by Tom Clancy
She shook her head. “Are you an American?”
He answered her in English. “I’m a JSF Marine undercover, and if you come with us—”
“Okay,” she said in English.
“What?”
“I surrender.” She rolled her pistol in her grip and proffered it to him.
Just like that. He was stunned. And she went on:
“I seek asylum in the United States. I need to speak to your president right now.”
Four Marines came running up behind them, the young lieutenant shouting, “Don’t move! Both of you, hands behind your head!”
“Check your visor, son,” Lex said. “I’m your package. And so is she.”
The Marine flipped down the visor on his helmet, studied it for a second, then said, “Sorry, sir. But who exactly is this woman?”
“This is Colonel Viktoria Antsyforov, formerly of the GRU. She’s my prisoner. I’ll be escorting her myself. I’ve got a man hurt back on the road, another KIA in the golf cart. And I need them brought here.”
“Roger that, sir. Just one problem. The chopper pilots are hurt bad. Bird looks okay, but we got no one here qualified to fly us out. Higher says they can’t get another helo out to us for more than fifty minutes.”
Lex glanced to the Snow Maiden. “Cuff her. She doesn’t leave my sight.” Lex retrieved his SAV glasses, slid them on, then got on the team channel. “Borya, you close yet?”
“Maybe ten minutes, boss. I feel like I missed the whole party.”
“Are you kidding? The smartest guy always takes the high ground. Hey, I know you got your private pilot’s license, but you wouldn’t by chance know how to fly a Seahawk, would you?”
“Sorry, sir. Fixed-wing only, sir.”
“No worries, just make it back. That’s an order.” Lex switched channels again. “Siren, this is Deep Raider Actual, you still up there?”
“Roger that, Deep Raider,” she responded, sounding distracted. “Just . . . a little busy . . . right now . . . Okay, okay, I’m here!”
“Can you fly a Seahawk?”
“I can fly anything.”
“Nice. We lost two transports. Still got the one chopper. Crew’s hurt. We need you to get us out.”
“You’re sure the chopper’s not damaged? I saw those first two go up.”
“They tell me it works.”
She laughed incredulously. “Check to make sure none of the fuel lines are damaged and that she’s not leaking anything else. I’ll get back to you.”
* * *
There were no average fighter pilots in this war.
You were either an ace or a target.
When Halverson was behind the stick of an F-35B, she sure as hell was an ace (her most recent mission notwithstanding), but now this jarhead was asking her to paint a much more sizable target on her back. The HH-60H Seahawk, aka “Rescue Hawk,” was, arguably, one of the most survivable choppers in the world, with its FLIR turret, infrared jammers, laser and radar detectors, missile launch detectors, and chaff/flare dispensers. Even its exhaust had been rigged with deflectors to reduce heat and provide a bit more protection from heat-seeking missiles. But at a top speed of 224 miles per hour as compared to the F-35B’s 1,199 miles per hour, you didn’t need a course in advanced calculus to realize that the difference here was crawling versus running, and in this theater, speed was everything.
Of course, that didn’t mean she’d pass on the challenge. In truth, she was down to sixty rounds in her cannon, and her under-wing pylons were empty. At the moment she was assisting the rest of the carrier wing with IDing the remaining T-50s who were giving her colleagues a terrible time, with three aircraft already lost, their pilots ejecting safely over the fort. They needed her, but so too did that ground crew. She posed the question and request to General Mitchell, who, as expected, asked the most obvious question. “If you put down, who returns your aircraft to the carrier?”
At first, she couldn’t answer, but then she blurted out, “I guess those Marines on the ground aren’t worth more than this jet? Is that what you’re saying, General?”
His reply came in a rasp, hard and quick: “You get to those men. You get them out of there. But before you leave, you have those Marines destroy your aircraft. I’m not handing it over to the enemy. Do you understand, Major?”
“Hell, yeah, sir. I read you loud and absolutely clear.”
“And that’s two aircraft you owe us,” he added quickly.
“Unless you’re counting Canada. Then it’s three. Not sure I can pay my tab.”
“You get back, and we’ll call it even. Guardian, out.”
Finally, she had something to grin about. “Deep Raider Actual, this is Siren. Standby, I’m on my way. ETA sixty seconds.”
* * *
The Snow Maiden was taken to the forest on the perimeter of the helipads, where she sat cross-legged beneath the snow-covered trees with the remaining Marines, eleven men in all, including those dressed like Spetsnaz troops. The big blond who resembled a Russian ironworker with his broad shoulders and thick neck, the same one who had captured her, came over with a tablet computer tucked under his arm.
“Were you the only prisoner up there?” he asked.
“They want you to interrogate me?”
“Actually, I’m doing this for me.”
“Why?”
“Answer the question.”
She made a face. “Yes, it was just me.”
“How’d you escape?”
She grinned crookedly. “That tablet and phone you confiscated from me? Those belonged to the late Colonel Osin, Spetsnaz intel officer. He was supposed to keep me safe.”
“And that’s his uniform you’re wearing?”
“Very good.”
“So he went down there to get you out, and you had other plans.”
“I’m a socialite.”
Now he made a face. “Once we’re under way, I’ll see if I can put you in contact with the president. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try.”
“Thank you. Now why don’t you talk to me in Russian? I like the sound of your voice better in our native tongue.”
“Okay,” he said, realizing he hadn’t told her his name yet. “Uh, yeah, I’m Captain Mikhail Alexandrov. Most people just call me Lex.”
“Well, Lex, maybe you’re going to be famous for capturing me. Can you handle the fame?”
“That’ll never happen. This is all classified. And I wish I could say capturing you makes me feel something, but this is a bad night. I lost a good man.” He lifted his head to the body bag lying near the group.
She bowed her head. “I lost . . . everyone.”
He looked at her. “How many of them did you kill yourself?”
She glared at him.
“Yeah, well, I guess it’s a safe bet you didn’t kill them with kindness.”
She opened her mouth, ready to fire back, but he was already on his feet at the quavering roar of jet engines.
The strike fighter hovered over the helipad, then settled down, just like a helicopter. The Snow Maiden had watched videos of these VTOL aircraft, but she’d never seen one in person. The canopy opened, and the pilot, who resembled an alien with a bizarre helmet, began to climb out. This pilot was here now to fly the helicopter, if the Snow Maiden had understood things correctly. She frowned as she watched some of the Marines planting C-4 charges on the expensive aircraft.
Ah, they wouldn’t let it fall into enemy hands. She had to grin, though. The GRU probably knew all about this jet, knew every inch of its cockpit and had already acquired the schematics of its avionics and weapons systems. Perhaps she was being too cynical, but every man or woman she’d ever met had a price.
She caught a couple of the Marines staring at her and cocked her brows. “Do you want an autograph? Set me free, and I sign
one—in your own blood.” She smiled evilly, and they quickly turned away.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Raider Team Rally Point
Helipads
Fort Levski, Bulgaria
“Are you Captain Alexandrov?”
Lex nodded and took the woman’s gloved hand, shaking it vigorously. “Major Halverson, glad to meet you.”
“Glad I could help.” They began walking quickly toward the Seahawk. “So you didn’t see Ragland up there?”
“I wish I could answer that.”
“Any indication she was actually there, then moved?”
“Again, I can’t discuss any part of my mission.”
“Captain, let’s cut through the bullshit. I was working on the same project with her. She’s my friend.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“So how about you let slip a little for me, the skinny little girl who saved your ass back there?”
Lex winced through the guilt. “Look, you didn’t hear this from me, but I don’t think she was ever up there.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s all about the intel, right? When it’s bad or been altered, we got nothing. And men die. Everything we got out of Moscow was a joke. Our people there are either moles or double agents, or they didn’t verify their sources.”
“Damn. But hey, I’m glad you tried. Any scuttlebutt on where she might be?”
“Nothing yet. They’ll pull me out of here, and it’s on to the next one. If I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath. The longer she’s gone, the greater the chance that they’ll get what they want out of her, and then . . .”
She sighed deeply. “Yeah, I know.”
“But hey, it’s not all bad. Coming here wasn’t a total loss.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ll see.”
The smoke was still swirling around them, making Halverson cough as they neared the chopper and the Marines escorting the Snow Maiden toward the open bay door. Lex gestured for them to hold.
“Major Halverson? This is Colonel Victoria Antsyforov, but you might know her as the Snow Maiden. She’s sorry she can’t shake hands right now.”
The Snow Maiden eyed Halverson like a viper sizing up its prey.
Halverson gaped and faced Lex. “Jesus Christ. Are you serious?”
“Hell, yeah. And you contributed to her capture.”
“Does Guardian know?”
“He does now. He’s given us orders not to get shot down, since we now have a high-value target on board.” Lex gestured for the Marines to finish loading the Snow Maiden, who flashed them an ugly grin before being shoved onboard.
Halverson looked after her and said, “Yeah, she’s the only one who isn’t expendable.”
Lex snickered, flicked his glance at the rush of more fighter jets, and then, in an exaggerated gesture for her to see, he blessed himself as they climbed into the bay.
Just as he plopped into his seat, surrounded by the rest of the Marines, the medics treating the wounded, the chopper overloaded by at least three or four, according to Halverson, Borya charged up and threw himself inside. Behind him came the drone, deactivating and plopping into his lap.
He took a seat next to Lex and began buckling himself in. “Almost missed the bus,” he shouted.
Lex motioned that he don the headset and microphone so they could talk over the Seahawk’s bellowing engines.
“What’s up?” asked Borya.
“They’re gonna blow that jet.”
“Seriously?”
“Check it out.”
Lex switched to the command channel, listening to Halverson in midsentence speaking with General Mitchell:
“—because he’s only about two clicks from here. I can get him and bring him back. It’ll save the S & R team some trouble, too.”
“Roger that, Siren. Permission granted. Just get moving and do not endanger our package.”
“Roger, Siren, out.”
Lex switched to the intercom. “Hey, Major, what’s up? Any problem?”
“We’re making a little detour. I found a pilot who can fly my jet. He was shot down over the fort and ejected.”
“So we’re not blowing up your ride?”
“She was a loaner in the first place. Anyway, the taxpayers will be happy.”
Lex looked at Borya and sighed. So much for going out with a bang.
* * *
They found the pilot in the middle of Fort Levski, standing on a huge section of broken comm dish forming one of the few sections of unbroken ground. Dust peeled off the dish like layers of shedding skin as they hovered over the pilot. His chute was hooked over some more debris and rattled loudly behind him. Lex watched as Halverson got the chopper in close enough for the Marines to haul the pilot into the bay without ever setting down her wheels.
They handed him a set of headphones, and Halverson spoke rapidly with him over the intercom, his praying mantis flight helmet balanced on his lap.
She wheeled them around and raced back toward the clearing, once more hovering over the tarmac from where they’d taken off, the pilot hopping out and jogging over to the fighter.
Noteworthy flight he’d have, delivering a fighter plane rigged with C-4 all the way back to the carrier. He wasn’t wasting a second to remove all the charges . . .
His takeoff, it seemed, would be equally interesting, since the moment he lowered the canopy, dismounts from the mountainside began swarming down toward the helipads, small arms firing already popping off his wings and the Seahawk’s fuselage as they pitched forward and Lex’s stomach dropped. Halverson cut the stick, throttled up, and they were soaring up, through the dust, and higher into the swirling snow.
Soon, they cleared the dust clouds and Lex caught a glimpse of the snow blasting against the cracked canopy. He looked over at the Snow Maiden, who was buckled in, eyes shut, her face ashen and drained.
The general had said he’d call Lex once he spoke to the president, but when he did, the Snow Maiden was still asleep, and Lex told him they’d push back the call until they were onboard the carrier. He’d already shared her request for asylum and told Mitchell that he’d confiscated a tablet and smartphone belonging to an intelligence officer she’d killed. Mitchell said they were still working on leads regarding Ragland’s whereabouts, but perhaps the tablet and phone would provide more clues, as might the Snow Maiden herself.
Lex had to thank the woman for one thing: She’d provided a glorious diversion; otherwise his thoughts remained on Slava, dead because Lex had placed him alone outside while he retrieved information about his sister. Oh, sure, he could justify the whole incident by saying the general had granted him permission and that he was also gaining secondary intel for higher in the process.
But God damn it, he should have told his men. He should not have left Slava alone. The men would have understood. They knew all about his sister. And if he didn’t rescue her, then had Slava died for nothing? He was a Marine, performing his duties, serving his country, knowing the risks. Did it matter that Lex had put him in harm’s way for a personal reason?
Maybe the Corps would look the other way, but Lex couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Seychelles Archipelago
East of Mainland Africa
Christopher Theron leaned back in his leather chair custom made by Italian car designer Pininfarina. He closed his eyes and listened to the news from his operative in Moscow.
He concentrated on his breathing, on his pulse, not allowing anything the man said to disturb him.
The Wraith pilot, Major Stephanie Halverson, had escaped from the Caucasus Mountains. Lieutenant Colonel Osin was dead. The Snow Maiden had been captured by the Americans.
Multiple failures and terrible timing.
He breathed. And breathed again. He
would not smash the phone against the hull. He would not grab his Vektor SP1 from the desk and empty all fifteen rounds into a window. He would not hurl one of his flat screens across the salon. He’d promised the crew he would never do any of those things again.
And so Theron sat there, eyes wandering as he tried to let the room calm him. He’d converted his yacht’s upper-deck salon into a lavishly appointed business study with lots of greenery, artwork from France, and pieces of pottery collected from all over the world. Satellite communications and multiple computer terminals allowed him to monitor the markets and place video calls to anywhere on the planet.
When the salon’s door was closed, the crew knew better than to interrupt him. So when that door did yawn inward, he guessed right that it was Dennison peering inside, her silk robe barely tied at the waist. She grinned and padded into the room, clutching her drink. “Are you ever coming to bed?”
He waved her off and issued orders to his man on the phone. “Tell General Izotov I’ll be contacting him shortly. We’ll need to move tonight.” As he set down the phone, he faced Dennison and said, “Trouble.”
“Nothing you can’t handle.”
“We’ve lost the pilot. And Osin. And the Snow Maiden.”
“What about Ragland?”
“Still secure.”
“Then we’ve lost nothing, really. You can always get another pilot. And with your chip technology, spies are a dime a dozen, aren’t they?”
She was right. In point of fact, the abduction of Ragland was only the initial step in Theron’s goal to create a South African hypersonic air force that would assure air supremacy over the entire Indian Ocean theater of operations. The Bilderberg Group would deploy this force to intimidate the countries along the Indian Ocean rim and the governments controlling the strategic straits so vital to world commerce. To dominate by air would effectively neutralize the formidable American sea presence without a face-to-face confrontation.
An undertaking this clandestine and this complicated could not be executed by Theron alone. His partners from the group had procured him shadows from India who would provide the aeronautical engineering team to South Africa and help build the plane and scramjet engines for the Wraith clones. While these teams operated independently from the Indian government, Theron had promised that their country would be a favored nation and had much to gain from this arrangement.
