The Seventh Angel (47 page)

“
Go for the tail!” he shouted. “You can’t get through the armor with M-4s. We gotta shoot the fucking tail off of this thing!”

His Marines answered with two grunts and an
Ooh-rah
. Gunny grinned to himself. Stupid Jarheads. Goddamn, they were good men.

He thumped the base of the magazine with the heel of his hand to make sure that it was seated in the mag well, slapped the bolt release to jack a round into the chamber, and flipped the fire selector from
safe
to
burst
. The weapon felt clumsy in his gloved hands.

Like the rest of his team, Gunny wore BlackHawk/HellStorm ECW Winter Operations gloves from U.S. Cavalry. They weren’t as cumbersome as the Marine Corps-issue cold weather gloves, but he knew from experience that they would still affect his accuracy. He couldn’t risk shooting bare-handed, because his M-4 had been exposed to the open air for hours. The metal parts of the weapon would be cold enough to stick to his skin.

He glanced at the elevation setting of the rear sight, decided that it was close enough, and sighted in on the helicopter.

The HIND’s gunner opened fire, just as Gunny Armstrong was slipping his index finger into the trigger well of his M-4. The turret beneath the helicopter’s chin swiveled in the direction of Gunny’s team, and the four-barreled Gatling gun cut loose with a sound like a high-speed jackhammer.

A swarm of 12.7mm machinegun bullets slammed into the ice a few yards to Gunny’s left, spraying showers of snow and ice fragments into the air. The Marine paid no attention. His focus was riveted on the tail of the gunship.

He popped off a three-round burst of bullets, corrected his aim, and popped off another burst, and then another. The M-4 shuddered in his hand, the shortened stock thumping hard into his right shoulder with each recoil. From somewhere to his left, he heard a scream as the helicopter’s minigun found one of his men.

Gunny rolled onto his back as the gunship passed directly over him, not more than thirty feet above the ice. The right edge of his parka hood scooped up a handful of snow as he turned, forcing it under the insulated fabric where it was jammed against his cheek and ear. The downdraft from the chopper lifted snow from all around him and sucked it into the air like a dirty mist. The sound of the rotors reached peak volume, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out a cry of pain from one of his Marines. It sounded like Travers, but Gunny couldn’t be sure.

He could smell cordite now, and blood, and the burnt kerosene odor of the gunship’s engine exhaust. He continued firing at the helicopter’s tail rotor, his weapon bucking in his hands as he unleashed one burst after another. His shell casings fell around him, the hot brass sizzling as it tumbled across the ice.

He saw a trio of holes appear in the tail boom of the helicopter, as someone’s bullets found their mark. His weapon locked open on an empty magazine, and then the chopper was past his team, banking hard to starboard and coming around for another pass.

It took the HIND a few seconds to align itself for the next attack run. Gunny used the time to eject the spent magazine from his M-4, scramble for a fresh one, and jam it into the mag well. He hit the bolt release to chamber the first round, and then sighted in on the helicopter again, watching for any sign that the bullet damage to the tail was affecting its airworthiness. The damage didn’t seem to be catastrophic, as the HIND kept right on flying.

Gunny braced himself for the next pass, but it didn’t come. The gunship came to a hover about fifty yards away, its nose pointed in the direction of the EOD team’s position.

A pair of rockets leapt from under the outboard pylon on the starboard wing, shrieking toward Gunny’s people on thin trails of gray smoke. Before they were even clear of the airframe, a second pair of rockets leapt from the outboard pylon on the opposite wing.

Gunny’s brain instinctively solved a dozen complex geometric calculations in the space of two heartbeats, and he knew that one of the rockets was headed straight for him. With a launch velocity not much lower than the speed of a bullet, the rocket crossed the distance in an instant, but somehow he saw it coming the entire way.

His finger yanked repeatedly against the trigger of his weapon, pumping bullets toward the gunship as rapidly as the M-4’s rate of fire permitted—hoping blindly to bring down the helicopter even as it killed him.

He never found out if his final wish was granted. The rocket struck the ice less than a meter from his right elbow. He had only the briefest impression of unbearable light, and heat, and sound. There was a split-second flare of pain, and then there was nothing.

OPERATIONS COMMAND POST #2

OUTSIDE PETROPAVLOVSK-KAMCHATSKI, RUSSIA

THURSDAY; 07 MARCH

1340 hours (1:40 PM)

TIME ZONE +12 ‘MIKE’

“
Comrade President?”

Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov wiped a trace of
gorokhovye
broth from his lips with the rough weave of a homespun napkin, and looked up from his lunch. His chief assistant, Maxim Ivanovitch Ustanov, was standing a few meters away from the table. The man was visibly shaking.

Zhukov did not permit himself to frown. The overt nervousness of his assistant was almost certainly a sign of bad tidings, but Zhukov went to considerable effort to avoid directing his temper toward the members of his trusted inner circle. He kept his voice carefully casual. “What is it, Maxim Ivanovitch?”

“
Comrade President,” his assistant said again, “there is news. I am afraid that it is not good.”

Zhukov laid the napkin on the table top next to his brown earthenware bowl. Gorokhovye—pea and onion soup, seasoned with pork—was a traditional Russian dish, dating back to the times before even the Tsars. It was simple, but filling and delicious. A common man’s meal, and Zhukov ate it with thick black bread, as was also the tradition.

He waved to a chair. “Please, my old friend. Sit down. Tell me this news that has gotten you so upset.”

Ustanov did not take the offered chair. “Comrade President, one of our patrol helicopters has encountered and destroyed a team of United States Marines on the ice pack, in the Sea of Okhotsk.”

Zhukov spent several seconds absorbing this news. “Special Forces,” he said finally. “They are looking for
me
. They hope to decapitate our revolution by assassinating its leader.”

Ustanov shook his head. “I do not think so, Comrade President. These men … these American Marines … were …” His voice trailed off.

“
They were
what
?” Zhukov asked quietly. “It is alright, Maxim Ivanovitch. You can tell me. What were these Americans doing?”

Ustanov cleared his throat. “They … ah … They were disarming the explosives at the northeastern
zashishennaja pozicija
.”

“
What?
” The word was practically a roar. Zhukov stood up so rapidly that he jarred the table, causing gorokhovye to slosh over onto the table cloth.

Ustanov flinched, and took a half-step backwards.

Zhukov regained control quickly. He lowered himself into his chair, picked up his napkin, and began dabbing at the spilled soup. As he worked at the small task, he concentrated on slowing his breathing and leveling his demeanor.

He had a reputation for being as fierce in protecting those who were loyal to him as he was in punishing those who were disloyal. He dealt harshly with underlings who didn’t meet his expectations, but he did not attack his close supporters and confidants.

When he spoke again, his voice was more measured. “Forgive me,” he said. “Your news took me by surprise. I hope you can understand my alarm.” He laid the napkin down again with movements of almost supernatural delicacy. “The ice pack conceals and protects our submarine, but it also prevents us from firing. We
must
maintain the ability to launch attacks at-will. If the K-506 cannot launch, we lose both our leverage, and our deterrence against retaliation.”

He pushed the bowl away from himself. His appetite was gone. “How many of our launch positions have been compromised?”

Ustanov opened and closed his mouth several times, like a fish suddenly snatched from the water.

Zhukov’s stomach tightened. Judging from his assistant’s demeanor, the situation was even more dire than he had initially feared. “Come,” he said. “This knowledge will not improve with waiting. Tell me, Maxim Ivanovitch, how many of our zashishennaja pozicija have been compromised? How many of our precious launch positions have the Americans destroyed?”

Ustanov’s reply came out as a hoarse whisper. “Three, Comrade President.”

Sergiei Zhukov felt the blood pounding in his temples. “
Three
?”

“
Yes, Comrade President.”

“
Three? You are certain?”

Ustanov nodded. “Yes, Comrade President. When I received word that enemy forces had been spotted near one of the launch positions, I ordered our technicians to conduct remote circuit tests of all launch positions. The equipment at three of the positions failed to respond. Only the southeast launch position passed the remote test.”

Zhukov fought to keep his voice even. “Are we certain that the explosives at the southeast launch position are functional?”

Ustanov nodded rapidly, apparently grateful to be delivering at least one piece of good news. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I believe the American Marines had completed the destruction of three positions, and were awaiting transportation to the fourth, when our attack helicopter discovered them.”

He paused for several seconds, as though unsure whether or not to continue.

Zhukov gave a short beckoning wave with two fingers.

Ustanov followed the signal, and pressed on. “I suggest a change of strategy, Comrade President. We have been operating from the assumption that air cover over the launch positions would draw the attention of our enemies to locations that we wish to keep secret. For much the same reason, we have minimized our remote testing of the launch positions. Frequent use of the satellite communications link may invite unwanted attention to both our methods and the locations of our launch positions.”

He raised his hands and dropped them. “Despite our plans, secrecy and concealment have obviously not protected our zashishennaja pozicija. In view of this, I suggest we abandon secrecy, and deploy direct protection over the remaining launch position. With your permission, I will order continuous coverage of the southeast position by attack helicopters, supplemented by frequent over-flights by MiG fighters.”

Zhukov nodded. “A wise recommendation, Maxim Ivanovitch. Give the order. Also, send out demolitions teams to prepare six or seven new launch positions, as well as eight or ten decoy positions.”

He brought the fingertips of both hands together. “The Americans have evidently seen past that particular deception. We should give them plenty of new possibilities to keep their minds occupied.”

Zhukov was thinking rapidly. How
had
the Americans found out? Could it be satellites? The United States had impressive spy satellite capabilities, to be certain, but the launch positions had been prepared nearly two weeks ago—long before the U.S. intelligence community had found a reason to point their expensive surveillance assets in the direction of a backwater province like Kamchatka. He was confident that the Americans had neither noticed, nor cared about a few old helicopters hopping around on a bit of worthless and deserted ice pack to the south of Siberia.

Could one of Zhukov’s own people have talked? That didn’t seem likely. With the exception of three senior officers aboard the submerged submarine, only a dozen people had ever learned the coordinates of the launch positions. Of that dozen, more than half had been eliminated to avoid just this sort of security breach.

The demolitions personnel who had rigged the explosives were now dead. So were their helicopter pilots, and the old courier, Grigoriev.

So, how had the Americans ferreted out the locations of the launch positions? Could they be using some new and hyper-sensitive technology? Zhukov didn’t know.

He decided to treat this unsolved mystery as a not-too-gentle reminder that the Americans could still surprise him. And that thought raised the next question. How could he turn this around? How could he regain the element of surprise?

It was time to do something that America was not expecting. Something that
no one
would expect. He needed to punish the Americans for sending their filthy Marines to invade the sovereign territory of his new Russia. And he needed to teach the entire world that Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov was prepared to wield power at a level completely beyond their experience. He was not afraid to step boldly into the land of nightmares, where the other so-called leaders of the world feared to tread.

He regarded his assistant, still standing quietly, no doubt waiting to be dismissed. “Maxim Ivanovitch, refresh my memory. The K-506 is currently following a slow counterclockwise circle, is he not?”

“
Yes, Comrade President,” Ustanov said.

“
When will he pass within communications range of the southeastern launch position?”

Ustanov glanced at his watch. “Approximately 11:50 PM our time, sir. Or 10:50 PM
his
time, as the submarine is operating one time zone west of us.”