Gordon Kent - Night Trap

Number 1743 was a nondescript office building put up sometime after the Great Patriotic War, vaguely influenced by Western designs of the fifties, so probably from the seventies. It had a central entrance and a guard who was nothing more than a presence—an aging man in two sweaters who sometimes had this or that to sell. He would be no trouble.

There were four men. Despite differences, they looked alike because they were all of the same age and they had all led the same life—former Spetsnaz . Three of the four needed a shave; none of them wore a tie or a hat.

The guard waved them to stop.

The first man put a hand on the old man’s chest and pushed him gently back while the others went past. Then the man told him to lie face down, showing him a pistol. The old man lay down. The young man shot him in the back of the head.

They trotted up the two flights of stairs and turned right and trotted to a door that said VENUX in English characters. Inside were fluorescent lights and head-height partitions in cheap beige fabric, a sense of modernity and busyness rare in that building, in that city.

The four men went through the door, took out silenced Type 51 Kalashnikovs and began firing through the partitions. They sprayed the room methodically, and when one ejected a clip he would drop it into a bag and slam home another and resume shooting. Men and women were screaming and trying to run away, and a man looked over a partition by jumping up and down until he was hit. Others were heroic and tried to shield the fallen, until they were hit, too.

Two of the men went from cubicle to cubicle, shooting each body in the head, alive or dead. The third man guarded the door, while the fourth took a device from his backpack, carried it to the center of the room, and, checking his watch, tripped a timer.

They trotted out one after another, covering each other, the first one firing at the horrified people in the corridor, and each one after him, firing as he ran, to the stairs, down the stairs, and they were gone.

The bomb blew and fire belched from the smashed windows.

Christine was seconds from the wire. She had two thousand pounds of fuel—plenty for one landing, dicey if she had to go around again and nobody up to give her more. To Rafehausen, Christine felt like a reluctant partner at the prom—she did what he wanted, just not exactly in time to his moves. Mushy , he thought.

Rafe wanted to see the boat. He didn’t dare glance at the altimeter; instead, he was staring into the darkness, trying to find the lens—the cluster of lights at the port bow that would guide him down. Where was the fucking lens?

Then Christine broke out of the squall and there was too much light, too much brightness, as if the whole reflective surface of the deck had struck his dark-accustomed eyes at once. He winced. At the same time, he found the lens, and the voice inside his head that was really eight years of flying experience said Wrong! Wrong set of lights, it meant.

Wrong.

Wrong for landing.

Wrong for me. And this inner voice, which the good pilot hears like an angel’s whisper, said much more: it said Power; it said Go; it said airspeed lift altitude move MOVE! All in an instant because the lights were not set for an S-3B, meaning that the tension on the wires was wrong and the instructions were wrong, and the boat was expecting somebody else.

Rafe wanted to look over his shoulder for the F-14 that might be landing right on top of him.

And the voice said Wrong: you’re trying to land on the wrong fucking boat.

Blinding light all around him. The deck was there there there THERE! The tail slammed down; the plane lurched; Rafe went to high power—

—and they didn’t stop. No blow to the ribs. No neglected junk flying past them in the false wind of deceleration. Only hurtling down the deck on the edge of airspeed, night vision shot to shit by the landing lights, sparks rooster-tailing from their hook, and a second later falling over the front end into the dark without a hope, yet hoping, praying.

All of them astonished and scared and seeing nothing but light as they flashed down the deck of the wrong carrier—not seeing the startled air officer in Pri-Fly, not seeing the deck crew flinch back from them, not seeing the man who was down on the catwalk, safe but still flattening himself against the far bulkhead as if he thought they would take his head off, their lights flashing on the name-patch on his left breast: Bonner, S .

Alan clenched his teeth. Even in the back end, the light as they came out of the squall had dazzled him, yet he had stayed braced. Then, the failure to stop had tricked his senses; he had even leaned into his harness as if the hook had caught. Now, as they came off the bow, he felt the plane falling. Light vanished; everything was blackness and electronic green. And then, climbing agonizingly away from the black water as if crawling out of a hole, he felt Christine decide not to kill them.

“Bolter, bolter,” Craw muttered.

“Shut up!” Rafe bellowed.

“Hookslap?” Narc said.

“It wasn’t my lens.” Rafe was incapable of dishonesty, at least about flying—and at least to another pilot. He cut the back end off the intercom and said to Narc, “It wasn’t my boat! Fuck, fuck fuck fuck FUCK. Twelve hundred pounds of fucking fuel left! We gotta land on the wrong fucking boat!”

On the flight deck, the Landing Signal Officer was already jabbering to Pri-Fly, where a paunchy commander in a yellow jersey with “Miniboss” across the chest was staring into the rain.

“What the hell?” the Miniboss (the Assistant Air Officer) moaned.

“It was an S-3. We haven’t got an S-3 up.”

“You sure? You better be sure! ”

“I’m sure.”

Miniboss turned away from his bubble window and muttered, “Well, I’m not,” and he hollered at a lieutenant he didn’t know to check the sheets for an outstanding S-3. Had they got the goddam count wrong or what? And while you’re at it get somebody up here who knows S-3s even if you have to wake the squadron’s skipper because that sonofabitch is going to come around again; and he said into his mike to the LSO, “What’s he going to do?”

“We’re under EMCON; I’m not in contact.”

“The way I read it, he’s from the Jefferson . Get his fuel load.”

“We’re under EMCON.”

“Well, get out from under! Set the lens for an S-3 and find if he can get back to his own boat! If he can’t, prepare to receive.” He turned away to order somebody to keep the Combat Air Patrol airborne until it was over; get their fuel and estimated time aloft; while you’re at it—

The LSO had already had the lens reset. He was already prepared to receive. He had expected to recover two F-18-As; the lens had been set for them. He imagined the S-3 catching a wire set for the much lighter F-18-A and winced.

All in a night’s work.

Rafe caught the flare of lights that signaled him to try again. Narc had talked on the ball to the LSO and told him that their fuel was down. So, the worst was going to happen: he, LT George Rafehausen, veteran carrier pilot, sometime wingman of the squadron skipper, was going to land on the wrong boat. Rafe blew out his breath in disgust.

This time he kept it simple. By the numbers. He gentled Christine into the approach. His angle of attack was perfect. At least he’d make a good landing.

Then he watched as the carrier began to turn.

He had to chase the turn. His numbers went out the window. They were turning away from the squall to help him, but that made no odds to him. Why weren’t things ever easy?