by Tom Clancy
“I’ve called for a pickup,” said the Snow Maiden.
“I’m sure you have.” Haussler turned away from her and began speaking in French to the chopper pilot. He finished, looked at her, smiled weakly, then began speaking to someone else.
Meanwhile, the Cheetah broke away, wheeled around, and headed north toward the oncoming car.
* * *
“Okay, so there’s a gunship,” said Lakota calmly. “Any thoughts?”
“Not really.”
“So we just drive right at him?”
Brent squinted. “His rocket pods look empty.”
“But his cannons aren’t.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
Lakota’s voice grew more tense. “Captain. .”
“Relax. I got this.”
Brent took a long breath. She couldn’t hear or see what he did on the closed strategic channel. The 747 pilot had cut loose his escorts, and the F-35s were both en route, with the lead jet already locked on to the Cheetah.
The pilot stoically reported that her Sidewinder missile was away.
A shooting star wiped across the sky and descended toward the Cheetah.
Brent’s heart beat once. Twice.
He gasped.
The Sidewinder struck the Cheetah top down, and the chopper disintegrated into a fireball that lit up the entire highway. Flaming debris shot from the flames and spread like fireworks to cast a deep glow over the Range Rover’s hood.
Brent veered to the left as a jagged piece of fuselage slammed down on the hood and shattered the windshield. Then he rolled hard right, tires screeching, as the fiery hunk of metal sent flames billowing toward his helmet.
* * *
The Snow Maiden stood, aghast. Their air defense had just been blown from the sky, and all she could do was breathe.
For just a second, she closed her eyes and told herself no, she wasn’t ready to surrender. Not yet.
A blast of air nearly knocked her to the ground.
Suddenly, a pair of jets came swooping down, banked hard, then slowed and turned on their axes as vectoring nozzles switched directions, pointing downward. Both hovered now like choppers, and their pilots cut loose with internal cannon fire, rounds ripping and sparking across the road, sending all of them diving for cover behind the trucks.
The Spetsnaz troops began to return fire, but Haussler hollered for them to keep down. The jets descended even more, and the cannon fire grew unbearable, shredding through the trucks, the gold, and striking the troops huddled down near the tires.
She grabbed Haussler by the arm and ran back toward the embankment, exploiting several feet of cover below the road. The troops were screaming, dying up there in the hell storm of unrelenting salvos.
“This is it, Heinrich,” she said. “I guess this is it.”
“Did you think I would come here with no backup plan myself?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Wait. Look. .”
“What am I looking at?”
“A favor from your old friend General Izotov, who would like to see you more than ever — and I’ve promised that meeting. And so now we are saved.”
“I thought we had a deal.”
“Unfortunately, your contacts let you down. Mine won’t. You’ll be coming back to Moscow with me.”
He’d barely finished his sentence when both jets blew apart in successive bursts. Wings, cockpit canopies, and landing gear appeared through swelling fires and tumbled end over end to crash down and scrape across the highway. A wedge-shaped piece of fuselage crashed into the telecom trucks, knocking two on their sides and tearing them open. Bricks of gold tumbled out and glittered in the flames, and the Snow Maiden hit the dirt as more bricks thumped to the ground around her.
She reached down, grabbed one bar, and cursed at the top of her lungs.
* * *
Six Russian Federation KA-65 Howlers like the ones Brent had faced near Sandhurst thundered overhead as he approached the shattered telecom trucks.
At the same time, a pair of fighter jets streaked above them, and though Brent received no indication of their IDs, he could only assume that they, too, were Russian and had been responsible for taking out the F-35s.
As he and Lakota bounded out of the Range Rover, a wave of gunfire from somewhere behind the trucks sent them down to their bellies, and not a second later, a grenade exploded on Lakota’s side of the truck.
He screamed for her. No answer.
Feeling as though he’d been hit by ten thousand volts, Brent bounded around the Range Rover and dropped down beside Lakota, who was lying facedown near the wheel. Razor-sharp pieces of shrapnel had peppered one side of her suit. He rolled her over, and her eyes slowly flickered open. “Don’t let her get away…”
His HUD showed her vital signs and that the suit had already hit her with painkillers.
Brent nodded, looked up, and saw that the Russian choppers were just now coming around to escort a larger, slower bird, a troop transport.
And then, from the embankment, he saw two figures dash forward, away from the trucks.
Brent charged after them, and they didn’t notice his approach as the rotor wash whipped across the road.
He leveled his rifle on the taller one and cut loose a triplet of rounds that punched the guy onto his back; however, the rounds failed to penetrate his armor. He was only stunned.
The smaller figure swung back to face him.
It was her.
And as she fired into his chest — one, two, three rounds — he threw himself into the air and knocked her to the ground. He dropped his rifle and pinned her arms with his knees, and his gloved hands fumbled for the latch on her helmet. He found it, threw it back, and, as she fought to squirm free, twisted off her helmet and tossed it away.
He wrapped his gloved hands around her neck and began to choke her. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” he screamed in English, knowing she understood him.
“I don’t care,” she said, groaning in exertion.
With a sudden jerk she rolled, driving her legs up and over his head, boots slamming into his helmet. The power in her legs was remarkable, and she tore him free, forcing his head back with her ankles. He lost his grip on her throat and fell away, reaching out to his right for his rifle.
“Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, second squadron of F-35s inbound. They’ll be in missile range in two minutes, if you can just hang on, over.”
He couldn’t answer the pilot.
And if he could just delay her for two minutes…
Brent sat up — in time to watch the Snow Maiden’s boot connect with his helmet, knocking him back down. He rolled, tried to sit up again, but she stood over him now, aiming her pistol at his head.
“Who are you?” she screamed, her short hair whipping in rotor wash as the transport chopper landed, with Russian troops thumping out beside the door gunner, who swung his machine gun around to face Brent.
The first guy Brent had shot was staggering to his feet and screaming in Russian, waving for the Snow Maiden to follow him.
Was that Haussler?
Ignoring him, she screamed once more for Brent to ID himself.
The weird light in her eyes told him enough. If he kept pushing her buttons, he’d buy more time. “You don’t give me orders, little girl.”
Voices in his ear now:
“Brent, it’s Juma! We’re on our way! Almost there!”
“Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, one minute… Stand by…”
The Snow Maiden leaned toward him, aiming at his neck. “I can shoot you right here, and you’ll die.”
“Then do it, you crazy bitch.”
“Viktoria!” screamed the other man. That had to be Haussler!
The Russian troops were running forward now, about to surround them.
Brent stole a look back at Lakota, who was now lying on her side, clutching her rifle, and staring vaguely at him.
The
n he glanced back up the road, where in the distance he saw two cars, a Ford pickup truck and another Range Rover SUV about three hundred meters behind. Some of his Ghosts were riding in the pickup, hanging over the flatbed’s sides, rifles brought to bear.
The Russian gunships had fanned out, and two were turning toward the oncoming cars.
Brent wanted to call off Juma and his people, but it was already too late.
Lakota began firing at the oncoming Russians, who dropped and returned fire.
At that moment, the Snow Maiden leaned down and began to jab her gun into his neck.
Brent grabbed her arm as the pistol went off.
And then he pulled her down toward him with all his might. She lost her balance and fell. Just as he moved to climb back on top of her, gunfire hammered across his back, and then it came, the sharp, steady pain.
He gasped and fell over, onto his side, as the Snow Maiden was pulled away by the other man, who Brent now confirmed was Heinrich Haussler. He was working for her?
Lakota fired again, and more rounds from the Russians ahead punched into and clanged off their Range Rover.
Rockets ignited above and streaked away from the Russian choppers. Brent turned his head to watch as his people bailed out of the cars only seconds before the missiles struck. Twin explosions swelled into summits of fire, and the screams from his men over the team channel were awful and unbearable. The Range Rover assumedly carrying Juma turned around and headed back in retreat.
“Ghost Lead, this is Hawk’s Honor, thirty seconds…”
You’re too late, Brent wanted to tell him, but a wave of dizziness was taking hold, the ground listing to the left as though he were on a boat.
He knew if he stared hard enough at those flames in the distance he’d see Villanueva, shaking his head in disappointment.
“Ghost Lead, they’ll have missile lock in five, four, three, two…”
* * *
The Snow Maiden glanced back once more at the soldier who’d tackled her. It had been years since she’d encountered a man so fiery-eyed and determined. He seemed obsessed with her, and she took that as a true compliment. She thought of ordering the Russians to grab him, capture him, but she couldn’t explain why.
She climbed into the transport, and as they began to lift off, she shoved her pistol into Haussler’s neck and fired two rounds, whispering, “I’ll never go back to Izotov. Never.”
As he started to drop, she slid him aside and tossed him out of the chopper. His body tumbled and slapped across the asphalt, limbs twisted at unnatural angles as the troops standing beside her looked dumbfounded.
She pushed through them, put her pistol to the back of the chopper pilot’s head, and shouted: “Okay, now you’ll take me where I want to go.”
Just then explosions like tiny orange novae woke in the night sky, and the radio traffic from the gunships grew frantic.
“The Americans are here,” cried the pilot.
“Good,” she said. “Take me back to the airport.”
One of the troops jammed his rifle into her back. “Lower your weapon,” he cried.
She glanced back over her shoulder. “I’ll kill him! And then we all die, unless you know how to fly this helicopter.”
He thought it over, then complied, and in one fluid motion, she turned, put her pistol to the trooper’s head, and shot him point-blank. The trooper beside her grabbed her arm.
But before he could get closer in an attempt to seize her weapon, the chopper suddenly pitched forward, and cannon fire tore into the bay. Alarms blared from the cockpit, and the pilot cried, “I’ve lost power!”
EPILOGUE
Sheikh Zayed Road
Near Mina Jebel Ali
Two Hours Later
A SEAL team had flown in from the Eisenhower Carrier Strike Group, and Brent had already been examined by the medics. He was about to be airlifted back to the ship when Juma shifted forward with his cousin. “Brent, I’d like you to meet Sheikh Hussein Al Maktoum. The ruler of Dubai.”
The boy, who was still wearing an environment suit identical to the Snow Maiden’s, extended his hand. Brent took it. “Thank you, sir, for recovering the gold and helping my country.”
“You’re welcome. I do wish we could have gotten her.” He glanced up to Juma. “Any word yet?”
Juma shook his head. “Her helicopter went down near Al Lisaili, but there’s still no sign.”
The boy released Brent’s hand. “Captain, if there is anything I can ever do for you?”
Brent took a long breath. “Hold that thought. I may come looking for a favor sooner rather than later.”
Hussein nodded. “Anything you need. Just let me know.”
Two crew members from the chopper lifted Brent’s long backboard and carried him away. At his request, they placed him beside Lakota in the helicopter’s cramped bay. He reached over, took her hand, then raised his voice over the droning engines. “You did good, kid.”
She sighed. “You, too!”
He raised his head and spotted Voeckler and Schleck seated across from him. They were ragged, red-eyed, exhausted.
He took a deep breath. The rest of his team who’d been riding in the pickup truck was coming home in body bags. He closed his eyes and braced himself.
The guilt burned.
And burned. And burned.
Moscow
Four Days Later
The Snow Maiden stood over his bed, watching him sleep. He was a pathetic old man swollen with greed and with a terrible lust for power that had blinded him to the atrocities committed by his government. He had been schooled in the rules of success by a war hero father who’d taught him to crush those in his way, so even from the beginning there had been no hope for him. He was a schoolyard bully with a war machine at his disposal.
Her breath grew shallow as she considered shooting him. Ending it quickly. No words. Just instant gratification. Revenge served coldly, as it should be.
Instead she nudged his head with her pistol until he jolted awake.
She flicked on her penlight and shone it on her face, illuminating herself like some night creature.
“Viktoria, is that you?” he said, lifting his hand and squinting.
“Yes, General. Heinrich said you wanted to talk to me.”
“We assumed you were dead. Like him.”
“Another friend gave me a ride, although she’s no more trustworthy than you.”
“If you’ve come to kill me, then be done with it. I’m sixty-two and much too old to be insulted by you.”
“You’re fat and ignorant. And even with a gun to your head you still think you can give orders?”
“Viktoria, we didn’t kill your husband. Or your brothers. You’ve constructed this fantasy and turned us into murderers, when we are anything but.”
She jabbed the pistol into his forehead, and he groaned sharply. Then she climbed on top of him and began pressing the muzzle deeper and deeper into his flesh. “You don’t know anything about me.”
She began to tremble.
“Just shoot me!” he cried.
“I should,” she gasped, beginning to pant, her face warming with the desire to finish him now. “But I won’t. I can’t.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You’re coming with me.”
He stifled a laugh. “You’re going to kidnap me?”
“Yes. I need your help.”
“With what?”
“With killing the president. With bringing down the motherland. And then we will stand back and watch it burn.”
“You’re insane.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Viktoria, whatever you say. Whatever you want me to do, I will do.”
She pulled the pistol from his head and set it on the night table. “First you’ll satisfy my needs, then you pack. We have a long trip ahead of us.” She shoved her tongue down his throat and tore at his pajamas.
SinoRus Group Oil Exploration Headquarters
Sakhalin Island
North of Japan
Six Days Later
Igany Fedorovich rose from his desk as the Snow Maiden and Izotov strode into the room. Patti entered from a side door, and all four of them took seats around a small conference table.
“Please forgive the weapons search,” said Fedorovich. “But it was necessary. I’m sure you understand.”
“I hope this will be brief,” said Izotov.
The side door opened again, and the Snow Maiden lost her breath as in stepped Colonel Pavel Doletskaya, along with another woman, smartly dressed and at least ten years younger than Pavel. She seemed strangely familiar.
The Snow Maiden bolted from her chair and crossed to her old colleague and lover. His eyes were already glassy. He rushed to her, took her into his arms, and clutched her tightly, whispering, “There is nothing we have to say. We are together again, that is enough. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment…”
Patti cleared her throat, and slowly, they broke their embrace and returned to their seats.
Fedorovich introduced the younger woman as Major Alice Dennison of the Joint Strike Force. She was the Ganjin’s mole, nurtured from birth and controlled while her birth parents never knew what was happening.
“My God, woman, what have you done? She works for you?” asked Izotov, his jaw hanging open.
“And so do you.”
He recoiled.
“Our plan is to bring a peaceful end to the conflict, one which will be mutually beneficial to us all. We will cut the power lines of corruption in Washington, in Moscow, and in Paris in order to better stabilize the world’s economy and foster the health and welfare of all human beings. And when we’re finished, the world will, indeed, be a better place.”
Izotov began to chuckle. “Good luck with that. I’ve never heard a more ridiculous and naïve plan.”
“When your surgery is completed, you will believe in it as fervently as we do,” Patti said, raising a welltweezed brow at him.
Izotov’s smile vanished. “Surgery?”
“It’s painless… and completely undetectable,” said Dennison, her eyes eerily vacant. “And when it’s over, you’ll feel a sense of freedom you’ve never felt before.”