“It’s air-breathing, all right. It’s too slow and too low to be anything else.” Kennedy nodded. “You’re right.” He opened the shaving kit.
“I’d better notify Elmendorf,” Stedman said quickly. He wasn’t just serious or just excited anymore, Kennedy realized by the tone of his voice. He was frightened. “NORAD will have to be—”
“I don’t think so,” Kennedy replied calmly. He’d already screwed the silencer over the barrel of the automatic pistol as Stedman half-turned to face him.
“But, Lieu—”
The pistol barely moved in his hand as he pulled the trigger. Kennedy had never used a silencer before, and the only immediate evidence that the weapon had fired was the quiet phhumpt from its muzzle and the maroonish-black hole the slug made in T/Sgt. Willard J. Stedman’s forehead.
The NCO’s head was snapped backward by the impact and his body immediately lost all coordination, slipping out of the chair, knocking over a half-filled jar of peach preserves from the console and falling to the floor with a hard thud. Kennedy stood over him a few seconds, the weapon trained on the base of the skull, but there was no movement.
Lieutenant Kennedy then went into the sleeping quarters and, standing over each of the occupied cots in turn, fired once into his sleeping victims. When he returned to the ops room, the snoring had ceased.
The blip on the screen was still blinking as he dragged Stedman’s body a few feet away from the console and sat in the controller’s chair. He stared at the screen as he made his call to Elmendorf.
“Hello, six-eight, what’s up?” said a slightly bored voice on the line.
Kennedy checked his watch. It was exactly 0500 hours.
“Lieutenant Kennedy. We’ve got a bad generator here, throwing voltage fits. It’s screwing up our high-band reception.”
“So?”
“I’m requesting permission to shut down for a few minutes. We can fix it, but nobody wants to get near the damn thing while it’s fritzing like this.”
“Terrific.”
Kennedy took a long breath. “Okay?”
“Wait a minute.” There was a muffled conversation at the other end, then: “Kennedy, this is Colonel Clark. What’s the matter up there?”
“Generator, sir. We’re losing our number one. I can’t switch to the reserve without blowing out the main. We need to shut down for a few minutes to make the crossover.”
“Christ!”
“It won’t take long, Colonel.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes. Fifteen at the outside.”
“What’s your LRS?”
Kennedy watched the numbers change beside the blip. The plane was already descending. In five minutes no one would ever have known it was there. “Clear, Colonel. Everything’s clear here. Just like always.”
“All right, do it. But check in as soon as you’re up. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If World War Three starts, I’m blaming you.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Lieutenant Kennedy said. “I’m in control here.”
BROOKS MOUNTAIN RANGE
0505 HRS
70 MILES NORTH DEWLINE STA. #68
Major Sergei Devenko tugged at his arctic gloves. He was seated on a snowmobile, and a few feet away a red flare burned brilliantly. He adjusted his goggles and scanned the sky again with binoculars.
He could hear the sound of the plane but couldn’t see it yet. The binoculars were nearly useless in tracking the sound because it seemed to be everywhere — the icy tundra had that effect. Sound waves bounced crazily in this frigid stillness, but he used them anyway, searching the compass heading that would bring in the last plane.
Devenko never saw the aircraft. Instead, he saw the billowing parachutes. A few at first, then dozens, until the sky was Uttered with them. He tossed out another flare and started the snowmobile.
They were landing all around him and he shouted hoarse instructions as he maneuvered the machine across the tundra. They were dressed in identical white arctic gear — parkas, boots, gloves, helmets—
and cinched tightly across their chests were webbed nylon belts that secured automatic weapons to their backs. A single red star on their helmets, emblem of the Soviet Army, was the only identifiable marking visible on their gear. They hit the snow wordlessly, quickly burying their parachutes and moving out toward the glow of the flares. It was the proudest moment in Major Devenko’s career. These were the elite. The most dedicated, the best-trained and best-equipped fighting troops of the most powerful army in the world — the 9th Soviet Division, 51st Arctic Combat Brigade. So far the mission had been flawless. Nothing had gone wrong. Nothing would go wrong, Devenko was confident. They’d planned too long for this operation.
“Stop that yelling!”
Devenko swerved to avoid a paratrooper who’d just landed and rolled to his feet. The major recognized him immediately. His parka hood was light blue to distinguish it from the others. He was Col.
Alexander Vorashin, brigade commander and commander of this special strike force. The leaders’ leader, as far as the major was concerned.
“Welcome to Alaska, Colonel,” Devenko said in a loud whisper. He dismounted from the snowmobile as Vorashin quickly gathered his parachute. “It is a beautiful sight, all our—”
Vorashin silenced him with a look. “Your voice echoes like a howitzer here, Sergei,” the colonel said with quiet menace. “Shut up.”
Devenko bowed his head, nodded. “I’m sorry, Alex. The excitement—”
Vorashin nodded impatiently. “Of course.” A muscle twitched at the back of his jaw. “Please tell me about the vehicles, Sergei. We are wasting time standing here.”
Vorashin had been a friend for nearly twenty years. Devenko had never known him when he wasn’t in a hurry. His specialty had been American tactics. Perhaps that explained it. “Undamaged,” the major said.
“All troop and armament vehicles landed without damage. Two snowmobiles, however, refuse to start.”
“Bury them.” Vorashin glanced over his shoulder as two soldiers landed together a few meters away. He looked back to Devenko. “We don’t leave anything behind.”
“Yes, I’ll see to it.”
Another paratrooper in a light green hood approached and Vorashin hand-signaled for him to move toward the flare. The colonel swore to himself as the man passed. Devenko squinted after the soldier.
He didn’t recognize him. He was wearing the green hood reserved for communications officers, but the major didn’t recognize him. Devenko knew all the officers and most of the men. He turned quickly to Vorashin.
“Who—”
“A last-minute recruit,” the colonel said bitterly. “Nicolai Saamaretz. Major Nicolai Saamaretz.”
Devenko frowned. “I don’t understand, Alex. What—”
“He is Rudenski’s spy. He is along to watch and report.”
“Rudenski? What has the KGB to do with—”
“This is a KGB operation,” Vorashin said quietly. His eyes flashed anger.
Devenko didn’t understand immediately. “No one told me—” He stopped when the colonel gave him a grim look.
“Apparently it wasn’t necessary for us to know before,” Vorashin replied.
“But Colonel, General Rudenski isn’t our commander in chief!” Devenko cried.
“He is giving the orders, Sergei.” Vorashin said. “And we follow orders. End of discussion.”
The Soviet major nodded. “Yes, my Colonel. Anyway, the KGB is not our enemy.”
“The Americans are not our enemies either,” Vorashin said quickly. “Remember that, Sergei. Remember that well.”