Jack knew the odds would be stacked hopelessly against him in a stand-off battle. His only chance would be a close-up engagement of the most brutal kind.
“OK, Dalmotov, you win this time,” Jack muttered grimly to himself as he eased back on the throttle and spun the helicopter round to face his enemy. “But don’t count on seeing home again.”
The three helicopters hovered in line abreast thirty metres above the waves, the downdraught churning up whirlwinds of spray. In the centre the Hind seemed conspicuously bulky, the other two machines having been designed for manoeuvrability and reduced battlefield visibility. To Jack’s right the Mi-28 Havoc looked like a hungry jackal with its low-set cockpit and protuberent snout. To his left the Ka-50 Werewolf’s trademark twin counter-rotating coaxial rotors seemed to magnify its potency yet reduce the airframe to insect-like proportions.
Through the bulletproof flat-screen glazing of the Werewolf, Jack could make out the glowering form of Dalmotov.
He instructed Jack to fly fifty metres ahead of his escorts. The clatter of the rotors increased to a reverberating din as the three machines tilted forward and began to fly north-east in close formation.
As ordered, Jack switched off the two-way radio that would have allowed him to alert outside help. After activating the autopilot he settled back and cradled the Barrett out of sight on his lap. Fully assembled it was almost a metre and a half long and weighed fourteen kilograms. He had been obliged to remove the ten-round magazine to keep the barrel concealed below the cowling. With his right hand he checked the receiver where he had chambered one of the massive 50 calibre BMG rounds. His window of opportunity was closing with each kilometre and he knew he must act soon.
His chance came earlier than expected. Five minutes on they suddenly encountered a thermal, a residual effect of the storm the night before. They bucked and swayed in a roller-coaster ride that seemed to ripple from the Hind to the other two. In the split second longer it took the others to adjust their controls, Jack decided to act. As another jolt of turbulence hit, he twisted the throttle forward and pulled hard on the cyclic. With the increase in engine power, the up-draught was enough to provide lift with the rotor blades pitched to maximum. The Hind bounced twenty metres above its original course, then faltered and began to drop. The other two passed below as if in slow motion, their blades almost skimming the Hind’s underbelly. Suddenly Jack was behind them. It was a classic manoeuvre of First World War dogfighting that was used to devastating effect by British Harriers against the faster Argentinian Mirages during the Falklands conflict.
With the muzzle of the rifle wedged below the left window, Jack decided to use the Hind’s integral firepower against the machine to the right. He depressed the right-hand rudder pedal slightly and swerved sideways until the Havoc was in his sights. The entire manoevure had taken less than five seconds, scarcely time for the others to register his absence, let alone take evasive action.
As the Hind bounced into position fifty metres astern, Jack flipped open the safety cover on top of the cyclic and pressed the red fire button. The four guns in the chin turret erupted in an immense wall of noise, a staccato hammering that threw Jack forward with the recoil. Each barrel spewed out twenty rounds per second, the casings ejecting in a wide arc on either side. For five seconds multiple prongs of flame shot out from under the nose and a withering hail of fire poured towards his opponent.
At first the Havoc appeared to be absorbing the rounds as they punched through the rear plating of the fuselage. Then a gaping hole suddenly appeared from fore to aft as the bullets shredded everything in their path, and the cockpit and its occupant disintegrated in a geyser of carnage. As the Hind tipped upwards, the final torrent of bullets caught the Havoc’s turboshaft assembly, severing the rotor which spun off like a demented boomerang. Seconds later the fuselage exploded in a giant fireball of aviation fuel and detonating ammunition.
Jack pulled hard on the collective and rose above the doomed helicopter. He settled on a level trajectory with the Werewolf, its sinister form now thirty metres to his left and slightly ahead. Jack could see the pilot battling with the controls as the lighter airframe was buffeted by the thermals and the aftershock of the explosion. Dalmotov seemed frozen in disbelief, unable to accept what had happened, but Jack knew it would be momentary; he had only seconds before he lost his advantage.
He levelled the Barrett out of the window and fired. The bullet left with a mighty crack, the noise reverberating inside his earphones. He swore as he saw sparks fly off the Werewolf’s upper fuselage and quickly chambered another round. This time he aimed to the right to compensate for the 200 kilometre per hour airflow. He fired just as Dalmotov jerked his head round to look at him.
Like most close-support helicopters, the Werewolf was well protected against ground attack, the armoured shield round the cockpit designed to withstand 20 millimetre cannon strikes. Its vulnerability lay in the upper fuselage and engine mounting, areas less susceptible to ground fire, where defensive plating was sacrificed to allow maximum armour to be concentrated round the crew compartment. The counter-rotating airfoil was both its strength and its weakness, producing a highly agile machine but requiring a shaft that protruded high above the fuselage to accommodate the two heads for the three-blade coaxial rotors.
The second round struck just below the lower rotor, smashing through the machinery and severing the control line. For a moment nothing happened and the helicopter continued forward with its nose down. Then it began to judder and reared up at a crazy angle. Jack could see Dalmotov frantically working the controls. Even from a distance he could tell the cyclic and collective were dysfunctional and there was no response from the pedals. Dalmotov reached up to pull a red handle that hung above his head.
The Werewolf was unique among battlefield helicopters in having a pilot ejection seat. The problem with helicopter ejection had always been the rotor above the cockpit, but Kamov had devised an ingenious system whereby the blades were discarded and the pilot’s seat was blasted up to a safe altitude for the parachute to open.
From the moment he pulled the handle, Dalmotov must have sensed something was terribly wrong. Instead of ejecting, the rotor blades remained fixed while the explosive charges around the canopy detonated in quick succession. The canopy blasted into the rotor and was hurled into space, leaving the blades bent but operational. Seconds later the seat ejected in a belch of smoke. By hideous chance it was caught between the two sets of blades and tumbled madly like a Catherine wheel spurting fire. After two full revolutions every protruding part of Dalmotov’s body had been sliced away, his helmeted head tossed out like a football. After a final spin the rotors spewed out what was left of their macabre cargo and it disappeared below in a plume of spray.
Jack watched dispassionately as the Werewolf executed a crazy dance in ever diminishing circles, the blades snapping off one by one under the increasing air pressure until the fuselage plummeted into the sea and exploded.
Without lingering any further, he veered south on his original course and twisted the throttle to maximum. Dalmotov would have relayed an automated Mayday and position fix, and the technicians in Aslan’s control centre would be redirecting the SATSURV to the slick of oil and debris where the helicopters had gone down. The sight would only stoke Aslan’s rage, already incandescent after the damage to Vultura. Jack knew any value he had as a hostage would now be eclipsed by Aslan’s need to exact retribution.