Gray’s finger rose to touch his lips, feeling the lingering bruise of her kiss. It was as if Seichan were pouring all that was unspoken between them, expressing her fears and hopes.
He lowered his hand.
It had also felt like good-bye.
52
May 14, 6:19P.M. ANAT
East Siberian Sea
Kowalski crouched by the side door of the aircraft. “It’s now or never,” he hollered up to Monk, who continued to pilot the Baikal. “If we keep circling, I’m going to hurl all over my fine work.”
“Then get ready,” his teammate called through the crowded cabin.
Captain Kelly leaned over Kowalski’s shoulder. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
Before he could reply—which was going to be a firmeff-you—another interceded. “Looks good to me,” Ryan said.
Kowalski rolled his eyes, which made his stomach churn worse. “Let’s get this over with. If we’re going to be shot down, I’d like to do it on a full stomach.”
Earlier, on the flight back to thePolar King, after the sabotage of the Russian patrol boat, a midsize jet had swept through the fog overhead. Its passage was noted by the hot swirl of the plane’s contrail through the icy mists. Luckily, Monk had been sticking to his previous route, skimming the ice cap. The maneuver kept their small craft from being spotted.
Afterward, Monk had sped them deeper into the fog. A short time later, they all heard the concussive blasts of grenade fire. It reached them through the preternatural acoustics of the polar region. It was easy to conclude what was happening.
TheKingwas under siege—but it was a tall castle to breech.
Or so they hoped.
Kowalski and the others had compared notes, trying to judge how many Russians could have been aboard the midsize jet. The conclusion was that there were not enough to commandeer the icebreaker. Likely, the arriving force had been ordered to keep the vessel locked down—until that heavily armed patrol boat or its mobile forces arrived and finished the mission.
The dive team’s earlier sabotage had bought their group a small window of opportunity. They had used it to come up with a plan—and to build their only weapon.
Kowalski stared down at the jury-rigged bomb. He had used spare parts from their prior mission. Unfortunately, the amount of leftover plastic explosives had been meager.
About the size of a goose egg.
Better be enough.
“Inbound now!” Monk called back.
Kowalski grabbed the door handle. Monk tipped the Baikal on its wing and aimed them out of the fog. They had been skirting the bank’s edge for the past forty-five minutes.
The waiting was over.
The Baikal burst free of the mists. The sunlight glared after so long in the fog. Still, Monk kept the plane on its attack path. He dove for the jet. It sat on the ice, about three hundred yards from the crimson bulk of thePolar King.
The Baikal managed a full thirty-three seconds of free flight—then gunfire strafed at them. The air-threat was finally noted by the ground forces.
Rounds pinged and ricocheted. Several tore through their wings. A few zinged through the fuselage, luckily missing everyone inside. Mitchell curled tighter. He had lost enough blood as it was. The man didn’t have any more to spare.
A rocket sped past one wingtip and arced back to the ice, where it burst into a fireball that spun into the sky.
“Now!” Monk hollered.
Kowalski shoved the side door open. The world sped under him.He lifted his makeshift device by a strap. The bulk of the jet appeared below. As the Baikal swept from its nose to its tail fin, Kowalski tossed his ordnance. The device spun, flapping its strap.
“Is that bomb big enough?” Kelly asked, still second-guessing Kowalski.
