“Any day now, Leonid,” Timonov growled.

Ignoring him, Brykin squeezed the trigger all the way. Instantly, the Anza Mk III’s booster motor ignited, hurling it out of the launch tube in a dense, choking cloud of acrid smoke. The missile itself burst out of the cloud and soared skyward as its main rocket motor kicked in. Visible as a bright white dot riding a plume of smoke, it climbed high above the hill, arced over, and then darted straight at the trailing American helicopter.

Three seconds after launch, the SAM slammed head-on into the Pave Hawk’s main rotor assembly and exploded in a blinding red-and-orange flash. Trailing torn shards of rotor and fuselage, the stricken helicopter rolled over and plunged into the forest not far beyond the runway. Flames and darker black smoke eddied away from the crash site.

“Nice shot!” Timonov exulted. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here!”

Obeying, Brykin tossed the spent launcher away and followed his leader upslope and deeper into the woods. With luck, they hoped to make it back to their parked car and speed away before the base’s security personnel could react to this sudden ambush. Behind them, the surviving Pave Hawk took evasive action, spewing flares as it circled back toward the runway.

The American search-and-rescue mission had just been ruthlessly aborted.

The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

A Short Time Later

Rear Admiral Kristin Chao tapped a control on her console, bringing up a live video feed from Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson on the Emergency Conference Room’s largest display screen. It showed a pillar of thick, oily smoke rising from the woods just beyond the air base. The smoke column curved sharply, swept southward by rising winds from the approaching blizzard.

“Approximately thirty minutes ago, one of the two helicopters assigned to our search-and-rescue mission was shot down—apparently by a handheld SAM fired from outside the base perimeter,” she said crisply. She looked sympathetically at Miranda Reynolds. The CIA official looked sick to her stomach. “I’m afraid that was the Pave Hawk carrying your go team.”

“Are there any survivors from the downed helicopter?” Bill Taylor asked gravely. The white-haired defense secretary, who was usually more energetic than far younger men and women, appeared to have aged visibly over the past several hours.

“A handful, Mr. Secretary,” Chao replied. “All critically injured, many with severe burns.”

General Neary, the Air Force chief of staff, stirred in his seat. “And the sons of bitches who shot our bird down? Any luck finding them yet?”

Regretfully, the rear admiral shook her head. “No, sir. Personnel from the 673rd Security Forces Squadron are combing the area where that missile was launched. They found this”—she brought up a picture of the discarded SAM launcher—“but that’s it, so far.”

Jonas Murphy stared at the image. “Is that a Russian-made weapon?”

“It’s a Pakistani copy of a Chinese-designed derivative of the Russian 9K38 Igla,” Chao told him. “The type NATO labels an SA-18.”

Miranda Reynolds glowered. “That missile’s a goddamned blind. This wasn’t some random terrorist attack by Muslim extremists. This was a Russian Spetsnaz operation, from beginning to end.”