“Well . . .” Flynn thought about swearing and then just shrugged. There just weren’t enough cuss words in the English language to cover this situation.

From farther up the slope, Vucovich suddenly shouted. “Hey, Captain! Look at that!”

Flynn lifted his head and stared toward where the other man was pointing. There, off to the east, a flickering orange glow lit the darkness. Something was on fire out there, some miles away. Something where nothing should be. The isolated clumps of dwarf willows and spruce trees in this part of the world did not burn down in the icy, arctic winters. Not naturally anyway.

His eyes narrowed. One more damned mystery, he thought angrily. And probably one connected to that dead Russian general they’d been tracking before this battle erupted. He scuffed furiously at the snow with his boot cap. What the hell was he supposed to do now? They were dozens of miles from the nearest possible help, with no way to communicate with anyone. But if he didn’t do something soon, every injured man now in his charge was going to die—from either shock, their wounds, or the brutal, bone-chilling cold.

Thinking hard, Flynn walked down the slope to where the first of the Russians had fallen. He squatted down beside the dead man, noticing again how similar their uniforms and gear looked to that worn by his own troops. From a distance and in the dark, there was almost no way to tell them apart. His eyes widened slightly as the ghost of an idea wafted into his mind. Maybe there was a way he could solve several of his problems . . . with one risky move.

Suddenly excited, he straightened up. “Vucovich,” he snapped. “You and Santarelli and Kim start gathering up all the wounded. Heat up some MREs and get some food into them.” He whirled toward Hynes. “Put that MG down and grab a couple of those Russian weapons. You’re coming with me.”

Hynes stared at him. “Where to, sir? Where are we going?”

Flynn grinned at him. “We’re going to arrange a ride out of this hellhole, PFC.”

Thirty-Eight

Sharapovo Command Bunker, outside Moscow

That Same Time

Ferociously, Piotr Zhdanov ground out another cigarette. He fumbled the pack out of his jacket pocket. It was empty. Angrily, he balled it up and tossed it aside. From behind, one of his aides diffidently offered him a fresh pack. He waved it away. As it was, the inside of his mouth tasted like dust and ashes.

He glared across the table at Lieutenant General Rogozin and the head of the GRU, Aleksandr Ivashin. “Well?” he demanded. “Still nothing?”

Helplessly, both men shrugged. As yet, there were no new reports—either from the Spetsnaz raiding party they’d sent into Alaska, or from the stolen stealth bomber to confirm that it was headed back to Russia, now that they’d paid the ransom demanded for its release. Their last news from Major Korenev indicated that his troops had landed deep in enemy territory and were ready to pursue, intercept, and destroy the ragtag American security unit ahead of them. Nothing at all had been heard from Petrov or his mysterious backers.