In the rearview mirror, Turov’s expression was dismayed, mournful, as he looked at the wreckage.
“Your plane, I’m guessing?” Tucker said.
The captain simply stared.
The team raced toward the blast site, drawn by the vehicles painted in red and black. The colors of thePolar King. The icebreaker looked intact, with a smoky stain across its hull on this side.
As they drew nearer, bodies in combat armor lay across the ice,burned, some still smoking. Tucker took little solace in the sight. These were someone’s sons or fathers.
He shook his head at the waste.
Tucker spotted a familiar grouping and aimed for it. They stood near the small Russian plane, the Baikal. The aircraft looked hard-driven, resting crookedly on the ice. A group of the crew carried another in a stretcher, rushing hurriedly toward the ship. The plane must have just landed.
Tucker led the other vehicles toward them. Once there, they all staggered out, or climbed off their machines. Captain Kelly spotted the ship’s doctor and hurried to her, pointing at the retreating crew. She was clearly needed aboard. She nodded, turned, and hopped on the snowmobile behind Omryn. The Chukchi crewmate also required more than a med kit to deal with his injuries.
As Tucker climbed out of the Snowcat, with Turov held at gunpoint, Kowalski met them. The big man covered his privates as Marco raced up and leaped, knocking Kowalski back a step.
Tucker looked across the chaos, the fires, the confusion. “Let me guess. Your handiwork?”
“With help from some friends.” Kowalski nodded to the bedraggled group by the plane. He then eyeballed Turov. “Looks like you’ve been making friends, too.”
Before Tucker could answer, a loud roaring rose to the south. Everyone froze, still shellshocked, fearful. Gazes lifted and searched the skies.
From the fogbank, a large helicopter burst into view, tearing through the mists and diving low. It was the Russian gunship—the Ka-27—from the patrol boat. It was designed to fight submarines and came with a battery of weapons, including depth charges and torpedoes. Enough to sink thePolar King.
The helicopter made a low pass, likely assessing the ground situation—then arced into a turn.
Gray rushed up to Tucker and Turov.
Seichan followed with Lieutenant Bragin, who dragged Sychkin along with him and dropped the man to the ice. The skin on the archpriest’sface was blackened, swollen, and bloated. His nose showed raw cartilage. His eye sockets were knots of raw tissue.
Kowalski cringed at the state of the man on the ground. “What the hell...”
Gray confronted Turov, pointing an arm toward the circling aircraft. “Call them off.”
“Why?” Turov asked calmly. “Despite conditions here, we still have the upper hand. Our patrol boat will arrive before much longer.”
Gray raised his other hand. He held one of Sigma’s encrypted sat-phones. “The solar storm has passed. Comms are wide open. I’ve been in touch with D.C. since we exited the mountain.”
Tucker stared up.
Gray lifted his phone to his lips. “Putting you on speaker, Director.”
As Gray held out his arm, the familiar voice of Painter Crowe addressed the Russian captain. Even coming out of that small device, Crowe’s voice was authoritative and assured.
“Fifty minutes ago, we acquired NOAA polar satellites with high-rez cameras. We have live feed of the area. Wave to the audience, if you’d like. It’s being broadcast to all intelligence agencies, and to a global audience if need be.”
Gray stared hard at Turov. “These are still international waters. The next action is your call. Halt hostilities now or risk a global war.”
Turov searched the skies, then looked back to the commander. His shoulders sagged, but he kept his spine straight. He held out a hand. “I’ll need a radio.”
Tucker felt a surge of relief.
Another did not.
Sychkin cried out, more moan than words, but one demand was clear and easy to translate. “Nyet.”
Gray ignored the priest, clearly not interested in his input.
