Caffey grabbed his radio as he tried to aim his rifle. “Get out of there, Cable! Go! Go!” He fired the last grenade and started running before he saw where it exploded. There was so much confusion it wouldn’t matter anyway.
He was halfway down the hill when he heard the high-pitched whine over his head. He recognized it instantly and dove under cover of a fallen tree. Cable hadn’t heard it or hadn’t recognized it because he was still running when the missile exploded thirty feet above him.
Cable was dead long before his body stopped rolling at the bottom of the hill. The impact area sizzled where a thousand bits of metal burned into the snow.
“Airburst!” Caffey yelled. He was on his feet and running again, shouting at the nearest helicopter, waving it away. “Airburst! Get out! Get out!”
The second missile exploded thirty yards uphill and Caffey was nearly knocked down by the red-hot shrapnel that glanced off a tree and hit him high on his left arm, ripping his parka from shoulder to elbow.
Cordobes in the first Huey got the message. Caffey saw him slap the pilot’s helmet and point up. The overloaded gunship lifted off, lumbering toward the west, away from the hill, as Caffey staggered toward the other chopper. “Get out,” Caffey yelled. Parsons hopped out of the doorway and literally threw Caffey into the helicopter.
“Phosphorus grenades!” Caffey was wildly pointing back at the column as the helicopter rose above the level of the hill. The helicopter wasn’t protected against a missile’s line-of-sight radar like it was at Shublik Ridge. They were easy prey for the short-range Grail missiles. “Drop the grenades!”
Parsons popped the pins of two grenades and tossed them out the open hatch as the receding battleground erupted with two tiny flashes of light.
The first Grail followed the brilliant heat of the burning phosphorus and exploded harmlessly a hundred feet below. The second Grail tried to adjust its turn against the steep angle of the falling grenade and broke apart in midair without exploding. The men cheered until several more flashes from the ground caught their attention and suddenly everyone who could get his hands on a grenade was tossing them out the hatch.
Caffey glanced out the other hatch to see Cordobes’s Huey. It was half a mile away and about five hundred feet higher. Caffey squinted at it, unbelieving. Nobody — was dropping grenades. “Jesus Christ!” He reached for the pilot, yelling, pointing at the sister craft. “Tell that sonofa—”
A Grail drove straight up the Huey’s tailpipe before Caffey could finish the sentence. He watched the explosion rip the helicopter into two major pieces. There wasn’t any fire, just the flash, and the only sound was a muffled boom in the whistling wind. The helicopter just stopped flying, separated into fragments and dumped Cordobes and fourteen screaming men into the frigid air twelve hundred feet above the frozen tundra.
“Sweet Jesus God!” somebody gasped.
Caffey only saw the loss of fifteen men, an aircraft and several thousand rounds of ammunition that he couldn’t afford to lose. God forgive him, he thought.
Vorashin watched the surviving helicopter until it disappeared into the distant fog. He wondered briefly if the American commander was aboard. It would be a pity for a man with such courage to die ignominiously. But whether he was alive or dead, the contest was over. The column would move again but without fear of another confrontation. They would reach their objective now. There would be no further interruptions so long as the weather held. The Americans were beaten. The small band of militia would not return again.
“Alex.”
The Soviet task-force leader turned as his deputy commander approached. “What is the damage, Sergei?”
“Two vehicles,” Devenko said. “The command car has suffered a broken axle and a weapons carrier has a blown engine. Still, all the equipment may be transferred to the remaining vehicles. We can be moving again in two or three hours.”
“Casualties?”
“Six dead, fourteen wounded, three critical.”
Vorashin nodded. He turned his back against the wind and glanced toward the horizon where he had last seen the helicopter.
“Do you think they will come back, Alex?”
“No.”
“They still have one aircraft. They might—”
“I think he would not be so foolish, if he is alive,” Vorashin said. He was still staring at the horizon. “A good commander would not throw the lives of his men away in a pointless gesture, and I think he is a good commander. He is beaten. It is understood.”
“I disagree.”
Vorashin let out a disgusted sigh as he heard Major Saamaretz approach.
“We should send a small party on snowmobiles to wipe out the remaining force,” said the KGB man as he stopped beside Devenko. “We must guarantee that no more time is wasted on costly delays, Colonel.”
“I promise you,” Vorashin said impatiently, “the Americans will not return.”
“Are you now a magician, too, Colonel?”
“They have only one helicopter left, Major. They cannot mount an effective assault against us with only one helicopter and the few men it can carry. The Americans are finished. Let’s leave them.”
Saamaretz stepped closer to the colonel. “You admire them, don’t you, Colonel.”
“It is not unforgivable to respect a brave and tenacious foe, Major.” Vorashin looked at him directly.
“Intelligent courage is a quality worthy of admiration no matter from which side it is displayed. I don’t expect you to understand it, Saamaretz. It was never taught to you.”
“They are the enemy,” Saamaretz said sharply. “We do not respect or admire an enemy of the Soviet people!”
Vorashin glanced at Devenko with a smile. “And they say there are no more Stalinists left.”
“I demand that you send a patrol to eliminate the enemy force!” Even beneath the goggles Vorashin could see that Saamaretz’s face was flushed. “As political officer of this unit, it is my duty and my right to insure the safety of this task force!”
“I am the military commander of this column, Major!” Vorashin barked. “I will decide when and where we engage an enemy. The security of this special unit is my responsibility.” He glanced quickly at Devenko, then back at Saamaretz. “However…” He nodded at the hill behind the KGB man. “…Since you are so concerned about the safety of our battalion, I will authorize forty volunteers to search and destroy the surviving Americans….”
“That’s better,” Saamaretz smirked. “They—”
“…under your command.”
Saamaretz’s eyes widened. “My command?”
Vorashin nodded. “It is your duty and your right, Major.”
“But—”
The colonel turned to Devenko. “See to it, Sergei. Detail six snowmobiles to a detachment to be led by the major. I will expect them to join up with the main body no later than midday tomorrow.”
Devenko smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“You think I can’t do it?” Saamaretz rasped. “That’s what you think, isn’t it? That I can’t lead—”
“You will be accompanying men who know what they’re doing,” Vorashin said. “Try not to lead them too strictly. I’d like them back.” He checked his watch. “Leave in twenty minutes.”
“I will,” Saamaretz hissed between his teeth. “I will!”
Vorashin watched him stomp toward the communications vehicle. He shook his head. “I am sorry to inflict him even on volunteers, Sergei,” he said.
“Maybe they will return without him.”
“I doubt it.” Vorashin looked up the hill. “I think men like Saamaretz were placed here so the rest of us would not be surprised when we meet the devil.” He pointed to the wind-swirled smoke rising against the faint horizon. “In a little while, Sergei, send a patrol out. I want their dead buried. We should not leave their bodies for the wolves.”