Eagle Station

“I don’t plan to discuss anything,” Brad continued quietly. “Whether you authorize it or not, Nadia and I are going to start prepping a mission to extract Sam and her team. And if it’s at all doable, we’re going.” He noticed a quick look of approval cross his father’s lined face.

Martindale’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds a lot like mutiny.”

Brad shrugged. “Call it what you like.” He looked right into the camera. “Neither Nadia nor I are bean counters. We’re soldiers.” He smiled crookedly. “Though admittedly a little on the irregular side. And as soldiers, our code says you do not throw your people to the wolves just because the fucking cost-benefit ratio doesn’t look favorable.”

“If I fire you for insubordination, you won’t have access to Scion-owned aircraft, weapons, or equipment,” Martindale pointed out carefully.

“Yep, that’s so,” Brad said in agreement, without dropping his smile. “Then again, I bet we can talk Hunter Noble into letting us ‘borrow’ a few toys from the Sky Masters inventory if we have to.” He looked the other man straight in the eye. “So it’s your decision, Mr. Martindale: You can back us on this now, despite the risks. Or you can sit back and watch a pretty fair-sized fraction of your stateside operations team jump ship at the same time the shit’s hitting the fan in Russia.”

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Martindale sat quiet, glaring back at him out of the screen. Brad held his breath, wondering if he’d gone too far. He felt Nadia press her warm palm against his back, offering reassurance.

Then his father spoke up. “My son’s right, Kevin. This isn’t a fight you can win. For that matter, this isn’t really a fight you should want to win. Sam Kerr and the others have obtained priceless intelligence for us in the past… and risked their lives in the process. We owe them a chance now, however small it may seem.”

“Et tu, Patrick?” Martindale retorted.

With a whir of tiny exoskeleton motors, Patrick McLanahan held up an open hand. His face creased in a slight smile. “No dagger, see? Just the truth, as I see it.”

Martindale grimaced. “Very well, then.” His eyes were still cold. “Much as I dislike yielding to pure emotional blackmail, I’ll make an exception in this case. This one case,” he stressed. He turned back to Nadia and Brad. “All right. You can prep your rescue mission.”

“Thank you, sir,” Brad said. “I appreciate this.”

“Don’t thank me too quickly, Major McLanahan,” Martindale snapped. “You may have just bought yourself — and Nadia — a one-way ticket. If things go wrong out there, that’s it. I will not risk any more lives on some damned fool crusade. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Brad said evenly. “We’ll do our best.”

Martindale’s angry expression softened slightly. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.” He sighed. “But I’m afraid that even your best isn’t likely to be good enough. Not this time.”

Fifteen

Federal Security Service (FSB) Headquarters, the Lubyanka, Moscow

A Couple of Hours Later

Frowning deeply, Viktor Kazyanov leaned over his desk, studying the priority report he’d just been sent. He flipped from one page to the next, hoping to find some buried nugget of good news that he could pass on to Russia’s minister of defense. On paper, he and Leonov held equivalent cabinet ranks, but he was shrewd enough to see the way the wind was blowing. Where it counted, in military, space, and intelligence affairs, the other man was already effectively president in all but formal title — and that was probably only a matter of time and inclination.

He looked up, irritated, when one of his aides burst in without knocking. “What is it, Ivanov?”

“Minister, it’s Marshal—”

Leonov himself barreled in right on Ivanov’s heels. He jerked a thumb toward the exit. “Get out. And close that door behind you.” Flustered, Ivanov obeyed.

Kazyanov took a short, quick breath. “It’s good to see you, Mikhail Ivanovich—”

“Spare me the usual, meaningless pleasantries,” Leonov said bluntly. “My health is good. Your grandchildren are blossoming. And the weather outside is pleasant. All true?”

Quickly, Kazyanov nodded. “Yes.”

“Fine. Then let’s get to work.” Leonov took one of the seats in front of Kazyanov’s desk and nodded pointedly at the minister’s own chair. “Sit down, Viktor. Stop bouncing around like your shoes are on fire.” With a sigh, Kazyanov obeyed. “Well,” Leonov demanded. “What’s the situation?”

For a moment, Kazyanov wrestled with the temptation to shade the truth, to give it some patina of optimism — however thin. He pushed the idea aside. Like Gennadiy Gryzlov before him, Leonov was not a man it was safe to mislead. In many ways, the defense minister’s carefully controlled, cold-eyed anger was even more frightening than his predecessor’s wild, raging tantrums. Kazyanov indicated the report from his team in Krasnoyarsk. “In all honesty, the situation is not good.”

“Go on.”