his remaining men with silent curt gestures. The science station's huts were blazing, thick streamers of dark smoke smearing into the chill blue of the sky.
And from the base of the smoke plumes a man walked in their direction, his hands lifted shoulder high.
Tomashenko lifted his own hand, halting the advance. Shifting the strap of his assault rifle so it rode leveled at his waist, the Spetsnaz commander waited, his hand curled around the AK's trigger group. To the right and left, his troopers went prone, hunching into the snow, their bipodded weapons aimed.
The man with the lifted hands met them about a hundred yards out from the burning station. The hood of his parka was thrown back, and blond hair could be seen. Tomashenko recognized him from the photographs he had been shown. It was Smyslov, the Air Force officer who supposedly was subverting the operations of the American intelligence group from within. The man who should have been dead by now. Tomashenko's eyes glittered as they narrowed.
Smyslov came within ten feet and dropped his hands. "I am Major Gregori Smyslov of the Russian Federation Air Force," he stated crisply. "You will have been briefed about my presence. And you are?"
"Lieutenant Pavel Tomashenko of the Naval Infantry Special Forces. I was briefed about you, Major. I am pleased you have escaped."
"It is not a matter of escape, Lieutenant," the Air Force officer replied. "The parameters of this mission have changed, and your original orders concerning the American intelligence party are no longer relevant."
"I have received no instructions from my superiors concerning this."
"Our superiors are not aware of the true situation here. As the senior officer present I am changing your orders on my own authority, Lieutenant. You will break off this operation immediately. I will accompany you back to your submarine, where I will make my report and see that your orders are updated."
"Major, my orders concerning the American intelligence team came from the highest possible national authority. As you should be aware, they have placed critical state secrets at risk. They are to be stopped at all costs."
"And I said, those orders are no longer relevant, Lieutenant!" Smyslov took another step forward. "You will not, I repeat, not interfere further with the Americans. You and your men will return to the submarine."
Tomashenko's voice cracked. "They've killed my men!"
"The incident at the crash site was...regrettable," Smyslove replied, continuing his advance. "As for the fight that has just occurred, you may rest assured that your men fell honorably in battle with the enemies, the true enemies, of Russia."
"I have some question as to just who our true enemies are, Major." Tomashenko spat out Smyslov's rank.
"As you should, Lieutenant." Smyslov's green eyes bored into his. "Now, stand down your men and I will tell you."
"No, Major. I will obey my standing orders and deal with the Americans! Then I will communicate with my superiors about a number of things, including treason!"
"I'm sure it will be a very interesting discussion, Lieutenant. But for now you will obey my orders and stand down!" Smyslov extended his hand to straight-arm the Spetsnaz trooper. Tomashenko's finger, already curled around the trigger of his slung assault rifle, tightened. The AK-74 crashed out a single shot.
Major Gregori Smyslov buckled and fell unmoving to the snow of Wednesday Island.
The Spetsnaz officer had no more than a second or two to look down in triumph at the body of the fallen man. Then the numbing shock arrived a moment before the sound of the second, distant gunshot. Tomashenko looked down to find a palm-sized spray of scarlet in the center of his chest. Oddly enough, his last sensation before the blackness took him was one of great relief. He would never have to answer for failing the Motherland.
A hundred yards away, kneeling in the trail rut beside the bunkhouse, Jon Smith lowered the smoking SR-25 and swore in bitter futility at governments, secrets, and lies. Then he threw himself flat as a bullet stream kicked up a line of snow jets beside the trail.
More slugs snapped low over his head as a second squad automatic opened up, raking his position. Dragging his rifle behind him, he hunched backward down the trail a few yards, pressing low in the meager shelter of the compacted snow. Coming up onto his knees again, he spotted the movement of a Spetsnaz trooper crawling toward the station. Smith squeezed off two hasty shots before the covering gunners shifted fire to his new position.