asked.
An air force radio operator, specially selected for this mission because he was fluent in Mandarin answered. “The Chinese troops have been ordered to patrol around the scheduled crossing point.”
“How far is our man’s signal from the border?”
“Less than five hundred yards,” the radar operator answered, his eyes fixed on the flashing light on his display screen.
“Come on, John,” Benson said quietly, “you’ve almost made it.”
Creeping to the edge of the burned area, Taft could see the open space to the border was nearly eighty yards wide. He could only hope that the Chinese had burned the line inside their border and not yards inside Kazakhstan. If he could cross the open area and make it into the woods, he believed he would be inside Kazakhstan. The tree line was the key to living. He had to believe that-it was all that kept him going.
“The ground troops have just located a motorcycle,” Yibo shouted to the pilot of the helicopter. “Fly south about a mile, I wish to check it out.”
At the news of the motorcycle, Jimn also ordered his driver to race south. Screaming into his portable radio, he ordered the troops to locate the trail of footprints and follow them. It was time to bring this to an end. Choi was too valuable to lose.
Taft looked through his night-vision binoculars at the mass of humanity clustered around the motorcycle that had brought the pair to the border. Beams from the soldiers’ flashlights intersected as the troops massed, each trying to get a peek at the cycle. Then, as Taft watched, the beams of light took order and began to march directly toward where he was hiding. Taft had removed his boots; with Choi on his back there was only a single set of prints. It seemed his brilliant plan had fooled no one.
“There’s only one thing to do,” Taft said to himself as he clutched Choi tighter. With his plans in ruins, his only prayer was to sprint across the open space. He hoped he could outrun his pursuers. There was no other option. He began to run to the border as fast as his legs would move. The sound of a whistle reached Tafts ears around the same time a weak beam of light from a flashlight swept past his pounding feet. The soldier who had spotted Taft screamed into the radio to alert the others as he started running after the fleeing pair.
Punching their afterburners in response to the radio call from the soldier, the two Chinese fighters did a 180-degree turn and began to fly south. Yibo’s helicopter was above the motorcycle, about to touch down, when he heard the soldier’s call. The pilot turned toward the troops chasing Taft without an order being given.
Hyperventilating to fill his lungs with air, his legs aching dully, Taft made a dead run across the open expanse. The weight of Choi seemed nonexistent as a rampant explosion of adrenaline coursed through his blood. Sixty yards across the open space, he began up the slope of die hill that formed the border. Taft’s bare feet were pounding the ground with the intensity of a jackhammer in a paint shaker. Nose flared, he screamed a rebel yell.
A Kentucky thoroughbred would have had a hard time keeping pace.
Jimn shouted into the radio. “Fighters, spray the border with your chain guns.”
“What if they cross the border?” one of the pilots immediately asked over the radio as he removed the firing lock from the wing mini-cannon.
“They cannot leave the country alive,” Jimn said loudly. “Keep firing until you bring them down.”
Fifty yards behind Taft the Chinese troops started up the hill. If they had only stopped and taken a shot with their rifles they would have hit him cleanly in the back. Instead, caught up in the heat of the chase, they ran blindly, their rifles held low.
“Go in at an altitude of ten feet,” Yibo shouted to the helicopter pilot.
Dropping down, the helicopter flew just above the troops’ heads. The helicopters powerful spotlight illuminated Taft and Choi
An air force radio operator, specially selected for this mission because he was fluent in Mandarin answered. “The Chinese troops have been ordered to patrol around the scheduled crossing point.”
“How far is our man’s signal from the border?”
“Less than five hundred yards,” the radar operator answered, his eyes fixed on the flashing light on his display screen.
“Come on, John,” Benson said quietly, “you’ve almost made it.”
Creeping to the edge of the burned area, Taft could see the open space to the border was nearly eighty yards wide. He could only hope that the Chinese had burned the line inside their border and not yards inside Kazakhstan. If he could cross the open area and make it into the woods, he believed he would be inside Kazakhstan. The tree line was the key to living. He had to believe that-it was all that kept him going.
“The ground troops have just located a motorcycle,” Yibo shouted to the pilot of the helicopter. “Fly south about a mile, I wish to check it out.”
At the news of the motorcycle, Jimn also ordered his driver to race south. Screaming into his portable radio, he ordered the troops to locate the trail of footprints and follow them. It was time to bring this to an end. Choi was too valuable to lose.
Taft looked through his night-vision binoculars at the mass of humanity clustered around the motorcycle that had brought the pair to the border. Beams from the soldiers’ flashlights intersected as the troops massed, each trying to get a peek at the cycle. Then, as Taft watched, the beams of light took order and began to march directly toward where he was hiding. Taft had removed his boots; with Choi on his back there was only a single set of prints. It seemed his brilliant plan had fooled no one.
“There’s only one thing to do,” Taft said to himself as he clutched Choi tighter. With his plans in ruins, his only prayer was to sprint across the open space. He hoped he could outrun his pursuers. There was no other option. He began to run to the border as fast as his legs would move. The sound of a whistle reached Tafts ears around the same time a weak beam of light from a flashlight swept past his pounding feet. The soldier who had spotted Taft screamed into the radio to alert the others as he started running after the fleeing pair.
Punching their afterburners in response to the radio call from the soldier, the two Chinese fighters did a 180-degree turn and began to fly south. Yibo’s helicopter was above the motorcycle, about to touch down, when he heard the soldier’s call. The pilot turned toward the troops chasing Taft without an order being given.
Hyperventilating to fill his lungs with air, his legs aching dully, Taft made a dead run across the open expanse. The weight of Choi seemed nonexistent as a rampant explosion of adrenaline coursed through his blood. Sixty yards across the open space, he began up the slope of die hill that formed the border. Taft’s bare feet were pounding the ground with the intensity of a jackhammer in a paint shaker. Nose flared, he screamed a rebel yell.
A Kentucky thoroughbred would have had a hard time keeping pace.
Jimn shouted into the radio. “Fighters, spray the border with your chain guns.”
“What if they cross the border?” one of the pilots immediately asked over the radio as he removed the firing lock from the wing mini-cannon.
“They cannot leave the country alive,” Jimn said loudly. “Keep firing until you bring them down.”
Fifty yards behind Taft the Chinese troops started up the hill. If they had only stopped and taken a shot with their rifles they would have hit him cleanly in the back. Instead, caught up in the heat of the chase, they ran blindly, their rifles held low.
“Go in at an altitude of ten feet,” Yibo shouted to the helicopter pilot.
Dropping down, the helicopter flew just above the troops’ heads. The helicopters powerful spotlight illuminated Taft and Choi
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