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:
Getting back to his feet, he trotted back to the grounded Ka-60. With its engines off, the big main rotors had almost stopped turning. He leaned in through one of the side doors to speak to the two pilots. “Keep your eyes open. We’re moving out after the enemy now, but we’ll be back once that little job’s done. Then we’ll all push on to pinpoint the main objective, the PAK-DA bomber.”
They nodded. “Good hunting, Major,” the lead pilot said. “We’ll be ready to take off again when you return.”
With a soft whistle, Korenev signaled his men back up out of the snow. More rapid hand signals started them moving toward the higher ground. The Spetsnaz troops went forward in short rushes, sprinting ahead by twos and then going prone to cover the men coming up behind them. It was a tactic that guaranteed his detachment always had a solid base of fire waiting on overwatch — ready to immediately engage any enemies who showed themselves.
Korenev stayed a few meters behind the right flank of the advancing troops, while Captain Primakov, his second-in-command, did the same over on the left. This physical separation helped ensure that a sudden burst of enemy fire couldn’t take them both out at once. It also allowed tighter control over the Spetsnaz unit as it maneuvered.
So the major was close by when one of his men suddenly stopped and dropped to a knee to peer at something in the moonlit snow just ahead. And when the soldier signaled him over, he was there in seconds. “What’ve you got, Vanya?”
The other man pointed to a pair of thin, rail-like tracks and two sets of deeper boot prints running roughly southeast toward a gap in the hills between this valley and the next. “More of the Americans,” he said quietly. “Two of them towing something on a sled.”
“Supplies,” Korenev guessed. “Or perhaps heavier weapons.” The intelligence reports provided by Moscow’s prized source had claimed that the Americans had left their larger-caliber weapons, a recoilless rifle, and man-portable antiair missiles behind for this mission. But he was experienced enough to understand the limitations of even the most perfect-seeming intelligence. He shrugged. “If they’ve split their forces, so much the better for us. We’ll finish off the larger group and then mop these two up for dessert.”
The other man smiled wolfishly and then darted forward, obeying his commander’s silent hand signal to resume the advance. Korenev drifted along in his wake, allowing the gap between them to widen.
Suddenly, higher up on the hill they were advancing toward, a small bright light began blinking at them in short, rhythmic flashes. Startled, the major threw himself prone again. Ahead and to his left, his soldiers did the same, bringing their mix of assault rifles and automatic weapons to bear. But then Korenev realized those flashes were in the same shorthand code used for silent communication between Russian special forces units. And that this message carried the prefix SIROTA, to verify that it came directly from the GRU’s most prized agent. He mouthed the words as they were spelled out by that blinking light: enemy force deploying in ambush on flank of hill southeast of my position. caution advised.
Slowly, the major stood up, making sure he could be seen. Then he crossed his clenched fists over his head twice — confirming that he’d received the warning. The light blinked off immediately, leaving the dark mass of the hill once more cloaked in shadows and thin strips of moonlight.
Korenev waved Primakov over to join him. “What now?” the younger officer asked.
The major bared his teeth in a predatory grin. “Simple, while the Americans wait like imbeciles for us to walk blindly into their trap, we’ll veer to the left.” He indicated the main ridge to the northeast of the spur. “And climb up that way instead. Then we’ll swing back to the right and come in to hit them from above and behind.” He hefted his AK-12 assault rifle and patted the stock. “With the tables turned, it shouldn’t take long to finish off our American friends.”
Flynn moved warily downhill through the icy boulder field that covered this part of the slope, careful to watch where he placed his feet to avoid any unnecessary noise. Before heading here on his own, he’d ordered the rest of his men to take up concealed firing positions in the jumble of rocks and boulders farther up the slope. And he’d left his M4 carbine behind a while back, worried that the longer weapon might clatter against rock surfaces and give him away. Instead, he’d drawn his Glock 19 sidearm. That left him with one hand free for balance on this uneven, slippery surface.
He halted at the base of a weathered granite boulder twice the size of a man and stood listening. The soft, clicking noises he’d heard coming from ahead had just stopped, as suddenly as they had started. Cautiously, Flynn edged around the side of the boulder… and found Takirak crouched a couple of yards away, staring down into the valley. Soldiers camouflaged in snow smocks were on the move there, turning to parallel the high ground as they advanced to the northeast. Their helmets and other gear gave them a look almost identical to that of American special forces troops, but their weapons were clearly Russian.
And the National Guard sergeant still held the flashlight he’d been using as a signaling device.
Flynn sighed. There were moments when he really hated being right. This was probably the worst of them. He sighted along the barrel of his pistol, aiming at Takirak’s back. “So, Andy,” he said quietly, almost conversationally. “Just how long have you been betraying your country?”
For a long, seemingly endless moment, the other man froze solid, not moving a muscle. But then he turned his head slowly toward Flynn. “I have never betrayed my country, Captain,” he replied with a thin, tight smile on his face. “Ya russkiy, chlen sibirskogo plemeni yupikov. I am a Russian, a member of the Siberian Yupik tribe.” He shrugged. “And for what it matters, a colonel in the GRU.”
Flynn whistled softly under his breath, suddenly seeing the bigger picture they’d all missed. Along with the Inuits and Aleuts, the Yupiks were one of the three main groups of native peoples spread over the sprawling northern regions from Russia’s Far East to Alaska, Canada, and Greenland. They shared related languages and common cultures. Recruiting one of them to act as a deep-cover agent in Alaska, with a lack of family ties explained by his supposed status as an orphan fostered down in the Lower Forty-Eight, was a brilliant move by Russia’s military intelligence service.
With his cover established, Takirak had been perfectly placed for years to spy on the vital oil fields and pipelines at Prudhoe Bay — and, through his service with the Alaska National Guard, on U.S. military installations across the state. No doubt, in the event of war, he would have been ordered to carry out sabotage missions against them. Flynn shook his head slightly in dismay. Man, we let the fox, or rather Amaruq the Gray Wolf, saunter right into the henhouse, he thought coldly, imagining how pleased the men in Moscow must have been when Takirak wangled his way into this assignment to guard the radars making up Alaska’s portion of the North Warning System.
Abruptly, Takirak whirled toward him — hurling his flashlight like a missile. It crashed into Flynn’s shoulder, sending him staggering back a couple of steps, partially off-balance. Before he could bring his Glock back on target, the Russian sprang to his feet, crashed into him, and chopped down hard at his right hand. Flynn’s pistol went flying, clattering away into the rocks somewhere out of his reach.