“Yes!” Bryce shouted to no one when the coastline came into view.
At first, it was little more than a shadow. A variance in the texture of the sea. Then a necklace of white water materialized along the beach, and hills emerged to complete the picture.
“All I need now is a place to put down,” he whispered.
The weather was marginally better—he was flying at five hundred feet, the hard deck of clouds having risen. The horizon was clearer, visibility improving. Bryce was scanning the coastline, searching for a few flat acres in which to set down, when a flash of motion on the left caught his eye.
The Hind came out of the clouds like a raptor from hell. It was less than a mile away, pointed right at him. A sparkle beneath the cockpit Bryce instantly recognized as muzzle flashes. By some instinct he didn’t understand, he rolled left and pointed his little airplane directly at the threat. The combined closure of the aircraft became extreme, and before the chopper could get off another shot, its pilot faced the reality of a midair collision. Bryce could actually see two visored helmets as the aircraft flashed overhead. He reversed back right, his head on a swivel to reacquire the Hind.
It was a dogfight he could never win: an unarmed, light utility aircraft against an armored combat helicopter. Bryce wasn’t surprised they’d found him. He was stunned, however, that the Russians had followed him into Norwegian airspace. Absolutely astounded they were trying to shoot him down here. Then he recalled what was at stake—for everyone.
The Hind was repositioning on his right, setting up for another pass. The big machine could probably ram him with its undercarriage if it came to that. Bryce realized his only chance was to get on the ground. He dove for the beach, having no idea what kind of surface he would find. Sand, rocks, solid ice. Whatever it was, it was about to take a crash landing.
Against every “fight-or-flight” survival instinct, he pulled the throttle back in order to slow. He looked back and saw the Hind bearing down, closing in for the kill. Bryce jerked the Aviat into a steep left turn, then reversed and went harder to the right. It was pure instinct, like running across a battlefield—never move in a straight line. He kept slowing, while the Hind was accelerating and closing in fast. The chopper looked massive over his shoulder. When the pilot fired, Bryce had the Aviat in a steep left turn no more than a hundred feet above the ground.
He felt the bullets strike home. Battering the delicate airframe, causing it to shudder. The left wing dropped farther, its tip nearly scraping the rocky beach. Bryce fought the controls for all he was worth, muscling the stick and rudder. The Hind blew past directly overhead, the roar of its engines and downdraft of its rotors adding to the maelstrom. The beach of rounded stones became a blur, and the left wingtip snagged the earth. The nose slammed down hard and Bryce flung his arms up protectively. The Aviat slammed down in a shriek of tearing metal and flying glass.
Then everything went black.
“Norwegian F-16’s are airborne,” said the general from air defense headquarters. “I am ordering the chopper out!”
“No!” Radanov shouted into his handset. “We must be certain!”
“I cannot risk it! We have already committed multiple violations of international law.”
“Then one more will not matter. I would call the president if there was time, but I can assure you he is not a man who appreciates half-measures.”
Radanov waited for what seemed an interminable amount of time. In the end, no argument came.
The pilot nearly had the Hind back in Russian airspace when the order came to make one last attack run. He explained that there was nothing left but wreckage, yet the orders were only reiterated. Grumbling, he turned back.
Once settled on the reciprocal course, his eyes flicked upward—they would soon not be the only ones in these skies carrying weapons. He easily found what was left of the little aircraft; a heap of crumpled metal rocking lazily in the shore break. The wreckage wasn’t in flames, but smoke spewed from the engine. He slowed to hover a mere fifty meters away—a perfectly stable platform, at point-blank range, for the weapons officer in front of him.
The gun had six hundred rounds remaining. Thirty seconds later, after a series of extended bursts, the ammo drum was empty. The high-explosive incendiary rounds brutalized the wreckage, fragments of metal and ricochets spewing in all directions. By the time they were done, no piece of the airplane larger than a car door remained.
The Hind turned away from the smoldering heap, set an easterly course, and fast disappeared into the mist.