Band-Aid thrust out his hand. "Thanks, Nathan."
"Any time, brother." He turned to Beethoven. "I'll get the portable litter ready. We'll get him back to the terminal."
A voice sounded in Vatz's earpiece. "Bali, this is Black Bear. Just got a report from Zodiac Six. We have at least a battalion-size force coming down from Behchoko. ETA on their first elements is four hours, six for the rest of the battalion. We need to get back to the roadblock, see how much damage has been done. Zodiac wants to take a few men into the neighborhoods to recon their sniper positions. I want you to lead the roadblock team, over."
"Roger that. Any word yet from the Tenth?"
"They have sorties in the air, some already on the ground. Air support is en route, too, but no one's committing to an exact ETA yet. I've pressed them hard. I'm sure that battalion coming down has stepped up their plans."
"Roger that. We're bringing up Band-Aid to the terminal, then I'll organize the team. Send down some guys to get Captain Godfrey's body out of my truck. See you in a few, out."
"Hey, Sergeant, you know they're all talking about you," said Beethoven as he helped Vatz get Band-Aid onto the litter they had just unrolled.
"Who's talking?"
"The rest of the team, that's who."
Vatz's tone turned defensive. "They all talking smack about the new team sergeant, eh? Heard about what happened to me in Moscow?"
"They're saying you might be the best operator they've ever seen."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm not kidding."
Vatz gave a little snort. "You guys haven't been around much."
"All I know is, I'm sticking close because you don't die. Put me on your roadblock team."
"My luck will run out. Either way, I always draw a lot of fire."
Beethoven grinned. "Sign me up."
"We'll see."
The Ka-29 slammed into the ground so hard that the booms supporting the landing gear snapped off.
The chopper slid forward, then came to a sudden halt, driving Sergeant Raymond McAllen hard against his seat's straps as a wave of snow crashed down over the canopy.
"Palladino? Gutierrez? Go get them!" ordered McAllen, bolting from his seat and opening the door. "Friskis? Szymanski? Security outside!" McAllen crossed toward the cockpit. "Khaki, how we doing?"
"I think we survived," mused the pilot, studying the gauges. "Still got some battery power. Good news: the fuel leak has been fixed."
"Yeah, since the tank is dry. You're a comedian." McAllen turned and slammed a palm on the Russian pilot's shoulder. "Well, Boris, you might get to see America after all."
"My name is Captain Pravota. Address me as such."
"All right, Captain, you can get up now, get to the back, and we'll fit you with a nice little pair of zipper cuffs."
"No need. I won't resist. Have I?"
"Just follow orders. You can take orders from a lowly sergeant like me, can't you?"
The old pilot frowned. "Just leave me here."
"Nah. You're coming. Everybody loves a defector."
"As one soldier to another, do me honor and shoot me."
"Aw, Captain, don't be so dramatic. The conditions in our prisons are way better than your barracks. You're going on vacation. Did you bring your bathing suit?"
It didn't matter that the helicopter had practically crash-landed and that Major Stephanie Halverson felt certain that it wouldn't be taking off anytime soon. It was all about getting out of the wind, getting out of the wet clothes, and getting warm.
The big Marine with the olive skin, who had introduced himself as Sergeant Gutierrez, carried her on his back into the helo. The other guy named Palladino carried the Marine who had rescued her. His name, she had learned, was Sergeant Rule, and his face was blue. If that was any indication of what she herself looked like, maybe frostbite had already set in.
They frantically pulled off her clothes, and for once she could care less about being naked. But they were gentlemen about it, ignoring her body and just helping her get into the long johns and then into the combat suit.
Oh, God, the heating system was unbelievable. She sat there on a rear seat, legs pulled into her chest, riding wave after wave of heat.
"I'm hoping you're Major Stephanie Halverson," said a steely eyed man with a touch of gray at his sideburns.
"Good guess."
"I'm Staff Sergeant Raymond McAllen, United States Marine Corps." He offered his hand.
She took it. "Thanks for . . ." She broke off.
"Well, yeah, I know, it's not much of a rescue. And we'll need to get moving pretty soon. I know you've been out there a while. We can set up a litter, turn it into a little sled, and drag you if we need to."
"I'll be all right. Moving is good. Thanks for the combat suit. But what're you going to do once we're out there? Sun's up, but it's damned cold with that wind."
"Guess I'll have to cuddle with the Russian."
"Don't make me smile. It hurts."
"Sorry, Major. Can I ask you something personal?"
"Uh, okay?"
"Are you a relative or friends with Becerra?"
She drew her head back in surprise. "I've never met him."
"Funny, because this TRAP mission came down from him. The President of the United States ordered my team to rescue you. Any idea why?"
She frowned. "You think I'm carrying secret intel that could end the war tomorrow?"
"Who knows?"
"Sergeant, I'm just a pilot who was training at the wrong time, in the wrong place. The president contacted me directly while I was up there. He wanted a SITREP. I don't know. Maybe he thought I was worth saving."
"Damn . . ."
"What, not a good enough reason?"
The sergeant shrugged. "I was just hoping for something . . . I don't know."
"Something more important than my life?"
"I didn't say that."
"It's okay, Sergeant. I am just a pilot."
"You must be one hell of a pilot."
Her brows lifted. "That I am."
He nodded then regarded his men. "All right, people. We'll assume those mechanized troops are still coming for us, on foot or otherwise. Let's get ready to move!"
"Sergeant?" called Halverson. He glanced back to her. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome. And if you need anything-"
"Just get me home."
He winked. "Count on it."
It was midnight when General Sergei Izotov was wrenched from sleep by a video call from President Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin.
The president appeared disheveled and incensed. He rubbed sleep grit from his eyes and said, "General, I have Snegurochka on the line."
"Does she know what time it is here?"
"Obviously, she does."
"What does she want?"
"She wouldn't say. She wanted to speak to both of us together. I hope, for your sake, General, that everything is going as planned."
"I'm sure it is."
"All right, I'm putting her through."
The screen divided into two images: Kapalkin on the left and Colonel Viktoria Antsyforov, that dark-haired beauty, on the right.
Antsyforov was wearing an expensive fur coat and hat, and stood near a tree in a wooded area draped in snow. Her breath steamed in the cold air. "Hello, gentlemen."
"Hello, Snegurochka," said Izotov. "I hope you've called with good news."
"Yes. There is no way we will lose this war."
"Very well, then. Stand by, and we will contact you with the confirmation code-"
"Uh, no, General. When I said we we, I wasn't talking about you." She shifted, to the left, allowing a man dressed in a green cowl to appear: Green Vox. "I was talking about the Green Brigade Transnational."
"Hello, purveyors of death," said Green Vox.
Izotov threw up his hands. "Colonel, what now?"
"There is a suitcase in Edmonton, another one in Calgary. Ten kilotons in each. As planned. But now we control both of them. And again, when I say we we, I mean us-not you."
Izotov spoke through gritted teeth. "Colonel, this terrorist scum is merely a subcontractor, nothing more. I'm unsure what you're trying to say."