircraft to call Kabul — just to make sure — and we're blown wide open. So look sharp."