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All around him the I-16s were snarling and wheeling: jabbing at him with their guns; dodging like mosquitoes. Something stitched a line of half-inch holes through the ceiling of the cockpit and the bullets lanced forward at an angle, breaking the windscreens outward: slivers of glass spun about the cockpit and one of them cut the back of his right hand. He was cool enough to make a rough count of the planes he could see in the air and he had to estimate their number at more than thirty; it was a miracle he was still in the air and it was a miracle that was needed: he needed it and history needed it… The lurch of the airframe pasted him down into the seat and he saw the nose writhe wildly into the sky and for a moment he thought they’d been shot to pieces but then he realized what it was: two tons of bombs had left the airplane and the sudden loss of weight had thrown them upward fifty feet in the air.
“ Bombs away!”
He hauled everything to climb power and angled his flaps and sent the big plane into a narrow skidding turn that might easily wrench the wings off but it was worth the risk, anything was. “I’m making a three-sixty.”
“ What?”
“I said a three-sixty. We’re making the bomb run again- we’ve got to be sure. ”
He was far enough into the turn to be able to see out when the delay-fused bombs went off and he was close enough to it to be rocked by the explosion, deafened by the earsplitting thunders of it.
He saw it crystal clear when the roofs lifted right off both cars. He saw the red-painted cross on the roof between them before they disintegrated into hurtling missiles of shattered armor-plate. He saw the two carriages go up with a force of violence that lifted half the train off the rails by its couplings and sent the forward locomotive spi
“Cancel that last order. We’ve done it! Russia-you are free!”
The B-17 staggered; it threw him forward against his harness straps and an incredible roar burst into the cockpit-a cry of wind that fluttered the cuffs against his ankles and ripped the chart from Ulyanov’s lap. The Plexiglas nose section had been blown through by I-16 ca
7
When the flock of Soviet pursuit craft jumped the leading bomber Alex knew it was finished and he heard Sergei’s anguished cry: “We are betrayed!” but there was nothing for it but to carry it out to the finish because the train was approaching on schedule and there was still a chance at it. But the hope had drained out of him even before Felix’s B-17 made its spectacular bull’s-eye hits on the two armored troop carriages and blew the hospital car completely off the rails intact-askew like a toy that had been the object of a petulant child’s temper. The forward locomotive skidded around on ice and tipped over very slowly with steam exploding from it everywhere. The gallant Flying Fortress wheeled away toward the west and the Soviet fighters swarmed angrily after. Alex was on his feet then: there was still a chance to get to the hospital car before the fighters came back strafing. He yelled and waved them forward and slammed his hand down on the mortarman’s shoulder and when he began his run he heard the ti
In the sudden quiet there was nothing but the ringing in his ears from the explosions and the thrashing crunch of their legs in the clinging snow. He had the nine-millimeter tommy gun braced against the crook of his bicep ready to fire when they appeared in the windows but they kept their heads down inside the car; at intervals one or another of his own men sprayed the face of the car with automatic small-arms fire. The edge of the big drum-clip ca
His muscles were in agony and he rushed forward with the nightmare sensation that he couldn’t breathe and wasn’t making any headway: the snow was like quicksand. The breath fogged in front of him in great cloudy gasps and it seemed an inordinate time before he reached the corner of the car and touched his glove to its metal; Sergei ran along beside him slinging his submachine gun and unsnappinga pair of riot grenades from his webbed combat belt. Alex trained the tommy gun on the burst windows to give Sergei cover while Sergei armed the grenades and pitched them inside. Alex heard the muffled whump-whump when the grenades burst and flooded the car with tear gas.
He pulled his mask on over his head before he reached up for the door. The lower step had imbedded itself in the snow; he didn’t have to step up. The door came open: they never locked armored doors because it was armed attack they feared, not burglary.
He wheeled across the vestibule platform and smashed the i
The gas stirred and in the sudden silence he heard someone exclaim behind him-the muffled echo of a voice contained behind a gas mask. It was Sergei. The others crowded past him and he heard the far door snap open.
“Hold your fire.”
Nothing moved, there was only the swirl of tear gas. Not a soul. The car was empty.
8
He got outside and wrenched off the gas mask. “Radio.” Voroshnikov trotted up and knelt with his back to Alex and Sergei pulled the thin telescoping ante
The rest of them clustered around him in slow silence. Their faces were masks of inarticulate fury. When the set was warmed up he spoke into it. “Alexsander to Saracens. Report.”
“Saracen One. Reading you.”
“Saracen Two. Read you clearly.”
“Saracen Four. Reading you.”
He touched the Send button. “Alexsander to Saracen Three. Report.”
Nothing. “Alexsander to Saracen Five. Report.”
Nothing. He didn’t give it another try. “Alexsander to Saracens. Rendezvous. Repeat-rendezvous. Acknowledge.”
Seconds elapsed and in the static he could feel the impact on them as they tried to absorb it. “Saracen One. Acknowledge.”