The phantom descended in the sky, warping in and out of view as the clouds passed overhead. As if finished its drop and hovered at fifteen feet, the cargo hold opened on the hind, creaking as it did so, the only noise for miles, save the howling wind.

Brendan Kennedy rested on the lip of the lowering platform, re-checking his gear. His radio crackled for a moment and the beautiful synthetic voice of the local base AI said, “You have the green light, Mr. Kennedy.”

He put his finger to his ear and, “Operative zero-one-three proceeding as planned.” Loading a round into the chamber and checking his watch, which read : 17:00, he holstered his weapon and hopped out.

His boots hit the soft white ground with a light crunch. “Go time.” He whispered. Then he was off, running at full speed and looking at nothing in particular but the sea of white before him.

After some time his target came into view. It was a lone sentry tower, one of six of them posted around a large base in a wide fan. The base had not come into view as the wind had picked up and a snowstorm was forming. It masked his approach, surely by design. The boys on base must have been doing something with the weather. Turn up the frequency on that machine and the weather goes haywire.

A guard stood looking northeast, scanning blankly. His rifle was slung on his shoulder but only dangled by his hip. Kennedy had the element of surprise. The guard suddenly turned around, likely to the radio panel. He’d never get a better chance than this.

The breach literally took no effort. By the time the flashbang had gone off and the guards had any directional orientation, Brendan slipped in. Two guards lay on the floor, both disarmed and holding their eyes, screaming. The third stood hunched over, head in hands.

Brendan struck him in the diaphragm with his palm. As the man doubled over, gasping for air, he drove his elbow into the back of his head. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious. The other two guards still lay in the floor, but were slowly recovering. He located his target, a data chip sitting next to the radio panel.

As Brendan swiped the data chip and stowed it in his coat pocket, one of the guards raised his rifle in his direction. His eyes were still closed but his mouth sat wide open in fear. He opened fire, spraying the radio and frying the electronics. In one movement, Brendan leapt to the side and drew his pistol. He landed on his side and as his body recoiled from the hit, he fired a round into his head. The rubber round pelted around the room for a moment as the guard’s torso hit the ground. He’d be feeling that later.

The last guard no longer screamed but still had his hands over his eyes as if to keep out the air. Brendan sprinted down the stairs, leaping five at a time. In six seconds he’d made it out. He sprinted north northwest at full speed.

When the final, conscious guard came to, regaining his vision somewhat and full hearing, he scanned the field before him. He saw a small figure heading north northwest. He grabbed a scoped rifle from the corner and took aim. His vision blurred but he had hopes of pulling off a miraculous shot. He finally targeted him as he did something unusual. He saw the man stop

and turn to his right. He looked back in his direction. The guard steadied his aim and focused as best he could. His finger began to pull the slack out of the trigger when the man jumped into the air and disappeared. Into thin, clean Siberian air.