understand.”
“Would your wife say no? Did she when my husband and I and the others helped your city?”
And by the lantern light, she saw a smile raise the corners of his mouth. He clicked his heels as he bowed quickly to her, then said, “Gentlemen—” His officers saluted her and she felt herself beginning to blush …
Kurinami studied the green lights of the control console, calling to his doorgunner without using the radio. “Corporal?”
“All is in order, Herr Lieutenant.”
“Headset on, then—good luck.”
“The same to you, Herr Lieutenant.”
Kurinami adjusted his headset, then spoke. “This is Retribution Leader to Squadron—acknowledge this radio test and stand by. Begin.”
One by one, the pilots of his few gunships responded in
sequence; then Kurinami spoke again. “This is Retribution Leader. We will pass over the foothills and attack the Soviet base from the west as planned. Maintain radio silence except in an emergency until engagement. Retribution Leader out.” And he clicked off. They were not, of course, planning to pass over the foothills and attack from the west. If the Soviet gunships refueling and rearming in the narrow valley to the north did not have the German radio frequencies monitored, he missed his guess. And he would be dead.
He gave a last-minute check to his instruments and got the fast-handling German gunship airborne, light snow still falling but visibility satisfactory.
There was a funnel-shaped canyon which was exceedingly narrow, and it was guarded on both sides by heavy machine guns, as his ground reconnaissance had confirmed before dark. But only two guns on each side. And one missile battery backing up the double machinegun teams on each side. It was obvious why, although it provided direct access into the Soviet staging area: the canyon was considered too narrow and that, added to the natural updrafts such geographic features were noted for, made attempting a raid through the canyon tantamount to suicide. Which, of course, made it the only logical approach.
Akiro Kurinami changed pitches and slipped the machine northward and down, terrain following the dried riverbed which had, centuries before, cut the canyon from granite.
He looked to right and left, his squadron beginning to take up the attack formation, a single column, following his lead.
He glanced at his wristwatch. In five minutes, the canyon.
Chapter Seventeen
In the distance, muted but unmistakably distinct from the howling of the wind and the creaking of the pines, John Thomas Rourke heard the throbbing of rotors. The Soviet helicopter gunships consumed fuel at a higher rate when they operated in the silenced mode, and their presence in this area near the Second Chinese City was certainly no secret. Tactically, it was obvious they would not waste the fuel needed for silent operation.
He ran, Natalia cradled in his arms like an exhausted and terribly sick child, Paul Rubenstein beside him, Paul evidently hearing the Soviet gunships as well, the bolt of his German MP-40 submachine gun snapping open.
“John!”
“Signal Hammerschmidt to get your Specials out of sight. They won’t spot that rope across the gorge from the air. Pray they don’t spot the shelter I built.” Natalia was just as vulnerable as a child, just as helpless, just as needing of protection. The visibility was so poor now with the increasing snowfall that, when the wind gusted and snow whirled up in its wake, Paul was lost from sight for a few seconds at a time. Rourke didn’t envy the Soviet pilots. Natalia kept moving her lips, dry and parched to the touch of his hand, reciting her now barely audible mantra, his name.
“Rest now—I’m here,” he told her, knowing inside himself that she didn’t hear him and that telling her anything was
merely masturbating his conscience. She seemed so fragile to him, and he had never realized before how really fragile she had always been. From childhood, she had possessed
“Would your wife say no? Did she when my husband and I and the others helped your city?”
And by the lantern light, she saw a smile raise the corners of his mouth. He clicked his heels as he bowed quickly to her, then said, “Gentlemen—” His officers saluted her and she felt herself beginning to blush …
Kurinami studied the green lights of the control console, calling to his doorgunner without using the radio. “Corporal?”
“All is in order, Herr Lieutenant.”
“Headset on, then—good luck.”
“The same to you, Herr Lieutenant.”
Kurinami adjusted his headset, then spoke. “This is Retribution Leader to Squadron—acknowledge this radio test and stand by. Begin.”
One by one, the pilots of his few gunships responded in
sequence; then Kurinami spoke again. “This is Retribution Leader. We will pass over the foothills and attack the Soviet base from the west as planned. Maintain radio silence except in an emergency until engagement. Retribution Leader out.” And he clicked off. They were not, of course, planning to pass over the foothills and attack from the west. If the Soviet gunships refueling and rearming in the narrow valley to the north did not have the German radio frequencies monitored, he missed his guess. And he would be dead.
He gave a last-minute check to his instruments and got the fast-handling German gunship airborne, light snow still falling but visibility satisfactory.
There was a funnel-shaped canyon which was exceedingly narrow, and it was guarded on both sides by heavy machine guns, as his ground reconnaissance had confirmed before dark. But only two guns on each side. And one missile battery backing up the double machinegun teams on each side. It was obvious why, although it provided direct access into the Soviet staging area: the canyon was considered too narrow and that, added to the natural updrafts such geographic features were noted for, made attempting a raid through the canyon tantamount to suicide. Which, of course, made it the only logical approach.
Akiro Kurinami changed pitches and slipped the machine northward and down, terrain following the dried riverbed which had, centuries before, cut the canyon from granite.
He looked to right and left, his squadron beginning to take up the attack formation, a single column, following his lead.
He glanced at his wristwatch. In five minutes, the canyon.
Chapter Seventeen
In the distance, muted but unmistakably distinct from the howling of the wind and the creaking of the pines, John Thomas Rourke heard the throbbing of rotors. The Soviet helicopter gunships consumed fuel at a higher rate when they operated in the silenced mode, and their presence in this area near the Second Chinese City was certainly no secret. Tactically, it was obvious they would not waste the fuel needed for silent operation.
He ran, Natalia cradled in his arms like an exhausted and terribly sick child, Paul Rubenstein beside him, Paul evidently hearing the Soviet gunships as well, the bolt of his German MP-40 submachine gun snapping open.
“John!”
“Signal Hammerschmidt to get your Specials out of sight. They won’t spot that rope across the gorge from the air. Pray they don’t spot the shelter I built.” Natalia was just as vulnerable as a child, just as helpless, just as needing of protection. The visibility was so poor now with the increasing snowfall that, when the wind gusted and snow whirled up in its wake, Paul was lost from sight for a few seconds at a time. Rourke didn’t envy the Soviet pilots. Natalia kept moving her lips, dry and parched to the touch of his hand, reciting her now barely audible mantra, his name.
“Rest now—I’m here,” he told her, knowing inside himself that she didn’t hear him and that telling her anything was
merely masturbating his conscience. She seemed so fragile to him, and he had never realized before how really fragile she had always been. From childhood, she had possessed
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