holding the President at gunpoint on the other side. The helicopter was heavily armoured, but not invulnerable. He pulled off his balaclava and donned a headset. ‘Okay!’ he yelled. ‘Hose them down!’
In the forward cockpit, the Hind’s gunner – an Armenian, Krikorian – grinned and pulled a trigger.
The helicopter’s nose cannon pivoted, unleashing a fearsome stream of fire from its four rapidly spinning barrels. Through the infrared display in the gunner’s helmet visor, the Miraflores palace was transformed almost into a video game, human beings a hot white against the greys and blacks of the grounds. All he had to do was look at each target, sweeping a cursor over them – and the human shapes exploded into glowing chunks as the blazing Gatling gun followed his movements. Bullets clonked off the cockpit canopy and hull, but the Hind’s armour shrugged off the 7.62mm rounds spitting from the militia’s AK-103s. The men firing at him were picked out by brighter flashes from their weapons; like a modern-day Gorgon, he killed them with a glance.
The Hind wheeled over the palace. Men on the upper balconies opened fire, only to be cut to pieces by more storms of gunfire. The helicopter kept rising, turning southeast and sweeping past skyscrapers.
‘What’s our status?’ Stikes said into the headset. ‘Did we take any damage?’
‘No, we’re okay,’ Gurov replied. ‘Did you get him?’
‘We got him. How long until we land?’
‘We can be there in – yah!’ He recovered from his surprise and muttered in Russian before returning to English. ‘We have company. Another krokodil.’
Crocodile was the Russian nickname for the Hind. ‘Where?’ Stikes demanded.
‘Left side, ten o’clock.’
Stikes loosened his seatbelt so he could look through the hatch window. Formation lights blinked in the darkness over Caracas – the other Hind.
Catching part of Stikes’s conversation with the pilot, Callas put on headphones. Still pressing his gun against his president’s chest, he peered through the window. ‘Do they know we have Suarez aboard?’
‘Yes,’ said Stikes calmly. ‘Otherwise they would have shot at us by now.’
Gurov’s voice came over the headsets. ‘They are on the radio . . . they are ordering us to fly ahead of them to a military base, where we will surrender and turn over Suarez.’
‘Will we now?’ Stikes said. He pulled his straps tight once more, giving his client a sly smile. ‘General, you’ve spent a lot on this helicopter. I think it’s time you got your money’s worth.’
Callas’s own smile was more predatory. ‘Yes. Do it.’
‘Gurov, Krikorian,’ the Englishman said into his headset. ‘Our friends out there – show them the quickest way to the ground.’
‘Okay, roger!’ replied Krikorian, excitement clear in his voice.
The Hind banked towards the Venezuelan gunship. Gurov spoke again. ‘They are back on the radio – this is our last warning. If we do not turn—’
‘I don’t waste time with warnings,’ Stikes snapped. ‘Krikorian, take them down. Now!’
Krikorian switched weapon modes, activating the Russian ‘Igla’ missile mounted on one of the Hind’s wing pylons. The surface-to-air weapon had not been designed for an aerial launch, but the mercenary ground crew had wired it to the helicopter’s systems. A warbling tone in his headphones told him that the improvised connection was working – the missile had found a heat source in the night sky.
The other Hind was almost directly ahead, closing fast.
He pulled the trigger.
The Igla shot from its launch tube, searing past the cockpit on a pencil of orange flame. The heavy, clumsy Venezuelan chopper had no time to dodge—
The missile hit the Hind practically head-on at supersonic speed. The explosion blasted apart the rear cockpit, instantly killing the pilot. Shrapnel ripped through the twin engines’ air intakes, shattering compressor blades and smashing turbines.
Power lost, the crippled Hind nevertheless hung in the air, supported by its main rotor as it continued to auto-rotate . . . then its great weight dragged it downwards, spinning out of control to explode on top of an apartment building.
‘Well?’ said Stikes impatiently. ‘Did you get it?’
‘We got it,’ Krikorian reported with glee.
‘Good. Gurov, get us back to the Clubhouse.’ He leaned back with a satisfied expression as the Hind resumed its course to Valle Arriba.
22
Lying behind the bushes, Eddie watched the soldiers in the Clubhouse’s grounds with rising frustration and concern. The sounds of fighting from the city were growing in intensity, so Callas’s coup attempt was well under way – and seemed to be succeeding. He could see Rojas listening to messages over a walkie-talkie, and from his satisfied body language it