We categorically deny any involvement in the distribution of weapons of mass destruction. The Russian people held out the open hand of friendship only to have it slapped aside by President Pearl’s unwise and unfounded accusations. We can only conclude that President Pearl has an ulterior motive in rejecting our offer of friendship.
—Gennadi Petrov, President of Russia
APPROACHING FOX VALLEY, ALASKA
Anatole Baranov squatted in the helicopter, back against the wall, chewing a wad of gum. The wad had lost its flavor an hour ago but he chewed it anyway. If he did not chew, he smoked, and his wife would not kiss him if he had smoke on his breath. So, he chewed, keeping his breath fresh for love.
Dressed in white from head to toe, Baranov and his men
carried American weapons. All spoke English. Launched with only a few hours of planning, they had crossed into American airspace after lying about their purpose and course. They were deep into the Alaskan wilderness. If caught in the air, they would claim navigation errors. If they succeeded in recovering the weapon, they could not afford to be caught and would take the recovered weapon into the sea with them rather than surrender. Terrorists were spreading rumors that the Russians were passing out nuclear weapons like party favors. The Americans were stupid to believe such nonsense, but believe it they did. Baranov’s superiors preferred not to irritate the Americans any further.
This would be the fifth recovery mission for Baranov and his Spetsnaz team. He had lost men on three of the previous missions. With fifteen troops split between two helicopters, each ship could carry the entire team if one was lost. Every man on board was expendable and knew it.
They were at treetop level, Baranov’s ship in the lead, the proton detector in the nose, busy sniffing out what should not be in rural Alaska. The land below them was much like his home: heavily forested, frozen, and thinly populated. There were more moose than people and little risk anyone would report their helicopters.
They skirted even small villages, beelining for where their intelligence people thought the weapon might be. The information had been sketchy, but the image of the building in the valley matched a satellite photo of an isolated facility of unknown purpose in their intelligence database. The Fox Valley facility supposedly conducted environmental research, but then Russian trawlers supposedly fished. Highly placed moles in the U.S. government assured them that the Americans did not possess any Russian nuclear weapons, so if such a device was indeed in Alaska, it was there for nefarious purposes.
From analysis of the photo, the nuclear device was definitely a Russian design, modeled on a stolen American design, but then all nuclear weapons in the world were based on stolen American designs. Baranov chuckled to himself.
Perhaps it was fitting that they were retrieving another fusion egg from the mother hen of the nuclear age.
His men were young, multilingual, highly intelligent, professional soldiers. Even in the new Russian democracy, there were privileges for the military. On call twenty-four hours a day, fighting Russian Mafia, Chechnyan rebels, and Muslim extremists, his men earned the extra rubles in their paychecks. Fighting Americans would be a first he hoped to avoid.
The proton detector in the nose of the helicopter was the most sophisticated in the world, based on a stolen British design, but improved with Russian ingenuity. Bent over the display, earphones tight to his head, the technician raised his hand and waved it. Baranov came forward, leaned over to study the display, and then spoke to the pilots with the microphone built into his helmet. The ship turned now, reversing course. They could not risk detection. Suddenly the technician waved his hand again, calling Baranov back. The display had changed. Normally, they would operate with three helicopters, triangulating on a source. However, penetrating American airspace on a pretext was risky enough, so they had come with only two ships, taking multiple readings from both to detect the location of the weapon. The computer was having difficulty locating the source.
“Much interference,” the operator said.
Baranov ordered the pilots to fly in ever expanding circles until finally the computer resolved some internal conflict and placed the source near, or in, the structure in Fox Valley. Now satisfied, Baranov squeezed the shoulder of the technician and then signaled his men to get ready.
They put a few kilometers between them and the beginning of the detection zone and then came down in a small clearing, Baranov’s squad fanning out, securing the site. Then the second helicopter came down. Troops stepped into cross-country skis, and then skied out to establish a wider perimeter. Six men would stay behind to protect the helicopters and secure an escape route back to the ships. Baranov would lead nine more to the site to recover the weapon. With
surprise, Baranov was confident they could handle a force of up to thirty, more if they were gangsters and not soldiers.
With scouts ahead, they started across country, the ground sloping upward. A scout sped ahead. Using the American GPS satellite system, they kept in a straight line, hiding their numbers, minimizing the trail breaking and conserving energy. They made good progress, the skies overcast but an approaching snowstorm holding off. Sweating lightly, his men were conditioned to keep this up for hours and still fight at the end. Suddenly, a shot echoed through the trees ahead. Without a command, his men dispersed, taking cover behind trees. Baranov put his hand to his head, pushing on the white hood of his parka, pressing the earpiece deeper, waiting.
“One civilian with a dog,” came the economical transmission in English, lest someone pick it up. “Terminate?”
Killing local citizens was rarely a good idea, and killing American citizens on American soil the worst of all ideas.
“Hold, I’m coming.”
Signaling his men in hiding, Baranov skied ahead, coming up behind the scout who hid behind a tree, rifle trained on something ahead.
“He ambushed me from those trees,” he whispered, showing the hole in his parka where the bullet had entered, stopped by his bullet resistant vest.
Leaning out, Baranov could see nothing.
“He’s good,” Baranov said, appreciative of hitting a moving target through dense trees.
“I can flank him,” the scout offered.
“We’ll talk first,” Baranov said, spitting his wad of gum into the snow. “You in the trees,” he called. “You almost shot my friend!”
“I did shoot your friend and I’ll shoot you, too, if you come any nearer.”
It was a woman’s voice.
Baranov scowled at his scout.
“It hurts just like being shot by a man,” he said.
“Why are you shooting at us?” Baranov called.
“Because you shot me first, you bastard.”
“We aren’t even armed,” Baranov lied.
“Your friend was carrying an M-16,” she shouted back.
Baranov thought for a minute.
“I surrender. I’m coming to you unarmed and with my hands up.”
“I’ll shoot you dead if you come near me.”
Now the scout scowled. The scout was the younger brother of Baranov’s wife’s sister. Leonid would carry this tale back to the family.
“What happens in the field, stays in the field, Private,” Baranov said firmly.
“Dah,” Leonid said. “If you survive.”
Kicking off his skis, Baranov leaned his rifle against a tree, and then took his pistol off the belt. He left his knife in the sheath, knowing she could not see it under his parka. Waving his arms, he stepped out, keeping his hands high.
“Please don’t shoot, I have a wife and three children, thank you very much!”
“Get back in your hiding place, you skunk,” the woman shouted.
“I am unarmed. You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man.”
A bullet buried at his feet, the report echoing through the trees. He had to stop her firing. Rifle reports could carry for miles in this wilderness.
“Don’t shoot, I am not going to harm you, and I really do have a wife and three children.”
Now he could see her, leaning against a tree, the rifle resting on a low branch. He could see blood on her parka and bright red dots in the snow. A dog stood next to her. He was close enough now to hear its growl.
“You are hurt,” he said.
“Thanks to you,” she said, weapon pointed at his chest.
“Not me,” he protested, still moving forward.
“Then one of your men.”
“No, not us,” he said.
“You came in those black helicopters, didn’t you?”
He thought about lying, but she had not believed one of
his lies yet. Now she slipped to her knees, the rifle pointing up to the sky. He could rush her, but she was a remarkable shot, and there was the dog. Instead, he held his ground, letting her reposition the rifle, again aiming it at his chest. Now the rifle barrel wavered, the woman too weak to keep it steady.
“My name is Andy,” he said. “We did come in those helicopters.”
“Then you’re with the damn government, just like the ones who shot me.”
Baranov chose his words carefully.
“I am with a government, but not the government that shot you.”
Taken by surprise, she thought for a minute, still holding the rifle on him.
“An Earth government.”
‘Of course.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to recover something that was stolen from us.”
“Russian?” she asked.
“Dah!”
“Thank God.”
She dropped the rifle, turned, and sat, leaning against the tree. Baranov signaled the scout to bring the team. He walked slowly forward, the dog growling.
“Easy, Mack,” the woman said.
The dog stopped growling but watched Baranov warily. It was a sled dog, part of its harness still hanging from its chest.
“They killed some of my team and scattered the rest. That’s why I thought you were them.”
“Like I said, we are here for another reason.”
“The bomb, right?”
Baranov could not suppress his surprise.
“I thought so. You can’t sneak into that base. They have sensors all over the valley.”
“They usually do,” Baranov said, unzipping her parka and looking at the wound.
He had seen worse, but he had seen men die from less. He took off his pack and pulled out a dressing, pressing it against the wound to stem the bleeding. The woman moaned, her eyes closing. Mack growled, stepping toward Baranov’s face.
“Easy, Mack,” Baranov said.
Suddenly, Mack’s ears pricked up and he turned toward the trees behind them.
“You’re a confident sonofabitch,” the woman said, eyes fluttering open.
“Thank you very much,” Baranov said.
“Now we’ll see how good you black helicopter sonsofbitches really are, because here they come.”