Dominic Conlon - Arctic Firepath

He scanned the aisle. The church was empty, except for the man he sought, kneeling on the front pew. Lomax took out his gun, checked the safety and crossed lightly into the nave. He could not hear any sounds from outside, only the soft noise of his footsteps. As he drew closer he observed Khostov, hands clasped together in prayer. Lomax glanced back, and then focused on Khostov.

'Alexei.' Khostov didn’t turn. For a brief moment Lomax wondered if they had the right person.

'Alexei.' This time the man turned. Lomax took in the pale tired face, the dishevelled dyed hair and the resignation in his eyes.

'Kill me here.'

Lomax shook his head. 'I'm not here to kill you.' He glanced towards the door. 'But there is someone outside who wants you very badly.' Lomax noticed Khostov’s shoulders stiffen. 'Don't worry, he is being taken care of.' Khostov slumped back against the seat and Lomax slid into the space next to him.

'I used to go to church.' Khostov gestured at the altar. 'One like this in Moscow. I've forgotten how… comforting it can be.'

'You are safe now. When my colleague returns, we will be free to go.'

Sean's heart rate rocketed and he forced himself to breath more slowly. Apart from the grazes he sustained, he was unhurt. If he hadn’t fallen when he did, he would have caught Petrov’s bullet.

He still had a long row of headstones to negotiate to get to the boundary. They stood square on between him and the gunman and offered greater protection.

Sean stretched out again on the ground, avoiding placing too much pressure on his bandaged fingers. Like a hurdler he counted: one, two, three. Off! He flew along the space between the graves, this time varying his pace to make aiming more difficult for the opposition.

Ping! Gravel lining the roadside burst into fragments. Seconds later Sean felt pain in his lower leg as some pieces entered the calf muscles. He did not stop.

At last he reached the end row and turned towards the distant gunman. He dropped to the ground and crept to the point he had earmarked earlier.

Sean stopped at the third grave which had a smaller headstone. He took off his wind-cheater, draped it over the marble, and crawled away. Sean judged that unless Petrov had changed position, he would be coming up on his right, almost level. He inched across two more rows of gravestones and stopped. Everything now depended on the Russian.

Still crouching, Sean pulled out his gun. Awkwardly he picked up a pebble left-handed and tossed it towards the gravestone with the coat. The stone hit the ground with a tiny clink, but Petrov was not going to be fooled so easily.

Sean remained stationary. Surely he must be desperate to find out where the sound came from?

A slight movement on Sean's left indicated the Russian had moved after all. He leant out slowly from behind a headstone. From that angle he could not spot Sean's jacket because the gravestones in the row in front obscured the view. The man shifted back behind cover. Sean waited another minute and Petrov lent out again, this time from the opposite side. Sean had him covered and watched as Petrov sighted his handgun. He should be able to see the jacket now. Petrov loosed off a shot and Sean pulled the trigger.

The man slumped. Sean took aim at the man's gun arm as it lay on the ground, and squeezed the trigger again. The sleeve twitched, but no sound came from the body. At last Sean judged it safe to approach. He saw his first round had entered the man's throat. Not pretty, and there was a lot of blood. Sean felt for a pulse.

There was none.

Major Pierce looked at the sky. The weather forecast was not good, but he wanted to see for himself. The wind had strengthened and he could feel the ice particles it carried, stinging the exposed skin of his face. It was nearly dark. He was mildly surprised and found the short days took some getting used to at this latitude.

He trudged across the packed ice towards the six huge huts lining the edge of the runway. Giant diggers and snow ploughs were still working on clearing the airstrip. As soon as they had levelled a section it started to build up again, driven by a fierce wind from the approaching storm.

Pierce was thankful all the larger cargo planes had landed the day before. They brought in generators, prefabricated huts, fuel, men, provisions — and even a helicopter. There were over 200 technicians, admin, support staff and soldiers to guard the base, and all of them were there to backup Major Pierce and his team.

He opened the door of the first hut and entered. This was the Command and Control centre, the hub of Project Gold. The building was subdivided into sections, and Pierce headed for the radio facility. He slapped the duty officer on the shoulder. ‘Any news from HQ, Tony?’

Tony removed his headphones and looked up at the big man. ‘No change about permission to use the VOO. Apparently State have been lobbying the Russians hard, but they’ve been equally hard in response.’

‘What about aerial reconnaissance?’

‘They found three vessels altogether. There’s a small icebreaker taking tourists back from the pole, and two trawlers travelling along the North-East Passage, but nothing qualifies for the SRDRS spec.’

‘What about widening the search area?’

Tony shook his head. ‘There’s nothing suitable within 300 kilometres from here.’

‘OK. Log that Tony. Tell them we’re about to start work on the roadway for the loader to take the SRDRS.’ They would have to lay more steel matting to move all the rescue equipment to a point where it could be loaded onto the icebreaker. He checked his watch. ‘You also need to let them know about the weather — the forecast is for another storm front moving in and it could hamper our efforts.’

‘Yes Major. So you think we’ll have to requisition LK-80 by force?’

Pierce frowned. ‘It’s looking very much like that Tony.’

‘Oh Major, I forgot to give you this.’ He handed him a piece of paper.

‘What’s this?’

‘An update to our orders, sir.’

The Major glanced at the message. Amongst the military jargon it contained only one important sentence: “Employ any and every means to rescue the crew of the USS Montana without use of excessive force.” Major Pierce grinned at the wording. To him this was carte blanche.

He turned back to Tony. ‘I want a briefing of all team members at 1600 hours.’

Sean’s mobile pinged.

‘How are you feeling?’ Lomax asked with faux cheerfulness.

Sean touched the plaster on his face, a souvenir from Paris. The doc had patched up the finger, though the whole of his left hand and leg still throbbed. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Well throw some clothes on. They’re ready to begin debriefing Khostov. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.’

Lomax arrived early and breezed into the flat. ‘How does it feel to have another mission under the belt?’

Sean regarded Lomax, refusing to answer directly. ‘Where are we going?’

Lomax shrugged. ‘Northwood.’

Sean grunted. It was where he trained and inducted into the service. Later in his career he returned occasionally to train recruits for the Section. Now it belonged to the PJHQ, headquarters to a tri-service organisation controlling British armed forces for the Royal Navy, NATO and the EU. Sean closed his eyes for the rest of the short journey.

When they arrived they were let into the gate by two Royal Marines from the 43rd Protection Group. A Sargent escorted them to a newly renovated brick-built block and showed them into an office with a tall ceiling. Coffee, tea and croissants lay on a side table.

Sean saw Khostov sitting at a wooden desk, looking every inch the eminent scientist. He was eating a croissant and sipping coffee from a mug. He rose to shake their hands, bowing slightly from the waist.