open-topped turret, the quad-mounted 23mm guns. The vehicle was a
ZSU-23-4, a deadly mobile flak battery called a Shilka by the Russians,
but popularly known as the “Zoo” among American fliers. She estimated
that it was still better than a mile off, sitting in the middle of that
dirt road she’d seen from the air.
She grabbed the small survival radio clipped to her flight suit,
pressing the transmit key. “Steve!” she shouted. “Steve, back off!
There’s a Zoo-twenty-three down here!”
The turret had already slewed to the right, and its big, blunt radar
antenna, code-named “Gun Dish” by NATO, was tracking something to the
west and close to the horizon. She could see that the cannons were
firing, raising a haze of smoke above the vehicle. A moment later, the
sound reached her, a steady, far-off thud-thud-thud-thud as the Zoo
tracked and fired … and then, God, God, no! There was Striker’s
Tomcat, streaking low across the tundra dead in the Zoo’s sights, and
then smoke was trailing from it, a white smear unraveling astern of the
aircraft as it began to break into pieces, and she heard the roar of the
Tomcat’s engines rising above the thud of the triple-A guns, and then
there was nothing but flame and smoke as Steve’s plane slammed into the
ground.
Several seconds later, the dull whump! of the crash reached her.
Oh, God, please, no!
1158 hours
Air Ops
U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
“I’m sorry, sir. Shotgun Two-two is down.”
Tombstone replaced the microphone, his eyes still on the radar screen.
That was two down out of Shotgun, plus another damaged and limping back
to the boat.
“White Lightning is now over the target,” the Operations Officer
announced. “Lead plane has just dumped his bombs.”
Tombstone dragged his attention away from the blank spot on the map near
Sayda Guba to the ragged shores of the Kola Inlet near Polyamyy. The
Intruders were swinging one after the other into their attack vectors,
bearing down on the naval bases and depots lining the western shore of
the inlet. He could hear the aviators and B/Ns calling to one another
as they made their runs.
“White Lightning One-two-two! Pickle’s hot! I’m going in!”
“This is One-two-oh! I’m in!”
“White Lightning Two, this is Lightning One-one. Watch that flak over
the inlet. They’ve got some ships down there, a couple of corvettes,
maybe a light cruiser. We’re getting heavy fire from the face of the
cliff above the base too.”
“Roger that, One-one. I can see the gunfire.”
“SAM! SAM! I’ve got a SAM launch at zero-nine-five!
“Watch for fighters. Echo-Whiskey’s got bandits spotted at
one-eight-zero!”
The hell with this! Angrily, Tombstone picked up a telephone receiver
and punched in a number. “Fred? Tombstone. What’s the status on the
CAG bird?”
“Uh … she’s up and ready, CAG. But-”
“Bring her to ready and put her on the line. I’ll be on the roof in ten
minutes.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
He hung up. “Operations Officer!”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve got the watch here. I’m going up there.”
“Uh, yes, sir. Should I tell-”
But Tombstone had already left the compartment.
1200 hours
Near Sayda Guba
Hanson had started moving in the direction of the crash, her eyes still
sweeping the leaden sky, praying for the sight of a parachute. Still,
though, there was nothing … nothing … and then she stumbled into
an unseen ditch and fell heavily to the ground.
She grunted with the shock, then rose, slowly, mud-covered and shaken.
Get a grip, woman! she told herself savagely. You start blundering
around in enemy territory without thinking about what you’re doing and
you’re going to end up dead!
Voices. She heard voices … and the sound of a truck’s engine.
Turning, Hanson saw a light truck on the dirt road a hundred yards
behind her, much closer than the Zoo. Armed men were piling out of the
back, calling to one another as they began fanning out across the field.
Coming for her.
Groping at the hip of her flight suit, she drew her pistol, a 9mm
Beretta automatic. She counted twelve men now, and clearly they’d
already seen her.
The line was spreading out, the men on the flanks running now to get