Arctic Fire

CHAPTER 8

The fast craft skimmed over the top of the waves, acting almost like a hovercraft as it shot over the surface of the water. Sea state 2 consisted of mild swells without white tops, and Carter had the throttle slammed full forward. But even small swells act like a roller coaster at eighty knots.

“No sign of activity,” Sikes shouted, struggling to be heard over the noise of the sea and the wind in the boat. “May be a false alarm.”

The chief shook his head. “Doubtful. I don’t know, sir, but there usually aren’t too many of those. Not if they’re sending us in.”

Sikes nodded and gave up. It was all he could do to hold on to his lunch in the boat, and a lengthy political discussion was out of the question.

Ahead, the island jutted out of the sea like a fortress. The West end was relatively flat, climbing sharply into jagged peaks and spires. He studied the landscape, wondering if they’d brought enough pitons and line. Climbing up that icy moonscape would challenge every bit of their physical reserves. And the danger; he considered it grimly. Intruders — if indeed there were any on the island — could be hiding behind any spire, waiting silently for the SEALs to make their approach. The tactical advantage would be theirs. The only way to achieve any degree of tactical surprise would be to airlift in with a helicopter, and even that would be problematic. First, the noise of the helicopter would alert their prey, and second, even the most reliable aircraft developed odd quirks and problems in the frigid environment. No, he decided, on balance it was better that they go in by boat, even with the problems that patrolling the jagged cliffs presented.

Fifty feet off the coast, now blindingly reflective under the afternoon sun, Carter slowed the boat to twenty knots. He turned broadside to the island, carefully making his way toward the westernmost tip. The plan was to begin their sweep there, working slowly toward the cliffs, postponing the decision to climb until they were closer in. If nothing else, it would give them time to adjust to the realities of arctic patrolling.

Five minutes later, the fast boat edged up to the ice, the SEAL stationed in the bow carefully surveying the water beneath her hull for obstructions. When the bow bumped gently against the shore, he jumped out, pulling the bowline behind him. Two other SEALs followed. As the first order of business, they drove a piton into the hard-packed ice to provide a mooring point for the boat. One of them would stay behind and stand guard while the other four executed the patrol in pairs of two.

Sikes was the last one out of the boat. After the gale-force winds that traveling at eighty knots generated, the almost calm air felt warmer. An illusion, he knew. Unprotected, skin and tissue would freeze within a matter of seconds. He checked the lookout SEAL carefully, making sure his gear was in order, then pirouetted 360 degrees while the other man returned the favor. Satisfied that they were as well equipped against the environment as they could be, Sikes made a sharp hand motion. Without a word, one SEAL joined on him, while the fifth SEAL and Huerta stepped away together. With one last sharp nod to the lookout, Sikes pointed northeast. They took off at a steady, energy-conserving walk.

The ice under his feet was rough, the surface edged in tiny nooks and crannies from the ever-constant wind. A light dusting of snow blew along the surface, swirling around their ankles and obscuring the uneven surface. Still, he reflected, it was better than winter ice in the States, where intermittent warming and refreezing turned the surface slick as glass. Here, at least there was enough traction to walk. Just as well, since he couldn’t see the ice beneath his feet for the blowing snow. His partner moved forward and took point. Sikes followed five yards behind, carefully surveying the landscape. After a few moments, it became apparent there was not much to see. The land was featureless, except for the jagged peaks ahead of them, and any traces of human habitation had been swept away by the wind. He glanced to the north, where he could barely make out the figures of the other two SEALS.

The wind picked up slightly, and he noticed the difference. It crept around the edges of his face mask, trying to find some purchase in the lining or some overlooked gap in his clothing. He could feel the heat rising off his skin as he walked, felt the air sucking at it.

The point man stopped suddenly. He pointed and made a motion to Sikes. Sikes moved forward until he was standing by the man. “What was it?”

“Don’t know for sure — something dark green, blowing in the wind. In this wind, it was gone before I could get a good look at it. Man-made, though — definitely.”

Sikes lifted the radio to his mouth and quickly briefed the other group and the lookout on the sighting. Even after a few moments of standing still, he could feel his muscles start to tighten as the cold seeped in.

Every sense heightened, adrenaline pounding through his veins and further exacerbating the heat loss, he motioned for the other man to begin again. There was no more chance that this was a false alarm. Whatever the man had seen — and he had no doubt that the man had seen something — this patrol was now tactical instead of practice.

“Sikes just radioed in that they’ve seen something,” Batman said into the receiver. “Whoever’s taken up residence there and decided to start shooting at our aircraft isn’t so hot of a housekeeper. Still, the island’s supposed to be deserted. If they hadn’t taken a shot at our aircraft, we probably never would have known they were there.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Admiral Magruder’s voice responded. “There’s that radio report from the Inuits.”

“And who would have suspected it?” Batman mused. “Some Aleutian Islander with a radio sees something strange and decides to call in the Navy.”

“Not so strange as you might think,” Tombstone responded. His voice took on a reflective note. “I wonder if it’s the same — no, couldn’t be. He’d have to be pushing seventy years old by now.”

“Who?” Batman asked, confused by Tombstone’s apparent change of subjects.

“Probably nothing,” Tombstone answered. “But years ago, when my uncle was still involved in Special Forces projects, he spent some time out on those islands. We were in the middle of the Cold War, and maintaining the integrity of our homeland was a lot bigger issue than it is today.”

“Vice Admiral Magruder on a field trip to the Aleutians?” Batman snorted. “I’d like to see that.”

“He wasn’t always a vice admiral,” Tombstone answered dryly. “At the time, I believe he was a lieutenant commander. He told me the story a couple of times, how he went out to the islands, met some of the native tribes, studied their survival techniques. At the time, we were still in our infancy on cold weather tactics. Some bright mind in the Pentagon decided that the best way to shorten the learning curve was to study people that have centuries of experience at it. My uncle’s always been an avid skier and camper, so somebody figured he was perfect for the job.”

“How long did he spend there?”

“Three months. He visited five major islands, including one of the largest ones near the end of the chain. And that’s the odd thing — he met an old fellow there, an Inuit who was considered the leader of the tribe. At first, they weren’t too interested in talking, but my uncle managed to make friends with him somehow. It had something to do with killing a polar bear, though I never got all the details. Anyway, this old fellow decided my uncle was okay. They came to some sort of understanding about the Russians, although I gather the Inuit wasn’t nearly as concerned as my uncle was. He said he left the man some high-tech radio gear — high-tech for that era, anyway — along with a list of standard tactical frequencies. From what my uncle says, they’ve had a couple of reports from them over the years, although I doubt that there’s been anything for the last decade or so.”

“And this fella is still alive, you think? And the radio’s still working?” Batman asked incredulously.

“You got the report, didn’t you?” Tombstone pointed out. “Besides, this fellow might have handed on the responsibility to his son as well. Who knows? At this point, I’m just grateful we’ve got an asset in place.”

Batman shook his head, wondering. With the very latest ESM equipment, radars, and other highly classified sensor systems on board the carrier, in the end, the first detection had been made the way it had been for centuries: by a man on the ground.

Tombstone hung up the receiver thoughtfully. Was it possible, he wondered, that the same man would still be in place after all these years? He shook his head, deciding that it didn’t matter. Barring the outside chance that this was a deception operation in some way, he was inclined to trust the radio report. Though Batman had been doubtful, he’d agreed to send the SEAL team in to investigate. And now it looked like that had been the right move.

“Admiral,” Captain Craig said, poking his head around the corner into Tombstone’s cabin. “Problem, sir.”

“How did you hear-?” Tombstone broke off suddenly. The chief of staff hadn’t been present while Tombstone was talking to Batman. He couldn’t know about the debris the SEALs had found blowing in the wind. It must be something else. “What is it?” he asked, motioning the man to come into the room. “Dinner reservations screwed up again?”

“I wish it were that simple,” the chief of staff said. “No, Admiral, it’s an air distress signal. We’re getting seven-seven-seven-seven blasting all over the place on IFF. Evidently it’s a civilian helicopter experiencing mechanical problems about two miles from us.”

“How serious?”

“Serious enough that they don’t think that they can make it back to land. And there’s no question of them ditching in these waters, of course. They’re requesting permission to land on the ship.”

“A civilian?” Tombstone frowned. What in hell’s name would a civilian helicopter be doing in this area?

The chief of staff shook his head. “According to the transponder, it’s a commercial craft. The pilot said they were out trying to do some spotting for a fishing boat when they started having problems. They’re headed this way out of Juneau, they said.” Captain Craig shot him a doubtful look. “The radar track doesn’t jive with that, though. The only way it makes sense is if they’re coming out of Adak.”

“Adak? What the-” Tombstone cut the thought off abruptly. As soon as the chief of staff had announced the discrepancy in the flight’s track, the conviction that Pamela Drake was behind this had hit him. It had to be — there was no other explanation.

Over the years, he’d watched Pamela’s determination to get in the middle of every fast-breaking story, marveling sometimes at the lengths to which she would go to ferret out the smallest bit of information. As a more junior officer, he’d rarely been on the receiving end of her drive to be the best reporter on any network, bar none. However, since he’d added stars to his collar, the issue of their relationship and Pamela’s profession had become increasingly problematic. Where does one draw the line? he wondered. While he might not be entirely certain of the answer himself, there was one thing he was sure of — with an ACN helicopter inbound, it was somewhere different than from where Pamela did.

“Admiral?” the chief of staff said, snapping him back to reality.

“I take it the pilot’s declared an emergency, then?” Tombstone asked.

“Yes, sir — about five minutes ago.” The chief of staff sucked in his breath as he saw the cold fire settle over Tombstone’s face. He’d expected some reaction from his boss, but not this one.

“Let them land,” Tombstone said coldly. “As soon as they’re on deck, I want to see them all in my cabin. Immediately.”

The chief of staff turned to execute the orders, feeling a fleeting pity for the civilians in the helicopter. They had no idea of what they were in for. “And COS? One other thing.” The chief of staff turned back to his boss. “Sir?”

“Get the senior JAG officer on board up here ASAP. Let those civilian idiots cool their heels in the conference room while I talk to him. And tell him to bring up his Dictaphone and any other recording equipment he might need. If this is what I think it is, I’m going to want criminal charges filed against every person on that helicopter.”

As the chief of staff left the compartment, someone tapped softly on the door between his conference room and his cabin. “Come in,” he said roughly, struggling to get his temper back under control.

The door opened quickly, and Tomboy’s red-topped head peeked around the corner. “Good afternoon, Admiral,” she said formally. “I was in TFCC, and I heard about the helo.” She let the unspoken question hang in the air.

Inwardly, Tombstone groaned. The last thing he needed on top of the tactical situation and Pamela Drake’s surreptitious arrival on his ship was Tomboy’s questioning.

“You have a problem with that, Commander Flynn?” he asked coldly, immediately regretting the words. He saw Tomboy’s face settle into an icy mask, not unlike the one he saw every morning in the mirror when shaving.

She drew herself up, seeming to add a few inches to her height. “None at all, Admiral,” she responded in the same tone. “I just wanted to make sure you were properly briefed. With your permission-” she finished, drawing back as though ready to leave.

“Tomboy! Get in here,” Tombstone said roughly. She stopped in mid-stride. “Yes, Admiral?” she said.

“We have communications with this helicopter, right? Did you hear what they said?”

She regarded him gravely, a bland, professional look in her eyes. “Yes, Admiral, I did in fact hear the entire transmission. Would the admiral care for me to repeat it to him?”

Something in the back of Tombstone’s mind started insisting that this was a very, very, very bad idea. “Yes,” Tombstone said, ignoring it. “What is the nature of their problem?”

“Icing, Admiral. And there are specific requests for your assistance,” she added thoughtfully, staring at a spot somewhere behind his head. “In fact, the actual request was, ‘Ask Stoney if I can put this bird down on his precious boat,’” Tomboy said, her voice level. “The speaker identified herself as Miss Pamela Drake.”

“Aircraft,” Sikes snapped into the radio. “Everybody freeze.” The phrase struck him as oddly absurd in this environment, but it was a fact that movement would draw the aircraft’s attention faster than anything else. As long as they stood still, clad in their white arctic gear against a solid white background, there was a good chance they wouldn’t be observed.

The lookout and the other patrol team rogered up, and Sikes watched the man in front of him hunker down on the ice. Sikes elected to remain standing, one hand reflexively going to the trigger of his weapon.

The deep-throated growl of a large aircraft was now clearly audible. Sikes schooled himself to keep his face down, not daring to risk exposing his tanned face to any observer overhead. He heard a change in the doppler effect, indicating the aircraft was turning, and waited. If the aircraft decided to orbit overhead, he was going to have to think of something fast. Under these conditions, remaining still could be deadly.

Three minutes later, he heard the sound of the engine shift downward, indicating that the aircraft had turned away from them. He let out a gasp of air, unaware that he’d been holding his breath. He gave it thirty seconds, then risked an upward glance.

The ass end of the Soviet transport aircraft disappeared over the line of the mountains. But far more worrisome was what it left in its wake. A cluster of parachutes was already visible in the overcast, and more were streaming out of the aircraft. He made the mental calculations swiftly. The nearest one would be only fifty yards away from them. Remaining where they were had become completely unacceptable. He raised the radio to his lips. “Move out.”

Rogov wedged one heavily gloved hand into a crack in the ice and leaned forward against the belaying line. Perched near the top of a cliff, hidden from below by the jagged spikes, his position was somewhat precarious. The wind gusted harder at this altitude, and the surface of the ice was smooth, offering few footholds. Without the rappelling team, they could not have made it up to this site.

Yet, for all the difficulty in reaching it, it was perfect. He had a clear field of vision of the area below, including the prospective weapons station. Abandoning the ice cave as soon as they heard the boat approach, the Spetsnaz and Rogov had quickly availed themselves of their prearranged routes to the peaks. From their vantage points they saw the boat approach, do a careful survey of the western end of the island, and then moor to the far end. While the two teams had been difficult to see against the landscape, the night vision goggles made the job easier.

Rogov glanced up at the sky again, his heart swelling with pride. Arrayed against the overcast, all forty chutes had opened perfectly, and the men they carried were now drifting down to the ground. As their altitude decreased, their rate of descent began to seem impossibly fast. From this angle, it seemed inevitable that at least half of them would suffer broken legs or ankles upon landing.

Yet he’d watched them execute this similar maneuver many times before, always without casualties, and always precisely on time and on target.

He shifted his gaze back down to the Americans. At the first sound of the transport aircraft, they’d ceased all movement, making them a bit more difficult to spot, but he could still ascertain their location. He wondered what they were thinking, staring up at the parachutes. He saw one man look up, a break in patrol routine, flashing his tanned face against the white background and now easily visible. No matter, he thought. The men descending from the heavens had their ways of dealing with Americans. Oh, yes, indeed they did.

Sikes saw the first man touch down fifty yards away from him. He tightened his hand on his weapon and brought it up slowly, careful to make no sudden movements that might startle the other man into firing. He watched as the unidentified parachuter snapped his quick-release harness, the wind quickly catching the gusting folds of the parachute and blowing it away. In the same motion, the man brought the weapon he’d been carrying at port arms up, aiming it at Sikes.

For a few moments, it was a Mexican standoff, each of them drawing down on the other with their weapons. Then, as ten more parachuters alighted behind them, the first man fired.

Sikes hit the deck the second he saw the man tighten his finger around the trigger, some instinct warning him he was in mortal danger. He brought his own weapon up and squeezed off a shot. He saw the first parachuter leap backward as though shoved in the middle of his chest with a heavy hand, and a bright red stain blossomed on his chest. Gunfire exploded around him, the rounds, every fifth one a tracer, exploding the ice into shards around him. The ricochets sang wildly with a distinctive high-pitched squeal as rounds left the ice at acute angles. He saw the SEAL beside him drop to the ground, falling face forward into the rough ice and blowing snow. The swirling particles partially hid the body.

Sikes returned fire, stopping only when the other side did. The odds were impossible, yet he’d be damned if he’d give up without a fight. As the gunfire from the other side ceased, he dropped to one knee, still holding his weapon at the ready. Not taking his eyes off the parachuters, he rolled his teammate over onto his back. He groaned.

Half of the man’s face was missing, the bloody, seeping mass that had been its lower right quadrant already freezing in the arctic air. He’d taken another round in the gut, and on its way out, the round had evidently hit bone and ricocheted out the side of the man’s body, blowing a massive, gaping wound in his right side. Irrelevantly, he noted the layers of clothing now exposed by the wound, layer upon layer carefully designed and donned to allow survival in this environment. For some reason, that struck him as particularly poignant.

He turned back toward the parachuters, rage fueling his movements. While he’d examined his friend, they’d moved imperceptibly closer, and he was now ringed by silent white shapes carrying arctic-prepped weapons. He snarled, hating to bow to the inevitable. A SEAL fought, and fought always, but there was nothing in their code of conduct that demanded suicide. For a brief moment, he wondered if he could somehow provoke them into firing and shooting each other, since their fields of fire were not limited by their formation, but decided against it. Slowly, he stood. He faced the man closest to him, and dropped his weapon to the ground.

In the distance, he could see the two members of the other team moving now, heading back toward the boat. Somehow, they’d managed to avoid the attention of the parachuters.

While the lead man fixed his gun on Sikes, he heard another man bark out rough commands. The group of parachuters quickly shed their gear and assembled themselves into five-man teams, looking very much like American SEALs in the way they moved and held themselves. He felt the chill bite deeper, wondering if these were the famous Spetsnaz he’d heard of so many times before but encountered only once.

He saw the men deploy in a standard search pattern. Off in the distance, his teammates were just reaching the boat. He heard a man cry out, and saw several start to run toward the boat, struggling to make headway against the wind in their heavy winter garments. The lead pair of parachuters stopped and raised their weapons. Gunfire cracked out again, oddly muted by the wind.

He saw his men reach the boat and leap into it, one step behind the lookout, who was already gunning the engine. The boat backed out, gaining speed at an incredible rate. As soon as it was clear of the land, it heeled sharply and pointed, bow out, to sea, quickly accelerating to its maximum speed of eighty knots. He breathed a sigh of relief and glanced down at his teammate. One dead, one captured, three alive. At least, if the boat could evade gunfire, the report would make it back to the carrier. As he stared at the grim face of the man approaching him, he realized that that was more than he could expect to do.

White Wolf stared at the action below, motionless, not even flinching at the harsh, chattering whine of the automatic weapon fire. Born and bred to this land, familiar with every nuance of its territory, he was truly invisible to the Spetsnaz infesting his terrain. He made a small motion to his grandson, who approached and put his ear close to the old man’s mouth.

“See the mistakes they make?” the elder said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. “The positioning, the noise — they know nothing of this land.”

The younger man swallowed nervously. “We are so close,” he said in the same barely audible tones. “Your safety is important.”

The old man made a small movement with his mouth. “If I cannot evade these men, then it is time for me to die,” he said. “These things — you see how difficult it will be for the Americans when they come. These intruders are already scattered about our land, and dislodging them without killing the man they’ve taken will be impossible.”

“Better them than us,” the younger man said harshly. “And what exactly have they given us? Taken our land, given diseases to our people — why should we help the Americans?”

The old man gazed at him levelly, his eyes cold and proud. “My word.”

The younger man sighed. “Yes, yes, there is that.” He glanced back down at the land below, moving his head slowly so as to be undetectable. “What can we do? So many of them.”

“And so inexperienced,” the older man murmured. “They have many lessons left to learn — and this one will not be pleasant.”