BLOOD RULES

A TRAVIS DELTA THRILLER

RUSS STONE

Published by Inkubator Books

www.inkubatorbooks.com

Copyright © 2026 by Russ Stone

Russ Stone has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-780-5

ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-781-2

ISBN (Hardback): 978-1-83756-782-9

BLOOD RULES is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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PROLOGUE

An open-sided safari truck jolted along the narrow road under a pitiless sun. The desert floor, dotted with parched shrubs and stunted acacia trees, stretched in all directions between the vehicle and the distant sandstone cliffs. It was without question one of the most forbidding moonscapes on planet Earth.

The cheerful young driver did her best to keep the seven passengers engaged while en route to the first important archaeological site, but it was a losing battle. Searing heat rendered the already uncomfortable ride insufferable. Only one passenger, a dignified man of sixty-eight with close-cropped white hair, listened attentively as the driver narrated the history of this ancient place. The other tourists fanned themselves with color brochures, cursing themselves for having chosen to visit this desolate spot on a day when the temperature was above one hundred degrees.

When the driver finally reached the first of her ten scheduled stops, she saw only one other vehicle, a black Toyota Land Cruiser, in the small parking lot. She turned into a nearby space, shut off the engine, and invited everyone to disembark. The blistering pavement would do nothing to ease her passengers’ discomfort, but they were nevertheless glad to climb off the truck.

“I promise it will be cooler once we’re inside the caves,” she announced cheerfully. “Quite pleasant, in fact.”

The white-haired man courteously waited for the others to exit the vehicle before stepping down himself. As soon as his feet touched the pavement, the black Land Cruiser’s doors swung open, and four masked terrorists launched themselves into the sunlight. Three of them carried Russian-made AKM automatic assault rifles. The fourth, plainly the group’s leader, carried a 9mm Beretta 92FS pistol.

“Up against the truck,” the leader shouted to the frightened tourists.

The youngest of them, a slender twenty-year-old woman with hiking sandals on her feet, immediately disregarded his order and sprinted for the caves. She covered only ten yards before one of the terrorists cut her down with a burst of automatic gunfire. She fell dead to the desert floor, her back shredded by multiple 7.62mm rounds.

Two older women in the tour group screamed until the terrorist leader told them they would be next if they didn’t shut their mouths. They fell silent even as tears streamed down their cheeks.

As soon as his captives were standing quietly alongside the Jeep, the terrorist leader walked over to the white-haired tourist and, without warning, delivered a vicious punch to his midsection. When the older man doubled over, his assailant drove a knee into the center of his face and sent him sprawling unconscious to the pavement, his face smeared with blood.

The terrorist leader nodded toward the Land Cruiser, and two of his men dragged the fallen tourist over to it. After binding his wrists and ankles with plastic zip ties, they tossed him into the cargo compartment like a sack of trash and lowered the door. Then they rejoined their colleagues, and all four terrorists opened fire on the tour group.

Their work complete, the men climbed into the Land Cruiser and calmly drove away from the scene, leaving their seven victims crumpled alongside each other under the Israeli sun.

The mission was off to a flawless start.

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA - JULY 7

Travis Delta was blessed to have the world’s most patient, even-tempered, and understanding wife. But even Liv had her limits, and he feared that telling her he would be leaving for Yemen as soon as they finished eating lunch might push her over the edge. It briefly occurred to him that she would take the news better if he told her this might be the last field assignment he accepted.

But would she believe he could actually walk away from something that meant this much to him?

Would he be able to believe it himself?

No on both counts.

“Which part of Yemen, exactly?” she asked sharply. The fire in her eyes told him she already knew the answer. She had a finely tuned knack for reading him like a well-worn book.

They were standing alone in the kitchen not long after Delta’s boss, Mack Holloway, had paid them a surprise early morning visit. Holloway was now sitting alone in the backyard, nursing a cup of coffee and waiting for his man to break the news.

“The northwestern part,” Delta said calmly.

Liv glared. “As in the Houthi-controlled part.”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Is that why Mack is cowering in the backyard while you’re here in the kitchen dropping the bombshell?”

“I wouldn’t call it cowering, Liv. He thought you and I might want to discuss this privately.”

“Please don’t call it a discussion, Travis,” she shot back, “because we both know that’s not what it is. You’re obviously informing me of a decision that you and Mack have already made. That makes this an announcement, not a discussion.”

He understood why she was upset. A month earlier he had told her he would soon need to begin training his replacement. Delta was only thirty-eight, but that was old enough to retire from fieldwork. Eliminating America’s enemies around the world was a young man’s game, and with each passing year, the risks involved became greater. What he had actually said was that he didn’t want to leave the field like some NFL quarterback who had hung on too long and then gone out like a bum.

The analogy was imprecise, of course. Quarterbacks who played past their prime didn’t get carried off the field in body bags. Special operators who overstayed their welcome usually did.

“If I’m not mistaken,” she said uneasily, “the United States just recently dropped about a billion dollars’ worth of bombs on Yemen’s Houthi-controlled territory. So please explain why you would want to visit that hornet’s nest.”

“I wouldn’t, Liv, but I really have no choice. The president can’t put boots on the ground without risking World War III. If US troops invade the rebel-controlled areas of Yemen,” he explained, “Iran might feel compelled to step in and defend its Houthi puppets.”

She was incredulous. “Wait a second. You’re saying Iran is willing to watch patiently while we drop bombs and fire missiles, but it would risk war with the United States if we insert troops? How does that make sense?”

“We bombed the Houthi militants because they were attacking ships in the Red Sea, one of which happened to be our nuclear-powered aircraft carrier the USS Harry S. Truman. So the Iranians have been able to rationalize their nonresponse. But if we send troops into Yemen, Iran may feel compelled to declare war. If that happens, Russia might jump in with them.”

“So since the president can’t send in troops, he’s perfectly willing to send you. For what purpose? What are you supposed to do that bombs and missiles can’t?”

“Earlier today,” he said soberly, “the Houthis kidnapped Jonathan Wilson Powell, the US ambassador to Israel, and they’ve vowed to kill him within forty-eight hours unless President Thompson agrees to negotiate for his release.”

Liv’s eyes softened slightly, and he paused to let the news sink in.

“Negotiating with terrorists,” he continued, “is the sort of thing that could cost the president reelection four months from now. But allowing them to execute one of our ambassadors could have the same effect. We need to rescue the ambassador before the deadline. And, for the record, the president doesn’t know anything about my possible involvement.”

“Then who twisted Mack’s arm?”

“Marsha. And she did so out of desperation. She, Mack, and I agree I may be the only way to rescue the ambassador without triggering a world war.”

Liv was still upset, but knowing that Director of National Intelligence Marsha Phillips had made the call meant a lot to her. She respected Marsha, not only as a woman who had risen to power in male-dominated Washington but also as someone who had frequently put her own life on the line as a CIA field officer. Phillips never asked others to do what she hadn’t done herself.

“Should I assume you’re supposed to do this alone?” Liv asked.

“The actual rescuing part, yes, because I’m not an official US agent.”

“Meaning the White House can deny responsibility if you’re captured and executed.”

He nodded. “This isn’t new, Liv. It has always been that way.”

After serving on active duty as a Navy SEAL, Delta had joined black-ops contractor Snakeriver. Under the direction of CEO Mack Holloway, a retired Navy rear admiral, he and his colleagues tackled assignments the US government was not permitted to handle on its own. This usually, but not always, meant assassinating key American adversaries. Delta was Snakeriver’s top gun, and he had successfully managed ops inside Russia, China, Iran, Somalia, the Philippines, and a dozen or more global hot spots.

Someone would take his place eventually, but that day had not yet arrived. So he had told Holloway he would go to Yemen and try to get the ambassador out alive. He would have some support getting to and from Yemen, of course, but the only American boots on Houthi territory would be his. And he understood the risks. The Houthi rebels hated Israel and, by extension, the United States. If he got caught, he and the ambassador would both die. End of story.

Unfortunately, his wife understood the risks as well as he did, and that was why she was so angry. Olivia Zumwald, better known as Liv, was the number two person at the DoD’s Chief Digital and Artificial Intelligence Office (CDAO) and one of the country’s primary artificial intelligence experts. Her top-secret clearance gave her access to much of the same information Marsha Phillips had weighed before calling Holloway about the potential op. She knew, in other words, that the Houthis were a bloodthirsty bunch who would relish the opportunity to execute a couple of Americans. It would be the ultimate twofer: the US ambassador to Israel and the covert agent who had been sent to rescue him. The Houthis would score major publicity points in their ongoing civil war with Yemen’s legitimate government.

Liv wanted to punch her husband, but she hugged him instead.

“You’d better come back to me safely,” she said gently before kissing his cheek.

“You can count on it.”

“Now, tell Mack it’s safe to come inside. I was going to make chicken for dinner tonight, but I can make it for lunch instead.”

It was an uneasy truce, but it was better than all-out war.

CHAPTER 2

CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA - JULY 7

Holloway did a double take when he walked into the kitchen and saw Liv standing there with an eight-inch chef’s knife in her hand. He had assumed she wouldn’t take the Yemen news well, but this was unexpected.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a sly grin. “The knife is for the chicken, not for you.”

He smiled. “I think I’ll keep my distance just in case. I’m sure you’re not happy about this.”

She stared and said, “Mack Holloway, master of understatement. I absolutely hate the idea of Travis going into Yemen right after the United States has been bombing Houthi positions, but I understand the necessity.”

“If there were another way,” Holloway assured her, “we’d give it a shot. But there’s no time for anything more elaborate. The deadline has us handcuffed.”

“The one thing Travis didn’t tell me was how Ambassador Powell got kidnapped in the first place. I thought ambassadors had protective details.”

Holloway grimaced. “Oh, they absolutely do, Liv. His security people said no to the trip, but he was determined to visit Timna Park anyway. So he told his staff he would be home nursing a bad cold. Then he took a short commercial flight, figuring it would be an easy one-day trip.”

“Is he stupid?” she asked. It was a fair question.

“On the contrary,” Holloway said. “He’s a brilliant former Ivy League history professor, but he’s also apparently a headstrong individual who’s convinced he knows more than anyone else. So he decided to visit the park on his own.”

Holloway’s description of Timna Park made it sound exactly like the sort of place a former history professor couldn’t resist. Nestled in Israel’s Negev Desert, it was a fifteen-thousand-acre ancient archaeological treasure best known as the site of the world’s first copper mine. Because copper had played a key role in the development of civilization and industry, Powell had wanted to walk in the footsteps of those early miners.

But his security team had correctly decided that Timna Park was off-limits to him. The site happened to be only three miles from Jordan’s western border, eight miles from Egypt’s eastern border, and nineteen miles north of the Gulf of Aqaba via Highway 90. In short, the place was surrounded by bad actors who hated anything having to do with Israel or its formidable ally, the United States. Groups like Hezbollah, Hamas, Palestinian Islamic Jihad, and the Houthis could only dream of capturing someone with Powell’s symbolic value.

Bypassing his security team, the ambassador had arranged for a private car to pick him up at his residence in Herzliya, a Mediterranean town just north of Tel Aviv, and take him to Ben Gurion International. A one-hour flight on Israir Airlines had carried him south to Ramon Airport, which was only a short drive to the park.

The copper mine in question had been in the Timna Valley for six thousand years. Powell, on the other hand, had been there for only thirty minutes when he was thrown into the cargo compartment of a black SUV by masked gunmen. He had then been driven to a marina on the Gulf of Aqaba, taken by high-speed boat to Taba on Egypt’s coast, and finally transferred to a small plane at a private airstrip. He was now being held captive in Yemen.

“After learning of the ambassador’s abduction,” Holloway added, “his security chief said he had told Powell that the park offered nothing but rocks, desert, and brutal heat. But I suppose the temptation was too great for an old history professor.”

“Fatal mistakes are awfully easy to make,” Liv offered while expertly reducing a whole chicken to its component parts with her razor-sharp blade. Whether she was referring to Powell’s mistake or the one she feared her husband was about to make was unclear.

After marinating the chicken pieces, Liv went outside and fired up the gas grill. Chicken, homemade macaroni salad, and fresh corn on the cob might be Delta’s last peaceful meal for a few days. But he had already decided that when he returned from the Yemen op, he would splurge on dinner at La Grande Boucherie, an elegant French restaurant located one block away from the White House. He and Liv had talked about going there but had never pulled the trigger. He figured this would be a good time.

Assuming he got home alive.

The three of them ate at the picnic table alongside the stream that meandered through the backyard. The temperature was nearly ninety, but a gentle breeze and the ample shade of towering oaks kept them comfortable. They made pleasant small talk until they finished eating. Then Liv looked across the table at Holloway.

“Exactly where in Yemen will Travis be?” she asked. “And what kind of support will he have?”

Holloway took a long sip of lemonade before answering. He was stalling, formulating an answer that might put her mind at ease. But the fact was he didn’t have all the answers yet. The mission parameters were uncomfortably fluid. He, DNI Phillips, and Delta still had phone calls to make and plans to finalize. The op’s countless moving parts would be coming together in real time.

“Satellite imagery indicates that the Houthis who abducted the ambassador are holding him on Kamaran Island, which is about five miles off the mainland and due west of Yemen’s capital, Sanaa,” he said. “Unless they move him before Travis arrives, the location is ideal for us.”

“Why?”

“The island is desolate and relatively unpopulated. If Powell were being held in downtown Sanaa, I doubt we would even consider trying to rescue him.”

Liv asked the obvious question. “If that’s the case, why aren’t the Houthis holding him in Sanaa?”

“The main reason, I suppose,” Holloway said, “is that they probably expect us to respond with more bombings, and they would rather have the bombs fall on Kamaran Island than on Sanaa. Either way, though, they’re probably confident we won’t send American troops to the island. The Houthis operate under Iran’s protection, and Iran would most likely go to war if we sent US troops into what they consider sovereign territory. Powell’s abductors most likely assume the island is a safe enough place to hold him.”

“Okay, so Travis goes to Kamaran Island all by himself. How does he get there, and how does he leave?”

“Marsha Phillips is working on the insertion part of the mission with some friends in Saudi Arabia, and the details are pretty much set.” A lengthy pause followed. “The exfiltration part is still in the planning stage.”

“Wonderful. You’re confident you can get Travis in, but you’re still deciding whether you’ll be able to get him out.”

Delta rode to Holloway’s rescue.

“The exfiltration part will be in place long before I get to Yemen,” he promised. “If it’s not, I won’t go in. You have my word on that. And trust me, Liv, we’re not talking about an extended operation. This will be a lightning strike. In and out. I’ll grab the ambassador before they execute him, and we’ll be on our way. Kamaran Island is a small place where Powell and I would stand out in a crowd, so we’ll be in a hurry.”

“Okay, then I’m satisfied,” she said with just the slightest hint of a smile.

Crisis averted. Now all Delta had to do was figure out how to leave Kamaran Island in one piece. And he had about thirty-eight hours to do so.

CHAPTER 3

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT - JULY 7

Delta and Holloway spent much of the forty-minute drive to Reagan National on the phone, strategizing with Marsha Phillips, who was essentially the CEO of America’s intelligence community. With a bit of help from the Israeli government, the CIA, the NSA, and the US Navy, she had crafted what Delta believed was a sensible insertion plan. Translation: he thought there was a decent chance he would survive that part of the op.

One of Phillips’s closest Washington allies was Dan Madison, secretary of the Navy, who had already signed off on the mission’s critical opening act.

“Dan has arranged for the Navy’s Central Command to have everything in place and ready to move by the time you arrive in Saudi Arabia,” she said. “And the Saudis can’t wait to lend a hand. They detest the Houthis even more than we do.”

“How about the exfiltration logistics?” Delta asked.

“As long as you leave the island and get ten or twelve miles offshore on schedule, you’ll be fine. But the timing is vitally important. There’s almost no wiggle room.”

“Understood. I expect to have my exit plan finalized by the time I fly out this morning.”

“Okay, then. Mack and I will stay in touch throughout the mission,” she said. “Thanks for doing this, Travis. And good luck.”

As soon as Phillips ended the call, Delta phoned Adnan Abbasi, Snakeriver’s most valuable asset in South Asia and a veteran of numerous covert ops. It was nearly 10:00 p.m. in Abbasi’s hometown of Peshawar, Pakistan, but Delta wasn’t worried about waking him. The successful forty-year-old businessman had a wife, five children, and not enough hours in a typical day.

Abbasi was also ruthlessly opposed to Islamic terrorism, and he had helped eliminate some nasty people during his time with Snakeriver. Although he spent most of his life running a software company, he could handle almost any weapon like a pro and stood ready to take whatever assignment came his way.

He answered on the first ring with, “Please tell me you’re coming back to Pakistan, my friend.”

“Not this time, Adnan. I have some business in Yemen.”

“I, too, have some business in Yemen now and then, and I am always interested in expanding my activities, especially if you are involved.”

“Don’t say yes until you’ve heard what I have in mind,” Delta warned him. “This could get messy.”

Delta didn’t explain how he would be getting to Kamaran Island, and Abbasi didn’t ask because he didn’t need to know. They simply began the discussion with the fact that Ambassador Powell and Delta would be leaving the island in a big hurry. The first thing Delta needed was for Abbasi to arrange reliable transportation to and from the compound where the Houthis were holding the ambassador. The distance would be roughly two miles each way, easily walkable under normal circumstances. But if the ambassador had been beaten by his captors, he might not be able to walk at all.

Delta’s second requirement was a boat that could get the ambassador and him at least ten miles offshore reasonably fast. The job didn’t necessarily require a speedboat, but Delta wasn’t about to bet two lives on some old clunker of a fishing boat that might or might not start when it was time to leave.

Abbasi remained quiet until he had gotten the full overview. Then he said he needed some time to consider the requirements and would call Delta back in fifteen minutes or so.

He called back in ten.

“I have spoken with a highly reliable man in Yemen,” he began, “and he is eager to help me. He is a fisherman and quite poor, Travis. His income is probably one thousand US dollars per year, and he has a family.”

“Would ten thousand dollars be helpful?”

“For ten thousand dollars he would dance barefoot on a bed of hot coals.”

“Then ten thousand it is. I just need to be sure the equipment is reliable, Adnan. If it isn’t, I’ll leave Kamaran Island in a body bag, if I leave at all.”

“Oh, it will be reliable, my friend. I will see to it myself.”

Abbasi surprised Delta by saying he would personally inspect the equipment and its placement. A five-hour flight from Peshawar to Sanaa would allow him to reach Kamaran Island at least twelve hours before Delta’s arrival.

“I have a valid Yemeni ID card from a previous Snakeriver mission,” Abbasi noted, “and I speak Arabic better than most of the locals. Traveling in Yemen will be no problem for me.”

“And you’re sure you trust the man who’ll be helping us?”

He laughed. “You should know by now that I have cousins everywhere, Travis, even in Yemen. This man would lay down his life for me and seek nothing in return. But a monetary gift would be a great blessing to him and his family.”

“Your cousin and you will both be well taken care of, Adnan. The money will appear in your offshore account as usual, and I’ll let you take care of channeling the appropriate amount to him.”

“Excellent. I will call you tomorrow with the GPS coordinates of your requested items. You can rest assured that I will have tested the equipment myself before allowing you to use it.”

Delta turned to Holloway when the call ended and shared the details of his conversation with Abbasi.

“If his cousin delivers,” Holloway said, “I’ll make sure he gets more than ten grand. I’ll also pencil in a large bonus for Adnan. The guy’s worth his weight in gold, isn’t he?”

“Platinum is more like it. He’s irreplaceable.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever told me exactly how you recruited him.”

“It wasn’t a formal recruitment,” Delta said. “I saved him from being beheaded by the Pakistani Taliban.”

“I guess that’s a good way to make a new friend.”

“It certainly did in this case, and he’s as good as they come, Mack.”

“Let’s hope he delivers.”

Delta smiled. “If he doesn’t, please say some nice things about me at my memorial service.”

CHAPTER 4

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT - JULY 7

Holloway’s driver stopped at the general aviation terminal, and Delta hauled his overstuffed duffel bag inside. Sitting in the otherwise empty lounge were Jim Davies and Bud Shipp, two former Navy fighter pilots who now flew exclusively for Snakeriver. The three men were close friends, having logged hundreds of thousands of miles together, most recently on a rescue mission involving President Thompson.

“It’s the legend himself,” Davies teased, “ready to take on the forces of darkness yet again.”

“Evil doesn’t stand a chance,” Delta replied with a grin. The three of them shook hands. “How have you guys been?”

“Bored,” Shipp said without hesitation. “Unless you’re in the field, things tend to drag.”

“Then I’m glad I can help stir things up for you.”

Both pilots offered to carry Delta’s bag to the plane, but he politely declined. They had their job, and he had his. And his included the heavy lifting, both literal and figurative. He had no need to be pampered even though he was climbing aboard one of the world’s most unusual private jets.

The sleek corporate bird was nicknamed Black Fang because of its black carbon nanotube stealth coating. More impressive than the high-tech exterior, however, was a plush interior that just happened to include an armored storage unit containing neatly racked rifles, handguns, and knives. Delta never had to worry about obtaining weapons in a foreign country because everything he could ever need was already on board.

“There’s lots of chow in the galley,” Davies said as Delta took his seat in the cabin. As usual, he was the sole passenger. “You’ll also find a bunch of protein bars that you can take on the mission.”

“Thanks, Jim. You guys always think of everything.”

“Gotta take care of the franchise player, right? Let us know if you need anything while we’re en route to Tel Aviv.”

Because Delta had already eaten lunch at home, his only immediate requirement was rest. Whatever sleep he got during the flight might be the last until he left Yemen with Ambassador Powell, and he planned to catch as many z’s as possible in the quiet comfort of the Snakeriver jet. Normal flying time to Ben Gurion International was roughly eleven hours, but since Black Fang had a top speed of nearly seven hundred and thirty miles per hour, the trip would take only eight. And Delta would sleep through almost all of them.

Many years earlier he had mastered the fine art of sleeping under almost any conditions, and it was one of the secrets of his success. In his line of work, fatigue could be deadly. He was also fortunate not to suffer from jet lag no matter how many time zones he crossed. As long as his body got enough rest, it didn’t seem to care what the clock said. So when Black Fang landed in Israel, Delta would be ready to roll.

They took off at 2:00 p.m., and, as expected, Delta was snoring by the time the aircraft reached its cruising altitude of forty-three thousand feet. He didn’t wake up for six and a half hours. The sky was black when he looked out the window because it was 3:30 a.m. in Tel Aviv. But since dawn’s first glow would soon be brightening the eastern horizon, he got up to start the new day.

After some light stretching, he did a series of vigorous bodyweight exercises in the aisle. Dips, pushups, stomach crunches, squats, and some burpees got his heart rate up. Although he would turn forty in another couple of years, his daily fitness routine and a seventh-degree black belt in judo kept him as combat-ready as a man half his age. He stood six two, weighed one-eighty, and had the reflexes of a jungle cat.

Staying in shape wasn’t about looking good in a bathing suit. All that mattered to him was staying alive when he went head-to-head with his enemies. His fitness level was the primary reason he had cheated death on more occasions than he cared to remember. And he planned to keep the string of victories intact.

The brief but intense workout complete, he returned to his seat and thought about Liv, well aware that his Snakeriver career kept her on edge and that each new op seemed to ratchet up her fear level. She understood why he chose to put his life on the line again and again, but she couldn’t shake the fear that he would return from one of his Snakeriver ops in a casket. He had tried numerous times to put her mind at ease, assuring her that his mental and physical preparation for each op gave him an extraordinary advantage over his adversaries. But she worried just the same.

She was, after all, a brilliant scientist who understood that no one, not even someone who had the US government’s most advanced AI system at her disposal, could accurately calculate the probability that he would live or die during a particular op. While it was true that his preparation and skill set had the greatest influence on the outcome, there were a host of other mission factors beyond his control. Counterintelligence efforts, political intrigue, and even the weather could upend even the best-laid plans. Reducing all the possible factors to a reliable algorithm was impossible.

He thought about a couple of previous ops that had nearly done him in. One of the most memorable had come early in his Snakeriver career. After successfully eliminating two al-Qaeda leaders in Bulgaria, he had spent forty-eight hours barely managing to stay half a step ahead of a terrorist band in temperatures that reached twenty-five below. He had spent almost all of that time in a forest, surviving the unimaginable cold by huddling in snow caves he excavated with only a sharpened stick and his gloved hands.

It had been the coldest experience of his life and one he had never mentioned to Liv.

He also remembered the time he had parachuted at night from a CIA jet while it was passing over northern Somalia at eighteen thousand feet. He had then spent ninety seconds of an exhilarating free fall searching for an optimal landing zone through his night-vision goggles. Parachuting at night into treacherous mountain terrain had been insanely dangerous, but it had been preferable to being spotted by members of Al-Shabaab, the Islamist militant group that had carved a path of death and destruction throughout Somalia and neighboring African nations.

That was another near-fatal op he hadn’t described in detail for Liv.

He suspected that this current mission might prove more harrowing than the ones in Bulgaria and Somalia combined, and part of him wished he could spare Liv the worry he was about to cause her. But Snakeriver was a calling, not a job. He did what he did because someone had to. And until someone better came along, he was the man.

Davies and Shipp executed a smooth landing at Ben Gurion and taxied to an armored limo parked near the VIP terminal. As soon as Delta stepped off the aircraft, two large men in dark suits walked over and greeted him on behalf of their boss, Mossad Director Yitzhak Meisel. One was the driver. The other was a security officer with an Israeli-made Tavor automatic assault rifle held firmly in both hands.

“Director Meisel apologizes for not welcoming you personally, Mr. Delta,” the driver said in flawless English. “He was leaving the office to meet you when he was summoned to a conference call.”

That surprised Delta since the local time was only 5:10 a.m.

“Either Director Meisel is an extremely early riser, or he sleeps in his office,” Delta said.

The driver smiled. “I’m sure you and Director Meisel have odd schedules in common. He looks forward to joining you for breakfast when we reach our headquarters.”

“I’m looking forward to that as well.”

“The director also hopes you don’t mind the presence of an armed guard this morning. You are an extremely important guest, Mr. Delta, and we intend to keep you safe while you are here.”

“You’ve never met a bigger fan of extra security,” Delta assured him. Then he turned to the security officer. “I’ve never fired a Tavor. How do you like it?”

“It gets the job done,” the man said with a grin. “Honestly, though, I would prefer to carry a Heckler & Koch HK416. But please don’t tell anyone I said so.”

“The HK happens to be my favorite weapon. In any event, your secret is safe with me.”

Delta climbed into the back seat of the three-ton vehicle, and they set off on the thirty-minute drive to Mossad headquarters in downtown Tel Aviv.

Sunrise was still a half hour away, but the day had already turned interesting.

CHAPTER 5

MOSSAD HEADQUARTERS, TEL AVIV - JULY 8

Yitzhak Meisel did not appear to be one of the world’s most dangerous men. He was a mild-mannered individual who looked as though he would be happy perusing a lengthy memo at his desk or presiding over a boring discussion of Israel’s gross national product. But if the head of Israel’s national intelligence agency picked up the phone and said he needed someone dead, a body would be cold to the touch within hours.

Fortunately, Yitzhak was one of America’s best friends, and he had teamed up with Delta previously to rid the world of some mutual US-Israeli enemies. He had also nearly teamed up permanently with Marsha Phillips. Several years earlier they had floated the idea of getting married, but Marsha’s promotion from CIA director to director of national intelligence put everything on hold. Serving her country was more important to her than her personal life.

“Welcome to Tel Aviv, Travis,” Meisel said when Delta entered his office. “It’s good to have you here again.”

“And it’s good to be here again, Yitzhak. Thanks for helping out on such short notice.”

“I’m always glad to help, and my counterpart in Saudi Arabia was delighted to lend a hand as well. He and I share a burning desire to eliminate the Houthi problem. But come, let’s talk over breakfast.”

They walked down the corridor to a private room where three servers were laying out a buffet fit for visiting royalty. Delta had deliberately eaten nothing on the flight over because he knew that a business meal at Mossad headquarters was always memorable. This morning’s offerings included herb omelets, a selection of dips and cheeses, avocado salad, freshly baked bread, and strong black coffee.

“So five other people will be eating with us?” Delta joked when he saw the vast amount of food.

Yitzhak shook his head. “I have seen your appetite in action, Travis, so I ordered extra. But trust me, whatever we don’t finish will not go to waste. My younger staff members are always eager to claim leftovers.”

“I’m a sucker for buffets, but I’ll try to leave something for them.”

The food was exceptional, as always, and Delta wasn’t shy about helping himself to seconds, then thirds. The two friends enjoyed some small talk during the meal, much of it focused on Yitzhak’s relationship with Marsha Phillips. Meisel volunteered that the two of them saw each other at least once a month. This was something Delta hadn’t known, and he was glad for the news. They were both fine people who devoted themselves to their jobs, asking nothing in return other than a brighter future for their respective countries. Delta hoped they would eventually find a way to marry and live happily out of the public eye. They had earned some peace and quiet.

When the conversation turned back to the Houthi mission, Meisel’s eyes lit up. He explained that he had worked out some critical details with his Saudi counterpart, the head of the General Intelligence Presidency (GIP), even though Israel and Saudi Arabia were still a long way from establishing diplomatic relations.

“He detests the Houthis as much as I do,” Meisel observed, “and possibly more. So he is glad to assist with your mission.”

The plan appeared to be thoughtfully designed. A Saudi business jet would fly Delta from Ben Gurion to Jizan Regional Airport, which was only a ten-minute car ride from Jizan’s commercial port on the Red Sea. Then a container ship under the control of Saudi intelligence officers would deliver him to a spot off the coast of Kamaran Island. He would travel the rest of the way underwater with the help of a diver propulsion device (DPD) that the US Navy had already delivered to the Saudi seaport. Delta would reach the island under the cover of darkness, rescue the ambassador, and escape.

If everything went as planned, he would be back in Chantilly, Virginia, in forty-eight hours. Simple.

But only in his dreams did plans ever go that smoothly. So it was up to him to foresee the potential glitches and consider what possible fixes might be required to complete the mission successfully, meaning alive. And he would need to get that work done by the time he boarded the container ship.

“Well, what do you think, Travis?” Meisel asked.

“As long as the Saudi container ship doesn’t get blown out of the water by Houthi rebels,” Delta said, “I think this will work.”

“The ship will have a Royal Saudi Navy escort capable of neutralizing a Houthi assault. I have also arranged for several Israeli attack drones to be overhead at the time you are dropped off at sea. This doesn’t mean the Houthis won’t try something,” he noted, “but it greatly decreases the likelihood.”

“I agree. You and your Saudi ally have put together an excellent plan, Yitzhak. Now it’s up to me to execute it properly.”

Meisel paused and gave Delta a troubled look. “How comfortable are you with using the diver propulsion device? Some members of my team have expressed concern about that element of the mission.”

In fact, Delta shared that concern. The DPD, essentially a high-tech underwater scooter, was a reliable but imperfect machine. Any of its moving parts — propeller, motor, gears, and such — could fail without warning despite being meticulously maintained by Navy technicians. But the same could be said of all the other hardware being thrown at this mission. A plane engine might fail to start. A drone’s navigation system might malfunction. The container ship might run aground. Anything could go wrong, and something undoubtedly would. This was one of those unpredictable elements that could get an operator killed in the line of duty.

As Delta saw it, the DPD was no more likely to scuttle the mission than any of the other critical components. Besides, he was stuck. The closest the container ship could get to Kamaran Island was eight miles, and even that was pushing the envelope. The Houthis would be sorely tempted to attack a vessel sailing so close to their territory.

Since Delta couldn’t swim eight miles and then immediately conduct a rescue operation, he had no choice but to rely on the DPD. It would deliver him to the island in just over one hour while keeping him safely out of sight the entire way. Having used several types of DPDs during his SEAL career, he knew they almost always performed as advertised.

“I’ve worked with DPDs before,” he told Meisel, “and I’m not at all worried about doing so again. As long as the container ship drops me off at the right spot, I’ll be fine.”

“Then I’ll stop worrying.” He paused before adding, “Okay, that was an outright lie, Travis. I won’t stop worrying until you and Ambassador Powell have left Kamaran Island safely.”

Delta grinned. “That makes two of us.”

CHAPTER 6

BEN GURION AIRPORT - JULY 8

Delta boarded a small Saudi aircraft at 8:00 p.m., just after sunset, for the hour-and-a-half flight to Jizan Regional Airport. The “business jet” actually belonged to the Saudi intelligence service and was operating inside Israel for the first time. After welcoming Delta aboard, the two pilots closed the cockpit door, and that was the last he saw of them until the plane touched down in Saudi Arabia.

Delta could scarcely imagine how many diplomatic hurdles Meisel had been required to clear while assisting with the Saudi part of the mission. Getting the Israeli prime minister and the Saudi crown prince to sign off on a secret joint operation must have been nightmarish. Delta supposed he could have gotten to Kamaran Island without Meisel’s help, but his chances of surviving the visit would have been greatly diminished.

After deplaning in Jizan, he slid into the front passenger seat of a black government SUV. The driver was a personable young intelligence officer named Khaled, who said he hoped the flight had been a smooth one. Then in flawless English he mentioned that he had graduated from Delta’s alma mater, American University in Washington.

“That’s quite a coincidence,” Delta said wryly.

“Oh, you know it’s not a coincidence, Mr. Delta,” he said with a laugh. “We thought it would be good to have you escorted by someone with whom you have something in common.”

“Well, it’s a pleasant surprise. And please call me Travis.”

“Then Travis it is.”

“Can I assume that you and I have more in common than American University?”

Khaled nodded. “I devote myself to making my country’s enemies wish they had not been my country’s enemies. I am quite skilled at my job,” he added, “but I don’t pretend to be at your level. Your reputation precedes you, Travis.”

“I would prefer not to have a reputation, Khaled. Being completely unknown would be much safer.”

“I fully agree, but you have been at your job long enough for your fame to spread. This is not a problem in Saudi Arabia, of course, but there are places that are becoming too dangerous for you. Russia, China, and Iran come to mind.”

Delta wasn’t completely surprised that a Saudi intelligence officer knew something about his background, but he found the mention of those countries unsettling. It was hardly common knowledge that he had operated multiple times in all three. If Khaled had the details, so did a lot of other people. And that wasn’t ideal.

“You’re absolutely right, Khaled, and I suspect I’m fast approaching retirement. I would like to live happily and anonymously ever after.”

“I share that same dream, Travis.”

A ten-minute drive brought them to the Port of Jizan, Saudi Arabia’s third-largest seaport and one capable of accommodating ships carrying more than one hundred thousand tons of cargo. It was 9:45 p.m., but the place was in full operation under thousands of bright lights. Gantry cranes were busy hoisting containers onto massive ships while fleets of forklifts, tractors, and tractor-trailers weaved their way through the port’s hundred-square-mile complex.

“I didn’t realize this was such a huge facility,” Delta said as they drove up to a security gate. Khaled lowered his window, and the armed guard waved him through immediately. “Very impressive.”

“This port is key to my country’s economic development,” Khaled explained, “so you can see why we have an interest in ridding the Red Sea of the Houthi threat. Anything you can do to weaken the Houthis will benefit Saudi Arabia.”

“I’m going to give it my best shot.”

“May all of your shots be literal, and may they all hit their targets.”

They parked a short distance from the ship that would deliver Delta to Kamaran Island. The MS Makasir was what’s known in the shipping industry as a feeder ship — that is, a medium-sized freighter designed to shuttle cargo between the largest container ships and smaller ports. At six hundred feet long, it was not exactly tiny. But it was less than half the length of the largest container ships that sailed the Red Sea.

“The ship looks new,” Delta said as they walked toward it.

“Two years old and outfitted with the latest technology. Today,” Khaled added, “it is also equipped with something the US Navy delivered for you.”

Two armed intelligence officers nodded to Khaled as he and Delta boarded the ship.

“How many of your people are on the ship today?” Delta asked.

“Ten including me. This is in addition to the ship’s crew of eight. No one has been allowed to leave the ship since we got word of the operation, and all nonessential communications have been silenced. You can rest assured we have a fully secure environment.”

He added that all members of his team had Royal Saudi Navy special ops backgrounds, and that was welcome news to Delta. These were men who knew their way around a ship and wouldn’t flinch if the Houthis chose to attack.

The most effective morale booster, though, was the Royal Saudi Navy ship docked alongside the MS Makasir. It was an Al-Riyadh-class frigate armed to the teeth with advanced weaponry, including Aster 15 surface-to-air missiles, Exocet anti-ship missiles, an OTO Melara 76mm autocannon, and anti-submarine torpedoes. The frigate was definitely equal to just about anything the Houthis might throw at it.

“I like our escort,” Delta said to Khaled as he eyed the activity aboard the frigate. The crew moved with the fluid seriousness of purpose common to highly trained sailors.

“It is one of our newest warships, and I am confident its presence during our journey will be sufficient to deter Houthi aggression. The crew, of course, is absolutely first-rate. We’ll be in excellent company.”

Delta followed Khaled to the ship’s starboard side, where the DPD had been resting comfortably under a canvas tarp since being placed there by the US Navy crew. A guard armed with a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun nodded when Delta and Khaled approached, then watched as they raised the tarp to inspect the machine.

It was a sleek device with a six-foot-long aluminum-alloy surface that gleamed under the deck lights. Weighing in at about one hundred and thirty pounds, the battery-powered DPD had a top speed of eight miles per hour and could operate down to three hundred feet, far deeper than this particular mission would require.

Sadly, the fifty-thousand-dollar stealth device was about to set sail for the last time. Delta would abandon it offshore before setting foot on Kamaran Island. All he had to do was turn the power off and let the thing sink. Then he and Ambassador Powell would flee the island on whatever boat Adnan Abbasi had managed to procure.

Delta was replacing the tarp on the DPD when he noted that he had not yet heard from Abbasi. By now his Snakeriver colleague should have sent the GPS coordinates of the escape boat and the vehicle that Delta would use to get to and from the Houthi compound where the ambassador was being held.

And that made him more than a little nervous.

CHAPTER 7

JIZAN PORT, SAUDI ARABIA - JULY 8

Delta’s satellite phone buzzed at 9:58 p.m., just as the MS Makasir was leaving port. The text message from Abbasi included two sets of GPS coordinates and a cryptic message:

Sorry for delay. Had to fix problem.

Delta had spent some anxious moments wondering what he would do if Abbasi failed to provide the necessary equipment. But the man had come through once again, and the mission was on. Delta hoped the problem that had needed fixing hadn’t put Abbasi at too much risk. His wife and five kids needed him.

The distance from Jizan Port to Kamaran Island was roughly one hundred miles, and the ship would be traveling at twenty-two knots, or about twenty-five miles per hour. Delta would enter the water at 2:00 a.m. and have three hours of darkness in which to complete the mission. Sunrise was at 5:45 a.m., but civil twilight arrived at 5:21, and at that point the sky would be too bright for a safe exfiltration.

Without question, he would be flirting with danger. The mission planning had been rushed, and he would be operating on unfamiliar terrain. Beyond that, the transportation that Abbasi had arranged might or might not be reliable. Add to that an extremely tight operational window, and you had a disaster in the making.

An offsetting positive, a huge one, was that the ambassador was being guarded by only five Houthi terrorists. That intelligence had been supplied by US, Israeli, and Saudi satellites over the past three hours. Had those same satellites shown ten or more guards, Delta would have had no choice but to scrap the mission. He was willing to take risks, but he was not suicidal.

Another positive was that the ambassador was being held in an abandoned government building far from the island’s small villages. Reaching the compound without being seen should be a relatively low-risk venture, and penetrating the compound itself should be easy. If Delta could rescue the ambassador without disposing of the Houthis, that was what he would do. His objective was to avoid a gunfight. But if he met resistance, he would eliminate the threat as expeditiously as possible.

He was initially surprised to learn that the ambassador was being held in a broken-down building by such a small crew. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He believed the Houthis had already decided to execute Powell even if the US agreed to negotiate for his release. In all likelihood the only reason he was still alive was in case his captors needed to put him on camera in order to prove he was still alive. As soon as he had outlived his usefulness, though, he would be murdered. There was no point in bringing him to a more secure location when for all practical purposes he was already dead.

Whatever their reasoning, the Houthis had grossly miscalculated. If anyone got executed in the next twenty-four hours, it would most likely be the five men holding the ambassador on Kamaran Island. Delta would be going ashore with two suppressed weapons, an HK416 assault rifle and a Glock 20, and a boatload of bad intentions.

Once he entered the water, the cargo ship and its escort would travel through the Bab el-Mandeb Strait and into the Arabian Sea rather than immediately turn around and head back to Saudi Arabia. To do otherwise would probably seem highly suspicious to the Houthis and would risk putting a bright spotlight on the highly sensitive op. The Houthis were reprehensible, but they were not stupid.

Khaled guided Delta to a locked guest cabin where US Navy crewmen had stowed the diving gear earlier that day. The items included a top-shelf hooded wet suit, a full-face dive mask, and high-performance swim fins. There was also a heavy-duty submersible dry bag containing the HK rifle and Glock handgun, both suppressed, along with a tactical knife, night-vision goggles, mission clothing, and two bottles of water.

The pièce de résistance, however, was the compact Dräger LAR V closed-circuit breathing apparatus, better known as a rebreather. By recycling the diver’s breath and eliminating carbon dioxide, the rebreather allowed up to four hours of underwater activity.

The total value of the dive equipment was slightly more than fifteen grand, and all of it would be discarded in the Red Sea before Delta went ashore. He shook his head when he thought of all the money being wasted, and the lives being risked, because a headstrong ambassador had ignored the advice of his security team. He assumed that Powell would soon be a former US ambassador, but that was the president’s call. Delta’s job was to get the guy home alive.

“Is everything satisfactory, Travis?” Khaled asked after Delta had inspected the dive gear.

“Perfect. This is the best stuff money can buy.”

“Then how about joining me for dinner?”

“I appreciate the offer,” Delta replied, “but I’m going to pass. Eating a full meal before a dive isn’t a good idea. Besides, I’d like to hit the bunk for a couple of hours. Can you let me know when we’re an hour out from Kamaran Island? That will give me more than enough time to suit up and prepare to launch.”

“With pleasure. Rest well, my friend.”

Delta stretched out on the narrow bunk, and the container ship’s gentle rise and fall quickly worked its magic on him. He was sound asleep almost immediately.

An hour later he woke to the sound of automatic gunfire and two loud explosions.

He bolted from his cabin, HK416 in hand, and raced up to the weather deck, where he found the entire Saudi security team stationed on the ship’s port side. The men were armed with automatic rifles, and a member of the ship’s crew was guiding the beam of a brilliant searchlight across the water.

“Houthi drone boats!” Khaled shouted when he spied Delta. “Our escort ship just destroyed two of them. I wish you had seen the explosions. Absolutely magnificent!”

Uncrewed surface vessels (USVs) had recently become a weapon of choice for the Houthis, and they had successfully used them to disable or sink merchant ships sailing the Red Sea. These small remote-controlled boats were packed with enough explosives to rip holes in the hulls of their targets. If one of them had struck the MS Makasir, Delta’s mission would have ended before it had begun.

“We’re still pretty far north, aren’t we?” Delta asked, plainly surprised that the Houthis had attacked so soon.

Khaled nodded. “We’ve barely left Saudi waters. They don’t usually strike this close to our border.”

“It’s a sign of desperation,” Delta observed. “The Houthis have been pounded lately by US warplanes, and I suppose they want to prove they’re still capable of responding.”

“This particular group of them won’t be responding much longer, Travis,” Khaled said gleefully. “Our escort’s captain has pinpointed the onshore location of those who launched the drone boats, and he will be sending our formal reply shortly. Stay here and watch for another minute or so.”

As though on command, a pair of surface-to-surface missiles equipped with four-hundred-pound fragmentation warheads leapt from the frigate’s upper deck and screamed toward the coastline at seven hundred miles per hour. They traveled only six feet above the waves, invisible to enemy radar, and impacted the target two minutes later, creating a fireball that rose more than one hundred feet into the night sky. The brilliant glow on the horizon was easily visible from the deck of the MS Makasir twenty-two miles away.

“The missiles must have hit an explosives stockpile,” Delta said with a smile. “Very impressive.”

The light show reminded him of July Fourth, which he and Liv had celebrated only a few days earlier at the White House.

Despite the momentary excitement, he was back on his bunk snoring five minutes later. There was no such thing as too much rest given what was likely coming his way.

CHAPTER 8

THE RED SEA, WEST OF YEMEN - JULY 9

Delta had just finished pulling on his wet suit when Khaled knocked on the cabin door. It was 1:00 a.m., and the ship was on schedule to reach the drop-off point at 2:00 a.m. sharp.

“Looks as though the Houthis decided not to interrupt the rest of our voyage,” Delta said as his host entered the room.

“Yes, that’s what happens when you transform one of their military outposts into a smoking hole in the ground,” Khaled said with a broad smile. “I just watched infrared footage from one of our drones, and I can assure you nothing and no one survived our missile strikes.”

“Please offer my thanks to the frigate’s captain. I appreciate everything you guys have done for me.”

“You’re doing far more than we are, Travis. I’m no coward, but I suspect I would not have agreed to undertake this mission in your place. Going alone to Kamaran Island requires a unique level of courage.”

Delta laughed. “Or stupidity.”

“Not a chance, my friend. As I said earlier, your reputation precedes you. You’ve done some amazing things, and I am certain your legend will only grow tonight.”

“Here’s hoping.”

Delta grabbed his remaining gear, and the two men made their way to the diver propulsion device. The reflections of a billion stars and a bright half-moon danced on the waves, instantly reminding him of a similar night three years earlier. Operating from a US submarine in the Mediterranean, he had swum ashore to confront a Syrian general who was vacationing at a seaside resort in Latakia. The general, a notorious war criminal, died after Delta threw him across a bedroom by his neck. The four women with him left the bedroom unharmed.

Despite the similar setting, tonight’s op would be far riskier. Kamaran Island was no luxury resort with minimal security, and the five armed men guarding Powell would not run away screaming like the women who had shared the Syrian general’s bed. And, of course, there was no US submarine sitting offshore, ready to intervene if something went wrong. Tonight there would be no one out there until the appointed time, and then only for a few moments.

If the rendezvous was off by more than a minute or two, Delta and the ambassador would both be left behind, in which case they would die badly.

“A perfect evening for a swim, isn’t it, Travis?”

“I was just thinking the same thing, Khaled. The water temperature is above eighty, and visibility is forever. Excellent conditions.”

“Good luck, my friend.”

“Back at you, Khaled. I hope the rest of your voyage is smooth.”

“Of this I have no doubt.”

After shaking Khaled’s hand, Delta donned the fins, mask, and rebreather while the ship slowed to three knots to make his departure marginally safer. As soon as he and the DPD had been lowered to the water by the ship’s crane, the MS Makasir resumed its normal cruising speed and sailed on toward the Bab el-Mandeb Strait.

Once the ship’s wake had passed, Delta took the DPD down to five feet, turned toward land, and opened the throttle. He would be engulfed by darkness throughout the eight-mile journey because using the DPD’s powerful LED headlight could easily make him a target. But he would not be traveling blind. The advanced onboard navigation system would continually feed him accurate data on depth, speed, underwater terrain, and heading.

His first stop ashore would be the location of the vehicle Adnan Abbasi had secured for the mission. The spot was at the midpoint of the island’s west coast in an area where the Red Sea was relatively deep even close to land. He would abandon the DPD and his dive gear in approximately one hundred feet of water when he was about fifty yards from shore. Then he would swim the rest of the way with his dry bag, change into his land gear, and be on his way.

Delta was a gifted swimmer, hardly surprising for a former SEAL, but he was well aware that reaching his destination would still be tricky. The current off Kamaran Island was often treacherous, depending upon the tide and wind pattern. If conditions were unfavorable, a swim that he could usually make in under thirty seconds could take three or four times longer, stealing energy he would need for the onshore op. But the mission specs called for him to dump all of his military equipment in deep water, so that was what he would do. The Houthis would undoubtedly suspect the ambassador’s rescuer had been an American, but they wouldn’t be able to prove it.

Unless, of course, they captured him. In that case, his public execution would make his nationality abundantly clear.

He was four miles from shore when two massive rumbles echoed through the water. They occurred only moments apart, and five seconds later the surrounding sea shuddered, shoving him ten feet off course before he was able to resume his track.

He couldn’t know for sure, but experience told him the two powerful tremors had almost certainly been caused by cruise missile strikes. If he was right, the MS Makasir and its escort were probably on their way to the bottom of the Red Sea. The Houthis had undoubtedly tracked the two ships since they had left port, and they had finally exacted their revenge.

He offered up a silent prayer for Khaled and all the others who had signed on for this dangerous mission. They were good people, devoted to each other and to their country, and they didn’t deserve what they had gotten. Then he cursed the self-absorbed ambassador whose impetuousness had led to the deaths of so many warriors.

He knew, of course, that it had always been this way and almost certainly would be forever. Those on the front lines died because of dumb decisions made by bureaucrats who were far away from danger and ignorant of how their actions influenced what happened on the battlefield. He didn’t like it, but he did his job anyway. Someone had to.

After another twenty minutes of underwater travel, he was a mile offshore, still thinking about the two Saudi crews, when the DPD’s motor decided to quit.

And his bad night got perilously worse.

CHAPTER 9

THE RED SEA, WEST OF YEMEN - JULY 9

Delta didn’t waste time wondering why the DPD’s motor had failed. There were countless possible causes, none of which mattered in the least to him at that moment. He was a mile from Kamaran Island, and the DPD definitely wasn’t going to get him there. That was the only relevant fact.

He promptly dumped all of his dive gear except for the swim fins, which would help him power his way to shore. With the dry bag slung over his shoulder, he began swimming, using a relaxed, even stroke that he knew he could maintain indefinitely. The longest he had ever swum during his SEAL days was fifteen miles, so he wasn’t concerned about reaching shore. His challenge would be navigating to the right spot while continually being shoved off course by strong currents.

Behind him, meanwhile, the abandoned DPD began sinking slowly to the seafloor, in keeping with its design specs. Years or decades would likely pass before anyone noticed the stealth device resting at the bottom of the Red Sea. By that time, no one would care how it had gotten there.

After twenty-five minutes of fighting strong tidal currents, Delta kicked off his swim fins, left the water, and walked onto a beach north of the village of Makram. He was more tired than he had planned to be at this point in the mission, and the ninety-degree heat and high humidity did nothing to improve his situation. But he had already survived two Houthi attacks and was ready to tackle the op’s most critical sequence.

He knelt in the sand, opened the dry bag, and was about to check the satellite phone’s GPS receiver when he heard soft footsteps approaching in the darkness. He had the Glock chambered and aimed toward the invisible intruder when a familiar voice called out to him.

“I was worried about you, Travis,” Adnan Abbasi said as he slowly emerged from the darkness. “I saw explosions at sea to the south, and then you were quite late arriving. I feared the worst.”

Delta lowered his gun and relaxed. “I had to swim the last mile because my underwater scooter quit, but here I am. As for the explosions, I’m assuming the Houthis attacked the two ships that brought me here from Jizan Port.”

“The explosions were quite large. That’s not a good sign, my friend.”

“No, it’s not, Adnan. We’ve probably lost two Saudi ships and their crews. It’s a heavy price to pay for rescuing one foolish man.”

“There’s a foolish man behind most tragedies, Travis. But you know this better than I do.”

“How much at risk are we on this part of the island?”

“Hardly any. Here there are just a few fishermen and their families. The Houthi stronghold is well to the east, at Kamaran Harbor. As long as you stay near the west coast, you should not encounter any Houthis. Bandits, perhaps. But Houthis, no.” Abbasi waited while Delta changed into dry clothes: a black long-sleeved pullover, black tactical pants, and black trail shoes. The HK rifle, holstered Glock, and sheathed knife completed his business ensemble.

“Okay, ready to roll,” Delta said as he slung the HK over his shoulder. “Let’s go see what kind of classy transportation you’ve arranged for me.”

“By all means, Travis. Follow me to my cousin’s home.”

Abbasi led him fifty yards from the beach to a weathered mud-brick hut with a palm-frond roof. The place was completely dark within, and the only sign of life outside was an undernourished goat that occupied a crude wooden pen. Leaning against the pen was what appeared to be the world’s oldest motorcycle.

“This is the best I could do, Travis,” Abbasi said a bit self-consciously. “It doesn’t look like much, but I promise you it runs well. It’s a 150cc Baotian, in case you’re not familiar with the brand.”

“Chinese-made, right?”

“Yes, exactly. They’re extremely popular in the Middle East because they’re inexpensive to own and operate. Here on Kamaran Island, they will last many years if properly maintained since they travel so few miles.”

“And this one has been properly maintained?” Delta asked skeptically. The bike’s tattered appearance suggested otherwise.

Abbasi nodded. “Properly enough. It’s no longer pretty, but I have ridden it myself, and it handles as it should. It will go slower with two riders, of course, but it will get you and the ambassador to the boat.”

“Assuming he and I survive the rescue op.”

“Yes, assuming that. But I have complete faith in your capabilities.”

“And the boat is also in good shape?”

“You would not wish to take your wife on it,” Abbasi said with a laugh, “because it smells quite bad even for a fishing boat. But it will get you off the island. That much I can promise. When the boat has done its job, please put a few holes in the hull so that it cannot be traced back to the man I bought it from.”

“Understood. Did you have much trouble getting it?”

Abbasi nodded. “Some, yes. That was the problem I mentioned in my text message. The first man who agreed to sell me a boat led me to his remote home and then tried to rob me. As it turned out, he didn’t have a boat, but he had a gun.”

“What did you do?”

“After a brief struggle, I shot him in the head with his gun. That was the easy part. Burying him in the sand behind his home took longer. I then found an honest man who was willing to part with a fourteen-foot aluminum boat. I overpaid, of course, but the twenty-horsepower outboard works nicely.”

“Twenty whole horses?” Delta was amused.

“It’s not a speedboat, but it runs, and that’s all that matters. Text me when you and the ambassador are on the way to the boat, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Adnan.” Delta climbed onto the motorcycle, fist-bumped his colleague, and pressed the start button. The old bike coughed loudly before coming to life.

“I hope I didn’t just wake up your cousin and his family.”

“Have no fear, Travis. They’re staying elsewhere tonight. I thought that was best.”

“Smart move.”

Delta put the Baotian in gear, nodded to Abbasi, and headed for the abandoned government building where Powell was being held.

As long as the ambassador was healthy enough to ride the rear seat of a motorcycle, the night might end well.

CHAPTER 10

KAMARAN ISLAND, YEMEN - JULY 9

Delta’s ride would cover only six miles, slightly more than half the length of Kamaran Island, but the trip would present two special challenges.

The first was the absence of paved roads. He would be traveling on nothing but single-track dirt paths, most of them in abysmal condition, and would therefore need to keep his speed to a minimum. If he overdrove the bike’s old halogen headlight, he might easily find himself in a sandy ditch with a three-hundred-pound motorcycle on top of him.

The second challenge would be navigating to the abandoned building where the ambassador was being held. His NSA-approved satellite phone provided bearing and distance information as well as ultrasecure communications, but it was incapable of providing the turn-by-turn route guidance he had grown accustomed to while driving around in the US. If there were roads, or tracks resembling roads, he would have to find them. And it would be up to him to avoid any en route obstacles, including the countless bomb craters that US and UK fighter aircraft had left behind.

On the plus side, he essentially had the night to himself. Only about thirty-five hundred people occupied Kamaran Island’s forty-two square miles, and most of them lived in the town of Kamaran on the east coast. Here on the west coast, he was utterly alone amid a desolate landscape consisting mostly of scrubby vegetation, sand dunes, and salt flats. As far as he could tell, this was a place only a fisherman could love, and then only when the fishing was good.

In point of fact, the fishing had gotten considerably worse in recent years because the Houthi overlords had closed off access to some of the richest waters. This meant that most local fishermen were struggling to survive. But if they hated the Houthis because of it, they wisely kept their opinions to themselves. Better to be silent and alive than outspoken and dead.

The first three miles of Delta’s trip were pleasantly uneventful. He stuck close to the shoreline, enjoying a cool sea breeze that provided welcome relief from the island’s oppressive heat. He was struck by the emptiness of the pristine beaches. Back in the States there would have been revelers and bonfires even at this late hour. But if people were out there enjoying the sound of gentle waves lapping Kamaran’s shore, they kept their presence hidden.

All semblance of pleasantness ended when Delta reached what he knew was going to be one of the trip’s riskiest stretches. Just ahead of him was a narrow, one-mile strip of land sandwiched between two bays — Khawr Muhasir to the west and Khawr Tuways to the east. No more than three hundred feet across at its widest point, the strip was bordered by a vast mangrove forest that offered plenty of cover for anyone who wished to remain invisible. Fishermen were the likeliest candidates, but Delta couldn’t rule out either criminals or Houthi agents. There were plenty of both in this part of Yemen.

Drug trafficking, human trafficking, and murder had been on the upswing since the Houthis seized control of large portions of Yemen, and anyone who ventured onto Kamaran Island was a potential target. If he was going to be attacked before reaching the ambassador’s location, this was the likeliest spot.

Ignoring the urge to accelerate, he maintained his current speed rather than risk an accident, and that turned out to be a wise decision. He had traveled a quarter of a mile when his headlights revealed a pile of mangrove branches blocking the entire dirt roadway. Had he been traveling faster, he almost certainly would have ended up in the air.

As soon as he applied the brakes and came to a full stop, he was blinded by two bright flashlight beams from his left.

He immediately rolled off the bike’s right side, hit the ground, and drew the Glock from its holster. He was already in a comfortable prone shooting position when his assailants opened fire on the empty space where he had been sitting only a few heartbeats earlier.

The flashlights and muzzle flashes provided all the targeting information Delta required. He aimed a foot below the muzzle flashes of the shooter on the right and squeezed off two suppressed rounds. The man quietly fell backward as Delta fired another two rounds at the shooter to the left. He also went down without a sound.

The two men, both of whom appeared to be in their thirties, were lying motionless in widening pools of blood when Delta cautiously approached them a minute later. The first shooter had taken a pair of 10mm hollow-point rounds to his upper chest. The second had taken one to the chest and one to the abdomen. Both men had died almost instantly.

Delta had no way of knowing whether his attackers had been Houthi enforcers or common criminals, and he didn’t care. They had tried to kill him and had paid the appropriate price. He turned off their flashlights and tossed them far into the mangrove forest. Then he dragged the two bodies from the side of the road and dumped them in the shallows before removing the road barrier they had constructed.

Total elapsed time for the unplanned stop: seven minutes.

Even though he had handled the situation as efficiently as possible, he was angry over having lost precious minutes. He had already been running late because of the propulsion device failure, and time was quickly becoming almost as great an enemy as the Houthis. Like it or not, daylight would arrive on schedule. And if he and the ambassador were still on the island when the sun came up, they might never leave.

He glanced at his satellite phone’s GPS receiver. Two and a half miles to go, heading zero four zero. Things were about to get serious.

He twisted the handgrip and rode on to meet his fate.

CHAPTER 11

KAMARAN ISLAND, YEMEN - JULY 9

Delta rode another two miles, slowing frequently to avoid the ragged bomb craters that covered much of the terrain. The largest of them, twenty feet deep and nearly fifty feet across, had no doubt been caused by cruise missiles. That was part of the price the Houthis had paid for attacking US ships.

When the GPS receiver indicated he was a half mile from his destination, he shut the motorcycle down and got ready for the most physically demanding portion of the trip. Riding up to the abandoned government building on a noisy motorcycle was out of the question, naturally, so he had to cover the final half mile on foot. No problem there. But because he feared the ambassador might not be able to walk, he needed to bring the motorcycle with him. That meant he would have to push it the rest of the way, an endurance test that would require at least fifteen minutes amid brutal heat and humidity. He didn’t know for sure what shape he would be in after pushing the heavy bike a half mile over a rutted dirt road, but it really didn’t matter. There were no other options available.

He grabbed the handlebar with his left hand, placed his right hand on the seat, and shoved off. The bike moved grudgingly at first, but once he had momentum working for him, the job became easier. Then came the steep incline that would bring him within a hundred yards of the old government building. His arms and legs were quivering slightly by the time he reached the hilltop.

Sweaty and slightly out of breath, he pushed the bike behind a desiccated shrub before taking a short break. He drained half a bottle of water while studying his target.

The one-story structure, no larger than a three-car garage back in the States, sat alone five hundred feet from the shore, its black shape silhouetted against the starry sky. It had been abandoned decades earlier, and major sections of its coral stone walls had crumbled to the ground. The walls at the right corner were relatively intact, though, and partially covered by a rusted corrugated metal roof. Delta assumed this was the area where the ambassador and his captors were holed up. But there was only one way to find out.

He slipped on the night-vision goggles, unslung the HK416, and began a low crawl toward the building. The sandy ground, still warm after baking in the intense sun all day, was alive with insects. Despite having covered himself with insect repellent, his hands were covered almost immediately with biting desert ants, and squadrons of mosquitoes swarmed around his head. Neither pest concerned him. The bites would heal in a few days.

The only local creature whose presence mattered was the fat-tailed scorpion, and he was certain he could easily find a few of those if he poked around under the crumbled ruins that surrounded the building. One venomous sting could kill him in a few hours unless he received prompt medical treatment, something he would never get here in this Houthi stronghold.

Best, then, not to get stung.

What little sound he made as he snaked his way across the landscape was masked by the gentle songs of resident night birds and chirping crickets. The soothing background noise proved to be a welcome and unexpected ally. The tiny village of Sayfaf was only a mile and a half to the east, close enough that even suppressed rounds from his two guns might alert the locals to his presence. If he could keep from firing shots until the last possible moment, he and the ambassador would be long gone by the time additional Houthi fighters arrived.

He was twenty-five yards away when he spotted the first of the five Houthi terrorists, the guard who was supposedly standing watch at the building’s right corner. He sat with his back against the exterior wall, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. He was sound asleep with an AK-47 lying across his lap.

Falling asleep while acting as a sentinel is one of the worst crimes a soldier can commit, and US military regulations allow for severe penalties, including death in certain circumstances. And death was what Delta had in mind for the careless Houthi guard.

He drew his knife from the sheath on his right thigh and moved quietly toward his target, pausing briefly as he passed the crumbled wall at the front of the building. He peered inside and saw the four remaining Houthis on the ground under the metal roof, sleeping no more than five or six feet from each other. But there was no sign of the ambassador, leaving Delta to wonder whether his captors had already killed him or were holding him in a different part of the building.

In the end, it didn’t matter. If he couldn’t save Powell, he would at least have the satisfaction of ridding the world of a few Houthis. He crept to the corner of the building.

The guard was still snoring when Delta covered the man’s mouth with his powerful left hand and with his right pulled the seven-inch fixed blade across the side of his neck. A fountain of blood shot nearly five feet from his severed carotid artery, drenching his ragtag uniform. The man shuddered briefly before falling unconscious. He would bleed out within three minutes.

Having taken the guard out of play, Delta turned his attention back to the four sleeping Houthis. Eliminating them would have been easy, but he couldn’t do that without first confirming the ambassador’s location. So he stepped gingerly over the broken wall and entered what might have once been the building’s main lobby. From his new vantage point, he had no trouble spotting the ambassador, who was bound with heavy rope to a steel support column at the building’s far left end. Powell was asleep on what remained of a limestone floor, and a slight tremor of his legs indicated he was alive.

Buoyed by that good news, Delta pivoted toward the four Houthis just as one of them sat up and saw the intruder’s menacing shape against the moonlit sky. The man shouted in Arabic before Delta raised the HK to waist level and placed two rounds in his chest, dropping him on top of the man who had been sleeping nearest him.

Delta switched the rifle to full auto as the remaining three men began struggling to their feet and groping in the dark for their weapons. All three were down permanently before they could fire a single shot. The brief firefight had been a decidedly lopsided affair.

But the battle was not over yet.

CHAPTER 12

KAMARAN ISLAND, YEMEN - JULY 9

Aman shouted in Arabic from the direction where Powell was being held, and Delta dropped to the floor a half second before a burst of automatic gunfire sent eight 7.62mm rounds whistling overhead. Two things occurred to Delta simultaneously. First, the satellite intelligence had been dangerously imprecise. There were at least six Houthis here, not five. Second, at almost one hundred and fifty decibels, the AK-47’s gunfire was loud enough to be heard from the town of Sayfaf. More Houthis would almost certainly be on their way in a matter of minutes.

The man was still screaming when Delta finally saw him. His face was contorted with rage, and he was kneeling behind Powell, using him as a shield, the muzzle of his rifle to the ambassador’s head. Fortunately, he wasn’t wearing night-vision goggles.

Advantage Delta.

The right side of the man’s face was exposed, though only by a few inches. It would be an outrageously difficult shot under ideal conditions, and these were anything but. Delta’s body was shaky, initially from having pushed the motorcycle uphill and now from all the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He knew he shouldn’t take the shot and risk hitting the ambassador. But he also knew he had no time to waste. Houthi reinforcements were almost certainly on their way.

He pulled off his goggles, put his eye to the rifle’s Armasight night-vision scope, and aimed. The Houthi fighter screamed again and fired six more wild rounds at Delta before turning the rifle back to Powell’s head.

Delta took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before squeezing off a single round. The 5.56 hollow-point bullet was traveling at three thousand feet per second when it struck between the man’s right eye and the bridge of his nose. It mushroomed on impact, pulverizing the front of his skull and obliterating most of his brain. His body hitting the floor was the only sound that followed.

“Are there six of them?” Delta yelled as he raced over to Powell. The ambassador’s face was a patchwork of dried blood, and his left eye was swollen shut.

Powell hesitated momentarily, then said, “Yes, six. You’re an American?”

“Right, and we have no time to waste.” With two quick swipes of the tactical knife, Delta cut away the ropes that had been holding the ambassador. Then he helped him to his feet. “Can you walk?”

“Slowly. I think they broke a few of my ribs.”

“Then you’ll hate riding on the back of a motorcycle.” The panic on Powell’s face revealed what he thought about a motorcycle ride. “It’s either that or die here.”

Powell nodded. “I’ll ride.”

Delta helped Powell limp to the motorcycle, and then with some difficulty got him settled onto the passenger seat.

“Tightening your core muscles may help stabilize the ribs,” Delta said as he mounted the bike. “But no matter how much this hurts, you need to get through the next six minutes. Understood?”

“Yes, I understand,” Powell said feebly. “I’ll do my best. But who are you?”

“No time for that right now.”

Praying the ambassador’s best would be good enough, Delta fired off two quick texts: one to Abbasi, another to the US Army pilot who had a Chinook helicopter hovering above the Red Sea ninety miles from Kamaran Island. Then he pushed the bike’s start button, and the engine belched a cloud of toxic fumes as the two men rode off toward Abbasi and the escape boat.

The six-minute ride over rutted dirt paths taught Powell the true meaning of the word agony, and he spent the time screaming obscenities loud enough for Delta to hear them over the noisy engine. To his credit, though, the ambassador never asked to stop even though his injuries screamed for him to quit.

Delta was fifty yards from the shoreline departure point when he caught the faint outline of Abbasi and the escape boat at the water’s edge. That was both good and bad news. Good because it meant Abbasi had successfully completed his part of the mission. Bad because the sky was beginning to brighten. Civil twilight would arrive in eighteen minutes, at 5:21 a.m., and at that point all three men would make easy targets for any Houthi pursuers who came their way.

“Hurry, Travis,” Abbasi shouted as soon as Delta shut down the bike. “The darkness will soon disappear.”

“I hear you, Adnan,” Delta said as he helped Powell step down onto the sand. “And I’m pretty sure the Houthis over in Sayfaf heard some gunfire a short while ago.”

“I heard it from here, Travis. An AK-47, no doubt.”

“Bingo.” He handed Powell off to Abbasi and said, “Help the ambassador into the boat while I ditch the bike.”

“Where are we going?” Powell asked. He still had no idea who his rescuers were.

“Due west,” was all Delta said.

“Out to sea?”

“Correct. We’ll discuss this later.”

The aluminum boat Abbasi led the ambassador to was no prize. Green paint was peeling off both sides, and the hull was pockmarked with heavy dents from stem to stern. The smell was the worst of it, though. Abbasi had grossly understated the problem when briefing Delta earlier. The odor was a cross between rotten fish and an overactive skunk.

But the thing was afloat, and that was encouraging.

Since there were no shrubs large enough to conceal the motorcycle, Delta walked it into the Red Sea and pushed it over in five feet of water. He hated wasting a serviceable machine, but leaving it on the beach would be like posting a large sign for the Houthis. THEY WENT THIS WAY.

Abbasi stood in the water and held the boat steady while Delta climbed aboard and gave the outboard’s pull cord a hefty yank. The engine sputtered and quit. He tried a second time with the same result. Only on the fifth pull did the old motor reluctantly agree to run. Delta glanced at Abbasi, who raised his eyes heavenward and whispered, “Alhamdulillah.” Praise be to God.

But the word was hardly out of Abbasi’s mouth when Delta looked up and saw three motorcycle headlights approaching from the direction of the abandoned government building. The riders, almost certainly Houthis, were only a mile or so away. Barring a miracle, they would arrive in two minutes, give or take a few precious seconds.

“How did you get here, Adnan?” Delta shouted as he pointed to the approaching headlights.

“I walked from my cousin’s house,” was his nervous reply. “But I’ll never get there before those men arrive.”

Aware that the three motorcycles could be carrying as many as six enemy soldiers, each of them armed with AK-47s, Delta made a snap decision.

“Jump in, Adnan,” he ordered. “You’re coming with us.”

Abbasi didn’t hesitate. He grabbed hold of the gunwale and fell into the boat as Delta applied full power. As long as the outboard kept running, the boat would be three-quarters of a mile offshore by the time the Houthis arrived. With luck, the Houthis would not see the boat from that distance even as twilight brightened the sky.

Delta, Powell, and Abbasi were about to learn whether this was their lucky day.

CHAPTER 13

KAMARAN ISLAND, YEMEN - JULY 9

The outboard sounded near death until the boat was a half mile offshore. Then it suddenly stopped sputtering and began running smoothly. Delta eyed the corroded metal fuel tank.

“The gas was probably tainted with water,” he said to Abbasi. “The tank is in pretty bad shape.”

“It’s the best the fisherman had to offer,” Abbasi replied contritely, “and he was my last resort.”

“You did well, Adnan, and I think we’re okay now. If water in the gas was the problem, it must have burned off.”

Powell was monitoring the shoreline while Delta and Abbasi discussed the engine issue. He spotted the motorcycles when the boat was nearly seven-tenths of a mile offshore.

“There they are!” he shouted as the three motorcycles, each with two riders, sped past the place where the boat had been launched. “They didn’t see us.”

“They probably aren’t looking for us out here,” Delta said, “and even if they are, I don’t think it’s light enough yet for them to see a small green boat this far offshore. We should be fine now as long as we meet our ride on time.”

“Exactly what ride are we talking about?” Powell asked. Given the high-risk situation, Delta hadn’t wasted time sharing details.

“A helicopter. If we reach the rendezvous point in time, we’re home free. If not, we’re totally screwed.”

The boat hit dangerously choppy water, and Delta fought to maintain a westerly heading as a rapid line of waves threatened to swamp the boat. The tiny vessel wasn’t built to handle such rough conditions, but Delta managed to keep it afloat. He had survived worse seas than this, though never in such a rickety craft.

The ten-mile trip was expected to take twenty-four minutes, in which case the helo would be there waiting for them. If the trip took twenty-seven minutes or more, however, their ride would be gone.

The US Army CH-47 Chinook had already traveled nearly four hundred miles from Djibouti, the small African nation located near the Red Sea’s southern entrance. The bird was temporarily stationed at Camp Lemonnier, the only permanent US military base in Africa, and it was the ideal means of transportation available for the current mission. Outfitted with auxiliary fuel tanks, the CH-47 had sufficient range to fly to and from Kamaran Island and to hover at sea for one hour while waiting for Delta to arrive.

But the operational directives were unmistakably clear. If Delta didn’t reach the rendezvous point on time, the aircraft would return to Camp Lemonnier with only its crew on board. Whenever fuel consumption was involved, deadlines had to be inflexible.

A large wave rocked the boat, nearly capsizing it less than a mile from its destination, and Delta barely managed to keep the thing upright. At almost the same moment, he caught the roar of the Chinook’s two powerful engines. The noise was deafening, over one hundred decibels, but it was one of the most welcome sounds he, Abbasi, and Powell had ever heard.

The helo sped toward them and hovered one hundred feet overhead, a crew chief standing ready at the open port door. Positioned across from him at the starboard forward door, facing the shoreline, was a gunner who manned an M240H belt-fed machine gun. The gunner furiously scanned the horizon, plainly hoping a few Houthis would make an ill-fated appearance.

The crew chief immediately lowered a harness that Delta fastened to Powell, and the rescue hoist lifted the ambassador aboard. Abbasi went up next, Delta last. As Delta rose above the boat, he unholstered the Glock and fired four rounds into the boat’s hull. The tiny vessel was on its way to the seabed by the time he climbed aboard the bird and gave the crew chief a thumbs-up.

As soon as the three new passengers had taken their seats and strapped in, the crew chief handed out earplugs and earmuffs. Since Chinooks are almost as noisy inside as out, everyone needed ear protection during the two-hour flight to Djibouti.

The crew chief, a young Army sergeant, sat next to Delta and smiled.

“Welcome aboard, sir. Mission accomplished.”

“Thanks to you. I’m glad you and your buddies were still here.”

“Heck, you made it with a whole forty-two seconds to spare. But who’s counting?”

“How’s the fuel?”

“Barring a strong headwind, we’ll make it to the runway without too much difficulty.”

“You use Djibouti–Ambouli International Airport, right?”

“Yes, sir. Camp Lemonnier doesn’t have its own airfield. Djibouti–Ambouli handles some civilian operations, but mostly it’s used by the American, French, Japanese, and Italian military units stationed in the area.”

“How secure is it?”

“Probably more secure than the White House. The nutjobs from al-Qaeda, ISIS, and Al-Shabaab are always looking to cause trouble, so security is about as tight as it gets.”

“I like it.”

The sergeant nodded toward Powell. “Does the ambassador need medical attention? I’m not a medic, but I’ve done some medical cross-training.”

Delta shook his head. “He’s got some damaged ribs and facial contusions, but he’ll be okay until we reach Djibouti. I doubt he’ll enjoy the ride, though.”

“Yeah, nothing we can do about that. Riding a Chinook is a little like riding an angry bull.”

“Who’s up front?” Delta asked.

“The unit’s two most experienced pilots. Both have a ton of combat experience, so today’s flight is pretty much a snooze cruise.”

“Good. My friends and I have had enough excitement for the day.”

“I was expecting only two passengers,” the sergeant said discreetly. He had been told ahead of time not to ask questions about either the man leading the Kamaran Island rescue op or his employer. Such details were far above his pay grade.

“Right, last-minute change of plans,” Delta said. “Adnan and I work for the same company, and things got a little too dicey for him on Kamaran Island. I’ll get him a flight back home.”

“Understood. By the way, there’s a seriously impressive black jet waiting for you at Camp Lemonnier. It flew in late yesterday.”

“Yeah, that’s my ride back to the States.”

Since Delta didn’t elaborate, the sergeant politely dropped the subject.

The first seventeen minutes of the two-hour flight were bumpy but uneventful, and Delta had no trouble falling asleep.

Then the pilot announced a special problem that brought a broad smile to the gunner’s face.

CHAPTER 14

ABOVE THE RED SEA - JULY 9

Delta’s short nap ended abruptly when the helo banked hard left. He turned to the crew chief and raised his eyebrows.

“We just got an emergency call on a secure channel,” the sergeant explained. “A Turkish container ship about three miles from here is being chased by a Houthi-manned attack boat, and CENTCOM has asked us to lend a hand.”

“How far offshore are we?” Delta asked.

“About sixty miles.”

“Will we have to deviate much from our course to Camp Lemonnier?”

“Hardly at all. We were practically passing over the coordinates anyway. Otherwise, we would have been ordered to head straight home.” He nodded toward the door gunner and grinned. “Rex won’t need long to correct the problem.”

A minute later the Chinook was a quarter of a mile off the attack boat’s stern and closing fast. Because the five Houthis on board were totally focused on their prey, they didn’t hear the approaching CH-47 over the sound of their own twin three-hundred-horsepower outboards. They had no idea they were about to become fish food.

When the helo was only a hundred yards away, one of the Houthi crewmen glanced over his shoulder, saw the incoming aircraft, and frantically began raising a shoulder-fired missile to his shoulder. But he was unable to maintain his balance while the boat slammed into wave after wave at high speed. He was still attempting to aim the Iranian-made Misagh-1 missile when the Chinook pilot swung his aircraft to the boat’s port side and created a clear firing lane for the door gunner.

Rex cocked his weapon, set the fire selector on auto, and moved his finger to the trigger. The M240H was a battle-tested beast that could deliver eight hundred 7.62mm rounds per minute, each round hitting with nine thousand pounds of force, more than enough to destroy whatever it hit. The first few rounds ripped into the boat’s outboards and fuel tanks. Then Rex swept the barrel left, shredding the crewmen and blowing huge holes in the hull. Finally, he shifted the barrel right and ignited the gas fumes from the punctured fuel tanks. The fireball rose five hundred feet into the morning sky.

The crew of the Turkish container ship stood at the railings, cheering and waving as the helicopter passed overhead. For security reasons, no radio communications between the ship and the Chinook followed the brief skirmish. Since the White House would soon be denying that US troops had been involved in the Kamaran Island rescue, it was best to keep the container ship’s rescue a secret as well. The Houthis and their Iranian masters would be left with nothing other than unconfirmed suspicions.

Delta turned to Powell. “None of this ever happened, Mr. Ambassador. Not your escape from Kamaran Island or the sinking of the Houthi attack boat.”

“I understand,” Powell said, his face pale after the earsplitting gunfire. He wasn’t sure whom Delta worked for, and he was content with not knowing. Having his head attached to his neck was more than enough for him.

Except for the two pilots up front, everyone sat back and relaxed following the container ship rescue. Even Rex, the door gunner who had most likely just earned himself a third award of the Air Medal, seemed ready for some shut-eye. The Chinook was operating at five hundred feet, low enough to be invisible to Houthi land-based radar, and the risk of a missile attack was about as low as it ever got over the Red Sea.

Although flying at such a low altitude increased the rate of fuel consumption, the pilot had factored that into his flight calculations. Even the slight detour to intercept the Houthi attack boat would not negatively impact the mission. The next hour and a half were going to be as comfortable as things ever got with a Chinook.

Until a powerful dust storm entered the picture.

The crew chief got the emergency alert through his headset and passed the word to Delta.

“The pilot reports that flight conditions between here and Camp Lemonnier are deteriorating because of a dust storm in Djibouti,” the sergeant said. The look on his face said the problem was much more than a routine operational hiccup.

“Deteriorating how fast?” Delta asked.

“Too fast, sir. Visibility is near zero at the airfield, and the problem is spreading northeast over the Red Sea at roughly sixty miles per hour.”

While serving on active duty, Delta had been on two helicopters that had survived what the military refers to as an “uncontrolled flight into terrain” (UFIT) but which everyone else calls a crash. One helicopter went down in the Persian Gulf, the other in the Registan Desert south of Kandahar, Afghanistan. Although he had escaped uninjured both times, he figured the odds of surviving a third crash unscathed were low.

A pilot himself, he was well aware of the potential hazards that a severe dust storm could bring with it. At the top of the list was the loss of visual references, something that could lead quickly to pilot disorientation. Close behind that were issues like instrument malfunctions and possible engine failure. No sane pilot would willingly fly into a major dust storm unless he or she was overwater and rapidly running out of fuel. And that, unfortunately, perfectly described the present situation.

Delta didn’t need to be told that the pilot had two highly unappealing choices: continue to Camp Lemonnier and attempt a blind landing, or turn back toward Yemen. Choice A had crash-landing written all over it. Choice B would almost certainly prompt the Houthis to launch Iranian-made Sayyad-2 missiles that had a range of sixty miles or more.

“Landing in a dust storm can ruin your day,” Delta observed dryly, “but if we’re low on fuel, we have no choice.”

The sergeant nodded. “That pretty much sums things up, sir. The pilot said he’ll rely on instruments to get us over land and then set the bird down.”

“Here’s hoping he finds someplace flat.”

“Amen to that, sir.”

Powell and Abbasi sat quietly as Delta described what the pilots were up against. The ambassador flinched when Delta got to the part about the blind landing, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Abbasi merely shrugged. He had been through worse with Delta and probably would be again.

All he had to do was survive today’s landing.

CHAPTER 15

ABOVE THE RED SEA - JULY 9

The CH-47 was sixty miles from Camp Lemonnier, traveling at one hundred and ten knots, or one hundred and twenty-six miles per hour, when it encountered moderate brownout conditions. Dust particles filled the sky, all but blocking out the morning sun and making it difficult for the pilots to see the water below. Strong gusty winds from the southwest threatened to push the aircraft off course.

Five minutes later, when the bird was fifty miles from base, the situation began falling apart. Visibility dropped to a half mile, a distance the aircraft was covering every fourteen seconds, and one of the engines began running rough as its air intake was overwhelmed by fine dust particles.

At that point the pilot and copilot no longer bothered looking outside the cockpit. They trained their eyes on the instrument display and prayed that the air traffic controllers at Djibouti–Ambouli International Airport were on top of their game. If the ATC system operated efficiently, and the fuel tanks didn’t run dry, and the engines didn’t quit, they might get the machine on the ground in one piece.

Ditto the crew and passengers.

No longer able to see the horizon, the pilot was forced to rely exclusively on the attitude indicator to maintain level flight. In recent years hundreds of US military helicopters had been lost in brownout conditions, often because of pilot disorientation. If the aircraft rolled too far left or right, disaster followed.

While the pilot fought to keep the helo straight and level at the correct altitude, the copilot monitored the struggling engine. Power output was dropping, and the temperature was rising, two indications that the air filter was severely clogged. Without a steady supply of fresh air, the engine would continue to overheat until it either failed or caught fire.

“We need to shut number one down,” the copilot said after studying the gauges.

The pilot glanced at the instrument panel and agreed. “Roger, shutting down number one.”

The CH-47 could fly with only one engine, but performance would suffer. Maintaining airspeed and altitude would be more difficult, and maneuvering in the gusty winds would be challenging. The greatest threat, however, was the likelihood of increased fuel consumption because the remaining engine would have to work harder. In short, every extra second of flight time increased the probability of having to ditch the bird in the Red Sea. The crew and passengers would swim away on flotation devices. The helicopter, however, would quickly sink beneath the waves.

Losing a fifty-million-dollar machine would not benefit the pilot’s career, but he had no time to stress over that. Keeping the bird airborne and level was enough to keep him fully occupied.

The sole bright spot in the otherwise dismal situation was that the air traffic controllers currently on duty at Djibouti–Ambouli International Airport happened to be a US Air Force team stationed at Camp Lemonnier. The local Djiboutian controllers were fine when it came to managing routine flight operations, but in an emergency you wanted US military personnel guiding you in. At the very least, having Americans at the mic eliminated the language problems that sometimes increased rather than decreased risk.

The benefit of having US military controllers became apparent a few minutes later when the Chinook was five miles from its landing zone (LZ). One of the controllers radioed the Chinook and delivered the bad news that the airport’s instrument landing system (ILS) had just gone down. A radar operator would have to guide the helicopter to a point above the landing zone. After that, the flight crew would descend using only the bird’s altimeter as a reference.

“Roger,” the pilot replied calmly. “ILS is inoperable. We’ll have radar guidance to the LZ.” Then he turned to his copilot. “Sounds like a plan as long as we have enough fuel.”

The copilot gave him a thumbs-up. “Here’s hoping.”

They were still a mile from the LZ when the copilot said in a relaxed Southern drawl, “Set her down right now, or this thing turns into an eleven-ton lawn dart.”

“Wilco. Let ATC know.”

The pilot began descending from five hundred feet while the copilot told the radar controller what was happening.

“Move thirty yards to the south,” the controller insisted, “or you’ll land on a maintenance building.”

“Roger,” the pilot responded, “don’t land on the maintenance building.”

The copilot then alerted the crew chief, who immediately told everyone in the main cabin to prepare for a hard landing. Precisely how hard the landing might be depended on whether or when the engine actually flamed out. The possibilities ranged from falling-out-of-bed hard to falling-off-a-cliff hard. Either way, there was a decent chance everyone would be able to leave under his own power.

The brownout became more intense as the helicopter approached the ground. Every speck of dust and debris covering the LZ was churned up by the CH-47’s tandem rotors and sent flying in all directions at nearly one hundred miles per hour. But that didn’t matter to the two men in the cockpit. All they cared about was putting the landing gear on a flat surface that wasn’t someone’s roof.

The descent was bumpy but otherwise uneventful until the engine flamed out when the helo was fifteen feet above the ground. At that point the rotors ceased providing lift, and the Chinook dropped like a stone with a vertical speed of twenty miles per hour, landing in a parched field. The relatively soft ground absorbed some of the shock, and the landing gear’s heavy-duty struts took care of the rest.

A maintenance inspection would later reveal that the helicopter had suffered no major structural damage as a result of the hard landing but would need extensive engine repairs because of all the ingested dust. It was a perfectly acceptable outcome given the alternative outcomes the crew had evaded.

When the crew chief opened the main passenger door, he saw four heavily armed but smiling Marine Security Forces (MSF) troops standing there to greet him.

“Glad you made it in one piece,” said the team leader. “We had our doubts for a while.”

“Aw, hell, we always plan our flights right down to the last drop of fuel,” the crew chief quipped. “We were doing fine until someone moved the runway on us.”

Two of the Marines helped the hobbled ambassador to a waiting SUV and drove him straight to the base medical facility. The other two drove Delta and Abbasi to meet with US Navy Captain Lorraine Simmons, Camp Lemonnier’s commanding officer.

“I understand you both had an interesting visit to Kamaran Island,” Simmons said with a smile when Delta and Abbasi walked into her office. “Sorry you had to follow that up with a nasty flight.”

“I’m fine with any landing I can walk away from,” Delta said as the three of them shook hands.

“I heard through the grapevine that you were a SEAL officer, Mr. Delta.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He noted the aviator wings on her uniform. “In fact, you and I may have crossed paths in Iraq. Did you provide close air support?”

“I flew an F-18 off the USS Theodore Roosevelt, and I recall helping a SEAL team once or twice.”

He shook her hand again. “That might have been me. Thanks for saving my butt.”

“My pleasure.”

“And now you command a combat installation with five thousand personnel. Sounds as though you’re on your way.”

She nodded. “Actually, I’m in my final weeks here. I’ll be leaving shortly to command a carrier strike group.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. “Which means you’re also being promoted shortly. Outstanding. Best of luck to you, Admiral.”

“Thank you. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day, Mr. Delta.” She paused. “I hear you get around.”

“I’m just a simple worker bee,” he said with a slight grin. “I go where I’m told to go.”

“Speaking of which, I took a call from Director of National Intelligence Marsha Phillips about an hour ago,” Simmons said, “and she asked me to tell you that your travel plans have changed.”

He laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Specifically, the small black aircraft that officially isn’t here will take you to Tel Aviv this afternoon after you’ve had a chance to eat and shower. Tonight you’ll be having dinner with Director Phillips, Mossad Director Yitzhak Meisel, and Admiral Mack Holloway.”

“Three of my favorite people. What about Ambassador Powell?”

“Per the White House chief of staff, I’ll see that the ambassador is flown to Riyadh as soon as he’s able to travel comfortably. From there he’ll catch a commercial flight to Washington.” She lowered her voice. “I get the impression he doesn’t have many friends in DC right now.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t, but that’s above my pay grade,” he said. “Any chance you can get my colleague Adnan to Pakistan?”

“Absolutely.” She turned to Abbasi. “We can fly you there now or tomorrow morning, your choice.”

“If I left now,” Abbasi said joyfully, “I would be home in time to put my children to bed.”

“Done,” she said.

Delta shook hands with Abbasi and wished him well. The two of them had survived once again, but suspected it was only a matter of time before they would get another opportunity. The world kept getting crazier, and Snakeriver kept getting busier.

Delta often slept poorly when he thought about all the men and women, some of them paid but most of them unpaid, who risked their lives to help him right the world’s wrongs from time to time. He had chosen the warrior’s path because he believed in his country and the force for good it sometimes was. But those other people? Many of them were oppressed, hunted, and desperate. They helped him, not to become rich or famous but because they were convinced his cause was just and because he never betrayed their trust. That they willingly placed their lives in his hands was something he never took for granted. On the contrary, it humbled him.

He often wondered whether he could do the same if he and they traded places. He hoped so, but he couldn’t know for sure. All he could do was worry about them and defend them to the best of his ability.

He hoped that was enough.

CHAPTER 16

BEN GURION AIRPORT - JULY 9

Delta returned to Tel Aviv roughly twenty-four hours after having left for Kamaran Island. Even by his customary aggressive standards, it had been a whirlwind op. And although he had successfully completed the mission, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the victory was a hollow one.

The ambassador’s misconduct had ended up costing the lives of at least two dozen Saudis plus a small fortune in operational expenses. It was an unacceptable price to pay for one man’s selfish behavior. What price Powell himself paid was a matter for the bigwigs in DC to figure out. There was always a chance he could face criminal charges for his gross negligence, but in all likelihood he would get a hard wrist slap and be sent back to academia where he belonged.

Delta turned his thoughts back to the present as Black Fang rolled to a stop at the VIP terminal following the three-hour flight.

“Thanks for the ride, my friends,” he said to pilots Jim Davies and Bud Shipp as he walked up to the cockpit. “Always a pleasure.”

“I think we’ll be doing this again pretty soon,” Davies said, “because Bud and I have been told to hang out in Tel Aviv for a few days.”

“No destination specified?”

“Nope. No firm timetable either.”

“Not that we’re complaining,” Shipp offered. “Tel Aviv’s beaches and restaurants are world-class, Travis. So feel free to spend as much time here as you’d like.”

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you,” Delta replied amiably. “Mack Holloway and Marsha Phillips wouldn’t both be in town unless something big was going down.”

“Not to worry,” Davies said. “We can get from a beach blanket to the airport in twenty minutes. We’ll be ready to fly when you are.”

“In our bathing suits, of course,” Shipp added, “and maybe with some sand on our feet.”

A couple of fist bumps later, Delta descended the airstair and walked over to the armored limo and met the same two men who had greeted him the previous day.

“Hello again, Mr. Delta,” the driver said. He popped the trunk so that his passenger could deposit his heavy duffel bag. “It’s a pleasure to have you back with us.”

“And to see you looking so well,” said the man carrying the Tavor assault rifle. “We’ve heard that you persuaded the Houthis to release Ambassador Powell.”

Delta nodded. “It was a brief but intense negotiation,” he said, “and the outcome was gratifying. So are we heading to Mossad headquarters?”

“We are, indeed,” the driver said. “Director Meisel’s other guests have already arrived, and one of the city’s finest restaurants will be catering a private dinner for all of you this evening down the hallway from his office.”

Delta was hardly surprised that Meisel had arranged for the working dinner to be held within the secure confines of Mossad headquarters. Allowing the US director of national intelligence and the Mossad director to dine together in a public place was the sort of mistake no serious intelligence agency would ever make. Phillips and Meisel had prices on their heads, and killing them together was every terrorist’s fantasy.

The short drive allowed Delta to call Liv and let her know his travel plans had changed. He had opted not to call her earlier from Camp Lemonnier because of the seven-hour time difference between Djibouti and DC. Her days were long enough without being rousted from bed in the middle of the night. As the primary manager for the DoD’s program to develop unmanned AI-guided weapons systems, Liv routinely put in twelve-hour days and needed all the sleep she could get.

“Congratulations, Travis,” she said when she answered. “I just heard that the Houthis released Ambassador Powell. You’re quite the negotiator.”

“Well, you know me.”

“Yes, I’m fairly certain it was a one-sided conversation. Are you on your way home?”

“I wish. I just landed in Tel Aviv, and I’ll be meeting shortly with Marsha, Mack, and Yitzhak. No idea what the topic is,” he noted, “but given the players involved, it must be something big. How’s your day going?”

She groaned. “Walking that scary fine line, as always.”

“Understood.”

He knew that what kept her awake some nights was the frightening task of allowing AI to be smart enough to do its job but not smart enough to take over the world. The genie was already out of the bottle, of course, and not even someone with Liv’s expertise could know for sure that the genie would remain friendly to humans. Many top experts in the field believed that AI could become ASI — artificial superintelligence — as soon as 2027. But whenever it happened, ASI could turn out to be humankind’s best friend or worst enemy.

“I have to run to my next meeting,” Liv said. “Be safe, okay?”

“You know me.”

“I do, Travis. That’s why I told you to be safe.”

Dealing with constant risk had become a routine part of their marriage. Liv knew her husband was never safe in the field, and he knew there was nothing he could do to calm her nerves. Unless he decided to occupy a desk for the rest of his career — something he dreaded even thinking about — he would continue putting his life on the line, at least until a suitable replacement came along.

For the remainder of the ride to Mossad headquarters, he tried to imagine what existential crisis would have brought Phillips and Holloway across the Atlantic for a meeting with the Mossad director. Israel was always in some enemy’s crosshairs, of course, but that was business as usual, not the sort of thing that would require a face-to-face emergency meeting.

It was possible, though not likely, that Powell’s rescue was behind the high-level meeting. If the Houthis had learned that a US Army helicopter had been involved in the operation, they would have told their Iranian masters immediately, in which case Iran might be rattling sabers. But Delta seriously doubted that the CH-47 had been spotted. It had flown no higher than five hundred feet throughout the mission and would have been invisible to Houthi radar. The only Houthis who had actually seen the Chinook had done so while machine gun rounds were raining down on them. The five witnesses were no longer able to testify.

He ran through a short list of other possibilities, most of them involving the customary antagonists: Russia, China, and North Korea. But he could think of no reason why a crisis involving those countries would necessitate an emergency meeting in Israel.

He still had no answer by the time the limo reached Mossad headquarters. All he knew was that he wouldn’t have been invited to the meeting unless someone expected him to be part of the solution to some new problem.

Life at Snakeriver was never dull.

CHAPTER 17

TEL AVIV, ISRAEL - JULY 9

Delta followed one of Meisel’s aides to the open door of a small conference room across the hall from the director’s office. Seated at a large round table were Meisel, Phillips, Holloway, and a gray-haired older man Delta didn’t recognize. Tall and slender in the way of an aging athlete, the man was the picture of conservatism in a tailored gray suit, a white button-down shirt, and an understated blue silk tie.

Had it not been for the man’s weathered, heavily lined face, Delta might have taken him to be in his late fifties. But clearly this was someone who had been around much longer, and his weary eyes seemed to suggest that he had seen things he wished he could unsee.

“Welcome, Travis,” Meisel said as Delta entered the conference room. The director stood, and they shook hands. “We’re glad to have you with us.”

“It’s always good to be here,” Delta said before walking around the table and shaking hands with Phillips and Holloway. Then he moved to the older man and extended his hand. “I’m Travis Delta, sir.”

The man had a surprisingly strong grip. Delta knew instantly that his new acquaintance had once been a serious athlete. Rowing or rock climbing, perhaps. Both were activities that required enormous hand strength.

“Porter Isaacson,” the man said with a genuine smile. “I’m extremely pleased to meet you, Travis.”

“Professor Isaacson teaches political science at Tel Aviv University,” Meisel offered, “mainly courses on diplomacy and intelligence. For many years he has also been an advisor to certain Mossad division directors. I had the good fortune to be one of them when I directed the Tzomet division.”

Knowing that Tzomet was Mossad’s large overseas espionage division, Delta didn’t need to be told that Isaacson was no stodgy, garden-variety academic whose head was perpetually in the clouds. On the contrary, this was a man whose Mossad roots ran deep. Whatever story lurked behind Isaacson’s intelligent eyes was no doubt highly classified.

After studying Delta’s face for a long moment, Isaacson said, “You look very much like your father, although your smile reminds me more of your mother, Travis.”

“You knew my parents?” Delta asked. That surprised him. This was the first time he had ever met someone outside his hometown who knew Trent and Beth Delta.

“They were my colleagues and mentors. But most of all they were my friends.”

“You should probably sit, Travis,” Holloway said gently. “This will take some time.”

When Meisel and Phillips nodded in agreement, it became clear that everyone but Delta was in on a secret.

“Your parents and I worked together for several years,” Isaacson said in a highly polished baritone. His eyes grew brighter as he began telling his story. “In Moscow, mostly.”

“Ah, that explains why you don’t look familiar,” Delta said. “I knew that my parents had clients in Idaho, but I never traveled with them on business.”

Isaacson grinned. “I’m not talking about your parents’ computer consulting business. I’m also not talking about Moscow, Idaho.”

“You can’t possibly mean Moscow, Russia.”

“But I do, Travis.”

Delta was incredulous. As far as he knew, the only time his parents had traveled outside the continental United States was on their honeymoon, when they had flown from Montana to Hawaii. That was what they had led him to believe, and he had never doubted the fact.

He still thought there was a chance Isaacson was joking until he looked around the table at Meisel, Phillips, and Holloway. Their serious expressions confirmed the bizarre news that the professor had just delivered.

“Your parents were trade representatives for American computer companies that were doing business with the USSR at the time, and I was a State Department economic analyst working out of the old US embassy on Novinsky Boulevard. All three of us spoke fluent Russian.” After a meaningful pause, he added, “And all three of us were actually employed by the CIA.”

Delta shook his head. “Wait a second. We’re talking about Trent and Beth Delta of Billings, Montana, right?”

“Technically, no,” Isaacson replied evenly. “We’re talking about Trent and Beth Delaney. That’s who they were until shortly before you were born. For reasons I shall explain, they decided to change the family name from Delaney to Delta.”

Delta shot a confused look across the table at Phillips. “Did you know about this?”

“Not until Mack and I arrived here last night,” she said. “Yitzhak shared the story with us, and we agreed you needed to hear it.”

“And I learned of this only two days ago,” Meisel offered, “when Professor Isaacson came here to consult with me on the Houthi problem. Your name happened to come up in the conversation, and the pieces gradually fell into place. I decided to speak with Marsha and Mack before hitting you with this.”

“I hope the news isn’t too disturbing,” Isaacson said kindly.

“It takes a lot more than this to disturb me, Professor,” Delta said, “but I’m definitely surprised. I’d like to hear more.”

“And so you shall.”

In fact, the most curious details were yet to come.

CHAPTER 18

TEL AVIV, ISRAEL - JULY 9

“Your parents,” Isaacson began, “were computer wizards who successfully infiltrated and sabotaged Soviet IT systems. This enabled them to share a treasure trove of top-secret Soviet documents with Russian pro-democracy groups. When the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, it did so in large part because of the work your parents did.”

Delta couldn’t help but feel as though he had been dropped in the middle of a bizarre dream. “They never said a word about any of this. I assume you know they died in 2005.”

“Yes, when your father was fifty-four and your mother was fifty. I was forty-eight when they died far sooner than they should have. But I can assure you that your parents planted the seeds of the Soviet Union’s collapse, and those seeds took root and grew quickly.”

“What was your role at the time?” Delta asked.

“I guess you would say I was responsible for making problematic enemies cease being problematic,” he said casually. “With your parents’ able assistance, I identified and eliminated the scientist who had been guiding the Soviet nuclear weapons program. He had been developing a new ICBM, the R-36M2, which would ultimately be capable of delivering ten independently targeted warheads. His untimely death set the program back by several years.”

Delta locked eyes with the professor. “You eliminated him.”

“Yes, back then the CIA was able to manage such things on its own,” Isaacson said. “Now it has to rely on independent professionals, like those who work for Snakeriver. Current US laws complicate life for Director Phillips, but I’m pleased to know she is nevertheless able to achieve her strategic goals with your help.”

Delta was having a hard time processing everything he had just heard. Having his family’s entire history rewritten by a former CIA assassin was an emotional jolt unlike any he had experienced before. But along with the complex feelings came a torrent of questions. Whether Isaacson could or would answer them remained to be seen.

“Why did my parents hide their CIA careers from me?” he asked Isaacson. Then he turned to Phillips. “And why didn’t the CIA tell me after they died? Surely someone must have come across their names when the agency ran a background check on me after I joined Snakeriver.”

“I can answer the second question,” Phillips said, “because late last night I had the CIA director conduct an in-depth search of the records. In 1990 the agency destroyed all personnel files relating to covert operatives who had been given new identities. So your parents’ names are no longer in the CIA personnel system. But the director was ultimately able to confirm their roles by digging through Russian ops files.”

“Now allow me to answer your first question, Travis,” Isaacson said. “In doing so, I’ll shed some light on the matter that Director Phillips just addressed.”

What followed was a lengthy and painful account of why Delta’s parents and Isaacson had been forced to leave the CIA. The simple explanation was that all three had been betrayed by an American spy who was working for the Soviet Union. The nineteen eighties, Isaacson noted, had come to be known as “the decade of the spy” because of high-profile espionage cases involving members of the US intelligence community. Some CIA officers died as a result of the betrayals. Delta’s parents and Isaacson were among the lucky ones to survive.

“Your parents and I had no future with the agency after that,” the professor said. “We were marked for death and were fortunate to leave Moscow alive. I was given a new identity, and I chose to relocate to Israel. The face you see today is the product of plastic surgery. I assume the Russians would still like to get their hands on me, but they will fail. The old me has been erased from history.”

“And I guess that means while you were heading for Israel, my parents relocated to Montana,” Delta said.

“Correct. They were given new identities and a cash settlement in lieu of a pension.”

“Did they also have plastic surgery?”

“No, they chose not to. I know this because I saw their obituaries in a Montana newspaper, and they looked almost the same as they had in Moscow eighteen years earlier. In any event, your parents and I agreed to have no contact with each other after leaving the CIA because the security risk was far too great. And for that same reason, they could not tell you about their former lives. The Russians wanted them dead.”

Delta shook his head. “How ironic that they survived Moscow during the Cold War only to die in a plane crash while celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary. Their obituaries didn’t mention that the pilot had been stoned at the time on prescription medication,” he said, “but that’s a fact.”

As those words left his mouth, Delta caught himself wondering whether that detail, too, had been just another misdirection.

Isaacson studied Delta’s face, hesitating for only a few beats before saying, “Yes, well, here’s where it gets somewhat complicated.”

CHAPTER 19

TEL AVIV, ISRAEL - JULY 9

“Although your parents and I agreed not to contact each other,” Isaacson continued, “we did share our new names and locations before going our separate ways. Since we faced a common threat, we thought it made sense to know how to track each other down should it ever become necessary. So we were able to follow each other’s careers from a safe distance.”

“And that’s how you found their obituaries.”

“Yes, and their deaths came as a great shock, naturally. Since I am by nature somewhat mistrustful — some would say paranoid — I considered the possibility that the fatal plane crash had not been an accident. So I called in a favor from an extremely discreet friend who was relatively early in his FBI career.”

“You’re saying the FBI investigated my parents’ deaths?”

“Emphatically not,” Isaacson replied. “My friend did this on his own time and at his own expense as a favor, and he did so at great risk to what turned out to be a brilliant career. For that reason his findings never led to formal FBI involvement. He told me what had actually happened, and I kept the information to myself until two days ago, when Director Meisel mentioned your name to me.”

“So what actually happened?” Delta asked. His slightly elevated heart rate told him he already knew the answer, but he needed to hear the words from Isaacson.

“The short answer, Travis, is that they were assassinated by a Russian agent who was working in the United States under the name Leonid Yudkin. He was an officer of the GRU, Russia’s military intelligence directorate.” He paused to let Delta absorb the shocking facts. “Of course, you already know why the Russians wanted to kill your parents, but perhaps you’re wondering how they actually did so.”

Delta’s jaw tightened. “No, what I’m wondering is whether Leonid Yudkin is still alive.”

“Directors Phillips and Meisel will get to that part shortly. For the moment, allow me to focus on the plane crash.”

According to Isaacson’s FBI friend, Leonid Yudkin was assigned to the Russian consulate in Seattle in 2003, ostensibly as a communications specialist responsible for computer operations. His true role, however, was to maintain surveillance on Russian dissidents living in the Western states, Montana among them. He traveled extensively throughout the region, keeping a close watch on known dissidents and disrupting their activities whenever necessary.

Like all Russian agents operating within the United States, he was equipped with dossiers on other so-called “enemies of the state.” These included non-Russians who for one reason or another had earned a place in Moscow’s crosshairs.

“Two such people were your parents, who, after leaving the CIA, built a successful IT business throughout the Mountain States,” Isaacson said. “Their services were much in demand, and they earned a comfortable living doing what they loved. I followed their achievements from afar, and I was happy for them.”

Isaacson’s friend didn’t know when Yudkin had first spotted Trent and Beth Delta. Perhaps it had been at one of the trade shows they attended fairly frequently while generating new business. Or maybe Yudkin had noticed them while they were visiting clients in one of the Russian émigré communities that had sprung up in Colorado, Utah, and Montana. However it had happened, Yudkin was given the green light to assassinate two Americans whose skills had helped bring down the Soviet empire.

“After all that time,” Delta said, shaking his head, “the Russians still needed revenge.”

“The cruelest people on Earth have the longest memories, Travis. And I don’t need to tell you that the Russian president is one of the cruelest life-forms ever to have slithered across our planet. If there’s a hell,” Isaacson added, “he will spend a trillion years there.”

Having identified Delta’s parents, Yudkin, then thirty-five years old, began collaborating with a cyber-espionage group known as Advanced Persistent Threat 28, a unit of the GRU. He eventually hacked Trent Delta’s home computer and captured volumes of sensitive information, including business documents, emails, and even keystrokes.

The most damaging bit of information was Trent and Beth Delta’s plans for an anniversary trip to an Idaho resort.

“Yudkin had everything he needed,” Isaacson explained. “Travel date, time, destination, and even the tail number of the private plane they would be using. He also had an appropriate weapon: a lethal shoulder-fired missile, the Russian 9K38 Igla.”

According to Isaacson, the missile system weighed only forty pounds, was effective up to eleven thousand feet, and closed on its targets at five thousand miles per hour. Because the weapon had an infrared guidance system in its nose cone, it was able to chase its target by tracking engine exhaust heat.

“So he set up in the Cabinet Mountains and waited for the plane to arrive,” Delta said.

“Exactly. The pilot wasn’t impaired that day,” Isaacson said. “His plane was brought down by a Russian missile.”

“Then why was the pilot reported to have been under the influence of prescription drugs?”

“I mentioned to you that the FBI did not officially investigate the accident, but the National Transportation Safety Board and the FAA did. When they determined the cause of the crash, they notified the Department of Defense, which in turn notified the White House. At that point the report became classified, and the alternative story was released to the public.”

“But why? Why not tell people what had actually happened?”

“The US president was attempting to normalize relations with Russia at that time, and his national security advisors told him that putting a spotlight on this particular incident would shut everything down. So the facts were allowed to disappear.”

Delta sat quietly for a few moments, slowly moving his eyes from Isaacson to Meisel, Phillips, and Holloway. He could understand why the president would have chosen to bury the facts at the time, but he couldn’t help feeling cheated nevertheless. He had been an adult for a long time. Surely someone should have shared the truth with him before this. His parents had been murdered, and he’d had a right to know. But because no one had bothered to tell him, he had been forced to live a lie all these years.

There was nothing to do about that now, but he was angry just the same.

“Okay, so the missile attack was covered up for political reasons. I get it even if I don’t like it. But I still want to know more about Leonid Yudkin.”

“And that,” Phillips said soberly, “is why Mack and I are here today.”

CHAPTER 20

TEL AVIV, ISRAEL - JULY 9

“Yudkin’s career had been moving along nicely,” Phillips began, “but it took a giant leap forward when he killed your parents. Russian president Gennady Arsenyev awarded him a Hero of the Russian Federation Gold Star medal and promoted him from major to major general.”

“What? Skipping over two ranks is practically unheard of,” Delta said. “Are you sure there wasn’t more to his promotion than killing my parents?”

“As a matter of fact, Yudkin did have something else going for him. His father became one of the richest men in Russia after President Arsenyev rose to power.”

Meisel jumped in. “The father had become a multibillionaire by gaining control of valuable state assets after the Soviet Union fell. The oil and gas industry was his primary path to wealth, but he was also a key player in telecommunications and precious metals.”

Those additional details helped Delta figure out who Leonid Yudkin really was, and his eyes narrowed.

“Wait, you’re saying my parents were assassinated by Colonel General Ratmir Burakov, who until two years ago was second-in-command of the GRU?”

Phillips nodded. “Correct. And as I’ll explain, Ratmir Burakov represents an existential threat.”

After becoming one of President Arsenyev’s most trusted henchmen, she explained, Burakov retired from the GRU and used a portion of his late father’s billions to establish his own private military company. He named the company the Dubna Militia, in honor of his father’s hometown, and quickly began recruiting former Russian soldiers to conduct paramilitary operations in support of Arsenyev’s goals.

Chief among those goals, and the one that prompted Burakov to launch the Dubna Militia, was Arsenyev’s ill-disguised desire to resurrect the Russian Empire and then expand it to include all of Western Europe.

“Arsenyev has always been obsessed with the idea of having Russia rule the world,” Phillips said, “and Burakov found that highly appealing. But there’s an important difference between the two men. Arsenyev is lethal but patient. Burakov, on the other hand, is dangerously impatient.”

“I would state it differently,” Meisel added quickly. “He’s brilliant but also homicidally insane, and he will do anything to help Russia achieve world domination.”

“And by anything,” Phillips observed, “you can include triggering World War III, which we believe is his current plan.”

According to Phillips, Burakov had initially been content to have his troops kill Arsenyev’s perceived enemies in Ukraine, Syria, and a number of African nations. Throughout this period, Arsenyev poured billions of dollars into the Dubna Militia, glad to have a private army doing his dirty work without his official approval. He also provided an unlimited supply of weapons and ammunition to Burakov’s soldiers.

Ultimately, however, Arsenyev and Burakov disagreed bitterly on how long it should take to resurrect the Russian Empire. This created a dangerous rift between the two men, and Burakov went from being Arsenyev’s most ardent supporter to his most dangerous rival.

“By the end of 2024,” said Meisel, “the Dubna Militia employed nearly thirty thousand elite soldiers, who were better trained and better equipped than the Russian military. And because they were paid five to ten times what their military counterparts earned, they were savagely loyal to Burakov.”

“Beyond that,” Phillips said, “Burakov and his private army had become the darlings of Russian media and, ultimately, of the populace. Most Russians understood that Burakov and the Dubna Militia could be counted on to get things done instead of simply talking about getting things done.”

“Arsenyev hates Burakov’s popularity,” Holloway said, “but he’s powerless to do anything about it. If he were to kill Burakov, he would almost certainly have a revolution on his hands. So at the moment he’s sitting on his hands while Burakov is about to begin positioning key elements of his army along Russia’s border with Finland.”

“And you believe he intends to attack a NATO country?” Delta asked, well aware that such an action would make a nuclear confrontation between Russia and NATO almost impossible to avoid.

“Yitzhak phoned me two days ago and shared Mossad intelligence on the Dubna Militia’s apparent mobilization,” Phillips said. “That information matched up perfectly with the CIA, DIA, and NSA intelligence I had been receiving. At that point I contacted Mack and said we needed to be in Tel Aviv.”

“Marsha and I assessed the satellite images and intelligence estimates on the flight over,” Holloway explained, “and we discussed our assumptions with Yitzhak and Professor Isaacson at great length. We all reached the same conclusion: Burakov is going to invade Finland, and we need to stop him since the Russian president is unable to do so.”

“But the intervention absolutely cannot be conducted by NATO military forces,” Isaacson stressed. “If NATO attacks the Dubna Militia, the Russian people will demand that Arsenyev intercede. And if we head down that road, Travis, I doubt we’ll ever be able to turn back.”

“That’s why there’s no one from Finland at this meeting,” Phillips pointed out. “A knee-jerk response from Finland could set the world on fire. Yitzhak and I somehow need to guide the Finns to the correct response.”

“And the correct response,” Holloway added, “is for us to eliminate Burakov before an invasion begins.”

Delta leaned forward, placed both elbows on the conference table, and rested his chin on his clenched fists as he considered the problem. He had faced crises before, but none had threatened to lead swiftly to a world war. That made the Burakov problem critical as well as personal.

After a few moments of silence, he looked around the table and said, “Fatal accidents frequently occur during large-scale military operations. If one of them claims Ratmir Burakov’s life, the Russian people will chalk it up to bad luck. Arsenyev would lose his chief rival, and the leaderless Dubna Militia would most likely stand down.”

“The Dubna Militia would be more than leaderless,” Isaacson said. “When their bloated salaries vanished, the soldiers would no longer be willing to risk antagonizing Arsenyev. The operation against NATO would die a quick, whimpering death.”

No one at the table disagreed. The only remaining issue was how to make sure Burakov suffered a fatal accident within the next few days.

All eyes were on Delta.

CHAPTER 21

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“Where’s Burakov right now?” Delta asked.

“He’s meeting his troops as they assemble just west of Alakurtti, a small town located about forty miles east of Lapland,” Holloway said. “Southern Lapland is one of Finland’s most densely forested areas, and if the Dubna Militia invades, it would be practically impossible to attack them from the air.”

Delta turned to Isaacson, who seemed to be the expert on Burakov. “Do you believe Burakov will actually deploy to the Finnish border with his troops, or is he a gutless wonder who likes to lead from the rear?”

“Everything I know about him suggests he would insist on being among the first to arrive at the border,” the professor said evenly. “To begin with, he’s a control freak if ever there was one. In addition, he’s as paranoid as every other Russian leader I know of. This is a man who wouldn’t trust his own shadow.”

“Good to know.” He addressed Phillips next. “Is there anything especially significant about Alakurtti?”

“The Russian military has roughly two thousand troops stationed at a small air base there, but that’s not why Burakov chose the spot. The Russian-Finnish border is roughly a hundred miles from Lapland’s capital, Rovaniemi,” she said. “Rovaniemi has no particular strategic value other than being a fairly large city in a NATO country.”

“This is essentially all about provocation,” Isaacson opined. “Burakov apparently assumes — correctly, I would say — that if NATO retaliates against him, Arsenyev will have no choice but to back him. The Russian people would demand it.”

“I share that assumption,” Delta said without hesitation. “Arsenyev might not like having Burakov control the timing of the confrontation, but he’s fully on board with the ultimate goal. Ukraine was the first step in Arsenyev’s plan to restore the Russian Empire. Finland is a logical second step because it shares an eight-hundred-mile border with Russia. Arsenyev would gladly use this opportunity to seize control of his neighbor.”

“Whatever we do,” Meisel said, “we need to do it soon. My experts and I are convinced that if Burakov and his troops enter Finland, Arsenyev will quickly join the attack on multiple fronts. At a minimum, Russian military forces would seize control of northern Finland and use missiles to devastate the southern coast along the Gulf of Finland. We should also assume the 44th Army Corps, part of the Leningrad Military District, would invade central and southern Finland, meeting little or no resistance along the way.”

“Finland has fewer than twenty-five thousand active-duty military personnel,” Phillips noted. “The Russian takeover would be complete before Finland’s reserve personnel could be activated.”

“Unless other NATO countries responded immediately and aggressively,” Meisel said, “Finland would become a staging area for further Russian attacks against Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania.”

“On the other hand, if NATO does respond,” Holloway countered, “the conflict could easily escalate.”

“Since we agree that neither outcome is acceptable,” Delta said, “let’s talk some more about Burakov’s fatal accident.” He looked at Meisel. “Can we get a map of the region?”

Meisel picked up a compact keyboard from his place at the table and pushed one of the buttons. Two large wall panels slid open, revealing a ten-foot-wide LED screen displaying the Mossad seal, a menorah surrounded by a Hebrew inscription from Proverbs 11:14.

Where no counsel is, the people fall, but in the multitude of counselors there is safety.

A few taps on the keyboard brought up a high-resolution satellite image of the area between Alakurtti and the Russian-Finnish border.

“The figures at the bottom of the screen indicate that this image is two hours old,” Meisel said, “and will be updated in another four hours. Is there something in particular you want to see?”

Delta walked up to the screen and traced his finger along a roadway that ran between Alakurtti and the border. “What route is this?”

Meisel moved a cursor onto the road, and the identification instantly appeared at the bottom of the screen. The Kandalaksha-Alakurtti-Salla Highway was a popular cross-border thoroughfare connecting Russia and Finland. The narrow two-lane covered roughly one hundred miles between the Russian town of Kandalaksha and the Finnish town of Salla. A close-up view of the highway revealed that the pavement was poorly maintained over much of its length, a detail Delta found noteworthy.

“As you can see, the region is rather remote,” Meisel noted. “There are vast tracts of boreal forest, mostly pines and spruce, and very few people. In fact, you’ll likely meet more brown bears and wolves than humans.”

“When in Russia,” Delta deadpanned, “I trust bears and wolves more than I do people.”

“On this I’m sure we all agree, Travis. Anything else you would like to see?”

“Can you show me the topography?”

“Of course.”

At the touch of a button, Meisel converted the satellite image to a full-color topographic map. The area just east of the Russian-Finnish border was largely flat except for a number of tall peaks that rose a thousand feet above the valley floor.

After examining the map for a few moments, Delta said, “I’d like to spend some time with this before sharing my preliminary thoughts with everyone.”

Meisel glanced at his watch. “We’ll be eating dinner down the hall in about thirty minutes. Is that enough time, or would you like me to delay the meal?”

“Thirty minutes will be fine. I’ll jot some ideas down and bounce them off everyone after we’ve eaten.”

“Excellent. The rest of us will be across the hallway in my office when you’re ready.”

After the others had left, Delta pulled a chair in front of the screen, sat down, and did what he did best. Armed with only a yellow pad and a felt-tip pen, he began scripting the remainder of Ratmir Burakov’s life.

CHAPTER 22

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Meisel was the perfect dinner host. He asked that everyone take a short break from the serious matter that had brought them all together, and his guests were glad to comply. The catered food was exceptional, featuring grilled grouper with saffron risotto, slow-cooked lamb over couscous, and for dessert an elegant olive oil cake with pistachio. The conversation was kept pleasingly light while everyone ate.

In fact, the weightiest topic raised during the meal was the budding relationship between Meisel and Phillips, who danced around the issue of whether there was a wedding in their future. All they would say was that they were committed to their jobs and would consider the next step in their personal lives only when or if they stepped down from their lofty government positions. Given the global threats that currently faced them, they could not predict when that might be. In the meantime, they spoke by phone frequently and visited each other as time permitted. They admitted it wasn’t enough for either of them, but it was better than nothing.

All casual conversation ended once the dishes had been cleared. Five people were about to tackle a problem whose outcome could affect every living thing on the planet. They had no way of knowing who or what might survive an all-out nuclear war, but they were committed to eliminating the threat of such a possibility as quickly as possible.

Delta stood in front of the others, yellow pad in hand, and offered a half smile. He felt as though everything he had done as a US Navy SEAL and as a Snakeriver operator had been guiding him to this moment. It was business as usual with a highly personal twist.

“There are times when one man can accomplish what hundreds or even thousands cannot,” he began, “and this, I believe, is one of them. We’ve agreed that a full-scale NATO response to a Dubna Militia incursion into Finland would force Arsenyev to join the fray, and that could lead to global conflict. So the appropriate solution is for me to eliminate Burakov.”

No one in the room was surprised by the conclusion he had reached, but the calmness with which he delivered the words was remarkable. He might have been talking about buying a new pair of running shoes rather than describing a covert operation that would put his life at risk yet again.

“You’re the most capable operator I’ve ever had the privilege of working with, Travis,” Holloway said, “and you have a knack for making the difficult sound easy. But targeting Burakov in the midst of thirty thousand of his troops seems over the top, even for you. I’d like to find another way.”

“Mack, the only other way is to repel Burakov’s militia once it’s inside Finland, but that would require much more firepower than the Finns can muster on their own. The operation would require hundreds of cruise missiles and squadrons of fighter jets.” He paused and slowly shook his head. “As Professor Isaacson said earlier, the US and other NATO members would have to respond, and that would take us down the darkest road imaginable.”

“I stand by my assessment,” Isaacson interjected. “NATO simply cannot retaliate without risking a nuclear war. Like Mack, however, I’m having trouble seeing how one man can eliminate Burakov while he’s surrounded by thirty thousand of his soldiers.”

“I have no choice but to try,” Delta countered, “because the alternative is unacceptable. I might be taking more risk than usual, but I believe the risk is manageable. Please trust me when I say I’m not suicidal.”

“Let’s hear what you’ve come up with, Travis,” Holloway said, plainly unconvinced. “Then we can all decide whether sending you in alone is our only option.”

“Fair enough. My reasoning begins with simple arithmetic. Moving thirty thousand troops from the staging area in Alakurtti to the Finnish border could take a week or more, depending upon the number of trucks available to transport the troops.”

Delta assumed the Dubna Militia might have one hundred trucks in Alakurtti, each one capable of holding thirty soldiers. Then he estimated that each round trip to the Finnish border could take four hours or more after factoring in all the operational components, like loading and unloading troops, navigating poorly maintained roads, and refueling the vehicles. Even if the operation continued around the clock, Burakov’s troops could not be in place for several days, and maybe not for as long as a week.

“Bottom line,” he said, “I won’t need to rush things on my end. I’ll have plenty of time to enter Russia, set up, and wait for Burakov to arrive.”

“But set up where?” Phillips asked. “We won’t know Burakov’s assembly point until the first trucks begin arriving at the Finnish border, and by that time it may be too late for you to get in position.”

“I know exactly where they’ll go, Marsha. There’s a valley a few miles south of the Kandalaksha-Alakurtti-Salla Highway. It’s flat, heavily wooded, and protected on three sides by mountains. The location is only four miles from the border, and I’d say there’s a nearly one hundred percent probability that Burakov will have his troops stage in that valley prior to moving into Finland.”

Phillips looked across the table at Holloway. The former US Navy admiral had served as commander of the Naval Special Warfare Command, whose operations included the much-heralded SEAL teams, and he was therefore the only person in the room qualified to judge Delta’s battlefield assessment.

“Would you agree with that, Mack?” she asked.

He nodded. “The valley is ideally situated close to both the highway and the border. I agree that’s where Burakov and his militia will assemble.”

Phillips turned back to Delta. “And where would you be waiting, Travis?”

“Above the valley floor, watching the activity through a pair of high-powered binoculars. The mountains in that area are fifteen hundred to two thousand feet high, so I won’t have any trouble spotting Burakov once he’s in place. He’ll establish a headquarters somewhere near the middle of the encampment, and his senior guys will be running back and forth to it like crazed ants. His location will be well advertised.”

“But what if Burakov doesn’t arrive for a week?” she asked. “Or two weeks? How can you sit on top of a mountain and wait that long?”

Delta grinned. “Marsha, I’ve lived in snow caves when the temperature was well below zero and pitched tents in Africa when the temperature was well above one hundred. I’ve already checked the weather for the region of Russia we’re talking about. At this time of year, the average daily high is in the mid-sixties, and the average daily low is in the mid-forties. That’s pretty comfortable.”

“What about food and water?”

“While I’m setting up inside Russia, Mack can position himself in Finland near the border. Once I’m in place, he can deliver everything I need by drone. Simple.”

“Not simple at all,” Holloway countered. “That part of Russia has twenty-four hours of daylight every day. I checked.”

“So did I, Mack. Tomorrow is the last day with twenty-four hours of full daylight. If you deliver my supplies on July 12, you’ll have a brief period of civil twilight to work with, and every day after that, you’ll pick up a little bit more. Assuming the supply drone flies in from the south, we’ll be fine.”

“Civil twilight is pretty bright, Travis.”

Delta smiled. “It’s kind of silvery, I guess, but it’s not full daylight, and it’s the best we’ll get. So we can work with it.”

Holloway rolled his eyes but let the subject rest for the moment.

“Okay, it sounds as though you’ve covered the basics,” Meisel said. “But there must be other things you would need in order to pull this off.”

“A few,” Delta agreed, “and I’m sure the people in this room can deliver them without much difficulty.”

The list was short, but it held a couple of explosive surprises.

CHAPTER 23

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“Since I have no desire to scale a razor-topped fence to get inside Russia,” Delta said, “I’ll want to drive across the border. Finland has opened the border crossings again after closing them for several years, so that’s not a problem. I plan to enter as a German businessman, which means I’ll need a full set of German credentials. Passport, driver’s license, credit cards, and such.”

“Easily done,” Meisel said. “I can provide those by early tomorrow. You will need a Russian e-Visa as well, and I can have someone create one right off the Russian system.”

“You’ve hacked their visa system?”

Meisel grinned. “There are few Russian electronic systems we haven’t hacked, Travis. It’s important to know what our enemies are up to.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. I’ll also need a Dubna Militia uniform. I don’t expect to mingle with Burakov’s troops, but I want to be dressed appropriately if I accidentally encounter them.”

“I have CIA photos of Dubna Militia uniforms,” Phillips said, “and they’re easily replicated. They’re generic camouflage field uniforms with no identifying patches except for officer ranks. The CIA says Burakov and Arsenyev agreed on the absence of special markings on the uniforms at the time the Dubna Militia was formed.”

“So that Burakov’s troops could run wild without officially implicating Arsenyev,” Holloway observed.

Phillips nodded. “Precisely. Old-fashioned plausible deniability.”

“I can provide such a uniform for you,” Meisel said, “along with a helmet, tactical vest, and any other gear you would find helpful.”

“Since you mentioned it,” Delta said, “there are two other essential items. Mack and I will be needing a Lancet-3 suicide drone and a 9K38 Igla shoulder-fired missile.”

Meisel looked surprised. “There are much more capable Israeli and US weapons, Travis. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to use those?”

“Russian-made weapons are better for what I have in mind.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Holloway said. “Exactly what do you have in mind?”

“Something the Russians use against us all the time. Disinformation.”

The plan Delta laid out was brutally simple. Once Burakov ordered his troops to begin relocating to the Finnish border, Phillips would have the United States Cyber Command (USCYBERCOM) hack the Dubna Militia’s communications systems. At the appropriate time, Holloway would be able to plant a rumor about traitors within the group’s ranks. The rumor would indicate that a small contingent of Burakov’s officers had become concerned about his mental competence and decided it was time for a replacement.

Isaacson smiled. “I love it, Travis. Burakov would most likely dismiss the rumor because he’s vain enough to believe that all of his troops love him. This means he would almost certainly proceed with the deployment. But later, following his death, the rumor would make it easy for investigators to blame the nonexistent traitors.”

“That’s my thinking,” Delta said. “And following Burakov’s death, we would leak the same rumor to Russian social media platforms. Russians are no strangers to assassination plots since their government administers so many of them. I assume the average Russian would hold Arsenyev responsible for the assassination, but I really don’t care who they blame as long as it’s not us.”

“Which it won’t be if your fictitious traitors use a Russian-made weapon to kill him,” Phillips said. “I like the idea, Travis, and I can certainly provide Yitzhak with the Lancet-3 and the 9K38 Igla from items confiscated in Ukraine. But why do you want two very different weapons?”

“At the risk of making this sound overly personal,” Delta said, “I would love to take Burakov out with the Igla missile since that’s what he used to murder my parents. But that would be my backup approach. The Lancet-3 drone will be the primary weapon. Mack can launch the drone from Finland after I’ve sent him Burakov’s GPS coordinates.”

“The rest of you may be familiar with the drone in question,” Isaacson said, “but I’m not.”

Delta explained, “It’s a loitering weapon that can hang out over its target for a half hour or more for reconnaissance purposes. But it can also be outfitted with a fragmentation warhead capable of turning someone like Burakov into chop suey. Cruising speed is about sixty-five miles per hour, but its dive speed is closer to two hundred miles per hour. Once Mack launches it from Finland, Burakov would be dead in about seven minutes, give or take.”

“Are you positive you won’t need an assistant on the ground?” Meisel asked.

“I generally work better alone,” Delta said, “especially when it’s time to exfiltrate. If things get complicated after the strike, I’ll move a lot faster if I don’t have to worry about a teammate.”

Holloway agreed. “The risk of having a second operator outweighs the benefit. Travis has been down roads like this before, Yitzhak, and I respect his judgment. All things considered, I believe his plan represents our best opportunity to stop the Dubna Militia from invading while also avoiding a NATO confrontation with the Russian military. I’m not crazy about having him tackle this mission,” he added somberly, “but we don’t have a choice.”

The others nodded in agreement, though it was clear everyone was deeply concerned for Delta. That he might not survive the mission was obvious. Yet the millions of people who might be lost in a nuclear war made the gamble worth taking.

“Is there anything else you need, Travis?” Holloway asked.

Delta had only one more item on his list, and he knew it would make all his other requests seem trivial. He also realized it was something no one at the table could guarantee.

But he had to ask anyway.

CHAPTER 24

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“As far as I’m concerned,” Delta began, “the only thing that can doom this operation to failure is some sort of preemptive action by Finland or NATO. If anyone strikes the Dubna Militia before it crosses the Russian-Finnish border, nothing I do will matter. We’ll be off and running toward World War III.”

He was merely stating the obvious, but his comment nevertheless had a chilling effect on the others. No one at the table wanted to be the first to respond because implicit in Delta’s statement was a question. Who would tell the Finns and NATO’s leadership to do nothing when the Dubna Militia began massing at the border? Stated differently, would anyone be willing to put his or her career on the line for the sake of a plan that Delta had devised in less than a half hour?

Isaacson finally broke the ice. “I have no influence whatsoever on either Finland or NATO,” he said, “so I’m not the person who will be making the necessary phone calls. But I want to go on record as agreeing completely with Travis. The whole world knows what happened after Russian troops massed at Ukraine’s border in the autumn of 2021, so I’d say there’s a strong possibility both Finland and NATO would consider preemptive action this time around. Why would they not? If anyone at this table has the power to keep that from happening, I urge you to do so.”

Meisel glanced at his watch. Though the hour was late, he knew that Israeli prime minister Ariel Chazan would still be at his office in Jerusalem. Despite routinely working until well after midnight, Chazan feared he wasn’t doing enough to defend his country from the forces of evil. But would he be willing to recommend that the Finns do nothing in the face of a mounting threat?

All Meisel could do was ask the question.

“If you will give me a few minutes,” he told the others, “I’ll go to another room and call Prime Minister Chazan. He is on excellent terms with the Finnish president, but I cannot predict whether he will ask President Huttunen not to launch a preemptive strike. I can, however, tell you with great confidence that Prime Minister Chazan would not welcome such advice from another country’s leader.”

“While you’re making that call,” Phillips said, “I’ll try to reach President Thompson.”

The look on Holloway’s face left no doubt that the comment had caught him completely off guard. To the best of his knowledge, the director of national intelligence had never shared the details of a Snakeriver operation with the president. On the contrary, her primary goal had always been to shield him from such knowledge so that he could deny responsibility if something went wrong.

Phillips smiled. “It’s okay, Mack. The president knows all about Travis and Snakeriver after that business in Alaska.”

Delta had recently saved Thompson’s life and, in the process of doing so, had revealed information that had previously been kept from him.

“That doesn’t mean he’ll give us the green light.”

“True, but I have to ask. He’s the only one who can make sure NATO doesn’t respond.”

“He’ll agree to help,” Delta volunteered. “I trust his instincts.”

“Given what you and he recently went through,” she said, “I tend to agree.”

Meisel and Phillips went to separate secure rooms to make their phone calls while Holloway, Isaacson, and Delta drank black coffee and hoped for the best.

The world’s fate was hanging in the balance.

CHAPTER 25

TEL AVIV, ISRAEL - JULY 9

Israeli prime minister Ariel Chazan was a bulldog of a man widely known for possessing and frequently displaying a volcanic temper. That temper erupted with full force when Meisel summarized the plan to eliminate Burakov, then asked Chazan to call Finnish president Alvar Huttunen.

“Have you lost your mind, Yitzhak?” Chazan screamed into his phone. “You expect him not to respond when thirty thousand Dubna Militia mercenaries arrive at his border? Do you have any idea how I would respond if Huttunen called and told me to do nothing if thirty thousand Iranians set up camp on our border?”

“I’m not asking you to tell him anything, Prime Minister,” Meisel replied diplomatically. “I’m asking you to explain something to him. We have a solution that will stop the attack without triggering World War III.”

“And if this scheme of yours fails to stop the attack, what then? I’ll tell you: thirty thousand Russians will rape and pillage their way through a NATO country. Can you imagine how grateful President Huttunen would be for my wise counsel?”

“Sir, may I share some additional details about the plan?”

“You call it a plan; I call it nonsense. You’re going to send someone to assassinate this madman Burakov when he’s surrounded by thirty thousand of his fellow butchers.”

“The person we’ll be sending is Travis Delta.”

That silenced Chazan, if only for a few moments. He knew all about Delta’s success in previous operations against Israel’s enemies, including a Russian plan to arm Iran with intermediate-range nuclear missiles. Because Delta and his Snakeriver teammates had never failed to deliver on their promises, Chazan was reluctant to dismiss this new operation without hearing more.

“Why do you believe that killing Burakov will stop his army from invading Finland anyway?”

“When Burakov dies,” Meisel said, “his funding for the Dubna Militia dies with him. His troops are loyal to him because he pays much better than the Russian military. They are not going to risk their lives for free.”

“What makes you think he hasn’t arranged for all of his money to continue paying his mercenaries?”

“On the day he dies, his entire fortune will vanish from eleven foreign banks and be donated anonymously to thousands of charities around the world. His wealth is readily accessible to my cyber team.”

“You’re absolutely certain about that?”

“All it will take is the touch of a button.”

“And how will Travis Delta survive the operation? It sounds suicidal to me.”

“He is willing to risk his life so that millions of others may live, and I cannot second-guess a man for reaching such a decision. If he dies, he will not have died in vain.”

“I was having a bad day until you called,” Chazan growled. “Now I’m having a terrible day. Why do you keep doing this to me, Yitzhak?”

“You pay me to make your life miserable, Prime Minister,” Meisel teased.

“And you certainly earn your pay. Tell me this, then. Who will get NATO to agree not to attack Burakov before he and his men invade Finland?”

“Marsha Phillips is, at this very moment, speaking with President Thompson. I suspect that NATO would not launch a preemptive strike without US involvement.”

Chazan deliberated while Meisel stood by patiently with his phone to his ear. Nearly two full minutes passed, during which neither man spoke.

“Here is what I will do,” Chazan finally said. “If Thompson agrees not to participate in a preemptive strike, I will call Huttunen. He will not be pleased, but he will probably go along with your so-called plan if I promise him I have this under control.”

“Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister. I know I’m asking a lot of you, and I appreciate this vote of confidence. I will call you as soon as I learn Thompson’s decision.”

“And I’ll be sitting right here in my office, Yitzhak,” Chazan grumbled. “But of course I will be. Why would anyone think I should go home and sleep in my own bed?”

CHAPTER 26

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Phillips reached President Thompson just after he had finished an exhausting session with his treasury secretary. Of all the issues on Thompson’s plate, none was more frustrating than the growing US deficit. Knowing he had to cut spending was the easy part. Knowing what budget items to cut was the part that kept him awake at night.

Thompson was more energetic than most men his age, but he was nevertheless seventy-seven years old. He had been in the Oval Office since 5:30 a.m. and was almost ready to head for the executive residence. The day’s work would continue once he got home, but at least he would be able to relax in his favorite recliner with a glass of wine before dinner.

There weren’t many calls he would take at the end of a brutal day, but his secretary knew he would always accept one from Phillips. He considered her a star performer who was doing everything in her power to defend America from its overeager adversaries, and he hoped that one day she would be willing to run for office. He was convinced she would make a great president.

“How’s everything in Tel Aviv, Marsha?” he asked as soon as his secretary handed off the call.

“Getting more complicated by the minute, Mr. President.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Ominous is exactly the right word for what we’ve got going on here.”

Edwards rose from his desk, ambled across the Oval Office, and settled onto one of the two couches that faced each other across a small coffee table. He had a feeling this would not be a brief conversation.

He was right.

He knew, of course, that Phillips had gone to Tel Aviv to discuss the Dubna Militia threat. But the proposed solution she presented to him following her fifteen-minute overview left him shaken. His concerns were both pragmatic and personal.

The chief pragmatic issue was the low probability that one man, even Travis Delta, could stand in the way of thirty thousand mercenaries. Yes, he had recently seen Delta in action, but that was against a vastly smaller enemy force under far more manageable conditions.

The personal issue weighed even more heavily on the president. Delta was more than just the man who had saved his life. He was the quintessential American hero, a selfless patriot who was willing to lay down his life for his country. Beyond that, he had begun thinking of Delta and Liv Zumwald almost as his own children. They were certainly young enough, and they both embodied all the qualities Thompson valued in people. In short, they felt like family.

So from two angles, the pragmatic and the personal, Thompson was tempted to reject the proposal. But on what basis, he wondered, could he reject a plan that the director of national intelligence and the Mossad director believed was the only way of averting a world war?

“Delta really thinks he can pull this off?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. President. He has answered every challenge we’ve raised about the operation, and he has no doubt he can get Burakov.”

“And escape after doing so?”

“He reminded us he’s not suicidal,” she said, “and I believe him. So yes, he’s certain he will survive the mission. After killing Burakov, he’ll flee to the south before making his way to Finland. Mack Holloway will be there to meet him.”

“Speaking of Holloway, he headed one of the US military’s most distinguished combat units and knows exactly what Delta would be up against. Does he believe it can be done?”

“He does, yes. Like all of us, he’s worried about Travis. But he agrees that this is our best shot at preventing Burakov from igniting a world war.”

Thompson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Tell me about this professor who was at your meeting. Isaacson is his name? What’s his role in this?”

She briefly described the professor’s CIA career and his ties to Delta’s parents. “For many years he has been an advisor to top Mossad officers, including Yitzhak. He knows the Russians better than anyone on my team and probably on Yitzhak’s as well.”

“And he’s convinced Arsenyev will commit the Russian military to support Burakov’s invasion if NATO responds?”

“Yes, sir. If Arsenyev failed to act, he would probably have a revolution on his hands.”

Thompson stared at the quiet fireplace. The logs were neatly stacked, but only for show. Not until October or November would he be able to sit before the fire and let the flames help him think. The older he got, the more he enjoyed such meditative moments inside the Oval Office.

But today he had no time for such a moment. His most trusted advisor, a woman who might even be president one day, was asking him for a decision. And she needed it now.

“What would you like me to do, Marsha?”

“Inform NATO that the United States will not participate in a preemptive strike on the Dubna Militia.”

“That’s all?”

“That will be enough, Mr. President. Other NATO countries are not going to risk a preemptive strike if you refuse to participate.”

Thompson said he would immediately place a call to NATO’s Supreme Allied Commander Europe (SACEUR), who, like all of his predecessors, happened to be a US Army general.

“I won’t tell him what Travis is up to,” he noted, “but I’ll let him know that the US military will not take action against Burakov unless he actually invades Finland.”

“Perfect.”

“And then I’ll pray, Marsha.”

“As will I, Mr. President.”

Phillips felt the world pressing on her shoulders as she walked back to Meisel’s office, and it had never been heavier.

CHAPTER 27

TEL AVIV, ISRAEL - JULY 9

The clock had ticked past midnight by the time Meisel and Phillips rejoined the others, glad to have gotten grudging sign-offs from their respective bosses. But they were hardly euphoric. They both feared they had taken a giant step toward nuclear Armageddon.

After Phillips announced that President Thompson would not participate in a preemptive strike against the Dubna Militia, Meisel placed a quick phone call to Prime Minister Chazan. As he had promised, Chazan said he would call the Finnish president and urge him not to react unless Burakov and his troops crossed the border.

Political details behind them, the group turned its full attention to military tactics, with Holloway and Delta leading the discussion. Time was the most critical factor because Delta needed to be in place before Burakov began massing his troops near the Finnish border, a process that could begin at any moment. Fortunately, the details fell into place quickly.

“You will have your German credentials and camouflage uniform by midmorning tomorrow, Travis,” Meisel said. “Would you like any Russian weapons aside from those Marsha will be providing?”

“A handgun, assault rifle, and tactical knife would be good if you have them,” Delta replied. “I’d prefer something from the Snakeriver arsenal, but it would be best to maintain the Russian look.”

Meisel tapped a few keys on his laptop. “I can easily get you a well-maintained AK-12 rifle, an MP-443 Grach pistol, and plenty of ammunition for both. I can also provide a Russian-made NR-43 knife.”

“Excellent. If you give those to Mack, he can deliver them by drone once I’m in position.” He thought for a moment, then added, “And you should probably send the camo uniform by drone as well. I don’t want a Russian border guard finding that in my backpack when I cross the border.”

“Consider it done,” Meisel said.

Phillips spoke next. “It’s going to take twenty-four hours for me to have the Lancet-3 suicide drone and 9K38 Igla shoulder-fired missile delivered to Yitzhak. I’ll try to get them here faster, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Not a problem,” Delta said. “I shouldn’t need them for two or three days anyway. As long as Mack has them by then, we’re good.”

“As soon as you receive your German credentials tomorrow,” Holloway said, “you and I will fly to Finland on the corporate bird. Kuusamo Airport is closest to the border crossing you’ll be using, roughly eighty miles. Marsha has already arranged for two people from the US embassy in Helsinki to fly up and help me provide logistical support while you’re on the ground in Russia.”

“Highly capable people, I hope,” Delta said.

“Elite, Travis. Both of them decorated Marine Security Guards with combat experience.”

Holloway explained that he and the Marines would be working out of a safe house in a remote area northeast of Salla. The spot was only six air miles from Delta’s mountaintop encampment.

“And you’ve arranged for a drone large enough to deliver everything I need?”

Holloway nodded. “A US Army supply drone is already being prepared for shipment from Iraq. It’s a vertical takeoff and landing UAV capable of delivering everything you need and making the round trip at sixty-five miles per hour. We won’t have any trouble keeping you supplied.”

“Then I think we’ve covered everything,” Delta said.

The meeting ended, and the participants went their separate ways. All but one of them would have trouble sleeping that night.

Delta was highly adept at tuning out thoughts of his own death.

The Snakeriver jet departed Tel Aviv shortly after noon for the four-hour flight to Kuusamo Airport. On board with Holloway was Albrecht Hoffmann, marketing manager for a German industrial robot manufacturer. At least that was what Delta’s new credentials indicated. His passport, business cards, credit cards, and even the faked family photos in his wallet told a pleasant story of a man who earned a comfortable living by catering to the needs of his loyal Russian clients throughout Murmansk Oblast, the province that included Alakurtti.

“How’s your Russian coming along, Albrecht?” Holloway asked from across the aisle.

“Stanovitsya luchshe.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s getting better. I’ll never speak the language fluently, but I can fumble along well enough for a German businessman. Part of my cover story is that the Russians I work with speak decent English, as do I. So we get by.”

“Did you book the rental car?”

“Da, a Nissan Qashqai.”

“Never heard of a Qashqai.”

“It’s an all-wheel-drive compact SUV perfect for what I have planned.”

“Which is?”

“Shortly after entering Russia, I’ll turn off the main highway, drive a half mile to a large lake I found on the map, and abandon the car with the keys in it. From there I’ll be about five miles from my hide. The hike will take me about an hour and a half because the final fifteen hundred feet are going to be pretty steep.”

“What about supplies? It may be forty-eight hours before I can make the first drone drop.”

“I’ll carry enough food and water for three days in my backpack. I’ll also have a change of clothes so that I’m not wandering the woods in my business clothes.”

After a few moments of silence, Holloway asked, “What about a weapon? You need to have something with you before the drone delivers all the things you’ve requested.”

“I can’t have a weapon visible at the border crossing, but I can conceal my Glock under the spare tire in the cargo area. I’ll retrieve it before I begin hiking.”

“A gun in the cargo compartment won’t help you if you have a problem with the border guards.”

Delta laughed. “I’ll have a roll of five-thousand-ruble notes in my pants pocket, Mack. There’s no such thing as a Russian official who won’t accept a bribe.”

After glancing at his watch, Delta phoned Liv in DC, where it was late morning. He wouldn’t be able to make another secure call until the Burakov op ended, and he wanted her to know he would be out of touch.

Liv answered with, “Please tell me you’ve left Tel Aviv and are on your way home.”

“You’re half right. I just left Tel Aviv, but Mack and I are on our way to Lapland.”

“What the heck is in Lapland?”

“Hmm, let’s see. Reindeer, brown bears, moose, and wolves,” he joked. “Oh, and Santa’s official hometown.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes, I do. There may be some Russian issues at the Finnish border, and Marsha thought it best to get Snakeriver involved.”

A long silence followed his casual comment. Then she said, “One of the AI predictive models we’re developing here sends me a summary of potential trouble spots each morning. Guess what was on the list this morning.”

“I’m listening.”

“Let me read it to you. Priority alert: National Reconnaissance Office satellites indicate that the Dubna Militia, a private militia operated by Russian billionaire Ratmir Burakov, is concentrating its forces near Alakurtti in Murmansk Oblast. The troop buildup is occurring approximately twenty-five miles from the Finnish border.”

“Did your AI system suggest what to do about that?”

“No, it doesn’t offer battlefield situation assessments yet. But the implication is clear, isn’t it? Someone’s planning to invade Finland. Is it Burakov, Arsenyev, or both?”

“Burakov only,” Delta said. “But if he does invade, and if NATO retaliates, we assume Arsenyev will be forced to back him up.”

“And then the world goes to hell in a hurry.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what we think.”

Liv paused before saying, “How worried about you should I be?”

“No more than usual.”

“That’s always a lot, Travis.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But you really don’t need to worry, Liv. I’m pretty good at what I do.”

Before ending the call, he said he would be out of touch for a few days. Possibly even a week or two, depending upon variables beyond his control. But he promised to call her as soon as the op ended.

“I want that call sooner rather than later,” she told him. “In the meantime, be careful.”

“Will do.” He ended the call with a smile on his face as he mused over the long, convoluted path that had brought them together.

Liv had always been the smartest person he had ever known as well as one of the nicest and prettiest. Modest but self-assured, she had earned both an undergraduate degree in computer science and a PhD in physics from Harvard by the time she was nineteen. She then turned down numerous big-money job offers in order to work at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory, or ORNL, one of the world’s premier research facilities. Her primary professional interests were quantum field theory and the behavior of subatomic particles, and she routinely slept on a cot in her office and worked eighteen-hour days when she had a hot project underway.

Dating had always been a challenge for her because she was both vastly smarter than almost every guy she had ever met and maniacally devoted to her research. In fact, the first and last time she had been seriously attracted to someone was during her sophomore year of high school back in Montana. Although she and her young beau Travis Delta had gone their separate ways, they had remained friends, had emailed each other from time to time, and had tried to get together for dinner once a year. Romance no longer had anything to do with it. They were simply hometown buddies who had always respected each other’s intelligence, honesty, and work ethic.

But that had changed when he asked for her help on an important op in Washington, DC, and the love story had begun anew. Now that they were married, he couldn’t imagine what life would be like without her.

He also couldn’t imagine not returning home to her in one fully functional piece.

He finally closed his eyes, leaned back in his seat, and fell sound asleep in half a minute as Holloway watched from across the aisle. Holloway was amazed even though he had seen Delta do the same thing numerous times. Most men were rattled by the thought of facing death, but Delta always acted as though he were on his way to a long vacation in Fiji. He was simply wired differently.

By the time Black Fang landed in Finland, Delta was thoroughly rested and ready to take on the forces of darkness once again.

CHAPTER 28

KUUSAMO, FINLAND - JULY 10

The temperature was sixty-four under scattered clouds, and the forecast called for showers until well after midnight. This was typical July weather for a spot that was only forty miles below the Arctic Circle. Delta didn’t mind a bit of rain, but he was glad he wouldn’t have to worry about either broiling heat or frigid cold during the op. That meant he would be able to devote all of his energy to hunting Burakov.

After picking up their keys at the car rental counter, Delta and Holloway walked together to their vehicles — the Nissan Qashqai for Delta and a Ford Expedition for his boss. Then Holloway stood by and made sure no other travelers watched while Delta hid his Glock 20 under the Qashqai’s spare tire and laid his heavy black backpack on top. Two minutes later, they fist-bumped, wished each other well, and went their separate ways.

Delta’s drive to the border crossing near Salla would take an hour and forty-five minutes, most of that time spent on Route 950, a two-lane highway that wound its way through one of Lapland’s most picturesque regions. Holloway’s drive would be slightly longer because the safe house was located in a remote area where operating a military supply drone would not attract undue attention. Unless the reindeer were remarkably observant, Holloway’s part of the mission would be safe from prying eyes.

Soon after leaving the airport, Delta was cruising along at eighty-eight kilometers per hour, or roughly fifty-five miles per hour. That was slightly above the posted speed limit of eighty kilometers per hour, but it was neither too fast nor too slow to attract attention. Not that any police would have seen him anyway. There were few homes amid a forest that seemed to stretch forever in all directions, and there were no crowded service areas selling fast food or gasoline. The human footprint remained gloriously insignificant here, and Delta soon found himself thinking about Heaven, his remote Alaskan getaway.

Heaven was nothing more than a small cabin and five hundred acres of pristine wilderness, but it was where he felt most at peace with the world. He figured that the few Finnish people who inhabited Lapland — they represented little more than three percent of the country’s population — understood well the rejuvenating power of this remote territory. Life was no doubt hard, especially when several feet of snow blanketed the landscape for more than half the year, but in most ways such a life was far superior to that found in places like New York, LA, and Washington.

Washington above all, he thought. There were far too many reptiles slinking along the sidewalks of DC to suit him. The DC area was his home only because that was where Liv’s job was. If she ever left government work and wanted to retreat to nature, he would gladly live year-round in Heaven. Or, heck, maybe even Lapland. This was one of the most beautiful places he had ever seen.

His nascent love affair with Lapland ended abruptly as he drove up to the huge Finnish border crossing structure that loomed over the highway like an alien spaceship, its vast metal roof rising some twenty-five feet above the roadway. The roof was suspended from twelve ugly steel supports that towered over the landscape. If intimidation had been the architect’s goal, he or she had succeeded.

The Finnish border guard who examined Delta’s credentials was cordial and wasted no time waving him on toward Russia. Finland had only recently reopened its border crossings after having closed them for several years in response to asylum seekers streaming into the country by way of Russia. As far as the guard was concerned, if you wanted to head east, you were good to go.

The experience was markedly different only a half mile down the road at the Russian border crossing. The facility was even more forbidding than its Finnish counterpart, and the hulking border guard who approached Delta’s vehicle wore a contemptuous sneer. His camouflage uniform and automatic assault rifle perfectly matched his venomous attitude. Russia’s border guards had the right to turn away visitors for any reason or no reason, and it was obvious this particular guard was eager to share his bad day with someone else.

The guard put his hand out and grunted a single word, “Dokumenty.”

Delta reached over to the passenger seat and picked up the documents he had laid out in advance. Then he calmly handed over his passport, the e-Visa that Meisel’s staff had created, and the mandatory proof of travel insurance.

After studying the passport longer than necessary, the guard stared at Delta, a challenge in his eyes. The guard put out his hand again and said, “Voditel’skoye udostovereniye.” Driver’s license.

The phrase was one that Delta recognized, but he pretended not to understand. He turned his palms up and in flawless German said, “Ich verstehe nicht.” I don’t understand.

After a long moment during which he appeared to consider shooting the uncooperative German, the guard tried delivering the message again, this time through gestures. He mimicked turning a steering wheel with his two meaty hands. “Voditel’skoye udostovereniye,” he said again.

This time Delta cooperated. “Ah, Führerschein.” Driver’s license. Then he made a great show of opening his leather billfold for the guard. On the left side were his driver’s license, credit cards, and business cards. On the right, and prominently displayed, was a thick wad of five-thousand-ruble notes. Delta pointed to the driver’s license, and the guard nodded while also showing the slightest hint of a smile.

The guard didn’t immediately accept the driver’s license. Instead, he twice moved his eyes between Delta and the money. Message sent and received.

Delta separated two of the notes from the others and looked up at the guard. An almost imperceptible headshake from the guard indicated that a larger bribe would be appropriate from such a wealthy German. Since Delta had brought the cash for the sole purpose of avoiding border problems, he quickly counted out ten five-thousand-ruble notes — equivalent to slightly more than six hundred US dollars. He carefully folded the notes and placed them under the driver’s license, which the guard was now pleased to accept.

The guard didn’t bother looking at the driver’s license. He simply handed it back without the cash and smiled. “Dobro pozhalovat’ v Rossiyu,” he said. Welcome to Russia.

Delta returned the smile, pleased that some things in Russia never changed. He put the SUV in gear and drove off toward his date with Ratmir Burakov.

PART TWO

CHAPTER 29

THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW - JULY 10

Gennady Arsenyev’s gilt-trimmed Kremlin office was considerably larger than the average Russian home, yet there was no place in it for Defense Minister Arkady Popov to hide. Sweat beaded on Popov’s forehead as he squirmed in the uncomfortable wooden chair that sat in front of the president’s immense desk. His late lunch of cabbage soup and grilled salmon was clawing its way to the back of his throat, and he was terrified to think of the punishment that might await someone who vomited on the president’s white carpet.

Arsenyev rose from his leather swivel chair, put both hands on the mahogany desk, and leaned toward Popov like a viper ready to strike.

“You’re able to tell me Burakov is assembling the entire Dubna Militia outside of Alakurtti,” he hissed, “but you cannot tell me why? How can that possibly be?”

“The movement of so many personnel is easily seen, Mr. President,” Popov replied meekly, “but since Burakov refuses to speak with us, I cannot know for sure what he intends.”

“We have a military outpost in Alakurtti, do we not? Tell our soldiers to force Burakov to speak with us.”

“We have only two thousand personnel stationed in Alakurtti, Mr. President. The colonel who commands the brigade is in no position to demand anything of Burakov and his entire militia.”

Arsenyev switched gears. “Do you not have intelligence officers inside the Dubna Militia monitoring the madman’s activities?”

“We have three men embedded within Burakov’s units, Mr. President, but they are missing and feared dead.”

“Executed by Burakov?”

“That is a distinct possibility, yes.”

Arsenyev sat and turned his chair toward a large, curtained window. As he studied the majestic gold domes of the Assumption Cathedral in the distance, he wondered yet again how his relationship with Ratmir Burakov had collapsed so thoroughly.

Burakov had been a lapdog willing to do his master’s bidding, and the Dubna Militia had accomplished much good on Arsenyev’s behalf. The viciousness with which Burakov and his troops had pursued Russia’s enemies was the stuff of legend. No assignment had been too large, too dangerous, or too bloody. And never had the group’s atrocities been tied to Arsenyev himself because the Dubna Militia was an independent militia.

The arrangement had been ideal for everyone involved. Arsenyev provided money and advanced weaponry. Burakov created a force of thirty thousand highly trained butchers. And those butchers killed without remorse because that was the only thing they truly enjoyed doing.

At what precise moment, Arsenyev asked himself once again, had this magnificent machine begun to sputter? Was it when Burakov’s father died, making his son one of Russia’s most powerful oligarchs? Or was it when Burakov had dared to consider himself the president’s chief advisor?

Arsenyev remembered the day a year earlier when Burakov came to the Kremlin without an invitation, demanded a private audience, then lectured him on the absolute necessity of expanding the empire by force.

“The time to act has come,” Burakov had insisted, his voice unacceptably loud. “NATO is crumbling from within and will be incapable of responding if we seize the missing pieces of our Motherland. We must strike immediately!”

If he had silenced Burakov then, Arsenyev now realized, this current crisis would have been avoided. He could have made the madman vanish with a single phone call, but that simple solution was no longer available. Over the past year, Burakov had become a folk hero whose exploits exaggerated his importance not only in his own mind but in the minds of the Russian people as well. Eliminating him at this point could easily spark a civil war, the one thing Arsenyev feared above all else.

He turned back to Popov. “If you know nothing for certain,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “at least tell me what you and your small army of experts guess he might be up to. Is this a routine exercise? Is he planning to attack our troops at Alakurtti? What?”

“We firmly believe it is not an exercise,” Popov began, “but we just as firmly believe it is not an action against the state. Our best estimate is that Burakov intends to invade Finland.”

Arsenyev had reached that same conclusion on his own, but he had been desperately hoping for a credible alternate explanation. Of all the possibilities, even an attack on the Russian troops at Alakurtti, the worst was for the Dubna Militia to invade Finland.

“If he invades Finland,” Arsenyev said, “NATO will blot out the sun with bombers, fighter jets, and killer drones. Burakov and his troops will be annihilated.”

Popov took a deep breath and swallowed back his lunch. “Unless you come to his rescue, Mr. President, and that is what he probably believes will happen.”

“Because people regard him as a hero, and they would not tolerate inaction on my part. Is that what you think?”

“That is the most plausible explanation. Burakov has been extremely outspoken about resurrecting the Russian Empire, and it seems likely he is willing to force the issue without your consent.”

Arsenyev shook his head in disgust. He had recklessly allowed the puppet to become the puppeteer, and the potential consequences were too grim to contemplate. He would indeed have no choice but to commit the Russian military if Burakov foolishly invaded Finland, and World War III might follow.

“Go see him first thing tomorrow, Arkady. Talk to him face-to-face in Alakurtti and tell him he must not invade Finland until he and I have spoken at length on the subject. Get him to stop this madness while I consider how best to manage him.”

“I will try, Mr. President. Is there anything else?”

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Arsenyev nodded gravely. “Yes, put our long-range bomber fleet on high alert.”

CHAPTER 30

TEN MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 10

Delta left the Kandalaksha-Alakurtti-Salla Highway five miles after crossing the border and began navigating rural roads that led to the lake he had chosen as his preliminary destination. Fifteen minutes later, having made sure he wasn’t being followed, he pulled into the dense woods and did some nimble off-roading until he neared the water’s edge. Once the vehicle was well concealed, he shut off the engine and surveyed the area.

Lake Sallayarvi was nearly a mile and a half long and roughly a quarter of a mile wide, its surface only slightly troubled by the light rain that had followed him from Finland. Perhaps on a sunnier day, the lake might have been crowded with fishermen, but today he saw no one else and was glad to have the place to himself. Given the previous ops he had conducted inside Russia, he wanted to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

One of the most daunting challenges facing him throughout the op would be incessant daylight. The sun had been up for twenty-four hours every day since June 3 in this far-north region, and it would be up for twenty-four more today. Although full daylight would gradually begin fading tomorrow, it would not be doing so quickly enough to serve his purposes. Even if he remained in this place for a full week, something he hoped not to do, he would have no more than an hour or so of twilight to work with.

It was an unfortunate but unalterable fact, and Delta never wasted time worrying about things he couldn’t change.

He removed his business attire, tossed it in the vehicle’s back seat, and pulled his waterproof hiking clothes from the backpack. The dark-green hooded pullover, gray cargo pants, and high-end trail shoes would be all he needed until Holloway delivered the camouflage uniform. Until then, he would play the role of recreational hiker Albrecht Hoffmann, an affable German visitor who was taking some time off from his important business dealings.

He hoped he would not meet any curious locals on the way to the mountaintop, but he was prepared to manage any such encounters as necessary. The chambered Glock 20 under his pullover provided him with unlimited options.

The mountaintop where he would be camping out was roughly five miles from the lake, and he planned to cover the distance in an hour and a half. He would be in deep woods most of the way, traveling over relatively flat terrain. But the final fifteen hundred feet would be up a steep incline. He didn’t know precisely how tricky the climb would be, but the sixty-pound pack on his back would make it challenging. The pack contained only the bare essentials, including a first aid kit, enough MREs for three days, a lightweight waterproof tarp, and a half dozen plastic bottles of water. Because there were several small ponds at the summit, he also carried a purification device that could provide drinkable water until the first drone delivery. It was a heavy load, but he had handled worse.

After slinging the pack onto his back, he placed the SUV’s keys on the dashboard, closed the door, and began walking due south. Maybe someone would steal the vehicle, or maybe it would sit there untouched forever. That was now the rental car company’s problem, not his. He had more urgent issues on his mind, like seeing Liv again despite the untold hazards that came with operating in the midst of thirty thousand enemy troops.

The forest floor was soft and spongy under a thick blanket of wet pine needles, and for the first mile or so, he made good time as he wound his way among the massive trunks. Most of the trees were more than a hundred feet tall, and the forest canopy obscured what little sunlight escaped from behind the dark rain clouds. The canopy also helped shelter him when the rain began falling harder. He pulled the hood over his head and followed his satellite phone’s GPS tracker toward his destination.

Twenty minutes later, the rain became torrential, a mixed blessing that he believed was more good than bad. Although he continually had to navigate around deepening pools of water, the rain made it increasingly unlikely he would encounter other hikers. Few locals would be strolling through the woods in this kind of weather. The temperature had dropped into the fifties, and he half expected to see snowflakes. Fortunately for him, though, July snowstorms were rare even in this part of Russia.

The forest began thinning out by the time he had walked four miles, each of them reasonably pleasant but wet. Now came the day’s most serious physical challenge: a mountainside that rose fifteen hundred feet in a half mile. The grade on the mountain’s south slope was roughly fifty-seven percent, meaning the trail rose fifty-seven feet vertically for every one hundred feet he traveled horizontally. Stated differently, the incline was steeper than Prima Cornice, the steepest ski slope at Vail, a place where he and Liv had skied often.

He could have hiked up the north slope, which was far gentler, but he assumed that would be the preferred route of any locals who might be out hiking despite the uninviting weather. The south slope, challenging though it was, gave him the best shot at being alone.

The greatest problem he would face during his climb was the sparseness of vegetation. The entire south slope was almost completely devoid of trees, meaning he would be highly exposed during the slowest part of the entire five-mile journey. Add a sixty-pound backpack to the equation, and he had a formula for disaster.

He didn’t need to be told that if he was going to die today, this was the likeliest spot.

CHAPTER 31

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 10

Delta allowed himself a two-minute break, long enough to wolf down an energy bar and drink half a bottle of water. Then he tackled the slope. There were no trails to follow, and for all he knew, his footprints might be the first anyone had left on this particular stretch of mountainside. If hikers had passed this way before him, they had left no sign of their presence.

Despite the location’s remoteness, he remained acutely aware that anyone with a pair of binoculars or, worse, a rifle scope could have eyes on him as he made his way to the summit. The rain and gray clouds would help make his presence less obvious, but he would nevertheless be highly vulnerable from start to finish. He never liked relying on luck, but he was perfectly willing to accept some at the moment.

Slick rocks and muddy soil made walking treacherous, and he lost his footing several times within the first ten yards. Part of the problem was that his expensive hiking shoes had been designed for dry conditions and were therefore a poor choice for a rain-soaked mountainside. But there was nothing he could do about that now except lean forward, shift his body weight to the balls of his feet, and muscle his way forward.

The slope was so steep in some sections that he was forced to pull himself forward by grabbing hold of the few available shrubs, sad, scraggly things hardy enough to endure arctic winters. It didn’t take long for him to begin thinking back on his Navy days. Some of the challenges he had endured during the early weeks of SEAL training had been worse than this present climb, but not by much. The only comfort he derived from the effort was knowing that few humans would be able to follow his tracks. This particular climb was better suited to mountain goats.

After fifty minutes of exhausting effort, he was no more than twenty feet from the summit when he heard muted voices above him. Deep voices, obviously male, speaking Russian. He quickly slipped the pack from his back and set it on the ground. Pulling the Glock from its holster, he looked up and spotted a reasonably large shrub perched at the summit’s edge to his right. The shrub was the only cover available to him on this side of the mountain, and it offered his best chance at remaining unnoticed. If he could maneuver his way behind it, he would be able to observe his potential enemies and, if necessary, put them down.

Killing the men was the last thing he wanted to do, for two reasons. First, if they were soldiers, someone was almost certainly awaiting their return. If they failed to return, a search party would soon be on its way to the summit. Second, a firefight would echo for miles, alerting any additional troops that might be in the vicinity. Either way, Delta would end up running for his life, and his mission to avert World War III would die prematurely.

Glock in hand, he scrabbled across the sodden slope and then bear-crawled up the remaining distance. The closer he got to the summit, the more distinct the voices became, and one of the men began repeating a single word: nichego. Nothing. The man seemed to grow increasingly frustrated as he spoke the word, as though whoever he was talking to failed to understand him.

Delta tightened his hood’s drawstrings, covering as much of his face as possible, then slipped behind the shrub and peered through the foliage. Two large men were a hundred feet away, their backs to him, and both were outfitted in combat camo. He guessed they were scouts who had been sent to make sure the mountaintop was free of intruders. One of them casually held an assault rifle in front of him while the other shouted into a tactical radio.

“Zdes’ nichego net. Nichego!” he said. There’s nothing here. Nothing.

Whoever he was speaking with obviously wasn’t receiving the message, most likely because the heavy rain was interfering with the comms system.

The man with the radio turned to his comrade and shrugged. Both of them were thoroughly soaked and probably exhausted from having hiked to the summit. Clearly, both of them were sick of wasting time on the inoperable radio.

As they were giving the summit one final look, the soldier with the rifle allowed his eyes to linger on the large shrub to his south. Delta slowly moved the Glock forward, ready to fire first if he had to. But after a long moment the man turned away, seemingly satisfied that the area was secure. Both soldiers walked to the north slope and slowly began their descent.

Delta held his position despite the drenching rain, wondering whether the two men were at that very moment working their way around the summit’s perimeter in a classic flanking maneuver. He didn’t think they had seen him, but he wouldn’t know for sure unless no attack came. Flanking him would be safer than launching a frontal assault against a well-concealed enemy.

It was time to wait and hope for the best.

After ten minutes of swiveling his head from right to left, he was confident the two men had departed. He retrieved his backpack, made his way to the summit, and double-timed across the broad plateau until he reached the safety of the trees that bordered the mountain’s northwest slope. There he leaned against one of the pines and took a series of slow, deep breaths, allowing his body to recover from the adrenaline high.

It was 9:30 p.m. local, and he was totally spent.

But his long day was far from over.

CHAPTER 32

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 10

The rain began to let up as Delta undertook his first critical task: choosing the ideal spot for his hide. The summit was a nearly flat plateau, and while the plateau’s south side was almost bare, the north side contained a small forest that stretched for nearly a quarter of a mile between Delta and the valley below. The woods offered plenty of cover, but he was looking for an ideal spot that would satisfy all the mission requirements.

To begin with, he needed an unobstructed view of the valley floor. When the Dubna Militia soldiers arrived, they would fill the heavily treed valley with a sprawling city of tents, medical stations, latrines, field armories, and other combat-related structures. Somewhere within the massive encampment, most likely toward its center, would be a command headquarters situated close to Burakov’s personal tent.

By Delta’s estimate, there could soon be as many as ten thousand tents in the valley, and that alone would make locating Burakov difficult. The larger problem, though, was the dense tree canopy that hid much of the valley floor from view. Getting eyes on Burakov would require logic, persistence, and maybe even a touch of good fortune.

Twenty minutes of roaming the woods turned up numerous spots along the north plateau that provided the requisite view, but Delta had other requirements as well. The most important of them was proximity to a landing zone for the drone that would soon be delivering his supplies. The drone would have to approach the mountain from the south, then cross the plateau for unloading at a point close to Delta’s position.

The LZ had to be reasonably flat and free of large shrubs or boulders, and that ultimately narrowed his choices to three spots. He finally chose one that was fifteen feet from the trees and no more than seventy feet from several potential observation posts he might employ.

Speedy supply drops were going to be crucial to the mission’s success. The faster Delta could unload supplies, the less likely it was that he and the drone would be spotted by Burakov’s troops. This would be especially true if Burakov planned to use reconnaissance drones to monitor the mountain summits that towered over the valley. Recon drones were a nightmarish possibility, and even a brief encounter with one of them could prove fatal.

Before settling on the location of his temporary home, Delta factored in one more vital requirement: ease of escape. If Burakov’s men began streaming up the mountain’s relatively gentle north slope, Delta would flee to the south, down the same steep slope by which he had arrived. From the plateau’s north edge to its south edge was two hundred feet, a distance he could easily sprint in five seconds. No problem there.

Once he reached the flats, however, the situation would grow more perilous. Assuming the way was clear, he would race west to the Finnish border, which was about four miles away. Given his fitness level, he figured he could get there in twenty-eight minutes or less, depending upon terrain conditions.

What happened after that depended upon factors not under his control. Because the Finns had built many miles of border fence in recent years, he would have to climb over to safety or keep running until he found a fence-free spot. This assumed, of course, that he had been able to outrun Burakov’s troops. If those troops were using dirt bikes, he would have no choice but to stand his ground and hope he was a better shot than his pursuers.

He tried not to overthink the possibility of being forced off the mountain, but failing to consider the possibility would have been reckless.

At 10:45 p.m., having chosen a hide that checked off all the necessary boxes, he finally sat down on a fallen log and ate two cold MREs, spaghetti with meat sauce, followed by cheese tortellini. Neither was a gourmet meal, but both were more than satisfactory given his location. More importantly, together they provided twenty-six hundred much-needed calories.

The rain finally stopped falling just as he finished his late dinner, and the sky began to brighten. But that wasn’t going to keep him from sleeping soundly after the kind of day he had endured. He shook the rain from his clothing and pulled the eight-by-ten camouflage tarp from his backpack. After studying the valley one last time and making sure he was alone, he rolled himself loosely in the tarp and settled comfortably on the forest floor.

Before closing his eyes, he turned his satellite phone on briefly and sent his GPS coordinates to Holloway along with a simple four-word message:

In position. Lights out.

One of the longest days of Delta’s life had finally ended.

Best of all, he was still alive.

CHAPTER 33

TEN MILES WEST OF ALAKURTTI - JULY 11

Ratmir Burakov hated what he saw in the mirror. The face staring back at him this morning was not that of the young GRU officer who had been named a Hero of the Russian Federation. Neither was it the face that had once set women’s hearts aflutter in whatever country he had been stationed.

He was one of the wealthiest men on the planet and the proud commander of his own militia, but he was no longer young or handsome. Dangerous, yes. He still possessed the strength and ferocity of the man he had been decades earlier. But his heavily lined face, gray hair, and expanding midsection made him look older than his years. For someone who was already sixty-five, this was not a good thing.

Each glance at the mirror was a stern reminder that time was chasing him, encouraging him not to waste whatever weeks, months, or years remained of his life. Each glance told him that if he didn’t act now, his grand dream of resurrecting the Russian Empire would die with him. He was growing older, not younger, and one day he would be a useless scarecrow hanging from a stick.

He had watched his father become a sad caricature of himself, a doddering shell of a man who could no longer remember his own name, and he swore he would not follow that same path until he had restored Russia to its former glory.

Although his face no longer pleased him, he couldn’t help but admire how he looked in his tailored camouflage field uniform. Its loose fit concealed his paunch while accentuating the breadth of his shoulders. He stood five ten, weighed one hundred and eighty pounds, and cut an imposing figure when in uniform. He had designed the field marshal epaulets himself — a double-headed eagle surrounded by five stars — and he would never grow tired of how his troops snapped to attention whenever he walked by.

The uniform inspired him, and today the self-styled field marshal would wear it proudly as he embarked on the mission of a lifetime.

At 7:00 a.m. he left his bedroom suite to join the five officers who were waiting for him in the conference room of Dubna Militia Regional Command Facility #7, one of fifteen such outposts located inside Russia. The former farmhouse, fully hidden from the highway that passed by it, had been transformed into a secure command-and-control center at considerable expense. Burakov had been in residence for nearly a week, overseeing the arrival of his troops and heavy weapons. The preparations were nearly complete, and the soldiers who camped in the surrounding forest were ready for action. On his command, they would go wherever he told them to go and do whatever he told them to do.

They were well trained, well armed, and well paid. They would follow whatever orders he gave them, especially if it involved spilling blood.

The specific orders had not yet been given, but most of his troops had a decent idea of what was coming. The encampment was only twenty-five miles from the Finnish border, and it didn’t take a genius to conclude that the massive military operation had something to do with Russia’s neighbor to the west. Thousands of Burakov’s soldiers had served in Ukraine and therefore could scarcely wait to rampage through another helpless country. The spoils of war were many, the obstacles few. An aggressive soldier could have quite a good time taking whatever or whomever he chose.

The five officers, all Dubna Militia generals and all male, rose as one when Burakov entered the room. He was flanked by the two bodyguards who accompanied him everywhere, even to such meetings. After verifying that the room was secure, the guards exited and took up defensive positions by the door and in the hallway. Anyone who tried to enter the room without proper authorization would do so through a wall of machine-gun fire.

He waved the five generals to their seats. They alone were privy to the details of his plan to invade Finland. The officers who served under them had been sworn to secrecy and given a broad-brush overview, but only those at the table were fully aware of what was about to unfold.

Each general provided a readiness report. Since no one would dare report a lack of progress, all the summaries were encouraging. The troops and equipment were in place and ready for mobilization at a moment’s notice.

Burakov nodded, pleased with what he had heard.

“Then we will begin moving our troops at noon today,” he announced. “Within the next hour I want your officers to brief every single soldier on the mission we are about to undertake. Tell them that NATO forces are at this moment inside Finland preparing a preemptive strike on Russia. Also tell them that President Arsenyev is counting on us to disrupt NATO’s operation while the Russian military prepares for war.”

The story was laughably false, of course, and the five generals knew it. But they didn’t care. Each of them was a multimillionaire thanks to Burakov’s generosity, and they would get far richer in the near future. They would therefore say whatever he wanted them to say, and the men who served under them would gladly believe any lies they were fed. As long as their fat paychecks kept coming, the troops would fight for any reason or for no reason at all.

“Make sure that the headquarters building is one of the first structures in place,” Burakov added, “so that I can follow our progress. I want all troops and equipment in place and ready for the invasion within seventy-two hours.”

The generals traded nervous glances, but no one wanted to be the one to tell Burakov that it would be nearly impossible to have thirty thousand men moved to the valley encampment that quickly. One of them was, however, bold enough to ask Burakov about his idea of being present at the encampment.

“We had assumed you would remain here at the regional command facility,” General Luka Sidorov said with some trepidation, “while the five of us managed the field operations.”

The death stare that followed let everyone know that Sidorov’s assumption had not been well received.

“A leader leads from the front,” Burakov said icily, “not from the rear like a sniveling coward. This is my plan, and I will guide it while living and working among my troops.”

The five generals nodded in agreement.

Field Marshal Burakov had spoken.

CHAPTER 34

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 11

Still wrapped in his camouflage tarp after a good night’s sleep, Delta jolted awake at 7:15 a.m. and immediately reached for the Glock. It was lying on the ground a foot from his head with one 10mm round chambered and fifteen more in the magazine.

He glanced at his watch and frowned. He had assumed that his first full day at the summit would be peaceful and perhaps even a touch boring since the first drone delivery had not yet arrived. So he had told himself it would be okay to sleep later than usual.

The questionable logic of that decision became obvious when he heard a male voice shout, “Toropit’sya.” Hurry up.

Delta was sheltered deep within the pines that covered the plateau’s north rim, and he was nearly invisible underneath the tarp. But if the uninvited guests came his way, he wasn’t going to meet them lying down. He would instead be in position to fire a few fatal rounds before escaping down the south slope.

He slowly rolled out of the tarp and pulled it over his head and shoulders like an oversized poncho. Then he crawled closer to the clearing just as the two soldiers he had seen a day earlier reached the summit plateau. One of them staggered under the weight of a heavy rucksack while the other, the man in front, carried what appeared to be a relatively lightweight tactical backpack.

“Pochti tam,” the man in front called over his shoulder. Almost there.

“Pochti mertv,” the other man groaned. Almost dead.

They made their way to the same spot where Delta had seen them the day before. The man in front unslung his pack and gently lowered it to the ground before helping his comrade remove the heavy rucksack. The guy who had humped it up the steep slope leaned forward, hands on his knees, and cursed. Delta didn’t recognize the phrase, but the tone with which it was delivered made its meaning clear. Then both of them sat down and allowed their heart rates to recover.

After a few minutes of grumbling, the soldiers stood, opened the rucksack, and pulled out the sturdy components of a military-grade tactical microwave line-of-sight system. Now Delta understood why the men had been scouting the site the previous day. Wireless communications in the valley encampment might be spotty because of the surrounding mountains, and a microwave system would provide much-needed internet connectivity. Obviously, someone on Burakov’s staff had thought ahead.

The men spent the next hour and a half wiring the components, securing the system and its battery packs to a rocky outcropping, and installing a parabolic line-of-sight antenna atop a sturdy fiberglass mast. Then they tested the unit, making sure it provided a stable link with the satellite terminal located at the regional command facility near Alakurtti.

Once the system was in place, they opened the tactical backpack and removed a foldable one-hundred-watt solar array that would easily power the system since the sun would be out almost nonstop for the next several weeks. After connecting the solar array and making sure the entire system was fully operational, they erected a small tent over the sensitive electronic components to make sure rain didn’t compromise battlefield communications.

Their final task, and the one that seemed to give them the greatest pleasure, was hammering two metal signs into the ground at each end of the tent. The signs featured a black skull inside a yellow triangle, followed by the message: WARNING: PROPERTY OF THE DUBNA MILITIA. There was no need to add the words TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. Everyone in Russia already knew how the militia operated.

After photographing the site from several angles, the men hoisted their empty packs and began retracing their steps down the north slope. Delta followed their progress through a pair of tactical binoculars equipped with a laser rangefinder, a built-in camera, and a GPS display. When they were about a half mile from the mountain’s base, they dropped their gear alongside a camouflage tent.

If there were more soldiers in the area, Delta didn’t see them. But the presence of these two and the equipment they had just installed confirmed his belief that the Dubna Militia would soon occupy the entire valley.

Burakov and his troops were on their way.

CHAPTER 35

ALAKURTTI AIR BASE - JULY 11

The small government jet carrying Defense Minister Arkady Popov landed at Russia’s military base in Alakurtti at 10:00 a.m. after a two-hour flight from Moscow. The brigade commander, Colonel Maksim Yuzhin, met Popov on the tarmac and escorted him to a waiting SUV for the twenty-minute ride to the Dubna Militia’s regional command facility. They both sat in the rear of the vehicle while a young sergeant sped along the Kandalaksha-Alakurtti-Salla Highway.

“Why have you not met with Burakov since he arrived?” Popov asked, his tone threatening.

“Minister Popov,” the colonel replied, his voice pleading, “I was unaware that anyone wanted me to meet with him.”

“You saw thousands of his troops arriving in the area, but you didn’t think you should ask him why?”

“Sir, I know that General Burakov is a close friend of President Arsenyev, so it didn’t occur to me to interfere.”

“Burakov is a former general as well as a former close friend of the president. It shocks me that a man of your rank would not know such things.”

Yuzhin wanted to say that no one in the chain of command had bothered to inform him that Burakov, a state hero and one of the most admired people in Russia, was now considered a pariah. But instead of antagonizing Popov further, he simply apologized, hoping he would not soon be pushing papers at a desk in eastern Siberia, where the winter temperatures made Alakurtti’s frigid weather seem almost tropical.

The remainder of the ride was uneventful until they reached the steel gate blocking the driveway to Burakov’s facility. Two guards armed with assault rifles approached the vehicle, one on each side, and gestured for the driver to lower the windows. When he complied, the guards scrutinized his military ID before moving to the men in the back seat.

The guard on the left side of the vehicle put his hand out and ordered Yuzhin to produce his ID.

Offended by the brusque treatment, Yuzhin shouted, “I am Colonel Maksim Yuzhin, and the man to my right is Defense Minister Arkady Popov!”

“And I am the man who doesn’t work for either of you,” the guard growled. Then he raised his rifle so that Yuzhin could get a close-up view of the muzzle. “I am also the man who will blow your heads off if you antagonize me further.”

At that point, Yuzhin and Popov presented their IDs for inspection, preferring not to have their heads splattered throughout the surrounding forest.

The guard phoned someone inside the command building and received permission to let the two visitors through the gate. He tossed the IDs onto Yuzhin’s lap, then walked slowly to the gate, raised it, and waved the driver through.

The long, winding driveway led to the remodeled farmhouse and Burakov’s two bodyguards, who waited there with their rifles at the ready. Popov and Yuzhin were ordered from the vehicle and forced to endure the indignity of being patted down before being allowed into the building. Their faces were red, but their mouths remained shut. They entered the building, one guard in front of them and one behind, and were led to the conference room.

Standing at the far end of the long table was Burakov, who wore a Lebedev PL-15 pistol on his right hip. He stared at his visitors.

“To what do I owe this dubious honor?” he said, a caustic smirk on his lips.

Yuzhin’s eyes fell on the extravagant epaulets that Burakov wore.

“And precisely what rank is that supposed to be?” the colonel asked sarcastically.

“My men call me Field Marshal Burakov, and you may do likewise.” He turned to the defense minister. “So, tell me why you are here, Arkady. I’m a busy man.”

“Perhaps we should sit while we talk,” Popov suggested.

Burakov shook his head. “Unless Arsenyev has sent you to ask how he may be of service, this conversation will be brief.”

Popov swallowed the insult and said, “Fine, then. President Arsenyev sent me to ask why you are assembling what appears to be your entire militia on the outskirts of Alakurtti.”

“Because my troops and I will soon claim Finland on behalf of the Russian Empire.”

Yuzhin’s eyes widened, but it was Popov who replied.

“If you invade Finland,” he warned, “you and your entire force will quickly be destroyed by NATO forces. Surely you know this.”

“At the moment we begin to invade Finland,” Burakov fired back, “my communications team will let every man, woman, and child in Russia know that we are restoring the Motherland to its former glory in their name. If Arsenyev fails to support me, he will have a civil war on his hands. You know this. I know this. He knows this.”

“President Arsenyev cannot be manipulated so easily.”

Burakov grinned. “And yet he has placed his bomber fleet on high alert.” He caught the surprise on Popov’s face. “Yes, Arkady, I have friends everywhere, and I know that Arsenyev is reluctantly preparing for war. He hopes you will persuade me to stand down so that he has time to arrange a prison cell for me. But that won’t happen. The invasion will begin soon, and when NATO retaliates, Arsenyev will not dare to watch from the sidelines.”

Popov glared. “This is madness.”

“And this conversation has ended,” Burakov said with a smile. “My guards will escort you to your vehicle.”

Burakov watched from the conference room window as Popov and Yuzhin slipped into the SUV’s back seat, both looking as though the world were about to end. As, indeed, it might.

Three hours later, following his return flight to Moscow, Popov stepped into Arsenyev’s office, ready to face the president’s wrath.

“You look like a kicked mongrel,” Arsenyev muttered, his mood dark. “I see defeat in your eyes. Am I wrong?”

“You are not wrong, Mr. President,” Popov said gravely. “Burakov is unreasonable, perhaps completely unhinged. He said nothing will stop him from invading Finland and claiming it as part of the Russian Empire.”

“Did you assure him that NATO forces would destroy him and his ridiculous militia?”

Popov took a deep breath before answering. He knew that the president would not react well to what he was about to hear.

“He knew we had already placed our bombers on high alert, Mr. President. He is convinced that public opinion will force you to support him once the invasion begins.”

Arsenyev was furious. “My defense minister orders our bombers placed on high alert, and Ratmir Burakov is one of the first people to know? Do I have that right?”

“He is a former general, Mr. President, and apparently still has sources within the military.”

“Then your job for today is to identify those sources and have them executed for treason within forty-eight hours.”

“Of course, Mr. President. I will see to it.”

As Popov scurried off like a frightened rat, Arsenyev decided it was time to appoint a new defense minister.

This one obviously wasn’t up to the task.

CHAPTER 36

KUUSAMO, FINLAND - JULY 11

After flying commercial to Kuusamo, the two Marines from the US embassy in Helsinki met an Israeli team that Meisel had sent there to deliver Delta’s supplies. There was a phony Dubna Militia uniform, an MP-443 Grach pistol, an AK-12 rifle, a Lancet-3 drone system, and the 9K38 Igla shoulder-fired missile that Delta hoped he would have a chance to use on Burakov.

The Marines loaded everything into the cargo area of their rented SUV before driving to a self-storage facility a few miles from the airport. Earlier that day two US Army soldiers, both in civilian clothes, had arrived from Al-Asad Airbase in Iraq on a private jet and placed three other essential items in one of the units. There was bottled water, enough MREs to keep Delta fed for several weeks, and a state-of-the-art combat supply drone. The Marines stowed these final supplies in the SUV, covered everything with a black tarp, and drove north toward the safe house where Holloway awaited them.

They made excellent time for the first hour and a half, cruising along well-maintained roads that passed by farmland and several small villages. But the trip’s final half hour was an ordeal involving rugged, sometimes unpaved roads that led to a mountainous area near a small lake. When they finally reached the safe house, Holloway was standing outside, looking very much like a relaxed tourist.

“Welcome to the middle of nowhere,” he said with a smile when the Marines exited the vehicle. Both wore civilian clothes, but their rugged faces, buzz cuts, and athletic builds marked them as men who could be counted on in a battle. “The last few miles were hell, weren’t they?”

“Piece of cake, sir,” said Sergeant Chad Drummond. “There’s nothing like off-roading to make a drive worthwhile.”

Corporal Jesse Rigman added, “We would have had a lot more fun on dirt bikes, sir, but that wasn’t an option for this mission.”

Holloway shook hands with both of them and said that for the sake of mission security, there would be no use of military ranks. They would be on a first-name basis, and if anyone happened to stop by unexpectedly, that person would simply find three friends sharing a vacation cabin. That small business detail resolved, he helped them unload their personal gear and Delta’s supplies.

“Great place,” Drummond said, “and a perfect location.”

The traditional log cabin sat on ten remote acres among towering mountains that rose over virgin countryside. Norway spruce and Scots pines dominated the landscape below, while at the cabin’s higher elevation the forest consisted mostly of mountain birch, their gnarled white trunks posed like mythological sentinels in the alpine wilderness.

The cabin was one of twenty such properties that Snakeriver owned in countries throughout Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. The safe houses didn’t get much use, but when they did, an operator’s life was usually on the line.

“Mountains, streams, and no humans except us,” Holloway replied. “It’s ideal for what we’ll be doing.”

“Jesse and I don’t really know what that is,” Drummond said. “All we know is that you’re giving the orders, and we’re following them.”

“Let’s go inside, and I’ll lay it all out for you.”

The cabin’s interior was deceptively large, featuring three bedrooms, a modern kitchen, two bathrooms, and a great room with a tall stone fireplace. The view from every room was spectacular, but the men weren’t there to enjoy the scenery. After stowing the gear, they sat at the kitchen table and discussed the mission in excruciating detail.

Drummond and Rigman were appropriately shocked by the story Holloway shared with them. Back at the embassy they had been told only that their mission would be sensitive and would involve taking orders from a retired US Navy admiral. Sounded fairly boring. Learning that they might be instrumental in preventing a world war got their adrenaline pumping, and they assured Holloway he had the right men for the job, no matter where it led.

“Unless things go really wrong,” Holloway told them, “the three of us will do nothing except deliver supplies to my man Travis inside Russia.” Both men looked disappointed. They were ready for a more direct role. “Our job is critical. If Travis doesn’t get everything he needs, the mission ends before it begins. Burakov’s troops will roll into Finland, and the world will get set ablaze.”

Holloway said that he and his two partners would begin by assembling and testing the combat supply drone. The hexacopter weighed no more than a hundred pounds but could carry a fifty-pound payload for nine or ten miles under ideal conditions. Since the round trip to Delta’s position would be slightly over twelve miles, they would have to limit each load to thirty pounds. As long as Delta moved fast enough while unloading the supplies, the round trip would be within the machine’s capabilities.

Drummond asked the right question. “How are we going to get a drone there and back in broad daylight?”

Holloway said there were two ways to minimize the risk of daytime operations. First, they were going to deliver supplies only during the brief twilight period that would begin at 12:30 a.m. the following day. For that first delivery, they would have twenty minutes of diminished sunlight, and then would pick up a few additional minutes each day. Second, and most importantly, the drone would arrive and depart from the south side of the mountaintop where Delta was positioned.

“Burakov and his troops will be on the north side of the mountain,” he explained, “and the surrounding area is basically nothing but uninhabited forest. Obviously, I’d rather be doing everything in the middle of the night, but we don’t have that option.”

Once they had the supply drone ready for its first flight, they would assemble the Lancet-3 missile and its catapult launcher. The system wouldn’t be needed until Burakov arrived at the encampment and was comfortably situated in his living quarters, something that might not happen for several days. But when the moment was right, the drone needed to be ready to fly.

“How confident are you that the troops won’t invade Finland if Burakov dies?” Rigman asked.

“I can’t guarantee it, but I’m pretty confident that’s how it will play out. The troops in question are mercenaries whose loyalty belongs to whoever signs their paychecks. When Burakov dies, all of his funding sources will die with him. We’ll help spread that word,” Holloway added, “by hacking their comms system. My guess is they’ll be scattering like cockroaches, hoping they’re not hunted down by the Russian Army and executed for following the orders of a billionaire madman.”

As long as the militiamen headed east instead of west, Holloway didn’t much care what happened to them.

CHAPTER 37

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 11

When the first troop carriers rolled into the valley at 3:15 p.m., Delta felt a massive weight fall from his shoulders. After all, he was the one who had assured Phillips and Meisel that this would be the place where Burakov would assemble his invasion force. Had he been wrong, the entire mission would have begun circling the drain.

He studied the activity while soldiers unloaded supplies and set up the first tents even as more troop carriers rumbled into the encampment. The trucks moved along a dirt road that had been saturated with rain the previous day. The mud grew deeper with each vehicle that passed over it. Delta could tell that before long the soldiers would have to bring in a bulldozer to clear a second access route.

He turned on his phone and sent an encrypted message to Holloway.

First troops arriving. Lots of mud slowing them down.

Holloway replied.

Slow is good. U OK?

Perfect.

Then he turned the phone off again, reducing the likelihood of having the device detected by Russian intelligence agencies. It was an imperfect precaution, but it was the best he could manage under the circumstances.

An hour later a truck pulling a tilt-bed trailer made its way to the center of the valley. Atop the truck was a containerized building, little more than a steel shipping container with a door at one end and two windows on each side. Sliding the structure to the ground took less than a minute, and the truck was on its way.

Delta assumed the metal structure was a command center that Burakov and his generals would use when strategizing about the invasion. He also assumed that the Lancet-3’s high-explosive warhead could easily penetrate the building and destroy everyone inside. As long as Burakov was one of the occupants when that happened, the mission would end well.

By 6:00 p.m. Delta could tell that the full Dubna Militia deployment could easily take four or five days. The soldiers worked quickly and efficiently, but transporting thirty thousand troops and massive amounts of equipment to the valley was a major logistical challenge. The problem began with the limited number of trucks available to Burakov and ended with the single muddy road that accessed the valley.

Sandwiched between those two significant issues was the Kandalaksha-Alakurtti-Salla Highway, a winding two-lane road that was poorly maintained under the best of circumstances. A road designed for light civilian use would not fare well under the constant barrage of oversized military vehicles.

All of this worked to Delta’s advantage. The longer it took for the Dubna Militia to establish its forward operating base, the more opportunities Delta would have to eliminate Burakov. Assuming, of course, Burakov joined his troops in the valley.

If he didn’t, the grand plan to avert war would fail.

Delta couldn’t see the Kandalaksha-Alakurtti-Salla Highway from his position above the valley, but he would have been pleased to know that conditions there were working in his favor. The first wave of Dubna Militia trucks heading west toward the valley had caused only minor disruptions for civilian traffic. But when those trucks began returning to Burakov’s regional command facility outside Alakurtti, they met the second wave of trucks moving slowly toward the valley encampment. Traffic soon became nightmarish in both directions as the two convoys crowded the narrow roadway.

The distance between the command facility and the highway turnoff for the encampment was only twenty miles, but it was taking more than an hour for militia vehicles to make a one-way trip. Traffic was still moving, but at a pace far slower than Burakov’s generals had anticipated.

The Kandalaksha District Police Department, responsible for the highway’s traffic safety between the Russian-Finnish border and Alakurtti, was powerless to remedy the situation. Arguments between the local police and some of Burakov’s troops grew heated but stopped just short of armed conflict. The police were vastly outnumbered and knew better than to start something their opponents would gladly finish. What they did instead was alert the State Traffic Safety Inspectorate, which in turn notified the Ministry of Internal Affairs, which kicked the problem upstairs to someone in Moscow. The problem finally reached one of Arsenyev’s senior aides, who told the president what was happening.

“And what would you have me do about it?” Arsenyev snapped. He was tired of hearing about Ratmir Burakov, but he couldn’t seem to shake himself loose from the madman.

“I’m not suggesting you get involved, Mr. President,” the aide replied softly. “I merely thought you should know.”

“And now you know there’s nothing I can do about it short of having the highway bombed. That would certainly eliminate the traffic, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m sure it would, Mr. President. But I was thinking it might be useful to have the highway closed to civilian traffic between Alakurtti and the Finnish border. That would keep people safer.”

“While also making it look as though I’m aiding Burakov, which is the exact opposite of what I want to do. I want him to fail miserably. I want him to send his troops back to wherever they came from. And I want him to vanish from my life forever.”

“What word should I send back to the local police, Mr. President?”

“Who’s in charge there?”

“The police chief is Gennady Tsuranov, Mr. President.”

“Have Tsuranov replaced by the end of today. Perhaps his successor will be wise enough to manage local problems on his own.”

“Certainly, Mr. President. I’ll see to it immediately.”

Alone in his office again, Arsenyev cursed himself for having put Burakov on a pedestal and for transforming his protégé into a rival. Khvost vilyayet sobakoy, as his beloved mother used to say. The tail wags the dog. But here he was. Barring some miracle, Burakov would invade Finland, NATO would respond, and Arsenyev would have no choice but to support the Dubna Militia.

How he hated not being in control, especially when the outcome might be the final war fought on planet Earth.

CHAPTER 38

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 11

Shortly before 10:00 p.m. the final Dubna Militia personnel carrier of the day sank up to its chassis after it had gotten halfway along the valley access road. The troops had no choice but to jump out into knee-deep mud and hike the remaining mile and a half to the encampment with their heavy rucksacks.

It was clear that no additional vehicles would be able to use that route for a week or more, even if no additional rain fell. Militia officers ordered a dozen or so men to begin marking trees that would need to be cleared for an alternate route, but the actual tree removal wouldn’t begin until the middle of the next day when a bulldozer arrived. Things were off to a rough start for Burakov’s invasion force.

Delta had been monitoring the progress, or lack thereof, for nearly seven hours from his mountaintop hide. While the troops below had toiled under the watchful eyes of their commanders, he had relaxed among the abundant pines, spruce, and leafy shrubs that kept him safely hidden from those on the valley floor. He had fashioned his camouflage tarp into a low lean-to that would protect him and his supplies from the damp ground and whatever additional rain might fall.

So far his time on the mountain plateau had been more akin to a leisurely camping trip than a covert op. That was going to change, of course, but until then he was able to relax amid unspoiled nature. The mountains were radically higher at his vacation getaway in Alaska, but the Russian forest was quite similar, and he felt unexpectedly at home.

He had been alone in far worse places, Yemen among them.

The valley encampment finally grew still by 11:00 as the troops settled in for a well-deserved night’s rest. That was Delta’s signal to begin moving. He left the shelter of the woods and moved cautiously to the small tent that the two soldiers had erected earlier that day on the mountain’s summit. First he photographed the parabolic antenna that was capturing signals from Alakurtti. Then he gently parted the tent flap and photographed the core hardware. He was confident Holloway would find someone capable of hacking the device and unscrambling whatever encrypted messages passed between the encampment and the militia’s regional headquarters. Once that happened, the odds of a successful mission would grow exponentially.

Before sending the pictures to Holloway, though, he quickly made his way to the plateau’s southernmost edge and spent fifteen minutes studying every square inch of the landscape below with his binoculars. Satisfied that none of Burakov’s troops roamed the area, he turned on his phone and sent a pair of brief messages to Holloway. The first contained the pictures of the microwave system. The second gave the go-ahead for the first supply delivery.

Beginning at 12:30 a.m., Holloway and his team would have about twenty minutes of civil twilight during which they could operate with marginally less daylight. Their ambitious goal was to squeeze in two drone shipments that would outfit Delta for the mission’s offensive phase.

Holloway acknowledged both messages even before Delta had returned to his lean-to. The supply drone would soon be in the air, and the games were about to begin in earnest.

Holloway, Drummond, and Rigman had already test-flown the supply drone and found its capabilities more than equal to the task ahead. To begin with, the machine could readily accommodate all the items they would be sending to Delta, though several of them, including the 9K38 Igla shoulder-fired missile, would have to be broken down into their key components for the short trip.

That would not present a problem for Delta, who was capable of figuring out how to operate almost any piece of military gear without a tutorial. In this case, however, he had already studied the Igla operator’s manual during his free time on the mountaintop and decided he could assemble the device in the dark. Not that he would have to worry about that given the overabundance of daylight.

The most important of the supply drone’s features was its autonomous flight capability. Once the drone was sent on its way, it needed no help to follow its assigned route and reach its target’s precise GPS coordinates. Holloway would be able to watch the flight through the drone’s onboard camera and abort the mission if necessary, but otherwise the machine did all the work once it was launched.

Upon reaching its destination, the drone would hover above the drop zone at the programmed altitude, release its cargo, and return to base. Each round trip would require eleven minutes of actual flying time.

And there was the problem.

Reloading the drone and switching out its battery packs would require at least three minutes, assuming Holloway and his team performed brilliantly. Add that to a pair of eleven-minute flights, and the full mission time exceeded the brief window of twilight that was going to be available.

Holloway and Delta had agreed ahead of time that getting the most essential supplies to the mountaintop warranted this modestly increased risk of detection. Part of their rationale was that the operation would take place between 12:30 and 1:00 a.m., a period when Burakov’s exhausted troops were unlikely to notice a drone flying at sixty-five miles per hour just above the treetops. The risk level seemed acceptable.

By 12:15 a.m. Holloway and the two Marines had attached a cargo net to the quick-release mechanism on the drone’s airframe. The night’s first shipment would include the mock Dubna Militia uniform, the MP-443 pistol, the AK-12 rifle, and a dozen plastic bottles of Volzhanka water, one of Russia’s most popular brands. The total cargo weight was twenty-nine pounds, just below the limit that Holloway had set.

At 12:28 Holloway sent Delta a final prelaunch message, On its way, and released the drone. It swiftly rose above the Finnish countryside, the cargo net swaying gently underneath the machine’s six powerful rotors, and began speeding east.

The fate of the entire mission now rested on a piece of equipment that looked suspiciously like an oversized child’s toy.

CHAPTER 39

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 12

Delta waited four minutes before jogging to the plateau’s south end, where he began scanning the western horizon with his binoculars. The drone would need only five and a half minutes to reach the LZ, assuming a number of important things happened during the short flight.

First, of course, the drone had to perform exactly as advertised. It had to maintain maximum speed throughout the journey, hover above the precise GPS coordinates that Delta had provided, and release its cargo without a hitch.

Along the way, the drone also needed to maintain the lowest possible altitude while simultaneously steering clear of hills and trees despite the region’s complex topography. In theory, at least, that work would be done by the drone’s miniaturized radar sensor, a fairly recent add-on capability. Like all new systems, though, the feature was not always completely reliable.

Above all, the drone needed to remain undetected once it crossed the border into Russia. Ideally, no one on the Finnish side would see it either, but that was not a make-or-break issue. If the drone were spotted by a Dubna Militia soldier, however, the mission to avert World War III would probably end.

Exactly five minutes after the drone’s launch, Delta spotted it low in the sky southwest of his position. It was skimming the treetops at maximum speed and circling toward him, well hidden from the soldiers camped to his north. When it was due south of his position, it raced toward him in a straight line before disappearing from view below the plateau. A few anxious seconds later, it rose slowly above the plateau and angled toward the LZ, barely high enough off the ground to clear the shrubs. Once the drone had maneuvered to the proper coordinates, it hovered for a moment, released the supply net, and immediately began retracing its flight path to Finland.

Delta slung the net over his shoulder and jogged back to his hide. After letting Holloway know that the shipment had arrived safely, he changed into the Dubna Militia uniform and stowed the water inside his lean-to. Then he spent a minute making sure the pistol and rifle were loaded and operable.

The AK-12 assault rifle was now the most important weapon in his small arsenal. It had a thirty-round magazine, a muzzle velocity of nearly three thousand feet per second, and an effective range of roughly a half mile. In the unlikely event a Dubna Militia scout discovered him, Delta would need to rely on the AK as his primary lifeline. Spraying rounds down the mountain’s north slope at his attackers would most likely buy him enough time to flee down the south slope. He hoped not to test the theory since he was outnumbered thirty thousand to one, but it was good to know he could keep his enemies at a safe distance as long as his ammunition held out. And more of that would be coming soon.

He holstered the MP-443, slung the AK over his shoulder, and checked his watch. Nearly five minutes had elapsed since the supply drop, which meant Holloway and his Marine buddies would soon be preparing the second shipment for delivery. The cargo would include ammo, a few more MREs, and the missile he would use to blow Burakov out of the sky if the opportunity presented itself.

A man could hope.

Everything was ready at the safe house when the drone appeared above the trees and returned to the exact spot from which it had lifted off eleven minutes earlier. As soon as Holloway shut down the rotors, Drummond began swapping out the batteries while Rigman attached a new cargo net. The second shipment included five additional thirty-round mags for the AK-12 as well as the partially disassembled 9K38 missile.

The rotors began turning again, and the drone lifted off for its next crucial flight. It rose above the tallest of the trees surrounding the cabin, banked southeast, and gathered speed. As before, the route of flight took the drone over the most heavily forested areas between the safe house and Delta’s position.

Holloway had chosen the route with some help from the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), the US agency responsible for operating the country’s spy satellites. The NRO’s chief contribution had been identifying the region’s few inhabited areas, thereby allowing the drone to navigate around locations where the risk of discovery would be highest.

Given the denseness of Lapland’s forest, it was unlikely someone on the ground would see the drone even if it passed directly overhead, but the extra bit of caution was prudent. It was impossible to know how many thousands or possibly millions of people would die if Delta’s mission failed.

Gusty winds caused the second flight to last twelve seconds longer than it should have, but once again the supply drop went smoothly. By the time Delta had returned to his hide and assembled the shoulder-fired missile, the drone was preparing to land at the safe house.

The puzzle was now missing only one important piece.

It was time for Ratmir Burakov to join his troops in the valley.

CHAPTER 40

HELSINKI, FINLAND - JULY 12

Secrets rarely remain secrets for long, even in a place as remote as Lapland. A Finnish businessman, unable to drive home from a meeting in Alakurtti, had angrily texted his wife.

The Kandalaksha-Alakurtti-Salla Highway is closed to all civilian traffic. A Russian military force is moving toward our border.

The man’s wife called the local police, who knew nothing about either the Russian highway or Russian troop movements. Then she called the local newspaper, whose editor phoned the Salla Border Station and asked for an official statement. When none was provided, he ran a brief story about “an unconfirmed report” in the newspaper’s online edition. By noon, word of a “major Russian military exercise” had spread throughout Finland, and people were demanding answers. Government officials refused to comment.

General Daan Virtanen, the top commander of Finland’s armed forces, paced back and forth inside President Alvar Huttunen’s office.

“People are frightened, Mr. President,” he said urgently. “The last time they saw this kind of so-called military exercise was just before the Russians invaded Ukraine, and everyone knows what came of that.”

“We will not respond unless the Russians cross our border,” Huttunen replied calmly. “I have explained to you that the situation is being monitored closely by our NATO allies, and that is good enough for the time being.”

“It may not be enough for the people, Mr. President. We’re already seeing anti-Russian protests throughout the country. Next, I believe, will come anti-government protests. Our citizens want us to do something.”

“And we will do something if we’re invaded, Daan. Until then, the people can vent their frustration or anger or fear in whatever reasonable way they choose. Finland is now, thank God, a NATO country. The Russians may well be crazy, but they are not fools. They will not invade.”

That was not what Huttunen actually believed, but he chose not to share his true assumptions with the general. He thought an invasion was, in fact, a strong possibility. And if the Russians under Burakov’s leadership crossed the border, NATO would respond with force. Of that he was certain.

Whether Finland would continue to exist if nuclear warheads began falling, however, was another matter altogether.

At almost the same moment President Huttunen was busy addressing his top general’s well-founded concerns, USCYBERCOM specialists in Fort Meade, Maryland, were in the final stages of hacking the microwave comms system that Delta had photographed. After identifying the hardware, they studied the known vulnerabilities that would give them access to Dubna Militia messages.

Although the device had once been suitable for military use, it had outlived its usefulness years earlier. The CYBERCOM team therefore had little trouble gaining control of the militia’s field communications and providing full access to Holloway. He was now the middleman between the militia’s regional command facility and the valley invasion force. He could monitor communications, alter messages if he chose to, or send new messages of his own.

Used judiciously, the new capability had the potential to create untold problems for the militia, and Holloway was more than ready to begin rattling Burakov’s cage.

At 2:00 p.m. local time he messaged Delta:

Ready to launch cyber op.

The one-word reply came seconds later:

Go.

Holloway entered the militia’s comms system and created what appeared to be a message from a loyal but anonymous officer at the valley encampment:

Senior officers here are plotting against Field Marshal Burakov. The situation is growing dangerous.

At the push of a button, the message was on its way to Burakov’s chief of staff, Colonel Yevgeny Menkov, at the regional command facility.

Five minutes later, Menkov handed Burakov a printed copy of the message and waited for the explosion he knew would follow.

“Who sent this?” Burakov screamed.

“It was sent anonymously,” Menkov said, “by someone who clearly has high-level access to the system.”

“And you can’t trace it?”

“Not without a technician’s help, sir. And I’m afraid that if anyone else sees this, the word will spread.”

“You’re right. We can’t risk that.” Burakov turned to the window and gazed at the forest. The scene was thoroughly peaceful, unlike the storm that raged inside his head. After a lengthy pause, he said, “It makes no sense that one of my generals would plot against me.”

“The message doesn’t specifically refer to the generals,” Menkov pointed out. “It’s possible, isn’t it, that some of the junior officers are troubled by the thought of invading Finland?”

“They should be troubled by the thought of being executed. And they will be executed, Menkov. I will pull the trigger myself.”

“But in the meantime, sir, the traitors are at the encampment, operating at will.”

And just like that, Menkov’s words caused Burakov to remember the brief exchange that had enraged him early the previous day. He had been meeting with his five generals when one of them, Luka Sidorov, had suggested that Burakov remain safely at the regional command facility instead of joining his troops in the valley.

He turned and stared at Menkov with hate-filled eyes. “Sidorov is behind this,” he muttered. “Only yesterday he suggested I stay here instead of commanding from the front lines.”

Menkov felt certain that Luka Sidorov was no traitor. On the contrary, the general had always seemed to be loyal to a fault. He was the one general who in Menkov’s view could be counted on to accompany Burakov through the gates of Hell if that was what was required of him. But Menkov was equally certain that when Burakov slipped into judge-jury-executioner mode, as he frequently did, disagreeing with him could prove fatal. So he put self-preservation ahead of his conscience.

“Sidorov is an ambitious man, sir.”

“Too ambitious for his own good, apparently. Tell my guards to be ready in thirty minutes. We’re going to the valley.”

“Would you not prefer to take the helicopter?” Menkov asked.

“I will arrive like a soldier,” Burakov snapped, “not like some prima donna politician who’s stopping by for a photo opportunity.”

“The highway will be quite slow because of the convoy.”

“Then you’ll arrange for the convoy to clear the roadway when my vehicle approaches.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“And have Sidorov arrested immediately,” Burakov said. “I want him to consider his sins while I’m on the way.”

He smiled as he walked off to pack his rucksack.

Putting a bullet in a traitor’s head would send just the right message to anyone else who foolishly believed that disloyalty was a viable option within the Dubna Militia.

CHAPTER 41

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 12

The Russian-built Tigr infantry mobility vehicle reached the valley encampment at 4:00 p.m. and proceeded directly to the headquarters building. Four anxious generals snapped to attention when the armored four-by-four stopped outside the building, and they saluted in unison as Burakov emerged from the vehicle behind his two bodyguards. He offered the generals a perfunctory salute and motioned for them to follow him into the steel building.

“Earlier today I learned that some of my trusted officers are plotting against me,” he said angrily once everyone was seated, “and I have good reason to believe the group’s leader is Luka Sidorov. A few minutes from now, I will give him an opportunity to convince me he is not a traitor. If you know of any other traitors in our midst, now is the time to give me their names.”

The generals knew of no traitors, naturally, because none existed except in Mack Holloway’s imagination. But it was clear to all four men that Burakov was not inviting them to debate the point with him. Accordingly, all four shook their heads convincingly but said nothing.

After studying each of their faces for an uncomfortably long time, Burakov said, “I’ll assume your silence means you have no other names for me. Good, then it seems we have caught this problem in time. In that case, I want you and all of your officers to assemble outside this building at 5:00 p.m. sharp and await my instructions.”

The generals wasted no time filing out of the building. Whatever discomfort they felt over Sidorov’s situation was far outweighed by the fact that Burakov had not accused all five of his generals. At least not yet. They went their separate ways and began telling their officers about the five-o’clock meeting.

Burakov summoned the senior member of his bodyguard detail and ordered him to fetch Sidorov from the tent where he was being detained. A few minutes later, the accused stood before Burakov with an armed guard on either side. Sidorov forced a weak smile, but his hands were trembling.

“Field Marshal Burakov,” he began, “inasmuch as I have done nothing wrong, I don’t understand why I was arrested earlier today. Surely this is a simple misunderstanding.”

“Some years ago,” Burakov replied, “Gennady Arsenyev wrongly decided that Russia’s maximum penalty for treason would be life in prison. Before you say anything else, I want you to know that prison is not an option within the Dubna Militia. My penalty for treason is death.”

The sixty-year-old general lost control of his bladder as soon as the word death passed Burakov’s lips. He had not had such an accident for at least fifty-seven years, but there he was standing in a puddle of his own making.

“Field Marshal Burakov, I have never had a treasonous thought, much less committed a treasonous act. I have been loyal to you and the Dubna Militia in every possible way.”

“And yet only yesterday you recommended that I not come here to be among my troops. You thought I should stay behind and let you and the other generals lead the invasion force.” He studied the pained expression on Sidorov’s face. “Was that because you believed me to be a coward, or was it because you were plotting to turn my troops against me?”

“Your life is worth ten of mine,” Sidorov pleaded, “and I didn’t want to see you in harm’s way. That’s the only reason I suggested you stay behind.”

“Cowards stay behind.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that, Field Marshal Burakov, and I apologize for the offense.”

Burakov prided himself on being able to read people’s innermost thoughts by assessing their body language as well as the sincerity or insincerity of their words. It was an ability that had enabled him to perform with distinction as both a spy and an assassin, and it was the primary reason he had become a Hero of the Russian Federation. His skill at separating fact from fiction and truth from lies was, in his view, his most precious gift by far, and it was a gift he never second-guessed.

He had decided Sidorov was a traitor. And that was that.

And if through some perverse miracle he was wrong for the first time, he knew that punishing Sidorov would go a long way toward curing whatever infectious disloyalty might be attempting to spread itself among his army.

“Your offense is treason, Sidorov, and no apology can undo it.” He turned to the senior guard. “Keep him here until five o’clock. Then bring him outside.”

“I am no traitor!” Sidorov screamed.

“And tape his mouth shut,” Burakov said over his shoulder. “I’ve heard enough from him.”

Delta watched with growing interest as a large group began forming outside the headquarters building shortly before 5:00 p.m. He suspected it might be linked to the message Holloway had planted inside the Dubna Militia system, but he had no way of confirming that. So he kept the binoculars trained on the group and his finger on the RECORD button so that he could capture video of any worthwhile activity.

He didn’t have to wait long. At five o’clock sharp the door opened, and two armed guards exited with a general whose hands were cuffed behind him and whose mouth was covered with silver tape. Delta videoed all that followed.

At 5:02 Burakov emerged from a wooded area north of the headquarters building and strode to the assembled group. Delta zoomed in first on Burakov, his field marshal’s epaulets reflecting the sunlight, and then on the four men who stood at the front of the group. All four were generals, and it appeared that all the troops behind them — at least one hundred of them — were officers of varying ranks.

Burakov pointed to the bound and gagged general standing behind him and began speaking, his face contorted with rage. Delta was unable to hear the words, but Burakov’s scarlet face and angry gestures made their meaning clear. The general had obviously committed some grave offense, and his punishment was about to become an object lesson for all the remaining officers.

The speech lasted forty-five seconds. Then Burakov motioned for the two guards to escort their prisoner away from the encampment. He also ordered one of his aides to capture what was coming on a video. “For the sake of posterity,” he said with a demented laugh.

Delta adjusted his position on the mountaintop so that he could follow the procession, but much of it was blocked by the tree canopy until the guards and the prisoner reached a clearing one hundred yards due east of the headquarters building. Then he had a clear view of what was about to take place.

Because the general was shaking so badly, he could no longer walk on his own and had to be half carried to the center of the clearing. When the guards released his upper arms, he fell to his knees on the damp earth with his face turned in Delta’s direction. His chest heaved wildly until Burakov stepped behind him and fired a single 9mm round into the back of his head. Burakov holstered his weapon and asked his aide to replay the video for him.

“Send a copy of this to the Kremlin,” he ordered. “I want our gutless president to see what justice looks like.” Then he grinned, said a few more words to the assembled officers, and walked back to the encampment, obviously pleased with his performance.

Delta wondered whether Burakov had been this casual about killing Trent and Beth Delaney, two brave Americans who had helped bring down the Berlin Wall.

Probably so. And Delta would be just as casual about killing Burakov if given the opportunity.

The last footage he captured through his binoculars was that of three soldiers digging a shallow grave. He immediately sent the full video to Holloway, along with a brief message:

Your email got fast results. Who’s the dead guy?

Five minutes later, having had the NSA run a close-up of the general through its facial-recognition system, Holloway sent a return message:

Luka Sidorov: former army colonel, business associate of Burakov’s father, and longtime Burakov supporter.

His reward for loyalty. Gotta love it.

He was always amazed by the short memories of despots, all of whom turned on their faithful for even the slightest infraction, real or imagined. Like Burakov, they relished having the power of life and death over their subjects.

There would be no public outcry over Luka Sidorov. Anyone who thought he had been mistreated would never say so out loud. They would keep their mouths shut or follow Sidorov to early graves.

CHAPTER 42

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 12

Arsenyev and his top advisors met at 11:00 p.m. in Moscow to consider the implications of Sidorov’s execution. One of the key attendees was Nikolai Kolchin, who headed the Ministry of Digital Development, Communications and Mass Media, better known outside of Russia as the Ministry of Propaganda.

Regardless of his official job description, Kolchin had only two actual duties. The first was to promote the cult of personality that had kept Arsenyev in power despite his epic leadership failures. The second was to keep Russians from thinking too much about the long and growing list of domestic problems that afflicted them.

The shining example of Kolchin’s efforts in the second category was the endless stream of propaganda about the country’s so-called mortal enemies, chiefly the United States and NATO. In Kolchin’s version of the story, the West was committed to wiping Russia and all its people from the face of the earth, the sooner the better. This fiction helped divert attention from domestic issues — things like food shortages, high inflation, and low wages — and toward a manufactured external threat. It was a tactic straight from George Orwell’s 1984, and it always delivered.

Arsenyev began the meeting by replaying the video he had received from an anonymous source. The men at the Kremlin conference table had already received their own copies, but Arsenyev wanted them to view it again as a group. Most of the officials had known and sometimes worked with Sidorov, and they squirmed as they saw him being led to a muddy clearing and put down like a rabid animal. Watching Sidorov’s execution was especially uncomfortable since they knew that Arsenyev’s enemies often met a similar fate. More to the point, they understood that any one of them could be next for whatever absurd non-reason the president chose.

“Sidorov was a simpering lapdog,” Arsenyev observed when the video ended. “Why would Burakov execute him?”

“Burakov is mentally ill,” said Defense Minister Arkady Popov, “as quickly became obvious when I met with him. And I believe this video will help us end his madness.”

“How so?” Arsenyev asked.

“By publicizing this video and showing the Russian people that their so-called hero is a criminal who has lost touch with reality. The people will turn against him, and we will be able to sit back and watch Burakov and his pathetic army of misfits get annihilated when they enter Finland. No one would expect you to intervene on behalf of someone like him.”

Arsenyev nodded thoughtfully. How nice it was to think of Burakov being vaporized by NATO warheads. That pleasant image dissipated, however, when Kolchin spoke up.

“Burakov may well be a madman,” he allowed, “but I’m afraid this video won’t help us get rid of him. If it is leaked to the public through social media, which is a distinct possibility, it will be labeled a fake.”

“Is it a fake?” Arsenyev demanded.

“My technical experts think not, Mr. President. But people will believe what they are told if the information comes from some online source they trust completely.”

“What type of source?”

“The one that comes to mind first is a blogger named Radical Truth. He has millions of followers, and he will almost certainly discredit the video if it is released. He causes us a great deal of trouble.”

“Who is he?”

“We don’t know, Mr. President. We have tried many times to identify him, but he is always beyond our reach. We can’t even be certain he operates inside Russia.”

Arsenyev’s eyes flashed with rage. “A lone blogger is capable of outwitting a government ministry with thousands of employees and billions of dollars in annual funding. Is that what you’re saying?”

The conference room was cool, but sweat began beading on Kolchin’s forehead. He imagined himself being ferried to a forest in the Moscow suburbs to have his brains blown out by one of Arsenyev’s henchmen.

“I assure you we will find him soon, Mr. President, and will deal with him. If you wish, we can shut him down altogether.”

Arsenyev glared but did not say that Kolchin was the one who might need to be shut down.

The men seated on either side of the propaganda chief nudged their chairs farther away from him. Nothing motivated Russian bureaucrats like the scent of death clinging to one of their own.

“Then it seems we’re stuck supporting Burakov if he carries through on his insane plan,” Arsenyev said. “If we can’t discredit him, we will have to join him. Are you preparing for that contingency, Popov?”

“Absolutely, Mr. President,” the defense minister assured him. “Give the word, and our bombers will take to the sky. The NATO forces based in Finland will be obliterated.”

When the meeting ended, Arsenyev noticed how Kolchin scurried from the conference room ahead of the others. Yes, he thought, the propaganda minister was a problem that required fixing.

CHAPTER 43

TEL AVIV, ISRAEL - JULY 13

Mossad Director Meisel was moderately alarmed when DNI Marsha Phillips called him on his private line at 10:00 a.m. It was only 3:00 a.m. in Washington, and he knew she would not be awake at that hour unless something potentially catastrophic was in the works.

“I’ll assume you’re not calling to say you miss me,” he said lightheartedly.

“I do miss you,” she replied, “but you’re right. That’s not why I’m calling. Our satellite imagery shows increased activity at Russia’s Olenya Air Base.”

“Which happens to be roughly ninety miles from the Finnish border. I know it well, Marsha. It’s home to several different Russian strategic bombers, one of which is the supersonic model that NATO calls the Blackjack.”

“Correct. There are more aircraft than usual, sixty-three to be precise, all of them apparently being prepped for near-term operations.”

“Then I suppose you and I agree that Arsenyev feels he has no choice but to support the Dubna Militia if Burakov orders his mercenaries into Finland.”

“We agree completely. The question now is at what point will Arsenyev send the bombers? Will he wait until the militia has actually crossed the border, or will he strike ahead of the invasion in order to soften up Finland’s local defenses?”

Meisel gave the question some thought before saying, “I can offer you a third possibility, Marsha. About forty miles south of Olenya Air Base, in the mountain town of Kirovsk, there’s a company that processes concentrated minerals used in fertilizer. I am pleased to report that the company is operated by a Mossad team we have had in place for quite some time.”

Phillips couldn’t keep from laughing. “You are a man of infinite surprises, Yitzhak. How did you pull off something like that?”

“Slowly and with the utmost secrecy,” he said. “This operation began about ten years ago and has gradually become more capable over time. Today it can certainly help us neutralize the threat posed by Olenya’s bomber fleet.”

Over the past year, he explained, the Mossad operators in Kirovsk had installed a total of one hundred and fifty compact Russian-built attack drones inside three forty-foot shipping containers. Each container was outfitted with a hydraulic roof that could be operated remotely prior to releasing its deadly drone swarm.

“How the heck did your team acquire that many Russian drones?”

“Some they purchased directly from corrupt Russian military officials. That’s never hard to do, of course. But most of them came by way of countries that routinely buy Russian equipment. Our agents in Pakistan, Panama, and Sudan had little trouble obtaining as many as they needed for the right price.”

“So tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking that with Prime Minister Chazan’s approval, we can release a drone swarm that will reach Olenya in a half hour or less. Such a strike will cause massive damage to a large number of those Russian bombers, especially if they’re in the process of being refueled.” He paused for a moment. “Sixty-three bombers and one hundred and fifty drones armed with high-explosive warheads. That gives us more than two warheads for each bomber. I like the odds.”

“As do I, Yitzhak. But what about your people in Kirovsk?”

“Given the steps that Travis is about to take,” he said, “I decided to have my Mossad operatives fly from Murmansk Airport to Helsinki yesterday. They are out of harm’s way and can return to Israel if we decide to attack Olenya.”

Phillips considered the facts Meisel had presented to her. Taking the Russian bombers out of action would definitely reduce Arsenyev’s ability to provide tactical support to Burakov’s invasion force. But if Russia traced the attack to Israel, the US might find itself embroiled in a whole new conflict.

“If Arsenyev finds out Mossad was behind such an attack,” she said, “he will almost certainly retaliate against Israel, and the United States would quickly become involved. How confident are you that this operation wouldn’t come back to bite us?”

“All members of the Mossad team are Russian citizens with absolutely no traceable ties to Israel. After the attack,” he noted, “any investigation will end up attributing the operation to a coalition of Russian extremist groups whose goal is to end Arsenyev’s dictatorship.”

She liked the answer. “Give me a few hours to get President Thompson’s sign-off.”

“Absolutely. In the meantime, I’ll do the same with Prime Minister Chazan, who will almost certainly be open to the idea. Whatever makes Arsenyev miserable makes Chazan happy.”

The Israeli prime minister and the US president signed off on the op without reservation, and at 2:00 p.m. in Tel Aviv Meisel ordered the release of the gigantic drone swarm. A technician at a keyboard deep inside Mossad headquarters opened the roofs of the three shipping containers in Kirovsk, then sent the signal that began the launch sequence. One hundred and fifty drones, each armed with a seven-pound warhead, lifted off and sped north at one hundred miles per hour.

Because the route of flight took the swarm over one of Russia’s most sparsely populated regions, detection from the ground was only a minor risk. And even if someone noticed the swarm as it flashed overhead, the operation would almost certainly succeed anyway. By the time an alert could be sounded and then acted upon at Olenya Air Base, the drones would be tearing the Russian bombers apart.

Prior to launch, each drone had been assigned the precise GPS coordinates of a specific Russian bomber, as determined by the latest US satellite imagery. Most of the planes would be hit by two drones, a few by three. Unless the aircraft had been moved during the short time it took for the drones to reach Olenya Air Base — something Meisel considered logistically impossible — every bomber would be disabled or destroyed, depending upon the precise detonation point and the amount of fuel and types of munitions on board. One way or the other, the bomber fleet would be in no shape to pave the way for Burakov’s troops to march through Finland.

After leaving their secret roost in the Khibiny Mountains, the AI-guided drones dove to treetop level and skirted the eastern shore of Lake Permusozero before sweeping in over the air base from the southwest. All one hundred and fifty of them struck their assigned targets within ten seconds of each other. The ground personnel who weren’t killed instantly when the aircraft and fuel trucks exploded could do nothing except sprint to a safe distance and tremble at the sight of the widening inferno.

The Russian Air Force had tasted defeat before, but nothing came even close to the devastation wrought by the drone attack on Olenya Air Base.

This was a day no Russian airman would ever forget.

CHAPTER 44

MOSCOW, RUSSIA - JULY 13

At 2:48 p.m. Defense Minister Arkady Popov took an urgent call from Colonel General Mikhail Dolgov, commander in chief of the Russian Aerospace Forces. The news was grim. More than half the bombers stationed at Olenya Air Base had been reduced to scrap, and the remainder had suffered structural damage that, in the absolute best case, would take many months to repair. Beyond that, thirty-two ground personnel had been killed and more than one hundred had been seriously wounded.

“How could you allow such a thing to happen?” Popov screamed.

And then his heart began skipping beats when a conversation from six months earlier bubbled up from deep inside his brain. He remembered that Dolgov had sent him a formal request for funds to upgrade the air defense system at Olenya Air Base, specifically to help guard against drone attacks. Popov had called the request frivolous, arguing that the base was too remote to be at risk from enemy drones.

He had summarily denied the request, but not before calling Dolgov a fool for having submitted it.

Now he was frantic. As soon as he ended the call, he would have his secretary purge the files of that accursed funding request. Yes, that should be enough. In the absence of hard evidence, his word would surely outweigh Dolgov’s. He would dodge this bullet.

“The president asked me the same question a few minutes ago, Comrade Minister,” Dolgov replied coolly.

Popov felt his stomach churning. “He called you?”

“No, Comrade Minister. Inasmuch as he is the supreme commander in chief, I reported the incident to him before I called you.”

“When he asked why the drone strike had succeeded, what did you tell him?”

“Only the truth, Comrade Minister. I told him that on January 11 of this year I pleaded for funding so that we could equip Olenya Air Base with a system that would have thwarted such an attack. As you may recall,” Dolgov said somewhat gleefully, “you denied that request as frivolous.”

Popov slammed the phone down, leaned over his wastebasket, and lost his entire fine lunch. Caviar on blini, seared sea bass, and crème brûlée with fresh berries. All of it mingled with discarded documents and coffee cups.

As he wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief, he heard sirens outside his office at the National Defense Management Center in Moscow. From the window he saw two black SUVs stop outside the main entrance. Four men in dark suits marched with purpose from the vehicles to the building. As they did so, one of them looked up and seemed to sneer when he saw the defense minister observing the activity from his office.

Popov grabbed the window ledge with shaking hands, aware that his legs were growing weaker and might not keep him upright. He had just become a two-time loser in Arsenyev’s eyes. He had failed to talk Burakov out of invading Finland, and he had second-guessed a three-star general about necessary defensive systems at one of the country’s most important air bases. Either misstep would have been enough to incur the president’s wrath. Together, however, they would without question cost him his job. Or worse.

Worst case, he told himself, would be a brief, secret trial followed by a long stay at Lefortovo Prison. At least his wife and mistress would be able to see him upon occasion. But would either of them wish to do so after he had been stripped of his lofty government position, social status, and wealth? He thought not.

Three minutes later the four men, all FSB agents with pistols at their hips, opened the office door without knocking. As they filed in, the senior man flashed his credentials and motioned for Popov to join them.

“You will be coming with us, Minister Popov.”

“But I have done nothing wrong,” Popov protested.

“We’re not here to judge. We are here to escort you.”

“Escort me where?”

“Wherever we want,” the man fired back, “and we can take you there conscious or unconscious, as you wish.”

Popov chose to leave under his own power.

Defense ministry staffers looked up from their desks and then quickly averted their eyes as the agents herded the big boss through the hallway to the elevator. The disgraced minister threw his shoulders back and held his head high, hoping the impromptu parade looked like something other than an arrest. But his countenance, that of a mouse in the presence of four ravenous cats, told the story.

No one seemed surprised, let alone unhappy, that Popov’s day of reckoning had finally arrived. He was known throughout the organization as a slacker whose best work had been on his own behalf when negotiating bribes from defense contractors. If asked, almost everyone would gladly testify against him, but that would hardly be necessary. He had already been found guilty by the only person in Russia whose opinion mattered.

“I demand to know where you’re taking me,” Popov griped from the back seat of the first SUV as it sped away from the ministry building. There were no interior handles, and a thick mesh screen separated him from the two men up front. It was horribly unlike his cozy staff car with the drawer that held a chilled bottle of vodka.

“It would appear you are in no position to demand anything of anyone,” the man in the front passenger seat said abruptly. “You’ll learn the location when we reach it and not before.”

The SUV carrying Popov left the highway eighteen minutes later with the second SUV close behind. For the next forty minutes the SUVs followed a maze of country roads that led deep into a pine forest northwest of Moscow. The lead SUV finally turned onto a narrow dirt road that was almost fully hidden within dark undergrowth. The second SUV parked at the road’s entrance to prevent unwanted visitors from intruding upon this important government work.

The first SUV stopped one hundred yards down the dirt road when it encountered a heavy chain stretched across the road between two steel posts. The agent in the front passenger seat got out, unlocked the chain, and dropped it to the ground before climbing into the vehicle once again.

“What is this place?” Popov asked from the back seat, his voice quavering. But he already knew. Every Russian had heard rumors of places where unpleasant things happened to undesirable people. Though the precise definition of undesirable changed without warning according to Arsenyev’s mood, Popov understood that the destruction of the Olenya bomber fleet had made him a nonentity.

“This is a restful place, Comrade Minister,” the driver said. Then he grinned and added, “Some might call it a resting place.”

“This is a protected area,” the partner chimed in. “No one will bother you here. Not ever.”

“I have money,” Popov whimpered. “I can make both of you rich if you help me.”

“Bribing FSB agents is a serious crime, Comrade Minister,” the driver said, “as is accepting bribes. I think my colleague and I will pass on your kind but illegal offer.”

“I have done nothing wrong,” Popov pleaded. “This is a terrible mistake. A misunderstanding.”

“If your name is Arkady Popov and you are the defense minister,” the second agent said, “this is no mistake. You are the person we were asked to escort to this place, and we have done so.”

The SUV stopped near the edge of a gentle stream that meandered through the forest. The two agents left the vehicle, unlocked the rear doors, and yanked Popov out by his feet while he clawed at the seat cushion. He hit the ground hard enough to have the wind knocked out of him.

“It’s a lovely spot, don’t you think?” the driver asked. “I can think of worse places to spend some time.”

“Or eternity, for that matter,” his partner joked.

Tears rolled down Popov’s face, and he sobbed as the two agents pulled him upright and led him around a lush juniper thicket. Behind the thicket, in a tiny clearing among the pines, an FSB crew had already dug a deep grave. A pair of shovels rested atop the dirt mound.

“Climb in, Comrade Minister,” the driver ordered. “Let’s see if they got the size right.”

When Popov refused, the agents picked him up by his upper arms and flung him into the hole. He landed facedown in the damp soil. As he pushed himself to his knees, each agent put two 9mm rounds in his head.

“I hate this part,” the driver said, picking up a shovel. “I don’t like getting dirt on my shoes and pants.”

“It could be worse,” his partner said with a wry smile. “You could be the one having dirt thrown on him.”

His attempt at humor fell flat.

In Russia, anyone could be the next person to occupy a lonely woodland grave.

CHAPTER 45

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 13

Delta was disappointed when Holloway reported that the video of Sidorov’s execution had been dismissed as a fake, but he was not hugely surprised. He was well aware that AI videos had become indistinguishable from the real thing and that it wouldn’t be long before people lost all faith in any alleged event they didn’t witness live. Photographs and videos were on their way to becoming utterly irrelevant in cyberspace.

Despite that failure, he was cautiously optimistic that the destruction of the bomber fleet at Olenya might delay or completely end the Dubna Militia’s invasion plan. Burakov was deranged, but he wasn’t an idiot. He had to realize that without those bombers, Arsenyev would find it virtually impossible to provide the level of support the militia required.

Russian fighter jets alone would not be able to neutralize the Finnish troops and their NATO allies. Drones and cruise missiles could do some damage, of course, but only Russian bombers could deliver a precise knockout blow. And most of those bombers were now headed for the scrap heap.

Would Arsenyev be crazy enough to use nuclear weapons? Delta didn’t think so. Once nuclear missiles began flying, both Russia and the United States could be reduced to ash. No one would win, except perhaps China, which could watch in amusement while its two greatest rivals destroyed each other.

Thinking about nuclear war always motivated Delta to push himself to the limit, and sometimes — too many times — over it. He believed that if he and his Snakeriver colleagues did their jobs well enough, the United States would never have to fight a nuclear war no one could win. By eliminating the worst madmen one by one, he and the other Snakeriver operators greatly reduced the risk of a world war.

But he was a realist. Men like Arsenyev and Burakov, as grotesque as they might be, always had even worse potential successors lined up behind them. The risk of war would never disappear as long as humans occupied the planet.

Delta likened his job to playing Whack-A-Mole on a global scale. An endless supply of enemies popped up randomly in an infinite number of places, and even the most sophisticated intelligence apparatuses were unable to identify and track all the future targets. So you simply did the best you could. You dealt with today’s targets and hoped that some combination of the CIA, FBI, DIA, NSA, and all the other three-letter agencies could spot tomorrow’s targets as they emerged.

He was glad to know that Marsha Phillips held the reins of America’s intelligence operation. As director of national intelligence, she kept all the agencies working together instead of sniping at each other, as they had often done in prior years. Her leadership had also won renewed confidence from President Thompson, who no longer questioned the information he received from his intelligence agencies. When Phillips signed off on the intelligence product, Thompson took action. The days of second-guessing the CIA and FBI were gone.

Delta viewed Phillips’s personal relationship with Meisel as an extremely fortunate plus. The combined resources of the DNI and the Mossad director were well ahead of anything Russia or China could match. But there was more. Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, France’s Directorate General for External Security, and the intelligence units of other NATO countries were working more closely than ever before to keep vital information flowing among the world’s major democracies. Everyone had confidence in Phillips, and she never disappointed those who believed in her.

He could easily imagine Phillips running the entire country as president. No prospective candidate he could think of came remotely close to matching her smarts, experience, managerial skills, and work ethic. But would she be willing to keep her personal life on hold for the sake of occupying the Oval Office? And if she did, would her effectiveness be sabotaged by politicians who were more interested in advancing their own party than in solving America’s most urgent problems?

He couldn’t answer those questions. All he knew was that if she ran for office, he would vote for her. In the meantime, he would complete the task she had given him and use any means necessary to stop Ratmir Burakov from plunging the world into darkness.

He was lost in thoughts of politics and war when he heard two deep voices approaching from the plateau’s southern edge. Peering through the shrubbery, he spotted two men in full camo, both with ancient TOZ-17 small-game rifles slung over their shoulders. Because hunting was prohibited in western Russia during July, he assumed the men belonged to one of Russia’s thousands of quasi-official local militias. If so, there was a good chance these two were hopeful of joining Burakov’s crew. And what better way to gain an admission ticket than by capturing or killing an American infiltrator?

Whatever their intentions, they were walking straight toward his hide and were about to become a huge problem. Shooting them was out of the question. Even suppressed, the Glock 20 was loud enough to be heard in the encampment below. That meant going hand to hand with two oversized opponents whose fighting skills were a flashing red unknown.

Delta made himself as small as he could behind a scrawny juniper shrub, but he wasn’t small enough. When the wide-eyed man on the right began fumbling for his rifle, Delta exploded from the bushes, covering fifteen feet in two strides. He slammed his elbow into the man’s throat, crushing it with a single, well-placed strike, and immediately pivoted to the second man. The man didn’t have time to unsling and level the rifle, but he had more than enough time to pull a Medved hunting knife from a belt sheath. The eight-inch steel blade glistened in the sunlight as the man lunged for Delta’s midsection.

Delta barely managed to sidestep the attack, and the knife sliced through his jacket with little more than a whisper, missing his abs by a quarter of an inch. As he prepared to counterattack, the man spun toward him and grinned.

“Ya tebya zazhivo sderu kozhu,” he hissed. I’m going to skin you alive. The man stood six four, weighed well over two hundred pounds, and seemed highly capable of delivering on his threat.

Delta didn’t understand all the words, but the dangerous glow from his opponent’s eyes filled in the blanks. Only one of them would leave the plateau alive.

The man lunged again, but this time instead of sidestepping, Delta moved closer, parried the knife thrust inward, and locked the attacker’s wrist and upper arm. The rest was physics influenced by a lifetime of judo practice. He executed a textbook hip throw, landed with full force on his opponent’s chest, and steered the tip of the hunting knife into his exposed throat. One quick side-to-side blade swipe had the man bleeding out on the ground.

Delta dragged the two bodies into the bushes as far from his hide as possible, then covered them with a thin layer of soil he scraped from the ground with the second man’s knife. It wasn’t an ideal solution, but it would suffice. He planned to be long gone by the time the bodies began attracting flies.

CHAPTER 46

MOSCOW, RUSSIA - JULY 13

Shortly after 5:00 p.m. Colonel General Mikhail Dolgov, commander in chief of the Russian Aerospace Forces, took his seat across the desk from Arsenyev. He had witnessed the president’s tantrums several times, but never when alone with him in his grand Kremlin office. Other men, those senior to Dolgov, had been the object of Arsenyev’s wrath on those previous occasions.

Most of those men were still alive, either in lesser government positions or in prison cells. The others? Well, they had vanished the way one’s breath briefly appeared and then disappeared on a winter’s day. No one dared ask where the missing men had gone. They were absent, and that was all anyone needed to know. Asking questions in Moscow was a fool’s game.

“How much will the lost and damaged aircraft cost us?” Arsenyev demanded, his face as red as the bowl of borscht he had enjoyed at lunchtime.

Dolgov hoped the president was about to have a fatal stroke, but he knew that such wonderful things happened only in fairy tales.

“The destroyed bombers will cost at least seven billion dollars to replace, Mr. President. Repairing the damaged ones will cost at least another billion.” Dolgov paused for a deep breath. “As terrible as the cost is, the greater issue is the time it will take to replace the Tu-160s. All but five of our supersonic bombers were at Olenya, and they were reduced to rubble.”

“How long?”

“Standard production time is at least three years, Mr. President.”

Arsenyev glared. “I want them sooner.”

“You will have them sooner, Mr. President,” Dolgov lied. But his lie didn’t matter. He felt certain that either he or Arsenyev would be dead long before delivery of the new aircraft was expected. It would most likely be him, but there was always a chance Arsenyev would catch a fatal virus or, even better, stop a bullet with his forehead.

Arsenyev abruptly changed the subject. “Tell me who attacked Olenya Air Base.”

“All I can say with certainty, Mr. President, is that the drones were manufactured in Russia. We will have to rely on the intelligence services to identify the attacker.”

“They were all Russian drones?”

“Yes, Mr. President. More than one hundred of them.”

Arsenyev’s jaw tightened. “Who could possibly acquire more than one hundred of our own drones without being noticed? This seems impossible to me.”

“And to me as well, Mr. President. I must assume that someone at the manufacturing facility was involved, most likely someone sympathetic to a domestic terrorist organization.”

“You don’t believe another country was involved?”

“It doesn’t seem likely, Mr. President, but I trust that our intelligence agencies will learn the truth.”

Arsenyev’s secretary knocked once on the door, opened it, and said, “It’s the call you have been waiting for, Mr. President.”

He nodded and waved her away before picking up the phone.

“You have good news, I assume?” he asked the caller.

The FSB director gave Arsenyev the news of Arkady Popov’s untimely passing. The president smiled as he hung up, pleased to have one less incompetent person on his staff.

He turned back to Dolgov. “You are now the defense minister. Do a better job than your predecessor.”

“Of course, Mr. President. Thank you for your confidence in me.”

What Dolgov actually wanted to say was, Thank you for this promotion from Hell. He saw no way that serving as defense minister at this moment in Russia’s history would do anything but get him killed, sooner rather than later.

He briefly wondered whether he could start a new life in America if he somehow managed to sneak out of Russia. Money would be no problem. Defense contractors, including the one that produced the drones used in the Olenya attack, had paid handsomely for his loyalty to their products. But getting out of the country alive could be a challenge.

“I assume Popov briefed you on our Dubna Militia problem,” Arsenyev said.

“Yes, Mr. President. It’s unfortunate that Burakov is putting us in this position.”

“Unfortunate and unforgivable. Burakov will pay for this eventually, but for the moment all I can do is clean up his mess once he marches into Finland.”

“Doing so will not be easy without our bombers, Mr. President, but we will do what we have to do.” Dolgov paused for a moment, then added, “Of course, tactical nuclear weapons would be useful if NATO pushes back too aggressively.”

Arsenyev drummed his fingers on the desk while considering Dolgov’s idea. He would be willing to order the use of small nuclear devices, up to perhaps ten kilotons, if he could be assured that doing so would not lead directly to a NATO counterstrike involving eight-hundred-kiloton strategic weapons. Since the use of nuclear weapons came without assurances of any kind, he was inclined to rule out the idea for now.

“Plan to use fighter jets and drones,” he said. “If that’s not enough, I will consider the nuclear option.”

“I will have our fighter squadrons on full alert by tomorrow morning, Mr. President.”

As Dolgov left the meeting, he recalled how the president had promoted his fair-haired boy, Burakov, over so many more deserving military officers. But that was how things worked inside the Kremlin. If your father was an oligarch capable of lining Arsenyev’s pockets, you found yourself on an extremely fast track no matter what your profession or competence level. It was a woefully misguided approach to government, and Russia was about to pay the price for Arsenyev’s short-sightedness.

Naturally, when it all went wrong, as it was likely to, someone other than the president always took the blame. Dolgov was smart enough to realize that he had just become the prime candidate.

He thought about his distant relatives living in Brooklyn, New York, in a place called Brighton Beach, often referred to as Little Russia. Tonight he would think seriously about joining them.

Better to be alive in Brooklyn than dead in Moscow.

CHAPTER 47

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 14

Burakov woke early from a fitful sleep. News of the bomber fleet’s destruction had been a gut punch the previous afternoon, and he had spent most of the night weighing his options.

He understood how dangerous it would be to invade Finland after Arsenyev’s ability to provide bomber support had just been reduced by ninety percent or more. His goal was to conquer Europe, not commit suicide.

At the same time, though, he was deeply concerned over the alleged plot for which he had executed Sidorov. If some of his troops were, in fact, hoping to overthrow him, delaying the invasion would play right into their hands.

His soldiers had too much time on their hands. Too much time to think. Too much time to listen to what traitors might be whispering in their ears. What they needed right now was blood on their hands. Once they began destroying their enemies on the battlefield, they would forget about everything else. They were warriors, not academicians, and they craved action.

So, yes, the invasion would proceed as planned. Arsenyev would still have no choice but to lend his support. Precisely how he did so was the president’s problem.

Burakov dressed quickly, left his tent, and visited each of his four remaining generals in turn, having decided that one-on-one sessions would be more impactful than a group meeting. Over the next hour, as he went from tent to tent, he spoke and his generals listened. He told them that Arsenyev would join the battle with so many fighter jets, drones, and cruise missiles that the catastrophe at Olenya Air Base would have no effect on the outcome.

Without mentioning his paranoia over the rumored plot, he impressed upon his generals the importance of acting quickly. Arsenyev, he told them, had been acting like a defanged Siberian tiger ever since Finland had joined NATO. Unless the president was forced into action, he insisted, Russia would forfeit all hope of remaining a global power.

“Our invasion will be the critical first step in restoring the Motherland to its rightful place,” he told them. “No longer will we be forced to grovel before the leaders of the decadent West. Instead, we will be what we once were: the most powerful empire on Earth.”

Whatever reservations the generals might have had about launching the invasion were left unspoken. Having seen Sidorov’s brain splashed across a weed-strewn field, they were unwilling to do anything other than agree with their leader. Maybe he was delusional. Maybe he was flat-out crazy. But without question he was homicidal. The generals had no desire to follow in Sidorov’s footsteps.

When Burakov announced that the invasion would begin on July 16, each of the generals vowed that the soldiers under his command would be ready. They would fight for Mother Russia and cover themselves in glory. No one, not even NATO, would stop them. This was their destiny.

They told Burakov exactly what he wanted to hear.

Fortunately for them, he could not read their minds.

After consuming a large sausage omelet and half a loaf of black bread at one of the mess tents, Burakov went to the comms center and delivered a rousing thirty-minute speech that was broadcast throughout the encampment on speakers that had been hung from trees. His core message was that the United States and its NATO puppets were determined to bring Russia to its knees. Because economic sanctions had failed to achieve that goal, the enemy would soon turn to military options.

“Comrades, it is a question of when, not whether, the NATO assault will begin,” he assured them. “Yet even as our enemies finalize their battle plans, our faint-hearted leaders in Moscow wring their hands and fantasize about a solution that requires no bold action on their part.

“So you and I will take that action, demonstrating to both NATO and the Kremlin footdragger that the bravest among us will not stand by and watch our great nation destroyed. Let the blood of our enemies nourish the new Russian Empire that you and I will create.”

Raucous cheers echoed throughout the camp when he finished speaking. His generals might consider him unhinged, but Burakov’s heavily armed troops couldn’t wait for the slaughter to begin. They were ready to kill for him, for Russia, and for any other reason they could think of. There were commendations to be had and extra combat pay to be earned.

Before returning to his quarters, Burakov ordered one of his aides to have his helicopter flown to the camp from the regional command facility. He had complete faith in his troops, and he was certain Arsenyev would join the battle once the invasion began. But only a foolish man would fail to hedge his bets, and Burakov had never been mistaken for a fool.

If things went sideways, he and his private chopper would be long gone from this place.

Delta watched from the mountaintop as the Dubna Militia troops celebrated whatever message had just been broadcast throughout the camp. Although he was too far away to hear the actual words that had been delivered, he could tell from the exuberant response that it had been a success.

He assumed that Burakov had just delivered the sort of motivational speech that commanders had been giving for thousands of years to put their troops in a killing mood. If he was right, the Dubna Militia fighters would soon be marching into battle despite the absence of effective air support. It would be a suicide mission, of course, but it would serve Burakov’s narrow purpose.

As far as Delta could tell, Burakov’s only goal was to provoke NATO, even if it meant losing thirty thousand soldiers in the first battle. In the war that followed, Russia would triumph over the West, or so Burakov believed. In that case, donating thirty thousand lives to the cause was acceptable.

Forty minutes later, a Russian-built Mi-38 helicopter swooped in from the east, hovered above a clearing not far from the headquarters building, and gently settled to the ground. When the rotors stopped turning, a pilot and copilot exited and walked toward the center of the encampment.

Delta’s spirits instantly rose a few notches. No passengers had arrived. That meant the helicopter had come to carry someone away. If luck was with him, that someone was Ratmir Burakov.

He could dream, anyway.

CHAPTER 48

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 14

All day long and well into the evening, Delta studied the valley from his lofty vantage point, and twice he saw Burakov walk from the woods to the headquarters building. Yet he still didn’t know the exact location of Burakov’s tent, which was hidden within a stand of enormous old-growth pines and spruce.

Given the frantic activity throughout the encampment, Delta could tell that final preparations for the invasion were underway. Without a doubt, the clock was ticking toward war. But at the moment, the only way a killer drone could reach Burakov was if he happened to be in the headquarters building since that was the only place with known GPS coordinates. Unfortunately, Burakov and his generals spent little time there, so the probability of an effective strike was unacceptably low.

The ideal option would be attacking Burakov during the early morning hours while he slept in his tent. To do that, however, Holloway needed precise targeting data. The Lancet-3 drone was a small device with a warhead that weighed just under seven pounds. A direct hit would absolutely get the job done. But missing the tent by even a few yards could easily allow Burakov to escape unharmed.

At 11:00 p.m., when most of Burakov’s soldiers were in their sleeping bags for the night, Delta began hiking down the mountain’s west slope. Remaining hidden among the trees and shrubs required him to move much more slowly than he wanted, but he had no choice. The midnight sun transformed what should have been a relatively low-risk op into a remarkably dangerous one. All he could do was remain vigilant and blend in with his natural surroundings to the best of his ability.

A greater challenge awaited him within the camp. Although he looked the part of a Dubna Militia soldier, from his phony camo uniform to his boots to the Russian weapons he carried, he could not speak the part. Even an innocent encounter with one of Burakov’s troops might reveal him to be an imposter. His survival would depend on whatever facial expressions, body language, and stock Russian phrases he could muster in order to remain hidden in plain sight.

This wasn’t the most dangerous action he had ever taken, but he figured it ranked among the top five.

He reached the valley floor in twenty minutes, turned to the north, and walked casually toward a group of tents located in a particularly shady area of the forest. Shade wasn’t nearly as helpful as full darkness, but it was better than nothing. He would learn fairly quickly whether it was enough.

As he drew closer, he noticed two men smoking and chatting outside one of the tents. They glanced in his direction, and he made a show of zipping up his fly, as though he had just relieved himself in the woods. He looked at them and raised his hand slightly in a friendly half wave. One of the men nodded, then both of them resumed their conversation while Delta kept walking toward the heart of the encampment.

His was just one more face among thirty thousand others.

Few men were outside their tents at this hour, and those he passed either ignored him completely or simply raised their chins to acknowledge his presence. The day had been long, and the hour was late. No one was in the mood for small talk with a stranger, even one who was a fellow soldier.

He reached the headquarters building five minutes after entering the camp and double-checked the building’s GPS coordinates on his satellite phone. Then he moved on to the densely wooded area where he thought he might find Burakov’s quarters. He immediately spotted a footpath that wound its way through the trees, and he followed it for thirty yards to a clearing occupied by a tent much larger than any of those he had already passed. If the tent’s size wasn’t enough of a clue that this was Burakov’s private domain, the hefty guard dozing in a camp chair outside the tent’s entrance sealed the deal.

Delta was now no more than ten yards from the center of Burakov’s tent, and he didn’t need to get closer. After recording the GPS coordinates of his present position, he used his binoculars to find the precise range to Burakov’s home away from home. Once Holloway had the data, he would be able to arrange for Burakov to have a close encounter with the Lancet-3’s warhead.

His night’s op nearly complete, Delta turned toward the mountain when he heard the gruff command from behind.

“Ty! Stoy!” You! Stop!

The guard had apparently not been dozing after all, and Delta could practically feel the crosshairs on his back. He put his hands up and wobbled slightly as though drunk when he heard the guard approach.

“Povernis!” the soldier ordered.

Delta’s limited Russian vocabulary happened not to include the word for turn around, but he assumed the guard wanted to see his face. He turned slowly in case he had guessed wrong. The man was Delta’s height but outweighed him by at least forty pounds, and he looked as though he couldn’t wait to pull the trigger.

“Slishkom mnogo vodki,” Delta said, slurring the words and swaying from side to side. Too much vodka. It was one of the first Russian phrases he had learned because it applied to every Russian male he had ever met.

The guard grinned. “U tebya yest’ vodka?” he asked. You have vodka?

Guessing that his adversary was thirsty for something more palatable than treated camp water, Delta pointed unsteadily to the cargo pocket on his left thigh. The slight bulge could easily have been a small vodka bottle instead of the first aid kit Delta was carrying, and the guard took the bait. He lowered the assault rifle and leaned in to reach for the cargo pocket with his right hand.

Kill or disable? Delta asked himself. Both options were readily available from this distance. He could apply a guillotine choke, yank his forearm up sharply, and snap the guy’s cervical vertebrae. That would most likely kill him instantly. Or he could push the guard’s head down with both hands while simultaneously delivering a rising knee strike to the face. In that case, the soldier’s nose would require reconstructive surgery, but he would live to tell the tale.

The decision came instantly. Killing the guard could lead to a widespread manhunt for an infiltrator. Letting him live would merely point the finger at an unidentified drunken comrade.

The instant the guard began unzipping the cargo pocket, Delta grabbed the guy’s head with both hands and drove it down into a knee that was rising with one thousand pounds of force, or roughly half the power he was capable of generating. The guard went limp and collapsed facedown on the pine needles that littered the path. Delta relieved him of his assault rifle and sidearm, tossing both of them deep into the undergrowth.

When Delta reached the headquarters building, he turned west so that he would avoid any soldiers he had seen earlier. Maybe they would remember him, and maybe they wouldn’t. He wasn’t willing to gamble.

After reaching the camp’s western perimeter, he resumed stealth mode, moving nimbly among the trees and shrubs as he made his way back to the mountain. When he reached his campsite just before midnight, he noticed the excitement down below. The guard must have recovered from the knee to the face and alerted everyone to the assault. Burakov was probably awake and out of his tent by now, angry as a hornet. There was no way the drone attack could take place tonight.

Exhausted after a long day and his close encounter with the armed guard, Delta tackled one last chore before crashing in his sleeping bag. He sent Holloway the GPS coordinates for Burakov’s tent along with a short message:

Have the bird ready to fly tomorrow.

Whether Burakov died in his tent or in the headquarters building remained to be seen.

One way or the other, though, justice would be done.

CHAPTER 49

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 15

At 6:00 a.m. Delta awoke to the distant rumble of a half dozen fifteen-ton artillery vehicles as they approached the encampment. These versatile and lethal machines fired huge 120mm mortars, had a top speed of fifty miles per hour under the right conditions, and could readily pave the way for Dubna Militia troops once they began streaming across the border.

The arrival of the armored vehicles reinforced Delta’s conviction that the invasion of Finland was imminent. He snapped a few photos and sent them to Holloway. If the mission to kill Burakov failed and an invasion began, at least the photos would help NATO forces devise an appropriate defense.

He was eating a breakfast MRE of granola with blueberries when he noticed activity near the militia headquarters building. A squad of eight heavily armed soldiers took positions in the clearing, and a few minutes later Burakov’s four generals arrived on foot. After they entered the building, one of the soldiers closed the door and stood guard in front of it.

These new precautions were undoubtedly being taken because of the beatdown Burakov’s personal guard had received the previous night. Delta was pleased to know he had succeeded in fueling a little extra paranoia among the militia’s leadership. The more time Burakov and his generals spent thinking about a potential rebellion within the ranks, the less time they would have to orchestrate the planned invasion.

Ten minutes later the self-appointed field marshal walked onto the scene, flanked by his two bodyguards. The soldier manning the door opened it for Burakov, stepped aside, and saluted. Burakov casually returned the salute and went inside to meet with his generals. The ten security troops, fingers near the triggers of their assault rifles, surrounded the building and trained their eyes on the adjoining woods.

Delta immediately texted Holloway:

Burakov and the generals inside the HQ. Bird ready to fly?

The return message arrived fifteen seconds later:

Ready. Say when.

Although Delta’s mission was to eliminate Burakov, he wasn’t going to forfeit an opportunity to get rid of the four generals at the same time. If they died, there would be no one left to lead an invasion in Burakov’s absence, assuming anyone wanted to do so.

He typed Launch now and was about to push the SEND button when a powerful explosion sent flames shooting nearly fifty feet into the sky only a hundred yards north of the headquarters building. Burakov sprang from the doorway seconds later, followed by the four generals. The five top dogs were quickly surrounded by their loyal soldiers and rushed to safety.

The perfect opportunity to wipe out the Dubna Militia leadership had vanished in a heartbeat.

Delta changed the message:

Large explosion north of HQ building. Burakov and generals fled.

An attack?

No clue, Mack.

This was a puzzle.

While Delta and Holloway were trading brief messages, one of the camp’s many mess tents was burning furiously. A soldier picking up his breakfast had mentioned a strong gas-like odor, and shortly thereafter one of the cooks had found the cause. A poorly maintained hose on a large propane tank had begun leaking fuel, and the cook found it just as a massive fireball erupted in his face.

The resulting inferno quickly raised the tank’s internal temperature beyond the failure point. When the tank ruptured, its steel shell was instantaneously transformed into four hundred pounds of shrapnel, all of it moving at supersonic speed. Two cooks and eight other soldiers died within seconds, looking as though they had been ravaged by machine-gun fire. Twenty-six other soldiers ran from the tent, several of them engulfed in flames.

Fifteen minutes later, Holloway sent Delta a message after intercepting a Dubna Militia email:

Propane tank explosion in mess tent. Ten dead, many wounded.

Delta was delighted to learn that a few more mercenaries had been removed from the playing field, but Burakov, the most important player of all, was still in the game.

If that didn’t change soon, the world might never be the same.

CHAPTER 50

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 15

Delta monitored the headquarters building nonstop following the propane tank explosion, but Burakov and his generals never returned. This didn’t surprise him. He assumed Burakov had grown increasingly wary after hearing rumors of a rebellion, and the beating his guard had suffered the previous night would have done nothing to calm his nerves. No doubt the explosion had momentarily pushed him over the edge, causing him to believe the revolt against his authority had begun.

Delta was delighted to imagine the self-styled field marshal scurrying from the headquarters building like a frightened mouse and cowering among his guards. But if that was what had happened, Burakov was apparently now overcompensating for his embarrassing behavior by moving up the invasion schedule.

It was clear to Delta that final preparations for the invasion were underway. Soldiers spent all afternoon and evening inspecting their weapons and stockpiling ammo. Officers were out in force, making the rounds and no doubt lecturing their troops on battle tactics, the rules of engagement, and the joy of sacrificing their lives for Mother Russia. And all the armored vehicles, the ones meant to obliterate the first ranks of Finnish defenders, were lined up and ready to roll to the Kandalaksha-Alakurtti-Salla Highway.

Delta had no doubt whatsoever that the invasion would begin the following morning and that July 16 was destined to be a day the human race would never forget and perhaps not even survive.

Unless he completed his mission.

He had only one remaining move, and he took it seven minutes before midnight. His message to Holloway read:

Recommend targeting Burakov’s tent at 1:00 a.m. Could be our last chance.

Roger. Bird arrives at 1:00.

An eerie calm enfolded Delta like a warm blanket on a winter’s night. He had done everything he could, and the moment of truth was little more than an hour away. Burakov would live or die. The invasion would or would not begin. World War III would or would not destroy humankind.

As the minutes counted down to zero hour, Delta eyed the Igla shoulder-fired missile and thought of Tom and Jennifer Delaney, whose lives Burakov had snuffed out with the same sort of weapon. His parents had always been heroes in his eyes. They were honest, humble, hardworking people who taught him to respect others and always strive to do the right thing, no matter how inconvenient or difficult it might be.

He had carried their lessons in his heart long before learning of their service to their country. Now that he knew what they had accomplished, always behind the scenes and without fanfare, he wished even more that he could use the Igla to repay Burakov’s treachery and to close the loop after all these years.

But it wasn’t meant to be. He would have to be satisfied watching the flames and smoke rise above the treetops as Burakov was blown to hell by the Lancet drone.

CHAPTER 51

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 16

At 12:53 a.m. Holloway and his two Marine buddies placed the five-foot-long Lancet-3 drone on its catapult, pressed the launch button, and sent the UAV on its way to Burakov’s tent. Traveling at its programmed speed of fifty miles per hour, the device would cover the six-mile journey in seven minutes, give or take a few seconds, depending upon winds aloft.

If he chose to, Holloway could monitor the entire flight by accessing the drone’s onboard camera, but that wouldn’t be necessary for tonight’s mission. The Lancet-3’s electro-optical guidance system would navigate to the exact coordinates Delta had provided, briefly loiter in a tight circular pattern at two thousand feet, then gradually descend to its attack altitude of five hundred feet. At that point it would dive silently toward its target at nearly two hundred miles per hour. Two seconds later it would slam into the floor of Burakov’s tent with enough force to shred everyone and everything inside.

The warhead’s fifty-foot blast radius would assure lethality. That much was certain. The only open question was whether Burakov’s men would be able to identify his remains once he had been torn apart by jagged shrapnel and incinerated by flaming wreckage that had been heated to nearly five thousand degrees. In all likelihood, the mortuary crew would need tweezers and magnifying glasses to collect his charred remnants.

Eino Järvinen was driving his logging truck north from Hanhikangas to Tuohikylä on Finnish Regional Road 965 when he saw the strange object pass overhead from west to east. It was a narrow tube with two sets of X-shaped wings. His two sons were drone enthusiasts, and he had seen recreational drones before. But he had never seen one quite like this. He would tell them about it when he got home early in the morning.

The only other person to see the drone after it had been launched was Delta. At first it was no more than a speck low on the horizon, two miles away and closing at moderate speed. When it got within one mile, he could tell that it was the Lancet-3, and his heart rate began to accelerate. Earth’s future was riding on how well the drone performed.

Finally, he watched in awe as the Lancet-3 lowered itself to five hundred feet and began its terminal descent, falling from the sky like the hammer of God. Flames erupted from the valley floor, and the one-hundred-and-seventy-decibel blast reached Delta half a second later. He wasn’t able to see ground zero because of the trees surrounding Burakov’s quarters, but the thick, black smoke rising from the forest told him the drone had done its job.

He messaged Holloway:

Plenty of flames and smoke.

Roger. Here’s hoping.

Now all Delta could do was wait impatiently to find out whether the Burakov threat had finally been canceled.

The explosion shook the ground beneath Burakov’s feet. He was no more than eighty yards from his tent when the missile struck, and he watched in horror as his quarters disappeared in a bright white flash. The guard who had been stationed outside the tent collapsed in a bloody heap, his body shredded by shrapnel.

Burakov had left his tent only ten minutes earlier, unable to sleep and hoping some fresh air would help settle his nerves. The impending invasion was uppermost in his mind, naturally, but he still couldn’t shake the idea that some of his officers might still be plotting against him. The pressure had become almost unbearable.

Now this.

He was frozen in place for a few long moments before he could get his brain and his feet communicating again. Then he ran for the pilots’ tent and began screaming.

“Get the helicopter ready! We’re leaving!”

The copilot continued to snore, but the pilot managed a garbled, “What the hell’s wrong?”

“We’re under attack, dammit! Move.”

The pilot pulled his boots on, shook the copilot awake, and sprinted for the helo. Burakov and the groggy copilot were still nearly sixty yards away when the pilot had the rotors turning.

CHAPTER 52

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 16

Delta remembered whacking a wasp’s nest with a broom handle as a kid, provoking a memorably painful response. The drone strike on Burakov’s tent generated a similar frenzied reaction, only this time it came from thirty thousand armed troops instead of a hundred venomous insects.

Soldiers streamed from their tents, weapons in hand, while officers struggled to restore order to the uncontrolled chaos. Some of the troops rushed to the camp’s perimeter and began firing wildly at anything that moved, mostly pine branches swaying in the wind. Others converged on the smoking hole that had once been their leader’s tent. When they got there, they looked at each other in dismay, certain they should do something but not knowing what that something was.

But most of the men stood aimlessly outside their tents, waiting for orders. They had been hired, after all, to pull triggers, not to express independent thought.

Observing the bedlam from above, Delta had no way of knowing whether the drone strike had killed Burakov. Although the frantic activity was a positive sign, it was hardly conclusive. He still needed confirmation. He got it when he noticed the rotors turning on Burakov’s VIP helicopter.

Quickly training his binoculars on the cockpit, he saw the pilot alone in the left seat, rushing through his preflight checklist. Forty yards away, running clumsily toward the helo through the weedy field, were Burakov and the shoeless copilot. Behind them were several dozen troops, all desperate to help their field marshal reach the helicopter safely and perhaps even hitch a ride.

Delta estimated that liftoff was only thirty seconds away. That gave him more than enough time to do what needed doing. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and picked up the 9K38 Igla shoulder-fired missile. Both his heart and his head told him that this was how the mission was meant to end.

A long, complex sequence of events that had been spread over his entire lifetime had brought him to this exact moment on this exact day. This was how everything was meant to go.

He was no philosopher, but he nevertheless found it curious that life has a way of bringing things full circle. Twenty years earlier Burakov had used an Igla missile to kill Delta’s parents. Tonight Delta would kill Burakov with the same device. Whether that was dumb luck, divine intervention, or something else completely, he didn’t know. But he was fully prepared to close the loop.

He watched as the copilot helped Burakov into the passenger cabin, slammed the door shut, and scrambled into the cockpit. The pilot gestured angrily to his copilot. They were under attack. Time was short. They needed to get the bird on its way to the Dubna Militia Regional Command Facility in Alakurtti.

The rotors came up to full speed, and the ten-ton aircraft shuddered slightly as it began rising from the ground. Delta aimed the launcher at the Mi-38’s two powerful turboshaft engines and listened for the missile’s audio tone, indicating that the infrared seeker had locked on to the heat signature.

He squeezed the gripstock trigger when the helo reached an altitude of roughly two hundred feet, and the missile screamed after its target at Mach 2, or about ten times faster than the Mi-38’s top speed. The Igla’s solid-fuel rocket motor closed the distance in under three seconds.

A proximity fuse detonated the missile’s high-explosive warhead when it was six feet from its target, blasting hypersonic shrapnel through both engines, the passenger cabin, and the tail rotor. Catastrophically disabled, the helo would have tumbled to the ground had the fuel tanks not ruptured. But they did, and the fireball that filled the sky left no doubt that Ratmir Burakov would not be rising phoenix-like from the ashes.

Delta had no time to admire his handiwork because the Igla had one significant built-in flaw: a dark-gray smoke trail that led from the downed helicopter directly to the mountaintop launch site. Hundreds of militiamen were already running in his direction, and if he lost this race, he would die badly. He had known from the beginning that his escape would require a mad dash toward Finland, and it was finally time to get his feet moving.

It took him only twenty seconds to yank off his boots and replace them with the trail shoes he had worn while masquerading as German hiker Albrecht Hoffmann. Working in his favor was the mountain’s south slope, which was steeper than any black diamond trail he had ever skied. He figured he could get to the bottom in four minutes or less if he ran like a wild man. In that case, he would be long gone by the time Dubna Militia troops could reach him.

Unfortunately, the south slope’s steepness was also his enemy, one only slightly less dangerous than the troops who wanted to kill him. A stumble or fall that caused a twisted or broken ankle would put him at the mercy of his pursuers.

But it was a risk he had to take.

He grabbed his backpack, stuffed as it was with debris that could identify him as an American operator, and slung it over his shoulders. Then he ran as he had never run before. He sprinted to the plateau’s south edge and leapt onto the slope.

It was like jumping out of an airplane without a parachute, except that the ground came up a lot faster.

CHAPTER 53

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 16

Most of the militia officers gathered numbly around the smoldering wreckage of Burakov’s helicopter. The four generals were off to the side, muttering among themselves, fully aware that their large paychecks had just vanished. Having signed on with Burakov more to get rich than to wage war, they had already decided that invading Finland was out of the question. Marching into a NATO country had been the field marshal’s reckless idea, not theirs.

The troops under their command, however, had not yet considered the financial implications of Burakov’s death. They were too angry to think, and at least three hundred of them raced toward the mountain, ready to kill whoever had launched the missile whose dark trail lingered above the launch site. Dozens of them began running up the north slope, soon grew exhausted, and trudged the rest of the way.

Once they reached the plateau, they fanned out and soon found the remnants of Delta’s camp. There was the tarp that had served as a simple lean-to, a collection of empty plastic Volzhanka water bottles, and, most notably, the Igla launcher. The ground surrounding the lean-to gave clear evidence of having been heavily used by one or more people for some time. Whoever had killed Burakov had been there for days, not hours.

The soldiers asked each other how an intruder could have gone unnoticed for so long, and it didn’t take much for them to imagine a traitor in their midst. Surely, they thought, the assassin must have had inside help.

Hundreds of other soldiers decided not to rush up the slope. Instead, they ran around the mountain’s base, some to the west and some to the east, hoping to surround the escaping assassin. But theirs was a lost cause. The men who ran west had to cover a mile and a half before reaching the bottom of the south slope, and those who ran east had to cover more than three miles because of the mountain’s irregular dimensions. There was no chance they would intercept someone who had charged downhill at top speed.

Unless, of course, that person stumbled.

Which Delta was about to do.

After leaping onto the plateau’s south slope, Delta went airborne for three full seconds, covering nearly twenty-four feet during his solo flight. Because the mountainside was so steep, he overshot his target by a wide margin. Instead of landing in an area of stubby mountain grasses, he came down in a dense crowberry thicket that grabbed at his ankles and caused him to lose his balance.

Rather than fight gravity and possibly make a bad situation worse, he instinctively launched himself into a forward somersault, rotated in midair, and landed on his feet in full stride. It was a move he hoped never to attempt again, especially under combat conditions, but it worked. Instead of twisting or breaking an ankle, he was able to continue running, slaloming among the shrubs, rocks, and trees like the ski racer he had been as a kid growing up in Montana.

He made it to the base in under four minutes, well ahead of the pursuing troops. Now he had to reach Finland, four miles to the west, but he didn’t dare go there directly. He assumed that some of his pursuers were already heading to the border under the assumption that Burakov’s killer might be a NATO operative eager to exit enemy territory.

That meant he had to flee south until he believed it was safe to turn toward the Finnish border. By his rough calculation, a five-mile detour should be sufficient. He wasn’t sure what he would find ahead of him, but he knew what was behind him.

After pausing momentarily to tighten the laces on his trail shoes, he began running.

CHAPTER 54

FOUR MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 16

Five Dubna Militia soldiers crowded into a Russian-built UAZ Hunter four-by-four and sped west from the encampment, hoping to intercept Burakov’s killer before he could reach the Finnish border. Although some of their comrades were certain the assassin was a Russian dissident, these five were just as certain they were after a NATO infiltrator.

They would find him, skin him, and leave his remains for one of the many wolf packs that roamed this part of Russia.

But first they had to survive the short journey to the border. The UAZ Hunter was designed for combat, not luxury touring, and the ride was predictably rough. It didn’t help that the driver had to weave his way among countless trees over terrain littered with fallen branches, large rocks, and tangled shrubs. As the vehicle bounced through the forest, it spent nearly as much time in the air as it did on the ground, but the driver seemed not to notice.

He was not merely hungry for blood. He was also moderately drunk, having consumed his customary tumbler of vodka before going to bed a few hours earlier. How could he have known he would need to be awake and sober by 1:00 a.m.?

The SUV had been inexpertly remodeled by the time it reached the border, which sat inside a wide, treeless, relatively flat neutral zone that separated Russia and Finland. Both headlights were smashed, the passenger-side mirror was dangling from its mount, and half the windshield was missing. But the travel conditions improved dramatically.

Glad to be on a smooth surface once again, the driver floored the Hunter and rocketed south. He had his eyes trained on the distance, desperate to spot the NATO enemy or enemies who had blown Burakov’s helicopter from the sky. Too late, his front passenger screamed something about a bump in the road that turned out to be much more. What stretched before the Hunter was a natural ridge eighteen inches high and nine feet wide. It was the sort of obstacle that might have caused problems even if the SUV had been moving slowly. But because the Hunter was moving at eighty miles per hour, it had no chance of surviving the collision.

The front tires blew out on impact, and the SUV rose skyward. Because the soldiers had neglected to fasten their seat belts, all five were thrown violently into the steel ceiling. The driver got the worst of it, suffering a broken neck and dying almost instantly. Then as the vehicle rolled to its right during its brief flight, the front passenger fell from his open window just in time for all four thousand pounds of steel to land on top of his chest.

The three men from the back seat were still attempting to extricate themselves from the mangled SUV when they smelled the gasoline fumes. The soldier who had been smoking saw his smoldering cigarette lying alongside the driver’s seat. He reached forward and managed to get his fingertips on it just as the concentrated fuel vapor and the glowing ember combined to create an explosion that scattered the SUV and its occupants across the landscape.

Delta heard the explosion and concluded it was nothing to worry about since it was far behind him and to the west. So he kept running, laser-focused on the hundreds of troops who were coming after him. Some of them were undoubtedly younger and faster than him, but this was going to be a distance race, not a sprint. And, fortunately, he could run forever, especially when his life was on the line. If he had to run forty miles or more, he knew he could do it.

At the same time he didn’t think that escaping Russia would require a marathon. He figured that if he ran south for about five miles, he would be well ahead of his pursuers. At that point he could make his way to the border and the welcome safety of a NATO country.

Covering five miles at a brisk pace ordinarily wouldn’t have been a problem for him. But having studied satellite images of the region before entering Russia, he knew he had a slew of obstacles ahead. There were streams, rivers, lakes, mountains, and even an occasional inhabitant between him and Finland. In other words, there were plenty of ways for his escape to go wrong.

But the rugged terrain was more a blessing than a curse because it would almost certainly prevent militia vehicles from following him. A helicopter, well, that could definitely be a problem. But he wasn’t going to worry about a Kamov Ka-52 gunship unless one appeared on the horizon. Until then, his sole job was to set a proper balance between caution and speed, then execute flawlessly.

Business as usual, in other words.

When he looked over his shoulder and saw no one behind him, he dropped his pace slightly and reached for the satellite phone in his tactical vest. It was time to update Holloway on his location and plans. Unfortunately, the snap button on the vest’s radio pouch was open, and the phone was missing.

He assumed that the phone had fallen out of the pouch during his impromptu somersault on the mountainside and was now lying within the ornery crowberry shrub. But the phone’s current location was of no interest to him since he couldn’t backtrack and search for it.

Delta was no stranger to setbacks, of course, but losing his only means of communicating with Holloway was a setback that he knew could prove fatal. At the same time, though, he was keenly aware that worrying about dying wouldn’t keep him alive. So he did the only thing he could.

He picked up his pace.

CHAPTER 55

THE SNAKERIVER SAFE HOUSE, FINLAND - JULY 16

Holloway’s mood swings had been agonizing. First there was the huge disappointment of failing to kill Burakov with the Lancet-3 suicide drone. Then came the Dubna Militia message intercept and the fabulous news that Burakov had been killed when a missile downed his helicopter.

Now, there was a dreadful silence. Delta was incommunicado.

Was he running for his life, or had he already been captured and killed? Holloway had no idea, but he suddenly imagined what it would be like picking up the phone and telling Olivia Zumwald that her husband had died while preventing World War III. Liv would understand that Delta had sacrificed his life in order to save millions of others, but that wouldn’t lessen her pain. Not now, not ever.

Even worse for Holloway was the knowledge that he was responsible for sending Delta on what almost any rational person would realize had been a suicide mission. One man against thirty thousand? Inside Russia? With no extraction support? Insane. He never should have been allowed to take on such a task.

Sure, Delta could have said no. But Holloway and Phillips had known he would say yes. That was because he always said yes whenever he weighed his own life against those who could be saved if he achieved his goal. That was how he was built. He had been that way as a SEAL and throughout his Snakeriver career, and it was how he would be until the day he died.

Was today that day? Or would Delta once again find a way to beat the odds?

“We just got new satellite imagery,” said Chad Drummond, one of the two Marines stationed with Holloway at the safe house. “There are a couple of fires burning outside the Dubna Militia camp. One is definitely Burakov’s helicopter, and the other appears to be what’s left of a Russian four-by-four.”

Holloway walked over to the computer screen. “Show me the four-by-four.”

Drummond pointed. “It’s right here in the neutral zone a few miles west of the camp.”

A chill ran through Holloway’s body. It occurred to him that Delta might have commandeered the four-by-four to speed his escape. If so, he would have driven to the Finnish border. Was that what he had done, only to be taken out by an RPG before reaching safety?

“Any sign of life?” Holloway asked.

Drummond shook his head. “All I see is one charred body partially covered by the vehicle.”

Holloway studied the image for a full minute but could not determine whether the body in question belonged to Delta. All he knew for sure was that a message from Delta was long overdue. If he had escaped, surely he would have been in contact by now. That meant he was probably dead.

“Any chance we can get a NATO surveillance drone overhead?” Jesse Rigman asked.

Holloway considered the idea. He knew that NATO operated a small UAV fleet to monitor the Russian border from inside Finland. The RQ‑4D Phoenix, manufactured by Northrop Grumman, was one of the most advanced drones available.

“It’s a reasonable thought,” he said, “but sending a drone to the area right now would essentially confirm NATO’s involvement, and that could easily provoke the war we’re trying to avoid.” He turned to Drummond. “What was the last known location of Delta’s satellite phone?”

“The top of the mountain. That was right after he reported the Lancet-3 strike. For security reasons, he always turned the phone off after exchanging messages.”

“No way to locate it when it’s off?”

“Negative.”

Holloway shook his head in something approaching despair and left the cabin. He stood outside, alone with his anguish, and faced east, staring at the distant sky. Somewhere out there, only a few miles beyond the Finnish border, his top operator and close friend might be struggling to stay alive. And there was nothing anyone could do to help him.

Delta might already be dead, of course, and at the moment that seemed to be the likeliest possibility.

Holloway hated being helpless, but there he was because the mission demanded absolute anonymity. No matter what the cost, he had to distance NATO from Burakov’s death. Would the Russians suspect NATO’s involvement? Yes, of course. But attempting to rescue a man who might already be dead would confirm their suspicion and practically force Arsenyev to respond. There was simply no way the Russian people would allow Burakov’s death to go unpunished if they knew he had been killed by a NATO assassin.

So there was nothing to do but wait. Until Holloway saw Delta’s lifeless body, he would assume his man was out there in the Russian wilderness doing what he did so well: staying alive against insurmountable odds.

Faint hope, Holloway told himself, was better than none.

CHAPTER 56

SOUTH OF THE DUBNA MILITIA ENCAMPMENT - JULY 16

After fleeing the mountain, Delta covered the next two miles in thirteen minutes flat, an exceptional time considering the abysmal running conditions. He had to navigate the forest on a surface that was better suited to reindeer than humans. The ground was littered with pine needles, branches, and fallen logs, and each stride was a sprained ankle waiting to happen.

At least the trail shoes gave him a clear advantage over the Dubna Militia troops, who were no doubt wearing heavy boots. He estimated that the fastest of his pursuers would be at least three minutes slower than him over two miles. The rest of the men, probably ninety-nine percent of them, would be five or six minutes slower.

He liked knowing that the farther he ran, the fewer troops he would have to contend with if they caught up with him. By his estimate, once he had covered five or six miles, his pursuers would be lucky to have three men within striking distance. And it would take more than double that number to make him nervous.

A minute later he came within a hundred yards of the river that would be the first of his most serious terrain challenges, and he quickly caught the water’s rich, earthy scent. The closer he got, the stronger the odor became, and he began to grow uneasy as he considered the likeliest cause. Soaking rains had fallen throughout the region lately, and countless mountainside trickles had combined, causing the river to flood its banks. As the water level rose, the river’s flow would have drawn tons of decaying matter into the stream — leaves, twigs, topsoil, and maybe an animal carcass or two.

Like any former SEAL, he was a strong swimmer, but a raging river was not what he needed. So he was pleasantly surprised when he broke free of the trees and reached the soggy riverbank. The river was indeed swollen and running relatively fast, but this section of it was no more than thirty feet wide. That shouldn’t be a problem.

What he didn’t know, though, was the river’s depth, not that it truly mattered. Whether the water was six feet deep or sixty, he could drown if he got sucked under. To help prevent that from happening, he flung his backpack and his assault rifle to the far shore, both items clearing the water by a safe distance. He wished he could do the same with his tactical vest, but it was just about the least aerodynamic object imaginable and would never reach the opposite shore. So he waded into the water still wearing it, hoping he wouldn’t sink like a stone.

Then he began swimming, remembering those rugged SEAL training days when mental and physical exhaustion had brought him near the breaking point. He hadn’t quit then, and he wasn’t going to quit now.

Rather than fight his way directly across the current, he swam with the flow, working his way downstream and gradually angling toward the far shore. The tactical vest, uniform, and trail shoes made the effort more challenging than he would have liked, but after traveling no more than fifteen yards, he was able to scramble onto the muddy riverbank.

After retrieving his backpack and rifle, he pointed himself south and began running again. The Finnish border was no more than five miles to the west, but he believed it was still too soon to turn toward it. The smarter move was to continue south for another few miles, putting more distance between himself and the militia troops before racing to safety.

He had a lot of running ahead of him, but he was confident the most dangerous part of his escape was over.

Brothers Afanasy and Matvey Lobanov, both in their late thirties, rumbled off-road through the forest in one of the first VAZ-2329 pickups ever built, a rusted-out 1995 model with a poorly maintained 84 HP engine. From a distance the thing sounded like a crude military vehicle, perhaps an old Soviet UAZ-469. When Delta heard it coming up from behind, he slipped into a willow thicket and readied his rifle.

He had no idea how a militia four-by-four had made it past the river, but the point was moot. The vehicle was coming and needed to be dealt with.

Delta watched with great interest as the pickup came to a stop in a small clearing twenty yards from his position and two men climbed down from the passenger cabin. The driver, Afanasy, stood about five nine and weighed little more than a hundred pounds. His brother, Matvey, was a shade taller and only slightly heavier. Both looked as though they hadn’t eaten a decent meal for months. They were outfitted in threadbare camo suits and carried vintage bolt-action hunting rifles that Delta suspected were for hunting game, not people. But that didn’t make the weapons less of a threat.

The brothers were snickering at something one of them had said when Delta stepped from the thicket with his assault rifle aimed at Matvey’s chest.

He shouted one of the few commands available from his limited Russian vocabulary. “Bros’te oruzhiye!” Drop your weapons!

What Delta saw in their eyes was desperate fear, not anger, suggesting that these two were local poachers who believed they had just run afoul of a wildlife agent. Delta’s finger on the trigger of an AK-12 had them shaking, and they dropped their rifles to the forest floor without debate.

“Pozhaluysta, ne strelyayte,” Afanasy said, his voice quivering. Please, don’t shoot.

Delta understood the first two words, please and don’t, and easily guessed the third. These guys were hoping not to be killed by a ruthless government enforcer. He motioned them away from their battered pickup, and they complied without hesitation. Then he looked in the truck bed and, sure enough, saw a large moose cow, its carcass still warm to the touch. Given how nervous the men were, Delta assumed they had shot the moose out of season.

Afanasy teared up and said, “Nashi sem’i golodny.” Our families are hungry.

The only word Delta recognized was hungry, and his eyes told him everything else he needed to know. These were two starving men who were struggling to survive and maybe feed wives and children as well.

He turned to them, pointed at the ground, and said, “Vniz.” Down.

Suspecting they were about to be executed, both men pleaded with him as they knelt, but they quieted down the instant he put his finger to his mouth. He picked up their rifles, unloaded them, and stuffed the bullets in his tactical vest. After tossing the empty rifles into the truck bed, he searched the pickup’s cabin, making sure the men had no additional weapons or ammo.

He studied the men’s faces for a moment and had an idea. He motioned for Matvey to climb into the truck bed and sit next to the dead moose. Then he went around to the passenger side, slid inside the vehicle, and motioned with his pistol for Afanasy to get behind the wheel. Then he issued a simple command: “Yug.” South.

If Afanasy noticed that Delta was a man of extremely few words, he didn’t let on. Staying alive was all he cared about. He started the engine, put the pickup in gear, and drove off slowly, expertly avoiding whatever trees, gullies, and mountains got in their way.

A mile south of the clearing, Afanasy intercepted a narrow dirt road and was about to follow it when Delta waved him to the right, back into the forest, and said, “Net, syuda.” No, this way. After they had traveled another half mile or so through the woods, Delta pointed south, and Afanasy obediently turned the vehicle.

Twenty minutes later they reached a lake that Delta had seen on the satellite images. He put his hand up, and Afanasy stopped fifty yards from the shoreline. The lake was relatively small, no more than five hundred feet across at its widest point and a half mile long. It was one of several lakes in the area, all of them connected to an unnamed river that flowed gently between Russia and Finland. If memory served him correctly, he was now only three miles from the border.

Afanasy and Matvey had unwittingly saved him at least five miles of hard running, so Delta decided to gamble on human nature and return the favor. He got out of the vehicle and motioned for Matvey to climb down from the truck bed and get into the cabin’s passenger seat. Once Matvey was in place, Delta handed him a wad of five-thousand-ruble notes he no longer needed. Then he slammed the door shut and shouted, “Idi domoy!” Go home!

The stunned brothers didn’t need a second invitation. Afanasy threw the pickup in gear, hit the gas, and sped north into the woods. Delta waited until the truck’s noise finally vanished in the distance, then opened his backpack and verified his position with the GPS feature on his binoculars. He was only three miles from the Finnish border, and it was time he got back to business.

He began running west, ready to learn what sort of Finnish welcome awaited an armed man who wore a muddy Dubna Militia uniform and carried no ID.

CHAPTER 57

TWO MILES EAST OF THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 16

Delta remained in the woods and followed the river west as he ran. The forest floor was pleasantly flat in this area, and he had little trouble working his way around the thickets that spread among the pines.

He made excellent time until he came to a narrow north-south gravel road. After making sure no vehicles were approaching, he sprinted across the road and back into the sheltering trees. But after covering another hundred yards, he heard a child crying somewhere ahead of him. He immediately lowered himself to the ground and crept through the undergrowth until he was close enough to see a large dome tent set within a clearing no more than forty feet from the riverbank.

He glanced at his watch and shook his head. He had anticipated encountering all sorts of obstacles while escaping Russia, but a crying child at 3:00 a.m. in this remote part of Russia had not even come close to making the list.

A young mother emerged from the tent and began pacing back and forth with a small girl in her arms. Delta was hardly an expert when it came to guessing children’s ages, but this one appeared to be no more than two, and she was apparently recovering from a bad dream. A moment later, the father left the tent and spoke softly to his daughter. She reached for him, and he smiled as he welcomed her into his arms.

Delta weighed his options. He began by assuming the young couple had a cell phone and might call for help if they saw a heavily armed, mud-covered man roaming the woods. Could he reach the Finnish border before the local police arrived? Probably. But it was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

An even more chilling possibility was that the young father had a weapon inside the tent and would try to use it. Since there was no way Delta would shoot a man who was out enjoying nature with his wife and child, he was left with only one option. He had to detour around the campsite before continuing his journey to the border.

To his right was a steep hill that he could climb or hike around. But either choice would prolong his stay inside hostile territory and give his pursuers time to catch up. To his left was the river, which passed directly in front of the campsite.

He made up his mind quickly. The river was the faster route by far. As long as he remained underwater while passing the young couple and their child, he would escape unnoticed. And since the river would rinse the mud off his uniform while he swam, he considered the move a win-win.

The husband and wife were still outside the tent, tending to their daughter, when Delta crawled to the river and silently slid in up to his neck. The water wasn’t the coldest he had ever endured, but at fifty degrees it was uncomfortably chilly. He took several long, deep breaths, then went fully under and began breaststroking his way downstream. His powerful strokes and the strong current combined to get him moving at top speed almost immediately despite being weighed down by the cumbersome backpack, assault rifle, and uniform.

After fifteen seconds of swimming, he estimated he was in front of the campsite and almost home free. That was when the single-point sling on his rifle looped around the thick branch of a submerged log. He was jerked to a stop and barely held on to the rifle as the current drove him forward. At first he tried to work the sling free with his outstretched arms. When that failed, he gave up and began pulling himself hand over hand to the branch. He reached it as his lungs furiously protested having been without additional oxygen for two full minutes.

He wrapped his right arm around the log and tried lifting the tangled sling over the branch with his left, but that didn’t work either. Finally, after being submerged for two and a half minutes, he pulled the tactical knife from its sheath, cut through the sling with a single swipe, and continued swimming downstream. During his SEAL days he had succeeded in holding his breath for four and a half minutes, but that was in ideal conditions under the watchful eye of an instructor. This time, thanks to the heavy exertion and cold water, he lasted only three and a half minutes, but it was enough to carry him to safety.

When he finally lifted his face from the water and sucked in fresh air, he was surrounded by woods and was at least twenty yards past the campsite. Best of all, he still had his rifle, the only weapon that might save his butt if he were hunted down by Dubna Militia troops.

He climbed out of the river, made his way into the trees once again, and ran. His soggy shoes, clothes, and backpack made the effort feel as though he were running in molasses, but he pushed on.

In two more miles he would reach freedom and whatever welcome awaited him.

CHAPTER 58

THE FINNISH BORDER - JULY 16

Delta ran for fourteen minutes and reached what he hoped was the Finnish border at 3:27 a.m. He didn’t know for sure because in this remote, densely forested spot there was no fence, no gated border crossing, and no helpful signs marking the end of one country and the beginning of another. Those things might come in the future, depending upon relations between Russia and Finland, but that day was a long way off.

This was no time for guesswork, of course. If Russian border guards grabbed him on the wrong side of the border, Delta could spend the rest of his life wasting away in a prison where Americans had no chance of surviving.

He pulled the tactical binoculars from his backpack in order to check the coordinates, but the GPS feature hadn’t survived its extended river bath. So he kept running west through the pristine forest, hoping to stumble upon a country home filled with friendly Finns.

He stopped abruptly two minutes later when an angry voice shouted, “Pysähtyä tai tulla ammutuksi!” Stop or be shot.

Delta didn’t know a single Finnish word, but the man’s tone of voice indicated he had not offered a warm welcome to his beloved homeland. So Delta did the sensible thing. He tossed the rifle aside, shrugged the backpack off his shoulders, and lowered himself to his knees, hands raised well above him.

Four young Finnish border guards in camouflage uniforms emerged from the woods and surrounded him. They were armed with RK 95 TP assault rifles and seemed fully prepared to use them. One of the guards picked up Delta’s Russian-made rifle, examined it briefly, and nodded to the others. They were certain they had captured a Russian soldier who had been foolish enough to infiltrate their country.

“American,” Delta said before anyone could ask questions he wouldn’t be able to understand. “NATO.”

The men looked at each other and began laughing. If this guy was American, they thought, they were Chinese.

A moment later the patrol was joined by a slightly older man wearing what Delta recognized as an officer’s rank. “Mitä olet löytänyt?” he asked the guards. What have you found?

“Venäläinen sotilas, joka väittää olevansa Amerikkalainen,” one of the men answered. A Russian soldier who says he’s American.

The only word that sounded remotely familiar to Delta was Amerikkalainen, and he seized on it.

“Yes, I’m an American,” he told the officer. “My name is Travis Delta.”

The officer eyed the infiltrator’s unshaven face and scruffy uniform. After what seemed an eternity, he reached into his left pants pocket and removed a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it slowly and examined it at length.

“What state do you live in?” he finally asked in flawless English.

“Virginia,” Delta replied.

“In what city?”

“Chantilly.”

“What is your wife’s name?”

“Olivia, but I call her Liv.”

The officer smiled, extended his hand, and said, “Welcome to Finland, Mr. Delta. I am Captain Jarkko Koskinen.” As he helped Delta to his feet, he added, “I was told you might be visiting us.”

Koskinen turned to his men. “Tämä mies on ystävämme. Mutta unohda, että näit hänet koskaan.” Then he translated for Delta. This man is our friend. But forget you ever saw him.

The ride to the border station took twenty minutes, and Koskinen used part of the time to explain that the president’s office in Helsinki had directed officers in all districts to be on the lookout for an American operator whose mission was vital to Finland’s future. The president’s message had included personal information that only Delta and a few other people, Holloway among them, would be able to verify. After listening to the explanation, Delta borrowed Koskinen’s phone to call Holloway and say that he was in good hands.

“You had me worried,” Holloway said. “The fact that you’re using someone else’s phone suggests that you left yours in Russia.”

“Affirmative, Mack. I’m not exactly sure where it is, but I’ve missed having it.”

“I’ll buy you another one. In the meantime, you’ll be glad to know that the militia troops are leaving the encampment faster than they arrived. Rumor has it that Arsenyev has declared them traitors.”

“Hey, those who live on the edge sometimes fall off and get hurt. Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch.”

“No argument from me. My Marine buddies and I are closing up shop at the safe house. We’ll pick you up later today on our way to Kuusamo Airport. Sound okay?”

“Definitely. I’ll be ready, Mack.”

When the call ended, Koskinen said, “I have been instructed not to ask questions about your mission, but I hope very much that it was successful.”

“I believe everything is going to be fine,” Delta assured him.

“That’s good to know. Whatever you did on Finland’s behalf, I thank you.”

“Glad to help.”

“Is there anything you need at the moment?”

“A shower, fresh clothes, and some food would be nice.”

Koskinen gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ll call ahead and make sure everything is waiting.”

Delta showered and changed into borrowed clothes because everything in his backpack smelled like a wet muskrat. Then he went to the border station’s small mess hall and joined Koskinen, who was sitting alone and grinning at a laptop screen.

“Good news?” Delta asked.

“Good as well as extremely interesting,” Koskinen replied. “Our defense command reports that tens of thousands of Russian militiamen had apparently been preparing to enter Finland. But the operation ended quickly after the militia’s leader, a man named Ratmir Burakov, was assassinated. The militiamen are now scattering like vermin abandoning a sinking ship.”

Delta nodded and said, “I’m starving.”

They walked together to the kitchen, where one of the guards was whipping up immense cheese omelets. Delta accepted two of them along with four thick slices of buttered rye bread and a large cup of black coffee. It was his first hot meal since departing Tel Aviv, and he didn’t let any of it go to waste.

“May I assume the food was acceptable?” Koskinen joked when Delta had finished eating. The plate had been all but licked clean.

“It was outstanding. MREs can keep a man alive, but they can’t keep him satisfied.”

Koskinen sipped his coffee, thought for a moment, then said, “What I can’t understand is why our military was not placed on high alert when an invasion was suspected.”

Delta smiled and looked across the table. “When I was a kid, my father told me you don’t put out a campfire with a nuclear warhead. And he was right. I suppose your president and his NATO allies believed that in this particular situation finesse was more appropriate than brute force.”

“So they sent one man against many thousands of men.”

Delta shook his head. “One man against one man, actually. Not a big deal.”

Koskinen raised his cup in a friendly salute, and Delta reciprocated. It was time to talk about anything but Russia.

PART THREE

CHAPTER 59

EN ROUTE TO KUUSAMO AIRPORT - JULY 16

Holloway and his two Marine buddies, Drummond and Rigman, picked Delta up at the border station, and the four of them headed for Kuusamo Airport. Delta did most of the talking over the next hour because the Marines kept peppering him with questions about his side of the op.

Both of them were combat veterans who had survived some gnarly situations, but neither could imagine tackling the sort of mission Delta had just completed. For Holloway, on the other hand, it was just another routine accomplishment by a guy who had a way of making the impossible look easy.

“Wait a second,” Drummond said at one point in the conversation, “did you just say you went down the mountain and strolled around in the encampment?”

“It was the only way I could get the coordinates for Burakov’s tent,” Delta replied.

“And with thirty thousand troops present, no one saw you?”

“A few guys did, but we just nodded to each other. I looked like everyone else.”

He didn’t mention the violent confrontation with the guard who had been posted outside Burakov’s tent because he considered it irrelevant. His short visit to the camp had been successful, and that was the end of that.

“What about the exfiltration?” Rigman asked. “Did that go as planned?”

Delta laughed. “No planning required. I fired the missile, saw the smoke trail, and ran as fast as I could. The exfiltration would have been a lot more pleasant if the Lancet-3 had taken Burakov out, but you don’t always get to choose.”

Once again, Delta left out a key part of the story. No one needed to know about the unplanned somersault he had executed while racing down the mountainside. Since he was alive and telling the story, details like that didn’t matter.

When they reached the airport, Holloway turned in his Ford Expedition and then led his traveling companions to the VIP terminal. Waiting for them in the lounge were pilots Jim Davies and Bud Shipp.

“Breaking news in Lapland,” Davies said, holding up his cell phone. “I just read that Ratmir Burakov got toasted before he was able to lead his militia into Finland. Quite a coincidence that our very own Travis Delta happened to be in town at the time.”

“You guys don’t believe in coincidences, do you?” Delta asked with a grin.

“Not one bit,” Shipp said with a grin. “Good to see you again.”

“And in one piece,” Davies added.

Delta nodded. “I like it that way, too, Jim.”

They all left the terminal and walked toward Black Fang. Drummond and Rigman looked at each other, then at Holloway.

“What the heck is this?” Drummond asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It’s a highly customized company aircraft,” Holloway said without adding details. “You’ll find it comfortable.”

“Anything will be more comfortable than that bucket of bolts we flew up on,” Rigman offered. “I was worried the wings would fall off.”

“Put your worries behind you,” Davies said. “Planes don’t come any better than this.”

The pilots followed the other four men up the airstair and entered the cockpit to prepare for takeoff. Delta grabbed a cold can of beer as he passed the galley, and his travel companions followed suit before they entered the main cabin.

“Now this is the way to travel,” Drummond observed as he settled into his leather seat. He toasted the others with his beer. “I like it.”

The pilots closed the cabin door, told their passengers to buckle up, and taxied to runway three-zero for the forty-minute flight. A few minutes later, Lapland was far behind.

As soon as Delta reached his Helsinki hotel, he called home to let Liv know he was safe and would be in Chantilly sometime the next day.

“I just saw some intel that looks pretty encouraging,” she said with a hint of a smile in her voice. “Burakov died in a helicopter crash, and his troops are scattering. Is that accurate?”

“One hundred percent.”

“And you came away healthy?”

“Walked into Finland without a scratch, as intended.”

“Can I assume you won’t be returning to Russia, Travis? I think you’ve worn out your welcome.”

He chuckled. “I don’t see a Moscow vacation in our future.”

“Good.” She paused before adding softly, “You know, the days get awfully long when we’re out of touch and I’m worried you might be doing something crazy.”

He understood it was a plea more than a statement. She had known about his dangerous job and had married him anyway, but that didn’t make living with the constant threat of his death any easier. Because whimpering or crying wasn’t her style, she had a habit of relying on understatement to deliver her strongest messages.

“I hear you, Liv, but the crazy things serve a worthwhile cause, right? There’s no telling how this Burakov thing would have ended if we hadn’t acted quickly.”

“What you do is always necessary,” she said with feeling, “but I wish you didn’t have to carry the heaviest load every time.”

“The next guy will come along, and I’ll pass the baton. I promise I’ll get out when I should.”

Like his wife, Delta knew he could live just fine without the death-defying missions that paraded his way. But could he live with himself if he left the field too soon, before he had done all he could to protect the country he loved? That was the first question. The second was whether he would know for sure when it was time to leave. If he got that one wrong, he might not be alive to answer the question for himself.

“I intend to hold you to that promise.”

“Of that I have no doubt, and I would expect nothing less.”

As soon as the conversation ended, he fell asleep on a comfortable bed for the first time in nearly a week. It wasn’t his own bed, but it was better than a damp sleeping bag in the Russian wilderness. He and the other five men met for dinner that night to celebrate the successful mission. Each had played a critical role, and each deserved a measure of credit for helping avert a world war. Precisely what they had done, however, would forever remain top secret, and they would receive no public recognition for the effort. Such was the nature of covert work.

The restaurant was Vinkkeli, one of the capital’s finest Michelin-starred eateries, where reservations were hard to come by. But a helpful call from President Alvar Huttunen’s office produced a wonderful table. The four-course meal featured the best fish dishes the men had ever tasted and an array of excellent wines. They limited their conversation to families, hometowns, baseball, and food. Anything other than military operations was fair game.

Holloway was interested in seeing this casual side of Drummond and Rigman. Over the past few days, he had watched them perform under pressure, and he was already thinking about inviting them to join the Snakeriver team if or when they decided to end their military careers. They might not be in Delta’s league, but they were good.

When dinner ended, Drummond and Rigman walked home to their local apartments while Davies and Shipp went straight to the hotel since they would be piloting a transatlantic flight in the morning. Holloway and Delta, meanwhile, strolled to Esplanadi Park, not far from the restaurant, and sat on a bench that offered a pleasant view of the city. This was the first time the two had been able to speak privately since the op had ended.

“Should I bother asking how many times you nearly died over the past few days, or will you just lie as usual?” Holloway asked.

“No and yes,” Delta replied. Then he grinned and added, “This wasn’t nearly as bad as some ops I’ve been part of. Things got a little hairy after I fired the missile, but I was able to outrun the competition.”

“Which, by the way, is what thirty thousand militiamen are doing right now. They’re afraid they’ll end up in prison without Burakov and his billions to protect them.”

“What’s Arsenyev saying about Burakov’s death?”

“That he was killed when his helicopter malfunctioned during a routine exercise. He’ll be given a state funeral for his vast achievements as a Hero of the Russian Federation.”

Delta shook his head and laughed. “You can’t make this stuff up, can you?”

“Disinformation is the one thing about Russia that never changes, Travis. Leaders come and go, but the playbook always remains the same. They’ve mastered the art of getting the average Russian to believe anything he or she is told.”

“Have you spoken with Marsha Phillips lately?”

“Yes, right after I learned that Burakov was dead.” He hesitated before saying, “I know you want to see Liv, but I’m afraid your first stop tomorrow will be Marsha’s office for a debriefing.”

Delta shrugged. “McLean is sort of on the way to Chantilly.”

“Jim and Budd are going to drop me off at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey before taking you to Reagan National. I doubt Marsha will need much time from you.”

“She pays the bills, Mack. I’ll give her as much time as she needs.”

“Can I assume you and Liv will be wanting to spend some time in Alaska?”

“That would be nice. This is a perfect time of year to be there.”

“Then go. The plane is yours whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Mack. We’ll take you up on that.”

Holloway understood that Delta’s Alaskan cabin had become an essential part of every mission. Being there after surviving yet another op gave him time to recover physically and recharge whatever unique internal batteries kept him performing at the top of his game. He invariably came back from Alaska stronger and more driven than ever.

Yet Holloway could also hear the clock ticking. The time would come, perhaps soon, when Delta and Liv agreed that fieldwork was no longer an option for them. It was inevitable. And, yes, it would be far better to have Delta step aside a little too early than to have him die while trying to hang on just a little too long.

But how do you replace an irreplaceable man? That was the question Holloway would be asking himself throughout the night while trying to fall asleep in his comfortable hotel room.

Snakeriver wouldn’t be the same when Delta walked away.

CHAPTER 60

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT - JULY 17

Delta said goodbye to Davies and Shipp at 9:30 a.m., then descended the airstair. The flight from Helsinki to New Jersey had taken six and a half hours, followed by a forty-minute jaunt to Reagan National. He carried his duffel bag through the general aviation terminal to a waiting sedan.

The driver was the same guy who had dropped him off at Reagan National on July 7, the day he left home for the Yemen mission. Rarely had ten consecutive days been so eventful. A US ambassador rescued, and a world war averted. Even by Delta’s ridiculous standards, that was a heavy load.

“First stop is 1500 Tysons McLean Drive, correct?” the driver asked.

“That’s it.”

“The traffic is fairly heavy at this time of day, but we should get there in about thirty minutes.”

“No problem,” Delta said.

“I’ll wait and then take you to Chantilly.”

“Excellent. I hope I’m not long.”

“However long it is, I’ll be waiting.”

Twenty-seven minutes later the sedan reached Liberty Crossing, the secure federal complex that housed several intelligence organizations, most notably the office of the director of national intelligence (ODNI). After being cleared through the entry gate, the driver slowly made his way to the building where DNI Marsha Phillips spent most of her life, and he let Delta out.

The driver had just pulled away to park when Delta caught the flashing lights of six police motorcycles that had entered through the security gate and were heading his way. Immediately behind them was a convoy of four black SUVs, and behind those were four more motorcycles. Fascinated by the display, Delta watched from the sidewalk as the motorcade rolled up to the building and stopped.

Heavily armed Secret Service agents hurried out of the first, third, and fourth SUVs and huddled around the vehicle that was second in line. Then one of the agents opened that SUV’s rear passenger door and stood back as President Edward Thompson climbed out.

“Travis Delta, the gift that keeps on giving,” Thompson said as he walked over and put out his hand. “What a pleasant coincidence.”

“Somehow I doubt this is a coincidence, Mr. President,” Delta replied as he shook Thompson’s hand, “but it’s great to see you.”

“Back at you, Travis. I understand you’ve been busy.”

“You know me.”

“Oh, I certainly do, young man. Let’s go find Marsha and catch up on the news.”

A pair of Secret Service agents accompanied them to her office and then stood guard at the door. Even though few places on the planet were more secure than this particular building, the agents never took shortcuts on duty. They handled thousands of threats against Thompson’s life every year, several dozen of them highly credible and a few of them involving close calls. No one wanted to be the agent who lost the president.

Phillips rose from her desk and smiled when Thompson and Delta walked in.

“I see you found our wandering friend, Mr. President,” she said.

“I did. He’s lost a few pounds since I last saw him, but he’s looking well.”

“Yes, thank God.”

The three of them sat at a small round conference table that offered a distant view of the Potomac, and Delta asked the obvious question.

“What am I actually doing here? Mack said this was supposed to be a debriefing, but I now have my doubts.”

“You and Marsha can have your private conversation later, Travis,” Thompson said. “I heard you were going to be here following a short, uh, vacation in Russia, and I simply wanted to say hello. I know you’re eager to get home to Liv, and I didn’t want you having to take a detour to the White House.”

Delta felt slightly disoriented. Had the president of the United States actually said he had left the White House and come to Liberty Crossing just to say hello?

“Few things shock me, Mr. President,” he said, “but this does. I don’t know what to say.”

“No need to say anything,” Thompson said. “When you and Liv stayed at the White House with Samantha and me on July 4, I had no idea you would be incredibly busy just a few days later. You had earned a well-deserved break after saving my life up there in Alaska.”

“The president asked to be kept informed about your vacation in Russia,” Phillips noted, “and we all got a little nervous when you went off the grid toward the end.”

Thompson corrected her. “I was more than a little nervous, Travis. So you can imagine how elated I was when I heard you were safe and on your way home.”

“All things considered, Mr. President, this past week wasn’t nearly as challenging as what you, Liv, and I went through up in Heaven.”

“I doubt that, but I’m glad to hear you say so.” Thompson paused briefly before switching subjects. “There’s another reason I’m here. Samantha and I would like for you to spend a weekend with us at Camp David around Christmas. Christmas falls on a Thursday, and we hope you’ll join us Friday through Sunday. We’re giving you plenty of notice, so you can’t possibly decline the invitation.”

“We wouldn’t dream of declining your invitation, Mr. President. Liv and I would be honored to join you.”

“Good. Then I’ll leave you and Marsha to your business discussion.”

The presidential visit ended shortly after it had begun, leaving Delta and Phillips alone in her office.

“Did that really just happen?” Delta asked.

She nodded. “I’m a witness. Now, let’s talk about Russia so that you can get home. Are you convinced the invasion would have happened if we hadn’t gotten involved?”

“Without question. Your initial assessment of the US and Israeli intelligence was spot-on. Burakov had enough men and equipment to get a world war off to a flying start. In fact,” he added, “I’m certain the invasion was supposed to begin yesterday. The final preparations were complete. All the troops needed was the order to march.”

“It’s hard to imagine Burakov going ahead with his insane plan after learning that most of the Russian bomber fleet had been destroyed.”

“Burakov was a psychopath, Marsha. I watched him put a bullet in a general’s head based solely on one bogus email. His troops were nothing more than chess pieces to him. He was perfectly willing to lose them all in order to resurrect the Russian Empire.”

Phillips asked probing questions about the entire op, but she deliberately kept the meeting short. She accompanied him to the main entrance and waited while he called his driver for the twenty-minute trip to Chantilly. Then she shook his hand before he climbed into the back seat.

“I can’t thank you enough, Travis. You know how much was riding on this latest operation.”

“I feel blessed to play for the winning team, Marsha. When you need me again, say the word.”

She already knew there were other subjects they would be discussing in the near future, including a worrisome cyberterrorism operation that was causing her a great deal of concern. For now, however, she was content merely to have Delta among the living.

That was no small miracle.

CHAPTER 61

CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA - JULY 17

Liv rarely worked remotely unless they were in Alaska, so Delta was pleasantly surprised to see her setting the picnic table in the backyard when he got home at 11:30. When she turned and smiled at him, Yemen and Russia faded to nothing.

“Playing hooky?” he teased.

“I wanted to be here when my roving husband returned.” She wrapped her arms around him. “I was worried about you, Travis. Yemen wasn’t enough? You had to visit Russia, too?”

He grinned. “One thing sort of led to another. You know how it goes.”

“I don’t, actually, and I’m sure I’d rather not know. You’re home, and that’s what I care about.”

He noticed the heat shimmer above the gas grill. “I guess we’re cooking out.”

“As long as you don’t mind grilling a couple of rib eyes.”

“I think I can force myself to do that after eating cold MREs for nearly a week.”

Ten minutes later, Delta was lifting a pair of medium-rare steaks from the grill just as Liv came out of the house with a large mushroom and wild rice casserole. They ate in the shade alongside the brook and watched a doe and two fawns graze in the adjoining meadow. A cooperative cardinal provided lovely background music.

They kept the conversation light. Liv knew what her husband did for a living and preferred skipping over the coarse details. But she loved hearing about the president’s impromptu visit to Liberty Crossing and the extraordinary Christmas invitation he had extended. She was already thinking about what guests wear at Camp David when Delta guided the conversation elsewhere.

“I learned something really strange while I was in Tel Aviv,” he said, “but I didn’t mention it to you then. I decided I couldn’t do the topic justice until we were face-to-face.”

Her smile disappeared. “That sounds ominous.”

“Not ominous, just strange. Turns out my family name was Delaney until my parents changed it to Delta.”

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

“That was after they had left the CIA, having served as covert operatives in Russia.”

Because she had been rendered speechless, Delta continued adding the salient details. He told her that after his parents had helped bring down the Berlin Wall, they had started new lives in Montana, raising a son and building a successful computer consulting business. Then they had been assassinated by a Russian agent, though their deaths had been attributed at the time to a plane crash.

“And you never had any clue about their CIA work?”

“None. Not once did I hear them say a word in Russian, which they apparently spoke fluently, and not once did they mention the original family name. We had no other relatives, so it was easy for my parents to keep the secret.”

“Who finally told you all this?”

“Someone who worked with them. The guy lives in Tel Aviv and consults for Yitzhak Meisel. Decades ago the CIA had deleted the personnel files of agents who had been given new identities, so Marsha didn’t know about my parents until she had the CIA director hunt through some old Russian ops files.”

“Did they ever catch the assassin?”

He nodded slowly. “They did. His name was Ratmir Burakov.”

She gave him a knowing look. Each morning the senior staff of the Chief Digital and Artificial Intelligence Office received an intelligence briefing, and this morning she had attended online. Burakov and his desire to start a war with NATO had been featured.

“Who just died in a helicopter accident,” she said evenly.

“Correct. The same sort of accident that killed my parents.”

She reached across the table and took his hands in hers.

“A full-circle moment,” she said softly.

“I guess you could call it that. Whatever it was, there’s one less madman in the world today.”

She smiled and studied his face. “So the family name was Delaney. It always seemed to me that Delta was somewhat unique. Now I know why.”

“Here’s another interesting part of the story. During the flight home, I searched online for the derivation of the Delaney surname. In Irish Gaelic the name was originally Ó Dubhshláine, which depending upon your interpretation means something like dark challenger or dark river.”

“Either of which would be highly appropriate for a man who operates in the dark for a company named Snakeriver.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Fate, I guess.”

“Why do you suppose your parents chose the name Delta? It’s pretty rare.”

“I’ve thought about that. The Greek letter for delta is used in science to represent change or difference, and it wouldn’t surprise me if that’s how they came up with the new family name. But I doubt I’ll ever know for sure.”

She thought for a moment. “Any chance you’ll be changing your name back to the original?”

“Not a chance. Delta I am, and Delta I’ll stay.”

“Good. I think it’s a cool name.”

“Speaking of cool,” he said. “Mack has offered us the use of the corporate bird if we’d like to spend some time in Heaven. The plane is at Reagan National.”

They reached their decision in two seconds flat.

When it was time to unwind, Heaven was the place to be.

CHAPTER 62

HEAVEN, ALASKA - JULY 18

Delta greased the landing, but the rollout was bone-rattling. The Cessna 182 bounced along the ruts and bumps that dotted the primitive runway from one end to the other. He had hacked the dirt strip out of the landscape decades earlier, and the thing needed more attention than he had given it over the past year or so.

He had already decided to devote part of the week’s vacation to setting things right, and he was looking forward to some vigorous manual labor. It would give his overworked brain a break from weightier matters while also providing a full-body workout that surpassed anything he could achieve in a fancy gym.

The flight from Virginia to Fairbanks International on Black Fang had, as usual, been flawless from start to finish. Smooth air, leather club seats, and two friendly Snakeriver pilots in the cockpit always guaranteed a first-class experience. After loading a week’s worth of food on the Cessna in Fairbanks, Delta and Liv had flown the final leg by themselves, enjoying spectacular wilderness scenery the entire way.

To the left of the runway was the cabin, nestled next to the woods and offering an exhilarating view of the Baird Mountains to the north. To the right was a broad open field filled with bright summer blooms.

“What the heck is that in the middle of the field?” Liv asked as Delta shut down the engine. Conspicuous among the flowers and wild grasses was a disorderly pile of bones.

“Yeah, I saw that as soon as I lined up for landing. I’m guessing it’s a moose carcass, but it would be unusual for predators to take down a moose in an open field. That usually happens in the woods, where an ambush is easier to pull off.”

“Do you think a bear got it?” On their previous trip Liv had spotted a bear lounging on their cabin’s porch.

He shook his head. “Not likely. Bears are glad to go after moose calves, but this one was pretty large. So I’m guessing a wolf pack got to it. But it would have taken quite a few of them to bring down a grown moose in an open field, and I’ve never seen a large enough pack in this area.”

After they had carried their food and suitcases into the cabin, Delta walked alone across the field to inspect the carcass, but there wasn’t much to see. Gnawed bones, antlers that had still been developing, and strips of skin were all that remained of an animal that had probably weighed a thousand pounds.

Delta found the evidence troubling, though not because the moose had died. That was simply nature’s way. What bothered him was the number of wolves it would have taken to bring down a healthy bull. The largest pack he had ever seen near the cabin had eight members, but he assumed it would have taken more than that — maybe as many as a dozen — to surround and kill something this large.

As he walked back toward the cabin, he wondered whether the local pack had grown larger and, if so, why. One strong possibility came to mind. During their most recent visit to Heaven, he and Liv had battled more than forty domestic terrorists, many of whom had died in the woods. Perhaps the availability of so many meals had attracted additional wolves to the area.

But the reason behind the pack’s growth wasn’t the operative issue. He simply wasn’t comfortable having that many wolves roaming close to the cabin. That point came thundering home when he stepped on the porch and Liv came out to meet him. She pointed over his shoulder, and he turned.

There at the far end of the field, brazenly ignoring the presence of humans, was the largest wolf pack he had ever seen. Thirteen animals, all looking healthy and well-fed.

“They seem awfully interested in us,” Liv said.

“They do, don’t they? Maybe they’ve acquired a taste for domestic terrorists.”

“That’s not at all funny.”

“Aw, come on, Liv. It’s a little funny.”

She refused to take the bait. Instead, she asked, “Do you think it’s safe to have so many wolves near the cabin?”

“I don’t necessarily think it’s unsafe. Wolves aren’t wired to attack people. In fact, it almost never happens. But it would probably be best to discourage them from coming closer.”

“How do you do that?”

“Make some noise, I guess.” He went inside and came out again carrying his brand-new Daniel Defense DDM4 V7 rifle and wearing a pair of shooting earmuffs. He handed Liv a second pair, and she pulled them on.

The wolves were still milling about at the end of the field when he stepped from the porch and began firing into the trees well above the pack. He kept walking toward them even though they had run off after the first shot. By the time he reached the end of the field, he had fired twenty rounds. He figured that was enough to deliver the message.

He assumed that if he did the same thing once or twice every day, the wolves would learn that the field was off-limits. Confident he had neutralized this latest threat, he walked back to the cabin.

He was ready to forget the rest of the world for all of one week. Whatever was happening out there had nothing to do with him.

Yet.

EPILOGUE

The world didn’t notice that Delta had chosen to withdraw from it for a week. Things continued to happen, as usual. And, as usual, some of those things were unpleasant and would almost certainly require his full attention when he returned to duty.

Four thousand miles from Heaven, for instance, in an otherwise tranquil stretch of the South China Sea, a Chinese submarine sank a Taiwanese destroyer with a YJ-83 anti-ship missile. The shocking and unprovoked attack occurred less than a week after China’s president had seemed to soften his stance on Taiwan’s independence. World leaders condemned China not only for the attack itself but for the cruel charade that had preceded it.

Few of the four hundred Taiwanese crewmen survived the missile strike. Most of those who did were immediately savaged by oceanic whitetip sharks, one of the largest predators found in the Pacific. By all accounts, their deaths marked the beginning of the long-feared “repatriation” of Taiwan.

At roughly the same time, a series of malicious computer commands shut down the primary and backup cooling systems at the Barakah nuclear power plant in the United Arab Emirates. If the plant’s four reactors exploded, they would release a radiation plume that spread more than fifty miles in all directions. Tens of thousands of people would be at risk, and the damage could far exceed that related to Ukraine’s 1986 Chernobyl reactor meltdown. Most disturbing of all, experts could not ascertain whether other nuclear power plants around the world were vulnerable to the same computer commands, but everyone seemed to agree that the probability was high.

Later that same day the three largest Swiss banks inexplicably published the names, addresses, and account balances of private clients whose combined assets exceeded half a trillion dollars. The financial markets reacted violently to the security breach, leading to the largest one-day stock market decline in history. The released data also triggered criminal investigations in the eight nations whose political leaders were shown to have been robbing their countries blind for decades.

While these and similar incidents were occurring all over the world, a man in Akranes, Iceland, prepared an encrypted message for his network of associates:

Phase I is complete. Commencing Phase II. The NEW WORLD will soon be upon us.

Baldur Úlfarsson looked out his window and studied the Old Akranes Lighthouse, which for more than a hundred years had stood tall and proud at the end of its dark jetty on picturesque Faxaflói Bay. Beyond the bay was the North Atlantic and its sixteen million square miles of rich fishing grounds. He watched the seabirds circle above fishing boats that returned with the day’s catch. He heard children calling to each other from a nearby schoolyard.

This, Úlfarsson thought, is how life is meant to be. Simple. Modest. Divinely orchestrated. Once he succeeded in eliminating the global technocracy that enslaved humanity, life would become normal again. In time, greed, perversion, and perhaps even war would evaporate like so much sea mist.

When all of this had come to pass, people everywhere would rejoice and give thanks. Some of them would regard him as Hinn Útvaldi, the Chosen One, and perhaps he was. Either way, he would do everything in his power to rescue the human race, even if it meant killing a few million people along the way.

He turned back to his computer and pushed SEND.

Planet Earth was about to change.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

A note to my readers:

Reviews matter a great deal to those of us who write for a living. I hope you’ve enjoyed this novel and will take a moment to share your thoughts on this book on Amazon.

With thanks and best wishes,

Russ Stone

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Russ Stone’s longtime interest in counterintelligence prompted him to create Travis Delta, the protagonist of his international conspiracy series. Each of these fact-based novels explores the growing threat posed by rogue nations, foreign agents, and terrorists, both foreign and domestic. Reviewers point to Stone’s crisp prose and highly credible plots as the twin engines that drive his stories.

He has published twenty-nine novels, among them police procedurals, satiric comedies, and psychological thrillers. His multifaceted career includes time spent as a university literature teacher, a U.S. military officer, a college vice president, a managing director of a major U.S. investment bank, and a professional watercolor artist.

A ninth-degree black belt in taekwondo, he has been a martial artist for more than fifty years and is a two-time U.S. national champion.

Visit Russ on his website: www.authorrussstone.com

ALSO BY RUSS STONE

The Travis Delta Thriller Series

Hollow Point

Ghost Strike

Wipe Out

Chain Reaction

Iron Curtain

Code Black

Exit Plan

Blood Rules

Travis Delta Box Set (Books 1 -5)