this, Australia, one of their strongest allies, was monitoring activity in the Antarctic; no one would hear a thing until somehow they had secured some form of beneficial access to any new reserves.
Petrov could not allow the Americans to gain any sort of self-sufficiency from a large, unexploited oil reserve. He had to stop them or at least slow them down so he could formulate a longer-term plan. He could share the information with the Chinese who were just as hungry for oil as the Americans; however, they had a tendency to act in their own interest and were more likely to stake their own claim or cut a deal with the Americans. Besides, they were Russia’s biggest customer. Going public with so few facts or presenting the information to the United Nations was a waste of time; either the UN would take six months to come up with an angry letter or the Americans would simply state they were doing research just the same as the 4,000 other scientists that worked down in their nationally marked-out zones. It would be much better for Russia if no one obtained the oil in the Antarctic or even knew about it.
This job needed something a little more arm’s length; something that didn’t involve the Russians directly. Until they were publicly exposed the Americans would deny all knowledge of the secret mission in the Antarctic; “plausible deniability” the Americans called it. Well, if the Americans could deny all knowledge of the existence of their secret team, then Petrov would ensure it really didn’t exist. He knew a man who was very good at making things cease to exist — and knew exactly what to tell him to ensure he got results immediately.
Uli Borshov walked from the little hut, wiping his bloody hands on a piece of torn Chechen dress fabric. As expected, it hadn’t taken him long to learn everything he needed to know from his victim and he was preparing to rejoin his Special Forces team so he could upload the rebel base information.
Borshov was an imposing sight, standing more than six and a half feet tall, with a flat Slavic face that betrayed no emotion. He and his entire squad were made up of handpicked ex-Spetsnaz personnel who had displayed some form of special skill or ruthlessness that made them ideal for jobs that were either extremely dangerous or distasteful to the Russian public or sometimes for roles that broke the very laws of humanity.
His unit, known as the Krofskoya, or blood people, were not necessarily the first into combat, but they always infiltrated behind enemy lines. More assassins than soldiers, they were selected for the worst of the worst assignments. There were six of them — none were friends and all knew they were expendable. The pay was non- existent, food terrible and unless on special assignment, weapons were only upgraded from the bodies of their enemies. However, the main attraction was that they were allowed to kill, and torture, and do it often. Never could a more suitable job be found for a psychopathic profile.
Borshov’s GSM communication unit pinged once softly; he frowned, there was less than a handful of people worldwide who had this number and all knew only to call in extreme emergencies. The global system for mobile communications meant he could be contacted anywhere in the world via satellite; it also meant he could be pinpointed via the same technology, and there were a dozen nations who would like to see Borshov obliterated. He hunkered down beside a ruined car, plugged in the earpiece and spoke one word:
On the other end of the line, Viktor Petrov did not bother with a greeting. Borshov listened as the Russian politician briefly outlined his new assignment, his rules of engagement, and gave him one final piece of information. “You may be interested to know, comrade Borshov, that Captain Alex Hunter, the ghost you said you killed, is not only walking around, but leading the American team on this mission.” Borshov tightened his grip on the small communication device and a low rumbling could be heard from deep within his chest.
Petrov continued the needling. “Doesn’t he have something of yours? Something in his head, I believe. What are you shooting these days, Borshov, peas?”
Alex Hunter still alive was an insult to Borshov’s skills and reputation as an efficient killer and assassin. It had been nearly three years since they had faced off not far from where he was now. Borshov had beaten Hunter senseless and when he wouldn’t give away any information, had shot him in the head and walked away. He saw the bullet hole; how could he have survived?
Borshov hung up on Petrov and stood motionless in the cold Chechen air for several seconds, before pressing more buttons on his phone and holding it to his ear. There was another who needed to be kept informed. One who paid even better than Petrov.
Borshov hurried back to the camp and drove straight to the airfield where he would be kitted out and flown directly down to the Antarctic. He selected two of his best team members to accompany him.
His rules of engagement were simple as usual — leave no one alive, leave nothing in one piece. To his men there was one extra rule — Alex Hunter was to be his.
Six
Aimee stretched her back after the uncomfortable flight in the bulky transport plane and slowly paced around the huge hangar while waiting for the entire team to assemble. The sun was just peeking over the horizon as they arrived somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere. Hammerson had said it was Australia, but it could have been southern New Zealand, or perhaps even Tasmania — it was certainly much cooler here, but not uncomfortably so. The base they were at was obviously military, old and largely deserted on the outside, but inside someone was evidently paying the bills. The floor space was immaculate and lights flared across the hangar floor and even in the small empty offices. The only identification markings were of a large circular shield high up on the rear wall; it was of a fisted steel gauntlet holding red lightning bolts. Aimee had never seen the insignia before, but the imagery was powerful — defensive strength and lethal attack.
Aimee couldn’t help feeling impatient; it was all taking too long and they still had to get down to the Antarctic ice. Thinking about Tom in the cold gave her a knot in her stomach and it turned another twist when she thought how they were only sending a small team — and only half of that science and medical. She had agreed with Alfred when he had said there was a need to balance speed and secrecy, and Major Hammerson had convinced her that they needed to stay below the radar on this one or else the UN could demand to monitor their expedition. With the pace of their decision-making and organisational skills it would take months just to decide which nations would even participate. Still, she had expected several hovering helicopters and multiple teams on bobsleds whizzing over the snow and ice, never resting until they had found their missing countrymen.
She put her hands on her slim hips and turned back to the floor of the hangar. In the corner, Adrian Silex was checking his equipment and towards the back Matt Kerns was making light conversation with Monica Jennings. The sound of Monica’s laughter could be heard tumbling across the hangar floor like light music. Aimee smiled to herself; looked like Matt was making some headway there. She turned away, in time to catch Dr. Silex checking her body out again. He quickly licked his lips and gave a small wave. She nodded back, but couldn’t help groaning in distaste. Silex was already shaping up to be a pompous windbag; now it seemed she might have to deal with some very unwelcome advances. She wished Tom was with her; the knot in her stomach gave another twist.
Jack Hammerson had said he would send his best “hawks” to assist them and as Aimee started to pace nervously, the small steel double doors at the rear of the hangar slid open silently. In filed six of the most lethal- looking men she had ever seen. All conversation stopped and everyone stared; Aimee even found herself taking a step backwards. The soldiers walked to the middle of the hangar floor and slowly examined the assembled group. The man in their centre was just over six feet tall, attractive and gave off an aura of authority and danger that was almost tangible. His eyes scanned the room and took in everything about the people he was to take care of; they stopped on Aimee.
Aimee felt blood rush into her cheeks but returned the steady examination. Brutally handsome and confident, OK, I like that. His hands were gloved so she couldn’t see if there was a ring on his finger, but she bet he had a little army wife at home somewhere. Aimee folded her arms and stared at the tall soldier.
Alex Hunter slowly looked over his charges. For the most part they seemed physically fit and moderately capable. His eyes were drawn to the tall woman in front of him — it had to be Dr. Aimee Weir. Her eyes bored into his with an unwavering stare; perhaps a little hostility. Good, he thought — I’ll take spirit over nice any day. As far as he was concerned, the mission started now.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Captain Alex Hunter. The time is O-seven forty-five; at O- eight hundred hours we will begin briefings and final preparations — that will be for one hour only. We will then
