Chapter 35

35

May 13, 7:43 P . M . MSK

Severodvinsk, Arkhangelsk Oblast

"Hold tight!" Tucker hollered.

He clutched hard to the wheel of the GAZ Tigr, an all-terrain 4x4 painted in Arctic camo. The team had commandeered the transport vehicle, finding it parked near the church, keys inside, courtesy of the combat force they had ambushed.

Monk and Elle hugged over Bailey, who lay sprawled across one of the two benches that flanked the rear compartment. Marco kept close to them, while Kane commanded the front passenger seat.

Tucker crushed the accelerator under his boot. The eight-ton behemoth shot toward the base's rear gate. Its wipers fought the snow, struggling to keep a view open.

Ahead, a fence, topped by razor-wire, appeared out of the snow. A figure burst from a neighboring gatehouse, rifle at his shoulder, shifting in all directions, momentarily confounded by the wind and white-out conditions, struggling to pinpoint the source of the roaring engine—but it didn't take him long.

The rifle swung toward the truck.

Tucker didn't slow.

Bullets peppered across the Tigr's ballistic windshield and pinged off its armor—then the transport hit the gate. It crashed through with hardly a jolt.

The soldier dove away at the last moment. Still, he rolled to his belly and shot at the back of the retreating truck.

Unfortunately for him, the Tigr wasn't the only threat.

Behind the transport vehicle, the Berkut burst out of the falling snow at full speed. It ran across the crumpled fence, then over the guard on the ground. Braced at the back of the Berkut, Kowalski gripped the handles of the mounted machine gun and strafed the gatehouse as they passed it, shattering glass, pummeling the other guard still inside.

The double snowmobile followed this path of destruction, carrying two of Yuri's associates: Vin and Sid.

It was a savage exit, but after witnessing what had been done to Bailey, mercy wasn't in their current vocabulary.

Tucker continued overland across the snow-covered hills. He aimed for a line of woods, no more than a shadowy smudge through the storm.

The Berkut shot alongside the Tigr and passed it, leading the way from here. According to Monk and Kowalski, they had a plane sitting on a frozen lake some ten miles away. It seemed an impossible distance.

Still, so far, no alarm had been raised at the base, but that wouldn't last.

"How's Bailey doing?" Tucker shouted back.

"Sedated." Monk had his med pack open by his knee and wrapped a bandage around the priest's head, over the gauze-packed wreck of his eye. "But he's far from stable. Needs blood. A hospital ASAP."

Tucker got them moving faster, riding hard over the hills, shattering through icy bushes. They were jostled and rattled, but Monk didn't warn him to slow.

Behind them, a siren blared—first tentatively, then ratcheting into a haunting wail. It spread to other sirens.

The frozen base was waking up.

Their only hope was that the solar storm would slow the enemy, thwart communications, confound radar equipment, and challenge any coordinated response—especially by air. While these northern bases were well-equipped with strategic land-and-sea capabilities, one notable weakness were its air mobility assets.

Tucker knew they had a good lead on land, but—

The thumping roar of a large helicopter rose behind them. Still distant, but closing fast. The bird must have gotten into the air fast, proving the commander of the base was no slouch. From the quick mobilization, Tucker suspected they were being hunted by one of the elite VDV squads, Russia's Airborne Assault Troops, likely their 76th Division, a group assigned to protect the Kola Peninsula.

Whether he was right or wrong, it was bad news.

The trio of ice-hardened vehicles couldn't escape that hawk in the air.

Still, they had to try.

7:51 P . M .

Kowalski pounded a fist atop the Berkut's cab, signaling Yuri to slow down. The Berkut swerved wildly, skidding sideways as it braked hard, nearly throwing Kowalski off. He clutched the handle of the PKP machine gun to keep his seat.

He waved his free arm, gesturing for the Tigr to continue past and make for the plane. Tucker didn't need any such encouragement. The armored truck barreled by without slowing. Vin and Sid must have understood Kowalski's intent and swept wide, zipping their twin snowmobile ahead of the Tigr, taking the lead to guide Tucker and the others to the parked plane.

If it's still there...

But one problem at a time.

He searched the sky. The approaching helo roared through the storm, but it remained lost in the snow. Hopefully that was true for their vehicles, too.

Kowalski bent down to the cab's back window, which was cracked open. He yelled his plan to Yuri, who glanced back at him as if he were crazy.

Kowalski answered that look, "Just go!"

The Berkut fishtailed for a breath, then its treads caught traction and it took off. They aimed away from the path of the others, striking for the higher hills and denser pine forest.

Kowalski held tight, staring back over a shoulder.

They had almost reached the forest.

C'mon, you bastard.

Then he spotted a faint glow through the storm, running low.

Beacon lights.

Kowalski leaned tighter to his gun and strafed into the air, trusting the muzzle flashes to draw the eye of the helo's pilot.

If I can see you, then you can see me.

The helicopter's light bobbled, steadied, then swung in his direction, away from the others who remained lost in the snow.

There you go...

They hit the woods at full speed. Kowalski ducked as pine branches battered the Berkut and him. It felt like he was flying through the coldest carwash in a convertible. The snowmobile shot up a steep incline, carving a deep trail.

As they reached the top, the little Russian war mobile caught air, flying free for a breath, then crashed back in a jarring thump. Kowalski's forehead cracked into the edge of the cab. His vision narrowed, but he held tight.

He swung around enough to spot the lights above the trees. The helicopter buzzed the tops, swirling snow and frozen needles from branches. From its sweeping pattern, the pilot had momentarily lost them.

As Kowalski had hoped, the aircraft's cameras and FLIR thermal-imaging systems were compromised by the snowstorm and geomagnetic interference.

Still, the pilot had eyes.

"Now!" Kowalski boomed out.

The headlamps flared from the front of the cab. Up until now, they had been running dark, but no longer.

With the Berkut still at high speed, Kowalski jerked to his feet, yanked the long gun from its mount, and rolled off the snowmobile. He hit a snowdrift and toppled several yards, grateful for the cushioning, until he struck a buried log.

The impact nearly tore the machine gun from his grip.

He clamped his hands tighter, earning a complaint from his stabbed forearm. He felt several stitches rip. He ignored the pain.

What's one more scar?

The Berkut, brightly lit, continued onward and dove over the ridge's edge and vanished into the next valley.

Kowalski heaved onto his back and lifted his machine gun, balancing the eight-kilo gun on his shoulder. He waited for the helo to take the shining bait. It didn't take long. Two breaths later, the world filled with roaring. Snow and pine needles whipped into a stinging gale around him.

It blinded him—which was not part of his plan.

He winced and squinted against the pounding of the rotorwash.

With no better option, he opened fire and strafed toward the glaring lights.

Hope this still works.

He heard the blast of a rocket launch and spotted the brighter flare of its exhaust.

Guess not.