And from the base of the smoke plumes a man walked in their direction, his hands lifted shoulder high.

  Tomashenko lifted his own hand, halting the advance. Shifting the strap of his assault rifle so it rode leveled at his waist, the Spetsnaz commander waited, his hand curled around the AKOs trigger group. To the right and left, his troopers went prone, hunching into the snow, their bipodded weapons aimed.

  The man with the lifted hands met them about a hundred yards out from the burning station. The hood of his parka was thrown back, and blond hair could be seen. Tomashenko recognized him from the photographs he had been shown. It was Smyslov, the Air Force officer who supposedly was subverting the operations of the American intelligence group from within. The man who should have been dead by now. TomashenkoOs eyes glittered as they narrowed.

  Smyslov came within ten feet and dropped his hands. I am Major Gregori Smyslov of the Russian Federation Air Force, he stated crisply. You will have been briefed about my presence. And you are?

  Lieutenant Pavel Tomashenko of the Naval Infantry Special Forces. I was briefed about you, Major. I am pleased you have escaped.

  It is not a matter of escape, Lieutenant, the Air Force officer replied. The parameters of this mission have changed, and your original orders concerning the American intelligence party are no longer relevant.

  I have received no instructions from my superiors concerning this.

  Our superiors are not aware of the true situation here. As the senior officer present I am changing your orders on my own authority, Lieutenant. You will break off this operation immediately. I will accompany you back to your submarine, where I will make my report and see that your orders are updated.

  Major, my orders concerning the American intelligence team came from the highest possible national authority. As you should be aware, they have placed critical state secrets at risk. They are to be stopped at all costs.

  And I said, those orders are no longer relevant, Lieutenant! Smyslov took another step forward. You will not, I repeat, not interfere further with the Americans. You and your men will return to the submarine.

  TomashenkoOs voice cracked. TheyOve killed my men!

  The incident at the crash site was…regrettable, Smyslove replied, continuing his advance. As for the fight that has just occurred, you may rest assured that your men fell honorably in battle with the enemies, the true enemies, of Russia.

  I have some question as to just who our true enemies are, Major. Tomashenko spat out SmyslovOs rank.

  As you should, Lieutenant. SmyslovOs green eyes bored into his. Now, stand down your men and I will tell you.

  No, Major. I will obey my standing orders and deal with the Americans! Then I will communicate with my superiors about a number of things, including treason!

  IOm sure it will be a very interesting discussion, Lieutenant. But for now you will obey my orders and stand down! Smyslov extended his hand to straight-arm the Spetsnaz trooper. TomashenkoOs finger, already curled around the trigger of his slung assault rifle, tightened. The AK-74 crashed out a single shot.

  Major Gregori Smyslov buckled and fell unmoving to the snow of Wednesday Island.

  The Spetsnaz officer had no more than a second or two to look down in triumph at the body of the fallen man. Then the numbing shock arrived a moment before the sound of the second, distant gunshot. Tomashenko looked down to find a palm-sized spray of scarlet in the center of his chest. Oddly enough, his last sensation before the blackness took him was one of great relief. He would never have to answer for failing the Motherland.

  A hundred yards away, kneeling in the trail rut beside the bunkhouse, Jon Smith lowered the smoking SR-25 and swore in bitter futility at governments, secrets, and lies. Then he threw himself flat as a bullet stream kicked up a line of snow jets beside the trail.

  More slugs snapped low over his head as a second squad automatic opened up, raking his position. Dragging his rifle behind him, he hunched backward down the trail a few yards, pressing low in the meager shelter of the compacted snow. Coming up onto his knees again, he spotted the movement of a Spetsnaz trooper crawling toward the station. Smith squeezed off two hasty shots before the covering gunners shifted fire to his new position.

  Smith recognized a losing scenario when he saw one. The battery of light machine guns he faced could simply throw too much lead too fast. By using alternating overwatch fire, the Russians could keep him pinned while they worked around to a kill position on his flanks. It was only a matter of time.

  Gregori Smyslov had traded his life for a few precious minutes of that commodity. Now it was his turn. He had to keep fire off the helicopter. He had to protract his death long enough to give Val and Randi their chance.

  The two women heard the sudden hammer crash of gunfire beyond the station.

  Randi?

  Get in!

  As Valentina threw herself on the deck behind the pilotsO seats, Randi ran a final eye over the cockpit instrumentation. She didnOt like what she saw, especially the battery rates. But nothing was going to get any better. She set her throttle position and energized the starter.

  Overhead, in the power pack, the turbines sluggishly started their spin-up against the drag and inertia of cold metal. Slowly a rotor blade swung past, too slowly. Randi willed the tachometer needles upward into the green ignition zone. The battery amperage flickered ominously as the drain grew.

  Shit! Shit! Shit! She got off the starter before the final dregs of battery power bled away.

  Valentina thrust her head and shoulders over the pilotOs seat. Miss Russell, as the saying goes, failure is not an option here!

  I know, damn it! Let me think!

  There had to be something! But it wouldnOt be anything in the book. The book said it was impossible to get airborne under these circumstances. The book said they were all going to die on the ground. It would have to be something else. An anecdote read once about a peculiarity of the Bell Ranger family of helicopters. What had it been? What had it been?

  Spin the tail rotor! Randi screeched.

  What?

  Spin the tail rotor by hand while I crank it! ItOs connected through a direct driveshaft to the transmission. ItOll take some of the load off the starter motor!

  What the bloody ever! Valentina called back, scrambling out of the open side hatch.

  In the cockpit sideview mirror Randi watched as Valentina positioned herself at the end of the fuselage boom, hands braced on the small, vertically mounted blade of the tail rotor.

  Ready! the historian called.

  Right! Cranking now!

  Once more the starter whined. As the tail rotor began to spin, Valentina shoved down on it with all her weight, kicking it around. Shifting her grip, she repeated the move again and again. As the RPMs climbed she began to ride the blades single-handed, adding her strength to the electric starter.

  In the cockpit Randi watched the tachometers as ValentinaOs efforts were magnified by the transmission gearing. The needle edged upward, not quite to ignition range. Not quite. Not quite. The ammeter needles began to quiver.

  Get clear! she screamed. Get clear! That was as good as it was going to get.

  Randi saw Valentina throw herself backward and out of the way, and she shoved the starter switch into the ignition detente. Flame flickered in the engine throats. A soft, rising vacuum cleaner moan supplanted the starter whine, and the engine temperature gauges snapped to attention.

  Yes! Randi twisted the throttle grip on the collective, and the turbines screamed in response, the main rotor blurring into its thudding beat, the Long Ranger coming to life.

  Laughing, Valentina scrambled back into the cabin. Throwing her arms around the pilotOs seat, she administered a gleeful hug.

  What were JonOs orders? Randi yelled over her shoulder.

  Oh, he said a lot of things! LetOs go fetch him!

  Smith felt the contrast of the heat beating on his back, and the cold beneath his belly. HeOd gone prone beside the flaming frame of the bunk hut, using the swirling smoke for cover. Two of the surviving Spetsnaz were still out ahead of him somewhere, firing short, economical bursts. The third was off to his right at about two oOclock and still working steadily around to an enfilade position. Soon the third man would be in position to lay down suppressive fire, and the first two men could start working in.

  Rolling onto his side, Smith squeezed off half a dozen rounds offhand toward the third man, emptying the magazine and driving the Russian to ground momentarily. Snaking back a couple of yards, he found another shallow depression in the snow and reloaded.

  This was getting nasty. In another minute he was going to have to fall back to the lab hut, and the smoke cover would start working in favor of the Spetsnaz.

  In an action movie this would be an excellent time for the relief force to come thundering over the horizon. But Smith didnOt believe in Hollywood anymore. Incrementally he lifted his head and peered around, judging his terrain. No, on second thought, he wouldnOt fall back any farther. If the Russians reached the first hut, theyOd have a line of sight and fire on the helipad. HeOd make his stand here.

  It was interesting, he noted, how abstractly a person could decide on his dying ground. The scientist and diagnostician within him said it was due merely to the numbing effect of shock and emotional overload. Psychologically, he was not actually comprehending the concept of his own death.

  The romantic and the soldier counterpointed that one manOs life really wasnOt that important in the greater scheme of the world, and if it could be expended in the saving of things and people one cared about, the spending was not so bitter.

  Behind him he heard the rising metallic whistle of a helicopterOs engines. Good girl, Randi, you always manage. That bastard out at two oOclock would have the best angle of fire on a departing copter, so Smith nestled his cheek against the chill stock of the SR-25. Laying the sighting crosshairs on the knob of snow the Russian was crouching behind, he started knocking chunks off it.

  The whine of the turbines intermixed with the drone of lifting rotors. That was it. His people were out of it and clear.

  And then Smith realized the drone wasnOt drawing away; it was coming closer. He twisted around and bellowed an incoherent curse.

  Hovering in ground effect at a mere ten feet altitude, the Long Ranger was sidling in over the station, snow and smoke swirling in the lift wash. A slender gun barrel protruded from the open side hatch, the venomous crack of ValentinaOs Winchester echoing as she put fire in on the Spetsnaz positions.

  To rage, hesitate, or even think would see them all dead. One end of the laboratory building was not yet fully involved; its roof not yet burning. Scrambling to his feet, Smith backed toward the lab hut, emptying the SR-25Os magazine, not hoping to hit, but just to keep hostile heads down for a few critical seconds.

  The bolt slammed on an empty chamber, and he turned and sprinted the last few yards. He threw his rifle at the rooftop, swearing again as it rebounded and skidded off. There was no time to fool with it. He vaulted for the roof edge, straight-arming himself onto the unburned section. It proved to be not nearly as stable as it had looked, and flame licked at him.

  Randi had him spotted, and the Long Ranger moved in, easing past the wind turbine tower, the starboard pontoon pushing closer through the smoke.

  Wind-whipped embers seared SmithOs face and charred his clothing. He sprang again, throwing his arms over the top of the float, the helicopter bobbling wildly as his weight came aboard. Squad automatic fire tore into the compressed foam beside him. Go! Go! GN His yell strangled off as Valentina grabbed the hood of his parka, heaving furiously to drag him in through the hatch.

  Centrifugal force swung his legs out as Randi pivoted the Long Ranger around its rotor mast, putting its tail to the enemy. The nose dipped as she firewalled the throttles, powering away from the firefight.

  Smith got a leg up on the float and lunged into the helicopterOs cabin, collapsing on the deck. Valentina collapsed next to him, glaring.

  DonOt start about us coming back for you, Jon! she yelled over the growing wind roar. Just donOt even bloody start!

  The last two members of the Spetsnaz platoon, the radio operator and the junior demolitions man, watched the small orange helicopter buzz away over the central ridge. The senior demo man had died spectacularly in the last moments of the fight. Standing to fire at the aircraft, his head had exploded like a bursting balloon, struck by a bullet traveling at some ungodly velocity.

  There was nothing to be done for him, and the pair of survivors were unsure of what they could do for themselves. At the moment they were among the most helpless of men: Russian soldiers without an officer to give them orders. They exchanged a few quiet words in their native Yakut tongue; then they started to trudge back toward the dead body of Lieutenant Tomashenko and the stranger he had shot down.

  The stone-and snow-streaked flanks of the central ridge wheeled past below the Long Ranger. RandiOs hands hurt, but she could cope with it. Far more importantly, in the face of the cold start and the gunfire, all the instrument gauges were where they were supposed to be.

  How does it look? Smith said, pulling himself up between the pilot seats.

  It looks like Bell builds a pretty good helicopter. Where do you want me to head, Jon?

  The Misha crash site, as fast as you can get us there.

  WeOre on the way. What are we going to do when we get there?

  There was no sense in not telling her the truth. I have no idea, Randi. WeOre going to have to see what weOve got and how it plays.

  Valentina pulled herself up beside him. What happened to Gregori?

  Smith hated the sound of his own voice, cold and flat. His own people shot him.

  God, and I wanted to kill him myself once. Valentina rested her forehead on the back of the pilotOs seat. When she straightened her voice had gone cold as well. Once weOve sorted out that lot at the crash site, IOd like to go back there and tidy up a few things.

  You donOt have to. The issue has been dealt with.

  The Long Ranger swept around West Peak, and the jagged slopes fell away to the dirty gray white of the glacier.

  Stay high, Randi. We may have guns down there.

  Understood. It should be right over on the far side of the saddleback, shouldnOt it?

  Yeah, we should be over it in another second.

  And then they were.

  You bastards! Valentina screamed in helpless rage, smashing her fists down on the cabin deck. You filthy, stinking bastards!

  The scattered ruins of the Misha 124 lay on the ice below. The entire forward fuselage of the ancient bomber had been ripped open, first by shaped explosive charges and then by the enormous lift and leverage of KretekOs flying crane. Chunks of aircraft skin and bulkheading lay scattered like discarded Christmas wrappings, and they could look down into the TU-4Os forward bomb bay.

  The bioagent reservoir was gone, lifted out of the wreck like an egg out of a crumpled aluminum nest.

  Randi let the Long Ranger slip into a hover over the crash site. Oh, God, heOs got it! she exclaimed, her voice despairing.

  Two metric tons of weaponized anthrax. Half a continentOs worth of death in the hands of a man who cared less than nothing for human life.

  Smith looked away from the crash site and toward the south, toward the threatened world, and in the distance he caught the faint repetitive flicker of rotors in the sunlight.

  E

  Over the Arctic Ocean

  This is Black Horse Lead calling any Wednesday Island station. Black Horse Lead calling any Wednesday Island station. Do you copy?

  Major Saunders had repeated the call so often it had started to lose meaning for him. They had completed their final top-off from the tanker, and in the OspreyOs cargo bay the ranger strikers and the ABC men were tightening harness and running their final equipment checks. Soon theyOd be coming in on their objective. For the first time in days the radio bands were clear of solar interference. But Saunders was beginning to suspect there was no one out there to answer.

  This is Black Horse Lead…

  Black Horse Lead, this is Wednesday Island Point, a crisp, businesslike voice crackled clearly into SaundersOs earphones. This is Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith. I am coded Cipher Venger Five. Do you read me, Black Horse?

  SaundersOs thumb crushed the transmit button on his joystick. We read you, Colonel, four by four. We are your Mike force. What is your situation?

  We are off Wednesday and airborne at this time. Situation on the island is critical and unstable. What is your ETA, Black Horse, and do you have fighter assets attached?

  We are approximately twenty-five minutes out from Wednesday. Negative on fighter assets; we are lift and tanker only.

  ThatOs not going to do us any good then, the voice replied. Be advised Wednesday Island should be considered a potentially hot LZ. Hostiles may include Russian Spetsnaz elements. Also be advised the Primary Package is verified. I say again, the Primary Package is verified. Primary Package is also off the island and is being sling carried by a Mil 26, that is Mary…India…Lima…two…six, Halo heavy-lift helicopter, Canadian civil registry, Golf…Kilo…Tango…Alpha. Halo is now heading south-southeast from Wednesday Island at approximately ninety knots. We are in pursuit at this time. Require immediate interceptor launch. Engage and destroy Halo at all costs. I say again, engage and destroy at all costs!

  Understood, Wednesday Point. We will relay intercept request, but itOs going to take a while. Even the jets will need a couple of hours to get out this far.

  Roger that, Black Horse, understood. There was a fatalism in the reply. WeOll do what we can until they get here.

  Anton Kretek peered down from the crane operatorOs cab on the port side of the Halo. Seventy feet below the huge helicopter, the lozenge-shaped containment vessel twisted slowly at the end of its heavy Kevlar cable. Torn wiring and ductwork trailed raggedly from either end of the silvery reservoir, and the lifting harness wasnOt as secure as it might have been, but the pearl had been stolen from the oyster.

  It had been a tough, sloppy job, but what did it matter? It was the last. It had cost him a number of his best men, including his chief of staff, but that might have worked out for the best. Mikhail would have had to have been liquidated in due course anyway. The man simply knew too much. Now was as good a time as any to have done with it.