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“Why wouldn’t he be? He’s sitting at a console aboard the Oregon.”
Juan enjoyed the range of emotions that played across Yuri’s wind-chapped face as he absorbed that information. Incomprehension morphed into understanding, and then horror at the implications, and then outrage at the potential consequence.
“You mean while we were whizzing by mountains and skimming the ground, there was no pilot? He could have killed us while he sat safe and secure on your ship?”
Juan couldn’t help but taunt him a bit more. “My pilot, Gomez Adams, so nicknamed for a dalliance he had with a woman who looked remarkably like Carolyn Jones, the original Morticia, had less than a week to practice tele-flying the Kamov after we bought it and installed the remote controls.”
“You’re mad.”
“Barking,” Juan agreed with a grin. “Come on.?
??
He led them a short distance into the trees, where Cabrillo’s team had another surprise waiting. It was a Lynx Rave RE 800R snowmobile painted a matte white that perfectly matched the snow. With its massive caterpillar tread and double runner skis, it was the perfect machine for crossing any arctic terrain. Bundled next to it was a bag containing helmets and white snowsuits, one helmet battery-powered and the other able to jack into the Lynx’s electrical system, as well as insulated boots and gloves.
“Put these on. There’s a chopper at the prison, and they’ll soon be in pursuit.”
As they dressed Yuri said, “That was why we didn’t change direction when we flew off. You wanted them to follow the Kamov.”
“And while they head east in pursuit of an empty chopper, we go north to where the Oregon’s waiting for us.”
“How long?”
Juan threw a leg over the sled’s saddle seat and flicked the 800cc Rotax engine to life. Over the whine of the two-stroke he replied, “About an hour.”
He jacked a cord dangling from his helmet into a satellite phone that had been secreted with the rest of the gear.
“This is Edmond Dantès calling.” His code name referenced the famous prisoner who escaped a life sentence in the Dumas masterpiece The Count of Monte Cristo. “We have gotten out of the Château d’If.”
“Edmond,” came Max Hanley’s happy reply. “Ready to go find your treasure and exact your revenge?”
“The treasure’s going to be sent to a numbered account as soon as we’re back aboard, and revenge has never been my intent.”
“How’d it go?” Max asked, dropping all pretense that he hadn’t been concerned for Juan’s safety.
“No problems as yet. The squib bombs worked better than we’d hoped, and Gomez could have thread that chopper through a needle if he’d needed to.”
“You’re on speaker here in the op center, Chairman,” George Adams drawled. “I heard that and won’t disagree for a second.”
Juan could picture the handsome Texan, with his drooping gunslinger mustache, sitting just behind and to the right of the command chair in the middle of the Oregon’s high-tech nerve center. While Cabrillo was being transported to the prison, Adams had flown the drone Kamov from the ship and pre-positioned it near the complex with another of Yuri’s loyalists waiting to fire up its engine when he received Juan’s signal.
“We’re in position and standing by,” Hanley cut in.
“Okay, Max. Yuri and I will be there in about an hour.”
“We’ll keep the light on for you.”
Juan patted the seat, and Borodin legged over to straddle the sled just behind him. Two handholds had been sewn into the back of Cabrillo’s snowsuit for him to hold on to, saving both men the ignominy of the Russian clutching Juan’s waist. Juan could have jacked Borodin’s helmet into the snow machine’s onboard communications set, but that would mean he would miss any incoming calls from the Oregon as they tracked both the drone Kamov and the prison’s big Mil chopper in hot pursuit.
The Lynx accelerated like a rocket and shot out of the pines with the swift agility of a startled hare. In minutes, they were blasting over the snowpack. Because of the sophisticated suspension and the heated suits, the ride was remarkably comfortable. The deep core chill Cabrillo had suffered was soon replaced with enough warmth that he had to dial down his heater. He barely felt the vibration of the sled cutting through the snow, and the whine of the two-stroke engine was a muted purr in his helmet.
If not for the fact an armed Russian helicopter would soon be hunting for them, he would have enjoyed the ride.
It was only fifteen minutes into their dash for the coast that Max Hanley called to report their drone helicopter had been shot down and that its cameras had survived long enough to tell them the Russians knew the aircraft was unmanned.
Cabrillo cursed silently. He’d hoped for a half hour or more. The Mil must have been kept at ready status to have caught their bird so quickly. Now it would be doubling back, and a sharp-eyed pilot would see the snowmobile’s trail like a scar across the virgin crust of snow.
Juan slowed just enough for him to open his visor and crank his head around. He shouted over the wind, “They’re onto us.”
