Almost zero, he corrected himself. He glanced over at the Spetsnaz commander, who was waiting.
“You will take the Stinger,” Rogov ordered. The Spetsnaz commander’s smile deepened.
“You see anything?” the pilot asked.
The copilot shook his head in the negative. “Not a damned thing except ice and water. Too damned much of both.”
Toggling on the ICS switch, the pilot said, “You happy now?”
Eel glanced over at the technician, who shook his head wordlessly. “We’re not detecting anything,” Eel admitted reluctantly. “One more circuit, just to make sure. Then we’ll head home.”
“That’s all it will be, then,” the pilot said. “Flying this low — I’m not doing anything that gets me below a real healthy reserve on fuel. Not over this water.”
“Understood. If someone’s down there, they ain’t talking now.”
As the aircraft started its final circuit over the island, cruising at barely three thousand feet above the land and water, Eel stared out the small side window at the rugged, desolate terrain, wondering what it was that made him so uneasy.
From his concealed position in the scree located at the base of the cliff, Rogov watched the black speck grow larger. Within minutes, he could distinguish the stubby-nosed profile of a P-3 Orion.
He nudged the Spetsnaz commander at his side, who looked over at him, annoyed. “You see?” Rogov pointed out. “Had we used the radios, they could have undoubtedly triangulated on our position.”
The Spetsnaz commander shrugged. “That will not make any difference in a few moments.” He shrugged himself up off the ground and raised the Stinger missile tube to his shoulder.
“Look! Over to the right!”
Eel moved over to a starboard window, trying to see what had excited the two pilots.
“I saw movement — I know I did,” the copilot’s excited voice said. “Just near the base of that cliff. In the rubble.”
Eel brought the binoculars up to his eyes and trained them on the area. Nothing, nothing, nothing — wait. He tweaked the binoculars into sharper focus. Against the shades of white and gray that made up the arctic landscape, an odd shadow protruded at an awkward angle. He looked at the ice above it, trying to decide what escarpment would cast such a — damn it!
He snatched up the nearest microphone and shouted, “Get us the hell out of here! There’s someone with a Stinger missile down there.”
“How can you be so sure?” the copilot’s surly voice came over the circuit.
Eel felt the P-3 jerk sharply upward as the pilot ignored his fellow aviator’s question. The pilot had been around long enough to know that if the TACCO wanted the aircraft out of the area, it was better to just do it and ask questions later. Explanations took time, and sometimes a few seconds made the difference between life and death.
“Altitude, now!” Eel insisted. “Just shut the fuck up and-“
The black cylinder nestled among the chunks of ice moved, shortening in length as the deadly firing end pointed directly at them. He stared at it with horrified fascination. The heat-seeking warhead carried enough explosive power to knock the wing off a P-3, or to seriously damage an engine. Even if the aircraft managed to stay airborne, what might be a minor mechanical problem or minor battle damage in these climates could soon turn deadly. He stared at the missile launcher, trying not to think of the barely liquid water beneath them. If they went in — no, he couldn’t think about that. They were as good as dead if they had to ditch the aircraft. In these waters, they wouldn’t even stay conscious long enough to escape the sinking airplane. They would be unconscious and drowning before they could reach the hatch.
“Flares!” he shouted. “Flares, chaff, and altitude — now,” he ordered.
The angle on the deck steepened as the P-3 fought for altitude. The range on the Stinger missile was only three miles. Three miles, and Pathfinder 731 was well within those parameters.
“He’s seen us!” The Spetsnaz commander stood, hefting the missile easily on his shoulder. “No other choice, now.”
“Stop it!” Rogov struggled to his feet, wondering when the ability to move so quickly had left him. “Didn’t you see the tail markings? That’s an American aircraft.” He put one hand on the rugged missile barrel.
“So?” The Spetsnaz commander bore-sighted the aircraft, trapping its tail end easily in the cross-hairs of the simple scope. “If she gets a report back to her base, our mission is blown.”
“No! If you shoot down that aircraft, there’s no chance. Do you think the Americans would let that go unavenged?”
The Spetsnaz commander shrugged, barely moving the missile off its target. “It is already compromised beyond recovery if they’ve seen us. You failed to follow my advice in this matter.”
“You agreed with posting the sentries. You insisted on it,” Rogov shouted.
“Yes, but I also said that they should return to the cave if contact were gained. You ignored that. No, this is all your fault.”
Rogov saw the man’s finger curl around the firing trigger as he braced himself for the recoil. “No!” he shouted. As the Spetsnaz’s finger tightened, Rogov slammed his fist down on the top of the tube.
The Spetsnaz commander was quick, but not as quick as the missile. As the tube started its downward arc, the missile left out, quickly gaining speed. Before it could recover from its initial firing vector, and begin seeking out the heat source that had called to it so sweetly just moments before, it impacted the barren ice and snow below. The fireball explosion blasted both men.
“You fool!” The Spetsnaz commander tossed the empty tube away, murder in his eyes. “The rest of the missiles are in the cavern. There is no time-” His voice broke off suddenly as he saw the pistol in Rogov’s hand.
“There are many chances, Comrade,” Rogov said sarcastically. “You had yours — now, I’m afraid, we’ll have to do things my way.”
The Spetsnaz commander moved swiftly, almost blurring in Rogov’s vision. But he’d been prepared for that. At the first movement, he fired, aiming not for the head but taking the more certain gut shot.
The Spetsnaz commander howled as the 9mm bullet gouged out a bloody path through skin, muscle, and vital organs. The impact spun him around, and he finally fell to the ice, on his back, leaving a trail of spattered blood behind him.
His guts steamed, and blood pooled quickly over the parka, freezing almost immediately. Rogov watched the color drain from the man’s face. He was tough, he would give him that. The Spetsnaz commander, even with half of his midsection in shredded tatters, was trying to climb to his feet, reaching for his weapon, still fighting despite the soon-to-be-fatal shot.
Rogov watched him, unwilling to get too near the man while even a trace of life remained in the body. He saw the man fumble in his pocket for his pistol, and ventured close enough to him to kick his hand away.
Rogov crouched down in the snow, still well out of reach of the Spetsnaz, and aimed the pistol at the man’s temple. “You don’t understand everything — not at all,” he said softly, pitching his voice low. He glanced around him briefly, wondering if the other men had heard the shot. Probably not with the silencer still affixed, although there was no telling how long it would be effective in this climate. Even now, he suspected, the cold had frozen the extended cylinder permanently to the barrel.