The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,125
him, the co-pilot’s inexperience fuelling the emotion. I’ve only done this twice before – and Stepan is dead! He worked the controls, extending the wing flaps for maximum lift. With the RTG aboard, the Beriev was heavily laden, its hull low in the water and both wing floats carving deeply into the lagoon’s surface. The nose thumped through the choppy waves as the plane moved out into open water. What do I do? Elevators – use the elevators, set the right pitch angle . . .
Adam made the adjustments, the seaplane’s nose slowly tipping back up. Another wave impact, but this time the Be-200 skipped over it rather than ploughing through. He increased power and looked ahead.
Hills filled his vision. The plane’s turn had left it pointing diagonally across the long lagoon. He needed to head due south to have enough room to take off. I’ve never turned at this speed! We might capsize!
Despite the persona’s warning, he pushed his foot down on the rudder pedal. The Beriev changed course, centrifugal force rolling it heavily on to its left side. Slower, slow down!
But he couldn’t. Off to his right he saw movement above the woods. The Hind had taken off again.
Sevnik was trying to stop their escape.
34
Outflanked
Adam pushed the rudder pedal down harder. The Beriev tipped further, the pilot’s corpse flopping grotesquely over the armrest. The hillside swung away. Grey sky almost touched grey water in the distance ahead, separated only by a thin bar of land across the lagoon’s mouth.
He eased pressure on the rudder, lining up the plane with the open sky. The Hind pulled ahead, sweeping out across the water. He realised what Sevnik was doing. The Russian didn’t want to risk losing the RTG – maybe he even had some sliver of conscience that drew the line at poisoning the Motherland with five kilograms of strontium-90 – and rather than destroy the seaplane, he was trying to stop it from taking off.
The easiest way to do that would also be the simplest: block its path.
Adam opened the throttles, changing the elevator pitch to bring the nose back up. The Beriev bounced over the waves as it gained speed. It needed at least a kilometre of open water and to reach 120 knots to take off. The Hind could easily match its pace and move to obstruct it. A collision would be catastrophic for both aircraft, and Sevnik was surely banking that the American team was not on a suicide mission.
Tony entered the cockpit and braced himself against the dead pilot’s seat. ‘Can we make it?’
‘Yes – if we can get past the Hind!’ The gunship was now directly ahead, slowing to a hover and turning to face the oncoming seaplane.
‘Is he playing chicken?’ Tony said in disbelief.
‘If we hit him, we’ll lose the tail and probably the engines too. All he has to do is force me to cut power and splash down again, and I won’t have enough room left to get back up to takeoff speed.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Adam indicated the body. ‘He’s the one who’d know what to do. I’m just trying to stop this thing from nose-diving into the lake!’
He checked the airspeed indicator. Fifty knots and rising. The Beriev crested a wave with a loud whump, spray speckling the windshield. More pitch on the elevators! He adjusted the trim. The young Russian was at least a qualified pilot in conventional aircraft, even if his seaplane experience was far too slim for comfort. It was only then that Adam realised he didn’t even know the man’s name. Gennady, the persona told him, almost indignant. Always the middle brother, always overlooked . . .
Orange flashes from the Hind’s cannon. Waterspouts kicked up in the Beriev’s path. Sevnik was giving him a shot across the bows, trying to scare him into aborting the takeoff.
Eighty knots. The Be-200 skipped over each wave, producing a momentary roller-coaster sensation in his stomach before the keel sliced back into the water. Ninety knots. ‘Everybody hold on!’ he shouted over his shoulder.
More flames – this time from one of the gunship’s rocket pods. Two great white geysers erupted just ahead of the seaplane, the Beriev ploughing through the spray. Adam’s view through the windshield was obliterated, water gushing into the cockpit through the bullet hole. It took him – rather, Gennady – a moment to remember where the wiper controls were. He found the switch, the blades squealing across the rectangular panes.