Before Saarinen could reply they saw aburst of tracer fire off to the right, and another flash of gray roared pastout of nowhere.

"Fuck ... this isn't our night.We've got company. Let's see what we can do about it."

He quickly applied power and pulled backon the stick, dropped the flaps, and the Norseman rose back into the turbulentcloud again, shuddering as it was sucked up into the air and the buffetingresumed as before.

"What the hell's up?" Stanskiasked.

"You tell me," said Saarinenfrantically. "Those were Focke-Wulfs from the Finnish Air Force, I don'tunderstand it. Those guys shouldn't be up in weather like this. And they're inSoviet airspace. We must have been picked up on Helsinki military radar and theAir Force decided to investigate. They probably think we're a Russianreconnaissance plane making the most of a bad night, that's why they're firing,but it doesn't make sense."

"What do we do?"

"The only thing we can. Stay in theclouds and carry on. Uncomfortable, but safer than having one of my owncountrymen shoot us out of the sky."

Saarinen quickly retracted the flaps andchecked his instruments. There was sweat glistening on his face and theinstrument panel was shaking fiercely with the turbulence. It felt as if thelittle Norseman were driving over cobblestones, then the sensation slowlyreduced as the flaps came in, but it didn't go away completely.

"Another thirty seconds and we'll beover Estonian soil@ If those Focke-Wulf pilots have any sense they won't followus in. Seven minutes to the drop zone by my reckoning. When I give the word,open the door and be ready to jump. And don't hang around."

He turned back to his instruments. Thewaiting seemed to go on forever as the Norseman was rocked fiercely from sideto side. Finally he roared back, "I'm coming out of the cloud. Get readywith the door. I'm going to try and find your drop!"

Stanski and Anna readied themselves andthen Saarinen eased back on the throttle and pushed the stick forward. Secondslater they broke cloud at twelve hundred feet into almost completely still air.The night was still misty with light flakes of snow, but they could see faintlythe glow of Tallinn's lights again off in the distance. Saarinen had hisearphones on and he was fiddling with a knob on the radio receiver, at the sametime watching his instruments and compass.

"Shit!"

"What's up now?"

He glanced over at Stanski. "I'mjust getting crackle where the Russian beacon ought to be. It's the damnedweather."

He looked out of the side window into themisty darkness, perspiration dripping from his temples as he tried to make outthe contour of the land below. It seemed impossible to Stanski and Anna that hecould discern anything out there, the land below all starched white in theblackness, here and there tiny pinpricks of light, but suddenly he tensed as heconcentrated on the earphones. He fiddled with an instrument knob on the panel,then turned back and shouted, "Got the beacon! Drop's coming up in twentyseconds. Open the door!"

Stanski pushed open the door. A blast offreezing air raged into the cabin. It was almost impossible to get the doorfully open, the force of the air against it like a ton weight, and then finallyit gave and Stanski locked it in place. He gripped Anna's arm, pulled hercloser and indicated that she go first.

She moved across him to the door and thenSaarinen roared, "Go! Go! Go!"

For a second she seemed to hesitate, thenStanski pushed her out, counted to three, lunged after her and was swallowed upby the rush of freezing air and darkness.

In the cockpit, Saarinen held on to thestick with one hand, reached back and released the arm catch and the doorslammed shut with a thunderclap. He locked it, then turned back as the Norsemanlurched violently again, then settled.

He let out a sigh of relief, wiped thelather of sweat from his face, then banked the plane around in a perfect arc.He just hoped those Focke-Wulfs were not still lurking out there somewhere,because if they were he would be in trouble. It meant he would have to stick inthe cloud, despite the risks.

He gritted his teeth and sighed again."Right, my sweet, let's see if we can get you home in one piece."

The blood was pumping through ArcadyBarsenko's veins like fire as the Mig tore through the cloud at five thousandfeet, with four hundred knots on the airspeed indicator.

A minute ago he had seen another blip onthe radar. Slower and smaller. A light plane, he guessed. Seconds later it hadvanished in the clutter on the screen. Barsenko frowned. He had definitely seenthe blip off to his right, maybe five miles away and moving slowly. No questionabout it.

The other three blips he had detectedearlier had come and gone on the screen at intervals and he couldn't get a goodfix on them. It was the damned weather making the radar act up, but they weredefinitely there. Three fast aircraft and a little light plane out there in theblinding swirl of cloud.

It didn't make sense in these conditions.Like playing Russian roulette. The light aircraft could be a reconnaissancemaybe, but even that didn't figure in this weather.

Unless the light aircraft was Soviet?

A reconnaissance from the Leninerad airbase that had strayed into enemy airspace and the Finns were looking for him.It was the only explanation. Barsenko scratched his chin and glanced at theradar.

Seconds later the three fast blips showedup again. Five miles away, and coming at him fast. This time they stayed on thescreen. But no sign of the light aircraft. Maybe the Finns had already shot himdown'?

Barsenko grimaced angrily at that thoughtand said to the three blips, "Just stay right where I can see you, youbastards."

He decided to come out of the cloud andsee if he could make visual contact. If he could, then he was sure as hellgoing to blast the Finns right out of the sky. He could argue about itafterwards. The aircraft were damned close to Soviet airspace and by their maneuveringand speed they could only be military. Barsenko grinned as he disengaged theautopilot, eased forward on the stick, and pulled back on the throttle.

The Mig reduced speed and dipped into thecloud with a terrible buffeting that seemed to go on forever, but ten secondslater, as he broke cloud at fourteen hundred feet into a sudden clear pocket ofair and started to pull back on the stick, Barsenko's fighter dropped and hiseyes opened wide in horror.

He saw the little light aircraft deadahead, approaching on a direct collision course. He banked frantically tostarboard.

If there was a hell, then this was it,Janne Saarinen decided.

Static arced across the cockpit window,veins of electricity dancing before his eyes, and the little Norseman bucked likea wild horse. shuddering as big lumps of hail smashed into the fuselage again.

He had been in bad weather many timesbefore, but nothing as bad as this. Besides, if you saw storm cloud you avoidedit if at all possible.

This time it wasn't possible. A secondlater, as he scanned his instruments, a sudden downdraft dropped him out of thecloud, and as the aircraft was spat out into a patch of clear dark sky,instinct made him look up sharply as he heard a faint howling in his ears.

Jesus!"

He @saw the lights of the Mig as itroared toward him.

"Jesus ... NO"'

He frantically pushed the stick to theright and the Norseman banked sharply with such a force that his skull crackedinto the cockpit door.

The Mig crashed into Saarinen's leftwing. Tore it off with a shreek, terrible, shuddering bang, and then came agrating sound of shearing metal, exploding in his ears, the Norseman yawingviolently to the left.