The light came down from the surface, through a narrow vertical chute that the two Russians had been forced to descend at gunpoint days before. After reaching the bottom, they’d been chained up and then abandoned by their captors, who had climbed up the shaft, pulled up the rope and blocked out the light by sliding a trapdoor across the top.
The appearance of the light meant the door had been moved aside. It meant something would change. Good or bad, Major Yuri Timonovski welcomed that.
“Someone’s coming,” he said.
The second man looked up, his eyes bloodshot and jittery. “Maybe they’re going to feed us.”
“Or kill us,” Timonovski replied. “I’d take either at this point.”
The end of a rope dropped down the shaft, hitting the ground and curling up like a snake. The hanging part writhed back and forth as someone descended it.
Timonovski stood, ready to face whatever was about to come his way. His legs ached, his back hurt, and he waddled awkwardly in the direction of the intruder, dragging
the weights with him.
The weights didn’t keep him from moving but were enough to prevent him from climbing. And they made jumping into the lake a suicidal notion. Something he might consider if circumstances did not improve.
Boots appeared at the bottom of the shaft and a rangy man with a heavy beard dropped the last few feet into the cave. Timonovski recognized him instantly: the Falconer, the man they’d been working with since day one. The man who’d promised to deliver the Nighthawk to them by hacking its guidance program and overriding the American directives coming from Vandenberg.
Timonovski also knew him as a betrayer. He was certain the Falconer had done something at the last minute that caused the Nighthawk to break loose from Blackjack 1. And when he’d attempted to break off pursuit and head for the refueling rendezvous, the Falconer had slit the throat of Timonovski’s copilot, pulled a snub-nosed pistol and threatened the Major and his flight engineer with death if they didn’t do as he ordered.
After following the Nighthawk down and watching it parachute into the lake, the Falconer had directed them to a narrow landing strip seven miles from the lake. A group of armed men waited for them and, after being taken hostage, any hopes of escape vanished.
“You’re awake,” the Falconer said as he came closer. “Excellent.”
They spoke English to each other, the only common language between them.
“It’s impossible to sleep in here,” Timonovski said.
“Some people find waterfalls soothing.”
“Not when they’re right on top of your head.”
The Falconer shrugged.
“I see you’re alone,” Timonovski said. “Have you run out of friends?”
“On the contrary,” the Falconer insisted, “I am collecting them by the handful as I once collected you.”
Major Timonovski could barely stand the arrogance, but he could do nothing about it. “What do you want from us now, Birdcaller?”
“I’ve come to feed you,” the bearded man replied. He shrugged off a backpack, unzipped the top and placed it in front of his captives.
The Major kept his eyes from it, but he couldn’t keep the aroma from his nostrils. Perhaps starvation heightened the senses.
Still sitting, the flight engineer scrambled toward the backpack and began plucking items out of it. A plastic container filled with soup came first, bottles of water with added electrolytes were next, followed by a couple of wrapped items.
“Sandwiches,” the engineer said, unwrapping one.
Timonovski found his mouth was watering. “Is this some kind of trick?”
“Not at all,” the Falconer said. “You’ll need your strength if you’re to fly out of here.”
“Fly?”
“You can pilot a helicopter, can’t you?”
“Of course,” the Major said. He’d flown everything in the Russian inventory. “Do you have one?”