Arctic Storm Rising by Dale Brown (android based ebook reader .TXT) 📕

to resign can be denied on the grounds that the needs ofthe service come first. A year or year and a half should be long enough for this mess to die down and be forgotten.”

The CIA man thought about that for a moment and then nodded sharply. “Fair enough. That meets our needs.” With a cursory nodto the assembled Pentagon brass, he climbed heavily to his feet and left. He didn’t spare a glance for the young officer whosecareer he’d just helped destroy.

One by one, the somber-faced Army brigadiers and Air Force colonel took their own leave and walked out of the room, leavingFlynn and the Air Force major general behind. From start to finish, not one of them had said a word.

Of course not, Flynn thought bitterly. They’d all made up their minds on how this was going to end before I even got here. Why waste time and breath pretending this whole proceeding was anything but window dressing for a predetermined outcome? And pretty shoddy window dressing, at that?

“I’m sorry about this, son,” the general said at last, breaking an awkward silence. He stood up. “Really, I am.” He shookhis head. “Look, I know this isn’t much consolation, but incoming rounds don’t care whose side you’re on, or whether yourintentions were smart or stupid. Think of this as some random bullet that just happened to have your name on it. That maynot be fair, but it’s reality. So take your medicine. Do the job we’re assigning you. And for God’s sake, don’t rock the boator shoot your mouth off again. Then, in a year or two, when this has all blown over, we’ll let you resign your commissionand start over again in the civilian world. And I can guarantee that a lot of corporate doors will be open to a young manlike you with an honorable discharge.”

Flynn ignored that unsubtly dangled carrot. Instead, carefully controlling his voice to hide his anger, he simply asked, “Sowhere am I being exiled to . . . sir?”

The general didn’t hesitate. “One of the North Warning System’s long-range radar sites. At Kaktovik, Alaska.”

“I’m not exactly qualified to manage radar systems,” Flynn pointed out bluntly.

“We know that, Captain,” the general agreed. He shrugged. “The North Warning System is largely automated anyway, with anynecessary maintenance or upkeep handled by civilian contractors.”

Flynn frowned. Then what the hell was he being sent to do? Play poker with bored civilian radar technicians?

“Congress has been bitching about potential security threats to our early-warning air defense radars,” the general explained.“They’re worried about possible Russian commando raids or sabotage. So we’ve agreed to explore the formation of small JointForce security teams for these sites.”

“And that’s where I come in,” Flynn guessed flatly.

The general nodded. “That’s where you come in. We’re putting you in command of the first experimental Joint Force securitydetail.”

Christ, Flynn thought bleakly, they were assigning him to glorified sentry duty at a post well above the Arctic Circle. He shiveredinside. If they’d tried for a thousand years, these bastards couldn’t have picked a better place to punish him for the crimeof making the CIA’s covert ops gurus look like fools. For a Texas boy who’d grown up seeing snow only on occasional ski trips,the thought of Alaska’s subzero winter temperatures and endless dark nights was downright hellish.

Four

Bekhterev Private Clinic, Moscow, Russia

Early October

Set in a quiet side street in the heart of Moscow’s Meshchansky District, the Bekhterev Private Clinic occupied a five-storyglass-and-concrete office building. Its namesake, Vladimir Bekhterev, born in 1857, was known chiefly as one of Russia’s mostfamous neurologists, a rival of Ivan Pavlov, and also for his probable murder on the orders of Josef Stalin. Asked to examinethe dictator in 1927, Bekhterev had privately warned colleagues that Stalin was a paranoiac. He died suddenly and mysteriouslythe following day. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russia’s new rulers reinstated him in the pantheon of national medicalheroes. The Bekhterev Clinic had been sponsored by profit-seeking investors as part of that rehabilitation process. And nowits cadre of highly trained doctors and neurosurgeons provided discreet and expensive medical services to Russia’s governmentand business elites.

One of those specialists, Dr. Viktor Obolensky, had his office on the clinic’s fourth floor. Delicate watercolors on its dark-paneled walls, the doctor’s elegant oak desk, comfortable leather chairs, and richly colored Oriental rugs created an aura of luxury that was a far cry from the dingy, run-down atmosphere of state-run medical offices and hospitals. His usual patients, men and women of influence and wealth, valued the difference.

Right now, Colonel Alexei Petrov didn’t give a damn about his surroundings. His whole attention was focused on the MRI imagesObolensky had just shown to him to explain his diagnosis. Slowly, he looked up from the blue-tinted pictures to focus on theneurologist. “There is no possibility of a mistake?”

Apologetically, Obolensky shrugged his shoulders. He wore an expensive, immaculately tailored Italian suit under his regulationwhite coat. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Kuznetsov. The indications are unmistakable.”

Petrov took the blow in silence. The name Kuznetsov, the Russian equivalent of Smith, was the pseudonym he used for his visitsto the clinic. He was also paying cash for these tests and consultations, since the last thing he wanted was a paper trailhis Air Force superiors might be able to follow. Now, more than ever, he was glad that he’d taken precautions. “And the prognosis?”he asked at last, not sure if he really wanted an answer.

“Not good,” the doctor admitted bluntly. “A combination of radiation treatment and chemotherapy might slow the progression.At least to a degree. But the location and size of this malignancy make surgery . . . inadvisable.” The corners of his mouthturned down. “I wish I could give you better news. Unfortunately, this is not a case where there is even the slightest marginof doubt.”

Petrov took a short, sharp breath. “I see.” For a brief moment, darkness seemed to veil his vision. He cleared his throatuncomfortably. “And the likely time frame?” he asked, noticing with a trace of cynicism that he’d