EndWar

The height of the target (in yards) × 1000, divided by the height of the target (in mils), gave the range in yards. Bullet drop and gravity wouldn’t be issues.

Consequently, the perfect shot was all about the simple range and dialing in the scope to set those crosshairs on target.

He made the calculations, the adjustment to the scope, and settled into his breathing pattern.

He considered himself a good shot, not a great one. He could fight an ODA team better than most of them, but again, he was no record holder on the firing range.

His finger got heavy on the trigger, and it appeared the squad leader was about to get up.

Vatz held his breath.

And fired.

The shot caught the Russian in the back of his neck, just below his helmet, blowing that helmet off and taking a large piece of skull with it.

As the dead man hit the snow, the two troopers nearby spun back in Vatz’s direction, like good little soldiers, exactly as they should.

Vatz switched to full automatic, bolted to his feet, shifted out from behind the tree, and hosed them down with his first salvo, dropping one before he dodged to the next tree.

A pair of explosions resounded.

That was Band-Aid, initiating his part of the plan. While their attention was drawn to the rear by Vatz, Band-Aid was moving in from the left flank and lobbing his frags.

And then Black Bear and the men inside joined the fiesta.

It was up to Vatz now to make sure he got out of their line of fire. He sprinted off to the south, making a wide arc through the trees, gunfire tracking his steps, shaving off bark, whistling by.

Vatz ran on currents of electricity, viewed the world through high contrast, smelled every particle of gun-powder. He suddenly turned, weaving through more trees, heading directly toward their right flank.

He spotted two troops, both trading fire with the guys in the terminal, who’d all in unison opened up with a barrage of rifle fire.

Vatz put the MR-C’s grenade launcher to work, thumping one off to fall at the trooper’s knees—

Boom! The explosion tore them up, and they ragdolled it to the snow.

The remaining Spetsnaz seemed unorganized now, with at least three more turning tail and running straight toward Band-Aid. Vatz hit the ground, called up the medic.

Two seconds later, Band-Aid’s rifle echoed.

“Black Bear, this is Bali, over.”

“Go ahead, Bali.”

“Hold fire. Move in. We got ’em on the run!”

Black Bear keyed his mike, and Vatz heard the hoots and hollering of the others. “Roger that, Bali. Great job!”

Vatz took a deep breath and smiled inwardly. It was about time something went right.

But the victory celebration lasted only a few seconds before Band-Aid’s tense voice came over the radio:

“I’m hit! I’m hit!”

THIRTY-ONE

Major Stephanie Halverson’s eyes had grown so heavy, her muscles so sore, that she staggered to a halt in the middle of the frozen river, leaned forward, and tanked down air.

Ten seconds, she told herself. Just ten seconds.

The wind had picked up and had been blasting snow in her face. Her cheeks and nose were going numb. She shivered and pulled up the scarf, turned back, squinted at the shoreline she’d left behind.

Through veils of snow she made out two Russian BMP-3s rumbling on their tank-like tracks down toward the riverbank.

Her little trek on the snowmobile had helped buy her time, but once she’d switched on the beacon, the Russians had also picked it up. Those infantry squads had probably been tasked with both finding her and performing a reconnaissance mission in this area, killing two birds with one stone, unfortunately.

Reflexes took over. She turned, broke into a run. The opposite shoreline seemed impossibly far away. Her legs were back to burning as she imagined a sniper somewhere behind her casually lining up to take his shot.

At least the end would be quick.

What was she thinking? She wouldn’t give up. Not yet. Not after coming this far. Not after three innocent people had already died!

Screw the pillowcase, the supplies. They dropped into her wake.

She would reach the forest by sheer force of will. They couldn’t stop her.

Anticipating a gunshot, she veered right, then left, still jogging, her boots nearly slipping on the ice beneath the powdery snow.

She glanced back. The Russians were still coming, frozen river notwithstanding. The BMP drivers were testing the ice, while dismounted troops started toward her.

As the snow rose to her shins, her pace slowed, but she swore and kept weaving erratically, kicking forward now. Then, suddenly, a crack made her flinch and gasp.

The gunshot echoed off.

She didn’t feel anything. Maybe he’d missed. Or maybe it’d take a second for the pain to come.

Automatic weapons fire resounded—

But it was joined by the strangely irregular thumping of rotors.

The afternoon sun blinded her for a moment, but out of the glare came a helo swooping toward her.

For a split second her spirits lifted. They’d sent someone. She’d make it.