Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3) Page 7

  He continued forward at a crouch, his eyes shifting between the guard post about a half mile away and the hangar with his little red plane now less than a hundred yards ahead.

  His heart was pounding in his chest as he neared his goal, not from physical exertion, but from the tension, adrenaline pumping through him. A final glance over his right shoulder showed the guards oblivious to his transgression. He slipped out of sight, his back pressed against the corrugated steel of the makeshift hangar. Catching his breath and calming his racing heart, he reassessed his situation, confirming there were no guards in sight, then edged toward the front corner of the building.

  An engine roared to life, causing his heart to skip ahead a few beats as he realized it was the engine of the plane he needed, the refueling obviously finished, and the only way to start the plane needing someone in the cockpit.

  He poked his head out and saw the two-seater plane, its prop up to full power, two ground crew stepping back.

  Now or never.

  Kane burst from his hiding place and onto the tarmac, sprinting unnoticed toward the plane. He rushed past the two ground crew who said nothing at first, probably too startled by what they saw. He jumped on the wing, tossing his bag into the rear seat before the pilot could pull the canopy shut.

  The man’s eyes bulged as he realized what was happening. He reached up and tried to pull the canopy down but Kane shoved his left arm up and gripped the edge, landing a punch on the man’s face before he could react.

  The pilot’s foot slipped off the brake and the plane jerked forward, quickly gaining momentum as the disoriented pilot had no control. Kane reached in and smacked the pilot’s belt release, then grabbed him by the jacket and hauled him from the front seat. The man regained enough of his senses to realize what was happening just as his legs cleared the cockpit. He grabbed onto Kane’s arms, desperate to hold on as the ground rushed by.

  Kane jerked forward with his upper body, smacking his forehead against the man’s nose, effectively knocking him out with the headbutt. He tossed him to the ground, the semi-conscious body rolling several times as Kane jumped in the cockpit, grabbing the controls and guiding the plane toward the runway. As he pulled closed the canopy he buckled himself in as an Aeroflot plane rushed past, massive compared to the tiny Sukhoi Su-29 stunt plane he was now in. With a maximum cruising speed of almost 200 miles per hour, he could reach the border in less than twenty minutes if everything went smooth.

  He turned onto the runway and gunned it, shoving the throttle to full. Seconds later he was in the air, banking south toward Georgia. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, punching in his destination of Triblisi then a checkpoint at the border, and stuck it on a mount to his right, the GPS showing his position and required direction.

  Forty minutes to Triblisi, nineteen to the border checkpoint.

  He found the headset that had been torn off the pilot’s head sitting on the floor between his legs. He picked it up and put it on, jacking himself into the comms.

  He was greeted with shouts from the tower, ordering him to return.

  He ignored it.

  Keeping low to avoid any radar, he checked his fuel gauge and confirmed a full tank. He left the throttle at full, not concerned with fuel economy, there more than enough to get him to the border. His only concern now were jets being sent to take him down.

  Though his little stunt plane was fast, it couldn’t outrace a fighter jet, but it was a small target with incredible maneuverability which might be enough to get him to his goal.

  The shouts on the other end of the comm were becoming more threatening so he did a little bobbing and weaving, then activated the comm, singing a Russian drinking song he had been taught a few years ago by a Ukrainian friend. After a few bars he heard a flabbergasted controller announce that the pilot was drunk, at which point Kane dropped back to the deck and cut his signal.

  Might buy a couple more minutes of confusion.

  He glanced at the GPS.

  Sixteen minutes to the border.

  The sparse landscape whipped by below, the lone southerly road several miles over his right shoulder. After a few more minutes it suddenly ended in dust, a dirt road continuing for only a few miles then slowly narrowing to nothing, as if it were a forgotten project from before the Chechen wars.

  His eyes constantly scanned the horizon, the tiny plane designed for aerial stunts—fast and incredibly maneuverable.

  With no radar or other weapons detection systems.

  Eleven minutes.

  He debated flipping to the left then the right to get a good view of the horizon behind him but decided against it, at these speeds it could cost him a good thirty to sixty seconds of time. His best guess was that at the sixteen minute mark the control tower was still debating what to do, which hopefully meant the airbase hadn’t been called. But he gave them at worst two more minutes to contact them and request assistance.

  If he assumed there were at least two jets on alert, he would expect them to scramble within tops five minutes, taking less than ten minutes to intercept him, meaning he might actually make it across the border.

  But with Stavropol being a training base, most likely at least two of their fighters would be airborne, meaning they’d be as little as eight minutes away at worst.

  Nine minutes.

  Another scan of the horizon and he still spotted nothing, but he knew his time was running out as his pulse quickened and sweat began to form a trail down his back, the cockpit warming as the tension increased.

  Seven minutes.

  He strained against the straps holding him in place, his head turned around as far as he could get it, and cursed.

  Two dots on the horizon high above him were rapidly closing.

  I guess the tower called it in a little earlier than I gave them credit for.

  He fixed his right hand on the stick, holding the aircraft steady with a slight climb, then placed his elbow on the lip of the canopy, cradling his head in his splayed fingers as he pretended to be passed out.

  In less than a minute he heard the challenge from the lead fighter in Russian, demanding he identify himself and turn around.

  Kane ignored it, instead continuing his pantomime, his chest heaving, his fake snore filling the cockpit to remind himself of what he was doing. Through his partially open eyes and his fingers, he could see one of the jets, a Sukhoi Su-27, circling him, the roar of their engines drowning out his own prop.

  He could imagine the two pilots debating what to do, his ruse hopefully confusing them enough to delay shooting him down, even Russian pilots probably hesitant to shoot down a drunk in a worthless stunt plane of no strategic importance.

  His eyes darted toward the GPS display.

  Five minutes.

  A glance at the controls showed he was a little over fifteen hundred feet off the ground now, there no point to hug the deck now that he had been spotted. The lead pilot yelled his orders again, following it with a “Wake up, you drunk!” in Chechen. He had no doubt that by now the situation had been radioed back to their base and they were awaiting instructions. The question now was how long it would take for their orders to come though, and how grumpy their commander was.

  He expected very.

  Three minutes.

  He had to buy a little more time.

  He stretched, both arms out, letting go of the stick with a large yawn, his movements caught by his escort, the pleas to acknowledge the lead’s transmission for a moment sounding hopeful.

  Kane put his left hand on the stick, gently pushing it into a slow dive, his head now resting on the opposite side of the canopy, his right hand providing the cover as he eyeballed the GPS application.

  “Wake up you fool! You’re in a dive! You’re going to crash!”

  The pilot sounded desperate, ignoring protocol, the man apparently genuinely convinced he was dealing with a drunk. Kane watched the altimeter slowly decrease, now at less than a thousand feet. He maintained the steady decline a
s he watched the seconds count down on his approach to the border, his speed gaining with the descent, precious seconds being gained.

  Two minutes.

  He was approaching 500 feet, losing about a hundred feet every ten seconds, with that gap slowly decreasing as his airspeed increased. He could see the ground approaching through the canopy to his right.

  “Pull up!”

  He shifted in his seat, stretching again, then faked a curse, grabbing the stick and pulling up, ending his descent and leveling out at two hundred feet.

  “Unidentified pilot! Turn around immediately, or we will be forced to open fire, acknowledge!”

  Kane made a show of wiping his eyes clear, gently pulling up on the stick to gain a little altitude for future play if necessary.

  One minute.

  He looked about and made a squinted eye contact with the lead pilot who was beside him, making hand signals indicating he should answer his comm. The other pilot was nowhere to be seen.

  Probably lining up for the shot.

  Kane activated the comm, and with his best slurred Russian, asked, “Where am I?”

  “Turn around immediately, or we will be forced to open fire!”

  Kane looked about in mock confusion, glancing over his shoulder and spotted the other fighter behind him, another Su-27, lined up as he had predicted.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Where am I? What am I doing here?”

  “You drunken fool. Turn around immediately or we will open fire.”

  Zero minutes.

  “Am I in Chechnya, or Georgia?”

  There was a pause then a muffled curse as his escort peeled away to the left. Kane immediately hit a button on his phone, activating the front facing camera and pushed the holder up so he could see behind him. They were now clearly in Georgian airspace, but Russians didn’t care too much about that. Flashes from the guns had him shove the stick down and to the right, the tracers flashing by far too close for his liking. He rolled and as he came out he saw the tracers shifting their line of fire as the pilot adjusted.

  Yanking up on the stick, he killed his throttle, his airspeed dropping rapidly as he used the entire bottom surface of the stunt plane to bring him to a near stop.

  His attacking jet raced by as Kane pushed forward and shoved the throttle to full again, looking for the lead plane, spotting it just as it settled in behind him.

  “This is Major Beridze of the Georgian Air Section to unidentified aircraft. You have crossed the international border and are now in violation of Georgian airspace. State your intentions, otherwise we will engage, over.”

  Kane grinned as he saw on the horizon four Georgian Sukhoi Su-25 jets racing toward them, and in his camera display, the lead aircraft breaking off, joined by his partner as they retreated back to Russian airspace, most likely not interested in creating an international incident over a drunk.

  His new escort settled in on either wing as orders to follow them were broadcast.

  Kane gave the lead pilot a thumbs up, his mind already forgetting the last twenty minutes as he planned the next portion of his escape.

  He fired off a quick encoded message to Langley requesting the smoothing of feathers for when he landed.

  Berlin Hotel (Formerly Savoy), Moscow, USSR

  February 6th, 1982

  Alex West remained hidden in the doorway, eyeballing the window to his hotel room. The light was on, the curtains closed, one slightly moving with each gust of wind, but other than that, he could see no shadows or movement inside. Turning his attention to his KGB companions, the two men remained in their car, the engine still idling, and no evidence of any urgency from them. In fact, if he didn’t know better, he’d say the driver was asleep and the passenger was reading something.

  They appeared to be paying no attention to his room.

  Then why the hell is the light on?

  Then it dawned on him.

  When the two KGB men had entered his room to try and catch him, the power had still been down. One of them, out of habit, must have flipped the light switch then forgotten when they left. When the power was restored, after he had already left the room, the light had come on.

  Which made his return that much more difficult.

  He couldn’t use the power outage ruse again, which meant he couldn’t enter the building by normal means since he’d be caught on camera. Even a disguise was useless as there was almost definitely a camera in the hallway that would catch him entering his room. His plan had always been to climb to the roof from the back of the hotel, then descend to his room. But with the light on, he would make one hell of a silhouette against the darkened building.

  Other than remaining out in the cold for the rest of the night and next day, he could see no other choice. He had to risk it. And if they spotted him, he would either escape or be caught, and hopefully traded after a whole lot of pain.

  He stepped out from the doorway and walked toward the rear of the hotel, finding it thankfully deserted. He rushed across the paved delivery area while it was clear then quickly began to climb the drainpipe he had slid down earlier. This one was secure and his adrenaline fueled sense of urgency had him on the roof in minutes. At a crouch he made for the front of the hotel. He could try the loose drain, taking a chance it would hold long enough for him to get to the first landing, or he could try something potentially far more dangerous.

  He found the wire that he had hung onto earlier when he had been forced to swing away from the nosy guests. Tugging on it, he satisfied himself it was reasonably secure.

  No less than the drainpipe.

  A glance at his KGB escort showed nothing had changed. The driver was definitely asleep, the other was reading a newspaper, his view of the hotel blocked by the paper.

  They better pray they’re not caught like that. Siberia is even colder than Moscow at this time of year.

  West decided to damn the torpedoes and go for it. He flipped over the side of the roof, his hands over the ledge holding him in place. Reaching with his right hand, he grabbed the wire, perhaps an inch in diameter, and put his weight on it.

  It held.

  He let go of the ledge with his left hand and transferred his weight to the wire.

  Still good.

  He lowered himself as quickly and as steadily as he could, making the first ledge easily, but with the wire fairly tight against the wall, he was forced to take a leap of faith. He lowered himself as much as he could, holding onto the cable with his right hand as close to the thin lip that ringed the building, his toes barely on the edge, his left hand gripping the window frame.

  He pushed slightly with his toes, popping off the lip, dropping rapidly. His right hand continued to grip the wire and just as his arm began to stretch, his entire accelerating mass about to yank on the wire, his left hand caught on the lip, swiftly decelerating him and taking much of the weight from the wire.

  He hung off the side of the building, gasping. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him still unnoticed by the KGB, and rather than relax to regain his breath, he let go with his left hand and swung to the right slightly, his left hand grasping the wire, as soon as it had a grip his right hand released, dropping several feet to grab on below.

  A jerk from above had his heart in his throat as he realized the wire was starting to give. He continued his slide, hand under hand, then felt his feet hit the lip to his floor. Grabbing the window frame and hugging the side of the building, he released the wire as soon as he had his balance. His heart was hammering in his chest at the effort. He quickly slid past the nosy neighbors, this time being careful to not touch their window, then after what seemed an eternity, reached his own window.

  He looked down, his watchers still not reacting. Stepping in front of the window, he pushed it aside and stepped inside as quietly as he could. A rapid scan of the room showed it empty, no uninvited guests there to surprise him. The painting was still crooked, his Walkman continued its slumber, and the light blared, highlighting the empty vo
dka bottle on the floor.

  He closed over the window, straightening the curtain, quickly undressed, piling his clothes once again on the chair, then pressed Stop on his Walkman, immediately faking waking up.

  “What the hell’s with the light?” he mumbled, pushing on the mattress so the spring would give a good creak, then stumbled with heavy steps to the switch, turning it off. He returned to the bed, climbing under the covers, his adventures for the night finished.

  Within minutes his exhausted self was sound asleep, no need for gadgets to fake the sounds.

  1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Training Facility

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina, a.k.a. "The Unit"

  Command Master Sergeant Burt “Big Dog” Dawson, BD to his friends, lined up his sights and fired, a hole blown in the head of the paper target gripping an equally two dimensional hostage. He pressed forward, the mockup of a Baghdad neighborhood eerily familiar. He heard the springing of a target to his right, the figure popping up in a window not ten feet away. His body, weapon leading, swung toward the new target as he processed what he was seeing.

  He dismissed it, the face of a small boy holding an ice cream, something he wasn’t sure was common in Baghdad, not a threat. Gunfire rang out in front of him, the ground torn up by fake rounds as explosions joined in, the hyper-realistic mockup designed to put the fear of God into men while in training so they knew how to cope with it during the real thing.

  To Dawson it was nothing, but to raw recruits? He’d seen piss stains and awkward shuffles after some young men exited the arena.

  He remembered how scared he had been the first time. You knew it was fake, you knew you couldn’t get hurt, but the imagery, the sounds, the explosions, the audio of victims crying out over speakers, of fellow soldiers calling for help, the sound of men going down.

  You couldn’t help but be scared if you were taking the drill seriously.

  But Dawson was no rookie, no battlefield virgin. He had more experience than most in the well-seasoned US Army after over ten years of continuous war.