Arctic Storm Rising

Thirty-Four

The Ka-60 Kosatka helicopter clattered low above a frozen stream, following the gorge the watercourse had cut through solid stone and shale over untold millennia. Streamers of snow cascaded off cliff faces and whirled away through the air in its wake.

Spetsnaz Major Gennady Korenev glanced around the crowded troop compartment. His men were packed in like sardines, crammed shoulder to shoulder in the helicopter’s folding seats. Above their protective thermal masks, expressionless eyes returned his gaze. They were all trained and experienced killers. No one had any illusions left. This operation was going to be messy.

“Major! We’ve got a priority signal for you!” one of the Ka-60’s two pilots called over the intercom suddenly. “From GRU headquarters.”

“Patch it through,” Korenev ordered. The background noise through his headset changed to a thin, reedy whistling, indicating a live secure satellite connection. “Raven here,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“We’ve just received critical new intelligence from SIROTA,” the mission coordinator back in Moscow told him. “The situation has changed—”

Korenev listened attentively while the coordinator gave him the details. His eyes widened very slightly. Then, when Moscow signed off, he unbuckled and squirmed forward to crouch right behind the two pilots.

“What is it, Major?” one of them asked, peering back over his shoulder.

“Show me the planned LZ on your navigation display,” Korenev demanded.

Obeying, the pilot opened a digital map on the helicopter’s large central multifunction display. A blinking green dot indicated the place they’d picked out to land the major and his commandos, near the northwestern end of a valley.

Korenev shook his head. “We need to land a few kilometers more to the southeast.” He reached out and tapped a spot on the map. It was in a gap between two hills. “Somewhere around here.”

The pilot leaned forward and studied the terrain. “That shouldn’t be a problem. The terrain looks pretty clear.” He glanced back at the Spetsnaz officer. “So what’s going on?”

“This mission just went from what was planned as a quiet, little manhunt to an all-out sprint for the prize,” Korenev said tightly in reply. “Discretion’s gone out the window. Now Moscow doesn’t give a damn about how much noise we make.”

The helicopter pilot shook his head in disgust. “Nice of them to let us know, I guess. Even if it’s pretty late in the game.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Those guns we left behind might have come in handy.”

Korenev grunted in agreement. Combat models of the Ka-60 were often equipped with two pod-mounted 12.7mm machine guns. They’d been taken off to save weight for this long-range, low-level penetrating flight into hostile territory. And even though he didn’t expect the ragtag American unit they were targeting to put up much of a fight, there was no question that the extra firepower would have been useful. He shrugged his shoulders. “No plan survives contact with the enemy. This one won’t be any different.”

Colonel Alexei Petrov gunned the motor of the snowmobile to force the vehicle up the last few meters of the hill overlooking their camp. He came out over the crest moving too fast and braked hard, skidding and weaving across the hard-packed snow as he slid to a stop. With a feeling of relief, he shut down the motor and brushed off his goggles.

One of Bondarovich’s ex-soldiers came over to greet him, pushing up the night vision goggles he’d been using to scan the surrounding terrain. “A little trickier running one of those snowmobiles than flying a plane, eh?” he said with obvious amusement.

Petrov forced himself to smile. “Trickier, no. Different, yes.” He climbed down off the machine.

The mercenary shrugged. “Well, you’ll have time to pick up the technique during the trek out to Canada.” His eyes flickered a little when he said that.

You’re a poor liar, friend, Petrov thought with hidden amusement. He was surprised that Bondarovich had let Grishin and Voronin’s plan for him slip like this. The former Spetsnaz officer should have kept that to himself until the very last second, right before they put a bullet into the back of Petrov’s skull. The old proverb “Three men can keep a secret if two of them are dead” floated through the colonel’s memory. It seemed particularly apt, just now. Neither the oligarch nor Voronin were foolish enough to leave him alive a moment longer than necessary. To them, Petrov was just a tool — someone to be used and then discarded when his particular skills were no longer needed.

Then again, perhaps that was fair. After all, his own views of Voronin and Grishin were just the same. All along, this had simply been a race to see whose goals were achieved first. And what the other two men could never have realized was that his own hidden plan was always bound to come to fruition before theirs.

“Where’s everybody else?” the sentry asked.

Petrov nodded toward their camp. The camouflaged tents were completely invisible in among the trees. “Getting some rest.”

“Lucky bastards,” the other man said enviously. “Guess I pulled the short straw.”

Petrov laughed. “Maybe.” He turned away to look out across the valley. “Any more signs of trouble?”

“Nothing, Colonel,” the sentry assured him. “It’s been quiet ever since that other big plane made its pass and flew away.” He slapped at his arms and legs. “Mother of God, though, it’s cold enough to freeze my ex-wife solid.” His mouth twisted in a sour grin. “And I can tell you that she was one hot-blooded woman.”

“Well, cheer up, you’ll be warm soon enough,” Petrov assured him smoothly. “And rich, too.”

The other man’s smile broadened. “There is that.”

Pleasantly, Petrov held out the steel hip flask in his left hand. “Since that’s the case, how about a little nip to celebrate?”

The sentry’s eyes lit up with anticipated pleasure. Everyone in camp knew the colonel only drank the best. “Absolutely.” He pulled down his face mask and tilted his head back to drink.

Without hesitation, Petrov drew his 9mm pistol, shoved it hard against the other man’s stomach, and squeezed the trigger. Muffled by close contact, the sound of the shot was no louder than a car backfire might be somewhere far off.

The sentry’s eyes widened in horror. He dropped the flask and staggered backward. Brutally, Petrov kicked his legs out from under him. Then he raised his booted foot high and stomped down hard on the other man’s exposed neck, crushing his trachea with one swift, savage motion. For a few seconds, the dying man’s heels drummed spastically, kicking up snow… and then they stopped.

Petrov looked down at the blood spattered across his fur-lined parka with a hint of disgust. Then he shrugged. Before long, he would no longer need the coat to shield him from this miserable weather. He bent down to retrieve his flask, remounted the snowmobile, and sped off down the hill toward the sleeping camp.