“We’re in Russian airspace. We have ground visuals. Eight minutes to the LZ,” Chartreuse shouted into the Mil Mi-38 helicopter’s intercom, brushing her unruly fringe from her grey eyes. Those eyes that never quite settled on anything. Some men feared those eyes. Just as well, as Chartreuse didn’t think much of men. Most men.
In the dying evening light, forest and ice stretched into undulating arctic infinity. Chartreuse loved this kind of flying, low and dangerous. Way riskier than the runs she’d done for Greenpeace. The Green Panthers were about to prove that they were in another league altogether. The Panthers didn’t need donations. The Panthers didn’t need TV ads. The Panthers needed weapons, technology, and dedication. They had plenty. And now they had a mission.
Chartreuse, Olive, H
