When Takirak finished, Flynn lifted the handset to his ear. “Kodiak Six to Jaybird One.” In answer, a crackling squealing of high-pitched static blasted his eardrum. He winced and held the handset a little farther away before trying again. “Kodiak Six to Jaybird One,” he repeated. More meaningless noise screeched out of the receiver.

Tight-lipped, Takirak tried adjusting the angle of the antenna. He even switched frequencies. Nothing worked to establish a solid satellite link. After repeated failures, he looked apologetically at Flynn. “Sorry, sir. I can try moving to a different spot. Like I said, these hills could be blocking our signal.”

Frustrated, Flynn nodded. “Do what you can, Sergeant.” He got back to his feet. “Meanwhile, I’m going to go round up the rest of the men.” More than ever, he wished Mitchell hadn’t cut and run on them. The young airman had a real gift for electronics, one that the older National Guard noncom, for all his many other military and wilderness survival skills, obviously did not share.

“We’re moving out?” Takirak asked, sounding surprised. “Before we finish looking for that F-22’s flight recorder?”

“Yep,” Flynn said. He prodded the dead Russian general with the toe of his boot. “My bet is that this guy’s the key to a lot of the strange shit that’s been going on. The blizzard probably wiped out most of the tracks from his snow machine. But maybe we can find traces of blood or ski trails across pockets of snow where they were sheltered from the wind.” He retrieved his carbine. “So my plan now is to follow those traces and see just where they lead.”

Thirty-Four

Over the Brooks Range

A Few Minutes Later

The Ka-60 Kosatka helicopter clattered low above a frozen stream, following the gorge the watercourse had cut through solid stone and shale over untold millennia. Streamers of snow cascaded off cliff faces and whirled away through the air in its wake.

Spetsnaz Major Gennady Korenev glanced around the crowded troop compartment. His men were packed in like sardines, crammed shoulder to shoulder in the helicopter’s folding seats. Above their protective thermal masks, expressionless eyes returned his gaze. They were all trained and experienced killers. No one had any illusions left. This operation was going to be messy.

“Major! We’ve got a priority signal for you!” one of the Ka-60’s two pilots called over the intercom suddenly. “From GRU headquarters.”

“Patch it through,” Korenev ordered. The background noise through his headset changed to a thin, reedy whistling, indicating a live secure satellite connection. “Raven here,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“We’ve just received critical new intelligence from SIROTA,” the mission coordinator back in Moscow told him. “The situation has changed—”

Korenev listened attentively while the coordinator gave him the details. His eyes widened very slightly. Then, when Moscow signed off, he unbuckled and squirmed forward to crouch right behind the two pilots.

“What is it, Major?” one of them asked, peering back over his shoulder.

“Show me the planned LZ on your navigation display,” Korenev demanded.