It was worth it.
FORTY-ONE
Commander Jonathan Andreas brought his boat to the surface. They were calling in their After Action Report to COMPACFLT. He stood outside on the deck with the XO, the weapons officer, and the communications officer. It was a star-filled night, brutally cold, but Andreas was certain his men had never felt warmer.
After sharing the good news with Admiral Stanton, Andreas lifted his voice. “Gentlemen, let’s get below and break out the medicinal brandy. As morale officer, I’m concerned about the crew’s well-being in these arctic climes. But before that, I want you take in a deep breath and remember this day. I’m unsure if there ever was or ever will be a boat as busy as we’ve been in the past twenty-four hours or so. If we carried it, we launched it. If it came near us, we killed it. I’m proud of each and every one of you.”
The men shouted their agreement, then Andreas noticed that both photonic masts were up and the BRA-34 antenna was extended.
Worse — the running lights were on. His grin faded.
Someone would catch holy hell for that.
“XO, we have a problem!”
The Pave Hawk had transported Sergeant Raymond McAllen, his Marines, Pravota, and Major Stephanie Halverson back to Fort McMurray, where McAllen received treatment for his wounds at a field hospital. He sat up in bed, warmed by the portable heater and sipping on a cup of strong coffee inside the rickety tent.
His wounds were minor, one in each leg, and the rounds had been removed. In a few weeks — and with a little physical therapy — he’d be back on his feet. Palladino, Szymanski, Friskis, and Gutierrez had come by to see him, but strangely, Sergeant Rule had not, and the others had not seen him in the past hour. But then, finally, the sergeant came loping down the long aisle of beds, holding a small plastic bag.
“Here,” he said with a smile. “Souvenirs. The slugs that were in your legs. Took me a while, but I got them for you.”
“Uh, thanks. Maybe I’ll make a necklace.”
“Really?” Rule grimaced.
“No, you idiot.”
Rule thought a moment, then finally chuckled. “Sergeant, I just wanted to thank you for the opportunity to prove myself.”
“You’re thanking me for getting shot?”
Rule shrugged. “I guess so.”
McAllen widened his eyes in mock seriousness. “Well, I hope I can return the favor.”
“That’s okay.”
Just then Halverson, who’d changed into a spare Marine Corps uniform with heavy jacket, approached the bed. “How’re you doing?”
McAllen smiled. “Better, thanks.”
“How are you doing?” asked Rule.
She shivered. “Finally thawed out.”
McAllen gave Rule a look: Go!
But the guy didn’t get it.
“Did you see the Russian when we left him?” Rule asked her. “That guy cracked me up. He was all smiles. Never seen a POW so happy.”
McAllen raised his voice. “Sergeant, you mind if I talk with the major?”
“Oh, yeah, oh, okay. Be good, man. See you later.” Off he went, with a little hip-hop rhythm to his gait.
“He’s a character,” said Halverson.
“He’s like a new pair of dress shoes. Stiff and squeaky. But he’s doing better than I thought.”
“I just came to tell you that you should expect a phone call. And this is one you don’t want to miss.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“American Eagle wants to thank you.”
“No kidding?”
“Yep. I have no idea why he’s made such a big deal of this, but when it comes to politicians, you never know what they’re thinking.” Her tone grew cynical. “Maybe we’re symbols of the American spirit.”
“Don’t sell us too short. Maybe we are.”
“That works well for your ego, huh?”
“And yours, too.”
She proffered her hand. “Well, thank you. I mean it. I hope we can stay in touch.”
He took her hand, shook firmly. “I hope so, too. Do fighter pilots ever date Marines?”
She grinned, turned away, then glanced back over her shoulder and said, “Only the cute ones.”
Sergeant Nathan Vatz had been evaced back to Grand Prairie, and the nurses were applying the cast to his left leg when he got the call from Sergeant Marc Rakken’s vehicle commander, Sergeant Timothy Appleman.
Twenty minutes earlier Vatz had tried to call Rakken, who wasn’t answering his cell. Then Vatz had put a call in to Appleman, whose number he also kept in case of emergencies.
In a somber tone, the sergeant described how Rakken had saved the entire NEST team through his selfless act of courage.
And Vatz just lay there, listening to the sergeant call his name over and over — because he just couldn’t respond to the news for a few seconds. “Yeah, I’m here. Thanks, Tim. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Nate, I’m giving this to you for two reasons: first, if one of us is going to make it, it’s going to be you.”
Vatz reached into his pocket and withdrew Marc’s balisong. He clutched the knife in his fist and closed his eyes.
You knew it all along, didn’t you, Marc. And you knew it was worth it. You didn’t have any doubts. Not a one.
“We’ve still heard nothing from Moscow,” said General Laura Kennedy.
President Becerra leaned back in his chair aboard Air Force One and nodded. “I didn’t think we would.”
“They are, however, beginning to withdraw their forces from Alberta.”
“Good.”
“Yes, sir, but it’ll still take months to flush out all the special forces. And who knows how many spies could have infiltrated the area.”
“Understood. We’ll work with Emerson to address that issue and the reconstruction issues. I suspect he’ll be quite upset over the highway and the bridge.”
She winced. “Oh, yes, sir. I’ll update you again in one hour.”
“Thank you, General. Now I need to call a very skilled Marine Corps sergeant who got our pilot out.”
“He’ll appreciate that, sir.”
General Sergei Izotov massaged his bloodshot eyes as he sat in President Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin’s office.
“It’s confirmed,” said the president, his cheeks growing fiery red as he turned away from his computer screen. “The Romanov has been destroyed.”
Izotov shook his head. “She had a deal with her brother, and that fool got himself killed.”
“She needs to join him in hell. I don’t care how many agents you employ. I want her found. And if they can’t capture her, they should kill her. Do you understand, General?”
“Completely. They’ll return the body to me. I want to look into her dead eyes and be sure.”
Kapalkin glanced back to his screen, began tapping away on his keyboard. “Now, there are other ways to gain control of those reserves. Has Vasiliev called you back?”
“Just two hours ago.”
Alexi Vasiliev, aka William Bullard, was a Russian mole and member of the Canadian Parliament.
“How much money and time will it take?”
“He’s not sure yet, but Prime Minister Emerson’s handling of our invasion has been very unpopular. I’m confident that Mr. Bullard will one day become the next prime minister of Canada. But as we discussed, this is the much slower, perhaps even more expensive route.”
Kapalkin nodded slowly. “Well, General, I’ll leave you to your interrogations.”
Izotov nodded and dragged himself from the chair. The conversation could have been handled via video phone, but Kapalkin wanted to punish Izotov for the Alberta debacle and force him down to the office.
Moreover, Kapalkin had ordered that every employee of the GRU be tested once more for loyalty — including Izotov himself. It was an act of sheer paranoia and an insult, but Izotov had his orders — and he had the Snow Maiden to thank for everything. His fingers itched to get around her throat.