Smith's rigid fingertips touched his brow in the response. "Anytime, anywhere, Major. The privilege has been mine."
Randi fought back a momentary surge of dizziness as she leaned into the engine compartment. The mental haze of the previous night threatened a return, and she fought to stay focused on tightening the knobs of the battery reconnects.
On the voyage north she had come to know this Long Ranger intimately, and she knew that it had been "polarized" by its leasing company to the best extent possible. All the gaskets and seals were cold-resistant plastics and composites. The lubricants were arctic environment multiviscosity synthetics. The fuel had been heavily laced with an antijelling agent, and the batteries were all ultraheavy-duty, deep-charge gel packs, the best on the market.
But it wasn't enough.
The little aircraft's power train and controls should be warmed inside a heating tent for several hours to bring them back up to a decent operating temperature, and the batteries freshened by a quick charger.
But the tent, heaters, and charger were burning in the supply hut, and there would have been no time for them anyway.
She took a final checking look around the interior of the battery compartment, then slammed the outside door, forcing herself to take deliberate care with each of the dzus fasteners.
Light running footsteps came around from the far side of the helicopter, and Valentina Metrace appeared.
"What's happening?" Randi demanded.
"The last batch of Spetsnaz are coming in. Maybe five minutes. Gregori's gone out to chat them up, but I don't think it's going to work. Jon's gone all self-sacrificial on us and is preparing to do his Horatio-at-the-bridge number. We are under orders to get this ridiculous contrivance running now!"
The sickness welling up within Randi didn't all have to do with her recent bout of exposure. She swallowed the mouthful of chill saliva and forced her mind back to clarity. "Okay, do a walk-around. Drag those tarps farther way and make sure there are no foreign objects near us that could get sucked into the intakes."
"Right." There was no time for either of them to be fearful or concerned, or at least to admit to it.
Randi ran around to the pilot's door and hauled herself up into the cockpit, the frozen leather of the seat biting into her thighs. She propped the preflight checklist against the windscreen; she didn't dare to trust her memory. Then she hit the main switches. Behind the frost-hazed glass lenses, instrument needles stirred and lifted sluggishly.
There would be three crises to surmount. First, there must be enough power left in the batteries to force the cold engines to crank up and start. The second would come at the moment of ignition, when the frozen, brittle components of the propulsion train would either spin up to speed or fracture and explode.
The third and final crisis would occur after liftoff, when the helicopter's flight controls would either work or fail, throwing them out of the sky.
And they would have only one chance at each.
Lieutenant Pavel Tomashenko moved with the steady, ground-devouring trot of the Zulu warrior or Special Forces soldier, his AK-74 cradled across his chest. His eyes scanned ahead, like an automated radar tracking system seeking for the next ambush. The rest of his mentality was lost in rage.
Even he was willing to admit to his failure as an officer and soldier. Again he had allowed his men to walk into a trap. The bulk of his command had been wiped out, and he had not even been near the fight. He was finished. He could expect nothing but disgrace and a court-martial. Better by far at least to die with his jaws locked in the throat of the enemies who had shamed him.
Burdened by the heavy RPK squad automatic weapons and their loads of ammunition, the two men of the demolitions team and the platoon radioman trotted behind him, stolidly unquestioning. They were Spetsnaz.
Ahead, Tomashenko saw the smoke of burning buildings rising from the area of the science station. He did not know what might be happening there. Nor did he know the identities of the strange body of armed men who had wiped out and been almost wiped out by his own advance scouting force. Nor did he know where they had come from. But through his binoculars Tomashenko had seen the last enemy survivor fleeing in this direction.
As they rounded the hill with the radio mast at its top, Tomashenko slowed their advance to a stalking walk, dispersing