Page 183 of Enemy of My Enemy

He yanked, pulling with all of his strength as he bellowed. The cockpit canopy blew off.

He roared into the gray sky as his jet exploded, a blazing fireball against the snowy landscape reflecting off the black sunshield on his helmet.

His body stayed pinned to the seat, even as the roaring Siberian winds slammed into him full force, punching the breath from his lungs.

The drogue chute popped first. He jerked, seesawing back and forth as the ejection seat spun wildly through the air. He fumbled against the wind, trying to grab the seat release. Finally, the ejection seat fell away, ripping his personal chute open, and the soft folds of silk pillowed against the sky, slowing his wild descent.

He gripped his harness and watched the craggy landscape come closer.

How far had he traveled, speeding away from the Arctic? He’d headed southeast, into deep Siberia. Permafrost and desolation lay beneath him. Patches of trees careened toward the sky, trying to scrape him from his fall. He’d be dead in moments if he plunged into the branches, breaking all his bones or ending up stranded hundreds of feet above the ground. He’d starve to death, his eyeballs and his liver plucked out by birds for a hundred days.

No. He kicked, jerking, and forced his chute away from the trees.

The ground came at him, hard and fast. He tucked, curling into a ball, but he hit hard, scraping over his left side. His helmet bounced on the frozen rocks. He kept sliding, dragged across the rugged landscape by his ballooning parachute. It took him a second—too long—to remember to strip free of his chute.

Another jerk, his body sliding over the sharp ground, his full chute tugging him across Siberia’s wasteland. His hands shook, but he got the clips loose and the chute finally billowed free, flying into the air.

He lay back on the frozen ground, arms and legs spread wide. He pushed off his helmet. It rolled away, clattering over ice and stone.

He was alive. Somehow, he was alive. Groaning, he closed his eyes, thunking his head on the frozen rock beneath him.

Sergey’s face flashed behind his eyelids. The first time he’d seen him, caught hovering in the doorway, eyes wide as a frightened deer. Sergey had held him that night when he’d fallen to pieces, comforting a complete stranger. He’d fallen in love a little bit right then, exposed and vulnerable and baring his soul. He’d expected harshness, and had instead received affection. Acceptance. And then, he’d watched Sergey deliver his address and saw his president stand up for him against the world.

He hadn’t known what to do or where to go after his life had been beaten to a pulp, but Sergey had helped him rebuild and had given him a place and a purpose at his side.

So where did he go now that he was alive, still breathing on the other side of a one-way mission?

Sergey. He had to get back to Sergey.

The need was a magnet, a pull on his soul that had to be fulfilled.

Slowly, his mind started to work again, pieces of panic and rationalization rubbing against each other. Of course he had to get back to Sergey. He had to tell them what he’d seen. What if Sergey hadn’t been able to hear him? What if they still didn’t know what was happening?

Madigan was flooding the atmosphere on purpose. That couldn’t be good.

He hauled himself to his feet, his entire body screaming, begging him to just rest, just lie down and stop. Stop everything.

He pushed his hand flat into the snow, palm down, fingers extended, like he had pressed his hand to the canopy right before he’d lost sight of Sergey.

He had to get back. There was no future to his love, but maybe Sergey would let him stay around. Wouldn’t throw him out. Would let him quietly serve from afar and keep his love buried, deep down out of sight. He would never ask for anything. Never hope for what he could never have.

A survival pack had ejected with his seat, the twenty-pound package buried in a patch of snow a short distance away. He stumbled to it, grabbing the rations, water packs, medical kit, compass, and map. An automatic beacon had turned on as soon as he ejected, announcing his location to every Russian military computer on the planet.

He grabbed the pistol, also in the survival kit, and emptied one clip into the radio. It sputtered and died. Still, in minutes, Moroshkin’s forces would be searching for him, zeroing in on the signal and hunting him down.

Grabbing the rest of the clips, Sasha piled everything into the survival backpack and checked his map and compass. For the moment, he’d head east, until he found cover. Found time to make a plan.

And then, he’d head for Simushir Island.

And Sergey.

* * *

Chapter 60

Russian Caucasus

The Forest