EndWar Part 10

"Good man, let's go."

Nine minutes later, the Florida Florida was completely submerged, banked to starboard, preparing to level off at five hundred and thirty-eight feet, and coming to course one-six-zero. was completely submerged, banked to starboard, preparing to level off at five hundred and thirty-eight feet, and coming to course one-six-zero.

All four cell phone text messages read the same: URGENT-CALL COMPACFLT/8085553956/3672.

Any submarine crewmember home-ported in Pearl Harbor would recognize the 808 prefix as the Honolulu area code. The COMPACFLT acronym didn't need any explanation.

"But sir, how do we verify?" asked the XO.

"Oh, the message is authentic," replied Andreas. "See those last four digits? Only my wife and the Honolulu National Bank know that's my PIN number. Good thing she picked that and not our anniversary date."

"I hear that, Skipper."

Andreas's expression and tone grew more serious. "Now, XO, let's surface again and make the call."

"Aye-aye, sir."

SIXTEEN.

General Sergei Izotov sat in the back of his armored Mercedes, the driver returning him to GRU headquarters after an earlier evacuation due to a bomb threat.

Izotov was about to access the GRU tactical database for the latest report when Major Alexei Noskov called via satellite video phone. Izotov tapped a key on his notebook computer to take the call.

Noskov had been rea.s.signed to their latest battle-front, his rosy cheeks and red nose showing clearly on the screen.

"The first transports are on the ground," he began, raising his voice, his breath heavy in the frigid air.

"Excellent, Major."

Behind him, in the darkness, Izotov could barely make out some BMP-3s, their 100 mm guns making them resemble tanks, rolling down the ramps of two AN-130s, the Motherland's latest fleet of huge cargo aircraft capable of landing on unprepared airfields-like the frozen, snow-covered ground of the Northwest Territories. Dozens of soldiers scrambled to prepare each vehicle once it was on the ground under the steady hum and wash of the cargo plane's colossal engines.

Noskov grinned. "I have more good news. Our helos have landed in Behchoko, and operations have begun there."

Izotov tapped the screen and brought up the maps.

Behchoko was located on the northwest tip of Great Slave Lake, about seventy-six kilometers from the much larger town of Yellowknife. The road between them was Highway 3, which ran south from Behchoko, then became Highway 1 until it crossed the territorial line of Alberta, where it changed to Highway 35 and ran into the town of High Level.

Because of the winter weather conditions, Noskov's ground forces were forced to use the main roads; thus, controlling them and the small towns between was imperative.

"I'm told that our men will secure the refinery and avgas depot before sunrise. They're already setting up the first roadblock. Have a look."

The night-vision images piped in to Izotov's screen came from the helmet cameras of Spetsnaz infantry and were grainy and shifting quickly, but it was clear they'd used one of the Ka-29s to block the road, along with a confiscated civilian SUV and a pickup truck. Shouts and gunfire echoed from somewhere behind the roadblock.

"There are only about fifteen hundred there, and they're mostly aboriginal people, poorly armed as we noted. I expect no complications."

"Don't get too c.o.c.ky, Major. You haven't confronted the Americans yet, and I see here that only a small number of transports have landed. The others will soon be engaged by American fighters."

"What do the Americans say? I am cautiously optimistic?" Noskov chuckled loudly. "I predict much blood will flow. I predict we will be drinking vodka in the bars of Edmonton and Calgary within a week and that the reserves will be ours!" His laugh now bordered on a cackle.

Izotov sighed. Major Noskov was an unconventional operations specialist at best, a c.o.c.ky thug at worst.

Yes, he was a keen a.n.a.lyst of battles, able to spot and exploit an enemy's weaknesses with speed and proficiency, but he always seemed slightly unhinged, a little mad, even. He rarely referred to superior officers by rank and seemed suspicious of them, especially Izotov.

That Noskov had joined the Russian Army at seventeen to avoid imprisonment for manslaughter was un-surprising. That he had led forces in the Second Chechen War from 1990 to 2005 and celebrated several key victories was admirable. That he'd had his left leg blown off by a rocket-propelled grenade, which had rendered him ineligible for active combat duty, was unfortunate.

However, his talent for planning and directing operations remotely was as unexpected as it was valuable, and Doletskaya had insisted that Noskov be sent to Canada to coordinate operations in the northern areas of Alberta, especially seizing the town of High Level.

But the man had a temper, and his dangerous instability caused him to be pa.s.sed over for promotions. Although forty, he was still as brash as an eighteen-year-old at times, and Izotov found himself repeatedly cautioning the man, as he did now.

"Major, continue your good and cautious cautious work for the Motherland." work for the Motherland."

"Of course. What else would you have me do?"

"And know we will be carefully carefully monitoring your progress." monitoring your progress."

Noskov nodded, then, sans any good-bye, he whirled away from the camera and limped off on his artificial leg, shouting to the men unloading the BMP-3s that they weren't fast enough and that he would shoot them if they didn't hurry.

Well, so far, the operation was unfolding as planned, and based upon the enemy's initial response, it seemed Colonel Pavel Doletskaya had somehow managed to keep silent.

Izotov could not understand that-unless, of course, the Americans had accidentally killed the colonel, for Izotov refused to believe that one man's force of will could be that strong.

Or could it?

Soldiers at Fort Lewis were pumped with adrenaline, and Special Forces Team Sergeant Nathan Vatz was no exception. He was about to leave his barracks and head to Robert Gray Army Airfield, his load-out bag slung over his shoulders.

In the hall outside his room, he spotted Staff Sergeant Marc Rakken rushing toward him. "Yo, Nate, I just heard, man!"

"Yeah, I know, it's crazy."

"Why couldn't they invade someplace warm?"

"The Russians can't take the heat."

Rakken nodded then raised his brows. "Maybe we'll b.u.mp into some snow bunnies up there, eh?"

"So you're going, too?"

"The brigade's already got a quartering party heading up to start RSOI base ops."

Establishing a reception, staging, onward movement and integration base, which included all the support facilities the brigade would need to operate, was the first step of moving 3,900 folks riding in more than 300 Stryker vehicles up to Canada. Once those facilities were established and artillery had arrived, the infantry would roll in and begin operations.

Rakken added, "I just heard they've called up the Fourth in Alaska, so those Strykers will be rolling down. I heard another rumor that a brigade from the Tenth Mountain Division is heading up in about sixty sorties of C-17s. They'll establish the first blocking positions."

"And what are the Canadians doing about all this?" Vatz flashed a crooked grin.

Rakken pretended to think hard. "Trying to duck."

"I thought so. Well, good hunting then, huh?"

Rakken slapped a palm on Vatz's shoulder. "I just wanted to give you this before you go."

"Oh, man, don't do that."

Vatz stared down at the closed knife in Rakken's other hand; it was a balisong, or Filipino "b.u.t.terfly knife," with two handles that counter-rotated around the tang and concealed the blade within them when not in use.

Only this wasn't an ordinary balisong. This was Rakken's prized possession: a custom Venturi made of intricately patterned Damascus steel with black lip pearl inlays in the handles. It was as much a piece of art as it was a functional cutting tool, and it had been designed and crafted by famed knife maker Darrel Ralph.

"Nate, I'm giving this to you for two reasons: first, if one of us is going to make it, it's going to be you. I believe that. And second, I'm just tired of carrying it."

Vatz shook his head. He didn't believe a word of it. And in a world full of high-tech toys, it was ironic that they should be standing there, discussing the exchange of a knife. Nevertheless, he took the balisong and slid it into one of his hip pockets. "You're too much, Marc. I'll borrow it. Give it to you when we get back, if we're not all frostbitten by then."

"All right, you got a deal. Good luck up there. And if you SF boys need any real men to come bail out your sorry a.s.ses, just give me or Appleman a call on the cell, 'kay?"

Vatz snorted, raised his fist to meet Rakken's for a pound. Then he muttered a quick, "See ya," and jogged off.

Captain Jake Boyd spotted the rescue chopper's searchlight sweeping across the snow, so he sat up and began to wave them in. He wouldn't miss the unforgiving cold or the sight of his beautiful fighter plane burning in the distance.

The blood had frozen on his lips and chin, and he could barely feel his cheeks. He slowly, carefully, got up as the chopper turned and pitched its nose for the landing.

Boyd's heart sank.

The searchlight had blinded him, and he'd only seen a vague silhouette in the sky.

Now he saw it, a Ka-29, setting down with heavily armed infantrymen hopping down from the bay door.

Boyd had both pistols now, one in each hand; he charged back to the ejection seat and threw himself down behind it, then came back up and began firing at the oncoming troops.

He struck one soldier in the leg, caught another in the thigh, as they suddenly raked his position with so much fire that he could no long hear the whomping of rotors, only the echoing bang and subsequent ricocheting of rounds off metal.

He keyed the mike of his emergency radio. "This is Ghost Hawk on the ground! I'm being engaged by Russian infantry! What's the ETA on that rescue bird?"

A sudden and nearby thump made him whirl.

Grenade. Right there.

He sprang up, knew that if he ran backward, they'd simply gun him down.

So he did what any other red-blooded American fighter pilot would do: he ran directly at the troops, screaming and firing.

The grenade exploded behind him, knocking him to his chest. That was when the first stabs of pain came, when he realized he'd been shot-and not just once.

He glanced up at the Russians, cursed as one came over, raised his pistol.

Stephanie's voice was coming from the radio. He should have told her how he felt, should have told her what she meant to him.

But at least now, at the end, he had that music, that sweet music of her crying out.