to introduce themselves was a sign of the level of distrust that had existed. “And we both know Mr. Lukin now.” He looked at Nikolai. “So is any part of you medically trained?” Nikolai nodded. “Then tend to Tyannikov.”
“Da, captain ,” Nikolai said less-than-flatteringly. He approached Sevastian to examine his shoulder.
Mikhail’s focus shifted to Reed. “I want you to backtrack to the doorway by the entryway. Take whatever you can from the men we lost there. Weapons, ammunition, whatever would be useful.” He had a hunch that part of the ship was clear. It was the deeper interior they needed to worry about. “Go.”
For a moment, Reed hesitated—until a stern look from Hemingway prompted the corporal’s cooperation. Readying his M3, Reed slipped out the doorway. Mikhail turned to Hemingway. “Whatever time we have now will not last long. Those creatures outside, they will soon alert the rest of their crew that we are here—if they have not done so already. Do you have communication with your general?”
The look Hemingway gave him was all the answer Mikhail needed. “That’s the first thing I tried when we got in this room,” the American answered. “There’s too much interference coming from the ship. We’ve got nothing.”
Testing his own radio, Mikhail experienced the same thing. Nothing but static. Damn it. With no communication, there was no way to alert the rest of the Americans that they had made it inside. There was no way to signal the frontal assault. The last thing the Americans saw was Nina leading Mikhail and his team toward the ship. She never even made it back to them. For all Mikhail knew, they thought the infiltration team was dead. That conclusion would only be strengthened with those reptiles lurking about the dig site.
“We talked about this possibility beforehand,” Hemingway said. “Communication going dark once we got inside. We agreed that we didn’t necessarily need to know that things were going well inside the ship—just the confirmation that we made it inside. But they don’t even have that.”
Nina would have been confirmation. But she never returned to the jeeps. They were truly alone. Looking at his sniper, Mikhail asked, “Can you manage in close combat?”
Propping up from the wall, Nina nodded.
“Here,” Mikhail said, removing the Makarov pistol he’d claimed from Sevastian and handing it to her. “Take this. Here is some ammunition.”
“Think your weapons survived their torture test?” Hemingway asked.
Mikhail nodded. “What few we have left, yes.”
Moments later, Reed returned through the doorway with the salvaged equipment from the fallen Green Beret and Iosif. Setting the salvage on the floor, he picked up a canteen and addressed Nina. “Miss.” Tossing it to her, he then looked at Mikhail. “For the lady to wash her head.”
Faintly, Mikhail smiled. Perhaps a good man, after all. Glancing back at Nina, he nodded in approval. His focus returned to the weapons on the floor. Iosif’s Makarov was there, along with his PPSh-41 ammunition. “Who’s good?” he asked, looking around.
“Good,” Sparks said from his position in the hall. Reed and Hemingway affirmed, too. All three Americans still had their submachine guns.
Nikolai would be fine. He already had Iosif’s PPsh-41, and he could take the extra ammunition. Giving the extra Makarov to Sevastian, that left Mikhail as the only weaponless soldier. Bending down, he picked up the M3.
“You know how to work that thing?” asked Hemingway.
Claiming the weapons’ extra ammunition, he tested the M3’s weight in his hands. “I learn quickly.” Looking back at Nina, he saw her massage her head under the flow of canteen water, her black hair reemerging from the muck. Slicking it back and wiping her face, she tossed the canteen back to Reed.
“Spasibo,” she said, a faint smile showing. “Thank you.”
Mikhail shifted to his other troops. Nikolai was still working on
“Da, captain ,” Nikolai said less-than-flatteringly. He approached Sevastian to examine his shoulder.
Mikhail’s focus shifted to Reed. “I want you to backtrack to the doorway by the entryway. Take whatever you can from the men we lost there. Weapons, ammunition, whatever would be useful.” He had a hunch that part of the ship was clear. It was the deeper interior they needed to worry about. “Go.”
For a moment, Reed hesitated—until a stern look from Hemingway prompted the corporal’s cooperation. Readying his M3, Reed slipped out the doorway. Mikhail turned to Hemingway. “Whatever time we have now will not last long. Those creatures outside, they will soon alert the rest of their crew that we are here—if they have not done so already. Do you have communication with your general?”
The look Hemingway gave him was all the answer Mikhail needed. “That’s the first thing I tried when we got in this room,” the American answered. “There’s too much interference coming from the ship. We’ve got nothing.”
Testing his own radio, Mikhail experienced the same thing. Nothing but static. Damn it. With no communication, there was no way to alert the rest of the Americans that they had made it inside. There was no way to signal the frontal assault. The last thing the Americans saw was Nina leading Mikhail and his team toward the ship. She never even made it back to them. For all Mikhail knew, they thought the infiltration team was dead. That conclusion would only be strengthened with those reptiles lurking about the dig site.
“We talked about this possibility beforehand,” Hemingway said. “Communication going dark once we got inside. We agreed that we didn’t necessarily need to know that things were going well inside the ship—just the confirmation that we made it inside. But they don’t even have that.”
Nina would have been confirmation. But she never returned to the jeeps. They were truly alone. Looking at his sniper, Mikhail asked, “Can you manage in close combat?”
Propping up from the wall, Nina nodded.
“Here,” Mikhail said, removing the Makarov pistol he’d claimed from Sevastian and handing it to her. “Take this. Here is some ammunition.”
“Think your weapons survived their torture test?” Hemingway asked.
Mikhail nodded. “What few we have left, yes.”
Moments later, Reed returned through the doorway with the salvaged equipment from the fallen Green Beret and Iosif. Setting the salvage on the floor, he picked up a canteen and addressed Nina. “Miss.” Tossing it to her, he then looked at Mikhail. “For the lady to wash her head.”
Faintly, Mikhail smiled. Perhaps a good man, after all. Glancing back at Nina, he nodded in approval. His focus returned to the weapons on the floor. Iosif’s Makarov was there, along with his PPSh-41 ammunition. “Who’s good?” he asked, looking around.
“Good,” Sparks said from his position in the hall. Reed and Hemingway affirmed, too. All three Americans still had their submachine guns.
Nikolai would be fine. He already had Iosif’s PPsh-41, and he could take the extra ammunition. Giving the extra Makarov to Sevastian, that left Mikhail as the only weaponless soldier. Bending down, he picked up the M3.
“You know how to work that thing?” asked Hemingway.
Claiming the weapons’ extra ammunition, he tested the M3’s weight in his hands. “I learn quickly.” Looking back at Nina, he saw her massage her head under the flow of canteen water, her black hair reemerging from the muck. Slicking it back and wiping her face, she tossed the canteen back to Reed.
“Spasibo,” she said, a faint smile showing. “Thank you.”
Mikhail shifted to his other troops. Nikolai was still working on
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