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Under his white-grey Kevlar helmet, he had spiky black hair and a creased handsome face. He was known for his sharp mind, his cool head under pressure, and the high regard in which he was held by lower-ranking Marines-he was a leader who looked out for his men.
Rumour had it he was also the grandson of the great Michael Schofield, a Marine whose exploits in the Second World War were the stuff of Marine Corps legend. The B-2 zoomed through the sky, heading for a distant corner of northern Russia, to an abandoned Soviet installation on the barren coast of Siberia. Its official Soviet name had been 'Krask Penal and Maintenance Installation', the outermost of eight compounds surrounding the Arctic town of Krask.
In the imaginative Soviet tradition, the compounds had been named Krask-1, Krask-2, Krask-3 and so on. Until four days ago, Krask-8 had been known simply as a long-forgotten ex-Soviet outstation-a half-gulag, half-maintenance facility at which political prisoners had been forced to work.
There were hundreds of such facilities dotted around the former Soviet Union-giant, ugly, oil-stained monoliths which before had formed the industrial heart of the USSR, but which now lay dormant, left to rot in the snow, the ghost towns of the Cold War.
But two days ago, on October 24, all that had changed. Because on that day, a team of thirty well-armed and well-trained Islamic Chechen terrorists had taken over Krask-8 and announced to the Russian government that they intended to fire four SS nuclear missiles-missiles that had simply been left in their silos at the site with the fall of the Soviets in on Moscow unless Russia withdrew its troops from Chechnya and declared the breakaway republic an independent state.
A deadline was set for 10 a. The date had meaning. October 26 was a year to the day since a force of crack Russian troops had stormed a Moscow theatre held by Chechen terrorists, ending a three-day siege, killing all the terrorists and over a hundred hostages. That today also happened to be the first day of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, a traditional day of peace, didn't seem to bother these Islamist terrorists.
The fact that Krask-8 was something more than just a relic of the Cold War was also news to the Russian government. After some investigation of long-sealed Soviet records, the terrorists' claims had proved to be correct. It turned out that Krask-8 was a secret that the old Communist regime had failed to inform the new government about during the transition to democracy. It did indeed house nuclear missiles- sixteen to be exact; sixteen SS nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missiles; all contained in concealed underground silos that had been designed to evade US satellite detection.
Apparently, 'clones' of Kraskidentical missile-launch sites disguised as industrial facilities-could also be found in old Soviet client states like the Sudan, Syria, Cuba and Yemen.
And so, in the new world order-post-Cold War, post-September the Russians had called on the Americans to help.
Reinforcements would arrive later, the first of which was this team, a point unit of United States Marines led by Captain Shane M. Schofield strode into the bomb bay of the plane, breathing through a high-altitude face-mask.
He was met by the sight of a medium-sized cargo container, inside of which sat a Fast Attack 'Commando Scout' vehicle. Arguably the lightest and fastest armoured vehicle in service, it looked like a cross between a sports car and a Humvee.
And inside the sleek vehicle, strapped tightly into their seats, sat seven Recon Marines, the other members of Schofield's team. All were dressed in white-grey body armour, white-grey helmets, white-grey battle dress uniforms. And they all stared intently forward, game faces on. As Schofield watched their serious expressions, he was once again taken aback by their youth.
It was strange, but at 33 he felt decidedly old in their presence. He nodded to the nearest man.
How's the hand? He'd been shot in the hand during a fierce gun battle in the Tora Bora mountains in early , but since that day Whip and Schofield hadn't worked together. If you hadn't told them to splint it, it would have grown in a hook shape. To be honest, I didn't think you'd remember, sir. His usual team of Marines-Libby 'Fox' Gant and Gena 'Mother' Newman-were currently operating in the mountains of northern Afghanistan, hunting for the terrorist leader and long-time No.
Mother, an experienced Gunnery Sergeant who had helped Schofield himself when he was a young officer, was acting as her Team Chief. Schofield was supposed to be joining them, but at the last minute he'd been diverted from Afghanistan to lead this unexpected mission. The only one of his regulars that Schofield had been able to bring with him was a young sergeant named Buck Riley Jnr, call-sign 'Book II'. Silent and brooding and possessed of an intensity that belied his 25 years, Book II was a seriously tough-as-nails warrior.
And as far as Schofield was concerned, with his heavy-browed face and battered pug nose, he was looking more and more like his father-the original 'Book' Riley-every day. Schofield keyed his satellite radio, spoke into the VibraMike strapped around his throat. Rather than pick up actual spoken words, the vibration-sensing microphone picked up the reverberations of his voice box.
The satellite uplink system driving it was the brand-new GSXthe most advanced communications system in use in the US military.
In theory, a portable GSX-9 unit like Schofield's could broadcast a clear signal halfway around the world with crystal clarity. Mustang 1 and Mustang 2 have engaged the enemy. Report that they have seized the missile silos and inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy. Mustang 1 is holding the silos and awaiting reinforcements. Mustang 2 reports that there are still at least twelve enemy agents putting up a fight in the main maintenance building.
One hundred men, approximately one hour behind you.