Just before the second helicopter slipped from view, Ulm raised his arm and waved in case any of its crew members were watching him. He hoped he would pass for a Russian. He brought the Heckler and Koch up routinely, flicked the catch to semiautomatic and switched on the laser sighting system. The red spot beam danced over the rocks by his feet.
He reached the sponson mid-way between nose and tail and stopped. Beneath the helicopter he saw the bodies of its American crew. All three of them had been shot in the base of the neck. He did not let it divert him. The cockpit appeared to be empty, as did the left-hand minigun station just aft of the forward bulkhead.
Ulm stole along the fuselage, pausing for one last check of his MP5 before reaching the ramp. He pulled his mask down and stepped round the wall of the cargo hold.
He had perhaps a second to assess the situation. There were two gunners inside. The one on the ramp, the other well forward, manning the right-hand defensive position by the flight-deck bulkhead. Both were training their weapons in the direction of the cliff where Girling and the Sword were hidden. Ulm smiled and nodded to put the far gunner at his ease, then put the barrel of his MP5 against the ribs of the Russian on the ramp, pulled him in towards the gun and shot him twice through the heart. The body jumped and pitched forward, the folds of the jacket catching on the silencer of the American’s gun.
The second Russian lunged for his MP5 as Ulm struggled to pull the ramp gunner’s dead weight off him. Hearing the machine pistol being cocked in the confines of the aircraft gave him a new burst of energy and he hurled the body off the ramp. Suddenly free of the obstruction, the red laser sight-spot danced on the bulkhead. The gunner saw it, too, and raised his weapon. Ulm knew that a bullet through a fuel line or a critical piece of avionics would dash any hope they had of getting away.
His hands wet with sweat, he waited till the spot beam held on the Russian’s forehead before firing. The gunner’s body slammed back against the opening for the minigun, catching on the pintle mounting. It hung, twitching, half in, half out of the helicopter.
Ulm ran outside the hold and snatched a glance towards the rocks that obscured the second Pave Low. There was no sign of any movement. Then he waved Girling over.
There was a flurry of movement as Girling eased the Sword’s body over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. Then the journalist made his way across the clearing. When they reached the ramp, Ulm helped Girling ease the Sword into the back of the hold. He pointed to some parachute packs hanging on the walls and told Girling to use them to make the old man as comfortable as possible for the flight.
‘You know how to work a minigun?’ Ulm asked.
‘I think so.’
‘Chances are you’re going to have to.’ Ulm slipped out of the back of the helicopter and jogged up the right side of the fuselage, stopping only to pull the dead gunner from his window.
Ulm turned the handle on the door to the flight deck and tugged it open to find himself staring into the barrel of the gun. He twisted instinctively, like a fish on the end of a line, in a bid to get away. He curved off the foot rest into space at the precise moment the Russian pilot fired his pistol. The slug caught Ulm in the upper chest, spinning him in the air. He landed face down in the dirt, fully conscious. He could see the wheels of the Sikorsky a little way off, but could not raise his head any higher. He heard the crack of gunfire in the valley below. He heard, too, the cabin door swing as the Russian prepared to finish him.
Girling had made the Sword’s body secure, when he heard the shots from the flight deck. Drawing his pistol, he ran through the hold towards the bulkhead. He wrenched the connecting door open just as the Russian was stepping out. Girling had no time to think. Still only half-way through the access hatch, he fired off two rounds. The first went high, but it made the Russian turn. The second bullet took him in the face.
Girling wriggled through the hatch and was out of the commander’s door. He rolled Ulm over, convinced that he was already dead. The American’s blood was trickling down the gentle gradient that led to the cliff drop-off.
As Girling moved him, Ulm coughed violently. Girling pulled the mask off his face and Ulm spat a mixture of dirt, blood and spit into the dust. He tried to speak, but Girling couldn’t make out the words. From the look on his face, though, he took it as some sort of apology.
‘Don’t talk,’ Girling said.
Ulm’s half-choked laugh made Girling realize that talking was all they had left, because the Russians had them now. Their helplessness stirred anger in him and his anger gave him strength. He pulled Ulm onto his feet, ignoring his groans. Half-carrying, half-dragging the American, Girling moved around the front of the helicopter and opened the co-pilot’s door.
It took him a full two minutes to get Ulm strapped in, by which time he had regained consciousness. Girling took off his own jacket and pressed it between Ulm’s wound and his inertia-reel harness.
‘Forget it, Girling, we’re fucked.’
Girling stared at the bank of switches and dials in front of him. ‘Not if I can help it. Not while there’s still a chance.’
‘A chance for you maybe if you run for the hills. But the old man and me are all out of luck.’
Girling snatched a glance over his shoulder towards the trail that led up from the cliff.
‘I’m going to fly us out of here,’ he said.
‘You never said you were a helo pilot.’
‘I’ve flown simulators.’
‘Simulators?’ The blood made his throat rattle. ‘This isn’t a penny fucking arcade game.’
‘Tell me what I have to do.’
Ulm twisted painfully in his seat until he saw Girling’s face and knew he wasn’t kidding.
Bitov was alive, but only just, when Shabanov found him. The fingers of the sergeant’s mutilated hand beckoned and the colonel got down on his knees to put his ear to the starshina’s lips. He listened patiently, then got slowly to his feet.
They stared at each other for several seconds, Bitov’s eyes showing they comprehended.
‘It is time, my friend,’ Shabanov said, raising his MP5.
He shot Bitov twice. Once through the chest and once in the head, just to be sure. Bitov, who had fought with him since the very formation of Opnaz, was now one more dead American in the Sword’s valley.
Shabanov turned to the platoon leader, a corporal. He noticed the man had acquired an RPG-7 rocket launcher and an SA-9 SAM system from the field of battle and was carrying them over his shoulders.
‘The signal, yefreytor. Fire it.’
The soldier pointed his Very pistol in the air, pulled the trigger, and a green flare shot into the sky.
‘The Sword, Ulm, and the civilian are on the cliff,’ Shabanov announced to his men. ‘Kill them and we can all go home.’
Girling found the battery switch and flicked it to ‘on’. ‘Now what?’
There was a hum of electrical power as the lights came up on the instrument panel. Girling found two headsets. He put one on Ulm and plugged the lead into the comms panel between them. Then he donned his own.
Girling turned to the American and waited.
‘There are two levers above you on the overhead,’ Ulm said.
Girling raised his eyes. The roof was a maze of switches, dials and levers.
‘Right in the centre.’
‘Got them.’ Girling grasped them with his left hand.
‘Push them forward to ground idle. You should feel a slight click as they hit the detent.’