The man with the lifted hands met them about a hundred yards out from the burning station. The hood of his parka was thrown back, and blond hair could be seen. Tomashenko recognized him from the photographs he had been shown. It was Smyslov, the Air Force officer who supposedly was subverting the operations of the American intelligence group from within. The man who should have been dead by now. Tomashenko’s eyes glittered as they narrowed.
Smyslov came within ten feet and dropped his hands. “I am Major Gregori Smyslov of the Russian Federation Air Force,” he stated crisply. “You will have been briefed about my presence. And you are?”
“Lieutenant Pavel Tomashenko of the Naval Infantry Special Forces. I was briefed about you, Major. I am pleased you have escaped.”
“It is not a matter of escape, Lieutenant,” the Air Force officer replied. “The parameters of this mission have changed, and your original orders concerning the American intelligence party are no longer relevant.”
“I have received no instructions from my superiors concerning this.”
“Our superiors are not aware of the true situation here. As the senior officer present I am changing your orders on my own authority, Lieutenant. You will break off this operation immediately. I will accompany you back to your submarine, where I will make my report and see that your orders are updated.”
“Major, my orders concerning the American intelligence team came from the highest possible national authority. As you should be aware, they have placed critical state secrets at risk. They are to be stopped at all costs.”
“And I said, those orders are no longer relevant, Lieutenant!” Smyslov took another step forward. “You will not, I repeat, not interfere further with the Americans. You and your men will return to the submarine.”
Tomashenko’s voice cracked. “They’ve killed my men!”
“The incident at the crash site was…regrettable,” Smyslove replied, continuing his advance. “As for the fight that has just occurred, you may rest assured that your men fell honorably in battle with the enemies, the true enemies, of Russia.”
“I have some question as to just who our true enemies are, Major.” Tomashenko spat out Smyslov’s rank.
“As you should, Lieutenant.” Smyslov’s green eyes bored into his. “Now, stand down your men and I will tell you.”
“No, Major. I will obey my standing orders and deal with the Americans! Then I will communicate with my superiors about a number of things, including treason!”
“I’m sure it will be a very interesting discussion, Lieutenant. But for now you will obey my orders and stand down!” Smyslov extended his hand to straight-arm the Spetsnaz trooper. Tomashenko’s finger, already curled around the trigger of his slung assault rifle, tightened. The AK-74 crashed out a single shot.
Major Gregori Smyslov buckled and fell unmoving to the snow of Wednesday Island.
The Spetsnaz officer had no more than a second or two to look down in triumph at the body of the fallen man. Then the numbing shock arrived a moment before the sound of the second, distant gunshot. Tomashenko looked down to find a palm-sized spray of scarlet in the center of his chest. Oddly enough, his last sensation before the blackness took him was one of great relief. He would never have to answer for failing the Motherland.
A hundred yards away, kneeling in the trail rut beside the bunkhouse, Jon Smith lowered the smoking SR-25 and swore in bitter futility at governments, secrets, and lies. Then he threw himself flat as a bullet stream kicked up a line of snow jets beside the trail.
More slugs snapped low over his head as a second squad automatic opened up, raking his position. Dragging his rifle behind him, he hunched backward down the trail a few yards, pressing low in the meager shelter of the compacted snow. Coming up onto his knees again, he spotted the movement of a Spetsnaz trooper crawling toward the station. Smith squeezed off two hasty shots before the covering gunners shifted fire to his new position.
Smith recognized a losing scenario when he saw one. The battery of light machine guns he faced could simply throw too much lead too fast. By using alternating overwatch fire, the Russians could keep him pinned while they worked around to a kill position on his flanks. It was only a matter of time.
Gregori Smyslov had traded his life for a few precious minutes of that commodity. Now it was his turn. He had to keep fire off the helicopter. He had to protract his death long enough to give Val and Randi their chance.
The two women heard the sudden hammer crash of gunfire beyond the station.
“Randi?”
“Get in!”
As Valentina threw herself on the deck behind the pilots’ seats, Randi ran a final eye over the cockpit instrumentation. She didn’t like what she saw, especially the battery rates. But nothing was going to get any better. She set her throttle position and energized the starter.
Overhead, in the power pack, the turbines sluggishly started their spin-up against the drag and inertia of cold metal. Slowly a rotor blade swung past, too slowly. Randi willed the tachometer needles upward into the green ignition zone. The battery amperage flickered ominously as the drain grew.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” She got off the starter before the final dregs of battery power bled away.
Valentina thrust her head and shoulders over the pilot’s seat. “Miss Russell, as the saying goes, failure is not an option here!”
“I know, damn it! Let me think!”
There had to be something! But it wouldn’t be anything in the book. The book said it was impossible to get airborne under these circumstances. The book said they were all going to die on the ground. It would have to be something else. An anecdote read once about a peculiarity of the Bell Ranger family of helicopters. What had it been? What had it been?
“Spin the tail rotor!” Randi screeched.
“What?”
“Spin the tail rotor by hand while I crank it! It’s connected through a direct driveshaft to the transmission. It’ll take some of the load off the starter motor!”
“What the bloody ever!” Valentina called back, scrambling out of the open side hatch.
In the cockpit sideview mirror Randi watched as Valentina positioned herself at the end of the fuselage boom, hands braced on the small, vertically mounted blade of the tail rotor.
“Ready!” the historian called.
“Right! Cranking now!”
Once more the starter whined. As the tail rotor began to spin, Valentina shoved down on it with all her weight, kicking it around. Shifting her grip, she repeated the move again and again. As the RPMs climbed she began to ride the blades single-handed, adding her strength to the electric starter.
In the cockpit Randi watched the tachometers as Valentina’s efforts were magnified by the transmission gearing. The needle edged upward, not quite to ignition range. Not quite. Not quite. The ammeter needles began to quiver.
“Get clear!” she screamed. “Get clear!” That was as good as it was going to get.
Randi saw Valentina throw herself backward and out of the way, and she shoved the starter switch into the ignition detente. Flame flickered in the engine throats. A soft, rising vacuum cleaner moan supplanted the starter whine, and the engine temperature gauges snapped to attention.
“Yes!” Randi twisted the throttle grip on the collective, and the turbines screamed in response, the main rotor blurring into its thudding beat, the Long Ranger coming to life.
Laughing, Valentina scrambled back into the cabin. Throwing her arms around the pilot’s seat, she administered a gleeful hug.
“What were Jon’s orders?” Randi yelled over her shoulder.
“Oh, he said a lot of things! Let’s go fetch him!”
Smith felt the contrast of the heat beating on his back, and the cold beneath his belly. He’d gone prone beside the flaming frame of the bunk hut, using the swirling smoke for cover. Two of the surviving Spetsnaz were still out ahead of him somewhere, firing short, economical bursts. The third was off to his right at about two o’clock and still working steadily around to an enfilade position. Soon the third man would be in position to lay down suppressive fire, and the first two men could start working in.