There was less than an hour left. The tank was supposed to be blown at three a.m., and it was already after two o'clock. He moved along the aisles of snow between the tanks, crouching to get a better angle of sight, hoping to pick up the silhouette of at least one of the three men against the dark gray horizon.

He stopped again to listen. What was that? he wondered to himself, trying to shake the spooky sensation of being alone in a white hell. He heard it again, this time a little louder. A crunch-someone approaching through the snow. Then he heard voices. They were off to the left, and some distance away.

Falling flat, he inched around to face the direction of the sound. The voices were still unintelligible, but the men were obviously coming his way.

Fast. He reached behind to unsling the white-shrouded rifle, careful not to make a sound. The terrain before him sloped away at a sharp angle. He would have to be quick, and deadly. There was no time to race around the frozen hellscape tracking phantoms.

He'd much rather make a few ghosts of his own and be done with it.

The first guy came into view about two hundred yards away. He was turning to look over his shoulder. Bolan steadied himself, readying for three quick shots, and then he saw the second man. Steady now, steady. One more, and he could end it. But the first two stopped. One of them turned and waved impatiently, then dumped a heavy pack in the snow and walked back the way he came.

The other man waited, looking around nervously.

Bolan readjusted the rifle's sight and watched.

He'd teach them something about patience. Not that they'd live long enough for it to be of any use. Soon the guy was back, half pushing and half dragging another man. "Keep it down, for crissakes, why don't you?" the man who had waited cautioned them.

"What are you bellyachin' about? There's nobody within two miles of us.