"Finally, if by some small miracle we're able to pull this off, I would expect that you would withdraw all troops from Canada. Completely. And then, once the Canadians have assessed their damages, we will discuss reparations."
"Becerra, let's not get ahead of ourselves," said Kapalkin.
"Oh, we won't. We'll also discuss reparations for every nation involved in the construction and operation of the International Space Station."
"Perhaps we should have kept to ourselves," said Izotov. "You Americans are all the same-always with your hand out. The world does not owe you anything."
"In this particular case, General, you owe us something: the truth. And if you're lying now, then the hand coming at you will not be empty-if you understand my meaning."
Izotov snickered. "I understand."
"President Becerra, protecting those Canadian reserves is in the best interests of both of our governments," said Kapalkin. "Let us focus on that and not use this situation as a bargaining tool to address other conflicts or desires."
"We're going to put everything on the table here. But you're right. We can't do anything until we're sure those nukes have been deactivated. General Kennedy? I'd like you to coordinate with General Izotov."
Kennedy nodded, though the awkwardness in her expression was clear.
"Gentlemen, we will be in touch with further details." Becerra broke the link with them and returned to the private channel with General Kennedy. "Let's get those NEST teams called up and in the air."
"Yes, sir. But, sir, have we just climbed into bed with the Russians?"
"They say to keep your enemies close. Can't say I like sleeping with them, though. Let's get to work."
THIRTY-FOUR.
Sergeant Raymond McAllen and his Marines, along with Khaki, the Russian helicopter pilot Pravota, and their rescued pilot Major Stephanie Halverson, had been hiking away from the chopper for about four hours, following the woods south, taking short breaks roughly every forty-five minutes.
The snow was knee-deep in a few spots, and it was slow going to be sure. Halverson had warmed up and refused to be pulled in the litter, though McAllen could tell she wouldn't last much longer. The Russian wasn't faring much better.
McAllen called the next halt, and they gathered below a stand of white spruce, hidden by the dense evergreen branches, while Gutierrez and Palladino took off ahead to reconnoiter the path and report back. Szymanski was keeping an eye to the rear, which thus far had been clear of pursuing ground forces.
Halverson's survival kit had been left behind, but the Russians began dogging them from the air, with the occasional Ka-29 passing over the forest, driving all of them into the snow for cover. McAllen had been forced to break radio silence to get an update on their pickup, and they learned they had at least two more hours to wait until their bird arrived. They could shave off some of that time by continuing to head south.
McAllen was qualified to guide in the chopper, but so was Khaki, so when their taxi arrived, the Canadian had volunteered for those honors.
As they sat there, huffing beneath the trees, McAllen offered up the last few pieces of his chocolate-coated energy bar to anyone willing.
Halverson took a piece and said, "You look like you're freezing. You want the suit?"
He shook his head. "I've been accused of being cold-blooded, so it all works out."
"I will take your suit," said Pravota, wincing over his zipper cuffs.
"She's not offering," snapped McAllen.
"That's right," Halverson growled.
McAllen turned back to her. "So, is this rescue everything you dreamed it would be?"
She glanced away. "They killed everyone at my base. Killed my wingman. Killed this poor family who was trying to help me. Damn, Sergeant. If you didn't pick me up, I would be dead by now. Don't sell yourself too short."
"Thanks. I just, uh, I'm not thrilled by the prospect of two more hours of hiking."
"Me neither. And can I ask? Why are we dragging along this guy?" She flicked a dark glance in Pravota's direction. "Why didn't we leave him back at the chopper? Or just shoot him and be done with it."
"A POW's a bonus in my book. And he's an officer. Not sure my boys will ever get a crack at capturing an officer again."
She grinned crookedly. "I'm sorry I interfered in your little professional development project."
Her sarcasm stung. "Hey, relax. We'll get you out of here." McAllen leaned forward to brush snow from his boot.
A shot rang out, punched into the tree trunk at his shoulder.
He threw himself forward and cried, "Get down!"
They were finally rolling into downtown Calgary, Ninth Avenue Southwest, and Staff Sergeant Marc Rakken signaled his rifle squad seated inside the Stryker to make their final gear checks.
Navy SEALs already in the city had asked that at least one Stryker platoon enter Calgary Tower, a tall column of concrete supporting a huge, conical-shaped observation deck. The tower was the city's most identifiable landmark, and it had been seized by several squads of Spetsnaz troops who were using it as an observation post.
After all, the tower was famous for offering the best views of Calgary, and those Russians knew it'd only be a matter of time before someone entered to flush them out.
And with no way to escape, they also knew they would be fighting to the death.
As Rakken sat there, waiting for the platoon to pull up outside the tower, he nervously flexed his gloved fingers. It had been an exhaustingly long ride. With some shuffling after the bombs had gone off during their trip up 95, his platoon was now spread among three Strykers, down a squad, and certainly a little demoralized.
Still, no more bombs had gone off after the initial ones, and their road march had proceeded without incident. Thorough searches of every vehicle had turned up nothing. Most of the officers were convinced that the bombs in question had been cleverly disguised as Stryker parts.
Hassa and Appleman were on the intercom, discussing two civilian choppers that for some reason had been allowed to circle overhead, when Appleman suddenly broke off and said, "All right, Sergeant. We're here. Get ready!"
The Stryker rumbled to a halt, the ramp lowered, and Rakken and his men charged outside, onto the street, then up and onto the sidewalk- Where they were suddenly accosted by their company commander, Captain Chuck Welch, who was joined by a group of five civilians, two women, three men, all middle-aged and being fitted into body armor by two vehicle gunners from the master sergeant's platoon. They each carried a heavy backpack.
"Sergeant Rakken, these folks have just put down and it's your job to get them up and into that tower."
"Yes, sir." Rakken's confused expression was hard to conceal. "But sir, they know we're coming. Power's been cut. No elevators. Got like eight hundred stairs to climb. They'll probably gas us, drop grenades, and-"
"You need to get them up top. Period. Do you read me, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir."
"We're putting snipers in the building next door, see if we can take some of them out from there, lob some flash bangs and gas inside the deck. We're going for a surgical removal here with minimal damage to the tower itself. Let me repeat: minimal damage. They've made that clear."
Rakken pursed his lips, gestured the captain away from the civilians. "Sir, what's going on?"
The captain sighed. "I got orders to get these folks up top and not destroy this beautiful landmark. I don't know any more than you right now. Off the record? Take a look at these people. Geeks with backpacks, heading up into a tower heavily defended by Russians. Think they might be looking for something?"
Rakken was no rocket scientist, but it didn't take him more than a few seconds to blurt out the word: "Nukes?"
Captain Welch gave him an ominous look. "They were circling overhead for thirty minutes before they put down. And they got carte blanche wherever they go. I asked for ID. They said they don't have to show us anything. There was a JSF XO here to vouch for them."
"Damn."
"Good news is I'm issuing all of you MOPP 4 suits and Cross Coms, with access to a pair of small recon drones we'll fly up each stairwell. They'll walk point as you go up."
"Nice."
"Get your men over there, get on those masks and protective suits, and finish gearing up."
"Yes, sir."
Captain Welch thrust out his hand. "Good luck, Sergeant."
Rakken shook hands, then his gaze swept up the tower, toward the top, reaching the impossibly high observation deck. He stood there a few seconds more, forgetting to breathe.
Everything about this said: get those people up there, but you are expendable.
Rakken had never felt more uncertain about an operation. But he couldn't show that. "All right, Spartan team! Here's what's happening . . ."
"Stay behind me!" shouted McAllen.
"No, I see one right there," cried Halverson. She knew that the next time that Spetsnaz troop behind the tree rolled out, she'd have him.
And she wasn't going to let Mr. Macho Marine rob her of a little payback.
"Major, get your butt back here! We didn't come this far to lose you now!"
The Russian appeared, raised his rifle, and Halverson, who was armed with McAllen's pistol, fired two shots, striking the Russian in the left cheek. He slumped. She ran- Right back behind McAllen's position.
"Jesus, lady!" he cried.
"I ain't no lady," she shouted back. "Not today!" She dropped down at his side and said, "Two squads. I saw a few of them shifting to our flank."
"I know," the sergeant said. Next to McAllen sat Pravota, who'd been gagged since he'd been screaming to the Russians after they'd fired their first shot.
The rest of the Marines were out there, somewhere behind them, engaging more of the Russians. They must have been spotted by one of the chopper crews, who'd set down and dropped off their troopers.
"Any chance of our ride coming a little early?" she asked him.
"Yeah, right. Hold on." He got on his radio, began talking to the others. Outlaw this guy, outlaw that guy. All Halverson wanted was to bail. Now. She'd drawn her blood, was ready to go home now.
If it wasn't too late.
When he finished on the radio, he glanced sidelong at her and said, "We need to make a break for it. Ready?"
She nodded.
"Let's go!"
Major Alexei Noskov stood in the hatch of the BMP- 3K Rys, the reconnaissance version of the infantry vehicle equipped with a 30 mm gun and radar. His was the lead BMP of the entire battalion. And much to the chagrin of all the other officers, he'd insisted on riding at the tip of the spear.
The other officers were afraid of him, aware of his contacts in Moscow, aware of his temper.
Of his rumored insanity.
He chuckled aloud as he glanced right toward the sun lowering on the horizon. He took in some meager warmth, then lifted his binoculars once again.
The town of High Level stood just a kilometer away, with a pathetic roadblock strewn across the highway.