Arctic Fire

CHAPTER 7

Twenty knots was considered calm on Adak Island. Given that, and with unlimited visibility and a relatively stable air mass to the north, Tombstone’s takeoff from Adak Island was uneventful.

As it had on their inbound flight, a Russian Bear-J aircraft joined on them shortly after takeoff, once they were clear of U.S. airspace and over international waters. The electrical problems that had plagued the aircraft had been fixed, and the flight to Seattle was uneventful.

As the C-130 taxied in, a contingent of U.S. Marines rushed out to meet the aircraft. The pilot quickly brought her to a halt and waited for the metal boarding stairs. Tombstone was the first one off the plane.

“Come on, sir,” a Marine major said loudly, struggling to be heard over the still turning engines. “Your aircraft is ready for you.”

“Flight gear?” Tombstone shouted.

“Waiting for you in the Operations Center.” The Marine Corps major paused, waiting for Tombstone to do exactly what he’d asked.

Tombstone shrugged and followed the sharply dressed major across the tarmac. The noise level dropped appreciably. “Where is she?” Tombstone asked.

“Over there.” The Marine pointed toward the far end of the airstrip. A Harrier was making its gently eerie approach, coasting through the air at a speed too low to believe. If it had not been for the turbofans on her undercarriage angled downward, she would have crashed — her forward speed was insufficient to maintain stable flight.

Tombstone paused and watched the aircraft settle gently on the ground. He could see from the movement of the grass surrounding the tarmac the force of the downdraft. It had to be, to keep that much metal airborne, he thought, but somehow, reading about downdraft in manuals never compared to seeing the actual thing. Anyone underneath the fighter would have been seriously injured or killed by the hurricane-force winds it generated downward.

“She’s a real beauty, isn’t she, sir?” the Major asked appreciatively. “Just look at her. The finest fighting aircraft ever built for a Marine.” He glanced at Tombstone’s insignia. “Not that the Navy doesn’t have some real fine aircraft itself,” he continued generously. However, it was obvious from the expression on his face that the Tomcat or Hornet ran a distant second to his treasured Harrier.

“I thought you said this bird was ready,” Tombstone commented. “Doesn’t look too ready to me, since it’s not even on the ground.”

“Oh, that’s not the one we’re flying. Ours is parked next to Flight Ops.” The Marine grinned broadly.

“Ours?” Tombstone asked.

“Yes, Admiral.” The Marine saluted sharply again. “Major Joe Killington, at your service, Admiral. Always glad to help out a fellow aviator when we can. Especially in getting onto a boat your aircraft can’t reach.”

Tombstone groaned. Surely, he thought, there must be some right granted to an admiral by Congress not to be harassed by the Marine Corps. The prospect of spending hours airborne fielding such comments by the major irked him.

A trace of his thoughts evidently showed in his face. The Marine major snapped to attention. “Whenever the Admiral is ready, sir,” he said politely. “And we are happy to be of service, Admiral. All one fighting force — that’s the way we see it.”

Tombstone nodded abruptly. “Get me to my gear, Major,” he said. “I imagine we’ll have plenty of time to discuss the relative merits of your service and the Navy.” He looked pointedly at the insignia on the Marine major’s collar. “Not that it will be much of a contest.”

The Marine major braced, eyes pointed directly forward and locked on the horizon. “I’m certain the admiral can enlighten me if my views are out of order.”

Finally, Tombstone relented. After all, this was one argument the major could never win. And it had nothing to do with Tomcats, Hornets, or Harriers — it had to do with the quick collar count that had just occurred. Stars won out over gold oak leaves, no matter what the service.

Tombstone turned toward Flight Operations and slapped the Marine Corps major on the shoulder. “Come on, son,” he said mildly. “I think you’ve got some flying to do. I’ve never been up in one of your birds — it’ll be a pleasure to get a look at it.”

“Yes, sir.” The major took off at a trot toward his aircraft.

“How far can this thing go?” Pamela Drake asked. She pointed to the battered commercial helicopter sitting out on the tarmac.

The pilot shrugged. “Far enough, if I put on the additional fuel tanks. We could get you to Juneau, no problem, ma’am.”

“Juneau, huh?” She looked him over carefully. “Were you in the Navy?”

A look of disgust crossed the pilot’s face. “No, ma’am, not hardly. The Marines.” He pointed at the battered helicopter. “Taught me my trade, they did, flying helicopters off of amphibious assault ships. After a couple of tours, I got out, joined the Reserves, and bought this puppy with the money I’d saved up. Slap a couple of missiles on her and she’d be just as good as anything they’re flying in the Corps today.”

“Amphibious assault ships, huh?” Pamela looked thoughtful. “You’re not in the Reserves or anything right now, are you?”

“No, ma’am.” The pilot grinned. “Not many Reserve units drilling out this far. I do mostly scouting for commercial fishing vessels, some medical emergencies — that sort of thing.”

“Well, sir, I believe we might just have a job for you.” Pamela grinned broadly. “Just how much do you remember about shipboard landings?”

“Welcome aboard, Admiral.” Ben Carmichael held out his hand to the officer standing in front of him. They’d met several times socially, but their professional paths had never crossed. Not that it mattered, he supposed. He’d heard enough about Tombstone Magruder to think he knew what he was dealing with.

Admiral Carmichael studied the younger admiral carefully. The same dark hair, clipped close to his head now, and dark, almost black eyes. No, he decided on reflection, they were brown, but only by a hair. He repressed a smile, remembering how Tombstone had gotten his nickname. Not for the famous shoot-out in Tombstone at the OK Corral, but for the invariably solemn expression on his face. He’d heard rumors that someone on Admiral Magruder’s staff had once seen him smile, but Carmichael wouldn’t be betting on it. Especially not under the circumstances.

“Thank you for having us, Admiral,” Magruder said politely. “And I appreciate the opportunity for a fly in one of your Harriers.”

“Don’t be saying that too loudly, now,” Carmichael said, finally chuckling. “That they’re my aircraft, I mean. Marines take that mighty personal, they do.”

“As rightfully they should.” Tombstone shot a pointed look at Major Killington, no trace of amusement in his face. “Major Killington has gone to some length to point that out to me on the flight out.”

Admiral Carmichael turned to survey the young Marine Corps major. “He has, has he?”

“Major Killington was quite informative.”

Admiral Carmichael looked sharply at Tombstone, then smiled. The stories about the man’s impassive face might be true, but nothing else could account for the slight twitch of the wrinkles around Tombstone Magruder’s legendary basilisk eyes. Obviously, he’d enjoyed the flight out — as well as maybe a little harassment of the young Marine Corps officer.

“Thank you, Major,” Tombstone said. “Perhaps we’ll have another chance to fly that Harrier of yours. I wouldn’t mind taking the controls myself sometime.”

The Marine Corps officer stiffened, turned slightly pale. “My pleasure, Admiral,” he answered, neatly sidestepping the issue of Tombstone flying his aircraft. The major executed a smart about-face and exited the Ready Room. After he’d left, Admiral Carmichael turned back to Tombstone.

“I take it the young man has a sense of pride in his service?”

Tombstone nodded. “Always encouraging to see in a young officer.” His tone was noncommittal.

“Well, I think you may know the rest of the people here. Hold on, I’ll have the chief of staff hunt them down.” Admiral Carmichael picked up the telephone, dialed a number from memory, and spoke briefly into the receiver. As he put it back down, he turned to Tombstone and said, “The rest of the team is just getting on board.”

“The rest?” Tombstone asked.

“How about some coffee, Admiral?” Carmichael offered him a guest mug, and motioned toward the coffee mess. “Make yourself at home. You want something to eat, just ask the mess cook. I’ll be right back.” With that, he strode toward the hatch, jerked it open, and disappeared into the immaculate passageway beyond.

Tombstone filled the coffee mug and set it down on the table. He stretched his hands up over him, feeling the muscles and bones in his back complain. The Harrier had managed to come up with a lumbar support system even more uncomfortable than that in the Tomcat, a feat he had not thought possible. Still, he had to admit the flight over to USS Coronado had been worthwhile — educational in many ways, not the least of which had been the opportunity to talk tactics with a Marine officer. Despite the initial impression he’d made on Tombstone, Major Killington had proved to be an exceptionally knowledgeable aviator, one as skilled in the tenets of ground warfare as he was in the air. Tombstone had found himself liking the young major, despite the irritating undercurrent of Marine Corps pride that underlay almost every comment.

The door to the compartment opened, and Admiral Carmichael stepped back through. Two figures trailed him, both carrying flight helmets.

“I believe you already know these two,” Admiral Carmichael boomed.

Tombstone stared at the lead figure, and a smile finally did cross his face. “Batman! How the hell are you?” He put down his coffee cup again and crossed the room quickly. His old wingman grinned back at him and held out a hand. The warm, strong, two-handed handshake, held a moment longer than politeness absolutely required, was evidence of the strong friendship between the two men.

He’s aged some, Tombstone thought, studying his old friend. But commanding a battle group does that. Dark circles ringed Batman’s eyes, and the laugh lines at the corners of them were deeper than Tombstone remembered. Since relieving Tombstone nine months earlier, Batman appeared to have lost weight. Tombstone noted new hollows carved out of the cheekbones, a bagginess in the flight suit around Batman’s waist that had not been there before. “How’s the tour going?” Tombstone asked, certain he already knew the answer.

“It’s super,” Batman responded immediately. “More work than I ever thought possible, but you left me a sharp team. The stuff that makes it past COS isn’t easy, though.”

“It never was.” Tombstone shook his head from side to side. “He’s pulled that line on you before, I bet — that if it was easy, you wouldn’t be seeing it?”

Batman laughed. “You bet.”

“And you’ve brought-” Tombstone’s throat suddenly went dry. The smaller figure that had been hidden behind Batman now stepped forward, a polite expression of interest on her face.

Her face. Tombstone stared, trying not to let his excitement show. “Lieutenant Commander Flynn,” he said formally, holding out his hand. “Good to see you again.”

“And you, Admiral,” she said, shaking his hand briefly. The smooth, warm feel of her fingers seemed to linger on his palm. Tombstone turned back to Batman, praying his friend had not noticed the color he could feel creeping up his neck. “And how did you manage that?”

Batman grinned. “Pax River was pretty eager to get some more operational time on those JAST birds,” he said. “You remember, the one I flew out to Jefferson in the Spratlys?”

“How could I forget?”

“I thought you’d remember. Anyway, Tomboy did such a good job as my RIO against the Chinese that Pax River picked her up as a test pilot for the next version of JAST. They’re at that same point again — too much data, not enough information. The program manager asked me if I would take two birds on board for a couple of months, see how they worked under field conditions. When I found out Tomboy was one of the aircrew, I couldn’t resist.”

“And what brings you out to Coronado, Lieutenant Commander Flynn?” Tombstone said, turning his attention to the diminutive RIO.

“Sounded like there might be some action here, sir,” she said immediately. “Pax River is something else, but nothing beats the real thing. If we’re going to buy these birds, we need to see how they perform in an operational environment. Just like the Spratlys.” She smiled happily.

“When Batman — Admiral Wayne, I mean-” she amended hastily, seeing clouds gather in Tombstone’s face, “-offered me the opportunity to come over to Coronado with him, I jumped at the chance. Sound operational experience. Besides, if the JAST birds were going to be flying any missions, I thought it best if I got the inside scoop. Sir.” Her voice trailed off as she saw the expression on Tombstone’s face.

Tombstone turned back to Admiral Carmichael. “I should have warned you about Admiral Wayne,” Tombstone said neutrally.

“No harm done, Admiral,” Carmichael said heartily, deliberately misunderstanding. He’d heard the rumors, as had all the flag community, about the youngest admiral, Magruder, and his attractive RIO. Gossip Central held that both were stand-up officers, and that nothing improper had occurred on board USS Jefferson. It also noted with some malicious glee that both officers had disappeared for several weeks shortly after Tombstone’s arrival in D.C. While there were no hard data points, it was a foregone conclusion that the two had taken the opportunity of their overlapping transfers to escape from Navy life for a while. Looking at the two of them, Carmichael hoped they’d made it worthwhile. “There’s always room for another good officer at the briefing. You won’t be staying on board, will you, Commander?” he concluded pointedly, looking back at Tomboy.

“Of course not, Admiral,” Batman said hastily. “Commander Flynn and I will be returning to Jefferson later this afternoon. I wouldn’t feel comfortable being away much longer than that, not under the circumstances.”

Admiral Carmichael nodded sharply. Message sent, message received. “Well, speaking of tactical situations, let’s get this brief started.”

“No moving around back here,” the helicopter pilot said sternly. “This bitch is going to be damned heavy for a while until I burn off some fuel. I don’t want you shifting my center of gravity around.”

Pamela nodded, resisting the impulse to point out to the man that she’d been on more than one helicopter flight in her life. Although, she had to admit, never one exactly like this. Up close, the helicopter had proved to be somewhat dinged and battered, and the interior spaces were in no better shape. Still, all the moving parts seemed to be well-oiled and clean, and she suspected that the mechanics and avionics got a good deal more attention from the technicians than the creature comforts. “When are you ready to go?” she asked.

“Anytime. You say the word, we’ll be airborne five minutes later.”

“And you understand what we’re going to do?” she asked again.

The pilot grinned. “You just leave it all up to me, ma’am.”

Five minutes later, as the helicopter careened away from the ground and settled into level flight, Pamela had her first doubts about the mission.

Ninety feet above Lieutenant Commander Brandon Sikes’s head, the outward curving mass of USS Jefferson’s concave hull hung over his head like a massive gray cliff. The storm had abated, and the seas were ominously placid. Jefferson’s bow was pointed into the light swell, her two outboard engines turning just enough to keep her on course. In contrast, the docking platform lowered from her starboard elevator pitched and rolled markedly. The flat-bottomed floating structure drew only two feet of water and rode the swells heavily, the forward edge trying to bury itself in oncoming swells while the trailing edge lifted free of the trough between the swells.

Sikes planted his feet firmly apart, riding the pitching motion easily. Compared to what he’d be doing in a few minutes, this was a piece of cake.

The boat moored to the starboard side of the ship was just slightly more than thirty feet long. Twin inboard engines, heavily muffled for silence, drove it through the water at speeds in excess of seventy knots. Fifty-caliber guns mounted fore and aft provided additional protection, but her speed was her main tactical advantage. It was the ideal platform for getting the SEAL team in and out of places they weren’t supposed to be quickly and covertly.

And that was exactly what this mission called for. Sikes turned his back on the boat and studied the men arrayed behind him. Four other men, each with his own particular deadly specialty. His eyes lingered for a moment on Petty Officer Carter, the newest member of the team. The young SEAL had graduated from BUDS only one year before, and followed that with a series of technical schools in the deadly arts that were the SEALs’ calling cards. Carter was a good-natured, raw-boned twenty-year-old from Iowa. Sikes shook his head. What was it about naval service that drew these men from their landlocked childhoods to the water? And why did they make such damned fine sailors? Carter was already showing the potential to be a superb SEAL.

“Let’s get them moving, Senior,” he said, pointing toward the horizon. “The sooner we get going, the sooner we’re back. All your men understand what the mission is?”

Senior Chief Manuel Huerta nodded. “Yes, sir, we briefed again this morning. Just a quick sneak and peek, nothin’ fancy. No heroics, no toys.” The senior chief, a veteran of twenty-two years in the SEAL forces, looked faintly disappointed.

“As long as everyone understands that,” Sikes replied.

“Depending on what we turn up, we may be going back.”

He turned back to the boat, confident that the chief had done his job. If the truth be known, he admitted to himself, the men didn’t really need him on this mission. They were more than capable of handling every aspect of it alone. Still, it was a matter of pride for the SEAL officer corps to be able to get down and dirty with the best of their enlisted men. Since Sikes’s cold-weather experience was limited, he’d made it a point to come along on this mission to watch the chief in action. Nothing beat firsthand experience, and what he learned on this relatively simple expedition might save his life later. You never knew, he thought, shaking his head, just what bit of arcane, novel or trivial fact made the difference between success and failure. And for the SEAL team, the latter outcome was completely unacceptable.

And to be working with Admiral Wayne again on board Jefferson made his current assignment as Officer in Charge of the Jefferson’s SEAL detachment all the more satisfying. The admiral understood Special Forces, Sikes reflected, watching the senior chief move easily around the bobbing platform. And, as a matter of fact, Sikes took credit for that.

Four years earlier, one of then-Commander Wayne’s squadron mates, Lieutenant Commander Willie “Coyote” Grant, had been shot down on a mission over Korea. Captured and tortured by the North Korean forces, only the intervention of a SEAL team made his escape possible. And although he’d been a boot lieutenant at the time, Sikes had been part of it. Senior Chief Huerta had personally snatched Coyote out of the firing zone.

Not that Coyote hadn’t done a damned fine job of working his way over to the extraction point, he remembered. He might even have made it the entire way alone. They’d never know for sure, and as far as Sikes was concerned, Admiral Wayne would never have to worry about this SEAL team. The day he’d checked on board, Admiral Wayne had made it damned clear that he remembered the SEALs that had pulled Coyote’s butt out of the fire.

So if Admiral Wayne wanted to know who the Radio Shack junkies were on some piece of rock and ice in the middle of the ocean, Sikes was damned happy to go find out.

“Another one,” Morning Eagle announced.

White Wolf looked up from the radio, concern furrowing his broad, smooth face. “Two days, two sets of invaders.” He shook his head, straining to catch the high-pitched squeal of a powerful outboard motor in the distance.

“More Russians?” Morning Eagle asked.

“Does it matter?”

The younger man nodded his agreement. The alien mainlanders, with their hurried, strange ways and their lack of understanding of the islands, were as foreign to the Inuits as the Russians were. It made little difference to the natives of the island chain which set of masters claimed dominion over their territory. The harsh environment was their first taskmaster, the scrabble to remain alive in these hostile surroundings a more constant threat than the political ambitions of those from warmer climates. Voting in the white man’s political system or bowing to the peremptory dictates of a Russian comrade had little effect on that.

“The Americans will come. I’m certain of it,” White Wolf said finally. “And if they don’t-” He shrugged, indicating that no matter what, the tribe would continue.

“You called them.” The younger man looked questioningly at his elder. “Why?”

The older man stared at the horizon, listening as the sound of the quickly approaching engine deepened to a fierce growl. “Many years ago, there was a man,” he said reflectively. “The mainlanders — you know what I’ve said about them.” He cast a sidelong glance at the younger man to make sure he was paying attention.

The young man nodded. “Not to trust them. That we were no more than enslaved tribes to them.”

White Wolf nodded. “Yes, that’s true for most of them. But I made a promise to one man — a man I found I could trust — so many years ago. A promise, it’s a sacred thing. You give your word, that’s the most that you have to give any other man. Do you understand?”

Morning Eagle looked doubtful. “I suppose so. Even to a white man, a man’s word counts for something. But what did you promise?”

“He came to my house, he ate my food. He was polite, respectful,” the older man said, not evading the question but laying the foundation for its answer. “He asked me to keep watch. I told him I would.”

The bare bones of the story did not satisfy the younger man. “But who was he? And why did you give him your word?”

“He was a lieutenant commander then,” the man said, rolling the English words for rank around in his mouth as though they were not entirely comfortable to pronounce. “It was so many years ago, but I remember him. His name was Magruder.”

Bird Dog turned the aircraft north, heading on the outbound leg of the chainsaw defense pattern. To the east and west, other aircraft provided surveillance in those areas. South of all three, near the battle group, an E-2C Hawkeye radar surveillance aircraft coordinated the CAP pattern.

“Where the hell is he?” Bird Dog muttered. “For the last five days, that modified Bear has been overhead at just about this time.”

“Hold your horses,” Gator said. “He’ll be here when he gets here. Besides, I don’t know that’s something to be wishing for.”

“And why the hell not?” Bird Dog said angrily. “All these damned surveillance patrols, no one ever did a damned thing to him. Then for no reason at all, he decides to take a shot at a P-3. Well, if he wants to play rough, just let him try it with us. I’m loaded for Bear, that’s for certain.” He touched the weapons selector switch on the stick. “Though I’d give up those Phoenix birds any day for a couple more Sidewinders, especially against a Bear.”

The Phoenix missile was the Tomcat’s most potent long-range standoff weapon. Capable of intercept speeds of up to Mach 5, the Phoenix had an independent seeker head that could lock on and track a target at ranges of up to one hundred and twenty-five miles. Its major weakness was that it required continuing illumination of the target from the Tomcat, putting serious constraints on Bird Dog’s maneuverability and ability to evade. However, even with its history of guidance problems, the Phoenix had one strong point — it forced the enemy onto the defensive immediately, disrupting any tactical formations and allowing the American aircraft to take the offensive. A Phoenix missile graced the outboard weapons station on either side.

Just inboard of that, Sparrow and Sidewinder missiles were nestled up onto the hard points of the Tomcat undercarriage. Both were fire-and-forget weapons, the Sparrow relying on radar designation from the Tomcat and the Sidewinder using a heat-seeking sensor head to guide it to the hot exhaust streams from a fighter. Both were short-range, knife-fight weapons, and were preferred by most pilots over the more cumbersome Phoenix.

“He’s gonna get a Sidewinder up his ass,” Bird Dog said. “First sniff you get of him, he’s dead meat.”

Gator sighed. “Why are you such an idiot? You know damned well we’re not authorized weapons free. If that P-3 had gone down, maybe. But since he didn’t, we need clearance from Jefferson to fire unless it’s self-defense.”

“I’m feeling mighty self-defensive about now.”

“You’ll feel it even more when you’re standing in front of that long green table trying to explain why you shot down a reconnaissance aircraft,” Gator pointed out.

“Like they don’t have to explain why they shot at our P-3, but I have to explain shooting at them?” Bird Dog demanded.

“You got it, shipmate. You take a shot without my concurrence and I’m not backing you up. Not this time.”

Bird Dog heard the real annoyance in the RIO’s voice. “Okay, okay,” he said finally. “I’m a big boy — I understand the rules.”

As the Tomcat reached the end of its northern leg, Bird Dog used a hard rudder to pull her into a sharp, ascending turn. “On station,” he said.

“Fine. Listen, Bird Dog, I know you think I’m some sort of wimp,” the RIO continued, his tone softer. “But out here on the pointy end of the spear, we’re not just a couple of hotshot fighter jocks spoiling for a fight. We’re a continuation of diplomacy by other means.”

“Your War College shit makes a lot more sense when we’re on the deck,” Bird Dog responded. “A lot of good philosophy does to me. I’d rather have a solid radar contact. Speaking of which — anything in the area?”

“I think I probably would have mentioned it to you if there were,” Gator responded tartly. “What, you think I’m back here as some sort of a zampolit? I got news for you, Bird Dog. Some time at the War College is just what you need to get some perspective on things.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll take an extra year on the bombing range over War College any day.”

“Looks like you might have your chance.” Gator’s voice had gone hard and cold. “Radar contact, bearing zero one zero, range forty miles, speed four hundred knots.”

“You got IFF?” Bird Dog asked, inquiring about the status of the international friend or foe transponder carried on most military aircraft as he broke out of the turn and headed along the vector Gator had reported.

“Negative. No ESM, either. At four hundred knots, this could be our friendly neighborhood Bear. Or-“

“Or one of his hotshot little buddies,” Bird Dog said. “A MiG.”

“Keep your finger off the weapon button until we know for sure,” Gator warned. “I’m still in tracking mode. I’m not going to light him up until he’s closer.”

“If it is a MiG, when are we within weapons range?”

“Another twenty miles. Less than that, if he doesn’t have the latest ESM warning modifications on him.”

“Well, let’s just go see, shall we?” Bird Dog said softly. He shoved the throttle forward, increasing airspeed to just over five hundred knots. “I’m staying at altitude for now — might need the gas later. You let Mother know what’s going on, and I’ll get us over there.”

Bird Dog heard Gator switch over to tactical and begin briefing the watch team in CDC on board Jefferson. Although the TAO there would already have their contact information, since it was transmitted automatically via LINK I I to the ship’s central target processing unit, Gator was making sure that no one else was holding any contacts in the area. The other Tomcats were holding nothing but blue sky, Jefferson reported, a note of excitement already creeping into the TAO’s voice. He heard the TAO say, “Roger, Tomcat Two-oh-one, come right to course zero-one-zero and investigate — oh.” The voice trailed off as the TAO evidently noticed from the speed leader on his large screen display that Bird Dog was already doing exactly that.

“The pilot reports he will be overhead in twenty minutes,” the senior Spetsnaz reported. He glanced over at Rogov, whose face was an impassive, unreadable mask.

“Very well.” Rogov ignored the man. Whether or not he believed the story that it was merely a surveillance aircraft checking up on the detachment made little difference now. Twenty minutes from now — nineteen, he thought, glancing at his watch — forty Special Forces paratroopers would be spilling out the back end of the transport aircraft and parachuting down to the island. Unlike the Spetsnaz team with him now, these men were carefully selected. Each one of them was a Cossack, born and bred in the harsh outer reaches of the former Soviet Union, owing allegiance primarily to their tribe rather than any political subdivision. Rogov smiled. As skilled and deadly as the Spetsnaz on the initial team, each one of the paratroopers had sworn undying loyalty to his hetman, holder of the traditional Cossack mace. If the Spetsnaz could have seen him during their last ceremony, clad in his ancient Cossack regalia, they would not have doubted his prowess at the beginning of this mission and they would have known what he knew now: The Cossacks were coming.