The Raytheon AN/DAS-1 Multi-Spectral Targeting System (MTS-B) mounted under the Reaper’s nose responded to his commands, sweeping north and panning out to an even wider view than previously established. Canales focused on the MTS-B’s infrared sensor’s input, which gave him the best chance of detecting any threats within the sensor’s view. The Siberian landscape had retained little of the previous day’s heat, providing a near perfect backdrop for the passive infrared sensor. The heat signature of a human or recently run vehicle starkly contrasted with the cold ground, making his job relatively simple. The system’s software did the rest, automatically locking onto these signatures for further investigation by human operators. Canales would make a quick assessment, based on system recommendations and his own experience, whether the Reaper needed to do a closer sweep over a detected signature.
With his eyes fixed to the screen, he reached for an insulated coffee mug on the floor with his unoccupied hand. He found one of the mugs and lifted it, quickly determining that it was too light to be his backup supply of caffeine. He moved his hand around under the thick leather swivel seat in frustration, finally deciding to take his eyes off the screen for a brief second. He turned the seat to the right and leaned his head over the side, immediately finding the tall black mug and lifting it from the floor. Now he was back in business.
He had crashed hard ten minutes ago, coming down off the incredible adrenaline rush initiated by the brief one-sided battle over Slavgorod. He’d fired more than his fair share of Hellfire missiles against Al Qaeda operatives or other “extremists,” and was no stranger to questionable drone missions, but what they did over Slavgorod was something different altogether. Whatever Blackjack carried in that Tiger had to be absolutely critical to national security because he had just committed an act of war against the Russian Federation to defend it.
He couldn’t imagine the agency debrief for this operation and all of the paperwork he’d have to sign swearing this to secrecy. The only immediate upside he could foresee would be an instantaneous transfer out of this shithole back to the United States. He expected to be on the first flight out of Manas after landing the Reaper, which suited him fine. Manas Airbase was a miserable assignment that he’d reluctantly agreed to take for the hardship pay.
When he returned his gaze to the multi-sensor input console, his eyes caught something exiting the bottom of the screen at high speed. He didn’t see enough of the image to determine what had crossed the screen, but based on the sensor’s orientation, it was travelling north to south. He nestled the coffee mug between his legs and checked the system for a software tag. Finding it at the top of the queue, he hooked the tag and clicked on the icon to slave the MTS-B turret on the Reaper to the heat signature. One point two seconds later, he experienced an adrenaline spike that felt like more of a heart attack. Two Mi-8 Hip helicopters had passed under his Reaper, headed toward Blackjack.
Chapter 66
The Tiger dropped into a shallow ditch, jamming Farrington against the four-point harness that had kept his body inside the vehicle over the past several minutes. The vehicle suddenly angled skyward and cleared the ditch in a violent lurching motion.
“You gotta watch that shit! We can’t get stuck!” Farrington said, fully aware that he was letting the conditions get the better of him.
“You didn’t see the fucking ditch either! I’ve been driving this motherfucker in the dark for four hours. I could use a little help watching the road!” Misha said.
“Check out the eastern horizon,” Gosha said, temporarily diffusing the tension.
Farrington raised his night vision goggles and risked a look out of the passenger window. The horizon indeed displayed a faint blue glow, which signified the beginning of nautical twilight. Soon enough, the landscape surrounding them would start to appear without the aid of night vision, exposing them to simple observation by border patrols or aircraft. He hoped to be flying across Kazakhstan in a helicopter by that point.
The vehicle bucked again, slamming the side of his head into the metal doorframe.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
“Serves you right,” Misha said.
The left, front side of the vehicle dropped and rebounded, shaking the entire vehicle, but sparing Farrington any further physical damage. Sasha moaned from the rear compartment, feeling the full impact of their off-road voyage, strapped against the thinly cushioned troop bench. His morphine had started to wear thin before reaching Slavgorod, but they didn’t feel comfortable giving him more painkillers without a better assessment of his condition, and so far they hadn’t been able to spare the time for a more comprehensive examination. He was moaning, which meant he was still alive, and that was about the best they could manage at the moment.
Farrington’s satellite phone vibrated, and he immediately answered.
“Blackjack, this is control station. Black Rain has detected helicopters inbound from the north—”
“Is this our pickup? We’re not over the border yet,” Farrington said.
“Negative. Two Mi-8 Hips at low altitude. Scan north to northeast of your position. We’re trying to find them on satellite…shit, check your four o’clock!” Karl Berg said.
“Scan four o’clock for hostile helicopters!” Farrington yelled.
“Scanning!” Gosha yelled.
“Where the fuck are my helos, control?” Farrington said.
“En route to primary extract. ETA three minutes,” Berg said.
“You need to redirect them to our position. We can’t fight off armed helicopters,” Farrington said.
“I’ll do what I can. Until then, I have one last parting gift for you,” Berg said.
Gosha spotted the helicopters and swiveled the grenade launcher as far to the right as possible, unable to line them up in the launcher’s sight. Unlike the American “Humvee,” the GAZ Tiger didn’t feature a fully rotatable gun ring enabling gunners to engage targets in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc. He was limited by the Tiger’s forward direction of travel.
“I have two helicopters coming in low at four o’clock,” Gosha said.
“How far?” Farrington said.
“Not far enough.”
He couldn’t guess their distance in the dark and had no intention of taking his hands off the grenade launcher to try and mark them with his rifle-mounted laser. By the time he determined the range, projectiles of various calibers would start arriving. He assumed the helicopters hadn’t been armed with air-to-ground missiles, or they would have fired them already, serving up the same result as the Hellfire missiles fired from the drone overhead.
Without air-to-ground missiles, the transport helicopters would have a limited number of attack options, all strictly dependent upon the types of guns installed. The most typical weapons arrangement for the Mi-8 Hip troop transport involved door guns, which would leave them with two options: high-speed strafing runs alongside the Tiger or standoff gunnery at low speed. The Tiger’s grenade launcher could outrange most of the weapons mountable in the Hip’s doors, making a slow or stationary standoff attack unlikely. One 30mm grenade could cripple the lightly armored Hip, and the pilots would be unlikely to take that chance. Gosha counted on them to favor less accurate, high-speed tactics which, combined with the one Hellfire missile still owed to them by Black Magic, gave them a fighting chance to reach the border.