The SEALs sat, tensely waiting for any reaction as they raced down the narrow streets of the sub base. Broughton and Johnston manned firing ports on either side while Hall worked on the wounded president.

It was anticlimactic when they roared right through the main gate and headed down the road toward town. No one fired a shot or even called out in alarm. A BTR leaving the base was a matter of little curiosity. They were well down the road and hidden behind a bend before any of the SEAL team breathed again.

Beaman tapped Martinelli and yelled to be heard over the howl of the BTR’s engine, “Tony, head for as close as you can get to the rendezvous point. We need to get our guest some real medical care. I don’t think we can trust any hospitals around here.”

Martinelli gave his skipper a thumbs-up, then steered the bulky, bouncing vehicle on down the rutted road.

Chapter 36

Admiral of the Northern Fleet Alexander Durov slammed down the phone so hard the glass vodka decanter on his desk rattled. This was unbelievable. Somehow, soldiers had shot their way right into the inner reaches of Polyarnyy and had managed to steal President Smitrov right out from under some of the best troops Russia had.

The admiral was speechless, too stunned to even scream at the poor underling whose task it had been to relay the bad news to him. Reports were still coming in, the voice on the phone had said, but it appeared that someone ambushed a squad of his best naval infantry in the hills above the base. The perpetrators had mauled the squad and stolen their helicopter. Then the invaders brazenly flew the thing to the base, shot up another squad, took Smitrov from them, and, in the process, managed to kill that idiot Gregor Dobiesz.

Their mayhem complete, they disappeared into the night, despite the most sophisticated and absolute security of any military installation in the country.

It was astonishing. Who could be behind this bold, improbable attack? No one outside the admiral’s own closest conspirators even knew that Smitrov had become his prisoner. Only he and the guards who held him knew of the president’s precise whereabouts. Word had just been leaked within the hour that the president’s plane was missing on its return to Moscow. There was no way anyone within the government could have any idea of what was going on.

Yet some powerful and well-trained force had been able to carry off this daring attack. The skill and daring meant they were military. They could not have been from the Russian Army. Smitrov kept close contact with the Army. The few remaining specially trained teams were busy down in Chechnya.

The timing was puzzling as well. Smitrov had only been a prisoner for forty-eight hours. Someone found out about the president’s capture, then planned and executed the attack in less than two days.