ashes. He would have killed for a shot of vodka.
“Initiate fire,” he commanded.
His words were carried to the weapons officer in missile control. The final trigger was activated. The entire boat bobbed slightly as, one after another, the massive weight of fourteen 130,000-ton missiles exited its silos in sequenced bursts of expanding nitrogen gas. Automated systems pumped tons of water into the missile compensation tanks to keep the sub more or less level.
They were close enough to the surface that the sound of shattered ice penetrated the stillness of the ocean when the unleashed missiles burst through the arctic icecap. In his mind’s eye, Losenko could see them arcing through the sky as their first-stage rockets ignited high above the Barents Seas, then veered away from one another en route to their ultimate destinations, thousands of miles away.
“One through fourteen away,” the missile chief reported. “Launch successful.”
Although the target package selected by Moscow had been expressed in terms of coordinates and computerized programs, he knew all too well where the missiles were going. To the American state of Alaska, home to major population centers and key military installations. All those targets—and those who lived there—had just been condemned to incineration. Losenko had never visited Alaska, but he had heard it was a beautiful place.
He wondered what would be left of it.
“God help us all,” he murmured. “Execute evasive maneuvers. Down bubble, thirty degrees!”
During testing, the successful launch of a missile was cause for pride and celebration. But not today. Now that the deed was done, Losenko’s strength and discipline threatened to desert him. His legs felt limp and a dreadful weariness descended upon his shoulders. Looking out over his men once more, he saw tears streaming down the faces of veteran sailors. Muttered prayers and curses rose from the general hubbub.
“Yankee bastards!” Ivanov spat. Rage contorted his handsome features. His fists were clenched at his sides. “May they burn in hell forever!”
The captain allowed the XO his outburst and his anger. Alexei had just lost his family and his future, like everyone else aboard K-115.
He had no idea how he was going to live with what he had just done.
“Dive the boat!” he barked hoarsely. “Dive!”
The fire was not dead yet.
Thousands of miles from the Barents Sea, in the verdant heart of Alaska’s Chugach State Park, a young forest ranger scowled at the still smoldering campfire. Her long black hair blew in the breeze. An ivory pendant, carved in the shape of a raven, added a touch of personal flair to her green park uniform. Dark eyes flashed angrily.
Her fingers drifted to the grip of the pistol resting against her hip. The thoughtless hikers were lucky that they had already moved on. New to the Forest Service, with a spanking new degree in environmental science, the ranger took her responsibilities seriously. Nobody was going to mess with Alaska’s pristine wilderness on her watch.
A blinding white flash, many miles to the south, drove the smoking embers from her mind. The ranger threw up an arm to shield her eyes. A thunderous blast echoed in the distance. She watched in horror as a mushroom cloud rose on the horizon.
The forgotten campfire meant nothing now. A larger blaze was consuming the world.
The ranger knew her life had just changed forever.
CHAPTER TWO
2018
“Heads down. It’s coming.”
Molly Kookesh took cover in the Alaskan brush. She wriggled forward on her belly atop the hard-packed winter snow until she had a better view of the remote river canyon below. The wooded slope provided an ideal vantage point. Frosted evergreens, their branches weighed down by snow, hid her from the moonlight. A damp mist hung over the valley—and the massive timber bridge spanning the river. Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance.
“Where?” Sitka’s head popped up beside her. A mane of wild ginger hair that barely knew what a comb was framed the teenager’s face. An oversized army surplus jacket hung like a tent upon her gangly frame. Her pockets bulged with miscellaneous odds and ends, scavenged from wherever. Freckles accented her gleeful expression. She brushed her bangs away from her eyes.
“Wanna see!” she said eagerly.
“Down, packrat.” Geir Svenson shoved the girl’s head back behind a ridge. A scruffy blond beard just enhanced the bush pilot’s rakish good looks, at least as far as Molly was concerned. A battered aviator’s jacket was zipped up to his chin, the better to keep out the bitter cold. A wool cap kept his head warm. His breath frosted from his lips. “Unless you think that silly head of yours needs a couple of extra holes in it,” he added.
“Ha, ha. Very funny,” the teen muttered, but she got the message and hunkered down in the snow between the two adults. “Wanted a peek, that’s all. Wasn’t gonna get spotted.” Sitka doled out pronouns sparingly, as if they were too valuable to be wasted. “Not a child anymore, you know.”
Molly let out an exasperated sigh. She should have known better than to let Sitka tag along but, eager to earn her colors, the girl had been pestering her for months to be included in an operation. Tonight’s outing—a simple recon gig—had seemed like a good opportunity to test the teenager in the field. Now Molly wasn’t so sure.
“Quiet, both of you!” she hissed. “Don’t make me regret bringing you along.”
That shut Sitka up, at least for the moment. Geir adopted a wounded look.
“Whoa! What did I do?”
“Nothing,” she admitted. “But I’ve got a hard-ass reputation to keep up.”
Geir shot her an appreciative once-over.
“Trust me, chief, that ass speaks for itself.”
“Gag!” Sitka feigned sticking a finger down her throat. “Nauseous now.”
Molly tried not to grin.
“Enough banter. Eyes on the prize.”
A fur-lined parka matched her tight sealskin trousers. She tossed back the hood, exposing a head of lustrous black hair tied up in a ponytail. High cheekbones, dark almond eyes, and copper skin proclaimed her Native Alaskan roots. A carved ivory Raven totem dangled on a leather strap around her neck. A scarlet armband marked her as a member of the Resistance, the red dye symbolizing the blood spilt by all the brave men and women who had died fighting the machines over the last fifteen years.
Sitka eyed it enviously. She had yet to earn an armband of her own.
Propped up on her elbows, Molly squinted through her binoculars. Half a mile away, the huge trestle bridge stretched across the valley, looming more than 300 feet above the raging river below. Icebergs collided harmlessly against the massive concrete piers. Bolted timber struts and trusses supported the bridge, which was over 700-feet long. Iron train tracks ran across its deck. An electrified third rail eliminated the need for old-fashioned diesel or steam engines. The high-tech transportation system had been built on top of an old mining company railway, dating back to the Gold Rush.
The tracks appeared empty, except for a bald eagle roosting midway across the bridge. A low rumble rattled the tracks, audible even at this distance, and the raptor shot up into the air.
