EndWar

Halverson’s survival kit had been left behind, but the Russians began dogging them from the air, with the occasional Ka-29 passing over the forest, driving all of them into the snow for cover. McAllen had been forced to break radio silence to get an update on their pickup, and they learned they had at least two more hours to wait until their bird arrived. They could shave off some of that time by continuing to head south.

McAllen was qualified to guide in the chopper, but so was Khaki, so when their taxi arrived, the Canadian had volunteered for those honors.

As they sat there, huffing beneath the trees, McAllen offered up the last few pieces of his chocolate-coated energy bar to anyone willing.

Halverson took a piece and said, “You look like you’re freezing. You want the suit?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been accused of being cold-blooded, so it all works out.”

“I will take your suit,” said Pravota, wincing over his zipper cuffs.

“She’s not offering,” snapped McAllen.

“That’s right,” Halverson growled.

McAllen turned back to her. “So, is this rescue everything you dreamed it would be?”

She glanced away. “They killed everyone at my base. Killed my wingman. Killed this poor family who was trying to help me. Damn, Sergeant. If you didn’t pick me up, I would be dead by now. Don’t sell yourself too short.”

“Thanks. I just, uh, I’m not thrilled by the prospect of two more hours of hiking.”

“Me neither. And can I ask? Why are we dragging along this guy?” She flicked a dark glance in Pravota’s direction. “Why didn’t we leave him back at the chopper? Or just shoot him and be done with it.”

“A POW’s a bonus in my book. And he’s an officer. Not sure my boys will ever get a crack at capturing an officer again.”

She grinned crookedly. “I’m sorry I interfered in your little professional development project.”

Her sarcasm stung. “Hey, relax. We’ll get you out of here.” McAllen leaned forward to brush snow from his boot.

A shot rang out, punched into the tree trunk at his shoulder.

He threw himself forward and cried, “Get down!”

They were finally rolling into downtown Calgary, Ninth Avenue Southwest, and Staff Sergeant Marc Rakken signaled his rifle squad seated inside the Stryker to make their final gear checks.

Navy SEALs already in the city had asked that at least one Stryker platoon enter Calgary Tower, a tall column of concrete supporting a huge, conical-shaped observation deck. The tower was the city’s most identifiable landmark, and it had been seized by several squads of Spetsnaz troops who were using it as an observation post.

After all, the tower was famous for offering the best views of Calgary, and those Russians knew it’d only be a matter of time before someone entered to flush them out.

And with no way to escape, they also knew they would be fighting to the death.

As Rakken sat there, waiting for the platoon to pull up outside the tower, he nervously flexed his gloved fingers. It had been an exhaustingly long ride. With some shuffling after the bombs had gone off during their trip up 95, his platoon was now spread among three Strykers, down a squad, and certainly a little demoralized.

Still, no more bombs had gone off after the initial ones, and their road march had proceeded without incident. Thorough searches of every vehicle had turned up nothing. Most of the officers were convinced that the bombs in question had been cleverly disguised as Stryker parts.

Hassa and Appleman were on the intercom, discussing two civilian choppers that for some reason had been allowed to circle overhead, when Appleman suddenly broke off and said, “All right, Sergeant. We’re here. Get ready!”

The Stryker rumbled to a halt, the ramp lowered, and Rakken and his men charged outside, onto the street, then up and onto the sidewalk—

Where they were suddenly accosted by their company commander, Captain Chuck Welch, who was joined by a group of five civilians, two women, three men, all middle-aged and being fitted into body armor by two vehicle gunners from the master sergeant’s platoon. They each carried a heavy backpack.

“Sergeant Rakken, these folks have just put down and it’s your job to get them up and into that tower.”

“Yes, sir.” Rakken’s confused expression was hard to conceal. “But sir, they know we’re coming. Power’s been cut. No elevators. Got like eight hundred stairs to climb. They’ll probably gas us, drop grenades, and—”

“You need to get them up top. Period. Do you read me, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re putting snipers in the building next door, see if we can take some of them out from there, lob some flash bangs and gas inside the deck. We’re going for a surgical removal here with minimal damage to the tower itself. Let me repeat: minimal damage. They’ve made that clear.”

Rakken pursed his lips, gestured the captain away from the civilians. “Sir, what’s going on?”