Zero Hour (NUMA Files 11)

“I hope you have our deicing equipment on,” he added.

The helicopter was being buffeted sideways and descending. A radio altimeter was calling out distances to the ground in Russian. Kurt spotted the other helicopter up ahead for a second before it disappeared into the swirling clouds and snow once again.

More turbulence hit, threatening to spill the copter over sideways.

“Downdrafts coming off Big Ben,” the pilot said as he fought against it.

They finally dropped below the clouds, and Kurt could see they were only forty feet above the terrain. The other helicopter was ahead and to the right, cruising across the snowy ground. Without goggles, it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the ground began. Everything was white. But both helicopters slowed further and finally began maneuvering to land.

A man-made blizzard kicked up around them from the downwash of the rotors, and they were pushed sideways once again before the wheels finally touched the ground and sank into the snow.

Rarely had Kurt been so glad to be on the ground.

Five minutes later, after a quick recon of the area to make sure they hadn’t been spotted, the helicopters were empty. Six snowmobiles, the climbing equipment, and the suitcase bomb were unloaded and ready to roll.

They assembled in the shelter of the huge mountain, but the wind still whipped down off it, blowing the snow sideways. Kurt wondered how bad the weather would get. Most of Big Ben was already hidden in the clouds.

As Gregorovich whistled for the pilots to assemble, Kurt found Joe attaching a rope to his pack and what looked like a spearhead of some kind. He trudged toward him through the buffeting wind. “You get your frequent-flier miles on this trip?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “What about yours?”

“I didn’t sign up,” Kurt said. “I’m hoping never to fly this airline again, so I figured there was no point.” He gestured to the spear. “What’s that?”

“RPH,” Joe said. “Rocket-propelled harpoon. You can fire it into the face of the ice and avoid having to make a free climb.”

“Why’d they give it to you?”

“No one wants to carry it,” Joe said. “The head is made of tungsten and lead. It weighs a ton.”

“At least that’ll save us some time if we have to go up.”

“What’d you get to carry?” Joe asked.

“C-4 charges and some detonators,” Kurt said. “In case we have to blast our way in.”

“Try not to blow yourself up,” Joe said. “Like that Fourth of July when you bought all those Roman candles from the discount store and—”

The sound of a Kalashnikov firing cut Joe off.

Kurt dove into the snow and pulled out the Makarov pistol. He whipped around, brandishing the weapon, as Joe dove down beside him, using the snowmobile as a shield.

Scanning the landing zone, Kurt saw no attackers, only the other Russians aiming their weapons and likewise looking for a target.

Finally, Gregorovich marched forward. A thin trail of smoke drifted from the rifle in his hands. “The pilots are dead,” he announced.

“What?!” Kirov yelled. “Are you insane?”

“Just cautious,” Gregorovich replied. “I overheard them talking. They were planning to leave without us. To leave us behind and get back to the freighter before the weather made it impossible. That won’t be happening now.”

The soldiers stirred nervously. Gregorovich stared at Kirov.

“Perhaps you were going to leave with them,” he said to his rival. “To put a bullet in my back and then run home like a coward.”

“No,” Kirov insisted.

“But you do know how to fly?” Gregorovich clarified. “It’s on your dossier.”

“Yes, but—”