Arctic Fire

CHAPTER 12

“You’re sure about this?” Tombstone shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony on the flight deck.

Batman grinned. “As sure as I’ve ever been about anything, Stoney. This mission ain’t got a chance in hell unless I fly lead on it. You know that. Besides, I’ve got that hotheaded Bird Dog up there to watch out for. He and Gator have more time circling this piece of ice than any other crew on the boat. I’ll get them in, they’ll dump some ordnance, and we’ll all be back on board in time for midrats. Hell, I’d go it alone if my bird could carry enough two-thousand-pounders alone.” He shook his head ruefully. “But in this weather, with a Bear-J in the vicinity, you gotta have some self-protection.”

Outside the handler’s compartment, the JAST bird and Tomcat 201 were waiting. Both aircraft carried two two-thousand-pound bombs, along with Sidewinders and Sparrows for air combat. According to the SEALs’ mission plan, four bombs were necessary to ensure the desired kill factor on the mission.

“Well.” Tombstone paused at the hatch leading out onto the flight deck from the handler’s compartment and stuck out his hand. “Luck. You’ll need it, an old shit like you pulling this kind of stunt.”

Batman grabbed his old wingman’s hand in a strong, two-handed grip. “Luck always helps, but I’ll settle for some damned fine avionics instead. That I know I’ve got. And the best damned RIO in the Navy.” He jerked his chin toward the short naval flight officer behind him.

“Yes.” Tombstone gazed down at Tomboy, once again aware of how petite she was. If he hadn’t had firsthand experience with her ability as a RIO — and, he admitted, an even closer look at the strength in her body — he might have tried to talk Batman into taking another RIO along for this one. If, he added, he’d somehow found the courage to face the enraged Tomboy.

“Good hunting to you, too, Lieutenant Commander Flynn,” he said formally. He let his eyes show the warmth he purposely kept out of his voice. “You kick ass up there, okay?”

“That and more, Admiral,” she answered, her voice steady and her chin up. “I’ll get Admiral Wayne back in one piece, I promise.”

“See that you do. D.C. is going to be shitting bricks if they have to give me another at-sea command.” Tombstone held out his hand, letting his fingers slide over hers as she did the same. He tugged gently, and she swayed almost imperceptibly toward him. “And hurry back,” he said softly, pitching his voice so that only she could hear it.

She nodded briskly. “I intend to.” She turned and followed Batman out to their aircraft.

And let the Handler try to make something out of that, Tombstone thought, watching the two of them walk away. As fast as rumor control worked on the ship, the story would have worked its way into a passionate orgy in the handler’s office before the JAST bird returned from its mission, if he’d given it the slightest reason to.

White Wolf’s grandson studied the sky. The gods were cooperating, it appeared. Low, scudding clouds rolled in from the north, ominously low to the wind-lashed sea. At the horizon, the clouds and the sea were the same color, a dull, white-gray, featureless wall. Soon, he knew, the storm would blow in, driving visibility to barely two feet. They had to be off the cliffs by then, or the entire plan would have to be scuttled.

Or worse, he thought grimly. The small group had no way of communicating with the aircraft inbound from the American ship. If the fighter-bomber pilot thought he could complete the mission, he would, assuming that all of the ground forces had cleared the area in accordance with the plan. He’d never really see the small band of Inuits and SEALs trapped on the cliffs in the whiteout.

All the more reason to get to it, and get to it quickly. He turned and motioned Senior Chief Huerta up to the front of the line.

“Here,” he said, pointing at a deep rift in the jagged ice. “A fracture line.”

The SEAL studied the narrow chasm thoughtfully. “Might could do it with explosives,” he suggested.

The Inuit shook his head. “We’d get a surface shear. Sure, a lot of debris would rain down, but that’s not nearly what we’re aiming for. Is it?” It was his turn to study the other man carefully.

The two of them were about the same age, which should have given them a good deal in common. And it did, the Alaskan native decided, although he didn’t know if the other man would understand that. Family, phases of life, the way they coped with their harsh environment — while the SEAL may have seen more of the world than the island-bound native, the harsh realities of the sea and ice were the same for both. No amount of training, experience, or philosophy could change that.

“No, we need more force,” he continued. He pointed down at the slope in front of him. “See that? I want the forward thirty feet of this cliff to shear off.”

“Okay, You’re the expert around here.” Huerta trudged back to his knapsack, motioning his men around him. Together, they carefully unpacked the array of sophisticated targeting laser devices they were carrying.

They fanned out around the area, each one carrying one of the precious target designators. Ten minutes later, all four devices were pointed in different locations, each one throwing a red spot on the edge of the rift.

The SEALs rejoined the natives, and both took a moment to proudly survey their handiwork. “They’ll be dropping dumb bombs, but these laser pointers will give them a damned clear landmark.” He gestured at the spires and jagged outcroppings of rock around them. “Without this, all this terrain looks too much alike. Hell, the target point isn’t even visible until you break out over that last ridge.”

Finally, Morning Eagle glanced up at the sky again. “We leave now,” he said forcefully. “We have maybe thirty minutes.”

“I expect you’re right. And I don’t wanna take the chance that you aren’t.”

Morning Eagle took point, and carefully began retracing his path to the east, over the harshest surfaces of the icy environment.

Even for the Inuits, accustomed to this terrain, it was tough going. Twenty minutes later, all the men were soaked with sweat inside their protective gear. To stop now would be suicide. Only their body heat kept the sweat from freezing into an icy, killing sheen of ice. They trudged on, their breathing becoming more labored, heavy droplets of moisture fogging the air as they panted.

Finally, they reached the edge of the ice floe and started their way downward. Ten minutes later, they were gathered around the small boats the Inuits had provided.

The SEAL senior chief glanced up at the sky again. “Do we start back to your island now?”

Morning Eagle shook his head. “Too late.” He pointed at one massive billow now ten degrees off their vertical. “Whiteout before we’re halfway there. We might make do with the compass, but I wouldn’t want to take the chance. Not unless we really have to.”

“Well, as long as our playmates don’t know we’re here, we won’t have to take that chance. I haven’t seen them make a patrol on this side of the island once.”

“Then we settle in to wait. An hour, maybe two, when the weather breaks-” He let the sentence trail off. Whiteouts had been known to last for days, holding every man, woman, and child trapped inside the camp. While some of the tribe possessed an uncanny sense of direction, and could find their way back to camp no matter what the weather conditions, Morning Eagle was not one of those. He respected the power of the weather, and chose to live with it rather than against it.

“We wait,” Huerta echoed. The two teams of men, so alike and so different, quickly combined their gear and began building a small camp that would keep them alive.

Until the weather clears, Morning Eagle thought.

“How certain are you that they’ll come to investigate the cliff, anyway?” he asked the SEAL.

The chief shrugged, then grinned. “Not certain. But it’s what I’d do.”

“Why?”

“While the fellows were busy setting up the designators, I took a little stroll over to the edge of the cliff. If you’d been watching, you would have seen me leave a little present there for our friends.”

“A present?” Morning Eagle was momentarily confused. “What kind of present?”

“Nothing complicated. Just an all-frequency static transmitter. Remote controlled, it is.” He fished into his parka jacket and pulled out a small set of controls. “All I have to do is toggle this switch, and that little bitch starts sending a jamming signal on every frequency these guys are likely to be using. The first thing they’ll notice it on is their hand-held radios. And if I were maintaining a garrison here, I’d damned sure want to find out what was jamming my communications. Especially since it was supposed to be an uninhabited island.”

Morning Eagle regarded him appraisingly. “Nice trick.”

“We get some nice toys now and then. This is an old standby, but it still works just fine.”

“I don’t like this one damned bit,” Bird Dog grumbled. He cast an anxious glance back at the wings, trying to see if there was any ice forming. A visual inspection was not necessary — his instruments would have told him immediately if there was a problem, but there was nothing more reassuring than getting a visual on a clean, ice-free wing. “The meteorology boys really screwed this one up.”

“Not that we had a lot of choice about it,” Gator said. “You think we have problems, how do you think those helo pilots feel?”

Bird Dog repressed a shudder. “Not good. I wouldn’t trade places with them for anything. You got solid contact on Batman?”

“Yep. Five-hundred-feet separation, just like we briefed. You’re in solid. Okay, starting the approach,” Gator said briskly. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’re out of here. Just follow Batman on in.”

“You got any indication of target designation?” Bird Dog asked.

“No, not yet. Still too far away. And look at the time — Batman’s running a few minutes early.”

“Well, we could grab some altitude and orbit for a while,” Bird Dog said, “but I don’t fancy charging through those clouds any more than I have to. And neither does he.”

Both men knew that the moisture-laden clouds seriously increased the danger of icing on the wings. While the deicing gear on the Tomcat was fairly decent, it had never been designed to cope with frigid temperatures like these, or with multiple passes through arctic clouds. As far as they were concerned, it was just another chance for things to go wrong.

“Best not,” Gator said finally. “Let’s settle in a pattern out here, far enough to be out of visual range. That’ll have to do for now. Besides, we haven’t detected any radar sweeps coming off the island. I’m willing to bet as long as we’re out of visual range, we’re safe.”

“You got it, partner,” Bird Dog responded. He ascended to fifteen thousand feet and began a right-hand orbit, carefully keeping an eye on the approaching clouds. “They get much closer, and we’ll have problems,” he remarked.

Gator grunted. “We should be inbound by then.”

They left unspoken the possibility of having to abort the mission. True, the admiral had made it plain that it was Batman’s call. Neither crew was to pointlessly risk the safety of the multimillion-dollar aircraft and its highly trained crew of two if there were no chance of accomplishing their objective. However, it would be a cold day in hell — Bird Dog smiled grimly at the appropriate metaphor — before either of the two would willingly break off.

“How’s she flying?” Gator said, more to break the silence than out of any real curiosity.

“Heavy as a pig,” Bird Dog answered. “I hate playing bomb cat.”

The versatile F-14 Tomcat had been designed as both a fighter and bomber aircraft. During the days when the A-6 and A-7 aircraft were in use in the fleet, practicing the arcane skills of bombing had been largely a matter of form. However, as the older attack aircraft were phased out, and the newer F/A-18 Hornet entered the fleet, the Tomcat community found itself under serious attack. After ironing out some minor avionics glitches, Tomcat squadrons aggressively attacked the problem of becoming as proficient in ground-to-air attacks as they were in aerial combat. Within a couple of years, they were matching every test of accuracy and reliability neck for neck with the Hornet. Indeed, carrier battle group commanders preferred Tomcats over the Hornet, since the latter aircraft’s payload and endurance was seriously limited. The Tomcat, while a much larger spotting problem on the deck, generally proved itself more than worth the extra space, based on its capacity for ordnance.

Of course, Bird Dog reflected, it was tough to tangle with a Hornet. The smaller aircraft had a maneuverability and weight-to-power factor that made it a tough target for any Tomcat. Still, they managed to hold their own as well there. If you could outlast a Hornet, sooner or later he’d have to leave to go gas up.

And when you’ve got an opponent like a MiG, with their higher fuel endurance, the Tomcat was the only choice. Like it had been in the Spratlys. While the Hornets had covered their asses from time to time there, in the end the Tomcat had proven victor of the skies.

“Okay, time,” Gator announced. “Batman’s starting his run in. He says it looks like it’s clearing up around the island. You vector on down and get on his ass just like we briefed, Bird Dog.”

“Hell, he’s the bird dog on this mission,” the pilot grumbled. “I’m just batting cleanup.”

“You mix any metaphors you want as long as you get me back to the boat,” his RIO answered.

“Commander, I think you’d better come here,” the senior Spetsnaz commander said.

“Problem?” Rogov paused from inventorying the stores, and walked over to the small group of worried commandos. “What?”

“Listen.” The commando thrust his hand-held radio toward Rogov. “Started five minutes ago.” He turned up the volume on the radio.

Rogov shook his head. “I don’t hear anything except static.”

“That is the problem, exactly. Someone is trying to jam our communications.”

“Jamming? But how-” Rogov whirled around and glared at the SEAL still held captive at the end of the cavern. “I see,” he said, his voice more calm.

“It appears to be a static source. It hasn’t changed in intensity, and it’s still strongest from a single direction.”

“So what can you do about it?”

The commando shrugged. “There are no choices. There are intruders on the island, and we’ve lost communications. My standing orders are for my patrols to take cover in the event that something such as this should happen. I suspect they even now have our entrance under surveillance, and are prepared to kill anyone that approaches that door.”

“You find this transponder,” Rogov said harshly. So close, so close to success, and now this. Unreasoning rage boiled in his stomach, making its way slowly to his head. “Find the men who brought this and kill them. Do you understand?”

The same unnerving smile Rogov had seen on the submarine returned. “It’s what we do best, Colonel,” he said, looking eager.

Huerta looked up at the sky. “An hour, you think?” As much as he’d like to believe that, it didn’t seem possible. Gusting williwaw winds were already pounding the thin shelters, screaming through every tiny crack between the two sections mated to form a fragile barrier against the environment. He’d risked one peek outside, for what it was worth. Now more than the horizon had disappeared — all he could see was blinding snow and ice pelting him in the face, banging against the two flaps tied together to form the door to the shelter. The other clamshell shelter, only four feet away, was invisible. There was no chance that they were moving anytime soon.

“Maybe not soon,” Morning Eagle said, unconsciously echoing the SEAL’s thoughts. “Sometimes these blow over quickly.”

“And other times?” the SEAL demanded.

Morning Eagle shrugged. The SEAL felt rising frustration, which he stifled.

Truly, there was no help for it. The storm would end when it ended — not a moment sooner. Giving the young Inuit an ass-chewing for underestimating its duration would do no good. After all, they would have gone ahead with the mission anyway, even if they’d had an accurate weather forecast. No way they were leaving the boss behind — no way.

The SEAL rummaged in one pocket of his parka, finally found what he was looking for. He extracted two high-calorie protein bars, and offered one to the Inuit. The other waxed covering was dull army green, and the bar itself tasted like it would match the protective wrapper. “Beats whale blubber,” the SEAL offered.

The Inuit unwrapped his bar, studied it, sniffed it, and then took a small, tentative bite. He chewed for a moment thoughtfully, and an odd expression, half apology, half disgust, rose in his eyes. “Not by much,” he said, then swallowed hard.

“The weather’s not holding,” Bird Dog said, in a singsong tone of voice. “Although why I expected anything different, I’ll never know. How much time do we have left?”

“Three minutes,” Gator answered. “That is, if you think we can make it.”

“Oh, we’ll make it in all right,” Bird Dog said grimly. He pulled the Tomcat out of its orbit and pointed its nose toward the island. The eastern half of the small outcropping was already obscured by the storm. The clouds had advanced at least halfway across the rocky cliffs that were their destination. “Let me know the moment you have a lock on the lasers.”

“Right.”

As they approached the island, winds buffeted the Tomcat, tossing the ungainly, heavily laden jet in the skies in a seemingly random pattern. Bird Dog swore softly, and focused his concentration on his controls. He tried to feel the jet, to anticipate her movements, and to correct for the sudden and sickening drops in altitude. This close in, it wouldn’t do. At the altitude at which they were going to have to be, a sudden downdraft could be deadly.

“Two minutes, thirty seconds,” Gator said calmly, his voice a reassuring presence in the decreasing visibility and increasingly violent movement of the cockpit. Bird Dog didn’t answer, instead concentrating on the wildly roller-coastering motion of the aircraft.

One hundred feet above the churning ocean, Bird Dog watched the island rush toward him with terrifying swiftness. His hair-trigger reflexes shouted warnings, screaming at him to pull up, pull up. He waited, knowing in just a few seconds he would, pulling the Tomcat into its parabolic maneuver that would toss the weapons precisely toward the laser-designated point. Ahead of him, he saw the ass end of the JAST bird.

“Two more miles.” He tensed, readying himself for the final maneuver.

Suddenly, his targeting gear screamed warnings. The churning clouds to the north had finally made a quick dash over the island, completely obscuring the small red points of light aimed on the rift.

“Shit! We’re icing,” he heard Batman snarl over tactical. “That damned deicing kit — it was giving us some problems on the deck, but I thought they’d gotten it corrected. Bird Dog, it gets any worse and we’ll have to abort. I can’t take this bird in like this.”

Bird Dog swore violently and made a lightning-fast decision.

Too much was riding on this mission. The safety of the team on the ground, the fate of the captured men, and indeed, America’s first response to an incursion on her territory. He stared ahead at the point where the target had been before it was obscured by blowing clouds of ice and fog, memorizing its location, praying that the hours of training over Chocolate Mountain would pay off. He screened out the loud protests and questions from Gator, knowing that in a few seconds the RIO would look up and see his dilemma. It wasn’t impossible to get the bombs on target without the laser designator. Just very, very difficult, as decades of strike warfare in earlier wars had proved. It took good reflexes, a superb sense of direction, and an instinctive ability to calculate the myriad factors that went into a launch. Airspeed, altitude, effect of gravity on the missiles, and the safest direction to exit the target area. He felt his gut churn. That was the critical part, at least for the two aviators in Tomcat 201. Getting clear of the spewing debris, rock, and ice before it could FOD one of the turbofan engines was critical.

Forty-five seconds remaining. He squinted, ignoring the sweat breaking out on his forehead, rolling down into his eyes and stinging. In front of him, the JAST aircraft broke off its attack run and turned back toward the carrier.

“There he is!” Morning Eagle pointed at the sky. The Tomcat was a tiny black dot, skimming over the ocean, blending in with the dark, blue-black, whitecapped waves.

“Too low,” Huerta said. He shook his head. “He’ll have to abort — there’s no way he can do it.”

Morning Eagle stared at the aircraft, which was now large enough that he could make out its features. The sleek, backswept wings, the double bubble of the canopy perched almost too far up on the aircraft, its sleek, aerodynamically sound nose. And the weapons, the most important part of the aircraft for his purposes today. He stared at the undercarriage, which looked bulky and ungainly. The two huge bombs, flanked by the smaller air-to-air missiles, hung down below it like some phallic symbol.

“Look out!” Huerta shouted. He took two steps forward, grabbed Morning Eagle, and pulled him back away from the rift. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

Morning Eagle blinked, startled out of his fascinated reverie of the deadly aircraft. He whirled, following Huerta, and took five steps forward before the world disappeared in a blinding whirl of white.

“Bird Dog! You get the hell out of there!” he heard Batman snap. “You don’t have a solid fix on the target. You miss, and you hit friendly forces. Break off; we’ll try again when the weather clears.”

“Can’t,” Bird Dog said tersely. “I’ve got a solid lock on this — I can feel it.” He tried desperately to regain his fix on the target, momentarily distracted by the sight of white-clad figures scurrying away from his impact point.

Damn it all, what the hell did they think they were doing? he thought angrily. Couldn’t someone have briefed them? The SEAL should know better at least than to stand that close to an IP. Even with advanced avionics and pinpoint targeting, there was still an error of five to ten feet built into launch calculations. Even under the best circumstances — and these were hardly those — there was a good chance he’d miss the exact spot at the rift. He shook his head angrily.

There was no help for it now — he was too heavy and too low to recover. In order to gain altitude quickly and clear the worst of the peaks, he had to get rid of the bombs. And it made no sense to jettison them harmlessly, not this close to the IP. He concentrated, bearing down on the target.

“Whiteout,” Morning Eagle screamed. He swung his arms wildly, felt them hit something, and pulled it toward him. Huerta grasped at him like a drowning man. With a firm grip on each other, they dropped to the ground, lessening their wind profile.

Huerta heard Morning Eagle shout something, the words unintelligible, swept away by the gale-force winds. He shook his head, then realized Morning Eagle couldn’t see the gesture. He reached for the other man’s hand and held it up, pointing it in the direction of the aircraft.

And the rest of their team — they’d been well back from the rift, he remembered, reviewing the last scene he’d been able to see clearly in his mind. With a little bit of luck, and some decent piloting, they’d be safe as well.

The laser designators. For a moment, he felt a flash of real fear, remembering how close the Tomcat had been when he’d last seen it. He turned his head, looking in the direction of the rift. There was nothing there except a solid white wall of flying ice crystals in the snow. Frustration replaced fear, as he realized the laser targeting information would no longer be visible to the pilot.

Absent skill, there was always luck. The chief SEAL started to pray.

“You’re never gonna make it, Bird Dog,” Gator said, his voice insistent. “Dump ‘em.”

Bird Dog shook his head, not bothering to answer. Concentrating on the spot where he’d last seen the targeting data took every ounce of concentration he had. He flipped the ICS switch off, locking out Gator’s voice completely. They’d either make it or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing Gator could tell him in the interim to change the odds either way.

Five … four … three … two … NOW. Bird Dog toggled the weapons release switch and felt the hard thump of ordnance leaving the undercarriage as the bombs dropped free. He wrenched the Tomcat up into a sharp climb, already feeling the difference that the loss in weight made, climbing for altitude as hard as he dared push the Tomcat. The sleek jet shook as it approached the stall envelope. Bird Dog dropped the nose slightly, hoping it was enough. He spared one glance at the altimeter — three thousand feet — and then cut the Tomcat hard to the right, praying he cleared the tallest spires.

The hard thunder of military engines at full afterburner cut through the high-pitched scream of the wind. It was a sound at least as much felt as heard, a deep, bone-jarring growl and rumble that cut through viscera and skin alike, settling into the bones with a comforting aftertaste.

He made it, the Chief SEAL thought, marveling. How many pilots could have pulled that off? For a moment, a deep surge of pride replaced the fear and anxiety he’d felt watching the aircraft approach. Damn, some days it was good to be an American. If he ever got out of this, he was going to do his damnedest to make sure that pilot got a commendation.

Suddenly, the ground underneath him exploded, shaking and rolling like the worst earthquake he’d ever experienced in California. He gasped and threw himself flat on the ground, no longer caring whether he lost contact with Morning Eagle’s hand. The hard ice surface rose up underneath him, smashing him in the face, and he felt the delicate bones in the bridge of his nose splinter. A falling rock bashed him in the leg, settling over his lower right shin and ankle. The SEAL screamed, feeling the wind whip away the sound as soon as it left his mouth. He clamped his mouth shut as icy air surged into his mouth, straight down his air passageway, and chilled his lungs. Stupid to survive the actual strike and then be killed by ice crystals forming in his lungs, he thought grimly, falling back on years of training and experience to override survival instincts. He clung to the ground for dear life and waited.

Bird Dog leveled off at eleven thousand feet, and suddenly started shaking. He was safe; he was safe. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how doubtful he’d been that they’d make it.

Below them, the whiteout whipped violently, obscuring sea and island alike. The noise, however, had faded as the aircraft had climbed. Finally, he noticed an odd noise in the cockpit. It took him a moment to puzzle it out. Then an involuntary grin cracked his face. He reached over and flipped on the ICS switch.

“-and if you ever pull this bullshit again, I’m not going to wait for a court-martial, I’m going to personally-” Gator’s voice was saying.

Bird Dog cut him off. “Cool your jets, Gator, we made it.” He moved the yoke back and forth experimentally, testing his control over the Tomcat to reassure himself. “See?”

Gator’s voice broke off. “And just what the hell did you think you were doing, making a blind approach in the middle of a storm cell?” the RIO demanded. “You should have broken off like Batman said.”

“Not a chance. Those men were depending on us.”

He heard Gator sigh. “Well, I guess they were at that,” the RIO said finally. “How close do you think you got?” he continued, his professionalism overriding what must have been a terrifying ride for the backseater.

“Pretty damned close, I think,” Bird Dog said. He felt a sudden surge of joy. “Damned close. In fact, it felt like it went spot-on.”

“It’s not like we can fly over and do a BDA — A bomb damage assessment,” the RIO said. “But from what I could see from back here, it looked good to me, too. Let’s get back to the boat and wait for the weather to chill out.”

“Bad choice of words,” Bird Dog responded. He put the Tomcat in a gentle curve, the motion seeming unusually cautious after the wild maneuver he’d just pulled off.

“You icing?” Gator said anxiously.

Bird Dog glanced at his instruments, then out the window at the wing. “Looks like a little — but not enough to hurt us, now that we’re out of the storm. The deicers will take care of it.”

“You’re damned lucky you’ve got me back here, you know that?” Gator said.

“Oh, really? Why is that?” Bird Dog answered, as he laid in a level course for the carrier.

“Because any other backseater in his right mind would’ve filled his shorts about two minutes ago,” Gator said, amusement in his voice. “It’d serve you right, flying in a stinking cockpit for a couple of months. They never can get the smell out.”

“I guess there’s always something to be grateful for,” Bird Dog answered. “Now, let’s just hope we did the job on the ground,” he continued, his voice suddenly sober.

The Cossack commando barely had time to glance up as the Tomcat screamed in over the barren landscape, only fifty feet above him. He swore reflexively, and dived for the ground. The low, ominous rumble of the engines reverberated through his body. He buried his hands under his arms and waited.

The initial blast tossed him two feet off the icy surface of the island; gravity slammed him back down hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He gasped, trying to breathe, and finally drew a deep, shuddering lungful of air.

The noise hit him again first. He wondered for a moment whether the Tomcat had come around to make a second run on the cliffs. He looked up, trying to focus on the landscape in front of him.

To his horrified eyes, it looked like a wave. Something he’d see in the warmer coast waters of the Black Sea, a phenomenon that belonged somewhere other than this desolate, forsaken island. The land curled slightly at the top, leaning over the rest of the cliff, increasing its similarity to an ocean breaker.

The commando shouted, his words already lost in the massive cacophony of forty thousand tons of avalanche. Two seconds later, the massive wall of ice and snow cut off his words. Forever.

The ground played trampoline for almost three minutes before the violent motion subsided into a series of sharp jolts. At the same time, the wind dropped perceptibly, though the searing blindness of the whiteout remained. Huerta kept his eyes firmly shut, guarding delicate tissues with one hand over his face. The other flailed about him, searching for Morning Eagle.

Finally, after a series of gentle rumbles no more than 4.0 on the Richter scale, Huerta took a chance and stood up. His feet swayed under him slightly, and he had to bend forward to keep his balance in the gusting winds. Still, at least he could move. He opened one eye cautiously. The whiteout was receding, and he could now see almost five feet in front of him.

He scanned the landscape quickly. Crumpled against a rock, curled into a small ball, was Morning Eagle. The Chief SEAL walked over, dropped to his knees, and felt for a pulse. It pounded hard and strong under his fingers, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He checked the man for injuries quickly, a difficult process in the heavy winter parkas. Finally, satisfied that there was no life-threatening damage, the SEAL stood. He touched his pocket, felt the reassuring bulk of the hand-held radio. He held it out, toggled it on, and started walking over toward the rift that had been their aim point.

He took two steps, and then stopped short and gasped. Despite his long experience with naval ordnance, the damage was astounding. The first forty feet of the cliff had sheared off, cascading down the side of the hill. They’d barely been far enough away to avoid being caught up in it. He glanced back at Morning Eagle, wondering if the man would ever realize how lucky they’d been. That was one damned fine pilot.

He lifted the radio to his mouth. “Jefferson, SEAL Team One,” he said in the clear, hardly caring whether or not anyone else could hear them. “Request medical evacuation. Assessment of bomb damage follows — on target, on time. Out.”

With that done, he crossed back to Morning Eagle and sat down beside him. Pulling his pistol out of his other pocket, he sat down to wait.

The Combat Direction Center exploded in wild cheers and victory cries. The TAO stood up, glanced sternly around the spacious compartment, and tried to frown disapprovingly. However, he couldn’t repress the mad exultation coursing through his own body, and settled for a cursory wave of his hand.

The chief sitting next to him took it in, his own rebel victory cry just dying on his lips. “Let’s let them celebrate now, sir,” the chief said. “You take your victories where you can get ‘em.”

The TAO nodded and stared back at the large blue screen dominating the forward half of the room. The small symbol for friendly aircraft separated itself from the mass of land, and was tracking slowly back toward the aircraft carrier. “You take your victories where you can get ‘em,” he echoed softly, and picked up the mike. There was one aircrew that was going to be doing just that in a matter of seconds.

“Hang in there, buddy,” Huerta said softly. He patted Morning Eagle on the arm gently. In the last few minutes, the man’s breathing had gotten deeper and more stentorian. Although his pulse was still strong, Huerta was gravely worried about the condition of the young native. “They’ll be comin’ for us soon — you wait. We don’t ever leave our friends behind. Not ever.”

Huerta stared at the horizon, now growing dark as the sun crept down below it, hoping that the SAR aircraft would make it out in time.