Chapter 44

44

May 14, 4:17 P . M . ANAT

East Siberian Sea

Standing on the ice, buried in dense fog, Kowalski cursed his life. He tugged at the crotch of his dry suit. The scuba gear was courtesy of the Polar King , but apparently none of the dive squad was taller than six feet. It made for a snug, ball-pinching fit.

Still, the gear was not the worst of his complaints.

He stared over an icy cliff. Twenty feet below, black water washed and sloshed. Two of the King 's dive team flanked him. All three wore their tanks, waiting for the word to go. Another crewmate pounded a motorized winch into the ice. Its line would lower them into the polar sea—and hopefully raise them later.

Everyone moved about swiftly, as if they had done this before, and maybe they had. For a crew of an icebreaker, tackling problems in deep ice was likely a regular necessity. But he doubted any of them had ever tried to ambush an eight-thousand-ton Russian patrol boat, one armed to the teeth with cruise missiles and naval guns.

Captain Kelly stood a few yards away, radio at his ear, yelling into it, as if that would help with the spotty reception. But at least the other half of this assault team—the dry half—was only a quarter mile away, led by Ryan Marr.

Monk strode from the captain's side and joined Kowalski. "The others will be ready in five. They've finished their drill holes and are placing charges now."

Kowalski pictured that five-man team out on the ice. Twenty minutes ago, they had leaped from the plane as it came to a stop, trudging off with huge drills over their shoulders, each with bits three feet long. They had quickly disappeared into the fog.

Afterward, Monk had flown the rest of the party here, a quarter mile farther up the channel created by the Polar King 's passage. The flight to this area had been harrowing enough. Monk had kept the Baikal skimming the ice the entire time, all but flying blind through the fog, not that there were any trees or hills to worry about.

From the hydrophones aboard the King , they had been able to determine a rough position of the approaching patrol boat. The sound of its diesel engines and spinning props had been easy to track. It was how they knew it was traveling under full steam, faster than when it had last been spotted from the air, which necessitated a quick change in plans.

The ambush site was only five miles from where the Polar King was parked. They had hoped for a greater distance, but the Russian ship was sweeping in fast, which also shortened their timetable.

Kelly crossed to them. "Let's get you in the water," the captain called over. "You'll not have much leeway once Ryan's charges go off."

His fellow divers—Mitchell and Renny—nodded and stepped toward the winch. Across their chests were strapped underwater ordnance packages, already primed with blasting caps. Kowalski carried another. All were his own design, after cannibalizing the resources aboard the Polar King .

The captain held Kowalski back. "Ryan's efforts should force the patrol boat to slow, to cut its engines temporarily. That's the window you'll have to complete this mission."

Kowalski stared off into the fog, picturing the other team planting charges across an arc of drill holes. They were all counting on Ryan's ability to read the ice. The plan was to break free a massive ice floe from one side of the channel and send it careening across the path of the patrol boat. It would create a temporary dam, one that would challenge the smaller boat.

"Will a floe like that truly intimidate the Russians?" Monk asked. "Their vessel is an icebreaker, too."

Kelly scoffed. "The King is a nuclear-powered icebreaker . The patrol boat is an icebreaking vessel. There's a difference. It runs on diesel engines. It can only break ice six feet thick. That floe we'll be sending their way will be fifteen to twenty feet thick."

"Then won't that be enough to stop them?" Kowalski asked, hoping to avoid a dip into the freezing waters.

"It'll no doubt slow them. But that floe will be loose. They can push it, and failing that, they have guns that can chew the blockage into slush." Kelly pointed to the first diver riding the winch down. "The only way to stop the boat is to take out its propellers after it slows to address the ice floe."

"What about the patrol boat's helicopter?" Monk asked. "We spotted it from the air. Even if the vessel is stranded, they could send it aloft."

"Better that than the ship's entire arsenal," Kelly reminded them. "And the Russians certainly can mobilize ground forces, too, and send them overland across the ice."

Monk looked grim.

"Remember our goal is a delaying tactic. To buy us time until this infernal solar storm ends. There's little more we can do. The King has a small armory, but it's meant to ward off polar bears, or in a worst-case scenario, a small pirate attack. Not the full force of the Russian Navy."

Kowalski sighed heavily. "So, it looks like I'm going for a swim."

Kelly nodded as the second diver vanished over the edge. "Remember, the patrol boat has two stern propellers. You'll need to destroy both. Even if one is left functioning, they could still keep moving."

Kowalski nodded and pointed to the ordnance package strapped to his chest. "I know. That's why I'm bringing a spare charge. Just in case."

The radio, still in the captain's hand, squawked. Ryan's voice reached them. "Blowing in thirty, Cap. Counting down now."

Kelly pointed to Kowalski. "Move it, soldier."

"Seaman," Kowalski corrected him as he turned away. "I'm former navy, like I told you."

"Then why are you whining about a swim?" Kelly asked, following him to the winch. "I thought seawater was in a sailor's blood."

"Not when it's colder than a polar bear's nutsack." He yanked on his snug dive suit. "And speaking of nutsacks, your ship's tailor really sucks."

Kelly looked back at Monk, as if wondering how he put up with his teammate.

Monk merely shrugged.

Kowalski crossed to the edge. He secured his mask and dry hood, then hooked his foot into the line's loop. With a huge breath, he dropped over the edge. The winch operator swiftly lowered him.

The captain called down. "Good hunting!"

Kowalski saluted back with a raised middle finger.

Then he hit the icy water.

4:24 P . M .

Valya Mikhailov had no tolerance for fools—especially those who put their faith in anything more than bone and steel. She ran a thumb over her holstered Glock 21 as she stared out the window of the transport plane.

The featureless expanse of the fogbank failed to hold her attention.

She listened as the archpriest whispered to Yerik Raz, their two heads bent in prayer. She cast Sychkin a sidelong glance. She knew the man had no true faith in anything but himself and the power he could wield. The monk, on the other hand, seemed devoted, both to the priest and to his faith. She noted Sychkin placing his palm on Yerik's fire-ravaged cheek, not shying from the scarring.

Still, the monk turned his face away. There was clearly a well of pain attached to that disfigurement that had nothing to do with the touch of flames. She knew the man had been burned in a fire that had killed his mother, and that Sychkin had taken him in afterward, as ward and mentor.

Valya scowled.

Better you had died in that fire.

For now, she had no choice but to remain with these others. They were taking her where she needed to go. She pictured the dark figure rushing through smoke in the apartment building opposite the Vatican embassy. The firefight had been short, and Valya had not escaped unscathed. Her shoulder was no longer in a sling, only wrapped against the fight to come. The pain remained, but it helped focus her.

She would not be caught off guard again.

Next to her, Nadira slept, her arms crossed over her chest. Valya had wanted to bring along a larger contingent of her own people, but she had been refused. Still, she had already taken measure of the team that Captain Turov had handpicked. She could not fault him. His spetsnaz crew kept silent, reserving their strength. None of them bothered to double-check their weapons. True professionals had them ready at all times.

She caught one staring toward her, his eyes cold and hard, likely sizing her up as well. She turned away, feeling no need to impress anyone.

She returned her attention to the landscape passing under the plane. They were due to rendezvous with the other prong of this assault, an icebreaking patrol boat that was following the path left by the enemy's ship. The Lyakhov came with guns, missiles, and a complement of a hundred Arctic-hardened soldiers.

Turov clearly thought such a force was overkill.

Valya did not.

As she stared below, a fiery glow flickered through the gray-white fog. But in a blink, it was gone. She squinted toward it, but it never repeated. She cocked an ear to listen for any indication that the flight crew had spotted it, too, but the low murmur up front remained steady. Still, she trusted her eyes and continued to watch that section.

Concentrating there, she noted another brightness in the same region, just north of where she had spotted the flicker. It appeared to be a patch of open ice, reflecting the afternoon sun.

She clenched a fist and shoved up, stirring Nadira, who looked inquiringly at her.

Valya shook her head and stepped over her lieutenant to reach the cockpit.

Turov was bent next to his navigator, both studying a plotting map. The captain tapped at it. "This is where the Lyakhov should be?"

"By my best estimate, from speed and last known position, yes sir. We should rendezvous in the next fifteen minutes."

Valya interrupted. "Captain Turov."

He turned to her, clearly noting the urgency in her voice. "What is it?"

She answered tersely. "An open area of ice. Free of fog. At least for now. If you're looking to land, this might be our opportunity."

He straightened. "Show me."

She scooted into the cramped cockpit, searched through the front windshield, oriented herself, then pointed. "There."

Turov leaned forward and stared for a breath. "You're right."

The navigator also looked. "I don't think that's far from where we plotted the Lyakhov 's location."

Turov confronted the pilot, sounding peeved that the man had depended more on his instruments than his eyes. "Can you land us there? Is there enough clearance?"

"I'll have to make a sweep to be certain, but yes, it looks good."

"Then do it."

Turov turned to her and nodded his thanks, but she was already recalibrating, taking this new factor into account, as she returned to her seat.

Still, she pictured that brief flash in the gloom.

What the hell was that?

4:25 P . M .

Still on the water's surface, Kowalski gaped as a blue mountain of ice slammed into the channel. A moment ago, a series of muffled detonations had gone off, accompanied by spats of fire—then the world had closed in front of them, blocked by that bulldozing wall of ice.

Ahead of him, the iceberg thundered as its bulk splintered and crashed into the opposite side. A wave of water welled toward him, pushed by that frozen behemoth.

That was their signal.

And a big one at that .

All three dove, letting that wave crest over them. They were pulled by small sleds with electric motors.

Kowalski followed behind the other two men. Both were experienced polar divers. Renny led the way, driving deep toward the newly birthed iceberg.

With the sun shrouded by fog, the visibility sucked, but still the little light that did reach these depths cast the world in shades of aquamarine. Blue walls rose on both sides. Their undersides formed inverted mountains, scalloped and scribed with algae. Fronds waved in the current created by the explosive calving of the ice floe. Small fish darted in flashes of silver. Roils of shrimplike crustaceans sped in panicked schools.

But Kowalski had no time for sightseeing as he sped after the others.

The trio reached the berg as it churned heavily, spun leadenly. It appeared to be half the size of a football field. They dove under it, and the world darkened, occluded by that mass of ice. Once beneath it, Kowalski was rocked by its motion, like a cork in rough seas. His ears filled with its creaking, popping, and cracking.

Renny swept onward, aiming for its far side. He clicked on the small dive torch at the tip of his sled. Kowalski pursued that tiny star through the darkness. Finally, the waters brightened ahead. Mitchell slowed his board and lifted an arm, spinning slightly, like an astronaut in space. They were to pause here, wait for their target.

Kowalski drew to a stop with the others. His insulated dry suit covered him from crown to toe. But now, hanging in place, Kowalski shivered in the cold. He pictured his girlfriend, Maria, who was in the Congo at a gorilla reserve on a special project. He wished he was there with her. He tried to draw that African warmth to him. But all he kept picturing was a cold beer, sweating in the savannah heat.

That would be nice, too, right now.

Renny and Mitchell swam closer to him. Both had backgrounds in the Aussie Navy. They checked on his status, offering okay symbols with their free hands. He returned it, but without enthusiasm.

And for good reason.

He was far from okay.

They all heard the growing rumble of the approaching patrol boat. It steadily rose in volume. Kowalski felt it in his gut, thrumming across his chest. He stared past their dark shelter to the brighter water.

Time ticked away, marked by the pounding of his heart.

Finally, a massive shadow swept toward them, a thundercloud across blue skies. The engine's timbre changed, slowing, dropping to a low roar, then subsiding further.

Kowalski pictured the boat's captain studying this dam across his boat's bow. The hope was that through the fog, with the charges buried deep into drill holes, no one on board would have noted the brief explosive flashes. Additionally, the blasts could easily be mistaken for the natural cracking and thunderous pops of unsettled ice left in the wake of the Polar King 's passage.

But at the moment, hope felt like a feeble shield against the immensity of the task ahead. Still, Kowalski clung to it.

The boat's diesel engines continued to rumble, gliding the vessel's four-hundred-foot length the last of the way. Bow thrusters engaged, sounding like fire hoses at full blast, which helped steady the craft in the channel.

Renny chopped an arm toward the boat.

Time to go .

Kowalski secured his sled under him and twisted its throttle. They didn't know how long the Russian captain would ponder this obstacle, to judge if his boat could nose this massive floe out of its way or not.

The answer came fast, with the thudding chatter of heavy guns.

Kowalski flinched as rounds pounded into the berg overhead, churned out by the turreted AK-176MA naval gun mounted at the boat's bow. The Russians weren't holding back, firing on full auto, more than a hundred rounds per minute, clearly planning on bandsawing the berg into pieces.

Still, twenty feet of ice was as tough as ballistic armor.

For now, it kept Kowalski and the others shielded.

They fled from the deafening barrage and set out from under the floe. Keeping together, they sped toward the deep shadow of the boat's keel. Once there, Renny led them along the hull's centerline. The bulk of the massive boat hung overhead, a great steel whale. As they continued, the bow thrusters finally subsided to either side.

Nearing the stern, the trio slowed to a crawl. Through the murk, lit by their dive torches, they made out the two propellers, positioned to the port and starboard sides. The pair still turned, but only slowly as the engines idled. The props' blades were three meters long, curved like bronze scimitars.

Knowing they dared not wait, Renny and Mitchell split off. Each glided toward one of the props. Kowalski stayed put, maintaining his role as back-up. He lifted a hand to the ordnance strapped at his chest. The bombs were equipped with Mag-Lok hooks for securing them in place, and timers set for five minutes.

Renny reached his side first. He looked like a sparrow hovering before a huge fan. The diver's neck craned as he studied his target.

Earlier, Captain Kelly had explained that it was not uncommon for an icebreaker to damage or break a propeller. It required divers to repair them regularly, like these two. The weakest spot was where the shaft met those blades.

Renny planted his ordnance package where it would do the most damage, magnetically locking it in place. He stared over at Mitchell, waiting for his partner to do the same. Finally, the other succeeded and gave a thumbs-up. Both engaged their bombs' timers, yanked their sleds up from where they hung on straps, and sped back toward Kowalski.

Again, Renny was faster, clearly the more experienced.

Mitchell lagged behind, struggling with his sled.

Something was wrong.

And then got immediately worse.

The propellers spun up, churning through the water, first slowly, then faster. Mitchell jerked a glance behind him, then back again, fighting his sled.

Renny failed to note his partner's distress, concentrating on his flight away from the stern. The tidal pull of the turning screw caught Mitchell. He got his sled sputtering, but its small, foundering motor was no match against the giant diesel overhead.

Mitchell thrashed, momentarily holding his place, but it was a losing battle.

Kowalski swore, already working quickly, blindly. Then he ducked his head, twisted his sled's throttle, and sped past Renny—who finally recognized something was wrong and fumbled into a turn.

Kowalski rushed to Mitchell, who had begun to draft back toward the starboard propeller. Once there, Kowalski spun, somersaulting to reverse his position. He kept hold of his sled with one hand and yanked Mitchell over to him. The panicked man abandoned his dying sled and snatched on to Kowalski's belt.

Better hold tight .

Kowalski reached to his shoulder and flung his ordnance package behind him, toward the propeller. He had already flipped the timer from five minutes to five seconds .

This is going to hurt.

With two men on one sled, they could not fight the suction.

Then the world exploded behind them.

The concussion crushed his lungs, popped both ears, spurted blood from his nostrils. He got tossed forward by the blast, momentarily spinning. He managed to keep hold of his sled. Mitchell got thrown off.

Tens meters farther on, Renny was less affected by the explosion. He rushed in and recaptured his dazed partner. Kowalski got his sled under him, and they fled back toward the ship's bow. Behind them, the starboard propeller still spun, crookedly, and with only one blade.

Luckily, the charges that Kowalski had crafted were not that powerful. They were meant as sabotage, to break joints, not sink a ship.

Still, his head would be ringing for days.

They raced along the hull of the patrol boat. The muffled barrage of the bow gun continued nonstop. Hopefully with all that noise, no one aboard had noted the smaller blast at the stern—or at least, not yet.

Kowalski and the others needed to be gone before that happened.

As they reached the front of the boat, the reason for the engagement of the propellers became evident. The massive naval guns had already chewed a deep gully through the massive floe. The boat had been moving forward to continue that trenching.

Kowalski stared ahead.

Above him, the huge gun chugged away. Its heavy rounds shattered both into the ice and through the water. White cavitating streaks shot across the dark blue, creating a deadly gauntlet.

Renny cast him a worried look, but they had no choice but to risk it.

Kowalski returned a nod, and they sped away. Burdened by Mitchell hanging on his belt, Renny fell behind. Kowalski tried to aim away from where the gun ate at the berg, but as the weapon strafed, rounds still sped around him, marked by collapsing pops of their passage. Still, he made it safely under the iceberg.

He raced another few meters, then twisted around.

Renny reached the floe, too—but not unscathed. A dark trail of blood flowed in his sled's wake. The men sped up to Kowalski. Mitchell's face was a mask of pain and fear. His left leg hung crookedly, nearly torn in half by a strike to his calf.

There was no time for aid.

They all continued at top speed under the berg. When they reached the far side, a distant blast echoed through the water, marking the explosion of the other ordnance packs.

Kowalski could not savor this success, not with the blood trailing them.

Two minutes later, they reached the winch line and abandoned their tanks. Kowalski sent Renny up first, with Mitchell hugging around his partner's neck. As Kowalski waited, staring up, blood spattered down. He expected Mitchell to lose his weakening grip, but the man kept hold. The two vanished over the edge.

Kowalski followed next. Once topside, he found Monk securing a tourniquet on Mitchell's leg. Any additional care would have to wait. Most of the team had already boarded the plane. The Baikal's engine was idling.

Once Monk was finished, the last of the group hurried to board.

Renny and Kowalski carried Mitchell between them.

Captain Kelly greeted them inside, his face dark and grim. "Well done. You've bought us some breathing room back there."

Kowalski glanced over a shoulder, hoping that was true. He turned back around as Monk taxied for a liftoff. As Kowalski stared dully, he wondered what awaited them ahead.

He had no way of knowing, but he was certain of one thing. Despite Kelly's words, they had better keep holding their breaths.

Because this isn't over.