made it to the top. Then he rolled himself into the rubber and pushed
over. A second later he dropped shoulder-first onto the asphalt of the
landing pad. Home.
The razor wire had shredded the raft, and the fiber-optic security
system would have detected the entry, but he was in. If any guards were
left alive, they probably had other things to worry about.
Or so he hoped.
At that instant he thought he heard a sound, and whirled back. No, he
had only caught the chirp of a morning bird, somewhere in the cluster
of trees down toward the shore. The island again seemed as serene as a
paradise.
He crouched a moment, grasping the Walther, then shoved a round into
the chamber. The early morning light showed the Hind in all its glory.
It was dark green, with a heavy, retractable landing gear--a magnificent
machine. And a lethal one. Originally intended as an antitank weapon,
the Mi-24 had quickly become a high-speed tool for air-to- ground
combat. To reduce vulnerability to ground fire, its makers substituted
steel and titanium for aluminum in critical components and replaced the
original blade-pocket design with glassfiber-skinned rotors. . . .
The only defect of this particular example was the absence of the
starboard auxiliary wing, including the rocket pod. Its arrival and
accurate landing here spoke volumes for the flying skills of whoever
had been at the controls. If the weapons operator had possessed
comparable talent, Vance reflected, he might not be standing here now.
But, he noted again, it had Israeli markings. Had the Israelis really
attacked a U.S. frigate? That made no sense. For one thing, they
couldn't have flown a Hind this far without refueling. Its combat
radius was only about a hundred miles.
Then he looked more closely and realized that the Israeli Star of David
in a circle of white had merely been papered on. So it was a false-flag
job. Which more than ever left open the question--who the hell were
they?
Gripping the Walther, he slid open the door to the cargo bay and
examined the darkened interior. It was empty save for a few remnants of
packing crates. He climbed in and checked them over. They had been for
weapons. He saw some U.S. markings on one: a crate of M79 grenade
launchers. Another had contained Czech ZB-26 light machine guns, with
spare boxes for C-Mag modifications, giving them 100-round capability.
Jesus! If these were just the discarded crates, what else did these
guys have?
He turned and moved up the gray metal steps to the cockpit, a raised
bubble above the weapons station. Nice. He settled himself, looking out
the bulletproof windscreen at the first tinge of dawn breaking over the
island. His first impulse was to crank her up and fly her out. He
resisted it.
Switching on the IFF would be a chore; he was not even sure he knew
how. He could, however, get on the airwaves.
The pilot's flight helmet was stashed on the right-hand panel where it
had been tossed. He picked it up and slipped it on, then clicked on the
electronics. The helicopter's main panel and screens glowed to life, a
patchwork of green and red lights and LEDs. He flicked more switches
overhead and the infrared and radar systems came on-line, their
displays like Christmas-tree lights briskly illuminating one by one in
rows.
Now for the radio.
It was Soviet-made, of course, with heavy metal knobs and a case that
looked as though it could withstand World War III. He clicked it on and
began scanning through the aviation channels, checking to see if
anybody was out there. Maybe . . .
Nothing, except a few routine exchanges of civilian pilots. Well, he
thought, could be it takes a while for the news of major world events
to get down to the trenches. Word would circulate soon enough. The
military channels, however, would be another matter.
The Hind had them all. He clicked over to the frequencies and began
scanning. There were a lot of scrambled communications; the radio
traffic was sizzling. He figured the Sixth Fleet was on full alert.
Except they didn't know where to look for their hostile.