“I don’t care,” Pacino said. “Mr. Secretary,” Pacino said to Hogshead, pointing at him, “fire both missiles at the Il-76. Do it now.”
“That thing,” Lieutenant Dieter U-Boat Dankleff said, pointing to the huge four-engine jet transport, “is the BUFF of airplanes.”
When the rear loading ramp came all the way down, three men in green arctic parkas walked out, the leader with an automatic rifle in his hands. The second carried a heavy machine gun, the third a device that unfolded into a tripod, a large ammo can in his other hand. The second man put the machine gun on the tripod and the third produced a belt of ammunition from the can and latched it to the feeder mechanism of the large gun. He checked it, then aimed the machine gun at the gathered Americans. The leader walked closer to Seagraves, Quinnivan, and Pacino. Pacino lifted his rifle and aimed at the Russian’s chest, a fact the Russian evidently disapproved of, as evidenced by him lifting and aiming his own rifle at Pacino.
“Lower your rifle, young man,” the leader commanded in English, in a hard, gravelly voice with a thick Russian accent. “Or you will find the consequences severe for yourself and your shipmates.”
“The hell I will,” Pacino said, putting his trigger finger into the trigger guard and sighting in at the Russian. For the moment, the Russian commander decided to ignore the threat.
“Who is in command here?” the leader asked, looking at Seagraves and Quinnivan.
“I am,” Seagraves said in his baritone, no-nonsense command voice. “Commander Tim Seagraves, United States Navy.”
The Russian bowed and smiled, but Pacino noticed the smile didn’t reach the man’s hard eyes. “I am Vanya Nika, Colonel, GRU, and I am in command of this rescue mission.”
“Good of you to come,” Quinnivan quipped. “Perhaps you and your men should lower their weapons. We’re not a threat to you.”
“And
“
“Well, then, Commanders Seagraves and Quinnivan, please be so good as to inform your men — and women — that you are now prisoners of the Russian Federation, and under arrest for the very serious crimes of interfering with an official Russian Navy mission. Your crimes include sinking our submarines
“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.”
