“That’snotthe bomb.”
Kowalski pulled the door shut as a muffled blast echoed up to them, near the back of the jet, by its fuel tank. A moment later, a massive fireball lit the world behind them as the tank exploded.
“That’s the bomb!” Kowalski clarified.
The blast wave caught the small aircraft. Flames and smoke burst around them. The Baikal got tossed like a paper airplane in a hurricane. Kowalski regretted his wisecrack toward the captain—because he had failed to fully latch his door.
It flung open as the plane cartwheeled.
With his hand gripping the handle, Kowalski got yanked out. For a death-defying moment, he hung in midair. Then the plane’s wing strut struck him in the gut. He wrapped around it.
A strobing view of the world opened below him.
The jet’s fireball had blasted across the ice in all directions, all the way to the hull of the icebreaker. In its blackened wake, bright fiery torches ran across the ice or rolled in agony. A snowmobile exploded, flipping through the air.
Then hands grabbed Kowalski and hauled him inside. Monk stabilized their flight into a swaying wobble.
Once inside, Kowalski slid his ass to the floor.
He tried to thank his rescuers—but all that came out was his lunch. It splattered between his knees and washed across the floor.
He wiped his mouth and shook his head.
Fuck the Arctic.
6:22P.M.
Turov stared up as the thunderous blast echoed away. The flash had been so bright it had wiped out the sun. Flames had shot inside theupper cavern, blasting through the distant archway and lapping across the roof before dying out.
“The transport plane,” Lieutenant Bragin concluded.
Turov slowly nodded.
Somehow the crew of the icebreaker had blown it up. The enemy’s shipboard munitions must have been more formidable than he had expected.
“What now, sir?” Bragin asked, clutching a fist to his chest.
Turov searched the dark city. Smoke fogged rooftops and billowed higher in spots. He returned his attention to closer at hand, to the four other soldiers guarding this small encampment.
“We don’t have enough manpower. We need to regroup. Topside. Wait for theLyakhovto reach us.” He stared at the bloody, blistered ruins of Sychkin’s face. The archpriest moaned and rocked, still in agony despite the heavy morphine injection. Turov shook his head. “There’s nothing more for us down here. Sound a retreat.”
Bragin fished in his armor and pulled free a whistle.
From the city, a pair of stragglers stumbled into view, haggard with smoke-stained armor. One had to carry the other with an arm under his shoulders. The injured one could barely use his leg. He was dropped leadenly to the ground.
Turov squinted at the ancient city.
How many more soldiers are still out there?
The answer came in a flurry of gunfire. The two arrivals lifted their rifles and fired into the remaining soldiers. The attacker on the ground strafed low. The other remained standing and picked off any who escaped.
Bragin yanked out his pistol, but the one on his knees fired, shattering the lieutenant’s hand with a burst. Bragin never screamed, just fell back a step, and turned. The lieutenant eyed a rifle abandoned on the ground. Before he could move, a huge dog unfolded from the shadows. It stalked with head low, teeth bared.
Off to the side, another appeared, same posture, same threat.
Bragin backed away, lifting his free arm in plain surrender.
The attacker on his feet closed in on Turov and centered his rifle athis chest. As the man lifted his face, Turov was surprised to recognize his former prisoner.
