Viktor reached to the one button he had held off touching until now. He depressed the red bezel on the side of the wrist monitor, holding it for the required minute.
Seconds counted away—then the central trigger light on the wrist monitor began to flash. Activated.
He studied the blinking. The trigger marker flashed in sync with the heart icon in the corner of the screen. Only then did he let go.
It was done.
The detonation of the Polaris device was now tied to his own heartbeat, to his own pulse. If his heartbeat ceased for a minute’s time, the device would blow automatically. It was an extra bit of insurance, a fallback plan in case all should turn against him.
Victor lowered his arm.
He was now a living trigger for the array. There was no abort code, no fail-safe. Once it was initiated, nothing could stop Polaris.
With its detonation, the old world would end, and a new one would begin, forged in ice and blood. His revenge would be exacted on all: the Russians, the Americans, the world. Viktor’s only regret in such a scenario was that he would not be around to see it happen.
But he knew how to live with regret…he had done it his entire life.
As he began to turn away, a sailor ran up to him, coming from the hall that held the frozen tanks. “Sir! Admiral Petkov, sir!”
He paused. “What is it?”
“S-something…” He motioned back to the hall. “Something is happening down there.”
“What? Is it the Americans?” Viktor had left a group of guards by the service vent. They were to wait until the caustic blast from the incendiary grenade cooled, then proceed and hunt down any survivors.
“No, not the Americans!” The sailor was breathless, eyes wide with horror. “You must see for yourself!”
3:29 P.M.
…two…one…
From his post beside the electrical panel, Matt watched as Bratt finished his silent count, ticking down with his fingers, ending with a clenched fist in the air.
…zero…go!
Washburn began yanking at the fuses that powered Level One, but the old glass tubes were stubborn, corroded in place. She was going too slow.
Matt motioned her aside and used the butt of his fire axe to smash the line of fuses. The tinkling cascade of shards blew outward. A wisp of electrical smoke followed, snaking into the air.
The effect was immediate. Distant shouts echoed to the group.
Bratt waved them all to the door. Through the window, Matt saw a handful of men in white parkas rush toward the central spiral staircase. Rifles were at the ready. More shouting followed, interspersed with barked orders.
Two of the four men mounted the stairs and fled upward. Two remained on guard.
“A couple birds aren’t leaving the nest,” Greer grumbled.
“We’ll have to take them out,” Bratt said. “We have no other choice. Our hand is played.”
The two soldiers, dressed in unzipped parkas, continued to man their posts, but they kept their attention fixed toward the stairs, their backs to the electrical suite.
Bratt pointed to Washburn and Matt. “You take the one on the left. We’ll take the other.” He nodded to Greer.
Matt readied his ax. He had never killed a man with such a crude weapon. In the Green Berets, he had shot men, even bayoneted one, but never hacked one with an ax. He glanced over to Craig.
The reporter stared, wide-eyed, unblinking at them. He sheltered by the door to the neighboring generator room.
“Watch through this window,” Matt said. “If anything goes wrong, you haul ass back to the others. Get them running.”
Craig opened his mouth, then closed it and nodded. He hurried over. Something fell out of his coat and clattered against the floor.
Bratt scowled at the noise, but the rumbling generators more than covered it. Matt retrieved the object. A book. He recognized it as one of the journals from down in the lab. He lifted an eyebrow and handed it back to Craig.
“For the story,” the reporter said hurriedly, tucking it back away. “If I ever get out of this mess…”
Matt had to give the guy credit. He stuck to his guns.
“Ready,” Bratt said.
Nods all around.
Bratt reached for the handle. He waited for a flare-up of shouting from the levels above, then tugged the door open. The four of them ran through, splitting into two teams to cross toward the guards, whose backs still remained toward them.
Matt raced, oblivious to the ache in his feet. He carried the ax in both hands. Washburn flew beside him, outdistancing him in five steps.
But with her speed, she failed to spot the abandoned dinner tray on the floor.
Her foot hit it and skidded out from under her, turning her efficient sprint into a headlong tumble. She tried to catch herself on a table, but only succeeded in taking it down with her at the heels of the two guards.
The crashing noise drew both men around, weapons raised.
Bratt and Greer were close enough. With a flash of silver, Bratt whipped a scalpel at the man. It flew with frightening accuracy, impaling the man’s left eye. He fell backward, mouth open, but before he could scream, Greer dove on top of him.
Matt faced his own target, leaping over Washburn’s struggling form. “Stay down!”
Still in midair, he swung his ax in a wide arc—but he was too slow, too far away.
Gunfire spat from the end of the Russian’s AK-47. It chewed a path over his shoulder, then oddly continued up toward the ceiling.
Only then did Matt notice Washburn below him. She had lashed out with one her meat hooks, impaling the soldier through the calf and ripping him off balance.
Matt landed as the guard fell back, hitting the floor hard. With the detachment that could only come from years of Special Forces training, Matt brought his ax down upon the head of the soldier. The skull gave way like a ripe watermelon.
Matt quickly let go of the handle, rolling away on his knees, as his target convulsed under the embedded ax.
Matt’s hands shook. Too many years had passed since he’d been a soldier. He had made the mistake of looking into the eyes of the man he killed—rather, boy he had killed. No older than nineteen. He had seen the pain and terror in his victim’s eyes.
Bratt was at their side. “Let’s go. Someone surely heard that shooting. We can’t count on the confusion buying us much time.”
Matt choked back bile and climbed to his feet. Sorrow or not, he had to keep moving. He remembered Jenny’s Sno-Cat vanishing into the blizzard’s gloom amid sounds of gunfire and explosions.
They had not started this war.
A step away, Greer stripped his target’s camouflage gear: parka and snow pants. “With all the noise, we’ll need someone to act as lookout.” He rubbed the bloodstains off the waterproof coat and began to pull it on, ready to stand in for the fallen soldier.