"Waterfall," Hart said.
"No, not that. Something else."
They listened. Nothing.
"We should head back," Brune said. "We need breathing equipment, cameras."
"Not far now," Glazkov said. He was unsettled to see that Brune had slipped the rifle from his shoulder.
"What are you going to shoot?" Hart asked, laughing. "Monsters from the deep?"
Three minutes later, as they emerged from a copse of trees only a hundred feet from the hole's edge and saw what waited for them there – the crawling, tentacled, slick things pulling themselves up out of the darkness, skin pale from lack of pigment, wet mouths gasping in new air – Amanda Hart was the first to fall.
Captain Anna Demidov and her team were ready. Fully equipped, comprehensively briefed, fired up, she was confident it would be a straightforward search and retrieval without the need for any aggressive contact. But if the separatists did attempt to intervene, Demidov's small Spetsnaz squad was more than ready for a fight. Either way, they would return with the stolen information. In this day and age a printed file seemed almost prehistoric, but the habits of some of Russia's top intelligence operatives never ceased to amaze her.
With her squad milling in the helicopter hangar, she took the opportunity to assess them one last time. Her corporal, Vladimir Zhukov, often teased her about being over-cautious and paranoid about every small detail. Demidov's reply was that she had never lost a soldier in action, nor had she ever failed in a mission. It was something he could not argue with. Yet the banter continued, and she welcomed it. The good relationships between members of her five-person unit was one of the most important factors contributing to success.
"All set, Corporal?" she asked.
Zhukov rolled his eyes. "Yes, Captain. All set, all ready, boots shined and underwear clean, weapons oiled, mission details memorized, just as they all were five minutes ago."
Demidov appraised the corporal from head to toe and up again. A full foot taller than she, and a hundred pounds heavier, some knew him by the nickname Mountain. But no one in their unit called him that. He didn't like the name, and none of them would ever want to piss him off.
"A button's undone," she said, pointing to his tunic before moving on. She heard his muttered curse and allowed herself a small smile.
Private Kristina Yelagin was next. Tall, thin, athletic, grim-faced, she was one of the quietest, calmest people Demidov had ever met. She had once seen Yelagin slit a man's throat with a broken metal mug.
"Good?" Demidov asked. The woman nodded once in reply.
"I don't like helicopters," Private Vasnev said. "They make me feel sick."
"And when have you ever been sick during a helicopter trip, Vasnev?" Demidov asked.
"I didn't say they make me sick, Captain. I said they make me feel sick."
"Feel sick in silence," she said.
"It's okay for you, Captain," Private Budanov said. He was sitting on a supply crate carefully rolling a cigarette. "You don't have to sit next to him. He's always complaining."
"You have my permission to stab him to death if he so much as whispers," Demidov said.
Budanov looked up at her, his scarred face pale as ever, even in the hangar's shadow. "Thank you," he said. "You all heard that? All bore witness?"
"See, now even my friends are against me!" Vasnev said. "I feel sick. I don't want to go on this mission. I think I have mumps."
A movement caught Demidov's eye and she saw the helicopter pilot gesture through the cockpit's open side window.
"That's us," Demidov said. "Let's mount up."
Professional as ever, her four companions ceased their banter for a while as they left the shadow of the hangar, boarded the helicopter, stowed their weapons, and cross-checked each other's safety harnesses. Demidov waited to board last. As she settled herself and clipped on her headset, and the ground crew closed and secured the cabin door, the crackle of a voice came through from the cockpit.
"We've got clearance," the pilot said. "Three minutes and we'll be away."
"Roger," Demidov acknowledged.
"Sorry to hear about Vasily, Captain,” the pilot said.
Demidov froze. The rest of her squad, all wearing headsets, looked at her. Corporal Zhukov raised his eyebrows, and Vasnev shrugged: Don't know what he's on about.
Demidov's mind raced. If something had happened to Vasily and she hadn't been informed, there must be a reason for that. Perhaps the general would assume that such a distraction would affect her current mission, and he'd inform her of any news upon her return in six hours.
But after the pilot's comment, her distraction was even greater.
"What's that about Vasily?" she asked.
The comms remained quiet. A loaded silence, perhaps. Then a whisper, and the helicopter's turbines ramped up, the noise increased, and the green 'prepare for takeoff' light illuminated the cabin.
Demidov hesitated, ready to throw off her straps and slip through to the cockpit. But she felt a hand on her arm. Budanov. He shook his head, then lifted what he held in his other hand.
Without pause, Demidov nodded, giving silent assent.
Private Budanov was their communications and tech guy. Just as heavily armed as the rest of them, he also carried a bewildering array of hi-tech equipment, some of which Demidov barely understood. There were the usual satellite phones and radios, but also web-based communication systems and other gadgetry, all designed to aid their mission and help them in case of trouble. He'd saved their skins more than once, and now he was promising something else.
Sorry to hear about Vasily, Captain.
As the helicopter lifted off and drifted north, Budanov opened a palmtop tablet and started tapping and scrolling. Three minutes later he handed it to Demidov, a map on the screen. He motioned for her to place her lover's last known position on the map, which she did – the scientific research base on the Yamal Peninsula. He took the tablet back, nursing a satellite phone in his other hand, and four minutes later he paused.
None of them had spoken since taking off. When Budanov raised his eyes and looked at his Captain, none of them needed to.
Demidov took the tablet from his lap and looked at what he'd found.
"This is all on me," Captain Demidov said. Her heart was beating fast, and a sickness throbbed heavy in her gut. Part of that was understanding what she was doing – disobeying orders and going AWOL whilst on a highly sensitive mission, as well as hijacking a Russian army helicopter. But most of the sickness came from the dread she felt about Vasily's doom.
Science team missing... seismic readings from the area...
"Captain, I can't alter course," the pilot said. She could see his nervousness. He and his co-pilot were sitting tense in their flight seats, and she could sense their doubts, their inner debates. They wore pistols, true. But they also knew who they carried.
"I'm ordering you to," she said.
"Captain, my orders—"
"I'm not pulling rank," Demidov cut in. "This isn't about that. But I will pull my gun if you don't do what I say."
"And then what?" the pilot asked. "You'll shoot me?"
... drastic landscape alteration... entire region quarantined...
"Let's not discover the answer to that question. Yelagin, here with me." Private Yelagin squeezed through into the cockpit beside Demidov and behind the two pilots. "You know what to do," Demidov said.
Yelagin leaned forward and started flicking switches. She'd been a pilot before being recruited into Spetsnaz, and she knew how to disable tracking devices and transponders, and where any emergency beacons might be.