Page 182 of Enemy of My Enemy

Being behind the stick again felt amazing. His heart soared, and he tried to look everywhere all at once, take everything in. He was back in the skies, soaring over his homeland, his blood singing as he sped faster than the speed of sound.

It was perfection. It was everything he’d imagined kissing Sergey would be like. Coursing adrenaline, clinging to the edge of control, and a breathless exultation screaming through his bones.

Their actual kiss hadn’t gone that well. Still, it had happened. Sergeyknew, and in the end, there was some comfort in that. He had no more secrets. No more dreams. Just a vague numbness in the center of his heart where Sergey lived.

The mountains turned harsher, rugged, and then turned to taiga and untouched wilderness. Herds of reindeer ran across the permafrost, the muted gray and green landscape stretching in every direction. Finally, he reached the frigid waters of the Kara Sea, the Russian waters just south of the North Pole, and the Arctic ice sheet covering the top of the world.

Arctic ice plunged deep into Russian waters, and the endless stretch of white snow almost blinded him, almost sent him careening off course. Sasha turned back to his map, meticulously plotting his route through the white and gray smear the world had become.

And then, he spotted it.

A submarine, the sail poking up through a gigantic ice sheet covering so much of the sea. Oil derricks dotted the ice around the sub, some destroyed, their metal bones scattered across the blinding landscape.

Sasha zoomed closer, trying for a better look. Around the oil derricks, something shimmered out of the ice and the boreholes, rising into the sky. Ice caps for miles had been bored through, dozens of destroyed derricks, dozens of exploratory dig holes. And under the ice, Sasha saw blasts lighting up the sea, underground demolitions sending lightning streaking through the dark waters.

They are doing it on purpose. They are releasing the methane hydrate on purpose.

He banked over the ice sheets, aiming low for the deck. The sub had spotted him, as had a ship standing guard with the sub. Gun batteries were set up on the ice, and soldiers ran toward them, sighting in on Sasha’s jet.

He hadn’t been able to load the MiG with any weapons at the air base. He was flying with nothing, and if he didn’t get out of there, he’d be just another smoking hole in the ice.

Still, he needed to see more. Sasha banked again, flying low enough to blast the soldiers on the ice with his jet wash. He craned his neck, trying to see just what it was they were doing under the ice, but a flash of light on his right made him yank back on the stick. He went straight vertical, spinning as his flares popped.

A missile launched from the sub’s protector ship slammed into his flares and burst apart, raining hot steel on the soldiers below.

He banked hard, his fighter riding a tight arc like it was sliding down a greased track, and then dove to the deck again, just missing a burst of bullets fired from the gun batteries below. He dropped fast and buzzed the length of the sub right over the sail. Bullets pinged off the black metal, the men manning the gun batteries overenthusiastic with their cyclic rate of fire.

Wait. Those people, on the ice…

Sasha had seen plenty of Russian soldiers and sailors in his time. He knew how they moved, how they acted, what they did under attack.

Those werenotRussians.

They were Madigan’s men, his ragtag, prison-break army, using Russian ships and Russian technology.

Another burst of light as a missile launched. Sasha cursed, yanking on the stick again. He climbed, but the missile had been fired closer this time, and it was gaining on him.

Time to go. Flattening out, he pushed his engines hard, eyeballing the low fuel warning light steadily blinking on the console. His alarm wailed, a constant tone screaming at him about the missile gaining on his jet wash.

He had seconds, seconds until the fuel ran out and seconds until the missile reached him. No barrel rolls, break turns, or wingovers would save him now. He was out of fuel and out of time.

One-handed, he grabbed the sat phone out of his flight suit and punched the speed dial, ripping his oxygen mask away from his helmet.

He couldn’t hear, but he could see on the display when Sergey answered.

“Coordinates located!” He read off the coordinates on his map, right where he’d found the sub. “Madigan is purposely drilling into the Arctic ice!” he hollered. “He is in the oil fields. He is releasing it all on purpose. One main sub engaged in underwater operations. Multiple explosions underwater. One ship on escort and protection. Entrenched defensive positions on the ice around the sub. Hostiles are not Russians. Repeat, not Russians. Fuel low. One of the ships launched a missile and they have tone lock!”

His eyes watched the missile closing in on his jet. Closer. Closer.

Was there anything else he needed to say? He’d done it, he’d found Madigan, and he’d seen what he was planning. Sergey would figure it out. He’d put it all together, find out what Madigan was doing, and he’d stop him. He’d save everyone. He’d save the world, and Russia.

Was there anything more he wanted to say?

“Sergey, I—”

The missile closed, his computer wailed, and a roaring fireball burst around his jet, swallowing him whole. He flew forward, dropping the phone, and slammed against the restraints.

Metal screamed, like the jet was being torn in half. His body was pinned, but his fingers automatically reached for the ejection handle, curving around the bright metal at the base of his seat.