Mills said, “Well, he’s killed the lights by now. He won’t risk a Soviet ship seeing an Aeroflot helicopter land on his deck. I can’t say I blame him.”
Lisa said, “But I don’t see anything that even looks like a freighter. I see a few tankers and a few fishing ships. I saw one warship with guns back there. We’ve missed him.”
O’Shea said, “Maybe he’s still in Leningrad, trying to clear red tape. Maybe he’s off course or we’re off course. An air-sea rendezvous with radio silence is hit or miss.”
Hollis looked at his flight instruments. The Mi-28 had been pushed beyond its limits, and he found it ironic that the last Soviet product he would ever use was the best. Every component had performed admirably except the fuel gauge. He said to O’Shea, “You were right about the fuel.”
“I figured that the gauge was an extension of Soviet life. They don’t trust people to make rational choices, so they lie to them for their own good.” O’Shea smiled, then added without humor, “But I think by now that empty means empty.”
Mills stopped looking out the window and sat back on the floor between the seats. “Well, good try though.” He produced the flask, took a swig, and handed it to Brennan. Brennan drank and gave it to Lisa. She offered it to Hollis and O’Shea, who declined, O’Shea saying, “I’m flying.” Lisa, Brennan, and Mills finished the flask.
Hollis looked out at the water below. The seas were high, and he could see white curling breakers rolling from north to south. At two hundred meters’ altitude, his range of vision encompassed an area large enough to insure that he wouldn’t miss the freighter even if he was two or three kilometers off course. Something was very wrong, and the thought crossed his mind that this was yet another Alevy double cross, a joke from the grave. But even if Alevy had wanted O’Shea, Brennan, and Mills silenced, he had apparently promised to deliver Burov and one American, so it couldn’t be that. Hollis realized just how much Alevy’s thinking had affected his thinking for him to even consider such a thing. Yet, he would wager that the same thought had passed through everyone’s mind.
O’Shea said, “See those buoys? We’ve crossed out of the shipping lane.”
Hollis nodded. He suddenly put the craft into a steep right bank and headed southeast, into the rising sun, back toward Leningrad.
Mills asked, “What are you doing?”
Hollis began a steep descent. Ahead, he could make out the lights of Leningrad about fifteen kilometers away.
Mills repeated, “What are you doing?”
Hollis replied, “I’m going on two assumptions. One is that the freighter did not reach the rendezvous point in time and is still steaming out of the harbor. Two, if that holds true, then the skipper of that boat feels some sense of failed duty, and if he sees us, he will do what any sea captain would do for a seacraft or aircraft in distress — he will come to our aid.” Hollis leveled the helicopter at less than one hundred meters above the churning sea and cut the speed to a slow forty kph.
O’Shea said, apropos of nothing, “I feel fine. We did good.”
Mills concurred. “We beat most of the odds, didn’t we? We’re here.”
Brennan said, “We stole this chopper, got into the Charm School, rescued Dodson, kidnapped Burov, shot our way out, flew cross-country over Russia, and got to where we were supposed to be. Shit, as far as I’m concerned, we made it.”
Hollis said, “I find it hard to refute that logic, Bill. If we had a bottle of champagne, I’d say pop it.”
Mills said, “Damn, Seth was supposed to buy champagne at the Trade Center.”
At the mention of Alevy’s name, there was a silence during which, Hollis thought, everyone was probably cursing him and blessing him at the same time. Such was the fate of men and women who move others toward great heights and dark abysses.
Lisa said to Mills, “Change places with me.” She got out of her seat and knelt on the floor to the side of Hollis. She said to him, “I know you can’t hold my hand now. But if you don’t have to hold the controls in a minute or two, can you hold my hand then?”
“Of course.”
O’Shea took the controls. “I’ve got it, General. Take a stretch.”
Hollis released the controls and took Lisa’s hand.
The helicopter continued inbound, toward Leningrad, and no one spoke. The steady sound of the turbines filled the cabin, and they listened to that and only to that, waiting for the sound to stop.
O’Shea cleared his throat and said in a controlled voice, “Twelve o’clock, one kilometer.”
Brennan, Mills, and Lisa stood and looked out the front windshield. Steaming toward them was a medium-sized freighter, and on its fantail were three yellow lights.
Hollis released Lisa’s hand and took the controls. He figured they needed about thirty seconds’ flying time if he brought it in straight over the bow. But if they flamed out, they could smash into the freighter, and neither the freighter nor its crew deserved that.
He banked right, away from the oncoming ship, then swung north, approaching the freighter at right angles, flying into the strong wind for added lift. He noticed that the three yellow lights were off now, which probably meant they’d seen him making his approach.
O’Shea said, “General, we have to get some altitude for a steep approach.”
Hollis knew that a shallow approach from a hundred meters was not the preferred way to land a helicopter on a moving deck. But a flame-out during an ascent was no treat either. All his instincts and what was called pilot’s intuition told him that his remaining flight time could be measured in seconds. “Relax.”
“Your show.” O’Shea scanned the instrument panel as Hollis concentrated on the visual approach. O’Shea called out airspeed, tachometer readings, torque, and altitude. He said, “Ground speed, about thirty.”
Hollis saw that the freighter’s stern was going to pass by before he reached it, so he put the helicopter into a sliding flight toward port as he continued his shallow powerglide approach.
He adjusted the rudder pedals to compensate for the decreased torque, keeping the nose of the helicopter lined up with the moving ship, while continuing a sideways flight.
He tried to maintain constant ground speed by use of the cyclic pitch, coordinating that with the collective pitch and the throttle.
O’Shea called out, “Ground speed, forty.”
Hollis pulled up on the nose to bring down the speed.
O’Shea said, “Altitude, fifty meters.”
Hollis kept the nose lined up amidships. The distance to the freighter was about one hundred meters, and he estimated his glide angle would take him over the stern for a hovering descent.
“Ground speed, thirty; altitude, thirty.”
A horn sounded, and O’Shea said, “Oil pressure dropping. We must have popped a line or gasket.”
The recorded voice, which had stayed inexplicably silent about the fuel, said, “Imminent engine failure. Prepare for autorotative landing.”
They were within ten meters of the ship’s upper decks now, and Hollis picked up the nose of the helicopter, reducing ground speed to near zero. The ship slid past, and the aft deck was suddenly in front of him. The deck was pitching and rolling, but never had a landing zone looked so good to him. He felt his way toward the retreating deck, and as he passed over it, the helicopter picked up ground cushion and ballooned upward. “Damn it.” The stern was gone now, and he was over the water again. Without the ground cushion, the helicopter fell toward the water.
Hollis quickly increased the throttle and the collective pitch of the blades, causing the helicopter to lift, seconds before the tail boom would have hit the churning wake. Hollis turned the nose back toward the stern and followed the ship, focusing on its stern light, trying to hold it steady in the strong crosswind. He felt like a man trying to grab the caboose rail of a moving train.