Primary Threat

“But are they big enough, and well-trained…”

“Of course not,” Trudy said. “Not on their own. But we can’t assume anyone is acting by themselves. There are dozens of environmental groups, several of which are also radicalized. There are major corporations, especially oil companies, jockeying for position. There are Middle Eastern countries wondering if oil exploration in the Arctic is about to leave them in the lurch. And of course, there’s Russia and China.”

“The banner,” Luke said.

“Yes. The banner calls America hypocrites and liars. That doesn’t tell us much, but the simplicity and garbled syntax of it suggests that the people who made the banner are not native English speakers. Meanwhile, the apparent professionalism of the attack suggests at least a high level of training, including cold-weather training, and probably combat experience.”

Luke could see where she was headed with this.

“Most of the Arctic countries are either close allies of ours, like Canada, Norway, and Sweden, or have friendly to neutral relations with us, like Iceland, Denmark, and Finland. And I don’t think the Russians or Chinese would attack us directly, especially not after all the recent trouble. But would they fund and train a cat’s paw, a group that either feels disenfranchised by us, or expects they are about to become disenfranchised?”

She paused.

“Of course they would,” Swann said.

Trudy nodded. “They might just.”

“So a new, radical anti-American group, kind of like an Al Qaeda of the Arctic?”

Trudy shrugged. “I can’t say that for sure. Could be an armed and trained indigenous group or groups. Could be white supremacists from the old Viking world, who are hoping to see the glory of the Scandinavian countries restored. Heck, it could be Quebec separatists. I don’t know.”

To Luke’s left, the glass door to the other passenger cabin slid open. The two men came in. “Good guesses, Ms. Wellington,” the older of the two men said. “Probably wrong, but as scenario spinning goes, pretty good nonetheless.”

* * *

The younger guy wore jeans and a T-shirt. The jeans hugged his muscular legs. The T-shirt hugged his muscular chest. The shirt had two words across the front, very small, white on a black background.

GET HARD.

“Guys, I’m Captain Brooks Donaldson, of the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group, sometimes called DEVGRU, often called SEAL Team Six.”

He was holding up a thick orange wetsuit, complete with hood, gloved hands, and boots. Odd for a Navy SEAL, he had just put down a soft drink can on the table. Luke stared at it. Dr. Peck’s ginger beer.

“I want to talk to you all a little bit about hypothermia. It’s important for us to think about. For all we know of freezing and its physiology, no one can predict exactly how quickly and in whom hypothermia will strike—and whether it will kill when it does. We do know that it’s more likely to kill men than women, and it’s more lethal to the thin and well-muscled—and that pretty well describes everyone in this room—than it is to people with a lot of body fat. It’s least forgiving to people who are ignorant about its effects. In other words, if you’re not prepared for it, and you don’t know what to do about it, it can easily kill you.”

Already, Luke didn’t like where this was going. Nobody had told him to expect anything about wetsuits or hypothermia or Navy SEALs who drank soda pop. The man, Donaldson, indicated the wetsuit in his hands.

“This suit is your first line of defense out there against hypothermia. The demonstration suit is orange, and your operation suits will be black, but don’t let that distract you. Just imagine this one as black. In orange or black, or purple or pink, or any color at all, these are state of the art, probably the best cold-water immersion suits in existence at the current time. It provides both flotation and hypothermia protection. Its features include lifting harness and buddy line, five-fingered insulated gloves for warmth and dexterity, inflatable head pillow, face shield and water-tight face seal, adjustable wrists and ankles, 5mm fire retardant neoprene, hailing whistle, light pocket, and non-slip thick-soled booties. But it’s a little bit of work to put on and take off in stormy conditions. And I’m going to show you how to do that.”

Everyone in the cabin was staring at him.

“Any questions before I begin?”

Murphy raised a hand.

“Yes, Agent…”

“Murphy.”

“Yes, Agent Murphy. Shoot.”

Murphy glanced at the ginger beer can on the table. He scowled, just a little bit. Murphy was an Irishman from the Bronx. It wasn’t clear to Luke what Murphy’s exact thoughts were about that ginger beer, but it sure seemed like he didn’t approve.

“What are we talking about here?”

Donaldson seemed confused. “What are we talking about?”

Murphy nodded. He gestured at the orange wetsuit. “Yeah. That. Why are you telling us about it? We’re not SEALs. We’re not really water people at all. Newsam, Stone, and I are all former Delta Force. Airborne assault. I was 75th Rangers before Delta, Stone was 75th Rangers, Newsam was…”

He paused and looked at Ed. Ed was slumped very low in his chair. Any lower, and he would ooze out onto the floor.

“82nd Airborne,” Ed said.

“Airborne,” Murphy said. “There’s that word again. You can show us that suit from now until we land, and all next week, but that’s not going to suddenly make us into divers.”

“I’ve done some diving,” Ed said.

Murphy stared at him. Luke wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen someone stare at Ed that way. Murphy was a vehicle that didn’t have reverse.

“Thanks,” he said. “You diving wrecks in Aruba really helps my argument.”

Ed smiled and shrugged.

The SEAL nodded. “I get your point. But this is an underwater operation. We will drop into the water at a temporary camp being constructed right now on a floating ice sheet about a mile and a half from the oil rig. I thought you knew that.”

Luke shook his head. “This is the first we’re hearing of it.”

“There’s no way to go in there by boat,” Donaldson said. “We have to assume that our opponents will have all the approach points covered. They appear to have heavy weaponry available to them. Any boat slogging its way through the ice to that oil rig is going to get hit, and hit hard.”

“Can we come in from the sky?” Luke said.

Donaldson shook his head. “Even worse. They’re expecting a storm to pass through that area in the next few hours. You do not want to be falling from the sky during an Arctic storm, I promise you that. And even if things clear, then they have a clean shot at you as you come down. It’ll be like shooting ducks. There’s only one way in, and that’s to come out from under the ice and take them by surprise.”

He paused. “And we’re going to need all the surprise we can get. As much as we’re going in hard, we need to keep at least one of the attackers alive.”

“Why’s that?” Ed said.

Donaldson shrugged. “We need to know what these men wanted, what their plan was, and whether they acted alone. We want to know everything about them. Assuming they don’t leave us some kind of manifesto, and since no one has claimed responsibility for the attack so far, we have to assume the only way to get that information is to capture at least one of them, and preferably more than one.”

Now Luke really didn’t like it. They were going in under the ice, and when they came up, they were supposed to capture someone. What if they were jihadis who didn’t give up? What if they fought until their last breath?

The whole operation seemed hastily organized and poorly thought through. But of course it was. How could it not be when the plan was to take back the oil rig the same night it was attacked, and in fact, mere hours later?

They had no intel on the attackers. There had been no communication. They didn’t know where they were from, what they wanted, what weapons they had, or what other skills. They didn’t know what the attackers would do if they themselves were attacked. Would they kill all the hostages? Commit suicide by blowing up the rig? No one knew.

So instead, the whole group was going in blind. Worse, Luke’s team was supposed to be the civilian oversight, but they were participating in a mission that was underwater—ice water—something they had no training for. Precious few American soldiers had training for ice water immersion.

“This whole thing,” Murphy said, “strikes me as FUBAR.”

Luke wasn’t sure if he agreed completely. But he was sensitive to the fact that Murphy still probably thought Luke’s poor decisions had led to the deaths of their entire assault team in Afghanistan.

If Murphy, or Ed, or even Swann or Trudy decided they wanted out of this mission, it was fine with Luke. People had to make their own decisions—he couldn’t decide for them.

Suddenly, he wished he had talked to Becca before leaving on this trip. Now it was too late.

“We’ve got less than two hours until our ETA,” the older man said, glancing at his watch. He looked at Donaldson, who was still holding the thick orange bodysuit. Then he made a spinning motion with his hand, like the arms on a clock moving rapidly.

“I suggest you get this demonstration underway.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

9:15 a.m. Moscow Daylight Time (10:15 p.m. Alaska Daylight Time, September 4)

The “Aquarium”

Headquarters of the Main Intelligence Directorate (GRU)

Khodynka Airfield

Moscow, Russia

Blue smoke rose toward the ceiling.

“There is a great deal of movement,” the latest visitor, a pot-bellied man in the uniform of the Interior Ministry, said. His voice belied a certain anxiety. It was nothing in the timbre of the voice. It didn’t tremble or crack. You had to have the right ears to hear it. The man was afraid.

“Yes,” Marmilov said. “Would you expect anything less from them?”

Although the office had no windows, the light had changed as the morning progressed. Marmilov’s swooping, hardened hair now resembled a type of dark plastic helmet. The overhead lights seemed so bright it was as if Marmilov and his guest were sitting in the desert at midday, the sun casting deep shadows into the fissures carved into the ancient stone of Marmilov’s face.

People sometimes wondered why a man with such influence chose to run his empire from this tomb, underneath this bleak, crumbling, run-down building well outside Central Moscow. Marmilov knew about this wonder because men, especially powerful men, or those aspiring to be powerful, often asked him this very question.

“Why not a corner office upstairs, Marmilov? Or a man like yourself, whose mandate far surpasses just the GRU, why not get yourself transferred to the Kremlin, with a wide view of Red Square and the opportunity to contemplate the deeds of our history, and the great men who have come before? Or perhaps just watch the pretty girls passing by? Or at the very least, a chance to see the sun?”

Marmilov would smile and say, “I do not like the sun.”

“And pretty girls?” his friendly tormentors might say.

To this Marmilov would shake his head. “I’m an old man. My wife is good enough for me.”

None of this was true. Marmilov’s wife lived fifty kilometers outside the city, in a country estate dating to before the Revolution. He barely ever saw her and neither she nor he had a problem with this arrangement. Instead of spending time with his wife, he stayed in a modern hotel suite at the Moscow Ritz Carlton, and he feasted on a steady diet of young women brought directly to his door. He ordered them up like room service.

He had heard that the girls, and for all he knew, their pimps as well, referred to him as Count Dracula. The nickname made him smile. He couldn’t have chosen a more fitting one himself.

The reason he stayed in the basement of this building, and didn’t move to the Kremlin, was because he didn’t want to see Red Square. Although he loved Russian culture more than anything, during his workday, he didn’t want his actions tainted by dreams of the past. And he especially didn’t want them handicapped by the unfortunate realities and half-measures of the present.

Marmilov’s focus was on the future. He was hell bent on it.

There was greatness in the future. There was glory in the future. The Russian future would surpass, and then dwarf, the pathetic disasters of the present, and perhaps even the victories of the past.

The future was coming, and he was its creator. He was its father, and also its midwife. To imagine it fully, he couldn’t allow himself to become distracted by conflicting messages and ideas. He needed a pure vision, and to achieve this, it was better to stare at a blank wall than out the window.

“No, I wouldn’t,” the fat man, Viktor Ulyanov, said. “But I believe there are some in our circle who are concerned by the activity.”

Marmilov shrugged. “Of course.”

There were always those who were more concerned about the skin on their own necks than on leading the people to a brighter day.

“And there are some who believe that when the President…”

The President!

Marmilov nearly laughed. The President was a speed bump on this country’s path to greatness. He was an impediment, and a minor one at that. Ever since this President had taken the reins from his alcoholic mentor Yelstin, Russia’s comedy of errors had worsened, not improved.

President of what? President of garbage!

The President needed to watch his back, as the saying went. Or he might soon find a knife protruding from it.

“Yes?” Marmilov said. “Concerned that when the President… what?”

“Finds out,” Ulyanov said.

Marmilov nodded and smiled. “Yes? Finds out… What will happen then?”

“There will be a purge,” Ulyanov said.

Marmilov squinted at Ulyanov in the haze of smoke. Could the man be joking? The jest wouldn’t be that Putin finding out would lead to a purge. If handled incorrectly, of course it would. The jest would be that at this late date in the preparations, Ulyanov and unnamed others would suddenly be thinking about such a thing.

“The President will find out after it is too late,” Marmilov declared simply. “The President himself will be the one who is purged.” Ulyanov, and any others he was speaking for, must know this. It had been the plan all along.

“There is concern that we are arranging a bloodbath,” Ulyanov said.

Marmilov blew smoke into the air. “My dear friend, we are not arranging anything. The bloodbath is already arranged. It was arranged years ago.”

Here in Marmilov’s lair, a laptop computer had sprouted like a mushroom next to the small TV screen on his desk. The TV still showed closed circuit footage from security cameras at the oil rig. The laptop showed transcripts of intercepted American communications translated into Russian.

The Americans were tightening a noose around the captured oil rig. A ring of temporary forward bases were appearing on floating ice within a few miles of the rig. Black operations teams were on high alert, preparing to strike. An experimental supersonic jet had received clearance, and landed at Deadhorse perhaps thirty minutes ago.

The Americans were set to strike.

“It was never the intention to hold the rig for very long,” Marmilov said. “This is why we used a proxy. We knew that the Americans would take back their property.”

“Yes,” Ulyanov said. “But the very same night?”

Marmilov shrugged. “Sooner than we expected, but the result will be the same. Their initial assault teams will meet with disaster. A bloodbath, as you say. The bigger, the better. Their hypocrisy regarding the environment will be exposed. And the world will have occasion to remember their war crimes of the not too distant past.”

“And how much of this will blow back to us?” Ulyanov said.

Marmilov took another deep inhale from his cigarette. It was like the breath of life itself. Yes, even here in Russia, even here in Marmilov’s inner sanctum, you could no longer hide from the facts. Cigarettes were bad for you. Vodka was bad for you. Whiskey was bad for you. But if so, why had God made them all so pleasurable?

He breathed out.

“It remains to be seen, of course. And it will depend on the media outlets covering it in each country. But the first dispatches will of course be in our favor. In general, I suspect that events will reflect rather poorly on the Americans, and then, a bit later, they will reflect poorly on our beloved President.”

He paused, and thought about it just a bit more. “The truth, and events will confirm this as they unfold, is the worse the disaster, the better our position.”

CHAPTER NINE

11:05 p.m. Alaska Daylight Time (September 4)

US Navy Ice Camp ReadyGo

Six Miles North of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

Two Miles West of the Martin Frobisher Oil Platform

The Beaufort Sea

The Arctic Ocean

“No way, man. I can’t do this.”

The night was black. Outside the small modular dome, the wind howled. A frozen rain was falling out there. Visibility was deteriorating. In a little while, it was going to be near zero.

Luke was tired. He had taken a Dexie when the plane landed, and another a few moments ago, but neither one had kicked in.

The whole thing seemed like a mistake. They had traveled across the continent in a mad dash, at supersonic speeds, the mission was about to get underway, and now one of his men was backing out.

“This does not look right at all.”

It was Murphy talking. Of course it was.

Murphy did not want to go on this thrill ride.

The temporary ice camp, basically a dozen modular weatherproof domes on a floating ice sheet, had sprung up like so many mushrooms after a spring rain, apparently in the past two hours. It was one of several camps just like it, ringing the oil rig a safe distance away. The establishment of several camps out here on the periphery was in case the terrorists were watching. The activity was designed to make it hard for them to know where the counterattack was coming from.

Inside each of the domes, a rectangular hole had been cut through the ice, roughly the size and shape of a coffin. The ice here was two or three feet thick. A deck made of some wood-like synthetic material had been snapped into place around each hole. Diving lights had been affixed underwater, giving the hole an eerie blue color. New ice was already forming on the surface of the water.

Luke and Ed were in their neoprene dry suits, sitting in chairs near the hole. Brooks Donaldson was doing the same. Each man was being worked on by two assistants, men in US Navy fleece jackets, who busied themselves putting on the men’s equipment. Luke sat still as a man mounted his buoyancy compensator around his torso.

“How’s it feel?” the guy said.

“Bulky, to be honest.”

“Good. It is bulky.”

Luke’s hands weren’t in his gloves yet. They kept straying to the waterproof zipper across his chest. It was tight and hard to pull. As it should be. It was cold water down there. The zipper made a firm seal. But that meant it was going to be hard to open when they reached the destination.

“How am I supposed to open this thing?” he said.

“Adrenaline,” one of the assistants said. “When the shit starts flying, guys practically rip these suits off with their bare hands.”

Ed laughed. He looked at Luke. His eyes said it wasn’t that funny.

“Oh, man,” he said.

Murphy wasn’t laughing at all. He had come here with them from Deadhorse, but he never even began the process of suiting up.

“This is a death trap, Stone,” he said. “Just like last time.”

“You have nothing to prove to me,” Luke said. “Or anyone. No one has to go. It’s not like last time at all.”

Last time.

The time when they were both in Delta, back in eastern Afghanistan. Luke was the squad leader, and he had failed to overrule a glory hound lieutenant colonel who had led everyone—everyone except Luke and Murphy—to their deaths.

It was true. He could have aborted the mission. Those were his guys—they had no allegiance to the lieutenant colonel at all. If Luke had said stop, the mission would have stopped. But he would have risked a court martial for insubordination. He would have risked his entire military career—a career, oddly enough, which ended that night anyway.

Murphy looked at Ed. “Why are you going?”

Ed shrugged. “I like excitement.”

Murphy shook his head. “Look at that hole, man. It’s like someone dug your grave. Drop a coffin in there and you’re all set.”

Murphy wasn’t a coward. Luke knew that. Luke had been in at least a dozen firefights with him in Delta. He’d been in the shootout with him in Montreal, the one that saved Lawrence Keller’s life and brought President David Barrett’s killers to justice. He’d even had a fistfight with Murphy on top of John F. Kennedy’s eternal flame. Murphy was a tough customer.

But Murphy didn’t want to go. Luke could see he was scared. That might be because Murphy didn’t have the training for this. But it just might be because…

“Okay, guys, listen up!”

A burly man in a Navy fleece had come into the dome. For a split second, as he pushed through the heavy vinyl drapes that formed the airlock to the outside, the wind shrieked. The man’s face was bright red from the cold.

“As I understand it, you were all briefed in Deadhorse.”

The guy stopped. He looked at the empty seat where Murphy should be sitting. Then he looked at Murphy.

Murphy shook his head.

“I ain’t going.”

The guy shrugged. “Suit yourself. But this is a classified operation. If you’re not going, you’re not going to hear what I’m about to say.”

“I’m part of the civilian oversight team,” Murphy said.

The guy shook his head. “My orders are that two members of the civilian oversight team are at the command center in Deadhorse, and the rest of the team is suited up and going in with the SEALs.”

He raised his empty hands as if to say: That’s all I got.

“If you’re not at the command center and you’re not suited up, I don’t think you’re on the team.”

Murphy shook his head and sighed. “Ah, hell.”

He shrugged a heavy green parka over his thick coveralls.

“Murph,” Luke said. “Call Swann and Trudy. They’ll get you on a chopper.”

The new guy shook his head. “Choppers are grounded. The storm is coming in hard. We don’t want any accidents out there. The mission is bad enough.”

Murphy cursed under his breath and went out the way the man had just come in. The vinyl flapped and the wind shrieked again. The man watched Murphy leave, then looked at the three divers remaining.

“Okay,” he said. “This is an ice dive, at night, in a storm, in an overhead environment. I almost can’t think of a more challenging assignment. A year ago, we lost two experienced divers in a similar overhead ice environment, but it was a daytime training dive, there was no storm, and they were tethered to their home base. Okay? You should know that.”

“Were they swimming toward a firefight?” Ed said.

The man just looked at him. He was in no mood for humor. Luke felt much the same way. There was nothing funny about this.

“As you probably realize, this is not a tethered dive. For much of the swim, the ice above your heads will be frozen solid. You do not want to make contact with it. You want to drop five meters below it, then maintain neutral buoyancy, and good level trim.”

There were four swimmer delivery vehicles at his feet. They were basically small, battery-powered electric torpedoes. Each diver would hold the handle on a vehicle with one hand, and the propulsion would carry him to the destination much faster, and with much less effort, than he could swim by himself.

The man picked one up in both arms. “Who here has used one of these?”

All three hands went up.

The man nodded. “Good. Normally, we would use Mark 8 submarine delivery vehicles, each carrying two to four men, but we couldn’t get them here in time, and the environment is a difficult one in which to deploy them. So we’re going with the handhelds. All right?”

He paused. But no one said a word. It was what it was. It didn’t matter if it was all right or not.

“Watch your compass. You are headed due east. You’ve got seventeen other guys…” He looked at Murphy’s empty chair again. “Sixteen other guys down there. Move with the flow of traffic. This group is the oversight group, so you are taking the rear. If you get confused, you get lost, the way back is due west. This camp is lit up like a Christmas tree down there, so just head for the lights.”

He held up a waterproof helmet, with visor and mask.

“Your head gear has two-way radio communications. Keep chatter to a minimum. Listen for the leaders up ahead. Visibility is going to be low. Your ears might save you. Your mouth might kill you.”

He stared hard at them all.

“No air support. No amphibious support. It could get hot. Keep an eye above you. When you notice open air, you are almost there. As you reach the overhead ice’s edge, turn off your headlamps. The idea, gentlemen, is to take them by surprise.”

The man held up an MP5 machine gun with a pre-mounted magazine. The gun was shrink-wrapped in thick, translucent plastic. He held up a three-pack of grenades, wrapped the same way.

“These things are out of the elements right now. This is one hundred percent waterproof packaging. When you get onto land, use your knives to cut it open.”

He smiled, then shook his head. “If you need to, use your knives to cut yourselves out of those suits, too.”

Luke glanced at Ed. Ed made a grimace, a funny facial expression that Luke had never seen him make before. He looked like a kid in elementary school when the teacher suggested the class should sing some Christmas carols.

The assistants behind Ed lifted his helmet, and then let it settle into place on his head. His breath fogged up the visor.

The assistants behind Luke were about to do the same.

“Any questions?” the man at the front said.

What are we doing? came to mind.

“Good. Then let’s hit it.”

* * *

Murphy was in a bad mood.

“I’m sick of this mission, Swann. I never liked Navy people, and now I really don’t like them.”

The communications here were okay, despite the storm. Swann had explained it to him, but Murphy hadn’t listened to the whole thing. Something about antennas built into these domes, plus satellite signals that penetrated fast moving cloud cover and precipitation, plus the unbreakable encryption Swann was known for…

Whatever.

He waited through the delay as the signal bounced around so the terrorists couldn’t trace and listen in.

Murphy was fed up, irritated. He wasn’t a diver. Stone and Newsam weren’t divers either. The SEALs had been training with elite cold-water dive teams from Norway and Sweden for the past several years. Meanwhile, the unprepared SRT had been tacked onto this mission like some kind of garish hood ornament.

The way that big guy had looked at the empty chair… then at Murphy… then back at the chair. He was lucky they were both on the same team. Murphy would gladly remodel the guy’s face with that chair.

“Yeah, I don’t get it,” Swann said finally. “We’re pretty much window dressing back here at mission control. Nobody wants civilian oversight on this thing. They want a rubber stamp. They put us in our own office, away from everybody else, with a couple of computers and a coffee machine.”

Murphy smiled. He could picture hardened SEAL and JSOC officers getting a load of the tall, gangly, long-haired, bespectacled computer freak Swann, and the tender young morsel Trudy Wellington, and thinking…

Nothing. The engines powering the typical military brain would grind to a halt. The sight of Swann alone was enough to pour sugar in the gas tank.

Put them in another room, somewhere out of sight.

“Those guys are gonna get themselves killed down there. I tried to tell Stone, but then some Navy chump kicked me out because the briefing was classified.”

“Where are you now?” Swann said.

Murphy looked around. He was inside an empty dome, sitting on a chair that until recently must have held a Navy SEAL. The hole in the ice glowed blue. There was a command dome around here somewhere, and after the SEALs went in, the support staff must have gone there to watch the radar blips moving under the ice sheet.

“I’m in hell,” Murphy said. “A frozen hell.”

Trudy’s voice came on. It was musical, like fingers lightly tinkling the piano keys.

“What do you want to do?” she said.

The answer to that was easy enough. Murphy wanted to disappear. He wanted to leave this Arctic wasteland, this pointless terrorist atrocity, whatever it was, go down to Grand Cayman, grab his $2.5 million in cash, and just evaporate.

It was easier said than done, however. It was going to take planning, and time to engineer a disappearance like that. Time he didn’t have. Don still wanted him to do six months in Leavenworth in exchange for an honorable discharge. Meanwhile, Wallace Speck was in custody, out of Murphy’s reach, and could start saying unfortunate things at any moment.

The worst-case scenario was Murphy arriving in Leavenworth at the exact moment Speck mentioned his name.

Naturally, these were not things Murphy could talk about with Mark Swann and Trudy Wellington. But there were things he could talk about. Swann and Trudy could help him, not to get out of here, but to get further in.

Stone was wrong. Murphy had something to prove. He always had something to prove. Maybe not to Stone, and maybe not to that Cro-Magnon-skulled SEAL trainer, but to himself. This mission had rubbed him the wrong way. They had catapulted across the country at warp speed, for what? A half-baked operation that was FUBAR before it even got underway. Who dreamed this up, Wile E. Coyote? It was the Iran embassy rescue operation part two, with ice this time instead of sand.

That it seemed so poorly and hastily designed irritated Murphy. The fact that Stone went along with it irritated him more. The fact that Newsam went along with it piled the irritation sky high.

The fact that he, Murphy, couldn’t bring himself to squeeze into that claustrophobic diving suit and climb through that grave hole in the ice added a little bit of humiliation to the mix. And the way that mindless drone looked at that chair…

Murphy’s hands clenched and unclenched. He had come to terms long ago that part of why he had joined the military, and then Delta Force, was to do something constructive with his anger.