Beaman swung the tiny boom microphone in place and answered, “Martinelli, is that you? Where the hell are you?”

The answer was a complete surprise.

“We’re in the Hip. Give us a vector so we can pick you up. We gotta be quick before the air controllers get suspicious.”

In less than a minute, Beaman, Johnston, and the rest of the team were aboard the helicopter and Hall was once again flying toward the Polyarnyy Sub Base. So far, the air controllers were attributing the helicopter’s erratic course to the “badly wounded” pilot. Martinelli reinforced the idea with carefully spaced groans and short reports of pain, death, and general mayhem. He assured them the squad had wiped out the threat on the bluff.

Hall brought the Hip in low and slow over the base. The team took advantage of their unique approach to better orient themselves on the base’s layout. The metal shed where they had last seen President Smitrov was a kilometer from the helicopter landing pad. So far, the hijacked chopper was proving to be a godsend. It would have been next to impossible to get this far unnoticed. It would have been even tougher to try to fight their way across the base.

Snow whipped up in blinding clouds as the Hip settled in the center of the cement pad. The wheels had barely kissed the ground when three ambulances screamed out of the hangar, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing as they slid across the open space toward the chopper.

The SEALs sat back in the shadows inside the Russian helicopter. They did not want to be seen until the last minute. Cantrell and Broughton tensed, ready to leap out of the left-side hatch and pounce on anyone driving up on that side. Martinelli and Dumkowski were ready just behind the right-side hatch.

The ambulances skidded to a halt beside the bird, their back doors already flung open. The unarmed medics leaped out and ran to the chopper, lugging stretchers and bags of medical supplies. Seconds later the startled medics were face-to-face with four armed SEALs. They dropped the gear and held their hands high. In minutes, the Russians were bound and shoved into the back of the copter. The SEALs hopped into two of the ambulances and drove off to find the Russian president.

The narrow streets through the submarine base seemed strangely empty. No office workers bustling about on important tasks. No sailors heading off to the bars in town. Even the windows of the buildings along the narrow streets stared vacantly back, dark and lifeless. Durov had locked the base down to keep word of his coup attempt secret as long as possible.