He made the calculations, the adjustment to the scope, and settled into his breathing pattern.
He considered himself a good shot, not a great one. He could fight an ODA team better than most of them, but again, he was no record holder on the firing range.
His finger got heavy on the trigger, and it appeared the squad leader was about to get up.
Vatz held his breath.
And fired.
The shot caught the Russian in the back of his neck, just below his helmet, blowing that helmet off and taking a large piece of skull with it.
As the dead man hit the snow, the two troopers nearby spun back in Vatz's direction, like good little soldiers, exactly as they should.
Vatz switched to full automatic, bolted to his feet, shifted out from behind the tree, and hosed them down with his first salvo, dropping one before he dodged to the next tree.
A pair of explosions resounded.
That was Band-Aid, initiating his part of the plan. While their attention was drawn to the rear by Vatz, Band-Aid was moving in from the left flank and lobbing his frags.
And then Black Bear and the men inside joined the fiesta.
It was up to Vatz now to make sure he got out of their line of fire. He sprinted off to the south, making a wide arc through the trees, gunfire tracking his steps, shaving off bark, whistling by.
Vatz ran on currents of electricity, viewed the world through high contrast, smelled every particle of gun-powder. He suddenly turned, weaving through more trees, heading directly toward their right flank.
He spotted two troops, both trading fire with the guys in the terminal, who'd all in unison opened up with a barrage of rifle fire.
Vatz put the MR-C's grenade launcher to work, thumping one off to fall at the trooper's knees- Boom! The explosion tore them up, and they ragdolled it to the snow. The explosion tore them up, and they ragdolled it to the snow.
The remaining Spetsnaz seemed unorganized now, with at least three more turning tail and running straight toward Band-Aid. Vatz hit the ground, called up the medic.
Two seconds later, Band-Aid's rifle echoed.
"Black Bear, this is Bali, over."
"Go ahead, Bali."
"Hold fire. Move in. We got 'em on the run!"
Black Bear keyed his mike, and Vatz heard the hoots and hollering of the others. "Roger that, Bali. Great job!"
Vatz took a deep breath and smiled inwardly. It was about time something went right.
But the victory celebration lasted only a few seconds before Band-Aid's tense voice came over the radio: "I'm hit! I'm hit!"
THIRTY-ONE.
Major Stephanie Halverson's eyes had grown so heavy, her muscles so sore, that she staggered to a halt in the middle of the frozen river, leaned forward, and tanked down air.
Ten seconds, she told herself. Just ten seconds Just ten seconds.
The wind had picked up and had been blasting snow in her face. Her cheeks and nose were going numb. She shivered and pulled up the scarf, turned back, squinted at the shoreline she'd left behind.
Through veils of snow she made out two Russian BMP-3s rumbling on their tank-like tracks down toward the riverbank.
Her little trek on the snowmobile had helped buy her time, but once she'd switched on the beacon, the Russians had also picked it up. Those infantry squads had probably been tasked with both finding her and performing a reconnaissance mission in this area, killing two birds with one stone, unfortunately.
Reflexes took over. She turned, broke into a run. The opposite shoreline seemed impossibly far away. Her legs were back to burning as she imagined a sniper somewhere behind her casually lining up to take his shot.
At least the end would be quick.
What was she thinking? She wouldn't give up. Not yet. Not after coming this far. Not after three innocent people had already died!
Screw the pillowcase, the supplies. They dropped into her wake.
She would reach the forest by sheer force of will. They couldn't stop her.
Anticipating a gunshot, she veered right, then left, still jogging, her boots nearly slipping on the ice beneath the powdery snow.
She glanced back. The Russians were still coming, frozen river notwithstanding. The BMP drivers were testing the ice, while dismounted troops started toward her.
As the snow rose to her shins, her pace slowed, but she swore and kept weaving erratically, kicking forward now. Then, suddenly, a crack made her flinch and gasp.
The gunshot echoed off.
She didn't feel anything. Maybe he'd missed. Or maybe it'd take a second for the pain to come.
Automatic weapons fire resounded- But it was joined by the strangely irregular thumping of rotors.
The afternoon sun blinded her for a moment, but out of the glare came a helo swooping toward her.
For a split second her spirits lifted. They'd sent someone. She'd make it.
Then the chopper banked slightly, and she got a better look at the fuselage, the red star, the terrible and familiar outline of a Ka-29. Now those rotors seemed to pound on her head, made her want to scream.
"Oh, yeah?" she cried aloud. "I don't think so." She kept on running as the chopper came around once more, descending from behind.
As its shadow passed directly overhead, she extended her arm and fired, the round ricocheting off its hull.
They would land in front of her, cut her off from the forest.
She fired again, smelled fuel, and thought maybe she'd scored a hit.
The helo slowed to a hover, began to pivot, and Halverson wasn't sure what to do now. Break left? Right?
"She's firing at us," hollered Sergeant Scott Rule.
Sergeant Raymond McAllen didn't need the young superstar to tell him that. But damn, McAllen hadn't anticipated this part, where the pilot assumed they were Russians about to capture her and decided to shoot at their already malfunctioning helicopter.
They were still hovering, and McAllen ordered the pilot to land, but the Russian shook his head, second chin wagging. "How thick is the ice?"
"It's thick. Land!"
"I don't like this ice."
"Khaki, can you land this thing?"
"Okay, I put down," said the pilot with disgust. "But if ice breaks, your fault!" He leaned forward and spoke rapidly into his microphone.
"Damn it!" Khaki jolted forward and switched off the unit.
McAllen shoved his pistol into the back of the pilot's head. "Put this bird down!"
Then he called out to Rule, telling him to open the bay door and throw down one of his Velcro patches, the American flag.
All their uniform patches and other black insignia could be removed via the Velcro, depending upon the mission and what the lawyers had to say about operations in a particular nation. Sometimes you had to show the patches, sometimes not.
Rule slid open the door, and as they got even lower he tossed down the patch, then started closing the door, just as she fired again, the round pinging off the jam.
Rule cursed and fell back onto the floor.
"Is he hit?" asked McAllen.
"I don't think so," shouted Gutierrez.
"Look, she's got it," said Khaki. "She sees us! She knows. Here she comes."
Halverson thought she was dreaming as she ran toward the helicopter, its gear just setting down on the ice. She clutched the patch in her hand and broke into a full-on sprint.
For a moment she had doubted the patch, thought maybe the enemy was luring her into the helo, but that was thinking too hard. If there were Russians on board, they would rather take her by force, not cunning. It would be a matter of ego. This was her rescue.
The gunfire behind her had ceased. Those fools thought their comrades in the helo had captured the "Yankee pilot." They had no idea that somehow, some way, Americans had taken control of an enemy helicopter. She had almost waved after picking up the patch but thought better of it. The troops behind would find that highly suspect.
With the rotors now blowing waves of snow into her eyes and clearing a circle around the helo, Halverson leaned over, ditched the survival kit, and made her last run for it, coming onto the rotor-swept ice.
Just twenty yards now, and her gait grew shaky as her boots found little traction. It was all she could do to remain upright.
Boom, down she went. Took a hard fall. Right on her butt. The impact sent tremors of pain through her back.
Get up!
The helo's side door slid open, and a helmeted soldier was waving her on.
She rose. Gunfire began pinging off the chopper. Damn it. The Russians had figured it out.
Okay, back on her feet now. A few rounds sparking here and there.
Ten yards. Five. That soldier was right there, his face obscured by a visor.
Abruptly, the helo tipped slightly away from her, rotors lifting back- Then she saw what was happening. The ice below had cracked, and the helo's gear was sinking into the water, chunks of ice already bobbing around it.
But the cracks were on the back side of the helicopter, so Halverson kept on running. Just fifteen feet now. Ten. Five.
The soldier's mouth was working: come on! come on!
Halverson increased her stride.
The soldier leaned out as far as he could, extending his gloved hand.
What was that sound? Oh, no Oh, no . . . The ice began splintering at her feet. . . . The ice began splintering at her feet.
She took three more steps, heard a chorus of cracking sounds, then she began to slip and tried shifting to the right- Only to find herself atop a small raft of ice that floated freely, her weight driving one side down.
Instinctively, she reached out. Nothing to grab on to, no one to help. She began to fall.
Oh, God, no . . .
The water rushed up her legs, over her chest, and broke over her face, the sensation like a billion fingernails of ice poking every part of her body.