Arctic Storm Rising

Nineteen

Rank had its privileges at the Barter Island station — at least to the extent that Captain Nick Flynn got his own sleeping quarters. True, the same small space also doubled as his office, and it was really just an eight-by-eight cubicle slapped together out of thin plywood partitions. But at least it offered a modicum of privacy when he needed it. Except for Sergeant Takirak, everyone else on his Joint Force security team had to share a room with two or three others.

At the knock on his open door, Flynn closed the science fiction thriller he’d been reading on his tablet. “Come in,” he said, fighting down an exasperated sigh. Between PT at what felt like oh dark thirty; a predawn foot patrol around the whole island in subzero temperatures; firing exercises out at their improvised range; a public relations — required Q-and-A session with kids at the local school; another of Takirak’s regular lectures on wilderness and winter survival tricks and tips; and the routine mound of paperwork so beloved of higher-command echelons, he felt like he’d already had a pretty full day. His fatigue was compounded by the fact that they were now down to just a little over five hours of sunlight out of every twenty-four. Spending two-thirds of the usual waking day in darkness really screwed up circadian rhythms for most people — himself included.

“Uh, sir?” Senior Airman Mark Mitchell said cautiously, poking his head around the doorframe. The redheaded communications specialist had a knack for reading other people’s emotions… or at least figuring out when they were pissed at him for pulling some boneheaded practical joke, usually after it was too late. Like the time a week ago when he’d excitedly brought Private First Class Hynes fake transfer orders to Hawaii’s Schofield Barracks. Luckily, the team’s brawny Carl Gustav recoilless rifle gunner, an Army specialist from New Mexico named Rafael Sanchez, had stepped between the two men before Hynes could go totally berserk.

“What is it, M-Squared?” Flynn asked patiently.

“We just got an alert message from JBER,” Mitchell said.

Flynn looked pointedly at his watch. It was well after 1900, and the sun had been below the horizon for more than four hours. “The real thing, Airman?” he asked dryly.

For Mitchell’s sake, he hoped this wasn’t another lame attempt at humor. After all, there must be worse military duty posts than this isolated radar station. Though, admittedly, none sprang readily to mind. The enlisted man was a decent radioman, but there were definitely limits to the amount of juvenile crap Flynn was willing to put up with. If pushed too far, he’d boot M-Squared out of the unit first and worry about finding a new com specialist later.

“Honest to God, sir,” Mitchell assured him earnestly. “This is the genuine article. And it’s not just us. It’s everyone. All over the whole world. The president or the Pentagon or whoever is ordering everybody — Air Force, Army, Navy, Marines, Space Force, the whole bunch — to DEFCON Three.”

Flynn dropped his tablet and rolled off his cot in one smooth motion. The U.S. armed forces hadn’t gone to DEFCON Three since 9/11, in the immediate aftermath of the terrorist attacks on New York and the Pentagon. That was more than twenty years ago. What the hell had just happened to trigger this kind of drastic move now? “Show me!” he snapped.

He followed Mitchell down the hall to the station’s dining area in a hurry. Next to the kitchen, it was the largest open space in the station’s ramshackle living quarters, big enough for up to twenty people to eat at the same time. The airman had taken over a corner table for his computers and other electronic gear. A sleeping bag nearby showed that he was sleeping there, too, probably to get away from his nominal roommate. Flynn had heard grousing that Army Private Wade Vucovich’s snoring should be classed as a prohibited nonlethal weapon under international law.

The airman dropped into his chair and pulled up the encrypted message file they’d been sent from Alaskan Command down at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson. “See, sir?”

Quickly, Flynn scanned through the alert. Key phrases jumped out at him. “Unprecedented levels of military air activity observed across the entire Russian Federation.” “No immediate confirmation of hostile intent.” “Increase in readiness levels directly authorized by the National Command Authority,” which meant the president and the secretary of defense acting jointly. But there was nothing about what might be behind these sudden Russian moves that had alarmed Washington.

His mouth tightened. He didn’t know what was worse: the possibility that nobody in D.C. had a fricking clue as to why Moscow had just put its entire Air Force and air defense network on a wartime footing. Or the very real possibility that the Pentagon brass and the intel community had simply decided not to share their information with the grunts, squids, and zoomies posted out at the sharp end… figuring that they didn’t need to know the whys and wherefores. Just like at the C-130 crash site in the Libyan desert, he thought bitterly.

Ditch that anger for now, Flynn told himself. His most immediate problem was figuring out how to translate this unexpected DEFCON Three directive into concrete action by the troops under his command. Older, more established Army formations and Air Force bases had thick manuals stashed away in their secure safes — manuals that laid out each and every action required to comply with the new, higher alert status, all the way down to precise rules of engagement for any extra guards posted at gates and perimeters. As a brand-new, completely untested unit, the men of his Joint Force security team didn’t have any comparable manuals to tell them what to do in a sudden crisis. They were entirely dependent on his intellect, training, and instincts.

He looked up and saw the rest of the team filing into the dining room. Word that something was up had obviously gotten out fast. He supposed that wasn’t much of a surprise. All twelve of them were basically living in one another’s back pockets. Once the sun went down and temperatures plunged well below zero, their universe was essentially restricted to a small number of corridors and rooms. Certainly nobody sane had any incentive to go wandering off anywhere outside, even when they weren’t on duty. It was the closest thing to a long-duration submarine patrol that anyone not in the U.S. Navy could ever experience.

“What’s the word, sir?” one of them asked.

“As of this moment, we’re moving to DEFCON Three,” Flynn replied, “along with all other U.S. bases, ships, and air squadrons around the world. For some reason, our Russian friends have moved all of their own fighters, strike aircraft, strategic bombers, and SAM forces to full alert.”

“Holy shit,” Hynes said in amazement. “Are we at war?”

“Not as far as I know,” Flynn told him. He glanced down at the time stamp on the alert message they’d been sent. He grinned crookedly. “Well, at least we weren’t as of fifteen minutes ago.”

“That isn’t exactly comforting, Captain,” Hynes said.

Flynn shrugged. “I didn’t mean it to be, PFC.” He looked around the crowded dining area. “Anyway, as of now, y’all are just as much in the loop as I am.”

Effortlessly, Takirak shouldered his way through the group of suddenly nervous-looking soldiers and airmen. “What are your orders, sir?” he asked quietly. Alone of everyone, he seemed completely unfazed by the sudden turn of events.

Flynn nodded. “Glad you asked, Sergeant,” he said, forcing himself to sound confident and in command. “As a first step, I want you to take a six-man patrol out pronto and set up a chain of two-man observation posts somewhere between here and the west end of the island. Make sure you’ve got decent fields of fire to cover the open ground around this station.”

Takirak considered that. “It’s pretty cold out there right now, Captain. Around ten below zero. Four hours outside is the maximum time I’d recommend — unless we’re setting up camp.”

“We’ll rotate your team back inside after four hours,” Flynn assured him. “I’ll take over your OPs with the other half of the team for the next shift, while your guys get some hot food and rest. Then we’ll trade off again.”

“How long do you figure to keep this four-on, four-off rotation going?” the National Guard sergeant asked.

“However long it takes the geniuses in D.C. to pin down what the Russians are doing,” Flynn said. “If Moscow’s only running a big-assed readiness exercise, we ought to get the word to stand down pretty soon.”

“And if this isn’t just a drill?”

Flynn smiled thinly. “Then the weather will be the least of our problems, Sergeant.”

Takirak shot him an equally tight grin in response. “Point taken, sir.” He swung around and started jabbing fingers at some of the watching soldiers and airmen. “Hynes, Vucovich, Sanchez, Kim, and Boyd, you’re with me. You’ve got ten minutes to report back here in full cold weather gear, with your weapons and ammunition. So move!”

They scattered instantly, heading for their racks to grab their equipment and then struggle into multiple layers of clothing designed to protect them from extreme cold — everything from long underwear, Gore-Tex pants, and fleece jackets to thick parkas, balaclavas, goggles, boots, and gloves. Even a few days under the veteran NCO’s tutelage had taught them that “Takirak time” was precise. Ten minutes meant ten minutes and not a single second more, not unless you wanted to get seriously lit up in front of every other guy in the unit.

Flynn looked at the five men who were still left. “As for you guys, I suggest you grab some extra shut-eye while you can.” Slowly, Mitchell and the others drifted away, talking the situation over in low, worried-sounding voices.

When they were gone, Takirak lowered his voice and leaned closer to Flynn. “Just so I understand your thinking, sir, what’s the real purpose behind deploying these observation posts?”

“Meaning, have I gone loco and actually started believing that the Russians might attack this radar site with helicopters or paratroops, instead of lobbing a couple of cruise missiles our way?” Flynn said wryly.

Takirak nodded. “Something along those lines.”

“Then, no, I haven’t gone nuts. I see this as a casualty reduction measure,” Flynn told him very quietly. “If the shit really does hit the fan, this place is going to get blown to hell — and there won’t be a damned thing we can do to stop that from happening. But at least any of our guys posted outside will have a decent shot at coming through alive and unhurt.”

“Makes sense,” the older man said. He shrugged. “Well, anyway, this’ll be a good training opportunity for us.”

Flynn looked at him curiously. “You don’t think this alert could turn hot?”

“I suppose it could,” Takirak said slowly. Then he shook his head. “But I don’t see what the Russians would have to gain. Those men in Moscow aren’t fools. Why would they start a war now? Over what? And doing it by massing a bunch of their bombers and fighters in plain view like this? So we have plenty of warning? That’s nuts.”

Flynn raised an eyebrow. “What would your plan be, Andy?”

“Hell, Captain, I’d just smuggle a nuke into D.C. and set it off. Take out our top political and military leaders like that, without warning, and any war’s already halfway to being won.”

Flynn laughed. “I guess I should be glad you’re not on the Russian General Staff.”

“Who, me?” Takirak shook his head. “No, thanks. I have my hands full just keeping goofballs like Mitchell and Hynes squared away.”

“Amen to that, Sergeant,” Flynn agreed devoutly.