handled the driving. Who better to navigate a winter wasteland than a Russian who had done part of his Spetsnaz training in Siberia?
O’Connor left him to it. The other members of his team, clad in all-white uniforms, were from Germany, South Africa, Australia, Israel, Italy, England and the USA, but each possessed that look common to men who had been tested in the fire of battle and proved themselves. Their weapons had been chosen for utility and uniformity. O’Connor and the seven others carried Galil MAR assault rifles, the compact models with folding stocks and eight-inch barrels that still provided the parent rifle’s full firepower, feeding 5.56 mm NATO ammunition from thirty-five-round magazines at seven hundred rounds per minute in full auto mode. Two men packed Benelli M4 Super 90 shotguns, twelve-gauge semiautomatics with collapsible stocks, loading six rounds in the magazine plus one up the spout. Two others, their snipers, carried Accuracy International Arctic Warfare rifles topped with Schmidt & Bender 3-12x50 PM II P telescopic sights. They fed 7.62 mm NATO ammunition from ten-round detachable box magazines, but O’Connor’s marksmen rarely needed second shots to do their job.
As far as handguns went, he’d left it up to each individual, half of them choosing Glocks, most of the rest drawing various SIG Sauer models. The lone exception was their German, Kurt Mueller, who carried a Walther P1 identical in its appearance to the old P38 his forebears might have carried into battle during World War II. Nostalgia, maybe, or brand loyalty to the Fatherland.
O’Connor was frustrated by the snowcat. They were grinding along at ten miles per hour at best through the drifts and high winds, but at least they were still on course, their vehicle’s GPS device providing turn-by-turn navigation to Denikin. There were no cliffs in the immediate vicinity, and even if the Trackmaster veered off the narrow, snowed-in road a bit, its treads would bring them back in line. O’Connor’s major worry now was fallen trees, which could prevent the snowcat from proceeding and leave them on foot, with five miles left to go.
If that happened, so be it. They had a job to do and had been paid half in advance. The snafu in New Mexico had been a setback, but O’Connor wasn’t dwelling on it. If they failed this time, however, then they might as well die trying. Their employers were like elephants, forgetting nothing, and they didn’t know the meaning of forgiveness.
This was do or die at thirty-five below and dropping, arm’s length visibility and winds that forced a strong man to hunch over.
This time we get it right, O’Connor told himself, or we’re not going home.
* * *
WHEN BOLAN’S BOOTS met solid ground he stopped and leaned back against the pine tree’s massive trunk to get his bearings and catch his breath. The air he inhaled through his woven mask was frigid, making his throat burn, while the hairs inside his covered nostrils had a crisp and brittle feel. His arms and legs were strained from the descent, but there was no time to relax, no place to sit or lie down in the snow, which was more than knee deep and was accumulating rapidly.
He had to push on. Forty-odd lives depended on his perseverance, along with the indictment of three parasites who had grown bloated on the blood of innocents.
Before proceeding, Bolan shed his parachute harness, took a lightweight parka from his field pack and slipped into it, then removed a GPS device from one of his jumpsuit’s pockets. Switching it on, he waited for the LED display to orient him in a world of blinding white. The screen told him he was 1.5 miles south-southwest of Holy Trinity.
He spent another moment checking out his hardware: a Steyr AUG assault rifle with white polymer furniture and translucent double-column magazine; a Beretta 93R selective fire machine pistol; six M26 fragmentation grenades; and a Mark I trench knife with a seven-inch blade and a brass knuckle handle. When he’d verified the items were in their proper places, all undamaged, Bolan struck off through the drifts.
Fighting the wind, which was against him, and the snow, which made each step feel as if his feet were mired in tar, he strode toward Holy Trinity. Flakes were settling on his hood and shoulders, clinging to his sleeves and gloves. He’d kept his tinted goggles on, to guard against snow blindness and the biting cold, and he scanned the white landscape incessantly, watching out for movement and for any sign of tracks.
So far he seemed to be alone.
No reason why the hunters should have come this way, of course. In fact, he highly doubted that they would have jumped into the mountains as he had. He figured there had to be a team, as in Las Cruces, when they’d taken the U.S. Marshals down and missed their prize. Multiple jumpers in the storm likely would have been separated, maybe scattered over rugged miles, losing precious time while they regrouped, assuming all of them survived.
So, Bolan calculated, they’d be coming overland. The question was when.
He’d scouted the terrain as best he could, with satellite photography Brognola had provided, learning that a single narrow, winding road linked Holy Trinity to the outside world. On clear days, it would take a driver in a 4x4 about three hours to reach the nearest town, Groveland, 3,136 feet above sea level and a population of just over six hundred. A small town, obviously, boasting one main drag and two hotels competing for the tourist trade, no doubt including someplace where determined men with cash in hand could rent or buy adequate transportation to the high country.
Not simple SUVs in this weather. Land transport to Holy Trinity on a day like this meant snowmobiles or something larger that could flatten three-foot drifts and cling to icy pavement without mishap.
Snowmobiles were loud. As for the larger possibilities...
Bolan stopped short, blinking behind his goggles. Ahead of him, partially obscured by blowing powder, a wall stretched as far as he could see from right to left. It was approximately twelve feet high, no razor wire on top, just ice and snow to make it slippery.
Something he’d anticipated.
Dropping his field pack, Bolan opened it and reached inside.
* * *
BROTHER THOMAS LOVED the snow. Its chill and silence stilled his memories of the chaotic desert hell where he had served three tours of duty among people who despised him, wished him dead and did their level best to make it so. The hush a deep snow brought to Holy Trinity was music to his ears and to his soul.
In truth, though, Brother Thomas loved all seasons at the monastery. He was pleased—not proud, worst of the deadly sins—to be a member of the small community devoted to communion with the Lord and greater understanding of His plan. The brotherhood demanded nothing of him that involved deciding who should live or die, walk free or be confined pending interrogation by the faceless men who called the shots outside the monastery’s walls.
Snow shovel duty was his lot this afternoon, a task that might seem futile with the storm still raging, but it kept him fit and served his brothers as they went about their daily tasks. It was an hour past None—one of the Little Hours, celebrated with psalms at 3:00 p.m.—and Brother Thomas had three paths to clear before Supper at half-past five. Someone else would likely have to do the job all over again before Vespers, the day’s last Major Hour, when the monks gathered to celebrate sunset.
As he began to clear a path serving the refectorium—what would have been the mess hall in his bygone military sojourn—Brother Thomas warmed from the exertion. Work was deemed a privilege at Holy Trinity, not something to be borne, but rather celebrated as a service to the brotherhood and to their Lord. It varied with the seasons, gardening from late spring into early fall, woodcutting for the stoves and fireplaces, whatever maintenance the monastery might require
