TRAP mission.”
“We don’t stop those incoming helos, you’re not going anywhere.” Black Bear removed the cigar from his mouth. “Tell you what. You take up positions along the west wall, close to your bird. Stay out of sight. Get on our channel. You wait for us. All I’m going to say is ‘Outlaw Team,’ and you cut loose.”
“Good enough. Good luck.”
Black Bear nodded. “Good luck to us all.”
Major Stephanie Halverson ran along the wooden fence, keeping within a meter of it, hoping the poles might break up the vertical line that was a United States Air Force pilot shot down and fleeing.
The farmhouse was just a thousand yards ahead, with a couple of barns in the back, a few horses, and another long building. The place stood postcard still.
Nearly out of breath, her nose running, her legs on fire, she repeatedly glanced over her shoulder; there were no Spetsnaz troops in sight.
But as she left the fence to make a final mad dash to the main house, whose front door looked more inviting than anything in the world, the terrible whining of those engines drew near, and a glance back triggered a wave of panic.
She mounted the front stoop, wrenched open the screen door, tried the knob.
Open. Open? Well, what did she expect? She was in the middle of nowhere Canada, crime rate: zero.
Bursting into the house, she cried, “Hello? Hello? Is anyone home?”
It was a weekday morning, and a middle-aged woman in jeans and sweatshirt appeared from the kitchen beyond. “Who are you? What are you doing in our house?” she demanded.
A middle-aged man with a graying beard came rushing forward, along with a long-haired teenage boy, wearing a ball cap.
“Dad, there’s a crazy lady with a gun in our living room,” said the boy, strangely calm. “And she’s wearing a costume.”
Halverson spoke a million miles a minute: “I’m Major Stephanie Halverson, U.S. Air Force. I got shot down. Russians are here. On snowmobiles. They’re coming. Do you have a car?”
The father glanced down at the pistol in her grip and raised his hands. “If this is some kind of sick joke…”
“It’s not a joke! Do you have a TV? Do you watch the news? The Russians are invading!” Halverson nearly screamed at the family.
“They were talking about some kind of military maneuver on the morning show,” said the mother. “And now there’s some weird news program on every channel.”
As the snowmobile engines grew louder, the teenager, unfazed by Halverson’s pistol, darted to the front window, peeked past the curtain. “She’s not lying. Looks like soldiers out there. They’re coming!”
“I’ll get my rifle,” said the father. “Joey, you take her and your mom to the basement.”
“We can’t stay. We have to go!” Halverson said.
“Well, Major, you picked the wrong address, because my pickup’s battery is dead, and the one tractor I have would never outrun them. I was supposed to drive my boy to school.”
Halverson waved the pistol, tipped her head toward the window. “Those are Spetsnaz troops. Do you know what that means?”
“It means you’d better get in the basement!” cried the father.
Without time to think, Halverson followed the boy and his mother through the kitchen, past an open door, and down a flight of rickety wooden steps. It was a full cellar, the entire footprint of the house, cluttered with boxes, machinery, a washing machine and dryer, and clothes hanging from lines spanning the room.
The boy, Joey, switched the light off, but a dim shaft filtered in through the single window, up near the ceiling. Then he headed toward the back, where he wanted to hide between sheets of plywood leaning against the wall.
“No,” said Halverson. “You and your mom stay here. I’m under the steps. Go.”
Even as she spoke, a crash resounded from upstairs, and a man shouted in a thick Russian accent, “Come out, Yankee pilot!”
TWENTY-FIVE
President Becerra leaned forward in his seat aboard Air Force One and sharpened his tone. “Prime Minister, Spetsnaz forces are in the streets of Edmonton and Calgary.”
Emerson’s tone turned equally sharp. “I’m well aware of that, Mr. President.”
“They’ve captured your communications uplinks and early warning radar, and they’ve hacked in to and now control your power grid.”
“Yes, they have.”
“And my advisors tell me they’ve already begun psychological operations using their new 130X electronic warfare planes. The Euros took out their first two, but two more are in the air. They’re taking control of your radio, TV, Internet, even military communications channels.”
“I know that.”
“My SEALs and Special Forces have infiltrated those areas, but they’re only gathering intel. They tell me some of your local fire and police are fighting back, but they need help. They need you to take official military action, otherwise I’ll be watching executions on CNN.”
“Mr. President—”
“They’ll move your women and children to holding areas, to separate families and sow terror. This is what they do, Prime Minister. This is how they control cities — through fear and intimidation.”
Becerra glanced over at Hellenberg. The White House Chief of Staff shook his head from the other side of the table. He was off camera, but that didn’t matter. Becerra displayed enough disgust for both of them.
Emerson thought a moment. “I spoke with Kapalkin. If I make a move, the hammer will come down. I won’t do this.”
“He’s bluffing. He doesn’t have the resources. And he knows the Euros will be in Edmonton soon.”
“I think he’s right. I think we have less to lose if we do nothing. And if we play the victim of two evil superpowers, we might actually gain something: the world’s sympathy.”
“Prime Minister, you’re making a terrible mistake. This is your Pearl Harbor. It’s your time.”
“No. Not yet.”
“If not now, then when?”
“The situation is being carefully evaluated.”
“That’s a line for the media, not for me. Come on, Prime Minister! Together we can shut them down. Otherwise, it’ll take time, resources, and your people will suffer the consequences.”
“I understand.”
“I hope so. Because at this time I’m informing you that one of our Stryker Combat Brigade Teams is en route to Calgary to help evacuate your civilians. They also have orders to take out enemy positions designated by our SEALs and Special Forces. I’m not asking for your permission, Prime Minister. If you won’t save your own people, we will, because doing so is in the best interests of the United States.”
Emerson slammed a fist on his desk, “Damn you, Becerra, you have no idea what a position I’m in! No idea!”
“It’ll only get worse, Prime Minister.”
“Look, we won’t stop you from helping. But I can’t take the risk. Not now.”
“I’ll check in again, once my brigade reaches Calgary. The Euros will be calling. Good-bye, Mr. Prime Minister.” The second Becerra ended the call, he huffed and added, “What a fool. What a waste of time.”
“General Kennedy’s waiting to give you an update,” said Hellenberg.
“Before I take that, let me ask you something, Mark. We’ve known each other for a long time.”
