Eagle Station

The Sidewinder ignored them — slashing in to explode just a few feet from the gunship. Thousands of razor-edged titanium shards sleeted through its cockpit and fuselage with enormous destructive force. Caught partway through its evasive turn, the Russian helicopter tumbled out of control, plunged into the forest, and blew up.

“Good kill,” Nadia confirmed. She saw the two surviving Mi-8 troop carriers in range suddenly veer away. Staying low, they fled southeast. The phalanx of other approaching Russian helicopters farther off altered course at the same time, also turning away. She smiled fiercely. Like all scavengers, they were afraid of any prey that bared its own teeth and claws.

With muffled bumps and thumps below the cockpit, the Rustler’s landing gear came down and locked in position. The clearing they were aiming for grew steadily larger through the forward canopy.

They came in low and slow, practically brushing against the treetops. Suddenly the green line marking Brad’s preselected touchdown position flared brighter.

“Hang on!” he warned, chopping his throttles almost all the way back.

Robbed of the last few knots of airspeed that kept it aloft, the Scion aircraft dropped out of the sky and touched down with a tooth-rattling jolt. Brad swiftly reversed thrust to brake even faster, slamming them forward against their straps. Decelerating hard, the batwing-shaped Rustler bounced across the ground in a whirling storm cloud of dust and torn grass. They rolled to a stop not far from the tall trees lining the eastern edge of the clearing.

Grinning with relief, Brad pushed his throttles forward just a notch, feeding their engines just enough power to let him swing the Rustler through a 180-degree turn. Once he was lined up and ready for an immediate takeoff, he throttled back again and hit the ramp release.

Cameras set to cover the XCV-70’s rear arc caught Ian Schofield darting out into the clearing. Bulky in his body armor, the Canadian dropped prone, covering the southern edge of the clearing through the sights of a long-barreled HK416 carbine. He had a man-portable antitank missile launcher slung across his back. Evidently, he’d taken his assignment as their one-man army quite seriously.

And then Sam Kerr burst out of the forest. Leaning far over, she slewed her small motorbike almost sideways through a sharp turn — straightening out only when she was headed right at the Rustler. She skidded to a stop just yards short of the ramp.

Wearily, she climbed off the motorcycle. But then, both physically and emotionally spent, she slumped to her hands and knees. In a flash, Ian Schofield was on his own feet. Slinging his carbine, he threw one arm across her shoulders and helped her up. Together, they staggered across the clearing and up the ramp into the waiting aircraft.

“Go! Go! Go!” Schofield yelled. “I have Ms. Kerr! We’re inside!”

“On it,” Brad replied. He tapped a control on his display. A high-pitched hydraulic whine penetrated the cockpit as the ramp closed and sealed. He advanced the throttles. Outside the cockpit, the Rustler’s four large turbofans spooled up. He glanced at Nadia with a crooked grin. “Okay, now comes the hard part.”

She nodded silently. They’d lost the element of surprise. The Russians knew they were here. And now their only way home meant crossing almost two thousand miles of heavily defended hostile airspace… in broad daylight.

Inside the Rustler’s cramped passenger compartment, Ian Schofield finished strapping himself in. He studied Samantha Kerr for a few moments. The slender Scion agent looked exhausted and deeply sad. He unclipped a hydration pouch from his combat webbing, unscrewed the top, and offered it to her.

She took a small sip. Her eyes widened slightly. “That’s not water.”

“Indeed not,” Schofield agreed. He took out another pouch and raised it in a toast. “To absent friends and comrades.”

Blinking back tears, Sam imitated him. “To Marcus and Davey. They were the best,” she said quietly.

Schofield nodded. “That they were.”

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the bulkhead as the aircraft lifted off and banked sharply back to the north.

Twenty-One

National Defense Control Center, Moscow

That Same Time

Marshal Mikhail Leonov listened to Lieutenant General Varshavsky’s bad news in silence. His face showed no discernible emotion. At last, the commander of Russia’s Central Military District finished his dreary litany of disaster — two advanced Ka-52 helicopters shot down, one Mi-8 transport ambushed and blown up while landing, and nearly thirty Russian soldiers and airmen dead… along with at least two of the Scion agents they’d hoped to capture alive.

“So what is the situation now?” he asked calmly when Varshavsky fell silent.

“I’ve ordered my helicopter units to fall back and regroup at Lesosibirsk,” the other man admitted.