Arctic Storm Rising by Dale Brown (readera ebook reader .TXT) 📗

a sour grin. “I’ll be glad to see the back of him once this is over.”

The other man nodded in amusement and ordered his men into the plane to bring Bunin and Mavrichev out. While the two prisonerswere hustled down the ladder, he asked quietly, “Have you contacted Moscow yet? To make our little proposition?”

Petrov shook his head. “Not yet. We’ll let Zhdanov sweat awhile longer,” he said. Suddenly aware of the piercing cold, hestarted to shiver. He zipped up his flight suit. “First, I need more suitable clothes, hot food, and some sleep. In that order.”

“That we can arrange,” Bondarovich assured him.

With the ex-Spetsnaz officer in the lead and Petrov right behind, the whole group headed outside toward a little cluster oftents hidden among some nearby trees. Bunin and Mavrichev, untied now, stumbled along at the rear, sandwiched between twowatchful guards. Their flashlight beams danced across the ground, piercing the darkness and blowing snow.

Petrov noted that the wind was picking up fast. The storm he’d outrun in the mountains was almost on top of them. In thirtyminutes or less, the landing he’d just made would have been completely impossible. He allowed himself to feel a moment ofcomplete triumph. Despite all the unexpected obstacles thrown in his path, he’d succeeded in pulling off a masterpiece ofoperational planning and piloting skill. And as a result, Russia’s most advanced combat aircraft was now effectively in hissole possession, along with twelve nuclear-armed cruise missiles. For one exultant instant, he understood what it must belike to be a demigod—a being far beyond the reach of other mortals.

And then everything went wrong.

As the snowmobile curved around to join the little group trudging toward camp, the shrill, high-pitched whine of its motor stabbed into Petrov’s brain. Together with the stress accumulated during his long and dangerous flight and the tumor growing unchecked inside his skull, that was more than enough to trigger a cascade of unbearable pain. Gripped by a sudden, blinding headache, he doubled over and vomited into the snow. Unable to stop himself, he moaned aloud in agony.

Taken aback by his abrupt collapse, everyone else turned to stare at him in surprise.

Everyone except Mavrichev. Seizing his opportunity, the stocky, bullnecked general stiff-armed the nearest guard, knockingthe man sprawling backward into the snow. Free suddenly, he sprinted toward the idling snowmobile. And with a guttural shout,he hurled its surprised rider out of the saddle. Then, before anyone could move to stop him, he threw his leg over the machine,opened its throttle wide, and skidded away across the tundra, bent low over the handlebars as he accelerated.

“God damn it!” Petrov snarled. Furious at the guards for their carelessness and at his own weakness for distracting them,he pushed Bondarovich away, lurched upright, and fumbled for his sidearm, a 9mm pistol. Fighting past the waves of pain stillspiking through his brain, he leveled the weapon, aimed, and fired several times at the speeding snowmobile.

Most of his shots went wide. But at least one 9mm round slammed into Mavrichev’s back, high up in the middle of his rightshoulder blade. Bright red blood spurted into the air. A moment later, the fleeing general disappeared into a swirling curtainof wind-blown snow.

Still shaking, Petrov wiped distractedly at the vomit smearing his chin and then whirled toward Bondarovich. “Go on! Get afterhim!” he snapped.

“There’s no need,” the other man said callously. “That stupid son of a bitch won’t get far. You pegged him. And in this storm,he’ll either bleed to death or freeze soon enough.” He looked up at the sky and then shook his head. “No, Colonel. Don’t worryabout it. We’ll retrieve the body once the weather clears.”

Nineteen

Barter Island Long Range Radar Site, near Kaktovik, Alaska

A Short Time Later

Rank had its privileges at the Barter Island station—at least to the extent that Captain Nick Flynn got his own sleeping quarters.True, the same small space also doubled as his office, and it was really just an eight-by-eight cubicle slapped together outof thin plywood partitions. But at least it offered a modicum of privacy when he needed it. Except for Sergeant Takirak, everyoneelse on his Joint Force security team had to share a room with two or three others.

At the knock on his open door, Flynn closed the science fiction thriller he’d been reading on his tablet. “Come in,” he said, fighting down an exasperated sigh. Between PT at what felt like oh dark thirty; a predawn foot patrol around the whole island in subzero temperatures; firing exercises out at their improvised range; a public relations–required Q-and-A session with kids at the local school; another of Takirak’s regular lectures on wilderness and winter survival tricks and tips; and the routine mound of paperwork so beloved of higher-command echelons, he felt like he’d already had a pretty full day. His fatigue was compounded by the fact that they were now down to just a little over five hours of sunlight out of every twenty-four. Spending two-thirds of the usual waking day in darkness really screwed up circadian rhythms for most people—himself included.

“Uh, sir?” Senior Airman Mark Mitchell said cautiously, poking his head around the doorframe. The redheaded communicationsspecialist had a knack for reading other people’s emotions . . . or at least figuring out when they were pissed at him forpulling some boneheaded practical joke, usually after it was too late. Like the time a week ago when he’d excitedly broughtPrivate First Class Hynes fake transfer orders to Hawaii’s Schofield Barracks. Luckily, the team’s brawny Carl Gustav recoillessrifle gunner, an Army specialist from New Mexico named Rafael Sanchez, had stepped between the two men before Hynes couldgo totally berserk.

“What is it, M-Squared?” Flynn asked patiently.

“We just got an alert message from JBER,” Mitchell said.

Flynn looked pointedly at his watch. It was well after 1900, and the sun had been below the horizon for more than four hours.“The real thing, Airman?” he asked dryly.

For Mitchell’s sake, he hoped this wasn’t another lame attempt at humor. After all, there must be worse military duty