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  “Another report from Third Echelon, sir,” Baxter said, his gaze riveted on a tablet computer. “So far they’ve lost contact with eleven Splinter Cells operating in Europe and four more in Moscow. They confirm now that Major Dennison had put in a request for their records and current operations before she left. The request was based on the president’s order to capture the Snow Maiden and that she was coordinating a new search after our Ghost team failed to bring her in during that mission in Dubai.”

  “So she’s giving up our spies, just like Izotov did. Get me the president.”

  “I’ll have to reroute,” Baxter told him. “Primary network just froze. It’s being rebooted now. Again, what’s happening seems more a nuisance, meant to make us believe a more complicated cyberattack will occur. All right, we’re on the secondary. I’ll have the president for you momentarily.”

  Mitchell squeezed his hand into a fist.

  Wasn’t this terrorism in its most pure form? You didn’t need weapons of mass destruction.

  All you needed was fear.

  FORTY-TWO

  USS George H. W. Bush CVN-77

  Nimitz-class Supercarrier

  Mediterranean Sea

  Two Days Later . . .

  Lex had never seen anything like it.

  In just forty-eight hours the world had changed, with announcements flooding the media about massive security breaches within both the American and Russian governments, as if each side had decided to hand to the other its major secrets.

  Those breaches caused both militaries to engage in massive troop movements and maneuvers of naval vessels. Lex guessed that several of the more dramatic media pundits had already keeled over from heart attacks . . .

  The flurry of panic and activity notwithstanding, it seemed Halverson and Lex were literally and figuratively in the same boat: Both of their requests to be sent to London to join the fray had been denied. Halverson was being shipped back to California, where she’d return to her duties as a test pilot, working directly with Dr. Ragland’s associates to investigate the failure of the new radar system. Lex and his men would remain on the carrier until they could secure a series of plane rides home to CONUS.

  As Halverson had joked, “No fish and chips for us.”

  “At least we get to thank you again for the ride,” Lex had told her. “One hell of a ride.”

  According to General Mitchell, the Snow Maiden was being flown directly to Langley, to CIA headquarters, where she’d meet with the president himself. She’d already handed over a plethora of information regarding the GRU’s assets and activities, along with everything she knew about the Ganjin.

  Osin’s phone and tablet computer, along with the chip that was in Nestes’s arm, uncovered cable links to the group called the Ganjin; however, some of the Ganjin leaders the Snow Maiden had named (Sukarnoputri and Fedorovich) were reported missing, as was escaped prisoner Colonel Pavel Doletskaya. A search by Russian police of the SinoRus refinery and headquarters on Sakhalin Island had been conducted, but their findings were not yet released.

  For his part, Osin had been communicating directly to someone onboard a yacht off the coast of Africa, a vessel owned by Dominion Group, a major South African financial institution. Third Echelon had already sent a man to investigate that lead.

  More intel indicated that forty-eight hours after Ragland’s abduction, the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) had received a routine report of a foreign combatant vessel transiting the Panama Canal—part of the U.S./Panama agreement when the canal was turned over to Panama. The report listed SAS Kapstaad, a South African diesel submarine, transiting the canal from Pacific to Atlantic. In follow-up interviews, the mandatory Panamanian pilot on board during the transit overheard the crew discussing a female “passenger” on board. There was no earlier report of the sub transiting from east to west. An Atlantic transit from South Africa to the canal was a lot shorter than a Pacific transit. An extended diesel submarine deployment required replenishment at sea. The west-to-east canal course suggested expediency over stealth.

  “You think they’ve got her on a sub?” Lex asked.

  “We have a few links to South Africa already, and that sub sent up a red flag. You’ve got a valuable POW you don’t want to be found, and you’ve got a sub at your disposal, then why not?”

  “Because our subs are very good at finding other subs.”

  “You’re correct. This one’s out there, somewhere in the North Atlantic, and we’ve got a lot of ears listening for her.”

  “I appreciate you sharing this with me, sir.”

  “Well then, I’ll make my intentions clear. If we do locate that boat, I’ll be sending you and your men after her. Your CO already approves.”

  “You’ll let me finish what I started.”

  “Exactly. If you’re like me, you hate loose ends.”

  “Yes, sir. I hate ’em. And my sister?”

  “I knew you’d ask. Bad news there, I’m afraid. When we accessed the records, the Russians must’ve been tipped off. The team I sent just reported the place is empty. They’ve moved all the POWs . . . not sure where, but that team had to pull out.”

  “Damn, that’s . . . I guess I would’ve wasted my time going up there.”

  “I’m sorry, Captain.”

  Lex tried to contain himself. There’d be another time, another place. “I appreciate the effort, sir.”

  “Captain, for what it’s worth, you’ve built a sound reputation in the Corps. You’re a guy whose head’s always been in the game. Just keep it that way.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be ready. And please keep me updated about my sister if anything else comes up.”

  After the call, Lex headed to Ward Room #3 for some breakfast. The room was reserved for officers only, but Lex received permission for Sergeants Borya and Vlad to join him there. They gorged themselves on scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee, and afterward, Lex lowered his voice and met their gazes. “You guys doing all right?”

  “I’m okay, sir,” said Borya.

  “Yeah,” added Vlad. “It is kinda weird without him, though. I keep thinking he’s going to rag on me, then I turn and he’s not there.”

  Lex nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Vlad shrugged. “I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Slava was a real asshole sometimes,” Borya said. “He really pissed me off. Even the way he died was aggravating, no big blaze of glory the way he talked about.”

  “Yeah, but he did help me get in there and get some data,” Lex confessed. “I found out where they’re holding my sister. The general also told me they got some good stuff about Spetsnaz ops in the Middle East.”

  “That’s cool,” said Vlad. “Sucks being on a need-to-know all the time.”

  “Well, now you know,” Lex said. “I never thought it’d come to this.”

  “It’s okay,” said Borya. “Time to chill for a while, then we’ll get back out there, and get rocking. Slava would have some choice words for us if we didn’t.”

  “Oh, yeah, he would,” said Vlad. “And he’s probably looking down on us right now, and he’s totally pissed that he didn’t get a chance to capture the Snow Maiden.”

  Lex grinned. “He probably would’ve hit on her.”

  “She was definitely hotter in person,” said Borya. “For a slightly older woman.”

  “Hey, you watch that,” said Lex. “But you’re right about her . . .” He got to his feet. “Let’s see if we can find a way to get shot off this floating runway.”

  FORTY-THREE

  CIA Safe House

  Somewhere in Langley, Virginia

  Eighteen Days Later . . .

  They’d been carting her all around Washington and Langley for more than two weeks now, submitting her to polygraph exams and enough interrogations to have her mimicking the questions even as they asked them. She repeated
the same answers, told them anything and everything she knew, assured them she was being absolutely honest. She held back nothing.

  Snegurochka, the Snow Maiden, was dead, she’d told them.

  She was just Viktoria now.

  The house was appointed with Colonial-style furniture, and the oak floors squeaked under the pair of running shoes they’d given her. She was impressed that they hadn’t thrown her in some maximum-security cell and forced her to undergo “creative” interrogation techniques the way the Federation would have. That she was readily cooperating and that her information turned out to be correct had obviously earned her better quarters.

  They even allowed her to watch the morning news, with CNN reporting that the last of the Russian troops, a few stubborn snipers, had been driven out of London, the city once more secure, the damage estimated in the billions.

  The Russian Federation had resumed supplying oil to the United States, but only in very limited quantities. Gas prices had already doubled, with nationwide rationing measures taking effect. Odd and even days at the pumps, with citizens waiting upward of eight hours to fill their tanks.

  The vice president of Russia, now acting president, was making speeches about American aggression and how this conflict might continue to escalate into the “war to end all wars,” borrowing a phrase used to describe the First World War and hinting that the Federation might have some means of bringing down the European missile shield.

  All she could do was mutter under her breath and swear over the lies and deception. She glanced up from her breakfast cereal at a commotion coming from the front door, and by the time she pushed back her chair, President Becerra was already gesturing for her to remain seated and that the two agents who never left her side should leave the room.

  He took a seat opposite her. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast.”

  “It’s fine. And it’s good to see you again. I appreciate the way you’re treating me.”

  “You gave up those double agents for us in Moscow and it took a while, but we were just able to plug those leaks.”

  “They provided the intel about Ragland.”

  “Yes, they did. False intel.”

  “Have they confessed who their employer is?”

  “No. They claim they’ve never heard of the Ganjin. They reported to Osin.”

  “And who did he report to?”

  “We’re very close, but we’re not certain yet. I’ll ask you this again, and you need to think harder about it: Did the Ganjin have any connections to South Africa?”

  “Like I said, I never heard them talk about the country. I’ve been trying to remember every conversation I had with Patti, and I don’t remember her ever mentioning South Africa . . .”

  “Okay, here’s a new one for you. What about a man named Christopher Theron?”

  She let the name roll off her tongue, then asked, “Who is he?”

  “One of the richest men in South Africa.”

  “I wish I could comment, but I don’t know him or how he might be involved.”

  Becerra raked fingers through his hair and nodded. “I’m actually here for another reason.”

  “The Raisin Bran?”

  He smiled weakly. “I’d like some advice. I’m having, shall we say, a difficult time negotiating with the acting president right now.”

  “I told you. You’re not negotiating with him. Izotov is running the country—or should I say the people controlling Izotov. Maybe the Ganjin. Everything he does is on their behalf. They created this situation because it benefits them.”

  “They’ll destroy both countries.”

  “To be honest, I’ve always wanted to see the motherland burn.”

  “I know. I watched your polygraph exams.”

  “Then you know why I hate them so much.”

  “Yes, but this is a global economy. They burn, we burn.”

  “He’s bluffing, you know. They can’t bring down the shield.”

  “They won’t have to at this rate. We’re slipping into a depression far greater than any this nation has ever experienced.”

  “You said you wanted advice; well, here it is. General Izotov needs to die. At the very least, somebody needs to capture him and rip that chip out of his eye. Let me check my calendar.” She lifted her palm as though clutching a phone. “No, I’m not doing anything today. I’ll go kill him for you.”

  “I appreciate your sense of humor, but I—”

  “What is it?”

  His expression had gone long. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we could try to abduct him.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  He glanced over at the TV, at footage of a riot outside a gas station in Detroit. “This is crazy.”

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Put a tracker on me. Send me to Moscow with an escort, I don’t care. I won’t run. I’m the only one who can get in there and get the job done. Your other agents don’t stand a chance. Think about it. The vice president’s got a gun to his head right now. The State Duma’s in a shambles. We free him up, and you’ll be able to talk to him. Rationally. He’ll listen. I know it.”

  “Why would you do this for us?”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “But you’re Russian.”

  “I don’t hate the people, only the government. Kapalkin is gone. Only Izotov is left, and when he’s gone, I’ll be a proud Russian again.”

  “I can’t cut you loose. My career would be over.”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Only tell a few . . .”

  One of the president’s Secret Service agents appeared in the doorway. “Sir, I’m sorry, sir. An urgent call.”

  Becerra rose and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  She nodded. “I hope so.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  HH-60H Seahawk

  Norwegian Sea

  1710 Hours Local Time

  Lex was dozing on his parents’ sofa in their Eastport, New York, home when he got the call and the bottle of vodka fell out of his hand.

  He’d been okay the first few days after coming home, helping his aging parents with some home improvements and visiting with two old buddies, but then the boredom had set in, followed by the depression and the nightmares of watching Slava die. However, to his credit he hadn’t turned to the vodka until one afternoon, a few days before the call, when he’d been watching an old war film called Kelly’s Heroes and realizing he hadn’t slept for more than two hours at any clip. He reasoned he was using the alcohol for medicinal purposes and began drinking himself into a stupor, followed by a sound sleep.

  Maybe that call from General Mitchell had saved his life, he mused now while seated aboard the Seahawk, dressed in full Arctic camouflage combat gear, armed to the teeth, ready to deliver a lecture of death and destruction to all those who would dare abduct a citizen of the United States.

  Across from him sat Vlad, Borya, and Slava’s replacement, a veteran operator and newly promoted master sergeant named Raymond McAllen, who by no small coincidence, was responsible for rescuing Major Halverson when she’d been shot down over Canada. McAllen had just transferred to the Special Raid Teams Group, and Lex had enthusiastically welcomed him aboard when they’d left Royal Air Force Station Alconbury earlier in the evening. McAllen’s first mission with the SRT promised to be challenging, but he sounded secure and confident. “When we get back, I’ll tell you all about my S & R up in Canada. That was some serious shit!”

  General Mitchell, Lieutenant Colonel Rugg, and the rest of SRT brass had attended the hasty video briefing. Once learning that Ragland might be on that South African sub, the JSF had made multiple attempts to localize it and were baffled by their inability to pick it up, eventually relying upon a defunct former Norwegian Sound Surveillance Station (SOSUS), now a scientific facility for the study of oc
ean acoustic biologics and sea temperature studies.

  Two days prior, the facility began to report interference with its whale verbalization studies to NOAA due to the periodic acoustic signature from a snorkeling diesel submarine. NOAA queried the JSF Navy about the operation of a diesel submarine in a restricted OPAREA.

  From a covert drone base in northeast Iceland, the JSF Air Force launched an MQ-9 Reaper UAV to begin photographing that OPAREA, identifying a UT 776 platform supply ship whose port of registry was Bergen, Norway. Oddly enough, she was loitering off the coast of Jan Mayen Island, and there was a good chance she was waiting to rendezvous with the submarine since she normally did likewise for oil platforms.

  Jan Mayen, Lex quickly learned, was a volcanic, mountainous island in the Arctic Ocean and part of Norway. It was situated about 370 miles northeast of Iceland and 310 miles east of Greenland. It was small, only thirty-four miles long, partly covered by glaciers, and divided into two parts: the larger northeast portion, Nord-Jan, and the smaller Sør-Jan. They were linked by an isthmus two and a half kilometers wide. There was an abandoned LORAN-C facility in southern Sør-Jan, along with a small meteorological station just northeast of there, but the place was mostly uninhabited.

  Either Ragland’s captors planned to resupply the sub and keep her aboard it indefinitely, or they were transferring her to the island, which, given its remote location and lack of population, made it a rather attractive place to hold a prisoner. Either way, Lex and his men would crash their party, ruin their evening, drink their booze, get their lady, and go home. In exactly that order.

  Alas, the proverbial clock was ticking. Once the sub surfaced, she wouldn’t remain there long, an hour or two at the most to resupply and/or transfer crew members.