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  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  The Mk-48 ADCAP (advanced capability) was a wire-guided, active/passive homing torpedo, nineteen feet long and twenty-one inches in diameter. Thrust from its pumpjet propulsor was developed by an air turbine pump discharge (ATPD) system, and liquid fuel powered the swash-plate piston engine.

  Once the XO confirmed that the torpedo was loaded, Andreas paused a moment more, thinking about all the men and women about to lose their lives. War was a terrible thing.

  After a barely discernable nod from Andreas, the XO gave the order.

  As the torpedo shot through the launch tube, a thin wire spun out, electronically linking it with the submarine. This enabled the operator of the submarine’s sensitive sonar systems to guide the torpedo toward the target.

  The ammo ship Lightning had deployed several decoys and jamming devices, but the operator would avoid those as the torpedo reached seventy-five knots.

  A few seconds later, the wire cut free, and the torpedo’s high-powered active/passive sonar steered it during the final attack.

  The Mk-48’s warhead contained the explosive power of about 1,200 pounds of TNT, and both Andreas and the XO knew that that power could be maximized when the warhead detonated below the keel of a target ship.

  “Three seconds,” said the XO, monitoring his console’s timer. “Two, one.”

  The warhead exploded exactly as planned. The resulting pressure wave of the blast lifted the Lightning, and while Andreas couldn’t see it, he felt certain that her keel had been broken in the process.

  As she settled, the second detonation occurred, tearing her apart and igniting her huge cache of ammunition. Long plumes of water and fragments shot nearly two hundred meters skyward. Dozens more explosions joined the first in a rainbow of colors that lit waves pockmarked by splashing debris.

  When the smoke cleared a bit, Andreas confirmed that they had broken the ship into several pieces. The larger bow and stern sections were taking on water fast, while still more ammunition began to cook off.

  Again, more silence in the control room, until—

  “Should we close and search for survivors, sir?” asked the XO.

  Andreas thought a moment. “No.” He took a deep breath, then called, “Navigator? Give me a course to the mouth of the Dolphin and Union Strait. With the east end of the gulf iced in, that strait is a perfect choke point—and we get to say who comes through there.”

  “Hello, Prime Minister,” said President Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin. “I’m glad you could take my call. I know it’s early there.”

  Prime Minister Robert Emerson of Canada had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He had loosened his tie, and he barely opened his mouth when he said quite curtly, “Get out of my country.”

  “I’m afraid, Prime Minister, that it is far too late for that. But what I have to tell you is quite urgent and will benefit you greatly, if you are willing to negotiate.”

  “Kapalkin, you’re a creature of realpolitik, coercive and amoral. There are no negotiations here. Get out of my country.”

  “Prime Minister, I understand how you feel, and I know how important it is for you and your people to remain neutral in this conflict. I can guarantee that Canada will not become involved, if we work together.”

  “We are already involved. You’ve invaded the Northwest Territories and are heading for Alberta.”

  “That’s not all. As we speak our Spetsnaz forces are heading toward Edmonton and Calgary. They will parachute into those cities and seize control of power and communications uplinks, as well as those early warning radar systems for the JSF’s missile defense shield. It is winter. Very cold. And we will shut down the power. But we don’t have to do that.”

  “If we hand over control of Alberta?” Emerson guessed.

  Kapalkin spread his hands in a gesture of bon homie. “What is politics, Prime Minister? It is simply the pursuit, possession, and application of power. Let us share that power.”

  Prime Minister Emerson closed his eyes and massaged his temples, then suddenly blurted, “You know the Americans want to . . .‘share power’ with us as well.”

  “And we know you’ve already failed to stop them from crossing your borders. But we’ll forgive that. All we need from you now is a promise not to interfere. And once we control Alberta, you will continue production—even increase it—with our assistance.”

  “And of course, the Russian Federation will receive a substantial portion of our profits. Come on, you were a smuggler. And this sounds like a proposition put forth by the Russian mafia, not the Federation.”

  That remark stung, and Kapalkin sharpened his tone. “Prime Minister, if you’ll recall, I was also co-owner and chairman of one of Russia’s largest oil and gas companies. I know this business. I know how together we can continue production and force the Americans and Euros to pay dearly for that oil. Let Canada become richer—with our help.”

  “Mr. President, I must be frank with you. I don’t believe a goddamn word.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “Get out of my country.”

  “It’s too late for that.” Kapalkin raised his index finger. “Let me add this: If your government decides to offer military assistance to the Americans, you will suffer the full military might of the Russian Federation.”

  “Don’t threaten me.”

  “Mr. Prime Minister, at this point you are far better off doing nothing. Remain neutral. We will respect that. We will do everything we can to limit the number of casualties and preserve your infrastructure. Take some time to think it over. You will come to see that what I’m offering is far more attractive and will allow Canada to step out from the shadow of those American cowboys. You could take it to your people, but I understand a cabinet revolt would bring you down quickly, and that your parliament is quite anemic, with several members vying for your position. Sit on your hands for now, if that is your wish. But do not help the Americans or the Euros. I will call you again in a day or two. And we will see how you feel then.”

  Emerson just stared blankly at him, a man still unwilling to admit defeat. He would. In time.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Prime Minister.” Kapalkin suppressed his smile.

  The large, touch-screen map table showing the Northwest Territories and Alberta flickered with “Blue” and “Red” force activity as Major Alice Dennison shifted past it on her way back to her desk to take a call.

  When she sat down and saw the origination, she nearly fell out of her chair. She swallowed hard and smoothed back her hair, then adjusted the collar of her uniform to buy some time and calm herself a bit. After another deep breath, she reached out with a trembling finger and touched the screen.

  President Becerra was seated aboard Air Force One. His brows raised. “Hello, Major Dennison.”

  “Uh, hi. I mean, hello, Mr. President. This is, uh, I’m sorry,” she stammered.

  “Relax, Major. I just need a little favor.”

  The President of the United States was asking her for a favor?

  “Actually two things.”

  He could ask for ten. “Uh, yes, Mr. President?”

  “It’s my understanding that you’ve been in direct contact with an F-35 pilot forced to eject up in the Northwest Territories, Major Stephanie Halverson, call sign Siren.”

  “Yes, sir. We lost all those fighters. She was the last one to hang on. She put a hell of a dent in their operations.”

  “I know. And it’s also my understanding that no one’s been assigned the TRAP mission to get her out of there.”

  “No, sir, we tried. I was hoping we could split up one of the ODA teams we dropped into High Level, but their C-130 got hit before the whole company got out. We only have a couple dozen operators on the ground, with no air support yet, so I can’t spare them. And even if I could, I doubt I could get them up there in time. The first sorties carrying the brigade from the Tenth Mountain won’t reach Grand Prairie for a couple of hours now, and they’ll b
e even farther south.”

  “I want that pilot recovered.”

  “Of course, sir, but she’s way behind enemy lines.”

  “Major, I talked to her myself. She was the tip of our spear, and I won’t write her off. Now before you even think it, this isn’t some PR stunt to create a ‘feel-good’ story. That pilot is a valuable asset. And she’s worth the risk.”

  “Yes, sir. Getting a team up there could also provide us with some boots-on-the-ground intel of their staging area.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Sir, I’ll do everything I can.”

  He nodded. “And the second thing. I know you’ve been trying to crack Doletskaya. Keep at it. The GRU rarely engages in straightforward ops like this.”

  “I know, sir. We’ve got that number, that code name, then we just hit the wall.”

  “Dig more into his past. Maybe the key is there. And also . . . consider the source of that information.”

  “Sir?”

  “The Euros tipped us off, handed over that intel. There’s nothing to say that the intel isn’t corrupt, or that the intel will point to the Euros being directly involved.”

  “I’ll expand my search. Anything else, sir?”

  “Oh, that’ll keep you busy. Thank you, Major.” Someone beckoned him. He smiled politely and ended the call.

  Dennison sat there, just breathing. Then she bolted from her chair and cried, “Where are those Marines from Pendleton? Are they still in the air?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Were it not for the arrival of those Spetsnaz troops in their snowmobiles, Major Stephanie Halverson would not have located her ejection seat.

  She wouldn’t have looked up, considering that maybe her best hiding place would be in a tree, carefully hidden among those thick, snow-laden limbs. While she had been scanning the trees, her gaze had lighted upon an irregular shape, and as she approached for a better look, she realized the damned seat had lodged itself some twenty feet above, the chute tangled in the limbs. So much for calling Hammer again. At least for now.

  With the troops still behind her, she forged on, darting between trees, leaving a terribly clear trail in the snow.

  After ducking around the next trunk, she paused to catch her breath.

  All right, think. Can’t keep running. Need a direction. Something.

  A glance back revealed more forest to the southeast. Her GPS showed nothing but more of the same. However, if she went directly west, she’d run into a small road and an open field. Might even be a farm or two out there.

  The reckless and basically suicidal thought to confront the troops did cross her mind. Shelly would have said, “Go for it.” Her sister had taken on some bullies when they’d been in middle school, literally beating all three girls to the ground, earning her a suspension for a month and summer school for two years.

  But no one bothered Stephanie after that.

  Unsurprisingly, it had been Shelly who had urged Stephanie to join the military, to take life by the horns, to recognize the warrior inside. She had cheered Stephanie on through the Air Force Academy and beyond—

  Until the cancer had struck.

  Sorry, Shell, I can’t take them on this time. I think I’ll beat them by running, not shooting. I’ve never been a great shot anyway.

  When Sergeant Nathan Vatz, Captain Godfrey, and Warrant Officer Samson walked into the RCMP station, they were confronted by an empty front desk. On the walls behind hung photos of Mounties wearing their Stetsons and scarlet tunics with lanyards slung across their chests.

  “I see they got things under control,” quipped Godfrey. “They’re at DEFCON One.”

  Vatz laughed under his breath.

  “It’s early,” Samson reminded them.

  “Hello, anyone home?” Vatz called.

  A woman, probably in her late fifties and dressed in a gray-and-blue RCMP uniform, appeared from behind a closed door, looking as though she had just risen from a deep sleep.

  She took one look at their Nomex jumpsuits and frowned. “Can I help you?”

  Vatz smiled inwardly over her accent.

  “Ma’am? I’m Captain Godfrey. This is Warrant Officer Samson, and Sergeant Vatz. We’re Special Forces troops from the United States Army. We need to speak to the police chief or detachment commander, whatever you call him. And we need the mayor here immediately.”

  “What’s going on? I saw something on the news about some Russian planes up north. Then we started getting weird military broadcasts by guys with Russian accents. We thought the satellite dish was messed up.”

  “Ma’am, if you could just get those people here, we’ll fill you all in A-SAP.”

  Vatz stepped away as one of his weapons sergeants called on the radio to say they’d used their plasma knives to gain entrance into the local sporting goods store and were securing clothing and more gear.

  “Roger that. Zodiac Six’s team will be around to pick you up, then rally on us.”

  It took ten precious minutes for the local detachment commander and mayor to arrive. Both were overweight men in their late fifties whose cholesterol levels had to be skyrocketing, Vatz mused.

  But Vatz appreciated the mayor’s candor and easygoing demeanor when the man drawled, “What the hell’s going on, boys?”

  Captain Godfrey spelled it out for him, and Vatz had never seen two men grow pale so quickly.

  “You need to evacuate the entire town right now,” added Godfrey. “Get all the women and children in their cars, get on Highway 35, and get them down to Grand Prairie. That’s where our brigade from the Tenth Mountain Division will be coming in. We’ll set up camps for IDPs there.”

  “IDPs?” asked the mayor.

  “Internally displaced persons,” answered Godfrey. “Trust me, in the next few days, there will be tens of thousands of them.”

  “All right, let me get everybody I have out there,” said the detachment commander.

  “Just get those Suburbans rolling through those neighborhoods. Get on the bullhorn. Get ’em out.”

  “You said only the women and children,” repeated the mayor.

  “Vatz?” said Captain Godfrey. “Why don’t you explain it to him.”

  Vatz cleared his throat. “Sir, the Russians will send recon elements first, by land and air. If we can hold them off until the Tenth arrives, we’ll have control of Highways 35 and 58. That’s what we need to do. The Russians can’t move their ground troops across the frozen lakes or through all the snow. It’s just too damned slow. They’ll stick to the roads. They’ll come to take the oil and gas fields at Rainbow Lake and Zama City west of here. And they’ll need control of this town if they’re going to push farther south. We can’t let that happen. Sir, we’re just two teams here, about twenty-five operators. We need every man willing to fight.”

  The mayor’s jaw dropped. For a moment, he couldn’t speak; then he managed, “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, sir. And there’s no time for a debate. They’re coming to take your town. If you own a rifle, I suggest you get it.”

  “But this is Canada! We’re not in the war. We’re neutral, for God’s sake.”

  Warrant Officer Samson drew an unlit cigar from his breast pocket, shoved it in his mouth. “Tell that to the Russians.”

  McAllen and his Marines marched down the C-130’s loading ramp, ready to set foot on the tarmac of Fort McMurray Airport.

  But before they could reach said tarmac, Colonel Stack accosted them. “Sergeant McAllen?”

  “Uh, yes, sir?”

  “This your team?” The colonel’s gaze played over the five men standing on the ramp behind McAllen.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You boys feel like taking a little ride?”

  They all boomed: “Sir, yes, sir!”

  “I’m talking way up north, behind enemy lines.”

  McAllen smiled. “That’s the way we roll, sir.”

  “Very well. Seems there’s a pilot who got shot down. It seems the president
has taken a liking to her. So this comes down from The Man himself.”

  “Sir, begging your pardon, sir, but it’s obvious why you picked us. We’re the best, of course, but—”

  “Slow down, Sergeant. And stow that ego before you hurt someone with it. Truth is, I didn’t pick you for this. I wanted your green Marine asses up on Highway 63, but apparently there’s a major in Tampa who took orders from The Man, and she personally requested you boys.”

  “You hear that, Sergeant?” cried McAllen’s new assistant, Scott Rule. “We haven’t even dropped a Russian and we’re already famous.”

  McAllen grinned crookedly, then silenced the man with a look.

  The colonel went on, “So this major heard you were the first team at that crash site in Cuba. She must’ve figured you’re doing something right. Bad news is, best I got to get you up there is a civilian chopper. It’s a Bell LongRanger III. Company’s called Highland. Might be a blessing. The Russians might not take a potshot at a tourist bird. But that’s only your ride up. I’m still working on your ride home. There’s an HMMWV coming off one of the other 130s. You’ll hop on and take that up to Highland’s hangar. Official warning orders to follow. Questions?”

  “I assume we have the last known GPS coordinates of this pilot?”

  “We do. She’s northwest of Behchoko, though she hasn’t activated her survival kit’s beacon.”

  “Sat phone?”

  “Iridium is down.”

  “So there’s no guarantee she’s even still alive.”

  “Sergeant, you come back with the woman or her body. That’s what The Man wants.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stack glanced off in the distance, shielding his eyes from the morning sun. “There’s your ride now.”

  Staff Sergeant Marc Rakken sat inside the Stryker with the rest of his rifle squad. It would be at least another six hours before they reached the outskirts of Calgary, and the ride east on Interstate 90 had taken forever because of the patches of ice and civilians getting in the way to gape at the brigade rumbling east. They finally had turned onto 95 to head north.