by Tom Clancy
As smoke began to fill the cabin, Vatz coughed and unbuckled. He called out to Beethoven, whose head was bleeding but who was conscious.
The two operators in the back of the crew cabin were already hauling themselves outside, where they took near-instant machine gun fire from the helo as it swooped down again.
Vatz figured that on the next pass the pilot would launch rockets again. He and Beethoven had only seconds to get out of there.
Holding his breath, he forced open the door and climbed out onto the crew cabin door. He gave Beethoven a hand, hoisting the medic up and out. They jumped down to the sidewalk—
Just as the chopper finished its turn and began to descend directly toward them.
Vatz glanced over at Beethoven.
They both knew there was no time to run. The helo would launch rockets, and their lives would be over in a heartbeat.
Yet in that second, in that shared look, they knew what they had to do. If they were going to die, it wouldn’t be running; it would be defying the enemy until the end.
So, without a word, they crouched down and began firing at the chopper, as did the rest of his team — if only to rage against the enemy.
And as his clip was about to empty, Vatz closed his eyes, thought of Zack back in that alley. Get ready to buy me a beer, my friend. I’m coming home.
Commander Jonathan Andreas drew in a long breath as tension mounted in the Florida’s control room.
The VA-111 Shkval racing toward them was a solid rocket torpedo that generated a gas cavity, which gave it great speed but precluded a guidance system. Its eight-mile short range classified it as a last-ditch weapon and earned it the title of revenge weapon. The torpedo was most often fired as a “snap shot” back down the bearing of an incoming enemy’s torpedo.
At the moment, Andreas assumed that the commander who had ordered its launch was as surprised to discover him as he was to discover the Shkval.
“Sonar, go active, single ping on bearing three-two-zero!” he ordered.
“Torpedo has rapid right-bearing drift, headed across our bow,” reported the sonar operator.
“Passing fifteen hundred feet, Captain,” said the chief of the watch, making direct eye contact with Andreas.
The sonar operator chimed in again. “Sonar contact, bearing three-two-four, range thirty-five thousand yards, designate contact Sierra One, sir.”
“Emergency blow main ballast—” cried the officer of the deck.
“Belay that!” barked Andreas. “Check the bubble. The bow’s coming up. The planesman has control. Ahead two thirds. Keep water moving across the control surfaces, make your depth eighteen hundred feet.”
“All ahead two thirds, make my depth eighteen hundred feet, aye, sir,” repeated the OOD. “What about that torpedo, sir?”
“He launched an out-of-range snap shot when he heard our emergency backdown. We were sinking like a rock with virtually no forward motion. A two-hundred-knot Shkval can’t be guided. If he cranked in any lead angle, he aimed where we aren’t.”
“Let’s hope his aim continues to be that poor, sir.”
“I think it will.” Andreas regarded the sonar operator. “Talk to me. Anything from Sierra One?”
“Nothing on broadband or narrowband, sir,” replied the operator.
“Engineering, get somebody on that hydraulic glitch. I want a healthy sub when we attack this guy.” Andreas silently scanned the control room, gauging the tension level once more as the hull groaned under the pressure. “All right, consider this a moment to regroup — and remember, if God didn’t want us down here at eighteen hundred feet she wouldn’t have given us HY-100 steel.”
He got one or two chuckles and observed some easing of posture among the men manning the various stations.
After a few more breaths, he added, “Now gentlemen, we might’ve found that missing Borei, the Romanov, and I have every intention of taking her out.” Andreas checked his display. “Flood tubes one and four, equalize the pressure, power up both units, and open muzzle doors.”
The Florida could still operate at virtually any depth with two Mark 48 ADCAP torpedoes powered up and two muzzle doors open.
“Come left to three-two-zero,” he ordered. “We’ll close on datum and see what sonar can sniff out.”
He had ordered them to the target’s last known location. Now they were on the hunt.
Vatz snapped open his eyes at the sound of a terrific boom, followed by a dozen other pops and cracks and groaning sounds, all rising above a tremendous rush of air that knocked him flat onto his back.
As the sky panned overhead and a wave of dizziness crashed over him like a twelve-foot breaker, he rolled onto his side, blinked hard, and looked up again.
The Ka-29 had burst apart and crashed into the street, long draperies of fire and smoke rising high.
Beyond it, engines booming, soared an A-10 Thunderbolt II, better known as a Warthog or just Hog, a twin-engine jet designed to provide close air support for ground troops.
A second A-10 followed closely on the first one’s wing, and then, off to Vatz’s left, he spotted a half dozen Apache attack helicopters, along with several Chinooks, V-22 Ospreys, and the redesigned RAH-66 Comanche recon/attack helicopters.
Beethoven started hollering and cursing, unable to contain his emotions. “Ladies and gentlemen! The Tenth Mountain Division has arrived!”
A flicker of movement from the buildings on his left caught Vatz’s eye. Down at the next intersection, a squad of Spetsnaz troops had just rounded the corner and crouched to fire.
“Troops right there!” cried Vatz.
Shots rang out; blood sprayed over the pavement as Beethoven fell, multiple wounds in his face and neck. He died quickly.
Vatz returned fire, darting behind the burning pickup truck; the rounds tracked him, thumping hard into rubber and steel. “Black Bear, this is Bali, over!”
He swore. Comm was still jammed. He slipped around the back of the truck, where he spotted three of his men holed up in another doorway. He waved them on, and they charged down the street away from the fiery wreck, the Russians moving up behind them.
Rakken flickered open his eyes. They were talking about him. He recognized the voices: medics from his platoon. He was lying on his back, staring up at the observation deck’s ceiling. Flashlights panned everywhere. There was no more gunfire, only the sounds of his men.
“He won’t make it, will he,” said a bearded, unhelmeted civilian, leaning over Rakken.
“Shhh,” ordered one of the medics. “He can still hear you. And there’s always a chance. But he’s not in pain. We took care of that.”
Rakken’s gaze came in and out of focus.
“Sergeant, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
The guy took Rakken’s hand, and he squeezed.
“Listen to me. We wouldn’t have made it in here if it weren’t for you. Right now my people are trying to disarm a ten-kiloton suitcase nuke. If they fail, we’re all going to die anyway. But I wanted you to know that what you did…” His voice cracked. “I just wanted you to know. Thank you.”
Rakken managed to nod ever so slightly. He squeezed the man’s hand again, just as Captain Welch knelt down beside him. “Sergeant, the chaplain’s on his way. Hang in there for me. You got no permission to die.”
Rakken wasn’t one to disobey an order, but the intense cold creeping into his chest would not cease. He closed his eyes. The mission had been accomplished. His work here was finished.
Suddenly, all the lights snapped on in the room, causing him to open his eyes.
Was he leaving his body now? Or was he beginning to hallucinate?
“They’ve restored power to the cell network as well,” someone shouted. “They might be trying to trigger the device that way now!”
“Get someone to shut that power down. And move it!”
Rakken wanted to sit up, see what was going on. He turned his head slightly, where the civilians were gathered around som
ething on the floor, the nuke maybe, all working under intense, battery-operated lights.
And then, quite suddenly, the world grew dark around the edges, and he closed his eyes.
THIRTY-NINE
Viktoria Antsyforov and Green Vox were in the tiny town of Banff, just off the Trans-Canada Highway as it traversed the Banff National Park, seventy-eight miles west of Calgary. They had chosen the location to be upwind from nuclear fallout once the detonations were made.
They had checked in to The Fairmont Banff Springs, a lavish getaway nestled in the Canadian Rockies. The Fairmont was styled after a Scottish baronial castle, with ornate spires and castle-like walls. Antsyforov’s time there had made her feel very much like royalty. But that time had come to an end.
Green Vox — who went by so many aliases that even Antsyforov didn’t know his real name — was downstairs, checking on their ride out to the heliport.
Their sources in Edmonton and Calgary had said that the JSF and Euros had located both bombs and were attempting to dismantle them. And while she had wanted to wait the full forty-eight hours to ensure as many military casualties as possible, the JSF and Euros had moved more swiftly than she’d anticipated — meaning that Kapalkin must have tipped his hand to the Americans.
Antsyforov had already tried trigging the nukes via her Iridium satellite phone, but she couldn’t believe it: the entire network was down. Impossible!
She had told her sources to pass on word to get the conventional cell phone network up and running.
Vox returned to the room. “They’re waiting for us. Is it done?”
“The entire Iridium network is down. I have to try my cell.”
“No power.”
“They’re taking care of that.”
“And if they don’t?”
“They already have,” she said, studying her cell phone. “My call to Calgary is going through right now.” Once she heard the familiar hum, she need only dial two numbers: 5 9.
Confirmation that the weapon was armed to detonate in twenty seconds would come as three beeps.
But the humming continued.
She hit the numbers again. And again.
She cursed.
“I told you this would happen,” Vox cried.
“No!”
“Yes! They’ve already dismantled the nuke because you let your ego get in the way. You didn’t need to contact Kapalkin and Izotov.”
“After all those years, I deserved that much,” she said through her teeth.
“Well, now what? Do you really believe your brother can come through for us?”
“He will.”
“Are you ever going to tell me who he is? What the plan is now? We’re in this together.”
She cocked a well-tweezed brow. “We all have secrets.”
Vox grabbed her by the throat, shoved her up against the wall. “You stupid…”
He didn’t finish. Instead, he came in for a violent kiss, and she offered no resistance.
When he finally pulled back, his voice lowered to warning depths. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“If you only knew…”
“Tell me, otherwise—”
“What?” She glared at him. “We just made love. Now you’re threatening me?”
“You have no idea how much money is at stake.”
She snorted. “Oh, yes I do. This will happen — one way or the other.”
“We’re not leaving until you talk.”
“All right. You want to know it all, huh? It doesn’t matter anymore. Listen closely. My brother is commander of the Romanov. He will launch a salvo of Bulava missiles. They’ll fly low, and the JSF’s missile shield can’t stop them. It’ll destroy a series of decoys while the live missiles reach their targets in Alberta.”
“This has never been tried before.”
“Until now.”
“How did you manage this?”
“Very carefully.”
“And you’re so very sure.”
“I am.”
“And you don’t care about how many innocent lives will be lost if you’re right.”
She smiled darkly. “I am Snegurochka. What did you expect?” She shoved him away, drew the silenced pistol tucked into her pants.
“Viktoria, what are you doing?”
“Did you really think I was working with you?”
His mouth fell open. “You can’t be serious.”
She grinned and extended her arm.
Vox’s face filled with hatred. “Go ahead, kill me. Green Vox will return. He always does.”
She shot him between the eyes. He dropped hard to the floor.
“Yes,” she said, staring down at his body. “You always come back — and always as a man. What a pity.”
After ducking down the next side street, Sergeant Nathan Vatz sent two of his operators across the street, where they kept low in a doorway, while the team’s senior communications sergeant paired up with him.
They set up behind two parked cars, both so beat up that it was clear why their owners had abandoned them, and waited for the pursuing Spetsnaz troops to round the corner.
Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. They didn’t come.
Vatz immediately assumed they had doubled back in an attempt to catch them from behind. Now he had two choices, neither good: he could avoid the ambush and head back to the truck — but the air support no doubt had moved on. Or they could rush ahead, try to catch the enemy by surprise, ambush the ambushers.
The decision was obvious.
He ordered the group to move out, to keep moving forward. They kept tight to the walls, were twenty yards from the corner when the Russians burst into view, just as he’d expected. All six of them.
Vatz jammed down his trigger, spraying the soldiers, as did his men.
The Russians fell back around the corner, but one spun and cut loose a last burst.
Vatz was about to order his men to drive on, but a second group of troops, four in all, appeared behind them and opened up, driving Vatz and his partner into the next doorway.
Across the street, one of Vatz’s operators had taken a round in his thigh. He lay there clutching the wound, a dark stain growing on the sidewalk.
They were now cut off, with the Spetsnaz troops at both ends of the street.
Vatz had been taught that it was moments like this that separated the good team sergeants from the great ones. Despite all the stress and heightened senses, you needed to clear your head, analyze the situation, and use cunning, speed, and maneuverability to your advantage.
Calling for help was a good idea, too.
He switched to the team’s channel. Maybe Murphy would allow him to get through. “Black Bear, this is Bali, over.”
“Go ahead, Bali.”
He sighed over the small miracle. “Check the Blue Force Tracker. I’m pinned down here with one wounded, over.”
“Roger that. Cross Com’s back up now. Tenth’s got people on the ground. I’ll send a squad or two your way, over.”
“That would be nice,” Vatz answered matter-of-factly. “Misery loves company. Bali, out.” He turned to his commo guy. “We can’t stay here.”
“But they have us cut off.”
“Which is why we can’t stay here.” He pointed over at his two men across the street. “Cover them. I saw a staircase on one building. I’m going to check it out.”
“You’re going alone?”
Vatz bit back a curse. “Cover them. Do it.”
As Vatz jogged up the street, he realized his team-mate wasn’t questioning orders but genuinely concerned about his safety.
Well, Vatz was also genuinely concerned about his safety, and it puzzled him why he wasn’t drawing any fire.
Racing to the end of the building, which appeared to be some kind of factory or warehouse, he turned left, found the metal staircase leading up to some heavy machinery on the roof.
He slipped onto the stairs, controlled his breathing, and took it one step at a time.
At the top, he spotted the four Russian soldiers that had been behind them, skulking along the edge, preparing to move along the rooftop to ambush his men below.
One poorly placed step would give him away. He eased off the stairs and onto the ice-covered roof, his boots barely finding traction. He shifted over to a tall aluminum venting system, crouched down, and raised his rifle, just as footfalls rumbled on the staircase and the sounds of the battle grew louder.
“Captain, I’m picking up flow noise from Sierra One on narrowband, bearing three-three-nine,” said the Florida’s sonar operator.
Andreas’s breath grew shallow with excitement. “Where’s the thermal layer?”
“Two hundred feet, sir.”
“We couldn’t pick up his flow noises if he wasn’t below the layer with us.”
“Concur, Captain.”
Andreas called out to the officer of the deck. “Come right to three-three-nine, slow to one third, make your depth sixteen hundred feet.”
He waited until the OOD repeated and executed his order, then switched his attention back to sonar. “What’s your best guess on that flow noise source?”
“I think it’s flow-induced resonance, Captain. That snap shot might’ve unlatched a stowage bin outside on his hull. It sounds like blowing into an empty Coke bottle. He has to hear it himself. I’m surprised he hasn’t slowed down to make it go away.”
Andreas squinted and thought aloud: “He knows we’re still alive, but he’s not sure of our status or where we are, so he’s risking some noise to put distance between himself and our contact point. Then he’ll slow to a crawl and acoustically vanish.”
“I agree, Captain.”
“Stay on him, Sonar. That’s two mistakes he’s made.”
“Two, sir?”
“Yeah, taking a cheap panic shot at us during our emergency was his first. On the other hand, we’d most likely have missed each other if we hadn’t had that jam.”