“No. I’ll do no such thing,” Seagraves said, crossing his arms, but as he did, a blinding bright streak angled down from the heavens and a sudden violent explosion blew the jet transport apart, the blinding white fireball turning orange and red, with black smoke as the fuel ignited, the explosion sending pieces of the airplane flying. A second after the first explosion, a second streak of light came down from above and hit the already flaming transport.
The explosion blew everyone standing onto the ice, and as Pacino fell, his trigger finger twitched on the trigger and his rifle barked as a single round was fired. Pacino landed flat on his back. He sat up quickly, worried he’d hit one of the Americans with his stray bullet. Once he sat up, he saw a bright red stain growing on the green parka of Colonel Nika, who was prone and raising his own weapon to aim at Pacino. Pacino quickly flipped the rifle’s mode selector switch from semi-automatic to full automatic and pulled the trigger, firehosing Nika with bullets, then the two men who had been standing at the machine gun but who had also been blown to the surface of the ice. Pacino stopped firing when it became clear the three Russians were dead, either from the blast of the missiles hitting the jet, the jet’s exploding jet fuel, or his bullets.
In the next moment the jet’s cockpit door flew open and three of the flight crew jumped out of what was left of the airframe, gained their feet and raised their sidearms at the Americans. Pacino sighted in on the one farthest to the left and, in full automatic, emptied his magazine as he swept right, and the three pilots went down, cut in half by Pacino’s rifle fire.
“That was adequate shooting, Mr. Pacino,” Seagraves said as he regained his feet. “But that’s enough for now.”
“I’m out of ammo anyway, Captain,” Pacino said, standing up, his vision suddenly clouded by a stream of blood from the top of his head. Dankleff pulled off his own inner hood and put it to Pacino’s head and face as a bandage.
“You got another gash, this one from flying airplane debris,” Dankleff said. “This one’s worse. You’re going to have another nasty scar from this — it goes from your hairline to your left eye, then down to your cheekbone. Does it hurt?”
“I’m so pumped with adrenaline I can’t feel anything,” Pacino said. “Not even the cold.”
Quinnivan turned to the captain. “Well, Skipper, unfortunately, that plane was our ticket out of here.”
“Yeah, a ticket to a Russian gulag,” Seagraves said. “No thank you. I’ll wait for the next plane.”
A loud crashing noise came from behind them and down the slope to what used to be open water, but had now frozen over in the storm and the cold. Pacino turned and saw ice bulging, then foot-thick blocks of ice being moved aside. A black shape slowly rose from between the blocks of ice, the shape rectangular. Pacino waited to see if the shape would be that of an American conning tower — or a Russian one. But twenty seconds later the shape could be made out to be the sail of an American Virginia-class nuclear submarine. The comms masts emerged from the sail, extending to the heavens, then both periscopes. Finally a man could be made out emerging from the top of the sail.
“Ahoy there!” he yelled into a megaphone. “Someone call for a rescue?”
Pacino smiled at U-Boat Dankleff and Squirt Gun Vevera, then at Short Hull Cooper. “Well, boys, I imagine we’ll be having steak for dinner tonight.”
A hundred feet farther to the south, a second black sail emerged from the ice, the hump of ice behind the sail revealing an ice-hardened dry-deck shelter. That sail also sprouted communications antennae and periscopes.
Pacino felt a tugging on his sleeve. It was Irina Trusov. Pacino gulped, wondering if she would be angry at him for killing the Russians.
“I’m glad you won’t be prisoners of war, Patch,” she said gently, looking up at him with her liquid blue eyes. “But now I fear we will be.”
Pacino shook his head. “We don’t operate that way, Irina. You know that.” He pointed to the submarine conning towers. “Right now, they’re calling for another Russian arctic transport to come get you guys. We’ll resupply our shelter with fuel and food — and rifles and ammo — and leave it to you while you wait for your second plane.”
“Are you sure? How do you know?”
“I don’t,” Pacino said. “I have to sell it to the captain first.” He smiled at her and walked down the slope to where Seagraves, Quinnivan, and Lewinsky were conferring with the commanding officers and executive officers of the two rescue submarines. Pacino pulled Seagraves aside and proposed to him what he’d promised Trusov. Seagraves merely nodded and went back to his conversation.
Pacino returned to Trusov’s side. “Captain agrees, Irina. You and your countrymen will remain here, warm, fed, safe and resupplied. But first, let’s go to the shelter. I need to get this second gash bandaged up. And change the dressing on the first one.”
“Thank you, Patch. I will help you.”
Inside the shelter, Irina pulled off Dankleff’s inner hood, which had stuck to Pacino’s forehead from coagulated and frozen blood, tenderly cleaned the wound, then disinfected it and put a gauze bandage on it. She changed the other wound, cleaned it, bandaged it, and wrapped tape around his head to hold both bandages. Pacino was suddenly reminded of Rachel Romanov cleaning his chest wound from when the officers had punched his dolphin emblem, an ancient ritual, that drove the pins of the device deep into his chest and made him bleed. And he thought of River Styxx helping to bandage his first gash. When Trusov was done, she stepped back to look at her handiwork. She nodded, satisfied.
“You know, Patch,” she said, “I am going to miss you. It is a shame you and I never get a normal situation to share.”
“Come to Virginia when you get your next leave,” Pacino smiled. “I’ll show you around.”
“I would love that, Patch.” She looked at the entrance to the shelter. “I should join Captains Alexeyev and Kovalov now.” She came close and hugged him, but before he could wrap his arms around her, she had broken the embrace and rushed out of the shelter to join the Russian crews. Pacino left the shelter, taking a quick look back, then walked down the slope to where the other junior officers were standing.
“What happens now, Mr. Patch?” Short Hull Cooper asked.
Pacino looked toward the closest submarine, where the senior officers were deep in conversation. “The bosses are deciding if we’re riding back with the rescue subs or waiting for one of our own search-and-rescue aircraft to land here. Seagraves or Quinnivan will let us know in the next few minutes. If they give you a choice, Short Hull, I recommend you ride back with a rescue boat and keep working on your qualifications for dolphins.”
“If they give you a choice? What would you do?”
Pacino took a deep breath. “I imagine I’d fly home and check on Rachel Romanov.”
“Yeah,” Cooper said. “And debrief with your dad.”
Quinnivan walked to them, the other junior officers crowding over to see what was going to happen.
“Gents, I have news from home about Commander Romanov,” Quinnivan said, his expression unreadable.
“What’s the latest, XO?” Pacino asked.
“Good news first, lad. Physically, she’s almost fully recovered. The hospital released her last week. She’s resting at Bruno’s house. Bruno’s taking care of her.”