Текст книги "Snow Wolf"

Автор книги: Glenn Meade

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The dimly lit temporary operations room in the back office of the east wing of the embassy was thick with sweaty men, cigarette smoke and the babble of voices. Branigan had a dozen telephones rigged up and they stood on six trestle tables in the center, a half-dozen personnel from the embassy huddled around them.

The Finn who stood beside Branigan was tall but chubbyfaced, his dark hair graying slightly at the sides, and he spoke perfect English.

Henry Steniund, the Deputy Director of SUPO, Finnish Counter-intelligence, and a lawyer by profession, stared over at the bustle of men and equipment with nothing short of amazement.

Finland's security police had its entire operation housed in a drafty three-story granite office building on Ratakatu et, and was comprised of ten men, three worn-out Volksgen cars, and a half-dozen rusting Raleigh bicycles for his best agents. The offices had nothing like the bustle of this, and it generated a certain excitement in Steniund that he hadn't experienced since the Germans had left Helsinki.

He had received the call just as he was leaving the office and had brought the files to the embassy as Branigan requested. Steniund knew better than to ask too many questions, except the bare facts, for he knew from the grim look on the face of the CIA man that the matter was serious indeed and sensitive enough for him to be summoned by the Director himself. Now he stood beside Branigan as they went through a list of names.

All were mercenary pilots who risked their lives flying into Soviet airspace from the Baltic on covert Finnish military and CIA reconnaissance and agent-dropping missions, an activity Finland officially denied. Apart from one daring, highly decorated but demented German ex-Luftwaffe mercenary pilot, with more Russian shrapnel in his head than brains, all were Finns. Not surprising really, as Steniund's country had long been an enemy of Russia, and old hatreds and grievances ran as deep as his country's fear of its powerful neighbor.

Branigan looked on as Stenlund consulted the list. "What have we got?"

"According to my files, fifteen men who operate freelance with their own aircraft for either our people or yours. They're all very capable pilots. Unfortunately, we're talking about places as far apart as the east coast of Helsinki, near the Soviet border, to Arland island in the west. A distance of several hundred kilometers."

Branigan ran a hand across the back of his neck. "Jesus Christ."

Steniund puffed on his pipe and shrugged. "However, we can eliminate most by assuming the people you're looking for will want to cross the Baltic in the quickest possible time, and that means the pilot would possibly have a base within close proximity to Soviet soil. Also, weather is an important consideration. And right now, the imminent bad weather we're expecting would favor a drop."

Branigan nodded. "So who are the likely suspects?"

"Two strong possibilities, seeing as both have worked for the CIA at one time or another. A man named Hakala who lives in a small fishing village near Spjutsund. He's got an aircraft hangared there, a German Fiesier Storch. The second is a man named Saarinen."

"How far is the first?"

"Spjutsund'? About twenty kilometers east of Helsinki. An hour there and back by car."

"And the other guy?"

"Janne Saarinen." Steiilund consulted a file. "An excellent pilot. Ex-Luftwaffe. According to our intelligence reports, he sometimes uses a place at Bylandet Island, thirty kilometers west of here. Both of them would be based pretty much the same distance from Tallinn as the crow flies."

"Which would you pick?" Stenlund shrugged. "Like I said, they're both likely candidates. They're excellent pilots and, as I understand it, reckless enough to try a crossing in the type of' weather we're expecting. Branigan hesitated, the tension in the small room stifling. "OK, we try the nearest. Hak ... ?"

"Hak-ala."

"Him first, then this guy Saarinen. I'll get us a car."

"As you wish."

Branigan reached for a shoulder-holster with a Smith and Wesson .38 pistol and buckled it on, then checked the chambers before slipping the gun back in its holster and turning to beckon several burly-looking men waiting in the room, who began to check their firearms. Steniund looked on, alarmed, and when Branigan turned back, said nervously, "You think there'll be shooting?"

Branigan put on his jacket and overcoat. "If there is, leave it to me and my men."

Small beads of sweat had already appeared on Steniund's forehead. "My pleasure. Personally, I never carry a weapon since the war. Having the Gestapo forever up my nose was quite excitement enough."

Stenlund stood and tapped out his pipe, then pulled on his overcoat and glanced over at the clock on the wall. The hands read exactly 7 P.m.

Bylandet Island.

Stanski sat down at the table and Massey pulled up a chair. His face was serious as he looked across. "There are a couple of things I want to make clear, Alex, and they've got to do with Anna."

Stanski lit a cigarette. "Fire away."

"No matter what happens I don't want to see her hurt. Either by the KGB, or anyone else."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She likes you, Alex. I can tell. A man and woman going on a dangerous mission together are bound to be drawn close, for comfort if nothing else. But I don't want her Put in any unnecessary danger on the mission, or hurt by getting too close to you. There's a good chance she'll make it back. You may not be as lucky." Stanski said defensively, "You sound like you have a personal interest in Anna."

Massey thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "She's been through more pain than most. Let's just say I feel protective toward her."

Stanski stood. "It's not my intention to hurt Anna. But I can't help whatever happens between us, Jake. If you feel more for Anna than you're saying, and I think maybe you do, then you should have considered that before this thing began."

Massey was silent for several moments, and his face looked grim. "Then just promise me one thing. If your backs are ever to the wall and there's a chance you're going to be caught, and she can't swallow her pill in time, just make certain those KGB bastards don't get her alive."

For a moment Stanski didn't reply. He saw the genuine concern in Massey's face, then said, "Let's hope it never comes to that."

Anna came down the stairs five minutes later, dressed in her peasant clothes, the thermal suit underneath making her look bloated, and carrying her suitcase. There was a bottle of vodka and some glasses on the table and Stanski went to pour one for each of them. He handed one to Massey, then Anna.

"Nervous?"

She looked at him, something passing between them, and said, "I'm shaking."

Stanski smiled and raised his glass. "Don't worry, it'll be all over before you know it."

Massey nodded to the corner of the room to where the parachutes, canvas jumpsuits, helmets, goggles and gloves waited. There was an extra 'chute for Saarinen.

"You can leave those until Janne's almost ready to go. One more thing. If you somehow separate from each other after you jump, or your contact who's to meet you at the drop doesn't make it, the rendezvous will be the main railway station in Tallinn, the waiting room on the main platform, nine A.M. tomorrow morning. If either one of you or the contact don't show, go the next day an hour later, taking the precautions I told you about. If there's no show on the third day, You're each on your own, I'm afraid. Anything you need to ask?" Anna said, "You never told me who the contact meeting us is."

"It'll be a member of the Estonian resistance. Any more than that I'm afraid I can't tell you, Anna, just in case you're caught." Anna looked back at Massey doubtfully, but said nothing, and he put a hand gently on her arm. "Just stick close to Stanski and you'll be fine."

The door opened with a blast of freezing air and Saarinen appeared carrying a heavy-duty electric flashlight. He wore a yellow oilskin and scarf over his flying suit, and a pair of thick woollen gloves.

"Christ, what a night," he said, closing the door. He shook his clothes and nodded to the vodka bottle. "One of those would go down nicely." Massey said, "You think that's wise?"

Saarinen grinned and pulled off his gloves. "Relax, Jake. I never drink and fly. One limb is penalty enough without being completely legless."

He checked his watch and looked at Anna and Stanski. "Ten more minutes, I reckon. You'd better get into those jumpsuits."

As Anna and Stanski went to put on their suits, Massey crossed to the Finn. "How's the weather turning out?"

"it seems a bit rougher than expected, but don't worry, I've seen worse."

Massey nodded. Saarinen came back to the table, picked up the vodka bottle and filled each of their glasses generously, then poured himself a tiny drop of spirit.

Stanski and Anna had dressed in the green canvas suits and helmets and goggles, but left the gloves until last.

Saarinen smiled and raised his glass. "It looks like I'm breaking the habit of a lifetime. Just enough to wet my lips in a final toast for luck. Kipiss."

He knocked back the vodka, and the others did the same.

Massey could feel the growing tension in the room. It was almost physical. He put down his glass and looked over at Anna and Stanski, then Saarinen.

"Are we ready?"

Saarinen nodded and smiled. "Onward and upward."

He picked up the flashlight and his parachute, and they followed him out of the door.

The tiny office that served as the operations room of the Finnish Air Force Liaison Unit at Helsinki's Maimi air-port was bitterly cold, despite a tiled stove going full blast in the corner. The wing commander had been summoned from a dinner party at the Palace Hotel and his pinched face showed his irritation as he looked up at the warrant officer standing in front of the desk.

"They can't be serious, Matti?"

The warrant officer was in his late twenties, tall and lean. He wore an air force greatcoat and scarf and gloves.

"I'm afraid so, sir. It's Priority One. If the aircraft manages to get airborne it's to be stopped at all costs before it reaches Russian airspace."

"They must be out of their tiny minds at the Defense Ministry wanting us up in this weather. What the hell's going on?

Where's the authorized signal, the paperwork?"

The warrant officer shrugged. "I wish I knew, sir. But you know the Ministry brass."

The wing commander shook his head doubtfully. "Well, it's damned irregular. And I want the orders verified."

"I already did, sir. I contacted the C-in-C by telephone. The order stands."

"Does he realize we'll be risking the boys' lives'? I wouldn't send up a balloon in weather like this."

The warrant officer shrugged. "The orders were quite specific, I'm afraid, sir. The aircraft is to be stopped at all costs."

"What type is it?"

"Possibly a Norseman C-64, though we can't be absolutely certain. One thing will be, though. It'll be the only light aircraft flying up there tonight. I have the likely flight projection here."

The wing commander studied the paper the warrant officer handed him, then stood and crossed to the window. He sighed. "Well, I suppose we had better do as we're told. But I'll check with the Ministry myself, just to be absolutely sure. You're quite certain we're to blast this thing out of the sky?"

"Those were the orders, sir. No question."

The commander scratched his chin and sighed. "I suppose it could be some Russian spy trying to beat a hasty retreat? It's about all that makes sense on a dog's night like this. If that's the case, I hope it's worth the risk to get the bastard, that's all I can say."

He nodded to the warrant officer and reached for the telephone. "Very well, Matti, give the order to crank up. We'd better warn the boys to be extra careful, It's going to be pretty damned rough up there."

The two Fords came off the Espo main road and turned left. taking the narrow track that led down to Bylandet Island.

Branigan gritted his teeth in frustration. His watch said 8:10. The visit to the pilot near Spjutsund had been a waste of time. The man was laid up with a broken leg and hadn't flown in weeks. The roads had been bad, hard-packed snow and ice all the way. An hour wasted.

He looked at the SUPO officer impatiently. "What about the local police near the island? Couldn't we have got in touch with them?"

Stenlund smiled indulgently. "That was something I considered, Mr. Branigan. But you did say you wanted this done discreetly and that the people you're looking for will be armed and possibly dangerous. The nearest police station to Bylandet Island is over half an hour away by car, but all the local policemen have are bicycles. In this weather, we'd probably have passed them on the way."

"Can you go any faster?"

The man was embassy staff and glanced back nervously. "If I do that we end up in a ditch or Worse. These roads are treacherous."

"Just put your goddamned foot down!"

Darkness had swallowed up the sea and the sky was pitch black.

The wind slashed at their skin and the four of them shivered as they walked down to the hangar, Saarinen ahead of them, playing the flashlight beam in front.

A long stretch of electric cable ran from the generator out onto the ice, and when Massey and Stanski helped open the hangar doors Saarinen flicked a switch on the wall. A single string of yellow lights glowed brilliantly out on the ice, and stretched into the gloom for– a hundred meters.

"Our runway lights. Simple but effective," Saarinen said to Massey. "You can leave the lights on, I'll be back in no time."

He removed the blanket from the engine and took away the chocks from the skis.

"OK, let's move this baby out," he said.

They all helped to slide the Norseman out and down the ramp onto the ice. It kept on sliding for a couple of meters, then came to a halt. Saarinen told them to move back before he started the engine, then opened the door and hauled himself into the cockpit.

Moments later the Norseman's engine erupted into life, exploding the silence as the propeller turned, sounding like the buzz of a giant angry wasp. As Saarinen checked the instruments and moved the control surfaces, going through his preflight check, Massey looked up at the sky.

The storm was obviously getting worse. Flakes of snow began to fly around them in gusts. Anna and Stanski started to haul on their parachutes, looking a little absurd in theirjumpsuits, helmets and goggles with the worn suitcases beside them.

Massey looked back as Saarinen shouted above the enaine noise, "Whenever you're ready." At that moment he looked up at the sky and pursed his lips.

There was a tangible tension everyone could feel. Massey said to Stanski and Anna, "Well, I guess this is it."

He shook Stanski's hand, then Anna's. "Good luck."

It seemed as if there was nothing else to say. For a moment Anna hesitated, then she leaned forward and kissed Massey full on the lips.

"Do Vvidaniva, Jake."

For a long time Massey looked at her frozen face, but before he could reply she climbed into the Norseman, Stanski after her, closing the cockpit door as Massey stood back.

Immediately Saarinen revved up the engine and the snow gusted around Massey like a blizzard. In the surge of power as the aircraft strained to move, he looked at the three faces in the cabin, Saarinen working at the controls, Anna and Stanski in the back. He gave a thumbs-up sign and Stanski did the same.

There was a crunching sound as the skis started to move out slowly onto the ice to the right of the string of yellow lights. Moments later came a sudden harsh growl of power as Saarinen eased forward the throttle. There was a momentary lag before the propeller bit the air hard and then the Norseman started to move more rapidly.

It took– only a couple of seconds for the speed to build up and then the little aircraft was skimming fast over the uneven surface of the frozen sea, the skis bumping every now and then when she hit a rough patch of ice.

The sound of the engine faded in the wind and the plane was sucked up and disappeared into the swirl of snow and blackness.

At fifteen thousand feet, skimming above the clouds in darkness, Lieutenant Arcady Barsenko, aged twenty-one, watched the rush of black and winking stars against the cockpit glass of the Soviet Air Force Mig-15 and the scene almost put him to sleep. He yawned. The noise of the Klimov turbojet engine roared in his ears and he rubbed his nose tiredly with his furlined leather glove.

Shit.

He could have done with being back in the mess in Tallinn toasting his feet at the stove. A crazy night to be out with the stolen below, but the commander of' Lenin-rad Air Base had insisted the patrols go ahead, and warned the crews to be extra vigile.

Crazy.

Barsenko ran his gloved fingertips lightly over the panel instruments and grinned.

She was a beautiful machine, the latest-model Mig. A thousand kilometers an hour with an engine that sounded like a pack of wild animals were fighting in the back of the aircraft. Barsenko loved the Mig. His one regret was that he had been too young for the war.

Machine and man in perfect harmony in a battle through icy Baltic skies. And with a machine like this he would have blasted those fucking Germans out of the blue, no question. His leather thumb playfully rubbed the smooth red cap at the tip of the control stick. underneath the hinged cap were the red plastic buttons that fired the twin 23mm and single 37mm cannon.

As for the Finns ... Bah!

Those reindeer-eating slobs hardly ever crossed into Soviet airspace. Still, they had fiercely held the might of the Red Army at bay in Karelia in 1940, he'd give them that. His own father had been among the dead. That's why he had particularly wanted this posting. If the opportunity ever arose and a Finn came into his airspace, Barsenko was going to make the most of it and scorch the bastard.

The Mig bumped fast in sudden clear turbulence, then settled. Barsenko checked his instruments. Everything was fine, all the white pointers on the dials perfectly and correctly aligned.

Six-more minutes to go and he would be ready to set a course home for Tallinn and base. A couple of large vodkas in the mess and then meet Magda. His busty Estonian girlfriend could drop her pants even faster than a Mig. Barsenko grinned at the thought of the evening's pleasure ahead.

He had the new on-board radar switched on and he idly twiddled the knobs until the indicator that showed the position of the antenna inside the Mig's nose cowl pointed down into the gray mass of cloud below. He glanced at the green illuminated glass. Nothing but clutter.

Suddenly he saw a bright white blip, twenty miles ahead and below. Then another. And another. Three blips.

They vanished.

Fuck!

Barsenko came wide awake and rubbed his eyes. Had he really seen something? Snow sometimes gave you @,host images in bid weather. Or else the radar was acting up.

But three strong blips ... '?

Three fast aircraft out there in the blinding swirl of the storm at eleven o'clock, still in Finnish airspace but coming his way.

What the fuck was going on ... His radar had to be playing tricks on him.

It was probably clutter. He could call up Tallinn radar, but those lazy shits hardly ever answered in lousy weather, or the reception was too bad to decipher what they were saying.

Still, no harm in having a look below. The cloud was broken in places and maybe he'd see something. He eased back on the throttle and the roar of the jet engine softened to a hush, then the nose of the Mig dipped into a gentle dive.

Barsenko kept his eye on the radar and anxiously fingered the red cap on the control stick.

Anyone tried to move into his territory and they were going to get blasted out of the fucking skies!

 ... Massey stood over the stove and nervously lit a cigarette.

His hands shook as he tried to warm them. They were numb from the chill outside and he went to pour a glass of vodka to stop himself shaking before he checked that the radio was still working. The red light glowed on the panel. Good. A heavy gust of wind raged outside and he looked up as he heard snow dash against the window clapboards. He thought, "Jesus, what a night."

He swallowed the vodka in one gulp and refilled the glass, then pulled up a chair beside the stove. Suddenly figures stormed into the room out of the darkness and crashed into him. He was winded and fell back onto the floor, knocking over a chair.

"What the ... As Massey struggled to his feet something as hard as steel hit his skull.

Janne Saarinen had smelled trouble for some time now. He was sweating, perspiration running down his face.

Twenty minutes after takeoff and the Norseman was rocking violently. It plowed through the thick swirl of cloud in blinding whiteness at fifteen hundred feet, the little aircraft tossing about like a balloon in a hurricane. He was fighting hard to keep her under control and some instinct told him it was going to get worse.

He turned to glance at his passengers. The girl's face was a mask of white, and she looked as if she was going to throw up. The American seemed calm enough, but he was gripping the seat hard to stop himself being thrown about. Luckily the two of them were strapped into their seats.

As the Norseman bucked wildly again Saarinen looked back. A flash of' light appeared on the window and the cockpit glass glowed brightly. "Thick veins of electricity coursed rapidly all over the panes like creeping vines in a_ blowing, blue-green color, until they covered the front wind screen. It was an eerie sight, and Saarinen shouted over to his passengers. ,@"St. Elmo's fire– A strange phenomenon. You often don't see it in weather like this. Don't worry, it's relatively harmless." Stanski said, "How long before we drop?"

"About fifteen more minutes should do it. We can't stay in this Cloud for much longer."

He turned back to scan his instruments, fiddling with a knob on the panel while Stanski and the girl checked their parachute harnesses.

Stanski looked at her. "OK?"

Anna's face was green. "You didn't tell me it was going to be like this."

He smiled. "Some things you're better off not knowing. Don't worry, we'll be out of it soon enough."

There was a sudden violent crack and the Norseman lurched wildly, then another crack, and Saarinen had to work the stick feverishly to maintain control as the aircraft slewed to the left. Anna gripped Stanski's arm painfully hard.

"What's the matter?" Stanski shouted at the Finn.

"Lightening strikes. Christ, this buffeting is too severe. If it keeps up, it could do damage."

Suddenly a sound like machine-gun fire hit them in a fierce wave, shuddering the aircraft, shaking it hard. The sensation ebbed away, then slowly built up again, only this time more intensely, until the whole structure of the plane seemed to be trembling violently.

Saarinen shouted above the noise, "Jesus Christ."

"What the hell's that sound?"

Sweat dripped from Saarinen's brow. "There's hail the size of tennis balls hitting us, We've got to get out of here fast. We'll just have to take our chances out of the cloud."

He pushed the stick forward and eased off on the throttles and the Norseman began to nose down. The hail and buffeting became even worse for several moments, then they broke into misty clear air at twelve hundred feet and it subsided, wisps of thin cloud and flakes of snow bursting past them, the frozen Baltic below. Saarinen pointed to a faint haze of lights far over on the left.

"That's Tallinn. The drop's another eight minutes east of here.

There was a sudden swish of violent air and Saarinen looked up as the Norseman rocked fiercely in a wash of turbulence and a flash of gray rocketed past on their port side.

"Holy Jesus!"

"What was that?" shouted Anna.

Before Saarinen could reply they saw a burst of tracer fire off to the right, and another flash of gray roared past out of nowhere.

"Fuck ... this isn't our night. We've got company. Let's see what we can do about it."

He quickly applied power and pulled back on the stick, dropped the flaps, and the Norseman rose back into the turbulent cloud again, shuddering as it was sucked up into the air and the buffeting resumed as before.

"What the hell's up?" Stanski asked.

"You tell me," said Saarinen frantically. "Those were Focke-Wulfs from the Finnish Air Force, I don't understand it. Those guys shouldn't be up in weather like this. And they're in Soviet airspace. We must have been picked up on Helsinki military radar and the Air Force decided to investigate. They probably think we're a Russian reconnaissance plane making the most of a bad night, that's why they're firing, but it doesn't make sense."

"What do we do?"

"The only thing we can. Stay in the clouds and carry on. Uncomfortable, but safer than having one of my own countrymen shoot us out of the sky."

Saarinen quickly retracted the flaps and checked his instruments. There was sweat glistening on his face and the instrument panel was shaking fiercely with the turbulence. It felt as if the little Norseman were driving over cobblestones, then the sensation slowly reduced as the flaps came in, but it didn't go away completely.

"Another thirty seconds and we'll be over Estonian soil@ If those Focke-Wulf pilots have any sense they won't follow us in. Seven minutes to the drop zone by my reckoning. When I give the word, open the door and be ready to jump. And don't hang around."

He turned back to his instruments. The waiting seemed to go on forever as the Norseman was rocked fiercely from side to side. Finally he roared back, "I'm coming out of the cloud. Get ready with the door. I'm going to try and find your drop!"

Stanski and Anna readied themselves and then Saarinen eased back on the throttle and pushed the stick forward. Seconds later they broke cloud at twelve hundred feet into almost completely still air. The night was still misty with light flakes of snow, but they could see faintly the glow of Tallinn's lights again off in the distance. Saarinen had his earphones on and he was fiddling with a knob on the radio receiver, at the same time watching his instruments and compass.

"Shit!"

"What's up now?"

He glanced over at Stanski. "I'm just getting crackle where the Russian beacon ought to be. It's the damned weather."

He looked out of the side window into the misty darkness, perspiration dripping from his temples as he tried to make out the contour of the land below. It seemed impossible to Stanski and Anna that he could discern anything out there, the land below all starched white in the blackness, here and there tiny pinpricks of light, but suddenly he tensed as he concentrated on the earphones. He fiddled with an instrument knob on the panel, then turned back and shouted, "Got the beacon! Drop's coming up in twenty seconds. Open the door!"

Stanski pushed open the door. A blast of freezing air raged into the cabin. It was almost impossible to get the door fully open, the force of the air against it like a ton weight, and then finally it gave and Stanski locked it in place. He gripped Anna's arm, pulled her closer and indicated that she go first.

She moved across him to the door and then Saarinen roared, "Go! Go! Go!"

For a second she seemed to hesitate, then Stanski pushed her out, counted to three, lunged after her and was swallowed up by the rush of freezing air and darkness.

In the cockpit, Saarinen held on to the stick with one hand, reached back and released the arm catch and the door slammed shut with a thunderclap. He locked it, then turned back as the Norseman lurched violently again, then settled.

He let out a sigh of relief, wiped the lather of sweat from his face, then banked the plane around in a perfect arc. He just hoped those Focke-Wulfs were not still lurking out there somewhere, because if they were he would be in trouble. It meant he would have to stick in the cloud, despite the risks.

He gritted his teeth and sighed again. "Right, my sweet, let's see if we can get you home in one piece."

The blood was pumping through Arcady Barsenko's veins like fire as the Mig tore through the cloud at five thousand feet, with four hundred knots on the airspeed indicator.

A minute ago he had seen another blip on the radar. Slower and smaller. A light plane, he guessed. Seconds later it had vanished in the clutter on the screen. Barsenko frowned. He had definitely seen the blip off to his right, maybe five miles away and moving slowly. No question about it.

The other three blips he had detected earlier had come and gone on the screen at intervals and he couldn't get a good fix on them. It was the damned weather making the radar act up, but they were definitely there. Three fast aircraft and a little light plane out there in the blinding swirl of cloud.

It didn't make sense in these conditions. Like playing Russian roulette. The light aircraft could be a reconnaissance maybe, but even that didn't figure in this weather.

Unless the light aircraft was Soviet?

A reconnaissance from the Leninerad air base that had strayed into enemy airspace and the Finns were looking for him. It was the only explanation. Barsenko scratched his chin and glanced at the radar.

Seconds later the three fast blips showed up again. Five miles away, and coming at him fast. This time they stayed on the screen. But no sign of the light aircraft. Maybe the Finns had already shot him down'?

Barsenko grimaced angrily at that thought and said to the three blips, "Just stay right where I can see you, you bastards."

He decided to come out of the cloud and see if he could make visual contact. If he could, then he was sure as hell going to blast the Finns right out of the sky. He could argue about it afterwards. The aircraft were damned close to Soviet airspace and by their maneuvering and speed they could only be military. Barsenko grinned as he disengaged the autopilot, eased forward on the stick, and pulled back on the throttle.

The Mig reduced speed and dipped into the cloud with a terrible buffeting that seemed to go on forever, but ten seconds later, as he broke cloud at fourteen hundred feet into a sudden clear pocket of air and started to pull back on the stick, Barsenko's fighter dropped and his eyes opened wide in horror.