Eyeing the colonel’s vodka flask with barely concealed contempt, Bondarovich shrugged. He’d made no secret that he found Petrov’s drinking habits unprofessional. “It’s your funeral, I guess.” Wearily, he plodded off through the snow toward the large tent he and Grishin’s other mercenaries used as sleeping quarters. They kept Bunin tied up on a cot there, too, except when they let him eat and attend to matters of nature.

Petrov stood watching him go. My funeral? he thought. His grin twisted. That was truer than the other man knew, and in more ways than one. He shoved the hip flask back into his parka and headed out toward the aircraft shelter. His time here was running out fast and he had preparations to make—preparations that would clear any potential obstacles from his path.

On the Polar Ice Cap, Northeast of Wrangel Island

That Same Time

Fourteen heavily equipped Spetsnaz commandos assembled outside what would appear from the air to be mounds of snow and ice. In reality, they were cunningly camouflaged shelters, the core of a small military camp established secretly out on the polar ice cap two days before—hundreds of kilometers off the Russian and American coasts and far outside the detection range of NORAD’s air surveillance radars. A satellite dish angled toward the horizon provided direct communication to Moscow.

Just beyond the tents, aircrews had finished stripping away the netting used to conceal two helicopters. One was a twin-turbine Kamov Ka-60 Kosatka (Killer Whale) troop transport. Russia had transport helicopters with more range and payload capacity, but the Ka-60 was designed for stealth, with special coatings to reduce its radar and thermal signatures. The other machine was a massive Mil Mi-26T2 heavy-lift helicopter that had been converted into an air refueling tanker. The extra fuel it provided en route had allowed the smaller, shorter-ranged Ka-60 to reach this distant hidden base in the first place.

Spetsnaz Major Gennady Korenev squinted against the bitter wind keening across the ice. He was glad that Moscow had finally made up its mind to deploy his detachment. Forty-eight hours spent sheltering against brutal temperatures that routinely dropped to more than forty degrees below zero was more than enough to convince any rational man that this vast desolation was best left to the polar bears.

With Korenev in the lead, his group of elite troops marched briskly toward the waiting Ka-60. Its engines were already spooling up. Slowly at first, and then gradually faster, its rotor blades began turning.

Just before they climbed into the helicopter, Korenev’s second-in-command, Captain Primakov, touched his arm and pointed back toward the camp. “We’ve got company coming,” he yelled over the shrill, growing whine of the helicopter’s twin turbines.

Korenev turned and saw one of the Air Force officers who’d flown in to man this temporary camp hurrying toward them across the ice. His mouth twisted in frustration. “Oh, for God’s sake, has Moscow gotten cold feet?”

“Can’t be as cold as mine right now,” Primakov joked. “Maybe one of our guys left his toothbrush behind.”