for a reply and then tried again.
“Hurricane Two-Two, this is Nemesis Zero-One. We need immediate extraction. Do you copy? Over.”
When, through the static, a faint voice finally replied, it sounded weak and far away—as if it was coming from the bottom of a well.
“Nemesis Zero-One, this is Hurricane Two-Two. We read you. What is your status? Over.”
After letting Haney know that he had established contact, Chase had a back-and-forth with Hurricane Two-Two, answering some questions and giving a quick SITREP.
“Acknowledged,” said Hurricane Two-Two when Chase had finished. “Nemesis Zero-One, stand by. Over.”
“Roger that,” said Chase. “Nemesis Zero-One, standing by. Over.”
Peering through his rangefinder at the approaching Russian soldiers, Gage provided an update. “Two hundred meters and closing.”
“Good copy,” said Haney, acknowledging the information. “Two hundred meters.”
Gage was an exceptional distance shooter and carried an H&K 417 rifle with a twenty-inch barrel. Its effective range was eight hundred meters—more than four times the distance of the approaching threat.
“Are we going to let the air out of these guys?” he asked.
“Negative,” Haney replied. “Hold.”
“Roger that. Holding.”
“What’s the status of Hurricane Two-Two?” Haney then asked.
Chase held up the handset. “I’m still standing by.”
Harvath didn’t like how long this was taking.
“One hundred seventy-five meters,” Gage reported.
“Copy that,” replied the Marine. “One hundred seventy-five meters.”
“Still nothing,” Chase stated.
Harvath needed to remember that this wasn’t his team right now. It was Haney’s. And as such, Haney was in charge. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but wonder if they should have tried to make it out on foot.
“One hundred fifty meters,” announced Gage.
“Roger that,” Haney replied. “One hundred fifty meters.”
“Heads up,” said Sloane. “We’ve got activity just south of us. One of the other fire teams has changed direction and is now coming up this way.”
“Range?”
“Approximately one hundred meters.”
“I’ve got clean shots here,” Gage stated.
“Me too,” replied Sloane.
“Negative,” Haney ordered. “We hold.”
Harvath looked at him, but the Marine had already shifted his focus to Chase. “Tell Hurricane Two-Two right now that—”
But the young operator held his hand up and cut him off as he listened intently to the voice on his handset.
A fraction of a second later, he said, “Roger that, Hurricane Two-Two. Good copy. Nemesis Zero-One out.”
Then, turning to his teammates, he declared, “Angels inbound. Thirty seconds.”
No one spoke. No one moved. Lying on the frigid ground, they watched the approaching Russian soldiers and strained their ears for the telltale sound of their rescue.
Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. At exactly thirty seconds, a pair of F-22 Raptors flew in incredibly low and blisteringly fast. Hitting supersonic, they broke the sound barrier.
The boom was so powerful, the earth trembled and snow was knocked off trees for as far as the eye could see. It sounded as if a rip was being torn through the fabric of the sky. All of the Russians dove for cover.
If the intent had been to scare the hell out of them, it had worked. Even with the reduced visibility, Gage and Sloane could tell the nearest fire teams were calling their superiors, asking what had happened and awaiting instructions as to what to do next.
Collectively, Harvath and the rest of the team held their breath. This was the moment of truth.
President Porter had proven he was willing to violate Russian airspace. President Peshkov now had to decide whether he was willing to let it stand.
In the last five minutes, Peshkov would have received intelligence through Artur Kopec’s handler that the Americans had a team on the ground and had recovered Harvath. Egor Sazanov, his Ambassador to the United States, would have phoned the Foreign Minister and shared the good news that the entirety of Peshkov’s frozen assets was poised to be thawed.
Then, just before the American jets had crossed into Russia, the U.S. President himself would have called. He would have explained what he wanted and, more important, what he was willing to do to get it. The choice after that was up to Peshkov.
And it became apparent, very quickly, that he had made it.
CHAPTER 74
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Harvath and the team watched as, one by one, the Russian troops turned around and returned to the ice.
There, covered by the Mi-24 gunships, they climbed back aboard their Mi-8 helicopters and took off.
All the while, the F-22 Raptors stayed on station, circling overhead, ready for anything they might be called on to do. Never once did a single Russian intercept aircraft appear to address the incursion. Whatever word had come down from on high, Peshkov had made it clear that no action was