EndWar: The Missing

by Tom Clancy

  That admonishment was an old joke among the FSK guys and part of Arctic survival. Shaving in the morning, then heading out in the Arctic air, hastened frostbite, but too many rookies or foreign operators in the region succumbed to that simple mistake. Shave at night, let your pores close up for eight or so hours, and then you were good to go.

  Lex scratched at the stubble on his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved at all. There, done.

  Now he monitored the command net as the five Seahawk pilots spoke to one another and with the pilot of an RAF Boeing E-3D Sentry AEW1 accompanied by two fighters, Panavia Tornado F3s. The British pilot in the radar plane was confirming the positions of the four Howler gunships as the Seahawks fanned out to engage them before coming around to land on the island.

  The chopper rocked hard as the four AGM-114 Hellfire missiles mounted to its extended wings began to launch, one after another, the sky outside the window flickering as the other Seahawks cut loose their missiles.

  Next came the terse reports as enemy S-8 rockets splayed across radar screens, and all five pilots broke away to evade, the muffled thumping of chaff and flare pods coming from the aft section, the chopper pitching forward in a steep dive that had Lex clutching the shoulder harness attached to his seat.

  “I won’t say it,” Vlad began over the intercom.

  “Good,” answered Lex.

  “What was he going to say?” asked McAllen.

  “The usual,” said Borya.

  “Sergeant McAllen, I’ll put it this way,” said Lex, groaning as the g-forces pressed harder on their chests. “He likes to rattle our nerves.”

  “Well, we don’t need him,” answered McAllen with an uneasy laugh. “We got this pilot about to kill us now . . .”

  Just then the pilot leveled off but Lex’s stomach remained somewhere near Iceland.

  Something flashed brilliantly near the window, followed by an echoing boom and sudden gust that buffeted the chopper.

  “What the hell was that?” cried Borya.

  Lex heard it over the command net: They’d lost one of the Seahawks, the one carrying Charlie Team and the medical personnel.

  He shared the news with his men, then closed his eyes, bit back the loss, and sat there. He would remain calm. He would keep his head clear. He would get the job done. No matter what. There would be plenty of time—too much time—to grieve later.

  After a deep breath, he opened his eyes and leaned out from his seat to stare through the canopy, spotting the dark outline of the once-deserted LORAN-C station. “All right, guys,” he began, hardening his tone. “We’re still on mission and still in this fight. Almost there. Review your maps.”

  Lex tapped a button on the side of his helmet, and the HUD switched to a three-dimensional, rotating image of the entire station with cutaway walls. The base was an M-shaped collection of prefabricated buildings with sloped tin roofs and aluminum-siding walls, along with a couple of water tanks and radio towers with attached dishes. A steep mountain range wound to the west, rising up behind the station like a white collar of stone, with an ice-covered dirt airfield lying to the north.

  In the past, an eighteen-man crew had staffed the station when LORAN-C was used to help with ship navigation. GPS technology had long since made terrestrial radio navigation systems obsolete; thus the station had been abandoned for nearly two decades—

  Which raised the question of why many of the buildings were lit up from outside and within, the generators obviously repaired and/or replaced, even the radio tower’s light flashing, as Lex accessed the chopper’s night-vision cameras from his HUD.

  “Two Zodiacs on the beach with a third coming,” reported the pilot. “Count eight armed men in the third. Estimate same numbers from the first two, meaning sixteen or more inside.”

  “Roger that,” said Lex. “Same LZs, no deviation.”

  “You got it,” said the pilot.

  The crew chief threw off his harness and clambered to his feet, barking sternly into the intercom. “All right, gentlemen, show time. We’ll be on the ground in thirty seconds. Mi-8s carrying that Russian greeting party will be here in less than ten minutes, along with two of the four Howlers. That’s all the time you got. I’ll expect every one of you knuckle-draggers back here in less than ten. Can you count that high?”

  All of them barked in unison, “Yes, Crew Chief!”

  “Thank you, Chief,” Lex said, unbuckling his own harness and springing to his feet. “Listen up, people. By the numbers. We clear from the outside in. Alpha is still point, along with Gray Wolf. Bravo, you’re now on overwatch up in the mountains. Switch out to the MKs. Keep a good eye on that beach. Delta Team, you work the south side inward. Team leads sound off.”

  One after another the Raiders reported back, and then Strommen spoke to Lex on the command net: “Captain, I hope for all of our sakes this goes quickly. If not, the Russians will have over one hundred men on the ground before we leave.”

  “No worries, Captain. I carry at least a hundred rounds. What about you?”

  While the man didn’t say it, Lex knew he was thinking it: Wiseass. Instead, Strommen replied, “We have a lot of ammo. I’ll see you outside.”

  The Seahawk’s wheels thumped on the hard snow, sending a shudder up through the fuselage, the whole bird rocking up and down for a moment. Then the crew chief wrenched open the side cargo door, hollering, “Go, go, go!”

  Lex ducked, then leapt down from the chopper, hitting the snow and taking in a cold breath of –5°F air. Nice. His nose already stung. Borya, Vlad, and McAllen charged up behind as he headed straight for the nearest building, a boxy structure with heavy electrical cables snaking out from its walls, IDed as one of three generator stations. Exhaust rose from pipes jutting from the roof, and the hum of diesel engines emanated from within.

  Behind them, the rest of the choppers touched down, and Strommen’s men—dressed in a modified Arctic white pattern camouflage whose darker sleeves made them more easily distinguishable from Lex’s Marines—came charging up toward the team. The other Marines hit the snow and moved out, as, one by one, the Seahawks dusted off and were supposed to head to a waiting area about two clicks north on the beach, not far from the meteorological station.

  However, since two of the four Howlers had survived their first engagement, Lex knew those pilots would go to Plan B: with two choppers engaging the Russian gunships while two held back to evac the package and ground troops.

  Sixteen Marine Raiders and ten FSK special forces troops were now moving up on the station. While the landing zone was a quarter click north of the buildings, the sub crew would already be digging in and waiting for them.

  Along with providing night vision through the now-swirling snow, Lex’s SAV placed a holographic map to his left, showing the blue-colored silhouettes of his men, the green silhouettes of the FSK troops, and the flashing blue dots of the drones as each Raider team sent four Seekers and their larger quadcopter UAV out ahead to scout the exterior and take a peek through the windows.

  As Lex and his men reached the generator building, the first crack of automatic weapons fire broke though the wind.

  “Everyone hold fire,” Lex ordered.

  His HUD flashed. Two men outside one of the main terminal buildings in the center of the station must’ve spotted one of the drones.

  Lex gave Borya the hand signal to get inside the generator and cut the power. The sergeant used his laser, and in five seconds he’d burned the lock off the door. He vanished inside for just another ten seconds before the big diesel engines fell silent.

  “That brought down station power. The other two generators are for the tower and are switched off anyway,” Borya reported.

  “Good.”

  “Boss, one of the Seekers picked up something inside the main transmitter station,” said Vlad.

  Lex’s HUD showed the Seeker’s camera zoomi
ng in through a window to spot a blindfolded figure being shoved down a hallway. Lex recognized the hair and body type from the many photos of Ragland he’d studied, and while the Seeker had not picked up a clear image of her face, Lex felt certain that after everything they’d been through, after losing a good man, they’d finally—finally—found her. “Everyone move out!”

  * * *

  By the time they shoved Ragland into the chair, her face was burning from the wind and the cuffs were digging painfully into her wrists. She kept calling for Werner, but he wasn’t answering, and the man next to her now, whose voice was unfamiliar, kept telling her not to move. Hearing those scramjet engines and believing against the impossible that the Wraith was up there sent Ragland’s pulse pounding, her chest growing warm, and now the gunshots meant so much more: They’d found her. Rescuers were on the ground and Halverson was up there in the Wraith, on the attack.

  But how many stories had she read about failed rescue attempts, doctors and other humanitarians seized in hostile nations, then executed out of spite when their abductors were cornered?

  Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. This might be it. These could be the last moments of her life.

  She couldn’t die in darkness. “Please, take off the blindfold.”

  “No.”

  “If we have to move, I can go faster without it.”

  “That’s true.” Abruptly, hands fumbled behind her head, and the cotton cloth was peeled away. She flicked open her eyes, the beams of two flashlights causing her to squint.

  The room was small, perhaps twelve square feet, the walls hidden behind towering metal cabinets for instrumentation manufactured in the 1970s or 1980s but seeming even older, like props from a set of an Irwin Allen TV show from the 1960s. She spotted microphones, radio gear, communications equipment. Maybe even LORAN, with clocks and circular scopes, big toggle switches, and bulbous status displays.

  She was north. Some place excruciatingly cold. The Arctic perhaps? The sea. An island. A comm station of some kind . . .

  Dusty old pendant lights hung from the tin-roofed rafters, and she lowered her squint to the left, where a short man holding a military-style rifle and wearing a woolen cap pulled tightly around his head stood, facing the door opposite them. To her right, she spotted Werner, his face ruddy, eyes narrowed on the door. He, too, clutched a rifle. Their flashlights sat on a desk, aimed at the door.

  “They’re coming for me, aren’t they?” she said.

  “Shut up now,” Werner snapped. “Everything will be okay.”

  “No, it won’t, you asshole.”

  He looked at her, then shoved his rifle’s muzzle in her face. “I said, shut . . . up . . .”

  Gunfire popped from somewhere outside, and both men dropped to their knees, rifles once more trained on the door. Ragland glanced up at a window, where something metallic shimmered in the darkness. She widened her eyes on the object, blinked hard, and then it was gone.

  * * *

  Lex gave Borya a hand signal, and the sergeant immediately scaled a service ladder on the rear of the barracks beside the transmitter main station room where Ragland had just been identified. Their Seeker was in place outside the window, and Lex thought Borya could get a clean shot inside.

  “Hey, boss,” McAllen called. “Vlad and I in place to breach the back door.”

  “Roger that. Stand by.” Lex switched to the command net. “Guardian, we’re in position.”

  “Roger. Move in and extract the package.”

  “Here we go . . .”

  Six enemy guards remained outside, armed with R4 South African–made assault rifles with thirty-five-round banana clips. Eight more of their buddies were en route, jogging up from the beach where they’d left their Zodiac.

  “Delta Team, you cut off those guys who just landed. Bravo, I want your snipers on the guards outside the terminal building.”

  Lex checked his HUD again. ETA of Russian Mi-8s: three minutes. Damn, they’d wasted too much time already.

  Captain Strommen’s men were positioned throughout the complex, at corners and on rooftops, all focusing on the terminal building. Lex called the captain, reminded him to hold fire until he gave the word.

  “It’s your engineer, Captain, but my island,” said Strommen, an allusion to the tension they’d had over who’d be in charge of the search and rescue. The Norwegian had begrudgingly allowed his American counterparts to take lead of the actual mission, but he’d wanted to oversee any prisoners captured and ensure that “the Americans cleaned up their mess before leaving.”

  “We have authority from Guardian,” Lex told the man. “Would you like to give the order?”

  Strommen hesitated. “No, as we planned. We’re ready.”

  “Excellent. Stand by.”

  FORTY-NINE

  X-2A Wraith Prototype

  Over Jan Mayen Island

  18,500 Feet

  Halverson raced past the two MiGs as they tried to strafe her with cannons. She struck the cockpit of one aircraft with her tactical laser but missed the second because her engines cut out at that precise moment and the targeting computer couldn’t catch up with the sudden drop in airspeed.

  While the first MiG broke into a flat spin and vanished in her wash, the second raced on, and Halverson realized this was it: Either she’d be a sitting duck as she tried to land, or she had one last attempt to get him and probably no time to pick a safe landing zone. Whatever part of the glacier she could reach via gliding would have to do.

  She turned into the wind, trying to gain a bit more altitude, the Wraith strangely silent, the instruments glowing like candles. She hung there, a metallic manta crucified across the sky and utterly vulnerable.

  The radar told the story now:

  He came around, five thousand feet below and ascending fast, already opening up with his cannon, just as she jammed the stick forward and dove straight at him.

  Either way this maneuver would cost her dearly, but there was too much fight in her to give up now. She grimaced as the aircraft shuddered and gained more speed.

  “Target locked,” said the computer.

  Her thumb had already settled on the laser’s trigger, the HUD showing one, two, three beams cutting into his canopy and slashing through his control systems.

  The flashes coming from his cannon went dark, and the MiG dropped back and away like a falling leaf, tumbling end over end, a silent death delivered by an equally silent weapon.

  She pulled up, leveled off, and allowed herself a sigh. Warning lights flashed in the HUD, damage control sensors indicating breaches to the wings—cannon fire to be sure, but she was still in one piece. Getting that piece onto the ground was another story—

  Hopefully one with a happy ending.

  As she scanned the map, she brought up the command and team nets, eavesdropping on the Marine Raiders calling out shots and positions of enemy troops, the Norwegian captain talking to Lex, the much steelier voice of General Mitchell announcing that the Mi-8s were now only two minutes away.

  Two minutes?

  There was no way in hell Lex could get in there, snatch Ragland, and exfiltrate aboard the choppers before those Russians arrived.

  No way in hell.

  Halverson stared hard at those choppers on her radar screen, did the calculations once more, and her blood turned cold.

  FIFTY

  Marine Raider Team

  Jan Mayen Island

  LORAN-C Station

  The Marine Raiders of Bravo Team posted in the mountains were well-trained and proficient snipers, armed with MK 11 Mod 0s, and were ready to carry out Lex’s orders to the letter.

  And so he gave them. Bravo’s first four shots dropped four of the guards outside the terminal building, while two more rounds from Strommen’s men dropped the guards out front.

  At the same time, Strommen’s men moved
up, McAllen and Vlad blew the back door on the building, and Lex met up with Strommen at the front door.

  A rusting aluminum sign painted in bright blue read: FTD STASJON JAN MAYEN. Below that, written in Norwegian and translated by Strommen at their video briefing, was the old station’s motto: “Theory is when you understand everything, but nothing works. Practice is when everything works, but nobody knows why. On this station we unite theory and practice, so nothing works and none understands why.”

  The geeks here had had a sense of humor—but Lex had little time to appreciate that now as Strommen kicked in the door and Lex tossed in a flash-bang grenade that detonated with its signature flash and cloud of gray smoke. At the same time, two Seekers flew forward and inside, immediately mapping the interior, noting the positions of the hostiles inside and sending that data back to the team’s HUDs.

  The interior was split into a central hallway with rooms on either side and a main entrance foyer. The furniture and paneling on the walls were decades old, along with dust-covered framed photographs of the station under construction. Lex took this all in at once, but he paid most attention to his HUD, where a blue flashing symbol generated by the Seeker showed Ragland in the last room on the right side of the hall.

  As he hustled forward, he came face-to-face with two men rounding the corner. They wore gray parkas with fur-trimmed hoods pulled tightly around their faces. Lex’s HK416 assault rifle flashed, and the men fell back toward the wall, firing wildly and driving Lex and Strommen to the deck.

  The foyer met the main hall in a T-shaped intersection, and now Lex and the Norwegian were on all fours and taking gunfire from the right and the left, effectively cut off.

  Lex crawled back against the wall and gestured for Strommen to take the guys on the left. The big captain tugged free two grenades from his web gear, ducked out into the hallway, and let them fly.