Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 72

Five Days, Eight Hours, Twenty Minutes

His head spinning angrily from a growing vertigo, Nathan Ramsey sank into the seat as the F-15 taxied across the runway, rolling almost effortlessly under the shadow of the hangar ceiling. His body aching, he felt every modest bump in the roadway. Thankfully, along with the hanger's shadow, the intense sunlight of the Alaskan sky disappeared, and he closed his eyes to the welcome darkness. He had tried to sleep during the flight, but, after several fitful attempts, he gave it up in favor of watching the blur of clouds. Finally, the pilot had announced over the headset that they'd be descending, and he had a few moments rest from the frenetic activity the last forty-eight hours had dropped onto his shoulders. It wasn't enough to soothe his weary bones, and he knew there would be a price to pay later for it.

'Just think,' he told himself, 'you were contemplating retirement a few weeks ago after Bradley told you he had no intention of ever leaving the BackStep Program ... now, here you are, in a jet, in Alaska, with the worst sour stomach possible ... what a difference a twenty days can make!'

He reached up and unbuckled the helmet by its mouthplate. Throwing his head to one side, he unexpectedly delivered another swirling headache unto himself. He felt his throat grow warm, his nostrils flare slightly, his mouth was suddenly damp, and then Nathan Ramsey did the only human thing possible given the violent sensations wracking his body ...

He threw up in his helmet.

"I hope that's not a reflection on my flying, chief," the pilot said over his shoulder.

"Don't take it personal," Ramsey replied.

The aircraft pulled to a stop, and the pilot triggered the canopy. It lifted slowly, and Ramsey began the daunting task of unbuckling himself from the passenger seat. As he threw the straps aside and stood up, he felt the strength in his knees weaken. He caught himself on the rails, not wanting to appear too old for this sort of adventure, and he took a deep breath.

"Chief Ramsey!"

Squinting, he glanced into the dark hangar, and he made out the decidedly female shape emerging from his murky field of vision. As she approached, her features grew more distinct, and he guessed she was the only possible person in Alaska who knew he was coming.

"Please tell me that you're General Nash?" he asked.

"How was your flight?"

Quickly, an aide attached a ladder to the aircraft, and Ramsey nodded his thanks.

"I'll let you know if an hour," he told the general. "By then, my stomach should arrive. I think I left it somewhere over Montana."

She laughed, and her laughter sounded much younger than he guessed her to be. Still, he found her a fit, attractive woman, and he climbed down – with concentrated effort to hold tight to each and every rung – to the hangar floor.

"Well, sir, I'm afraid that I have good news, and I have bad news," she announced, gesturing quickly in the direction she had come.

Taking up step beside her, he inconspicuously wiped his mouth and replied, "Well, given the way this whole affair has gone, why don't we start with the good news? Right now, I'll listen to anything good you have to say, general."

"Via satellite images, I believe we've located Trace Hightower and the other sole surviving member of his team," she explained, slowing the pace of their march a bit once she realized that Ramsey wasn't keeping up. "We have a lock on his position. By air, it's only about ten minutes away. The birds you ordered from our Soviet friends have been refueled, and they're ready. General Ivanov is waiting for you."

In his vision, the room started to spin slightly. Ramsey stopped and shook his head hard.

"Chief?"

"I'll be all right," he said.

"You don't look it."

He smiled weakly. "You'll have to take my word for it."

"I'd rather have you see our base physician."

"When I get back."

She shrugged. "It's your health, sir."

"If that's the good news," he tried, "then I'm not sure I want to hear the bad."

She cleared her throat. "Not only have we found Trace Hightower," she said, "but also I think it's safe to assume so has that Apache Longbow."

Outside, the bitter wind to his face helped shake Ramsey from his stupor.

Snow was in the air, blowing incessantly thanks to the whirling blades of three Soviet helicopters. Glancing out through the storm, Ramsey recognized two of them – arguably, the greatest military helicopter built, the Mi-8 Hip – and he felt elated. Yuri had chosen wisely. The Mi-8 was as renowned as the American Bell UH-1 Huey. The massive craft had two engines, a five-blade main rotor, and could be used to ferry troops into combat ... if necessary. As he couldn't guess what would be needed, Ramsey was glad to have the ability to take troops along in order to secure the President's son-in-law.

"General," he shouted over the roar, "have you loaded those choppers with your best men?"

"They're already onboard!" she cried back at him. "Ivanov has brought a few of his own recruits, but I've asked him to deploy them only in the event of emergency!"

Just beyond the two principle copters, he thought saw ...

It was ...

... he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Is that a Havoc?"

Ramsey knew that the parked Mi-28 Havoc attack helicopter was a two-seater bird designed for nothing short of pure aerial support. Like the Apache, the craft was deadly in the air, heavily fortified with both state-of-the-art machine guns and rockets.

"I hope you have a strong stomach, comrade!"

Ramsey stopped in his tracks as he felt two hands slap him hard on the back. Swallowing, he held down what was left in his stomach, and he turned around to face ...

"Yuri!"

"Hello, Nathan!"

Yuvi Ivanov smiled proudly, and Ramsey studied the man's face. He had grown a beard, and the salt-and-pepper effect of gray hair mixed with the Ivanov's black whiskers was pronounced if not profound. The chief noticed a few more lines on the man's aged face than he remembered from their last meeting, and he hoped those marks were from laughter and not the stress of maintaining what little he could of a military presence for a country ripping apart politically and socially at the seams. Ivanov wasn't exactly a hardcore Stalinist – who was in this day and age – but he was a strong believer in his country. He continued to serve what was left of their military in hopes that, one day, his efforts would be noticed and rewarded. Ramsey knew all the man wanted was a retirement to a cushy position of top advisory, but political futures were dark in what was left of the former Soviet Union. At this juncture, Ivanov had to settle for being content in being left alone. The new regime was clearing the way for fresh leadership, and older, tested, more experienced heads of the military were quickly being mothballed. Somehow – to the good fortune of the United States – Ivanov had escaped the ax, and he was here today – with harsh blessings of his government – to provide the necessary assistance.

"What's that you said about my stomach?" Ramsey barked.

"I said ... I hope you have a strong one!"

"It's fairly empty right now, Yuri!"

"Will it be all right ... should we see combat?"

"I'll let you know," he snapped, "once it catches up with me!"

"There!" the man announced with obvious pride. Tugging on the American's arm, he practically dragged him in the direction of the attack craft. "You will ride in there! The Havoc has only two seats ... but do not worry! If this goes well, we will not be out in this cold for very long ... and you'll be flying with the best pilot I could find!"

"Oh, really?" Ramsey chided the man. "And what kind of proof do I have to that?"

"Svetlana is my daughter!"

END of Chapter 72