The Persona Protocol

34


Outflanked


Adam pushed the rudder pedal down harder. The Beriev tipped further, the pilot’s corpse flopping grotesquely over the armrest. The hillside swung away. Grey sky almost touched grey water in the distance ahead, separated only by a thin bar of land across the lagoon’s mouth.

He eased pressure on the rudder, lining up the plane with the open sky. The Hind pulled ahead, sweeping out across the water. He realised what Sevnik was doing. The Russian didn’t want to risk losing the RTG – maybe he even had some sliver of conscience that drew the line at poisoning the Motherland with five kilograms of strontium-90 – and rather than destroy the seaplane, he was trying to stop it from taking off.

The easiest way to do that would also be the simplest: block its path.

Adam opened the throttles, changing the elevator pitch to bring the nose back up. The Beriev bounced over the waves as it gained speed. It needed at least a kilometre of open water and to reach 120 knots to take off. The Hind could easily match its pace and move to obstruct it. A collision would be catastrophic for both aircraft, and Sevnik was surely banking that the American team was not on a suicide mission.

Tony entered the cockpit and braced himself against the dead pilot’s seat. ‘Can we make it?’

‘Yes – if we can get past the Hind!’ The gunship was now directly ahead, slowing to a hover and turning to face the oncoming seaplane.

‘Is he playing chicken?’ Tony said in disbelief.

‘If we hit him, we’ll lose the tail and probably the engines too. All he has to do is force me to cut power and splash down again, and I won’t have enough room left to get back up to takeoff speed.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Adam indicated the body. ‘He’s the one who’d know what to do. I’m just trying to stop this thing from nose-diving into the lake!’

He checked the airspeed indicator. Fifty knots and rising. The Beriev crested a wave with a loud whump, spray speckling the windshield. More pitch on the elevators! He adjusted the trim. The young Russian was at least a qualified pilot in conventional aircraft, even if his seaplane experience was far too slim for comfort. It was only then that Adam realised he didn’t even know the man’s name. Gennady, the persona told him, almost indignant. Always the middle brother, always overlooked . . .

Orange flashes from the Hind’s cannon. Waterspouts kicked up in the Beriev’s path. Sevnik was giving him a shot across the bows, trying to scare him into aborting the takeoff.

Eighty knots. The Be-200 skipped over each wave, producing a momentary roller-coaster sensation in his stomach before the keel sliced back into the water. Ninety knots. ‘Everybody hold on!’ he shouted over his shoulder.

More flames – this time from one of the gunship’s rocket pods. Two great white geysers erupted just ahead of the seaplane, the Beriev ploughing through the spray. Adam’s view through the windshield was obliterated, water gushing into the cockpit through the bullet hole. It took him – rather, Gennady – a moment to remember where the wiper controls were. He found the switch, the blades squealing across the rectangular panes.

The Hind was dead ahead, an ugly bug-eyed creature hanging above the lake.

He applied more rudder as the Beriev bounced up again, the seaplane curving to port. The gunship tilted to follow. The way was still blocked. One hundred knots.

Another burst of cannon fire—

This time, the Be-200 hit the line of waterspouts. There was a piercing bang somewhere below the cockpit’s right side. Adam felt the jolt of impact through the joystick. His eyes snapped to the display screens. The computers weren’t reporting any damage – but that did not mean the wound was harmless.

One-ten. He jammed the throttles to the detent and pulled back on the stick. The Beriev was still short of takeoff speed, but if it didn’t get airborne now it would never clear the gunship.

Another wave – and the seaplane’s nose pitched upwards. A hundred and fifteen knots. The hull cleared the surface completely . . .

It wasn’t enough.

He felt the roller-coaster sensation again as the plane reached the top of its arc. The Hind hovered gloatingly ahead, weapons pods curled down like mantis claws. If he didn’t cut power immediately, he would crash into it—

The flash of lunatic inspiration was not Gennady’s, but Adam’s own. He didn’t pull back the throttles. Instead he shoved the joystick forward, throwing the plane into a power dive. The Beriev pitched down sharply, water rushing up to meet it . . .

The seaplane hit the lake hard, another eruption of spray blinding its pilot – as he yanked the joystick back and slammed the elevators to their maximum pitch.

The Be-200 skipped off the surface like a thrown stone and climbed again—

Passing right under the gunship.

The tip of the seaplane’s tail scraped the Hind’s belly with a metallic shriek, but the damage it inflicted was nothing compared to the impact of the Beriev’s jet exhaust. With both engines at full power, it was blasting out over thirty thousand pounds of thrust – swatting the helicopter out of the sky.

The gunship was hurled into a corkscrewing spin, rolling as it fell. Its rotors slashed into the water – and the engines’ torque flung the fuselage around in the opposite direction, slamming it down like a hammer. The Hind disintegrated, wreckage tumbling in all directions before being swallowed by the icy void.

But the Beriev was not out of danger. The forced touchdown had slowed it, the airspeed indicator dropping. The bar of land across the lagoon’s mouth was coming up fast – and the seaplane was falling towards it.

Adam grappled with the controls, desperately trying to find extra lift. If he pulled the stick back to climb without increasing speed, it would result in a stall, smashing the Be-200 on the frozen ground. But the indicator needle was rising too slowly. The plane reached one hundred knots again, but it was not enough to stay airborne.

Despite every instinct of Gennady’s screaming for him to stop, he pushed the stick forward again. The altimeter spun down faster – but the plane picked up speed. One-ten, one-fifteen, but the Beriev was only fifty feet above sea level.

Rocks and snow filled his vision . . .

One hundred and twenty knots.

Adam felt the plane’s wings flex, as if it were coming alive. He pulled the stick back. The icy land dropped away—

A fearsome grinding noise echoed through the fuselage as the Beriev’s keel grazed the bar, kicking up a spray of snow and gravel – then the seaplane angled upwards, gaining height.

‘Slava bogu!’ cried Adam, whooping. ‘We made it!’

‘Jesus!’ gasped Tony, still clinging to the other seat. He looked back shakily into the main cabin. ‘Is everyone okay?’

Baxter and his men gave more or less positive responses, the team leader closing the hatch before checking Levin’s wound. Bianca flipped strands of spray-soaked hair off her face. ‘Oh yes, fine,’ she said with withering sarcasm. ‘So what’s the in-flight movie? Alive?’

Adam ignored her, turning the plane south-east. He found a pair of headphones on a hook and donned them, then switched on the radio and listened to the rapid chatter from Provideniya’s control tower. ‘This isn’t good,’ he said.

‘What is it?’ Tony asked.

‘Our plane got away from Provideniya – but the controllers have requested Russian military support to bring them back.’

The blond man was unimpressed. ‘The nearest airbase is, what, two hundred miles from here? There’s no way they’ll catch up before we reach US airspace.’

‘They don’t have to,’ Adam said urgently. ‘They already had two fighters in the air on a long-range exercise – they’re moving to intercept!’

The Global 6000 had levelled out at ten thousand feet, on course for St Lawrence Island. Kyle hoped for a sight of American soil in the distance, but clouds obstructed his view. ‘God damn, that was close,’ he said, leaning back in his seat. ‘I’d better get danger pay for this.’

Holly Jo glowered at him. ‘Jesus Christ, Kyle!’

He looked affronted. ‘What?’

‘Is that all you can think about, yourself? Some of our people just died! We lost at least three members of the tac team – and we don’t know what happened to everyone else after you blew up the UAV.’

‘Hey, I was trying to save them by doing that.’

‘That’s not the point! You’re sitting there whining about how dangerous things were for you, when—’

The entire plane lurched violently, loose items flying across the cabin. Only Kyle and Holly Jo’s seat belts kept them from following suit. A thunderous roar shook the aircraft, followed a moment later by another vicious jolt and a second rumbling scream that rapidly dopplered away into the distance.

Holly Jo grabbed her armrests in panic. ‘What the hell was that?’

Kyle looked back through the window. ‘Holy shit!’

Two sleek jet fighters powered away from the American plane, having just crossed its path at near-supersonic speeds so that it would slam into their turbulent wakes – the aerial equivalent of throwing a stinger strip in front of a speeding car. They circled behind the business jet, giving Kyle a better view as they passed. He identified them instantly: Sukhoi Su-35E ‘Super Flankers’, painted in angular grey dazzle camouflage. The pride of the Russian Air Force, and among the most deadly aircraft on the planet. Each Flanker had four missiles mounted beneath its wings.

He doubted that the weapons were harmless training dummies.

Holly Jo used her headset to talk to the cockpit. ‘What’s happening?’

Tension was clear in the pilot’s voice. ‘They’re ordering us to turn about and head back to Provideniya.’

‘They can’t do that!’ Kyle protested. ‘We’re in international airspace.’

‘We just violated Russian airspace with an unauthorised takeoff. They’re kinda pissed about it!’

‘But what about our F-22s?’

‘Gee, I don’t see them,’ the pilot replied scathingly. ‘Do you?’

Holly Jo listened in on another transmission, from one of the Sukhois. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, going pale. ‘They just said that if we don’t turn round, they’ll open fire.’

‘We don’t have a choice,’ said the pilot. ‘I’m taking us back.’

Kyle pressed his face against the porthole. One of the pursuing Flankers swung into sight as the Global 6000 banked, the military aircraft effortlessly matching the Bombardier’s movements. ‘Crap. Crap, oh crap!’ he cried, close to panic. ‘What happens if they arrest us? I mean, we’re technically spies.’

‘There’s no “technically” about it,’ said Holly Jo. ‘We are spies! We’ve got to destroy the hard drives, wipe anything containing classified data—’

She was interrupted by an astonished shout from Kyle. ‘Holy shit! Look at this, look!’

She rushed to the other side of the cabin to see what was happening – and reacted with the same amazement.

Another plane had joined the chase.

The pilot of the leading Sukhoi adjusted his course to follow the larger jet as it turned. Even though it had followed his instructions and was heading back to land, he still kept the gunsight on his head-up display locked on to it. Where east met west over the Bering Strait, the Americans were always up to something sneaky. This time, they had been caught red-handed—

He flinched at a shocked yelp in his helmet’s earphones – his wingman. ‘Drop, drop!’ the other pilot cried. ‘Break off!’

Nothing on the radar or threat warning indicator. He looked back . . . as a shadow fell over his cockpit.

The second Flanker had made a hurried rolling descent – away from the looming underbelly of the large transport aircraft now plunging down at him like a giant’s fist.

‘He’s diving, he’s gone!’ said Tony, leaning over the pilot’s body to see what was happening outside. He had pressed a gloved hand against the bullet hole in the windshield to block the shrieking wind. The two Sukhois disappeared into the clouds below. ‘You did it! You scared them off.’

‘Not for long,’ Adam said grimly as he levelled out. He selected a new radio frequency. ‘Two-zero-one, do you read me? This is Adam, on an open channel. Do you read?’

‘We read you,’ came the reply – the pilot of the Global 6000, its tail number ending in 201. ‘What’s your situation?’

‘The situation,’ said Kyle, cutting in with enormous relief, ‘is that he’s just saved our asses!’

‘I only bought us a little extra time,’ Adam corrected. ‘Two-zero-one, turn back to the south-east, maximum speed. You’ve got to reach US airspace.’

‘Those fighters will catch up again long before then,’ the pilot pointed out.

‘Just get as far as you can. We’ll do the same. Out.’ He banked the Beriev away from the business jet. As he turned, he saw two faces gawping at him through the cabin portholes: Holly Jo and Kyle. He gave them a brief wave, then looked back at the controls.

‘They’re following us,’ Tony reported as the Bombardier changed course.

‘They’re not the only ones.’ Although he couldn’t see them, Adam knew the Russian fighters were still out there.

And now they were mad.

The lead Su-35 pilot powered his plane back up through the clouds. He was shaking; both with shock at the near-miss, and with anger. Attacked – by a seaplane! It was almost insulting that somebody in a tub of a Beriev had tried to intimidate him. What made it worse was that they had succeeded.

Now he would show the Beriev’s pilot the true meaning of intimidation.

He activated his fighter’s fire-control systems. The Flanker’s Irbis radar was capable of detecting targets as far as four hundred kilometres away, but the two he was now hunting were only at one hundredth of that distance. ‘Bandits at eleven o’clock high, bearing one-one-zero degrees,’ he told his companion. ‘Let’s get them.’

Both Sukhois banked hard, afterburners flaring as they surged in pursuit.

Adam watched the Bombardier overtaking his plane. Even with its two powerful engines, the aerodynamic compromises needed to make the Be-200 amphibious limited its maximum speed to just over five hundred knots. The Global 6000 had almost a ninety-knot advantage.

Not that it mattered: both aircraft were in a losing race. The Flankers could achieve well over Mach 2, getting on for three times faster.

He switched one of the displays to a computerised map. The plane was now about halfway between the Russian coast and the north-western tip of St Lawrence Island. US airspace officially began twelve nautical miles from the land’s edge, matching the limits of its territorial waters.

At the seaplane’s top speed, it would still take more than two minutes to reach it.

And he didn’t have two minutes. ‘Attention seaplane, attention unidentified seaplane,’ said a voice in his headphones. The Russian pilot was speaking in thickly accented English, but his barely restrained fury was clear. ‘You have committed an aggressive act against military aircraft of the Russian Federation. You will turn to three-two-five degrees and land at Provideniya airport, where you will be placed under arrest. I have missile lock on your plane. If you do not obey, I will shoot you down. You have twenty seconds to comply.’

‘Not good?’ said Tony, seeing Adam’s expression.

‘Not good. They’re going to fire if we don’t turn back.’

The Global 6000’s pilot had already made his decision, the other jet peeling away. One of the Flankers followed it. ‘I guess that settles it,’ Tony said mournfully. ‘See you in the gulag . . .’

‘You now have ten seconds,’ said the Russian. The Beriev was dead centre in his HUD, a trilling warble in his headphones assuring him that he had a solid missile lock on his target. ‘Nine. Eight . . .’

A new sound, an insistent, piercing shrill. Threat warning indicators flashed red. Someone had locked weapons on to him! But who—

‘Russian fighters, Russian fighters,’ said a new voice. American. ‘We have missile lock on both your aircraft.’

The display revealed that the radar beam pinning him was coming from astern. The pilot twisted in his seat to spot its source. He glimpsed an ominous grey shadow against the sky, closing in from behind.

An F-22 Raptor, the most advanced fighter aircraft in the world.

‘You will disengage immediately and allow the two civilian aircraft to proceed on their way,’ the Raptor pilot continued. ‘If you do not, we will use all necessary force to protect them.’

‘What do we do?’ asked the Russian’s wingman, frantic.

The pilot choked back his rage. He had always wanted to know how a dogfight between a Flanker and a Raptor would play out, not believing for one minute the American claims of the latter’s superiority and certain that he was more than a match for any US pilot . . . but from such a weakened position, any challenge would be suicide.

‘Withdraw,’ he snarled. ‘Break off and withdraw.’

Tony was pressed against the window again, watching the Flanker curve away. An F-22 followed it, a hound corralling its prey. ‘They’re bugging out!’

‘Attention two-zero-one and companion aircraft,’ said one of the American pilots through Adam’s headphones. ‘This is Raptor One. You are now free and clear to reach US airspace. Once we’re sure these guys have gone, we’ll escort you to Elmendorf.’ A pause, then, pointedly: ‘Whatever you were doing, I hope it was worth it. There’s gonna be diplomatic hell to pay once you’re on the ground.’

‘Thanks for your assistance, Raptor One,’ Adam replied. He looked back into the cabin, seeing the RTG still secured to the deck, Bianca near it with the PERSONA cases – and Qasid, bound and under guard. ‘We got what we came for.’