blew a cloud of warm breath into the air.
“One more peep out of you,” whispered the Marine, “and you’ll be walking all the way home. Are we clear?”
“Good copy,” the Delta Force operative acknowledged, shooting him a smile and a thumbs-up.
No one moved a muscle as the sound of the helicopters grew louder.
Gage, the Green Beret, had the best view of what was headed their way. “Fuck me,” he said. “I’m looking at two Mi-8s, plus a pair of Mi-24 helicopter gunships.”
“Fuck us,” Sloane responded.
“There’ll be no fucking,” Haney sternly responded, “unless it’s us fucking them. Is that understood?”
“Oorah!” Staelin grunted while everyone else joined in a chorus of “Roger that.”
“Got any more tricks up your sleeve?” Harvath asked.
“Nope. I’m all out,” said Haney.
“So what’s the plan?”
“The plan,” the Marine explained, “is that we hold our position and wait for extraction.”
Harvath looked at Christina and saw that the fear from earlier had returned. Reaching over, he put his gloved hand reassuringly on her arm. “Everything is going to be okay,” he said.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t even try to force a smile. She gave him one quick nod and that was it.
He let his hand linger for a moment longer and then turned his attention to his rifle. Drawing back the charging handle, he made sure a round was chambered and that the weapon’s safety was off.
Around him, the other operators quietly conducted similar drills.
“Hey. About that no fucking rule?” Gage asked, breaking the silence.
“What about it?” Haney replied.
“Things are starting to get romantic.”
Crawling over to see what he was talking about, the Marine peered through a space between the downed tree trunks and watched as the Mi-8s touched down.
“Jesus,” he muttered as the helicopters disgorged their occupants.
“What’s going on?” Harvath asked.
Haney waved him over to see for himself.
As Harvath stared at the troops massing in the snow, Haney turned and addressed the team.
“Okay, listen up,” he said. “In addition to the two heavily armed Mi-24s, the Mi-8s just vomited up an entire platoon of soldiers. By my count, there are at least thirty of them. And if they’re dropping here, that probably means they suspect we’re nearby. So stay alert and stay ready.”
“Only thirty?” Morrison mused, as he made sure the rounds were seated in all of his magazines. “That’d be a pretty short gunfight.”
Though Harvath appreciated his sense of humor, the thirty Russian Army soldiers from Alakurtti Air Base had them outgunned by more than three to one. They also had four helicopters, two of which could blast the piles of logs they were hiding behind into matchsticks in the blink of an eye. It would be a short fight all right. In fact, it’d be a slaughter.
“What are the rules here?” Barton asked, his extra mags unpacked and stacked neatly in front of him.
“We’re still weapons free,” Haney confirmed, as he went to call in an update to JSOC. “But let’s not start anything we can’t finish.”
They all made sure to remain on the ground. If they popped any part of their bodies above the logs, their heat signature could be detected by one of the helos, or by one of the soldiers on the ground if they were carrying handheld units.
“Shit,” said Haney. “I’m having trouble getting a satellite signal again.”
“Is it the Russians?” Harvath asked. “Do you think they’re affecting our comms as well?”
“Our system is antijam. I think it’s the weather—too much cloud cover. We’ll have to go old school and hope our ride’s in range,” he said. Pointing at Chase, he began relaying instructions. “Power up the Falcon and see if you can reach Hurricane Two-Two on any of the designated frequencies. Let them know we need assistance ASAP.”
“Roger that,” Chase replied, as he reached for his backpack and removed the Multiband Multi Mission Radio he was lugging as a backup. Hurricane Two-Two was the call sign for their ticket out.
As Chase set up the radio, Haney kept trying to get a satellite signal on his device. And while they worked on comms, Harvath and Gage attempted to keep an eye on the Russian soldiers. But with the weather, it was becoming increasingly difficult to see what they were up to.
All of the soldiers were on skis, were wearing whites, and were carrying an array of weaponry. They divided into eight four-man fire teams and then began skiing off in different directions. One was headed right for them.
“Hurricane Two-Two, this is Nemesis Zero-One,” Chase said into the handset. “Do you copy? Over.”
He waited