suggested that the Russian military couldn’t be trusted.
He ran through a potential list of plotters in his mind, men in the Army’s high command capable of such a thing. There were more than a few of them.
The plotters, though, couldn’t have had much support, because Minayev wanted the operational footprint kept small. His request had been for two dozen men. More than that, he claimed, would be unnecessary.
Teplov didn’t like it. Assembling and equipping a team without knowing all the details was dangerous. These were his men, not Minayev’s. The ultimate responsibility for a successful outcome would fall to him.
By the same token, Teplov respected the General’s experience. The man had not risen to where he was by accident. He was both tough and highly intelligent. And despite Teplov’s success in the field, the older man had seen more action in a lifetime than he would see in two. He would defer to the GRU chieftain’s judgment. For now.
In addition to twenty-four of his best men, he had marshaled his best equipment, and then doubled the amount of ammunition they might need. Everything else would be up to the gods.
He had then briefed his team on what he knew. They were flying to an air base north of St. Petersburg for an operation of indeterminate length, the objective of which had yet to be revealed.
The men were professionals. They had worked on countless missions where the details were unknown until the last moment. Even now, none of them questioned why they were being deployed on Russian soil. They were almost fanatical in their loyalty to their leader, and would follow him anywhere.
Teplov hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.
CHAPTER 20
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MURMANSK OBLAST
It was as if God himself had set down a tiny jewel in the middle of the vast, unforgiving Russian wilderness. And while it tore at his painfully frozen skin, Harvath smiled.
The question of where he would shelter for the night had been answered.
On the opposite bank sat a small, weather-beaten cabin.
No smoke rose from its chimney. Drifts of snow reached up to its windows. There were no signs of life anywhere. It appeared uninhabited.
Now all Harvath had to do was get across the ice.
Fording an unfamiliar river was dangerous enough. Fording a frozen one took the danger to another level.
The fact that he had been able to see water moving under the surface concerned him. It was practically guaranteed that the thickness wasn’t anywhere near what he’d like it to be. His options, though, were limited.
He could take his chances and cross here. He could keep walking, hoping to find the “perfect” point to cross. Or, he could give up altogether, stay on this side of the river, and get to work building a shelter.
Compared to sleeping outside in subzero temperatures, the cabin was the Ritz Carlton. It would provide shelter not only from the elements but also from predators. And though it didn’t look like much, there was no telling what supplies he might find inside.
There was also the possibility of a road, which he could trace back to civilization. His choice was clear. He needed to cross. The only question was where—upriver or down?
Based on the abrupt right angle the water took, he decided that was the worst place. The water was being forced around a corner, which meant there’d be a lot of churn and the ice would be at its thinnest. He decided to push farther down the bank.
A few hundred yards later, he stopped. This seemed as good a place as any.
Dropping the lynx carcass and his pack, he took a good look around and listened for any sound of danger. All he could hear was the sound of the wind, accompanied by the groaning of the frozen river, and beneath it, ever so faintly, the rushing of the frigid water.
Glancing at it, he was suddenly reminded of a fly-fishing trip he’d been on years ago. They had been working a fast-moving stream with a strong current they had to lean into. One of their party had slipped and fallen. Despite the belt meant to cinch them tight, his waders quickly filled with water as he was swept away.
They barely made it to him in time. The man had almost drowned. It was something Harvath had never forgotten.
Looking across the ice to the opposite bank, he decided to repack his gear. He wanted the most critical pieces on his person. Everything else—the pack, the rifle, and the lynx—he would tow behind