Arctic Storm Rising
- Автор: Браун Дейл
- Серия: Nick Flynn #1
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 9780063015050
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «Arctic Storm Rising». Краткое содержание книги:
Flynn heard the outer door behind him open and felt a swirl of freezing cold air. Suppressing a shiver, he got back to his feet and turned around.
First Sergeant Andy Takirak had come into the maintenance bay. The grizzled Alaskan brushed snow off his parka and stomped his boots to dislodge ice chunks wedged into their treads. “It’s coming down pretty hard out there, sir,” he reported. “Looks like that forecast was right.”
Flynn nodded. Weather stations along the Arctic coast and satellites had been picking up indications of a large series of storms building up over the polar ice cap and starting to move south. Air Force and civilian meteorologists were all predicting an extended period of high winds, blowing snow and ice, and near-zero visibility. Which meant, in turn, that the training gear he’d requested had arrived just in time. There weren’t likely to be any more supply flights arriving at the airport until the blizzards headed their way died out.
He indicated the equipment he’d unpacked. “What do you think, Andy?”
“I’ve always figured if you were close enough to an enemy to reach out and touch him, you were already in a world of hurt,” Takirak said calmly. He showed his teeth. “Give me my rifle and a couple hundred yards of distance any day.”
Flynn nodded. “I can’t argue with that.” Then he smiled. “But I checked your records. You took the combatives instructor course and aced it a few years ago.”
Takirak shrugged. “Well, that’s because I learned a long time ago that wishes are one thing, and reality’s another.”
“Want a chance to brush up on your techniques before we run classes for the rest of the team?”
Takirak matched his smile. “Just the two of us, Captain?”
“Yep.” Flynn picked up a pair of gloves and some headgear. “If I’m going to get dumped on my ass getting back up to speed on this stuff, I’d just as soon not have it happen in front of witnesses.”
“Same here,” Takirak allowed, starting to unzip his parka.
A few minutes later, decked out in protective sparring gear, they circled each other on the mat. They were each in a fighting stance, with chins tucked in and hands up, ready to strike or parry. Flynn eyed the other man cautiously. He had the longer reach, but the noncom was solid muscle and his reflexes seemed lightning-fast. “All set?” he murmured.
“Any time you are,” Takirak assured him.
“Then… fight’s on,” Flynn called out, using the Air Force term to signal the beginning of a training engagement. He moved in fast, closing the range. The other man did the same.
The next moments flew by as they both delivered a flurry of blows and kicks with incredible speed and precision. Twice, Takirak got in past his attacks and defenses and slammed him down onto the mat. Once, Flynn broke free and reversed the advantage — setting up a choke hold that the older man had to acknowledge. The second time, the noncom swept his legs out from under him and then batted away all his attempts to get loose. This time, it was Flynn who had to slap the mat in surrender.
Shaking off pain and fatigue, they scrambled back to their feet and started circling again, each looking for an edge and not finding it. Another series of rapid-fire arm and elbow strikes and kicks left them both gasping.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
The timer Flynn had set on his phone went off. He held out his hand and spat out his mouth guard. “Call it a draw, Sergeant?”
Panting slightly, Takirak nodded. “Sounds fair to me, sir.” He shook his head with a quick smile. “Looks like I wasn’t the only one who did well in the instructor course.”
“I survived it,” Flynn agreed. He eyed the other man. “I did get the feeling a couple of times that you were holding back a little, Andy. What was that, respect for my rank?”
Takirak shook his head. “No, sir. If I did, it was only natural caution. I always heard it was good tactics to keep a reserve — just in case the enemy’s got something up his sleeve.”
Flynn nodded. The other man was right. Which was why he’d done the same thing himself. He grinned, mentally calculating how the next couple of days of combatives training were likely to go. The rest of his team — younger, stronger, and bigger though some of them were — were about to learn the hard way that they were no match for the combination of greater experience and guile.
Fourteen
An olive-drab UAZ Hunter light utility vehicle sped past a row of gleaming white Tu-160M2 swing-wing supersonic bombers parked on the base’s long apron. It turned right onto a taxiway that crossed both main runways and drove on toward a group of three large camouflaged hangars. In a squeal of brakes, it pulled up in front of the first hangar, whose armored rolling doors stood partly open. Through the gap, Tupolev’s revolutionary PAK-DA stealth bomber was visible inside. Mechanics and weapons handlers in khaki fatigues bustled around the aircraft, completing their final checks.
Squads of stern-faced guards armed with 5.45mm AK-12 assault rifles were posted at the doors. Now that live nuclear weapons were loaded aboard the bomber, the base commander had instituted even stricter-than-usual security measures.
Colonel Alexei Petrov and Major Oleg Bunin hopped down out of the jeep-sized Hunter. Each wore a flight suit and carried his visored helmet under one arm. Casually, they acknowledged the driver’s salute and then showed their IDs to the sentries. After being cleared through security, they strolled toward their waiting aircraft.
Suddenly, both of them faltered and came to a stop. They had unexpected company, another Air Force officer who was already there ahead of them. He wore a flight suit and helmet of his own and stood completely at ease, looking up at the PAK-DA with what could only be described as proprietorial pride. The stocky, barrel-chested figure of Major General Vasily Mavrichev was unmistakable.
“Vot der’mo. Oh, shit,” Petrov muttered in a furious aside to his younger copilot. “Just shoot me now.” Bunin nodded in dismay.
The commander of Russia’s strategic bomber forces swung around toward them. His broad face wore an insincere smile that utterly failed to reach his eyes. They remained as sharp and wary as those of any peasant watching a tax collector counting sacks of grain in his barn. “Ah, Colonel Petrov and Major Bunin, there you are. And right on time!” he said cheerfully. “I appreciate junior officers with a sense of punctuality.” He tapped his flight helmet. “As you can see, I’ve decided to ride along with you on this next mission. On your much-touted Ghost Strike combat exercise, eh? After all, I can’t just sit back and let you young fellows have all the fun, now can I?”
“Technically, we’re still in the test portion of this evaluation program, General,” Petrov pointed out carefully. “Which means that it’s well outside our safety protocols to carry anyone except trained flight crew who are completely familiar with all of the aircraft’s systems.”
If anything, Mavrichev’s smile became even more disingenuous. “Technically, that is true,” he allowed. Then he shrugged his burly shoulders. “But on the other hand, you personally assured the president that this prototype was completely airworthy, correct?”
Almost unwillingly, Petrov nodded. Damn the old bastard, he thought icily, suddenly he was arguing more like a lawyer than a high-ranking Air Force commander.
“So, by your own assessment, there is no great danger involved,” Mavrichev concluded. “Besides, I’m coming along as a simple observer, not a crew member. And since the PAK-DA’s cockpit is designed for four men, my presence won’t exactly crowd you.”