Eagle Station

Panov whistled. Instead of a woodpile, that black tarp had been concealing a vehicle, some sort of van by its shape and size. Which meant that they’d found the American spies for sure. He keyed his radio mike. “Kingfisher Three to Kingfisher Base. Positive contact at Location Bravo Eight. Repeat, contact at Bravo Eight.”

“Base to Kingfisher,” the Spetsnaz brigade commander’s excited voice sounded in his earphones. “I’m vectoring in additional helicopters and action teams. Deploy your troops to secure the perimeter. Remember, we want these foreigners alive, if at all possible.”

“Understood, Base,” Panov said. He pulled the helicopter into a tight turn back around. He’d spotted an opening in the woods not far from the hunting cabin. Though comparatively small, it looked big enough to set down in. He switched to intercom. “Did you hear all of that, Captain Kuznetsky?”

From the aft passenger compartment, Spetsnaz Captain Vladimir Kuznetsky replied, “Loud and clear, Pilot.” His clipped tones conveyed a clear impression of predatory eagerness. “My boys are ready.”

“Right then,” Panov said. “Stand by. We’re going in now.” Kuznetsky had two nine-man Spetsnaz teams under his direct command. Most of them were hardened veterans of combat in Ukraine, Chechnya, and Poland. Once they were on the ground, they shouldn’t have any trouble keeping a handful of enemy agents from escaping into the surrounding woods.

At one of the second-floor windows of the cabin, Sam Kerr lowered a pair of compact binoculars. “Hell,” she said coolly. “That tears it.”

Beside her, Marcus Cartwright nodded. “They must know we’re here.” He looked up at the Russian helicopter as it circled back toward them. “They’re headed for that clearing you found last night.”

“Looks like it,” Sam agreed. When they’d first arrived at this deserted building, she’d made a thorough reconnaissance of their immediate surroundings. It was standard Scion covert ops procedure to scout out possible enemy approaches to any safe house. That break in the trees — big enough for a helicopter, she’d judged — had been number one on her list, aside from the dirt road they’d driven in on.

She glanced at the big man. “Help Davey get that tarp off our van, Marcus.” She pulled out her smartphone. “I’ll handle this end.” Cartwright nodded again and clattered down the stairs.

Sam typed in a short text message: krak eng, but held her finger off the send button. She raised her binoculars again, watching the Russian helicopter as it slowed into a hover just over the clearing. Its fast-beating rotors churned up a swirling cloud of dust and dead grass.

The Mi-8 drifted carefully lower, gradually settling below the level of the treetops.

Deliberately, Sam pushed the send button on her smartphone.

During her reconnaissance, she’d decided to rig a welcoming present for any Russians who decided to crash their party, using some of the special equipment that had been hidden inside their van. Her “gift,” a small, soda-can-sized plastic tube packed with C-4, was fixed to the trunk of a tall Siberian pine tree right at the edge of the clearing.

Now, triggered by her text message, the Krakatoa shaped-demolition charge exploded with enormous force. In a blinding flash, the detonation sent a colossal shock wave sleeting straight into a thin, inverted copper plate set at the plastic tube’s open mouth, converting it instantly into a lethal jet of molten metal that speared outward at thousands of miles per hour. Hit squarely, the Russian helicopter blew up, killing every man aboard.

WHUMMP.

A huge ball of orange and red flame erupted above the treetops, momentarily outshining the late afternoon sun. Shards of torn and pulverized metal spiraled away from the center of the blast.

“Bet that hurt,” Sam said under her breath. She turned away from the window and hurried downstairs. Outside, a thick pillar of oily, black smoke from the burning wreckage curled higher into the sky.

David Jones met her as she darted around the side of the log cabin. The young Welshman’s face was tight. “Those Spetsnaz bastards weren’t out on their own. There are more helicopters on the way… including gunships.”

Off in the distance, the sound of clattering rotors could be heard growing steadily louder.

Marcus Cartwright looked up when they joined him near the back of the battered delivery van. Discarded boxes and parcels were strewn across the ground behind its open rear doors. “This situation’s just gone from bad to worse,” he said grimly.

“It’s definitely not ideal,” she said, more lightly. “But at least our ride’s on the way.” She checked her watch. “McLanahan and Rozek can’t be more than ten minutes out now.”