EndWar

A second A-10 followed closely on the first one’s wing, and then, off to Vatz’s left, he spotted a half dozen Apache attack helicopters, along with several Chinooks, V-22 Ospreys, and the redesigned RAH-66 Comanche recon/attack helicopters.

Beethoven started hollering and cursing, unable to contain his emotions. “Ladies and gentlemen! The Tenth Mountain Division has arrived!”

A flicker of movement from the buildings on his left caught Vatz’s eye. Down at the next intersection, a squad of Spetsnaz troops had just rounded the corner and crouched to fire.

“Troops right there!” cried Vatz.

Shots rang out; blood sprayed over the pavement as Beethoven fell, multiple wounds in his face and neck. He died quickly.

Vatz returned fire, darting behind the burning pickup truck; the rounds tracked him, thumping hard into rubber and steel. “Black Bear, this is Bali, over!”

He swore. Comm was still jammed. He slipped around the back of the truck, where he spotted three of his men holed up in another doorway. He waved them on, and they charged down the street away from the fiery wreck, the Russians moving up behind them.

Rakken flickered open his eyes. They were talking about him. He recognized the voices: medics from his platoon. He was lying on his back, staring up at the observation deck’s ceiling. Flashlights panned everywhere. There was no more gunfire, only the sounds of his men.

“He won’t make it, will he,” said a bearded, unhelmeted civilian, leaning over Rakken.

“Shhh,” ordered one of the medics. “He can still hear you. And there’s always a chance. But he’s not in pain. We took care of that.”

Rakken’s gaze came in and out of focus.

“Sergeant, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

The guy took Rakken’s hand, and he squeezed.

“Listen to me. We wouldn’t have made it in here if it weren’t for you. Right now my people are trying to disarm a ten-kiloton suitcase nuke. If they fail, we’re all going to die anyway. But I wanted you to know that what you did…” His voice cracked. “I just wanted you to know. Thank you.”

Rakken managed to nod ever so slightly. He squeezed the man’s hand again, just as Captain Welch knelt down beside him. “Sergeant, the chaplain’s on his way. Hang in there for me. You got no permission to die.”

Rakken wasn’t one to disobey an order, but the intense cold creeping into his chest would not cease. He closed his eyes. The mission had been accomplished. His work here was finished.

Suddenly, all the lights snapped on in the room, causing him to open his eyes.

Was he leaving his body now? Or was he beginning to hallucinate?

“They’ve restored power to the cell network as well,” someone shouted. “They might be trying to trigger the device that way now!”

“Get someone to shut that power down. And move it!”

Rakken wanted to sit up, see what was going on. He turned his head slightly, where the civilians were gathered around something on the floor, the nuke maybe, all working under intense, battery-operated lights.

And then, quite suddenly, the world grew dark around the edges, and he closed his eyes.

THIRTY-NINE

Viktoria Antsyforov and Green Vox were in the tiny town of Banff, just off the Trans-Canada Highway as it traversed the Banff National Park, seventy-eight miles west of Calgary. They had chosen the location to be upwind from nuclear fallout once the detonations were made.

They had checked in to The Fairmont Banff Springs, a lavish getaway nestled in the Canadian Rockies. The Fairmont was styled after a Scottish baronial castle, with ornate spires and castle-like walls. Antsyforov’s time there had made her feel very much like royalty. But that time had come to an end.

Green Vox — who went by so many aliases that even Antsyforov didn’t know his real name — was downstairs, checking on their ride out to the heliport.

Their sources in Edmonton and Calgary had said that the JSF and Euros had located both bombs and were attempting to dismantle them. And while she had wanted to wait the full forty-eight hours to ensure as many military casualties as possible, the JSF and Euros had moved more swiftly than she’d anticipated — meaning that Kapalkin must have tipped his hand to the Americans.

Antsyforov had already tried trigging the nukes via her Iridium satellite phone, but she couldn’t believe it: the entire network was down. Impossible!

She had told her sources to pass on word to get the conventional cell phone network up and running.

Vox returned to the room. “They’re waiting for us. Is it done?”

“The entire Iridium network is down. I have to try my cell.”

“No power.”

“They’re taking care of that.”

“And if they don’t?”

“They already have,” she said, studying her cell phone. “My call to Calgary is going through right now.” Once she heard the familiar hum, she need only dial two numbers: 5 9.

Confirmation that the weapon was armed to detonate in twenty seconds would come as three beeps.

But the humming continued.

She hit the numbers again. And again.

She cursed.

“I told you this would happen,” Vox cried.

“No!”