“Unfortunately, we don’t
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going all formal on me, Marcus. That’s never a good sign.”
Cartwright forced a wry smile. “True.” He reached into the back of the van and dragged a small motorbike out from under the remaining boxes. Weighing just one hundred and eighty pounds, the Taurus was a Russian-built all-terrain vehicle with bulbous balloon tires. With a top speed of only twenty-two miles per hour, the motorcycle wasn’t fast, but it was amazingly compact and agile. And it was even designed to fold up into a bag that would fit in a car trunk.
Sam glanced at Jones. He shrugged. “Mr. Cartwright asked me to put the machine together last night, while you were out scouting around. He thought it might come in handy, see?”
“And just how is this supposed to come in
“You take the bike,” he told her. “And then you head cross-country to the LZ as fast as you can.”
“Leaving you and Davey behind, I suppose?” She shook her head stubbornly. “Not happening, Marcus.”
Cartwright sighed. “Look, Sam, this is a Little Bighorn situation. And all the Indians in the world are about to charge over the hills. So Davey and I’ll take the van and head to the LZ by road. Maybe we’ll get lucky. And maybe we won’t. But what really matters is that splitting up is the best chance for any of us to make it out alive.”
“He’s right, Ms. Kerr,” Jones said softly. “So let us do our job, will you now?”
Wordlessly, Sam just stared at the two men for several seconds. Then, surrendering for the first time ever, she hugged them both tight, one after the other. She turned away with tears streaking her face, straddled the motorbike, and kick-started it. The Taurus’s little Honda motor whirred to life.
Without looking back, she sped off into the woods. Behind her, the clattering roar of the approaching Russian helicopters grew louder still.
Three kilometers away but closing fast from the south, two Ka-52 Alligator helicopters darted low over the forest. Twin pairs of counterrotating, coaxial three-blade rotors blurred above each gunship. Each bristled with armament, including 30mm cannons, 122mm unguided rocket launchers, and laser-guided antitank missiles.
Aboard the trailing helicopter, Major Yuri Drachev scowled, seeing the thick black column of smoke from the downed Mi-8 rising above the forest.
But despite those appalling and unexpected casualties, their orders were unchanged.
“Yes, that is completely fucking clear, Kingfisher Base,” Drachev growled. “Six out.” He glanced across the cockpit at his gunner, Senior Sergeant Pekhtin. “You know this is total bullshit.”
Pekhtin nodded carefully, not daring to express his own opinion out loud. There was no percentage in getting caught in the middle of a shit storm between two senior officers.
Drachev craned his head, peering through the Ka-52’s cockpit canopy. There, beyond and slightly to the left of the other gunship, he saw a plume of dust rising above the trees, drifting slowly away on the wind. “Five, this is Kingfisher Six. Stop that vehicle. But don’t scratch its paint if you can help it, understand? Command wouldn’t like that. We’ll hang back half a klick and cover your ass.”
Drachev watched the lead helicopter’s long nose swing a few degrees left and banked his own Ka-52 to follow. They were flying along the trace of a narrow dirt logging road as it wound back and forth. Through the trees ahead, he caught a flicker of pale blue in that drifting cloud of dust. They were chasing the enemy agents’ fake delivery van, he suddenly realized.
