EndWar

by David Michaels

  More troops. Running toward him—

  While a chopper swooped in behind them, its powerful searchlight bathing the Russians in its harsh glow.

  Vatz squinted while beginning to move back. Was that an enemy helo or not?

  He got a better look and shouted, “Yeah!”

  Trailing the troops was, in fact, a JSF Black Hawk helicopter, its door gunners delivering the .50 caliber early bird special to the Russians below.

  Two troops were cut down hard and fast.

  A third threw himself behind a rectangular-shaped duct but was torn to ribbons.

  Vatz broke to the left, out of those gunners’ line of fire, reaching the other side of the roof, when he was nearly knocked off his feet by a Russian troop coming around another aluminum vent.

  He shoved the guy back in order to bring his rifle to bear, but the wide-eyed troop reacted as quickly—grabbing him by the collar and swinging him around.

  Vatz tried to wrench off the troop’s hands, but the kid had a death grip, which was fitting, since their forward momentum carried them both off the roof—

  And into the air.

  “Captain, Sonar. Regained contact on Sierra One, bearing three-four-one, narrowband tonals, twin ship turbine generators. WLY-1 matches to a Borei class. You were right, sir. It is without a doubt the Romanov. Range, twenty-five thousand yards, computed from prior Romanov SSTG detection tables.”

  “Excellent. We’re sure who he is, and now we got him,” cried Andreas, slamming a fist into his palm. “Officer of the Deck, come right to three-four-one, make your depth eighteen hundred feet, speed four knots. Make tubes one and four ready in all respects. And when ready, match generated bearings and fire!”

  “Unit in tube one fired electrically. Unit in tube four fired electrically,” reported the weapons officer.

  For the next two minutes there was utter silence in the control room, then the attack coordinator abruptly jarred Andreas from his introspection: “Units one and four enabled and conducting spiral searches.”

  “Turn unit four twenty degrees left. Then, once clear of the baffles, turn it right—directly at the target—changing speed to high and switching to active search mode,” ordered Andreas.

  “Aye-aye, sir!” cried the weapons officer.

  Vatz and the Russian plunged twenty feet to the ice-covered pavement below.

  During the fall, Vatz had been able to roll the Russian slightly, so that he was on the bottom.

  It was interesting how Vatz’s mind emptied in the two seconds it took to drop. He was at complete peace, because the part of him that wanted to die would soon be satisfied. The guilt of living would be gone. But in the last quarter of a second, as the ground came up hard and fast, the other part took over, the Special Forces soldier trained to live at all costs, and a four-letter word blasted from his lips.

  He gasped as they made impact, which was far less severe with one hundred and eighty pounds of Russian cushion beneath him.

  The guy’s head snapped back, his neck probably broken.

  That wasn’t so bad. I’m alive.

  But then Vatz felt a tremendous pain rushing up his legs, and now he couldn’t move them. He’d probably fractured both.

  He rolled over, groaned, looked up as someone approached, shone a light in his eyes.

  The light shifted to expose a Spetsnaz troop with a pistol in his hand. “Good-bye, Yankee.”

  The Romanov’s reaction was immediate and textbook. The sub turned right, went to flank speed, and launched countermeasures.

  “Second detect on unit one,” called out the weapons officer. “Unit one is homing!”

  Andreas inhaled deeply. There’d be no more signals from unit one’s wire.

  At “homing,” the Mark 48 increased speed to sixty knots, armed itself, and activated its proximity detector. The torpedo’s high-explosive warhead would detonate once it sensed the high concentration of the earth’s magnetic field caused by the close proximity of the steel mass of the Romanov’s hull.

  Andreas literally held his breath.

  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 Romanov’s keel with a massive explosion, the submarine breaking apart, sections tumbling away into the cold darkness.

  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 Romanov had reached crush depth.

  “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.

  “Are you worth it?”

  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.

  Is what we do worth it? Worth our lives?

  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 was worth 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 you doing?” asked Rule.

  She shivered. “Finally thawed out.”

  McAllen gave Rule a look: Go!

  But the guy didn’t get it.

  “Did you see the Russian when we left him?” Rule asked her. “That guy cracked me up. He was all smiles. Never seen a POW so happy.”

  McAllen raised his voice. “Sergeant, you mind if I talk with the major?”

  “Oh, yeah, oh, okay. Be good, man. See you later.” Off he went, with a little hip-hop rhythm to his gait.

  “He’s a character,” said Halverson.

  “He’s like a new pair of dress shoes. Stiff and squeaky. But he’s doing better than I thought.”

  “I just came to tell you that you should expect a phone call. And this is one you don’t want to miss.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “American Eagle wants to thank you.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Yep. I have no idea why he’s made such a big deal of this, but when it comes to politicians, you never know what they’re thinking.” Her tone grew cynical. “Maybe we’re symbols of the American spirit.”

  “Don’t sell us too short. Maybe we are.”

  “That works well for your ego, huh?”

  “And yours, too.”

  She proffered her hand. “Well, thank you. I mean it. I hope we can stay in touch.”

  He took her hand, shook firmly. “I hope so, too. Do fighter pilots ever date Marines?”

  She grinned, turned away, then glanced back over her shoulder and said, “Only the cute ones.”

  Sergeant Nathan Vatz had been evaced back to Grand Prairie, and the nurses were applying the cast to his left leg when he got the call from Sergeant Marc Rakken’s vehicle commander, Sergeant Timothy Appleman.

  Twenty minutes earlier Vatz had tried to call Rakken, who wasn’t answering his cell. Then Vatz had put a call in to Appleman, whose number he also kept in case of emergencies.

  In a somber tone, the sergeant described how Rakken had saved the entire NEST team through his selfless act of courage.

  And Vatz just lay there, listening to the sergeant call his name over and over—because he just couldn’t respond to the news for a few seconds. “Yeah, I’m here. Thanks, Tim. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Nate, I’m giving this to you for two reasons: first, if one of us is going to make it, it’s going to be you.”

  Vatz reached into his pocket and withdrew Marc’s balisong. He clutched the knife in his fist and closed his eyes.

  You knew it all along, didn’t you, Marc. And you knew it was worth it. You didn’t have any doubts. Not a one.

  “We’ve still heard nothing from Moscow,” said General Laura Kennedy.

  President Becerra leaned back in his chair aboard Air Force One and nodded. “I didn’t think we would.”

  “They are, however, beginning to withdraw their forces from Alberta.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes, sir, but it’ll still take months to flush out all the special forces. And who knows how many spies could have infiltrated the area.”

  “Understood. We’ll work with Emerson to address that issue and the reconstruction issues. I suspect he’ll be quite upset over the highway and the bridge.”

  She winced. “Oh, yes, sir. I’ll update you again in one hour.”

  “Thank you, General. Now I need to call a very skilled Marine Corps sergeant who got our pilot out.”

  “He’ll appreciate that, sir.”

  General Sergei Izotov massaged his bloodshot eyes as he sat in President Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin’s office.

  “It’s confirmed,” said the president, his cheeks growing fiery red as he turned away from his computer screen. “The Romanov has been destroyed.”

  Izotov shook his head. “She had a deal with her brother, and that fool got himself killed.”

  “She needs to join him in hell. I don’t care how many agents you employ. I want her found. And if they can’t capture her, they should kill her. Do you understand, General?”

  “Completely. They’ll return the body to me. I want to look into her dead eyes and be sure.”

  Kapalkin glanced back to his screen, began tapping away on his keyboard. “Now, there are other ways to gain control of those reserves. Has Vasiliev called you back?”

  “Just two hours ago.”

  Alexi Vasiliev, aka William Bullard, was a Russian mole and member of the Canadian Parliament.

  “How much money and time will it take?”

  “He’s not sure yet, but Prime Minister Emerson’s handling of our invasion has been very unpopular. I’m confident that Mr. Bullard will one day become the next prime minister of Canada. But as we discussed, this is the much slower, perhaps even more expensive route.”

  Kapalkin nodded slowly. “Well, General, I’ll leave you to your interrogations.”

  Izotov nodded and dragged himself from the chair. The conversation could have been handled via video phone, but Kapalkin wanted to punish Izotov for the Alberta debacle and force him down to the office.

  Moreover, Kapalkin had ordered that every employee of the GRU be tested once more for loyalty—including Izotov himself. It was an act of sheer paranoia and an insult, but Izotov had his o
rders—and he had the Snow Maiden to thank for everything. His fingers itched to get around her throat.

  At sixty-one, there weren’t many things left in this world that truly moved General Sergei Izotov.

  War was one of them.

  And revenge was another.

  The early morning flight to Cuba was thankfully brief—because during the entire time Major Alice Dennison wrung her hands and couldn’t stop trembling.

  Her pulse raced as she was escorted through security, and by the time she reached the interrogation room, she was sweating profusely and had to excuse herself to the bathroom.

  She splashed cold water over her face, glanced up in the mirror. “Be strong.”

  A minute later, she was escorted inside the interrogation room, where Colonel Pavel Doletskaya was waiting for her, his hands and legs shackled, head lowered.

  She took a seat across from him, plopped the file she’d been carrying on the table.

  His nose crinkled. “You smell very nice, Major.”

  “Look at me.”

  He raised his head, eyes weary, face still unshaven. “Have you been crying?”

  “No.”

  “Your makeup—”

  “Forget my makeup. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  He hoisted his brows, the color returning to his cheeks. “Where are we going?”

  “Away from here.”

  “I kind of like it.”

  “Especially the food, right?”

  He grinned and glanced away. “So you’ve reconsidered my offer?”

  “Shut up, Colonel. Look at this.”

  She shoved the file toward him. He glanced down at it. “Interesting. A pity I can’t open it.”

  She’d forgotten he’d been handcuffed and rose, opened the file, then placed the photograph on the table.

  “This image comes from surveillance footage taken two days ago in Banff. That’s in Alberta, Canada.”