Captain Second Rank Mikhail A. Kolosov closed his eyes and tensed every muscle in his body. He and Viktoria were going to exact their revenge on the Russian government for Dimitri’s death. It was going to be simple. Magnificent. Memorable.
And there were several other governments who’d paid dearly to help them along in their quest — because many others stood to benefit from their plan. But he had failed them. Failed his siblings.
Dimitri was the brother with a heart of gold who’d sacrificed his life to do a good job for his employer.
Viktoria was the sister with a brilliant mind.
But what was he now, except a failure?
His boat was in a dive, descending through twelve hundred feet, trying futilely to escape. His men were overwhelmed by what their instruments told them.
“The torpedo is locked on!” cried the executive officer.
Kolosov opened his eyes. “I know.”
“Then we die with honor for the Motherland!” the XO shouted.
Kolosov shook his head, removed the picture of his brother from his pocket, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Detonation, detonation!” shouted the sonar operator.
Their torpedo had been rising up from thirteen hundred feet, and Andreas imagined it striking the
Andreas sighed, took in a long breath.
“I’ve got popping noises and secondary detonations from Sierra One, sir,” reported the sonar operator.
Whatever was left of the
“It’s a kill, Captain. We got a kill,” announced the sonar operator, switching from headset to speaker for all to hear.
“Please, shoot me,” Vatz told the Spetsnaz troop in Russian.
That Vatz spoke the bearded man’s language surprised him. He drew back his head, but then grinned. “I will help you die, Yankee soldier.”
“Thank you. You see, I’m tired of killing you guys. You are the worst soldiers I have ever seen.” Vatz frowned deeply. “You are Special Forces? I don’t think so. You fight like little girls.”
“Sergeant!” hollered one of the Spetsnaz troops.
The Black Hawk had banked hard and was descending for another pass.
But the troop was pointing at the two rifle squads from the Tenth Mountain fanning out across the street and already engaging the half dozen men standing above Vatz.
And it was in that second of distraction that Vatz drew the LC pistol from his hip, and just as the soldier turned back to finish him, Vatz lifted his arm and fired a 4.6 mm projectile into the Russian’s face.
As the troop tumbled back, a glorious cacophony of gunfire filled the street, the Russians scattering like roaches.
After a minute of withering fire, Vatz forced his head up at the approach of someone.
“Hey, man, nice shot,” said one of the riflemen, a corporal, now at Vatz’s side. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Sergeant Nathan Vatz, Special Forces.” He tried to move; the pain was excruciating, bringing tears to his eyes.
“Easy, Sergeant. We’ll get you out of here.”
“I know you will.”
As the corporal radioed back for help, Vatz tried to take his mind off the pain. He leaned back, rested his head on the pavement, and gasped.
He’d never known there were so many stars. It was, indeed, a heavenly view, and it reminded him of that terrible night before the rains had set in.
Those words had never stopped echoing in his mind, and now, as he considered them once more, he wondered if it wasn’t about placing value on the Russians or the terrorists.
Maybe it was about valuing the mission.
His hands tightened into fists.
Of course it was worth it — worth every drop of blood, sweat, and tears. They had been soldiers to the marrow and had died being true to who they were.
It
FORTY-ONE
Commander Jonathan Andreas brought his boat to the surface. They were calling in their After Action Report to COMPACFLT. He stood outside on the deck with the XO, the weapons officer, and the communications officer. It was a star-filled night, brutally cold, but Andreas was certain his men had never felt warmer.
After sharing the good news with Admiral Stanton, Andreas lifted his voice. “Gentlemen, let’s get below and break out the medicinal brandy. As morale officer, I’m concerned about the crew’s well-being in these arctic climes. But before that, I want you take in a deep breath and remember this day. I’m unsure if there ever was or ever will be a boat as busy as we’ve been in the past twenty-four hours or so. If we carried it, we launched it. If it came near us, we killed it. I’m proud of each and every one of you.”
The men shouted their agreement, then Andreas noticed that both photonic masts were up and the BRA-34 antenna was extended.
Worse — the running lights were on. His grin faded.
Someone would catch holy hell for that.
“XO, we have a problem!”
The Pave Hawk had transported Sergeant Raymond McAllen, his Marines, Pravota, and Major Stephanie Halverson back to Fort McMurray, where McAllen received treatment for his wounds at a field hospital. He sat up in bed, warmed by the portable heater and sipping on a cup of strong coffee inside the rickety tent.
His wounds were minor, one in each leg, and the rounds had been removed. In a few weeks — and with a little physical therapy — he’d be back on his feet. Palladino, Szymanski, Friskis, and Gutierrez had come by to see him, but strangely, Sergeant Rule had not, and the others had not seen him in the past hour. But then, finally, the sergeant came loping down the long aisle of beds, holding a small plastic bag.
“Here,” he said with a smile. “Souvenirs. The slugs that were in your legs. Took me a while, but I got them for you.”
“Uh, thanks. Maybe I’ll make a necklace.”
“Really?” Rule grimaced.
“No, you idiot.”
Rule thought a moment, then finally chuckled. “Sergeant, I just wanted to thank you for the opportunity to prove myself.”
“You’re thanking me for getting shot?”
Rule shrugged. “I guess so.”
McAllen widened his eyes in mock seriousness. “Well, I hope I can return the favor.”
“That’s okay.”
Just then Halverson, who’d changed into a spare Marine Corps uniform with heavy jacket, approached the bed. “How’re you doing?”
McAllen smiled. “Better, thanks.”
“How are
