Inside the cabin of the Baikal LMS-901, Tucker leaned behind the two seats at the front. A young Russian named Fadd commanded the pilot’s seat. Monk sat next to him at the auxiliary controls. The engine revved into a high-pitched whine as the propellers spun up and started dragging the aircraft across the ice.
As they taxied up to speed, Tucker studied the sky, watching for another helicopter, but the dense snow and lack of sunlight kept the world pressed tight atop them.
Monk focused to the starboard side, where the Tigr and the lone snowmobile had vanished. From the pinch of his eyes, it looked like he might be regretting his decision to leave Father Bailey’s side.
Unfortunately, they were both searching the wrong way.
Fadd cursed and stiffened.
The Baikal sped across the ice. The shoreline rapidly approached, limiting their runway. But that wasn’t the problem.
Out of the gloom, a huge bulky shape crashed through the tree line and careened out onto the ice, trundling toward them.
Tucker recognized it. He had spotted it earlier at the base, during Marco’s short walk. It was a Russian BTR-80A armored personnel carrier. Atop it was mounted a 30mm cannon. Luckily, at the moment, the Russians seemed just as surprised to see them.
He knew these APCs could go sixty miles per hour, especially over open roads. The base commander must have dispatched it out the main gates, sending it to search for them. Then the fiery crash of the helicopter had been spotted and drew the APC—right into the Baikal’s path.
Fadd reached to the throttle. As he started to pull back on it, Monk leaned forward and shoved it back forward.
“No,” he warned. “Keep going.”
Tucker knew he was right. They were committed. The plane and the APC raced toward each other in a terrifying game of chicken. The massive cannon swung toward them.
Tucker cringed.
They needed to catch air fast, but their speed was still too slow for liftoff.
The cannon fired, ripping 30mm rounds across the ice. The first rounds struck the windshield, driving everyone low—then the lake shattered under the APC’s fifteen-ton bulk. Its nose dipped, sending the remainder of the barrage tearing into the ice in front of the Baikal.
Their speed increased.
The plane’s tires lifted, then settled again.
Still not enough...
By now, Kowalski had come up front. He spotted the APC. “For once, I’m not the one falling through the ice.”
Unfortunately, such vehicles were amphibious. The APC settled into the water, but it failed to sink. As it buoyed up, it tires paddled. Its front end rammed through the frozen water, becoming an icebreaker, forging toward them.
Still, the mishap had bought their team a few extra breaths as the soldiers inside struggled to compensate.
The Baikal finally caught air—and kept it.
Fadd brought their nose up into a steep climb, angling to the side.
Below, the cannon pivoted toward them.
They weren’t going to get clear in time.
Then a small shape raced into view below, flying across the ice. It was the double snowmobile, driven by Vin. The Russian thrust out an assault rifle, holding it one-handed, and strafed across the side of the APC. He could do no real damage. He was like a gnat attacking an armored elephant. Still, Tucker had ridden in such vehicles. He knew what such a barrage sounded like inside that steel drum.
Caught by surprise, the soldiers were clearly rattled, bewildered at which target posed the most danger. The cannon’s direction bobbled, reflecting that confusion.
It was enough.
The Baikal swept over the foundering APC and shot away, angling toward the White Sea.
Below, Tucker spotted the snowmobile vanishing into the storm, its mission accomplished.
