That sound: it had been small-arms machine gun fire. There was an Uzi on the Algonquin’s wall. Was Red Cloud out test-firing it?
Paul cocked his head as he heard the sound again. It wasn’t just one man firing a machine gun. It sounded as if an entire squad was opening up—killing.
Terrorists, Paul thought.
Adrenalin pumped through him. He found himself clutching his rifle and staring through the darkness at the frozen oil rig.
“Think,” he hissed at himself.
How did the terrorists get out here? Okay, there were three ways: They walked. They flew or they swam under the ice. Or they came by submarine.
If it was by submarine, it had to be Iran. “Wait, wait,” he whispered to himself.
Terrorists could have bought a plane, a smaller one, or several such planes. They could have landed several miles away and marched to the base. Yeah, that made a lot more sense than coming in by submarine.
Paul scrambled to his feet and began jogging toward the base. The cold air hit his lungs almost right away. It reminded him of Quebec. Hard memories and harder-learned lessons began surfacing. There were enemy combatants out there. It made his flesh tingle with the fear and adrenalin that always hit just before he knew he was going into a firefight.
Paul chambered a round. He had the one magazine in his rifle and two more in his pocket.
Dirty terrorists, killing oilmen trying to make a living for their families. Paul wondered briefly if this was Greenpeace. Some of the environmental people could get pretty worked up about these things. They might even have more expertise than al-Qaeda terrorists.
Paul heard shouts then and heavier machine gun fire. It sounded like the enemy had set-up kill zones.
Are they shooting everyone?
Skidding to a stop, Paul panted as cold mist steamed out of his mouth. He’d better start thinking. If the terrorists had infrared goggles, he would be exposed as he ran straight into the base.
I can’t crawl all the way there.
He shook his head. He doubted they would expect anyone out on the ice so far away. If they had infrared sights, they’d check several times and find it clear. Later, he’d surprise them.
The drifting shouts and the heavy machine gun fire—Paul lowered his head and began running. Half-pay or full, he was here and the enemy was killing good guys, the ones he’d been hired to protect.
I have an M14. Now it’s time to use it.
Twenty minutes later, Paul was stretched behind a pressure ridge. He peered over it, his rifle propped against the ice. The M14 had its uses. It was the last American battle rifle, meaning the last that fired full-power rifle ammunition. In this case, that was .308 Winchester. The rifle had a twenty-round detachable box magazine, and altogether weighed about twelve pounds. It had good accuracy at long-range—about eight hundred and seventy-five yards with optics. Paul used the selector switch and chose single-shot fire.
In the darkness of an Arctic night, the oil rig looked deserted. Then he saw a trio of men exit one of the buildings. In their parkas and heavy pants, they looked like stuffed dolls. Something seemed different about them, though, strange.
Using his teeth, Paul pulled off a glove. Carefully, he took off the caps to both ends of his Aimpoint 3000 red-dot scope. There was a special oil-film over each lens, which was supposed to keep them from fogging. Holding his breath, Paul edged his eye to his end of the sight.
The roly-poly men leaped into view. Some of the base’s lights had been shot out, but not all. Using the illumination, Paul saw what was different. It was the hats. They were fur, but didn’t cover the ears. On the front of each fur hat was a single star.
Blacksand didn’t use a star on their hats, nor did the oilmen.
Paul studied the three men. They looked Asian. Maybe they were Chinese or Korean. Either way, that meant Greater China. As that hit him, Paul rolled onto his back and slid fully behind the pressure ridge. Staring up at the stars, he tried to think this through. Why would Chinese soldiers kill oilmen? How did the soldiers get here?
“Does it matter?” he whispered. The fact they were here was what was important, not how or even why.
Slowly, Paul rolled back onto his belly and propped the M14 on the pressure ridge. He studied the three soldiers. They carried QBZ-23s. Qing Buqiang Zidong.
Paul read gun magazines, and he’d read about the QBZ-23 before. It had been designed from the QBZ-95, first made in 1995. The QBZ-23 had been developed in 2023. Each assault rifle had a bullpup configuration, meaning the weapon’s action and curved magazine were located behind the grip and trigger assembly. The magazine held forty 5.8 x 42mm DBP24, which meant Standard Rifle Cartridge 2024. Older-style bullets used an eject-able cartridge case. The DBP24 was embedded in a solid cake of propellant, which was consumed once the bullet was fired. Case-less ammo lowered bulk and weight, and it increased the number of rounds per magazine.
Paul began scanning the camp. He saw dead men lying on the ice. There were oilmen and some Blacksand guards. By the nearest derrick, different Asians were attaching something to the metal. If he were going to bet, he’d call it explosives.
Paul turned his head away from the scope and blew the hottest breath he could muster against his fingers. He could go in and try to surrender. The dead men on the snow made it seem like a bad idea, though. If these were Chinese or Korean soldiers or Special Forces, would they bother taking him prisoner? He doubted it. So how was he supposed to get home?
Paul Kavanagh laughed to himself. He wasn’t getting home. Whom was he fooling? He’d taken a one-way ticket to the North Pole, or as near to it as he was ever going to get in his lifetime. Yeah, he’d been screwed many times, but this was the worst screwing of them all.
“Are you just going to take it?” he asked himself. Heck no. You’re going to fight and take down as many as those creeps as you can. Besides, they had cut his connection to Cheri. She needed the money and now she’d never get it.
“Say your prayers, boys,” he whispered. As he squeezed the trigger, Paul didn’t know it, but he was grinning fiercely.
The rifle boomed and kicked him hard in the shoulder. It was a relic, but the M14 was powerful and it was the right kind of weapon for what needed doing now.
One of the three roly-poly soldiers trudging to the derrick where the demolition men worked fell down hard. He had a hole in his back, between his shoulder blades. Paul saw it all in his scope and in the oil rig’s light. Swiveling the M14 slightly, he fired again. Another Chinese soldier hit the ice. The last one spun around, dropping to one knee and lifting his assault rifle. It had a fancy scope, fancy enough that Paul suspected it had infrared capability. A three-bullet burst ripped in the night from the QBZ-23. It told Paul he was dealing with a professional. Most surprised men would have fired the entire magazine all at once. That soldier had been carefully taught fire control.
As the three bullets ripped out of the assault rifle, Paul saw flames erupt from the barrel. Paul fired back, but missed. Finally, the enemy combatant had the wits to drop onto his belly. The Chinese or Korean soldier with the star on his fur hat put the fancy scope to his eye. He began sweeping his rifle, no doubt looking for the shooter. Holding his breath, Paul squeezed the trigger. It was the best shot of the night, a hole in the man’s face, making him relax dead on the ice.
Ducking behind the pressure ridge, Paul crawled like mad to a new location. There was no telling how many of the enemy were out there and there was no telling what kind of weaponry they had. A heavy machine gun would make quick work of him, pressure ridge or no.