Sleeping Bear

by Connor Sullivan

BLACK SEA

  CAPE IDOKOPAS

  PRESIDENT PUTIN PACED in a secure bunker fifty feet below his Idokopas compound and felt his blood boil as the thermal imagery satellite feed booted up on the screens in front of the room.

  “Mr. President,” Sergei Antonov said. “We’ve got the live feed up now.”

  Still in his satin robe, Putin stopped pacing and took in the sight on the monitor showing the events taking place on top of Post 866. There were two new helicopters on top of the mountain, and at least eight heat signatures forming a perimeter around them.

  “Those are American soldiers and their two American choppers?” Putin roared.

  “Da, Mr. President. Yermakova’s Kamov Ka-82K has been neutralized by the Americans.”

  Putin stepped forward and yelled at the technicians in the room in charge of manning the satellites looking down on Post 866, “And why don’t we have control of the drones over the sharashka?”

  “They seem to have been overridden from inside the sharashka just after EL-5 was initiated,” a petrified technician replied.

  Putin swore loudly as he watched over a dozen heat signatures burst out from the facility’s main elevator entrance and run toward the American helicopters. “They’re out,” Putin said under his breath. “How much longer until the EL-5 detonation?”

  “Four minutes, Mr. President.”

  “They will make it out of the blast radius. Scramble the MiG-35s out of Vladivostok. I want those helicopters blown out of the sky,” Putin said, watching the last of the figures load onto the birds and take off east toward the Pacific Ocean.

  Sergei Antonov lowered his secure phone. “Mr. President, the MiGs are scrambling now. They will make contact with the American helicopters in ten minutes.” Watching the American choppers fly toward the Pacific, Sergei Antonov asked, “The MiG pilots want to know if they have permission to engage over international waters.”

  Putin turned around so fast his satin robe nearly untied itself. “You tell those pilots to down those choppers by any means necessary. I don’t care if they kamikaze into them!”

  “Da, Mr. President,” Sergei Antonov replied, and then relayed the message.

  Putin returned his attention to the satellite’s thermal imagery. The countdown sequence to the EL-5 detonation had just ticked down to under three minutes.

  Vladimir Putin could feel the blood pounding in his ears. Under no circumstances could those helicopters make it back to the United States.

  It would be the biggest embarrassment of his career.

  He would not let that happen.

  Chapter 76

  KAMCHATKA PENINSULA

  UH-70 HELICOPTER

  THE SPEED AT which the UH-70s flew east was mind-boggling to Cassie, who sat squished between Paul Brady and another SEAL who looked like a bearded heavyweight cage fighter and smelled of chewing tobacco.

  In front of her, in the dim light of the rising sun, Cassie watched as four other SEALs worked on her unconscious father and sister, both lying on their backs in the chopper’s fuselage, oxygen and IV lines attached to their faces and arms.

  On the other side of Brady, Commander Cafferty leaned forward and pointed at his watch, alerting everyone that the facility, now miles behind them, would detonate in thirty seconds.

  Not knowing how big the shock wave would be, the SEALs quickly buckled themselves to the fuselage as well as made sure that both Emily and her father were properly cinched down.

  Cassie leaned forward and tried to view the other UH-70 roaring next to them, but was held back by the monstrous SEAL next to her. She was hoping to get a glimpse of Marko or Artur in the neighboring chopper.

  “Ten seconds!” yelled Cafferty.

  Cassie shut her eyes and counted down in her head.

  Seven seconds later, a brilliant white light erupted through her clamped eyelids.

  “BRACE!” someone shouted, and nearly five seconds later, the shock wave collided with the UH-70, throwing it violently forward.

  Cassie felt the UH-70 pitch left and then right. Gritting her teeth, she heard the rotors above her stall and felt the chopper start to rapidly lose altitude.

  * * *

  WHITE HOUSE

  SITUATION ROOM

  “Someone give me a status update,” President McClintock said from his chair in the Situation Room. Sweat dotted his forehead as the sound of the explosion roared over the SEALs’ audio-capturing devices.

  On the center screen in the Situation Room just moments before, Director Carter had watched as the thermal feed from the American KH-11 spy satellite had turned completely white from the explosion at the facility.

  She turned her attention to the screen showing Commander Spear at his station in Fort Bragg.

  Carter felt like her heart was in her throat as she listened to the chaos on board the UH-70s. She didn’t even notice the phone in front of General Bridgewater had started blinking. The general picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.

  The audio feed from the UH-70s suddenly muted. The whole room held a collected breath, then Spear’s voice came over his feed, “Mr. President, the UH-70s have regained control. They’re currently six minutes from international waters.”

  Cheers erupted in the Situation Room but were cut off by Bridgewater who smashed his phone back on the table. “We’re not out of it yet.”

  “Meaning?” Carter asked.

  “Our navy has reported that two MiG-35 fighter jets have just left Vladivostok and are currently over the Sea of Okhotsk. They’re on course to intercept the UH-70s.”

  “How far out are they?” asked the president.

  “Sir, we can expect them to intercept the UH-70s in just under five minutes.”

  The room went quiet, then the president said, “Where are our F-22s?”

  “Currently two hundred nautical miles east of the Kamchatka Peninsula awaiting to escort the UH-70s once they hit international waters.”

  President McClintock squinted at the general. “I’m not seeing the problem, General.”

  “What the general is saying, Mr. President, is that by the time our F-22s are able to reach the UH-70s and fight off an attack from the MiGs, the UH-70s will still be in Russian airspace,” said McGavran.

  Carter watched as the young president ran over McGavran’s words in his head.

  “Sir,” said Fray, “downing Russian aircraft in Russian airspace—”

  The president cut off his chief of staff. “As far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed. We are still within our inherent right of self-defense.” He pointed to Bridgewater. “You give our F-22s the go-ahead to intercept.”

  Bridgewater spoke into the phone and then put it down. “It’s been done, Mr. President.”

  “Good. How long until they intercept the MiGs?”

  Bridgewater looked down at his computer and frowned.

  “Talk to me, General.”

  “It’s going to be close, sir.”

  “How close?”

  “Those MiGs might reach the UH-70s before we do.”

  Chapter 77

  KAMCHATKA PENINSULA

  UH-70 HELICOPTER

  THE NORMALIZATION OF rotor wash and the leveling out of the UH-70 allowed Cassie to unclench her eyelids. A feeling of relief crept into her body.

  The SEALs were back to working on her father and sister in the fuselage and she heard Commander Cafferty shout over the thrum of the rotors that they were three minutes from international waters.

  Cassie felt Brady’s fingers wrap around her uninjured hand and she looked over at him.

  “We did it, Cass—”

  One of the Night Stalker pilots cursed loudly, ripping Cassie’s attention from Brady.

  Looking out the window, Cassie could see pink morning light warming the mountainous terrain below them. As she looked toward the pilots, she made out the rising sun and the ocean in the distance.

  “We’ve got a big fucking problem!” shouted the same pilot.

  Cassi
e’s attention jumped to Cafferty, who was pressing his headset into his ears, a look of pure concentration on his face.

  “What’s going on?” Cassie asked Brady.

  An alarm whooped through the chopper.

  “Two bogeys incoming from the southwest, intercept in ninety seconds!” shouted the other Night Stalker.

  This got the attention from everyone in the fuselage and Cafferty ripped the headset from his head. “Command has called in two F-22s to come save our asses!”

  “That’s good, right?” asked Brady, wondering why his old friend looked so concerned.

  “It would be if they weren’t going to be twenty seconds late,” Cafferty said, putting his headset back on. Unclipping himself from the wall of the fuselage, he poked his head into the cockpit.

  Cassie couldn’t hear what Cafferty was saying to the Night Stalkers over the sound of the alarm, but it looked like a heated argument had broken out. Cafferty was turning red and jabbing his finger vehemently in their faces. One of the Night Stalkers yelled something forcefully back at Cafferty and the argument seemed to have ended.

  For a moment, Cafferty looked down, contemplating something, then he looked up and began to yell orders at his men, pointing at Emily and her father’s unconscious figures on the deck. “Give them a shot of adrenaline. Wake them up and get them suited and clipped in as fast as possible!”

  Cassie couldn’t hear the rest of Cafferty’s orders as the SEALs suddenly unclipped themselves from the fuselage’s walls.

  “What’s happening?” Cassie asked Brady, noticing that their UH-70 and the one next to them were now over the ocean.

  “ONE MINUTE!” screamed the Night Stalker.

  Brady’s head turned on a swivel.

  “MISSILE LOCK!” the other Night Stalker yelled.

  Pandemonium erupted in the fuselage as the large SEAL next to Cassie unclipped her from the wall and reached down for the blue bag he’d been sitting on. The SEAL opened the bag and took out four cold-water immersion suits.

  The SEAL threw two of the suits to the SEALs crouched over her father and sister who were now gaining consciousness. He handed the other two suits to Cassie and Brady. “Get these on!”

  Cassie snatched the suit and unzipped the front. Stepping into it, she said, “We’re all bailing into the ocean?”

  “Not everyone,” replied the SEAL.

  “The hell is that supposed to mean!” Cassie said, zipping up the bulky immersion suit, but the bearded SEAL had turned away from her and began helping her father and Emily get into their suits.

  Cassie suddenly felt the UH-70 dip toward the water and she turned to Brady, who had also finished putting his suit on and was gripping a handhold on the fuselage wall as they rocketed toward the ocean.

  “MISSILES FIRED!” screamed the Night Stalker pilot.

  Cafferty stumbled over to them as the UH-70 and the one next to them suddenly leveled out just above the ocean and went into a hover.

  “What the fuck is going on, Seamus!” Brady screamed at Cafferty.

  “We’re going for a swim!” Cafferty said, and threw his body weight into the both of them.

  The twenty-foot fall into the freezing ocean knocked the breath from Cassie’s lungs. She thrashed and kicked, her weak body struggling for the surface. When she breached, she saw the rest of the SEALs and hostages dive out of the UH-70s. She thought she saw Artur and Marko, both in their immersion suits, hit the water, but her attention was sidetracked by a loud, whistling noise from the west.

  Spitting up seawater, Cassie looked over and saw two contrails arching toward the UH-70s, whose pilots had now, devoid of their passengers, hit the throttle and raced away.

  The Night Stalkers are sacrificing themselves for us.

  “GET UNDER THE WATER!!” Cafferty roared from somewhere behind Cassie as the missiles screamed over them heading toward the fleeing UH-70s.

  Cassie took a big breath and pulled herself under.

  The explosions were deafening even under the ocean as the shock waves cut through the water above. Cassie surfaced, only to see two fireballs plummet into the sea, just as two black Russian MiGs rocketed over her head and began to bank around.

  “GET BACK UNDER THE FUCKING WATER!!” Cafferty yelled again. “THEY’RE GONNA PUT THEIR CANNONS ON US!!”

  As Cassie watched the MiGs complete their deadly arc back toward everyone, she couldn’t help but think that this was it.

  After everything that had happened over the last couple weeks. After all that she had endured, all that she had survived—this moment in the ocean would be the end.

  Cassie closed her eyes and thought of Derrick.

  The roar of the MiGs was suddenly overshadowed by the thunderous scream of something else.

  Something louder. More powerful.

  Cassie snapped her eyes open to see two gray specks to the east closing the gap behind the MiGs.

  Four small plumes of orange light erupted from the specks and rocketed toward the MiGs.

  A strong hand clamped over Cassie’s head, Cassie turned to see Brady as he screamed, “TAKE A DEEP BREATH!”

  Cassie gulped in the salty air and plunged back under the water one last time.

  Epilogue

  ST. THOMAS

  U.S. VIRGIN ISLANDS

  Six Months Later

  NED VOIGT RELISHED the fact that it was January and well over seventy degrees. Taking a puff of his Cuban cigar, he leaned back in the most comfortable seat on his yacht and closed his eyes, letting the warm night air and the faint sway of the large boat against the dock rock him gently.

  As his eyes shut, he thought of what his life had been like nearly six months before. The massacre he and his wife had survived in Eagle at the hands of the Russians. Their carefully plotted escape route that had taken them nearly a month to follow. Luckily for them, it had all been meticulously planned. From Alaska, they’d snuck back into Canada on foot, picked up a stashed car, and drove to Montreal before flying to Mexico City. From there, they’d gone to Cuba then sailed to Jamaica and finally St. Thomas.

  They’d drained all their Russian-linked bank accounts and moved their money to various banks in the Seychelles—before rerouting and depositing it into several accounts in Luxembourg, which Ned was able to access whenever he pleased.

  It was the way he had been able to purchase the seventy-eight-foot luxury motor yacht with the sleek flybridge and even sleeker cherrywood interior.

  Ned, or Paul Mathers, as he went by now, smiled at his good fortune and took another puff of the cigar. Tomorrow he and Darlene would sail to Secret Harbor Beach, where they would enjoy their time snorkeling the various reefs.

  They’d deserved it, after all.

  After more than thirty years working for the Russians, they’d earned this lifestyle.

  The fallout from the events of last summer in Alaska had been severe. Both Ned and Darlene had paid significant attention to the press reports following their escapes. Their faces had been plastered on every news media site from Anchorage to New York, and every agency from the FBI to Interpol was looking for them.

  But they would never find them.

  A plastic surgeon in Cuba had seen to that.

  As for the international relations that had soured between Russia, Canada, and the United States since the events of last summer: the plane crash, the incident in the Kamchatka Peninsula, as well as the American government’s accusations that Russians were kidnapping American citizens on American soil—well, Ned Voigt couldn’t really care less.

  It wasn’t his concern anymore.

  He would spend the rest of his days sailing the beautiful and warm places of the world.

  As he relaxed and took another puff off his cigar, relishing his triumph, he didn’t notice that his yacht pitched ever-so-slightly against the dock. He wouldn’t have noticed anything at all if it wasn’t for the soft whimper that resonated in front of him.

  Ned opened his eyes and saw his wife silhouetted in the doo
rway to the cabin; she was backlit, so her face was obscured in shadow.

  “Darlene, honey. Why aren’t you in bed?”

  All of a sudden, a woman’s voice, cold and emotionless, spoke from behind Darlene, “You two were hard to find.”

  Darlene took a step forward. A slender figure dressed completely in black stepped out from behind his wife.

  Ned instantly went for the pistol on the table.

  “Nah, ah!” the figure said, as the muzzle of a suppressed pistol was pressed to Darlene’s head.

  Ned froze at the sight of the weapon.

  “Who are you, what do you want?”

  “You don’t recognize my voice?” the figure asked. “I bet you don’t. I’m sure it is hard for you to remember, considering all the victims you’ve kidnapped over the years, am I correct, KODIAK?”

  Ned felt an icy sensation course through his body as he pinned down the voice.

  “Cassandra Gale.”

  “Very good.”

  “What do you want?” Ned asked, trying to sound unfazed.

  “We want you,” another voice said, from the starboard side of the ship. Another figure stepped from the shadows, his face exposed. The face of James Gale. He, too, carried a suppressed pistol. “The United States government wants you. Turns out, you two might have valuable information—over thirty years’ worth of information.”

  Ned’s eyes flickered to his own weapon on the table in front of him.

  James Gale raised his gun. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “We have money,” Darlene said. “Lots of money.”

  “I’m sure you do,” Cassie said. “Actually, according to your bank accounts in Luxembourg, you’re sitting on a small fortune. I think you’d be surprised to see that those accounts are currently empty.”

  Ned felt himself go weak. Empty?

  “How did you find us?” Darlene asked.

  “A captured SVR general and a scientist we took back during our escape from Russia showed us how to follow the money. Once they traced the rerouted accounts in the Seychelles, finding the Luxembourg accounts was pretty easy.”

  Ned felt a shiver down his spine. “How did you know we’d be in St. Thomas?”