That was the backdrop against which Bob McGee stepped out of the SUV, breathed in the chilly New England air, and prepared himself for the horror he was about to see inside.
Tullis met the two directors at the front steps and solemnly shook their hands. Then, after having them sign into the crime scene log, he distributed paper booties and latex gloves. The protection details didn’t get any. They would have to wait outside—the fewer people coming in and out, the better.
The Police Chief was about to show the two men inside, when one of his officers came up carrying a clear plastic evidence bag.
“We found something back in the trees near the end of the driveway,” the patrolman said, holding it up. Inside was a phone.
McGee recognized it immediately. Or, more specifically, he recognized its case.
Made from a rigid thermoplastic, the distinct Magpul cell phone case was popular with military operators. Its styling mimicked the company’s rugged rifle magazines. On the back, a distinct Nordic symbol had been customized. The Chief stepped off the porch for a closer examination.
As he did, the FBI Director saw the look on his CIA colleague’s face. Slowly, he mouthed a name. Harvath?
McGee nodded.
Their bad situation had just gotten worse.
CHAPTER 4
* * *
* * *
MURMANSK OBLAST
When Scot Harvath regained consciousness, his ears were ringing. There was the distinct, metallic taste of blood in his mouth, probably from having bitten his tongue during the crash. The crash.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, but he couldn’t see anything. The hood was still over his head. Reaching up, he began to pull it off, half-expecting one of his captors to knock his hand away. No one touched him.
His sandy-brown hair was matted, and his blue eyes struggled to focus.
Removing the oxygen mask, he looked around. The aircraft’s fuselage had been severed into three pieces. In some places, seats were missing. In others, entire rows had disappeared.
He glanced to his right, but the soldier who had been next to him was gone, along with the seat he had been sitting in.
A strong odor of jet fuel filled the air. It was mixed with the smell of smoke and melting plastic. Some part of the plane was on fire.
Under normal circumstances, he would have moved slowly—assessing the damage and making sure that he didn’t have a spinal injury—but these weren’t normal circumstances. He needed to get out.
Planting his feet, he stood. But when he tried to step into the aisle, he couldn’t. His Spetsnaz minder had locked his ankle chain to the leg of his chair.
Sitting back down, he attempted to jerk himself free, first by kicking out his legs and then by reaching down and trying to pull the chain loose. It didn’t work.
Searching around his seat, he looked for anything he could use to help him escape. There was nothing. Without a key, he was fucked.
Though he had been sedated on and off over the last several days, images began to flood his mind. As they did, an unbearable pain began to build in his chest and his heart rate started to climb.
Taking a deep breath, his training kicked in, and he forced himself to relax. There was no question that unspeakable things had happened. Worse things, though, were on the horizon if he didn’t get control of the situation.
As one of America’s top intelligence operatives, he had been a prime target for the Russians. His knowledge of spy networks, covert operations, and classified programs was invaluable. But that wasn’t the only reason they wanted him.
Year after year, he had been behind some of the most successful operations against the Russian military and Russian intelligence. As such, he had ranked very near the top of a little-known, clandestine kill list maintained in Moscow.
But as badly as the Russians wanted him, and as much as they had risked to grab him, he knew the United States would risk even more to get him back. He just had to remain alive and one step ahead until then.
Scanning the cabin, he saw one of the crew pinned beneath a nearby cargo container that had broken free. The legs of his uniform were stained with blood. Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear the man moaning.
Harvath recognized him. It was the loadmaster who had insisted that he be allowed to brace for impact. When his hood had been removed to put his oxygen mask on, he had only caught a quick flash, but he remembered the man’s face. Without his help, Harvath might not have survived the crash.
Pinned next to the loadmaster was the body of his missing Spetsnaz minder. He was neither moaning nor moving.
From everything else he could see, he and the loadmaster were the only two survivors in this section of the plane. That was the good news. The bad news was that the temperature was rapidly dropping.
Looking through one of the ruptures in the fuselage, he saw nothing but snow and ice outside. Wherever they were it was cold. Really cold.
Harvath had no clue as to his location. He’d had a bag over his head since being taken in New Hampshire. He assumed, though, that they were somewhere in Russia.
Nevertheless, he hadn’t made it into his forties and survived a plane crash only to turn around and freeze to death. If he and the loadmaster were going to make it, they were going to have to work together.
Harvath called out to get his attention. “I can help you,” he said in his choppy Russian.
For a moment, the airman stopped moaning and looked over at him. He then just shook his head.
“Hey!” Harvath yelled. “Hey!”
When the man turned his agony-stricken face back in his direction, Harvath sniffed the air around him in an exaggerated fashion.
It took the loadmaster a moment, but he finally realized what the prisoner was trying to draw his attention to—fire.
The man strained against the cargo container pinning his legs, but it was beyond his ability to move.
“I can help you,” Harvath repeated.
“You?” the man replied in Russian. “How?”
Pointing at the Spetsnaz operative crushed by the container, Harvath searched for the word, then held up his shackles and said, “Klyuch.” Key.
Toss me the key and I’ll help you. The loadmaster considered the offer. Of course, the prisoner could be lying, but the Russian airman didn’t have much choice.
Patting down the soldier, he found the keys and, using what little of his strength remained, tossed them in the prisoner’s direction.
The throw came up short. Harvath leaned out as far as he could into the aisle, the shackles tearing into his ankles, but he missed it and the keys landed on the floor several feet away.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.
“Prahsteetyeh,” said the loadmaster. I’m sorry.
Glancing around, Harvath saw a nylon tie-down strap with a heavy metal clamp. He couldn’t tell if was within reach or not.
Getting down onto his stomach, he lengthened his body to its max, struggling to create every millimeter of reach possible, but the strap remained just inches beyond his grasp.
He searched for something handy—a screwdriver, a pen or pencil, anything—even a rolled-up magazine. Then an idea hit him.
Returning to his seat, he grabbed his oxygen mask and pulled out the hose. Tying it to his hood, he attached the two together. They weren’t long enough to reach the keys, but they might be long enough to reach the tie-down strap.