Echo Six: Black Ops 7 - Tibetan Fury (23 page)

"Echo Two, this is One. Did you get that?"

"I'm on it. Stand clear of the props. I'm going to swing her around."

The twin starboard props spun faster as the engines roared. The port props continued to idle, and the asynchronous force pushed the entire aircraft around in a massive one hundred and eighty degree turn. They held their breath as the starboard wing came close to the grounded fighter. It cleared the tailfin by millimeters. They were clear.

* * *

David Campbell led General Chang down the ramp and hustled him out of sight behind the revetment. Then the American knocked him unconscious with a heavy blow from a fire extinguisher he'd brought with him. Campbell murmured a prayer for the violence he'd done, and then pulled Chang deeper into shadow. He looked around, but no one had noticed.

He wouldn't be found for some time. Good. He knew they'd be angry, but it was too bad. Just so long as he wasn't found for several hours until they'd cleared Tibetan airspace. He didn't want General Chang to leave Tibet. Not yet, anyway. He had too much blood on his hands, Buddhist blood, much of it belonging to his fellow monks. Then he climbed back aboard the aircraft just in time and waited.

* * *

"That's it," Talley shouted, "Everyone back up the ramp. It's time to go."

He was last aboard, racing up the still-open ramp as the Y-7 began picking up speed. One of his men was operating the controls bringing the ramp up, and he tumbled into the cargo hold just as it closed. He climbed to his feet and held onto a seat strap as the aircraft rocked over the uneven, snow-covered tarmac.

"This is going to be a bad one," he shouted over the massive din that the interior of the fuselage had become, "All of you find somewhere to hold onto, strap in, whatever you can find. There're no guarantees on this trip."

He raced forward past the crowd of praying nuns and civilians, who still prayed and ignored him. Past Grace, who still wore the expression of inner calm and contentment, and into the cockpit. He almost leapt into the co-pilot’s seat and took hold of the control horns.

"Thank Christ," Guy exclaimed, "She's a bastard to hold. The snow has filled some of the worst of the ruts, but some of the bumps are even worse since the snow banked up over them. Every time she hits one, I almost lose her. And we're not even airborne yet, assuming we ever get her off the ground."

"We'll get out of here," Talley assured him.

""Yeah, I know that. I'm just not sure if it'll be in this life or the next one."

Talley smiled but concentrated on helping him hold their course. The nosewheel smacked into yet more vicious hummocks that almost tore away the undercarriage legs, almost, but not quite.

"Boss, we’ve got another problem," he heard Rovere call over the commo, "It's Chang. He's gone, disappeared."

"Shit! Who was watching him?"

A pause. "Not sure. It was all very confused.”

"Damn, it's too late to worry now."

Guy concentrated on keeping the wheels inside the long line of ruts made by their previous attempt to take off. It wasn't enough. Even though they were picking up speed, it was still too slow, much too slow.

"We must be near the end of the runway," Talley said, keeping his voice calm.

"I'm not aborting, not for anything," Guy snarled, "It's shit or bust, Boss."

"Right."

The engines roared, and the propellers screamed their challenge as they bit into the cold, thin air of the high plateau. There was nothing they could do, nothing.

Except…it’s a
crazy idea, totally
mad. NATO will send me to a psychologist if they find out, even so, why not? It will give them something to do in back.

"Admiral," he shouted into his mic, "Those Buddhists back there. Tell 'em to pray. Pray like they've never prayed in their lives. I mean it, Sir. Do it."

There was no reply, but he sensed Brooks had left his position next to the cockpit door and gone aft. They ploughed on, and on. Bumping, swerving, and yet the speed indicator displayed the grim truth of their situation. They weren't going to reach take off speed, weren't going to make it. No way would they make it.

"Jesus Christ!" Guy shouted.

He stared ahead; the storm force winds had blown a gap in the snowstorm, almost like a huge rent torn in a white theater curtain. In front of them, maybe thirty or forty meters ahead of their nosewheel, the snowfall had banked up against something on the runway. Perhaps a piece of debris, it could even have been several corpses, or possibly a piece of engine housing or sheet metal blown across by the sheer force of the wind. The snow had built up in front of it, so they were faced with a sloping obstacle two meters high.

Guy's hand went to the throttle levers, but Talley barked out an order.

"No! We're going over it. We'll make it."

Guy opened his mouth to argue, but in the two seconds that had elapsed, the nosewheel was almost on the obstruction.

"Full flaps, and give her twenty degrees of elevator."

The SAS man grimaced, but just the same he made the adjustments. Then they hit the obstruction. The entire fuselage shook as if it had been hit with a giant hammer, and the nosewheel reared up into the air. And up, and up, too high.

"We're going over!" someone shouted from the aft cabin.

Once more, Guy's hands went into the control levers, and once again Talley stopped him. "Hold her as she is. We're taking off."

"You're not serious. We're about to…"

The massive aircraft, all twenty tons of it shot into the air almost as if fired from a catapult. Incredibly, the snow-covered debris had bumped the nose up high enough for the propellers to bite. The enormous flaps gave them sufficient lift, together with the elevator angle, to throw them into the air like a child's paper dart.

"We're airborne!" Guy shouted, "It's fucking amazing! It's…"

"A miracle?"

He looked surprised. "Yeah, that's what it is. A miracle."

"We're not out of trouble yet," Talley sobered him up, "We're flying very low, low enough to hit a ground obstacle, a perimeter fence, or a lighting tower. Concentrate on gaining height, but slowly, very slowly."

He slipped out of the seat and went back again into the cargo hold. They were still there sitting on the floor in the lotus position, but the chanting had stopped.

"Is everybody okay back here?" he asked Rovere.

"Ask me when we cross the border," he replied.

"This praying, chanting, call it what you like," Buchmann growled, "It's driving me crazy. I'd sooner listen to a volley of fire from a heavy machine gun."

"Beware of what you wish for, Heinrich," he warned, "Grace, come forward to the cockpit. We need you to monitor the radio chatter."

She followed him into the cockpit. "How did you manage it? To take off in the middle of the snowstorm?"

He paused, not wanting to give voice to his thoughts. He'd seen it. He'd heard it, yet still he didn't believe it. There had to be some rational explanation. Except, he'd no idea what it was.

Prayers, miracles? No way.

He pointed to Guy.

"There's a man who's wasted in this outfit. He would have made one of the best pilots you're ever likely to meet. You missed out there, Guy. Pretty stewardesses, a fancy uniform, the five-mile high club, and enough money to do anything you wanted."

Guy gave him a look and shook his head. They both knew the truth, knew that it had been something other than his flying skill that got them off the ground.

But what? Coincidence? Yes, of course it was coincidence. What else could it have been?

* * *

They flew on, putting kilometer after kilometer between them and Lhasa, and Major Xilong. Talley glanced at Guy.

"This is too easy."

His number two grimaced. "Yeah, maybe. The snowstorm would make it difficult for them to launch interceptors."

"Not from another fighter base."

"True. We'll worry about that one when it happens."

Talley nodded thoughtfully.

What can we do
to increase our chances?

But he didn't have time to dwell on that thought. The overhead speaker suddenly came to life, and a stream of Chinese poured out. Then another voice interrupted, harsh, grating, and cruel. Xilong.

"You can't win."

It was all he said. Three words spoken in English. Grace grimaced. "It seems you don't need me."

"Hang in there. There's more to this than the language. I'm guessing the macho bastard wants a pissing contest, and I'd don't know what's driving him, how far we can push him."

"He's probably trying to survive himself," she replied, "They don't take failure very kindly in the People's Liberation Army. And the Ministry of State Security is likely to be worse. He wants to stay alive. That's his primary concern."

Talley nodded, but he was still dubious.

Of course the bastard wants to save his skin, but there’s more to it, much
more. He’s a psychotic individual, not the first I’ve encountered. He wants more than to just survive. He wants to inflict pain and punishment. To maim and torture, and see the faces of
his victims contort in agony. Personal survival won't be enough for this man. He wants to see fear and beat down the enemy into bloody submission.

Maybe it was something he could use. As long as Xilong was preoccupied in plotting their death agonies, time was passing. And every second, even fraction of a second, took them a few meters nearer to safety. The voice came again.

"If you land the aircraft and surrender to me, I will make certain you are well treated. If you have not committed any crimes inside China, you may even be permitted to go home."

Yeah, and cripples will walk, and the blind will see.

He looked at Grace. "I'm going to try and play this bastard for time. If you get any ideas about how we can string him out, sing out."

She nodded.

"What do you want, Xilong? How can we resolve this without further bloodshed?"

Before he could reply, Guy shouted to him.

"Fighter coming in! I guess time just ran out."

* * *

A voice crackled over the loudspeaker.

"This is Senior Lieutenant Wang. I have the target aircraft in sight. Confirm Yian Y-7H, markings for Tibetan defense region."

Xilong felt a surge of exhilaration. The radio call was from the fighter interceptor he'd managed to get launched from Qamdo Air Base. Shooting them down and killing them all would be so much more satisfactory than a simple surrender. Besides, there'd be no one left alive to contradict his explanation afterward.

He pressed the transmit button.

"Shoot it down! Kill them all!"

The pilot sounded puzzled. "It's one of ours, are you certain?"

Before he could reply, someone tugged at his sleeve. "Sir! General Chang may be aboard that aircraft."

"I've already told you," he snarled at the communications officer, "The General is back at headquarters in Lhasa city."

"I don't think so, Sir. I contacted them. They searched the building, and there is no sign of him. He has to be aboard that aircraft."

He didn't get a chance to reply. The pilot of the fighter called him again.

"This is Senior Lieutenant Wang, I need a decision. It's difficult to stay close to the target aircraft. The winds over the Himalayas mean I may be forced to vector away from it. The storm is getting worse and conditions are changing every minute."

"Hold your position," he snapped, "Wait for my order."

He turned to the Lieutenant standing next to him. "You realize that if we don't give the order to shoot, those bandits could escape. There is another possibility you may not have considered. The General may be a defector. Do you wish to suffer the consequences if it's proved you have aided a traitor?"

The man stared at him, shocked. His mouth opened and closed, as he tried to digest this new threat and come to a decision. Finally, he realized which was the safest course and nodded.

"If you feel it is the correct decision, I will not go against your orders, Major."

Clever. No matter what goes wrong, he cannot be blamed for obeying my orders.

Xilong thought for a few moments. He had the uncomfortable feeling this worm may prove to be difficult. There was sure to be an inquiry following the shooting down of a People's Liberation Army Air Force aircraft, especially one carrying a senior Ministry of State Security General on board. He thought for a few moments.

Yes, I have to reinforce the
impression that Chang is defecting.

It meant he'd have to accuse this officer of treachery and shoot him, once the aircraft had been dealt with. It was the only way to save him, by putting all the blame on him for the decisions that had to be taken. It was risky, but as things stood, he knew his life and career hung on a thread. He had nothing to lose by taking bold action. He pressed the transmit button.