Contents ( 55)
- In Memoriam
- Epigraph
- Cast of Characters
- Americans
- Russians
- Canadian
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Weapons and Acronyms
- Weapons
- Acronyms
- About the Author
- Also by Dale Brown
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
Then again, perhaps that was fair. After all, his own views of Voronin and Grishin were just the same. All along, this had simply been a race to see whose goals were achieved first. And what the other two men could never have realized was that his own hidden plan was always bound to come to fruition before theirs.
“Where’s everybody else?” the sentry asked.
Petrov nodded toward their camp. The camouflaged tents were completely invisible in among the trees. “Getting some rest.”
“Lucky bastards,” the other man said enviously. “Guess I pulled the short straw.”
Petrov laughed. “Maybe.” He turned away to look out across the valley. “Any more signs of trouble?”
“Nothing, Colonel,” the sentry assured him. “It’s been quiet ever since that other big plane made its pass and flew away.” He slapped at his arms and legs. “Mother of God, though, it’s cold enough to freeze my ex-wife solid.” His mouth twisted in a sour grin. “And I can tell you that she was one hot-blooded woman.”
“Well, cheer up, you’ll be warm soon enough,” Petrov assured him smoothly. “And rich, too.”
The other man’s smile broadened. “There is that.”
Pleasantly, Petrov held out the steel hip flask in his left hand. “Since that’s the case, how about a little nip to celebrate?”
The sentry’s eyes lit up with anticipated pleasure. Everyone in camp knew the colonel only drank the best. “Absolutely.” He pulled down his face mask and tilted his head back to drink.
Without hesitation, Petrov drew his 9mm pistol, shoved it hard against the other man’s stomach, and squeezed the trigger. Muffled by close contact, the sound of the shot was no louder than a car backfire might be somewhere far off.
The sentry’s eyes widened in horror. He dropped the flask and staggered backward. Brutally, Petrov kicked his legs out from under him. Then he raised his booted foot high and stomped down hard on the other man’s exposed neck, crushing his trachea with one swift, savage motion. For a few seconds, the dying man’s heels drummed spastically, kicking up snow . . . and then they stopped.
Petrov looked down at the blood spattered across his fur-lined parka with a hint of disgust. Then he shrugged. Before long, he would no longer need the coat to shield him from this miserable weather. He bent down to retrieve his flask, remounted the snowmobile, and sped off down the hill toward the sleeping camp.
Thirty-Five
Kodiak Force
A Short Time Later
Nick Flynn moved cautiously out onto a patch of dark ice just below a massive boulder half-buried in the hillside. One misstep and he’d take a long, painful spill down the steep side of this rugged spur. Slowly, he edged out into the middle of the ice patch and crouched down. His flashlight beam flicked out, catching what looked like a trail of rust splotches across the surface.
More dried blood, he thought with satisfaction. Along with parallel depressions sliced into the top layer of ice. Which meant they were still headed the right way. He shook his head in amazement. To have made it across this part of the slope without tipping over and tumbling end over end downhill, Major General Mavrichev must have been driving that snow machine flat out at top speed. The Russian general had also been incredibly lucky, Flynn decided, though that was probably the wrong way to look at it—considering that he was almost certainly dying at the time.