Rake stopped, his eyes locked on Vitruk’s face. Carrie looked up, her focus on Rake. A smear of soot ran down from her right eye. Blood scarred across her chin.
Racked with pain, Carrie felt the burning heat of the explosion and Vitruk’s pistol pressed hard against her temple. His crushing weight trapped her.
‘Stay still,’ he ordered.
Spreading flames cupped around the aircraft. ‘The fuel tank,’ she gasped.
‘It’s safe.’ Against the roar of the fire, there was a calm in his tone. She turned enough to see that the wind was blowing the flames away from what used to be the cockpit. The tail which held the fuel tank was skewed but untouched by fire. Rake stood midway between the wreckage and the hangar, stock-still, frozen mid-stride, his face etched with dread and determination.
‘So, you’ve decided to kill us all, Ozenna,’ shouted Vitruk. ‘You’re murdering the woman you love.’
‘I can get us out of this.’ Rake took a step out of cover.
‘How? We’re now waiting for your cruise missiles,’ said Vitruk.
Rake raised his arms above his head, part peace-offering, part showing off his automatic weapon. ‘Hear me out, Admiral. Please.’
‘You didn’t let my men hear you out before you murdered them.’
‘I’m a soldier, I was doing my job. Dr Walker is a civilian—’
‘So now you listen, Ozenna. In a few minutes, your bombs will tear Dr Walker’s limbs from her beautiful body. They will rip through her organs and their fire will burn her alive. Or, on your word, I’ll be kind and shoot her now so she will die without pain.’ His finger crept inside the guard to the trigger.
Slowly, so Vitruk could see his every move, Rake squatted and put his gun on the ground. He stood up, eyes locked onto the Russian. He brought out a phone from his pocket, holding it up in full sight. ‘I’ll open a line to Washington.’
‘To do what!’ yelled Vitruk. ‘Russia will never surrender.’
‘To bring in a helicopter to get you out, and we’ll head back to Little Diomede.’
‘Then what?’ Vitruk’s face twisted; the hatred and blame fermenting inside him for years were finally finding a way out.
Carrie’s thoughts raced. Men like Vitruk were poisoned by anger, unable to feel anything outside of themselves. One wrong word, one wrong movement, and Vitruk would kill and feel nothing. She could never change his mind. She could not overpower him. The more Rake talked, the more Vitruk’s fury boiled.
‘Let me make the call.’ Rake edged forward half a step. ‘I can—’
Vitruk fired into the air. A flash of yellow and blue flame leapt out of the chamber, and the roar of an exploding pistol cartridge crashed through Carrie’s eardrum. Rake stopped, hands raised, finger curled around the phone. The warm pistol barrel rested back against Carrie’s temple.
‘What can you end, Ozenna?’ said Vitruk. ‘More American bombs on more villages. More sanctions. More killings. More bullying. More of your fucking democracy. Never again will you strip Russia of her dignity.’
‘I’m moving back, OK?’ Rake took a step. ‘Take the weapon away from Dr Walker. Let’s wind this down.’
‘If you make that call, she will die.’
Rake’s finger stayed away from the keypad, but unexpectedly the phone lit, casting sudden light on his face. Carrie felt Vitruk stiffen. She braced for the pain and shock of a bullet ripping through her skull.
‘That was not me,’ Rake said. ‘It’s a message to this number. It’s not me. OK?’
He was pleading, showing weakness, because he cared for her. She was dead anyway. Now. Five seconds later. Five minutes. What did it matter? She was getting in the way of what Rake had to do. She needed one try to get inside Vitruk’s damaged mind, something that would cut through to reach whatever it was that made anyone human, however poisoned that humanity might be. The cold would prevent any of them lasting too long. Or an air strike. Neither Rake nor Vitruk were patient men. It was now, or not at all. One go, she told herself. One chance to help Rake. To give him that second of opportunity.
Vitruk pulled her to her feet, wrenching her arm in its socket. She scrambled up with him.
Rake shouted, ‘The message is from Washington. You need to—’
‘I need to do nothing!’ screamed Vitruk. ‘Tell them they are dealing with Admiral Alexander Vitruk, the man who—’
Carrie yelled across him, ‘The man who killed Larisa, his own daughter!’
Vitruk’s pistol butt crashed against her head, spinning her toward the ground. The cuff bit deep into her wrist. Her vision spun. Gray-black shades of darkness turned into a sea of white. She hung off him, unable to stand, unable to fall. He raised his arm for another blow, but she had got to him. His face was creased with uncertainty. She shouted, ‘You are a man who can’t stop murdering children and mothers because he was so drunk his own little girl is dead!’
He hit her again, twisting her head against her neck. She had reached his blackened heart. The blow was fast and ferocious. It left her head enveloped in pain, fighting to stay conscious. Then numbness took over pain. Her vision was gray, no colors. The helicopter flames danced a dirty glaring white. Snow on the granite hills lay lifeless. The buildings were gray under a gray sky. Her hearing was gone. Or the wind was howling so loud she couldn’t hear. She lost feeling except for a draining, sapping cold. The next blow would kill her. She turned her head to look further, to find Rake. Where was he? She must speak to him, tell him not to blame himself. A new pain shot through her. Not a blow. A nerve in the neck. A muscle. Something torn. What was the name? Suboccipital? No. Trapezius? She should … Her numbness faded. Her wrist hurt. The hard cuff. Vitruk pulling against her. It had only been a second. Maybe two. So many thoughts. So much undone. No time to live. A cold wash of hopelessness coursed through her as she waited for the last lethal blow.
A flash. A single gunshot crack. The tug at the cuff, tearing into her skin, pulling her where she couldn’t go. Uncontrolled. Vitruk jerked like he was dancing. Carrie’s senses rushed back. Vitruk stumbled, his legs gone, pulling her with him. The icy concrete rushed up toward her as they went down together. He hit the ground hard, and Carrie fell on top of him, arterial blood jetting from his neck warm on her skin.
Vitruk was shot. He was dying. Muscles twitching. The gush of blood became a dribble. Body warmth chilled. The face contorted in the way that unexpected death rips away confidence.
Then Rake was there, just like when she first saw him, with no other purpose except to make her safe. He didn’t speak. No smile. No reunion. This was the soldier she knew from the car bomb in Kabul. Rake placed the back of his hand against her neck, feeling for a pulse. Then, focused and fast, he unpeeled the heart monitor from the Russian’s wrist and attached it to Carrie’s. A pulse was a pulse. Her raised heartbeat pumped a signal to the phone that would keep the missile in its silo. Her breathing slowed. She tasted cold smoke from the helicopter fire. Then Henry came into view, moving carefully, checking each step, each inch, for hidden danger.
Rake recovered Vitruk’s phone. ‘Hold this,’ he told Carrie. They were his first words to her, not a question, but an order.
He stepped back, leaving her with Vitruk’s blood-soaked body. ‘This is Captain Ozenna,’ Rake said into same phone that had nearly killed them both. ‘The base is clear. Admiral Vitruk is dead.’
FORTY
British Ambassador’s residence, Washington, DC
‘The base is clear. Admiral Vitruk is dead.’ Stephanie heard Ozenna’s clipped, exact words. Harry was listening, along with dozens of others between the embassy and the NSA technicians at Fort Meade. Ozenna left no room for doubt. No sub-clauses. The man who would trigger the missile was dead. Phones rang, screens flashed. In short bursts of words, Ozenna described how Vitruk had a smart phone that sent his arterial pulse in a digital signal to the launch site. ‘It’s over,’ said Stephanie, struggling to envisage it all.
A voice of authority came ac
ross the line. ‘Ambassador, Congressman Lucas. Thank you. We’ll take it from here.’
Harry’s eyes flared with anger. ‘They’ve cut us out.’
‘Meaning—?’
‘It’s far from over. Holland’s still going ahead.’
Stephanie’s stomach clutched. ‘How can he—’
She stopped mid-question. Grizlov was on the line, taut, rushed, grateful, flamboyant. ‘It’s over, Steph. I love you. Thank you. Thank you.’
What to say? Harry’s creased and worried face told her all she needed to know. She looked to him for guidance. Before she replied to Grizlov, another voice came across the call, ignoring Harry and Stephanie. ‘Chairman Grizlov, this is the Pentagon. Is Toksong stood down, sir?’
‘It is stood down. Yes,’ said Grizlov.
‘We need immediate confirmation of that from Admiral Vitruk.’
Stephanie interjected. ‘This is Ambassador Lucas. Vitruk is confirmed dead.’
‘We are not reading that, ma’am.’
‘Sergey,’ said Stephanie. ‘Can you confirm?’ Nothing. The line was gone. Stephanie slammed her hand on the table. Who ended the call? Grizlov? Supposing it was a hoax? The Pentagon was right? Vitruk a decoy? Grizlov the architect?
‘Got it,’ Harry said into one of his phones. He turned to Stephanie. ‘Strike targets are Toksong, North Korea. Also Providenya, Zvyozdny. In all, six Russian Arctic bases.’
‘Can we stop Holland?’
‘I don’t know.’
On the inauguration platform, a country singer from Nashville performed a familiar old song that Stephanie couldn’t quite place. After that there would be a poem, then the oath of office. Not many minutes left.
Firmness in his voice, Harry spoke on two calls, mixing Russian with English and Chinese. Looking straight at Stephanie, he held up his right hand with his thumb and forefinger almost forming a circle as if to indicate he was close, but not there yet. His sentences were measured, precise. She had forgotten his Russian was so fluent. Then, he closed the thumb and forefinger and said in English. ‘Yes! Moscow has handed over the Fed bomber,’ he said. ‘It’s the guy we pinned.’
Stephanie’s mind was far away from the Fed bombing. Guilt stabbed through her for almost forgetting the murders there; frustration, too. Sure. Nice one, Harry. But it won’t fix the job at hand. ‘What about Holland?’ she said. ‘That’s not enough for him.’ Stephanie ran her fingers through her hair.
Harry shrugged. ‘No. But we need it.’ He continued speaking on the phone, in Chinese now, short, precise sentences. He was a military man. For Stephanie, the diplomat, part con, part persuasion, military thinking wasn’t enough. Holland needed to know that if he didn’t stop, he would lose what he valued most: his reputation. His presidency would be judged not on its first hundred days, but the first hundred seconds. How to show that? Who could challenge the Commander-in-Chief? How could any politician be so stupid? How could people elect someone so dangerous? Disbelief swirled. Stephanie smashed through her raging thoughts grasping for an idea. There were a million and more people. They stretched back from the Capitol Building through the National Mall. The inauguration was being watched on televisions around the world. She spoke to Prusak, then seconds later saw him on the screen, conferring with Swain who gave permission with a barely discernible nod.
Minutes away from taking his oath, Holland touched his lapels and straightened his jacket. He drew in his cheeks, expelling a cloud of air. His eyes flitted to the teleprompter embedded in the transparent bulletproof screen between the podium and the audience. He tilted his head forward, rounding his mouth, a smile at the edge of his lips, practicing the first lines of his speech.
Something caught his eye. His eyes locked on the audience, scanning, squinting against winter sunlight, clocking Swain, Pacolli, others from the outgoing administration and settling on an empty seat where Matt Prusak had been sitting and was now gone. Holland touched his right ear: someone was relaying information to him. He shook his head. Stephanie lip-read from him a ‘no.’ Holland looked sharply to his right. No, he will not change course. Anger swept across his face. Holland must have guessed what Prusak was planning and aimed to pre-empt. It wasn’t working. Stephanie leant against the table edge to stop the trembling in her legs.
A cable channel switched to split-screen, half on the inauguration and half on Matt Prusak, away from the stage, among the crowds in the mall, brushing his hair off his forehead, with one of the channel’s reporters who announced they were breaking into the inaugural feed because the outgoing chief of staff had an announcement.
‘President-elect Holland has ordered military action against Russia.’ Prusak’s delivery was slow and calm. ‘It is illegal, unnecessary, and dangerous. In the past few minutes, the Kremlin has officially notified President Swain that any further attack on Russia will be considered an act of war and lead to a full response from Moscow.’
‘But Russian troops have invaded—’ began the reporter.
‘Our troops have expelled them from American territory. They were a rogue force, not the Russian government,’ interrupted Prusak, brusquely. ‘A President needs Congressional approval to wage war. Holland doesn’t have it.’
While Prusak spoke, the shot moved to Holland, his face strained, then to Swain, an image of composed authority. The inauguration faltered. Holland stepped forward, beckoning the Chief Justice, who hesitated and didn’t move, eyes fixed not on Holland, but down toward Swain, seeking guidance. The shot changed again to the National Mall. A murmur rumbled through people crowded there. A scene from the Russian airbase on Big Diomede appeared on screens around them. Most was in darkness with shapes of buildings and harsh, steep hillsides. The murmur swelled to applause as what looked like a shaky smartphone camera showed flames from a destroyed helicopter, the red-star Russian insignia smeared with soot on what was left of its tail. A body lay on the ground, illuminated by a flashlight. On the overcoat lay the identity card of Admiral Alexander Vitruk, with a photograph, his signature, and the address of his Far East Military District Headquarters in Khabarovsk. The Russian flag, lit by dim moonlight, hung shredded on a pole behind. Two men unfolded the Stars and Stripes and held it like a banner between them. Rake Ozenna’s voice played over it: ‘This is Captain Ozenna. The base is clear. Admiral Vitruk is dead.’
Noise from the National Mall swelled, wolf whistles, high fives, hats thrown into the air. Holland was smart enough to join the applause, even though his eyes were narrowed with determination, no expression of shared victory.
‘He’s not finished,’ Stephanie said to Harry who didn’t seem to be taking notice, wasn’t even watching the screen. He remained hunched on the phone.
Holland took control, raising arms to quieten the crowd. He readied his hand, fingers outstretched for the oath, giving the Chief Justice little choice but to step forward with the Bible. A call came in from Downing Street, asking Stephanie for developments. The Prime Minister was about to address the House of Commons? Nothing that wasn’t on TV, she said, her hand gripping the phone in frustration. Holland lay his hand on the Lincoln Bible. ‘I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute—’
Harry was off the phone, stepping toward her.
‘What?’ she asked, impatiently.
‘Now, we wait.’ His voice was flat. No encouragement. Resigned.
Yes, that was it. Energy drained from Stephanie. They had given it their best shot. If Holland wanted war, he would make war. Harry had tried and failed. Prusak, too. Stephanie, Slater, a raft of people had given it their best shot. So, how would it unravel? America destroys six Russian Arctic bases. Where would Russia strike? Hawaii? Guam? Alaska?
She half tuned back into Holland’s oath. ‘—the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability—’
Europe would flare. Estonia. Moldova. Ukraine again. North Korea again. Syria again. It wouldn’t take long. It never did. Excitedly, Harry took her hand, gripped it hard. ‘Now, Step
h. Watch this,’ he said. As Holland spoke, a strap ran across the bottom of the screen. A joint military operation had destroyed a missile base at Toksong in North Korea. The base was now neutralized and posed no further threat.
‘—preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.’
What was going on? Four nations, China, Japan, Russia, and the US, had moved against North Korea. Together. Stephanie could barely take it in. While Holland wanted war against Moscow, her ex-husband had been fixing up for Russian and American pilots to fly side by side with Chinese and Japanese air crew riding shotgun? Or something like that. Applause from the National Mall lifted to a crescendo smothering the voice of Prusak, still on air, trying to explain. ‘Yes … unprecedented … Swain acted with friends … And I should add—’ But the crowd drowned him out completely. Add what?
Holland began speaking. ‘Thank you. Thank you. My fellow Americans, it is a humbling experience—’
She studied Holland’s face, looking for signs that he was backing down. There were none.
‘—our enemies must be punished for violating our freedom,’ he thundered.
Sweat filmed round the hollow of Stephanie’s neck. Holland’s face was impassive, his tone strident and unforgiving, like that wounded animal that keeps lashing out. Her phone buzzed with a message from Prusak, in fact a photograph of the Oval Office desk, empty apart from two envelopes, one cream and compact addressed to Holland in Swain’s handwriting, the traditional letter from the outgoing to the incoming President. The other, held down by a glass crystal paperweight, was a larger, pristine white envelope that carried an official logo of the Justice Department.
‘What?’ messaged Stephanie.
Before Prusak responded a news strap ran under Holland speaking. President Holland subpoenaed for Grand Jury investigation on alleged breach of Logan Act.
Stephanie threw her head back, laughing. So, Swain had done it! Barely a hundred seconds in and Holland’s presidency was as good as dead.
Man on Ice Page 22
