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Gregorovich blasted him down before he could finish his sentence. Kirov fell backward, red blood staining the white snow beneath him.
“Wrong answer,” Kurt muttered to Joe.
“I know what to say if he asks me,” Joe replied.
The Russian commandos looked on in shock. “How are we supposed to get out of here when the job is done?” one of them asked.
“I will fly you out myself,” Gregorovich said. “I spent three years piloting attack craft in Afghanistan. Mi-17s and Mi-24s. These are not so different.”
“And somehow we’re all going to fit on just one?” another soldier asked.
Gregorovich nodded. “Without the equipment, there will be plenty of room. But no one is going anywhere until we find Thero’s lair and set the bomb.”
The tension between the Russians felt like a pile of gunpowder just waiting to be lit. But Gregorovich had so completely seized the upper hand that the men could do nothing. Not if they ever wanted to see home again. In fact, they might need to guard Gregorovich with their lives.
They began to stow their weapons.
“Lucky for us,” Joe muttered. “Caught in the middle of a Bolshevik revolution.”
“More like Cortés burning his ships in the harbor at Veracruz,” Kurt replied, “to prevent his men from leaving Mexico.”
“This guy doesn’t miss a trick,” Joe said.
“At some point, he will,” Kurt said. “Whatever you do, don’t tell him you’re a pilot.”
Joe nodded, and Kurt began to hike back through the swirling snow to where Hayley stood.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“No,” she replied harshly. “It’s not okay. I’m pretty sure nothing will ever be okay again.”
He climbed on the snowmobile and felt Hayley climb on behind him. As she wrapped her arms around his waist, he could feel her shaking. It wasn’t from the cold.
There was nothing he could say to erase what she’d just seen. What’s more, he was pretty certain it wouldn’t be the last bloodshed they’d witness in the hours ahead.
Gregorovich waved his arm, and the lead commando gunned his throttle and moved off. Kurt strapped on a pair of orange-tinted goggles as Joe followed the lead sled.
A moment later, it was Kurt’s turn. With a twist of the throttle, he accelerated and tucked in behind the Russians, gliding in their tracks. Gregorovich brought up the rear, unwilling to let anyone out of his sight.
The terrain map showed a seven-mile ride in the shadow of Big Ben, then a two-hundred-foot climb down a ridge. From there, it was a two-mile hike over the crevasse-infested field. Once across the far side, they’d reach the edge of the Winston Glacier, look for the hatches, and blast their way into Thero’s stronghold.
It was a simple plan, Kurt thought, only about a million things could go wrong. But with a little luck, they’d be inside the lion’s den by dusk with at least ten hours to spare.
THIRTY-FOUR
NUMA Headquarters
Half the world away, Dirk Pitt had been forced to make a painful decision. With no answers from Hiram Yaeger, he had to risk the Gemini.
“You have the ship battened down?” he asked over the speakerphone.
“All watertight doors are sealed,” Paul Trout replied. “The crew have donned survival suits and moved to the upper decks. The boats are ready. If this thing blows a hole in the bottom, or if Thero locks onto us and sends some kind of discharge our way that batters the ship, we’ll be off the Gemini in sixty seconds.”
Full precautions, Pitt thought. There was nothing more he could do. “Let’s hope we’re just overreacting.”
“How’s the telemetry link?” Paul asked.
Pitt glanced at the computer screen. “We’re receiving your data without any hiccups,” he said. “The solar activity has faded a bit.”
