First Salvo

by Charles D. Taylor

  It was a few miles from the spot where the last helo had passed over him. There was no mud or silt to form a plain in this one, or at least it was hemmed in by the natural gully of the stream. Ryng fell to his knees, cupping the water and sipping slowly from his hands. Not too fast—his stomach was empty. Then he bent farther over and splashed the water over his face, onto his head, and down his neck. He could feel the caked mass in his hair breaking up under the makeshift bath and thanked whatever had saved him for also being sure that nobody saw him looking like that. The water was cold, but the exertion had warmed his body to the point that his earlier chill was gone. Ryng knew that if it had been a few weeks later, or one more of those arctic storms had come over the island, that his odds of getting away would have been very slim indeed.

  After sipping some more of the water, he extracted the chart from his shirt. It was as accurate as Naval Intelligence could make it. As soon as the Norwegians had reported strange happenings in their territory, intelligence satellites had been repositioned to photograph the entire island. Highly specialized cartographers had then compared the photos to the latest charts in stock. It was a necessary exercise because they could detect annual changes in a particular area—in this case, the terminus of glaciers and the places where a man could and could not pass freely.

  The stream he now sat by would be of no use. It worked quickly back into the mountains in a series of sharp falls. And at this point, the coast of the harbor narrowed even more than its current 150 yards. The cliffs facing across toward the Soviet base became sheer—impossible to climb.

  He would have to cross the stream a few hundred yards up, then turn into the higher country. While the cliffs facing the harbor were impossible, their reverse side was much gentler, sloping into a series of glacier-scooped hanging valleys. Water runoff from the receding glaciers allowed some vegetation that would provide cover from time to time. Ryng could make it almost in a straight shot, except for the last peak, which was part of a westward-facing range— toward the ocean and safety. That one was steeper and would involve climbing in snow on one side and likely a long slide down the other, for he would briefly find himself crossing year-round snowfields.

  As he slipped the chart inside his shirt, a growling in his stomach reminded him how empty it was. There was little chance of finding anything to eat. Svalbard was so far north, merely a thousand miles or so from the North Pole, that only a few species of animal life could survive here. Although polar bears, reindeer, and sea birds seemed to thrive in the harsh climate, Ryng had nothing that could kill one. Better to forget the hunger and concentrate on getting the hell out as fast as possible, Ryng realized. If he didn’t get to the meeting place in time, he could plan on a most unpleasant stay.

  For the next half hour, he climbed a slope toward the first valley. The climb was gentle at first and then steeper as he came near the lip. Once over the top, there was another gentle slope where he could again pick up his pace without tiring himself. There were no trees, nothing that might provide a hiding place when they came back searching for him—which was another aspect to worry about. There was no longer the early warning of the helo coming across the broad harbor. The peaks would blot out the sound, and he would know nothing about them until a helo cleared a peak and came down toward him. They had the advantage this time.

  As he progressed, he planned each few hundred yards, determining where he would duck if he suddenly heard the telltale sound of that engine. Unless they were lucky, they wouldn’t spot him instantly. There would be time, however short, to run for cover—unless he was directly in their line of sight as they came over the top.

  The terrain varied between the hard surface of gravel and dirt and the softness of ground cover that Ryng decided must be tundra. He had never been in such a place before and his knowledge of what the terrain might be was limited to what he had read in books and training manuals. The land provided a cushion in spots, giving slightly as he moved along. It was almost like walking on a mattress.

  What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the water underneath the vegetation. Quite unexpectedly, his foot sank through. Water squished icily around his feet, the ground shaking like jelly. Each step became more difficult, forcing him to head toward a side where the gravelly, hard surface could be seen again. But as he moved toward the solid ground, he found that he was also crossing a more dangerous area. Now his feet broke through with each step, sometimes sinking halfway up his shin before he could pull out of it. He had read about the tundra before and how during the warm weather it could melt down for a few feet. It would become almost impassable at that point. Now Ryng knew exactly why.

  And as he struggled for the edge, he heard the ominous sound of rotors again. Looking up to his left, he saw a helo just clearing the ridge above him. As the fuselage came into view outlined against the clear sky he could see the rockets on either side, the machine gun pods suspended farther out. If it kept on the same course, it would pass right in front of him. Should he simply throw himself face down in the quaking tundra, lying out in the open, hoping not to be seen yet realizing what a simple target he provided? Or should he try to run for it, stumbling across the remainder of the bog, trying to get to the shelter of a boulder at the edge?

  He decided to run. Struggling against the suction of the bog, adrenaline coursed through his system. He somehow knew that if the helo turned at all in his direction, he would have to dive forward, hoping the unfriendly tundra would somehow cover him, close over him until the helo passed over.

  It was like a goddamn dream. No matter where you go, Ryng thought, something always chases you, and no matter how fast you try to move, something drags at your feet so you can’t get away fast enough. It didn’t make any difference to Ryng whether it was thick, oozing silt or a bog in a hidden valley. The result was the same. He couldn’t move fast enough and there was a helicopter searching for him and the people in it wanted him dead and they had more than enough in the way of weapons to make him dead. The thought passed through his mind again that all their commander needed was a body, or even a piece of a body, as evidence, and that made him frantic enough to push beyond normal bodily limits.

  The helo remained on the same course long enough for him to make a last desperate plunge out of the bog. He slid nose first behind the boulder, which was large enough to conceal him. If the helo came toward him, he could huddle close enough and crawl around the rock if the craft came down to circle and inspect.

  And that’s finally what it did. It came down low enough so that Ryng wasn’t sure whether they saw the prints he’d made or not. Unfortunately, this time there was no colored water to cover his path. In his anxiety to escape the cloying vegetation, he had torn it. Tufts of roots and gnarled vegetation stuck out in every direction. From his vantage point, it was like a well-marked trail. The helo slowed, and perhaps the occupants did see that the ground cover had been disturbed by something. They hovered for a moment, then slowly came over by the boulder, passing on the opposite side, then swinging out and heading back on the side where Ryng had been cowering. Snakelike, he crawled around the base, always placing it between himself and the eyes in the helo.

  After another pass over the tundra, the helo skipped up over the peak and disappeared from Ryng’s view.

  He waited, somehow sensing they had been disturbed by the change in the ground cover. If he had been in the cockpit, Ryng would have known that they were concerned, that they had seen the torn bog, and that they would report it when they got back to base. But having been on Svalbard for less than a week, the two men in the helo temporarily dismissed the situation—probably a bear. They knew there were bears on the island, but they had no idea that they remained on the other end, preferring the perpetual snow cover or ocean to the barren rock and human population to the south. But when they reported the tracks later, the base commander would know that no bear would have been in that spot, and he would be in the next helo.

  LONGYEARBYEN

  Back a
t Longyearbyen Airport, smoke still drifted from the wreckage of the Soviet bombers. Colonel Mikhail Bulgan removed his black beret, unconsciously wiping his forehead as if he were perspiring before he replaced it. He was deep in thought, studying the cartographic map that his own intelligence staff had provided the day they had been airlifted from their Pechenga base to Spitzbergen. Alongside the chart, staring back at him, was a photograph of Bernie Ryng. It was no more than a mug shot, the same type that appears on passports. This one was an I.D. photo from Pentagon files.

  There was no doubt in the GRU’s mind that Ryng was the leader of the SEAL team. The exact time he had left the U.S., and how he had gotten to the remote island, were still items they hadn’t determined. But that information wasn’t necessary. That they knew who he was and how he operated was all that Bulgan cared about. The colonel would have given almost anything to have such a man on his side, and he hesitated momentarily at the idea of killing such a talent. On the other hand, men like Ryng were not the kind to change allegiance or to allow capture. Exterminating Ryng was Bulgan’s duty to himself and the Motherland. Though he had no idea of the efficacy of the decoy plan, he knew that Ryng had succeeded where he, Bulgan, had failed. Getting Ryng would be his last act as a Soviet officer—and it would be an act of satisfying revenge.

  So it was a matter of finding and doing away with the man. Bulgan knew Ryng would have done the same to him. A large red cross marked their last contact with him—thrashing in the water just off the glacial stream entering the harbor. A few miles past that, the shoreline turned into sheer cliffs. There was no man, especially one on the run and without the necessary resources, who would attempt those.

  Bulgan knew what he would do—and he considered himself almost the equal of Ryng. The file indicated that Ryng was no mountain climber. But he was an escape artist if ever there was one. American training included traveling long distances without sustenance, yet Bulgan knew Ryng could find something if it was available. Obviously the man was unarmed, or at least should have been after being thrown from his raft. It was likely that Ryng escaped with only his wits. But the GRU emphasized that unless the man was wounded, he still had an advantage over most other men.

  The colonel traced a path on the map with his finger—up a streambed, then left into the hidden valleys that rose in an easy progression toward the final range before the Greenland Sea. Once on the opposite side, the down side, Bulgan knew that Ryng might very well have protection.

  Colonel Bulgan was a hard-looking man. In an American uniform he would have resembled a U.S. Marine with his close-cropped hair, square jaw, and well-muscled, fit body. In many ways, he thought like a Marine, and that was to his advantage in this case.

  The thrum of the rotors outside interrupted his thoughts, and Bulgan rose to greet the returning helo. As he watched the craft settle outside his command post, he knew immediately by the still-loaded weapons that they had found no sign of Ryng. Damn! Not only had the man succeeded admirably in his mission, he had ruined Bulgan’s.

  Inside, the two men showed Bulgan where they had been, carefully transferring their rough marks onto his larger chart. They studied the recon photos closely, comparing chart terrain to satellite view. Colonel Bulgan could see how inexperienced men could have been fooled by Ryng, even with the limited hiding spots. But he also knew that his assumption about Ryng’s path was probably 90 percent correct. It was going to take a man with similar training and temperament to ferret out this American.

  Bulgan used his dividers to cover the projected course to the peak, then marked off the distance on the chart. He guessed roughly how much distance Ryng could travel each hour, marking in current time where he thought the man would be. Once he checked, then rechecked the assumed track, he again closed his eyes, unconsciously removing the black beret and running his hands through his hair. In his mind’s eye, he determined where he would like to trap the American. When he was sure, he marked that general area with a red pencil and again checked off the distance.

  In about six hours, give or take half an hour, Ryng should be beginning the climb on that last peak through the snowfields. There were no places to hide there. It had to be an open climb, some of the time working sideways to avoid perpendicular cliff faces. Bulgan yawned and stretched, then gave orders to his aide to awaken him in four and a half hours. He wanted a helo ready then. If Bulgan had realized that the ship with the remaining decoys had blown up outside the harbor and that there was no chance at all to resurrect the Longyearbyen mission, he never would have allowed himself the final luxury of a nap.

  ABOARD A HYDROFOIL ON THE BLACK SEA

  The run across the Black Sea to the Bosporus entrance to the Turkish straits would take about eight hours—and 90 percent of their fuel supply. The last three hours would be in daylight and more dangerous. Lassiter explained to Henry Cobb that the only advantage they had was that they were riding a Russian boat in a Russian sea under Russian air cover. Once they approached the Turkish coast, a Soviet boat would be in unfriendly waters. War, though not yet declared, was a foregone conclusion as far as the Turks were concerned.

  The last message to Lassiter explained that the Turkish government had been advised that their boat would be approaching Turkish waters early that morning and that it would be refueling at Istanbul. Somehow, Lassiter explained, he doubted that every single gunner in the Turkish military had been informed that a Soviet hydrofoil flying an American flag was to be allowed to pass without a second look. It just didn’t make sense, considering all that Turkey had been through over the past few days and considering that much of the trouble had been due to the Russians’ interference.

  During the night passage, Soviet aircraft would swoop down to missile range, breaking off each time Lassiter’s electronic identification system would provide a friendly response. Turkish aircraft did not yet have the luxury of closing in on them. Though there was no declared war, the Soviets would chase the Turks back whenever they approached Russian airspace.

  First light brought with it the sight of land, a low, hazy line to westward. The only one at all rested was Keradin. Since Lassiter spent almost all of his time in the wheelhouse, it was up to Cobb and Verra to keep watch over the Russian. When a turn came to rest, sleep was almost impossible. Lassiter insisted on the fastest speed consistent with arriving in one piece. He was unconcerned if the boat disintegrated thirty seconds after they finished with it, so they were able to maintain about forty knots an hour. The constant vibration, the roll of the boat from side to side as it slid down the swells, the bouncing to bring it back on course, each made sleep a wish rather than a reality. Cobb was used to going for two, even three days without much sleep but this was a test of his endurance. Even with an earlier nap, the hot day in the vineyards had done nothing to improve his strength.

  As they approached the coast, Turkish jets came out to meet the Russian fighters that seemed to have escorted them. This time they did not scare away. No doubt the Turks’ aggressiveness was a surprise to the Russians. To Keradin, it was even more of a surprise as he was allowed on deck to see the midair missile exchange. There was no way to determine who was winning, but the fight allowed Lassiter to bring their little boat to maximum speed as he rocketed for the safety of the Bosporus channel ahead.

  As their Soviet flag was lowered, Lassiter made a thing of showing Keradin his pleasure in dropping it over the side. In its place, an American ensign appeared, a large one so that, as Lassiter explained, there would be no doubt about who owned the boat now.

  The entrance to the Bosporus is at the far western end of the Black Sea. It is a natural strait dividing Turkey and narrowing in some sections to less than a half mile wide. It is defensible from both sides and at the moment the Turks still owned those defenses.

  Cobb yawned, trying to stretch the tired ache out of his muscles. “I’d like to keep our Russian friend on deck,” he said to Lassiter. “Sort of rub his nose in it a little. Got anything aboard that we might use to keep him in on
e piece?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have just the thing for you.” Lassiter laughed. “It seems the Russians are very discipline conscious, even in little boats like this one. They’ve got a little brig up forward, not much bigger than a head. Even comes equipped with handcuffs, chains—that sort of thing.”

  “How about if we hook him up to the mast?” He pointed just outside the wheelhouse to the stanchions anchoring the electronics mast. “It’ll give him a bit of a tether if people start shooting, but it’ll also relieve one of us from watching him.” He grinned. “And it’ll let him see the new world he’s going into.”

  “Going to put any clothes on him?”

  “No more than he has now. A man in his underwear somehow isn’t as brave. Besides,” and he tested the air with a wet finger, “it’s going to be a lovely day. He could use a bit of sun. He’s a little pale.”

  The general displayed a weariness, or perhaps it was resignation. Something about captivity can alter the features of even the strongest person. His jaw no longer jutted out. His eyes no longer played the game of trying to hold Cobb’s. There was no chance of escaping. It was evident that they wanted to keep him alive now that they’d gotten him this far. For the most part, Keradin would have preferred death now that the chance of escape was so slim.

  Keradin peered down at the shackle on his ankle, studying the three feet of chain. “I see you are most thorough,” he addressed Cobb. His mouth was a thin line. “May I now have some clothes?”