Zasha Litvyak flew across the northern Pacific, low enough that she could feel the salty spray as the ocean surged. This was the culmination of years of preparation; everything had led to this moment, and the work that would follow.

The Russian Federation had invaded Alaska.

It sounded worse than it was. It was a tiny landing force at the northernmost part of the state, just enough to startle the residents and seize the oil reserves. The real invading force was coming now.

Fyodor Sidorenko groaned as he dangled in a harness underneath her.

“Shh,” Zasha said. “It’s about to start.”

“We’ve been waiting long forever,” he replied, pain apparent in his voice. “Let’s get it over with.”

He’d do his part soon enough. He was the real weapon. She was just the transportation.

“They’re here,” she said as she spotted the lights of the American task force in the distance. She saw the first carrier, “70” painted on its superstructure. “The USS Carl Vinson. And behind it is the Ronald Reagan. In addition to the carriers, Zasha could name most of the destroyers and frigates in the group. But there were a dozen support craft that she couldn’t identify. They were auxiliaries that had fled the terrorist attacks at Bremerton: research vessels and hospital ships and cargo carriers. This group was a cluster of unprepared misfits, not a war-bound task force.

“I wish I could see,” he said.

“You’ll see the fireworks.”

He laughed at that—a wet, raspy laugh in which she could hear the damage to his body. Too many drugs.

No, that wasn’t right. It was the perfect amount of drugs—a formula that had been tested on him time and again until they’d gotten the results they wanted. Fyodor meant “Gift from God.” It was his new name, given by their overseers at the training facility. And if this plan worked, he would be.

Zasha liked her new name, too. No longer was she Inna Fedorov, a name that meant little. Zasha meant “defender of the people” and her surname came from Lydia Litvyak, the world’s top female flying ace. At training school Zasha had put on a dour expression and pretended the title was a solemn honor, but out here—soaring over the ocean—she adored it. Soon she would be an ace, a flyer who aimed her weapon with such precision and grace that the enemy wouldn’t even know how they’d been hit.

Zasha moved slower now, so she could fly closer to the rolling ocean. Two teenagers wouldn’t show up on the fleet’s radars; even if someone did track them, they’d give off signatures no different from birds. And should anyone catch sight of them from the deck, their black and white camouflage would blend in with the dark sea and breaking waves.

As Zasha neared the fleet she felt her heart leap, knowing that the plan was going better than they had hoped. The flagship was the legendary USS Nimitz. Two carriers was a feat. Three carriers was a miracle. Of course, the carriers were surrounded by a host of defensive ships and air cover, but that was what Zasha and Fyodor were for.

Zasha checked the GPS on her wrist. Everything hinged on being in just the right place. She glided around a tall blocky cruiser—the USS Princeton, she noted, the names drilled into her by her trainer—and moved farther back into the group.

She checked the GPS again. Just about right. She made an adjustment, flying two hundred yards to her right. Fyodor had a range—a diameter—of just under 26 kilometers. Zasha hovered in place and pulled a syringe from her hip pouch. It was already filled, and she checked it for air.

“I’m ready,” Fyodor said through a tense jaw. They both knew the pain he’d feel. Maybe she knew it better than him—her mind was clearer while it was happening.

“You’re going to be a hero.” She plunged the needle into Fyodor’s shoulder and depressed the plunger.

In a moment he strained, his whole body going rigid. She gazed up at the stars, waiting for the inevitable, and a moment later she saw it. First one, then two, then four fighter jets fell from the sky, careening uncontrollably. Soon all the aircraft that had been flying above the carrier group were falling, followed by their parachuting pilots.

One plane was in the distance—outside of Fyodor’s range. It was foolishly moving back toward the group. A moment later it began a sharp descent into the inky black sea. No parachutes emerged from that one.

Every ship was dark. Every door light, every cabin window, every beacon. Everything. It was just like Zasha had imagined, and it thrilled her.