line of sight.
He could hear the hammering of the PK, though, and the shouts of Russian troops rallying somewhere forward. The two SEALs were still pinned down, unable to move back or forward, and there was no other way to get at the machine gun that was causing the trouble.
There they were, two men crouched over the machine gun as they trained it on the deck four stories below. As Dean climbed higher, though, one of the Russians noticed him, pounded his partner’s shoulder, and pointed.
Looping one arm through a support beam on the derrick, Dean unslung the MGL-140, checked that the next round up was a Hellhound, and brought the weapon to his shoulder.
Through the sights, he saw the magnified image of the two Russians as they swung the PK machine gun around to bear on him. If they fired first, the sheer volume of fire would sweep him from his perch like a fire hose. He squeezed the trigger.
An important innovation on the MGL-140 was the two-stage trigger. You needed to squeeze hard to get to the first detent-an important safety consideration when you were humping a weapon loaded with this much high explosives. After that first tug, though, a relatively light squeeze was all that was necessary to actually fire the round.
What that meant for Dean was that he could actually use the thing, unlike any other grenade launcher, as a sniper’s rifle… a sniper’s rifle with one hell of a kick when the round detonated.
In his sight, the PK’s muzzle flashed. Rounds struck the tower just above his head, whining into space and sending a shard of hot metal sizzling past his head and tugging at his ear. At the same moment, Dean fired the MGL, sending the hyper-lethal round hissing downrange.
The grenade struck the bridge wing railing or the PK-he couldn’t tell which-and detonated with a savage flash. One of the Russians was torn apart by a round identical to one that had just torn out a thick steel door, while the other was lifted and tossed over the disintegrating railing in a flailing of bloody arms and legs.
When the smoke cleared, the starboard-side bridge wing was completely gone, reduced to tangled fragments of metal on the deck below or tossed into the water alongside. Smoke continued to emerge from the open doorway leading onto the bridge as well, suggesting that the blast had caused damage there as well.
Climbing higher, Dean could see past the bridge and down to the forward deck, where several Russian troops were gathered. Taking aim, he placed a second grenade on the deck just behind them. The explosion thundered across the vessel and sent a column of smoke boiling into the pristine sky.
“Two-one and Two-two are clear,” Taylor said over Dean’s radio headset. “And team three is bringing out the hostages. Come on back to the fantail, Dean. We’re gonna hotfoot it out of here!”
But Dean had just seen something else. Through the MGL-140’s sight, he could see a man in a heavy military- style parka emerging from a doorway onto the main deck forward, just beyond the point where the bridge wing had collapsed. He was leading a woman in baggy pants and a T-shirt at gunpoint.
“You didn’t get all the hostages,” Dean said over the radio link, slinging his weapon. “I’m going after one.”
“Dean, get the hell back here! No heroics!”
He didn’t reply. Sometimes it was necessary to pretend radio failure.
Using his gloves and his insteps to brake his descent, he slid down the drill rig ladder, hitting the deck hard before breaking into a sprint. He was angry. If he’d had the sense to bring along an M40A1, or one of the other sniping rifles available, he could have taken out the Russian with a single shot from the tower, no sweat, and he or one of the SEALs could have gone forward to recover the hostage. Using a grenade launcher as a sniper’s weapon was all well and good, but it didn’t count for a damned thing when you needed to be
Across the aft superstructure, then, to the corner of the forward structure, rising like an apartment building in front of him. Another ladder led down the starboard side to the companionway. He swung out onto a rung and slid down, his MGL-140 bumping against his shoulder as he dropped.
He hit the deck and started running again, unslinging the grenade launcher as he moved. He might not be able to use the thing against someone using an American prisoner as a human shield, but the sight of the monster weapon might frighten the guy into compliance.
A beanbag round would have been a useful addition to his kit, Dean thought ruefully. They were riot-control projectiles consisting of soft, weighted bags that hit hard enough to knock down a man but not injure him seriously.
It was way too late to second-guess his decisions, however. He would have to make this one up as he went along. He had to slow down to navigate a treacherous part of the deck partly blocked by fallen rails and decking from the collapsed bridge wing. As he reached the forward end of the
He returned fire, sending a hyper-lethal grenade into a knot of Russian naval infantry crouched behind and beside a deck funnel. The blast ripped the funnel aside and scattered the men like tenpins. Ahead, a kind of wooden box, man-tall and lined with fluttering sheets of blue plastic, rose at the starboard railing. And as he approached, a man stepped from inside.
Dean had expected Braslov, who was supposed to be out here somewhere, but this man was a stranger. He wore civilian clothing, but with a military parka and with a ramrod bearing that shouted military at Dean.
He was standing behind the woman, his arm locked around her throat and a Makarov pistol pressed against her temple.
“Do not speak. You will drop that rather formidable weapon,” the man said.
At least the guy hadn’t added a melodramatic “or the girl dies.” Instead, he nodded as Dean placed the grenade launcher on the deck.
“Good. Now kick it over the side.”
Which meant he couldn’t dive for it if he saw an opening for Hollywood-style heroics. Reluctantly he put his boot on the weapon’s heavy barrel and shoved it hard enough to send it skittering into the gunwale. Carefully the Russian used his foot to slide it over the top. Dean heard the lonely splash when it hit far below.
“You will hold your arms out from your body, please. And turn around… slowly. Good. Now remove the combat harness and throw it over the side as well.”
Dean did as he was ordered. He could see the fear in the woman’s eyes, but she stood calmly, not struggling or panicking.
He recognized her now. Rubens had transmitted a file photo of Katharine McMillan, the NSA agent who’d been sent up to the Arctic as a loaner to the CIA. It had taken Dean a moment to connect that photo-of a calm-looking woman wearing lipstick, eye makeup, and neatly styled hair-with this person, scared, dirty, her hair uncombed, salt-matted, and windblown.
“Your radio,” the Russian said. “I see the mike at your throat. Lose it. Over the side. I warn you, do
A few tugs were sufficient to pull both the microphone and the earpiece out of his hood. He wondered if the SEALs had overheard the Russian giving him orders and decided they had not. The microphone was sound-powered and needed a very close voice, his own, to activate. Sounds of gunfire were crackling from the stern of the ship; they were probably pretty busy back there in any case.
“You are… what?” the man said, his brow furrowed as he looked Dean up and down. “Not a Navy SEAL, surely. You are much too old.” He looked at McMillan, then back to Dean. “Might you be one of this young woman’s associates, then?”
“Actually,” Dean said, reaching for a lie, “I’m empowered to negotiate for her release. What is it you want?”
“No, no,
“Charlie Dean.” There was no point in playing games.
“And you are… what, Charlie Dean? CIA?”
“Something like that. The question remains, what is it you want? Holding this woman won’t help you. Killing me
