Written in white letters across the stern of the ship was its name, and Hollis noted it irrelevantly: Lucinda.
The recorded voice said, “Imminent engine failure. Prepare for an autorotative landing.”
Hollis pushed forward on the collective stick, increased the throttle, and literally dove in, clearing the stern rail by a few feet. He pulled back on the collective pitch, and the helicopter flared out a few meters from the rising quarterdeck.
O’Shea shut the engines down as the rear wheels struck the deck and the Mi-28 bounced into the air. The pitching and rolling deck fell beneath them, then rose and slammed the two starboard wheels, nearly capsizing the aircraft. Hollis yanked up on the brake handle, locking the wheels.
Finally the helicopter settled uneasily onto the moving deck. Hollis looked up at the ship’s mainmast and saw it was flying the Union Jack.
No one spoke, and the sound of the turbines and rotor blades died slowly in their ears, replaced by the sound of lapping waves. A salty sea scent filled the cabin, and the relatively smooth flight was replaced by the rocking of a wind-tossed ship. Hollis saw that there were no crew in sight and assumed that all hands had been ordered below.
O’Shea cleared his throat and said quietly, “I don’t like ships. I get seasick.”
Brennan said, “I fucking love ships.”
Mills said to Hollis and O’Shea, “You both did a splendid job. We owe you one.”
Hollis replied tersely, “If ‘we’ means your company, Bert, then we all owe you one too.”
Lisa suddenly threw her arms around Hollis’ neck. “I love you! You did it! Both of you.” She grabbed O’Shea’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you both.”
O’Shea’s face reddened. “I didn’t do… well, talk to him about my efficiency report.”
Hollis smiled. “I’ll reconsider it.”
O’Shea said to Hollis, “Right before I shut the engines down—”
“I heard it.”
“What?” Mills asked.
“One of them,” O’Shea replied, “went out. There isn’t enough fuel in the tanks to fill a cigarette lighter.”
“Well, we don’t need any more fuel. See, it worked out fine.” Mills reached under his seat and pulled out a plastic bag filled with black ski masks and handed it to Brennan. “Here, everyone put on one of these. No talking to the crew, no names.”
Mills went to the back of the cabin and slid a mask over Dodson’s face. He looked at Burov and said, “Well, Colonel, the good guys won.”
Unexpectedly, Burov laughed. “Yes? The CIA are the good guys? Your own countrymen don’t think so, no more than my countrymen think the KGB are the good guys. You and I are pariahs, Mr. Mills. That’s what sets us apart from humanity.”
“Could be. Glad to see you learned something in your own school.” Mills took a Syrette from his pocket and jabbed the spring-loaded device into Burov’s neck. “You talk too much.” He slid a ski mask over Burov’s head. “That’s much better.”
Brennan slid open the door, and a rush of cold air filled the heated cabin. Brennan jumped down onto the rolling deck, followed by Lisa, O’Shea, and Hollis. Mills got out last and said, “I’ll have Dodson and Burov taken to the infirmary.” He looked up at the Union Jack. “I sort of figured it would be British. There aren’t many of our intrepid NATO allies we can count on anymore.”
Hollis observed, “For this operation, I don’t even trust our allies in Washington, Bert.”
“Good point.”
Lisa asked, “Are we home free, or not?”
Hollis didn’t think they would ever be home free as long as they lived. He replied, “We’re in the right neighborhood.”
The door of the quarterdeck opened and six seamen dressed in dark sweaters appeared. They approached the helicopter and looked at their five passengers curiously: four men, one woman, all wearing black masks. Three men were in Russian uniforms, one in a sweat suit. The woman wore a sweat suit and parka. And on board the helicopter, Hollis thought, were two unconscious and battered men in black masks, one in pajamas and one in a shredded sweat suit. If the seamen had been asked to pick out the good guys from the bad guys, Hollis realized, they would probably guess wrong.
One of the seamen made a pushing motion toward the helicopter as if he didn’t think anyone spoke English. Mills shook his head, held up two fingers, and pointed. The six men went to the helicopter and removed Dodson and Burov, laying them on the cold, wet deck.
Hollis jumped back into the cockpit and released the brakes, then joined O’Shea, Brennan, and the six sailors in rolling the helicopter to the portside rail. One of the men swung open the gangplank section of the railing. They all pushed from the rear of the fuselage, sending the Mi-28 over the side, nose first, its long tail boom rising into the air as the front plunged down toward the churning sea. Instinctively, they all went to the rail and watched as the helicopter bobbed a moment until the sea rushed into its open door and it slid, cockpit first, into the dark water. Its tail section seemed to wave a farewell, and Hollis found himself touching his hand to his forehead and noticed that O’Shea did the same.
The crewmen moved quickly to the three fog lights, which were portable and connected by cords running to electrical outlets. They disconnected the lights and threw them overboard. Hollis thought there was something disturbing about that. Getting rid of the helicopter was an obvious thing to do. But getting rid of three small lights indicated that the captain was taking precautions in the event of a possible boarding and search by Soviet authorities or at the very least a flyover. Hollis wondered what other evidence the captain was prepared to throw overboard.
Hollis looked over the port rail to the south and saw two ships on the distant horizon. They may have seen the helicopter landing, and through binoculars they could have seen it pushed overboard. If they were Soviet ships or even East Bloc craft, they might radio a report. More to the point, Red Navy radar had probably picked up the unidentified flight and had recognized its flight characteristics as that of a helicopter. They could have seen the blip descend to sea level, and perhaps had even concluded that it had landed on the ship that also appeared on their screens. Three-mile limit notwithstanding, the Soviets claimed this whole part of the gulf as their private pond.
Mills seemed to guess what Hollis was thinking. Mills nodded toward the two ships on the horizon. “That’s why we wanted a night landing.”
“Yes, but radar works at night.”
Mills replied, “I was told it would look like a crash at sea on radar.”
“It might. Depends on the Ivan who was staring at the screen.”
“Well, then this is a test to see whose side God is really on.”
Hollis smiled grimly. “After what we did at the Charm School, I think we’re on our own.” Hollis turned and walked away from the rail. Four of the seamen had stretchers now and were carrying Dodson and Burov toward the quarterdeck. One of them said to Mills, “Infirmary.”
One of the other two sailors motioned to them, and they followed him into a door on the quarterdeck, then went up a narrow companionway to the upper deck and walked along a passageway without meeting another person. The seaman took them up one more deck and showed them into a white-painted chart room with large portholes that was located behind the bridge. The seaman left wordlessly, and Hollis pulled off his ski mask. Lisa, O’Shea, Mills, and Brennan did the same.