EndWar

Izotov could not understand that — unless, of course, the Americans had accidentally killed the colonel, for Izotov refused to believe that one man’s force of will could be that strong.

Or could it?

Soldiers at Fort Lewis were pumped with adrenaline, and Special Forces Team Sergeant Nathan Vatz was no exception. He was about to leave his barracks and head to Robert Gray Army Airfield, his load-out bag slung over his shoulders.

In the hall outside his room, he spotted Staff Sergeant Marc Rakken rushing toward him. “Yo, Nate, I just heard, man!”

“Yeah, I know, it’s crazy.”

“Why couldn’t they invade someplace warm?”

“The Russians can’t take the heat.”

Rakken nodded then raised his brows. “Maybe we’ll bump into some snow bunnies up there, eh?”

“So you’re going, too?”

“The brigade’s already got a quartering party heading up to start RSOI base ops.”

Establishing a reception, staging, onward movement and integration base, which included all the support facilities the brigade would need to operate, was the first step of moving 3,900 folks riding in more than 300 Stryker vehicles up to Canada. Once those facilities were established and artillery had arrived, the infantry would roll in and begin operations.

Rakken added, “I just heard they’ve called up the Fourth in Alaska, so those Strykers will be rolling down. I heard another rumor that a brigade from the Tenth Mountain Division is heading up in about sixty sorties of C-17s. They’ll establish the first blocking positions.”

“And what are the Canadians doing about all this?” Vatz flashed a crooked grin.

Rakken pretended to think hard. “Trying to duck.”

“I thought so. Well, good hunting then, huh?”

Rakken slapped a palm on Vatz’s shoulder. “I just wanted to give you this before you go.”

“Oh, man, don’t do that.”

Vatz stared down at the closed knife in Rakken’s other hand; it was a balisong, or Filipino “butterfly knife,” with two handles that counter-rotated around the tang and concealed the blade within them when not in use.

Only this wasn’t an ordinary balisong. This was Rakken’s prized possession: a custom Venturi made of intricately patterned Damascus steel with black lip pearl inlays in the handles. It was as much a piece of art as it was a functional cutting tool, and it had been designed and crafted by famed knife maker Darrel Ralph.

“Nate, I’m giving this to you for two reasons: first, if one of us is going to make it, it’s going to be you. I believe that. And second, I’m just tired of carrying it.”

Vatz shook his head. He didn’t believe a word of it. And in a world full of high-tech toys, it was ironic that they should be standing there, discussing the exchange of a knife. Nevertheless, he took the balisong and slid it into one of his hip pockets. “You’re too much, Marc. I’ll borrow it. Give it to you when we get back, if we’re not all frostbitten by then.”

“All right, you got a deal. Good luck up there. And if you SF boys need any real men to come bail out your sorry asses, just give me or Appleman a call on the cell, ’kay?”

Vatz snorted, raised his fist to meet Rakken’s for a pound. Then he muttered a quick, “See ya,” and jogged off.

Captain Jake Boyd spotted the rescue chopper’s searchlight sweeping across the snow, so he sat up and began to wave them in. He wouldn’t miss the unforgiving cold or the sight of his beautiful fighter plane burning in the distance.

The blood had frozen on his lips and chin, and he could barely feel his cheeks. He slowly, carefully, got up as the chopper turned and pitched its nose for the landing.

Boyd’s heart sank.

The searchlight had blinded him, and he’d only seen a vague silhouette in the sky.

Now he saw it, a Ka-29, setting down with heavily armed infantrymen hopping down from the bay door.

Boyd had both pistols now, one in each hand; he charged back to the ejection seat and threw himself down behind it, then came back up and began firing at the oncoming troops.

He struck one soldier in the leg, caught another in the thigh, as they suddenly raked his position with so much fire that he could no long hear the whomping of rotors, only the echoing bang and subsequent ricocheting of rounds off metal.

He keyed the mike of his emergency radio. “This is Ghost Hawk on the ground! I’m being engaged by Russian infantry! What’s the ETA on that rescue bird?”

A sudden and nearby thump made him whirl.

Grenade. Right there.

He sprang up, knew that if he ran backward, they’d simply gun him down.

So he did what any other red-blooded American fighter pilot would do: he ran directly at the troops, screaming and firing.

The grenade exploded behind him, knocking him to his chest. That was when the first stabs of pain came, when he realized he’d been shot — and not just once.

He glanced up at the Russians, cursed as one came over, raised his pistol.

Stephanie’s voice was coming from the radio. He should have told her how he felt, should have told her what she meant to him.

But at least now, at the end, he had that music, that sweet music of her crying out.