Chapter 52

52

May 14, 6:19 P . M . ANAT

East Siberian Sea

Kowalski crouched by the side door of the aircraft. "It's now or never," he hollered up to Monk, who continued to pilot the Baikal. "If we keep circling, I'm going to hurl all over my fine work."

"Then get ready," his teammate called through the crowded cabin.

Captain Kelly leaned over Kowalski's shoulder. "Do you know what you're doing?"

Before he could reply—which was going to be a firm eff-you —another interceded. "Looks good to me," Ryan said.

Kowalski rolled his eyes, which made his stomach churn worse. "Let's get this over with. If we're going to be shot down, I'd like to do it on a full stomach."

Earlier, on the flight back to the Polar King , after the sabotage of the Russian patrol boat, a midsize jet had swept through the fog overhead. Its passage was noted by the hot swirl of the plane's contrail through the icy mists. Luckily, Monk had been sticking to his previous route, skimming the ice cap. The maneuver kept their small craft from being spotted.

Afterward, Monk had sped them deeper into the fog. A short time later, they all heard the concussive blasts of grenade fire. It reached them through the preternatural acoustics of the polar region. It was easy to conclude what was happening.

The King was under siege—but it was a tall castle to breech.

Or so they hoped.

Kowalski and the others had compared notes, trying to judge how many Russians could have been aboard the midsize jet. The conclusion was that there were not enough to commandeer the icebreaker. Likely, the arriving force had been ordered to keep the vessel locked down—until that heavily armed patrol boat or its mobile forces arrived and finished the mission.

The dive team's earlier sabotage had bought their group a small window of opportunity. They had used it to come up with a plan—and to build their only weapon.

Kowalski stared down at the jury-rigged bomb. He had used spare parts from their prior mission. Unfortunately, the amount of leftover plastic explosives had been meager.

About the size of a goose egg.

Better be enough .

"Inbound now!" Monk called back.

Kowalski grabbed the door handle. Monk tipped the Baikal on its wing and aimed them out of the fog. They had been skirting the bank's edge for the past forty-five minutes.

The waiting was over.

The Baikal burst free of the mists. The sunlight glared after so long in the fog. Still, Monk kept the plane on its attack path. He dove for the jet. It sat on the ice, about three hundred yards from the crimson bulk of the Polar King .

The Baikal managed a full thirty-three seconds of free flight—then gunfire strafed at them. The air-threat was finally noted by the ground forces.

Rounds pinged and ricocheted. Several tore through their wings. A few zinged through the fuselage, luckily missing everyone inside. Mitchell curled tighter. He had lost enough blood as it was. The man didn't have any more to spare.

A rocket sped past one wingtip and arced back to the ice, where it burst into a fireball that spun into the sky.

"Now!" Monk hollered.

Kowalski shoved the side door open. The world sped under him. He lifted his makeshift device by a strap. The bulk of the jet appeared below. As the Baikal swept from its nose to its tail fin, Kowalski tossed his ordnance. The device spun, flapping its strap.

"Is that bomb big enough?" Kelly asked, still second-guessing Kowalski.

"That's not the bomb."

Kowalski pulled the door shut as a muffled blast echoed up to them, near the back of the jet, by its fuel tank. A moment later, a massive fireball lit the world behind them as the tank exploded.

"That's the bomb!" Kowalski clarified.

The blast wave caught the small aircraft. Flames and smoke burst around them. The Baikal got tossed like a paper airplane in a hurricane. Kowalski regretted his wisecrack toward the captain—because he had failed to fully latch his door.

It flung open as the plane cartwheeled.

With his hand gripping the handle, Kowalski got yanked out. For a death-defying moment, he hung in midair. Then the plane's wing strut struck him in the gut. He wrapped around it.

A strobing view of the world opened below him.

The jet's fireball had blasted across the ice in all directions, all the way to the hull of the icebreaker. In its blackened wake, bright fiery torches ran across the ice or rolled in agony. A snowmobile exploded, flipping through the air.

Then hands grabbed Kowalski and hauled him inside. Monk stabilized their flight into a swaying wobble.

Once inside, Kowalski slid his ass to the floor.

He tried to thank his rescuers—but all that came out was his lunch. It splattered between his knees and washed across the floor.

He wiped his mouth and shook his head.

Fuck the Arctic.

6:22 P . M .

Turov stared up as the thunderous blast echoed away. The flash had been so bright it had wiped out the sun. Flames had shot inside the upper cavern, blasting through the distant archway and lapping across the roof before dying out.

"The transport plane," Lieutenant Bragin concluded.

Turov slowly nodded.

Somehow the crew of the icebreaker had blown it up. The enemy's shipboard munitions must have been more formidable than he had expected.

"What now, sir?" Bragin asked, clutching a fist to his chest.

Turov searched the dark city. Smoke fogged rooftops and billowed higher in spots. He returned his attention to closer at hand, to the four other soldiers guarding this small encampment.

"We don't have enough manpower. We need to regroup. Topside. Wait for the Lyakhov to reach us." He stared at the bloody, blistered ruins of Sychkin's face. The archpriest moaned and rocked, still in agony despite the heavy morphine injection. Turov shook his head. "There's nothing more for us down here. Sound a retreat."

Bragin fished in his armor and pulled free a whistle.

From the city, a pair of stragglers stumbled into view, haggard with smoke-stained armor. One had to carry the other with an arm under his shoulders. The injured one could barely use his leg. He was dropped leadenly to the ground.

Turov squinted at the ancient city.

How many more soldiers are still out there?

The answer came in a flurry of gunfire. The two arrivals lifted their rifles and fired into the remaining soldiers. The attacker on the ground strafed low. The other remained standing and picked off any who escaped.

Bragin yanked out his pistol, but the one on his knees fired, shattering the lieutenant's hand with a burst. Bragin never screamed, just fell back a step, and turned. The lieutenant eyed a rifle abandoned on the ground. Before he could move, a huge dog unfolded from the shadows. It stalked with head low, teeth bared.

Off to the side, another appeared, same posture, same threat.

Bragin backed away, lifting his free arm in plain surrender.

The attacker on his feet closed in on Turov and centered his rifle at his chest. As the man lifted his face, Turov was surprised to recognize his former prisoner.

"Seems our roles are reversed," the man said coldly.

Turov simply lifted his palms. As he stared into the hard eyes of these two men, he recognized how badly he had underestimated his enemy—even when forewarned by Valya Mikhailov.

He stiffened with this thought and searched around, realizing who was still missing.

Where is that woman?