Somehow, the Spetsnaz seemed to thrive under the hostile, alien conditions. The danger, cold, and deprivation just seemed to bring a gleefully unholy look to their eyes. Nothing bothered them, not even the small section of ice cave crumbling in on them last night, almost landing on Rogov. He’d cried out, he remembered, when the first slabs of ice had hit his sleeping bag. The disdain in the other men’s eyes had been evident.
Off on the horizon, the thin traces of color were already deepening, evidence of the approaching dark. A flicker of movement caught his eye. He squinted. Had he seen something or was it just — no, there it was again, barely visible against the gloom.
He raised the radio to his lips, then paused. If it were a military aircraft, he ran the risk of its detecting the radio transmission. Better to be safe, he decided, and tucked the radio back into the oversize pocket on his parka. He turned and moved quickly toward the entrance to the ice cave.
The Spetsnaz were assembled and standing together as he entered the cavern. That was another spooky thing about them — their instantaneous reaction to any change in their surroundings. Between the time the first icy draft from outside had penetrated the cave and the time that Rogov had stepped across the threshold, they’d all piled out of their sleeping bags and grabbed their weapons. Now, looking at them, he could not tell that seconds earlier they had all been asleep.
“An aircraft,” he said. “The radio — it occurs to me that maintaining tactical communications with it is a dangerous idea.”
The Spetsnaz commander nodded. “As we discussed. However, I recall you were not quite so ready to listen to that suggestion earlier.”
“Assemble your team,” Rogov ordered unnecessarily, ignoring the intended rebuke. “I do not like the thought that the aircraft is headed directly for us.”
The Spetsnaz commander spread his hands out, palms up, as if to say, what preparations? Clearly, the men around him were already ready for action.
“Then take your posts,” Rogov snapped, annoyed — and, he admitted to himself, the tiniest bit afraid — that they’d readied themselves so quickly. But then, that was to be expected, wasn’t it? These were, after all, the finest unconventional warfare experts in the world.
The men slipped out of the ice cave quietly, each one heading directly for a previously scouted position. They would be, Rogov knew, even now snuggling down into the concealment they had either discovered or created. The odds of their being detected by the overflying aircraft were zero.
Almost zero, he corrected himself. He glanced over at the Spetsnaz commander, who was waiting.
“You will take the Stinger,” Rogov ordered. The Spetsnaz commander’s smile deepened.
1615 Local
Pathfinder 731
“You see anything?” the pilot asked.
The copilot shook his head in the negative. “Not a damned thing except ice and water. Too damned much of both.”
Toggling on the ICS switch, the pilot said, “You happy now?”
Eel glanced over at the technician, who shook his head wordlessly. “We’re not detecting anything,” Eel admitted reluctantly. “One more circuit, just to make sure. Then we’ll head home.”
“That’s all it will be, then,” the pilot said. “Flying this low — I’m not doing anything that gets me below a real healthy reserve on fuel. Not over this water.”
“Understood. If someone’s down there, they ain’t talking now.”
As the aircraft started its final circuit over the island, cruising at barely three thousand feet above the land and water, Eel stared out the small side window at the rugged, desolate terrain, wondering what it was that made him so uneasy.
1620 Local
Aflu
From his concealed position in the scree located at the base of the cliff, Rogov watched the black speck grow larger. Within minutes, he could distinguish the stubby-nosed profile of a P-3 Orion.
He nudged the Spetsnaz commander at his side, who looked over at him, annoyed. “You see?” Rogov pointed out. “Had we used the radios, they could have undoubtedly triangulated on our position.”
The Spetsnaz commander shrugged. “That will not make any difference in a few moments.” He shrugged himself up off the ground and raised the Stinger missile tube to his shoulder.
1625 Local
Pathfinder 731
“Look! Over to the right!”
Eel moved over to a starboard window, trying to see what had excited the two pilots.
“I saw movement — I know I did,” the copilot’s excited voice said. “Just near the base of that cliff. In the rubble.”
Eel brought the binoculars up to his eyes and trained them on the area. Nothing, nothing, nothing — wait. He tweaked the binoculars into sharper focus. Against the shades of white and gray that made up the arctic landscape, an odd shadow protruded at an awkward angle. He looked at the ice above it, trying to decide what escarpment would cast such a — damn it!
He snatched up the nearest microphone and shouted, “Get us the hell out of here! There’s someone with a Stinger missile down there.”
“How can you be so sure?” the copilot’s surly voice came over the circuit.
Eel felt the P-3 jerk sharply upward as the pilot ignored his fellow aviator’s question. The pilot had been around long enough to know that if the TACCO wanted the aircraft out of the area, it was better to just do it and ask questions later. Explanations took time, and sometimes a few seconds made the difference between life and death.
“Altitude, now!” Eel insisted. “Just shut the fuck up and-“
The black cylinder nestled among the chunks of ice moved, shortening in length as the deadly firing end pointed directly at them. He stared at it with horrified fascination. The heat-seeking warhead carried enough explosive power to knock the wing off a P-3, or to seriously damage an engine. Even if the aircraft managed to stay airborne, what might be a minor mechanical problem or minor battle damage in these climates could soon turn deadly. He stared at the missile launcher, trying not to think of the barely liquid water beneath them. If they went in — no, he couldn’t think about that. They were as good as dead if they had to ditch the aircraft. In these waters, they wouldn’t even stay conscious long enough to escape the sinking airplane. They would be unconscious and drowning before they could reach the hatch.
“Flares!” he shouted. “Flares, chaff, and altitude — now,” he ordered.
The angle on the deck steepened as the P-3 fought for altitude. The range on the Stinger missile was only three miles. Three miles, and Pathfinder 731 was well within those parameters.
1628 Local
Aflu
“He’s seen us!” The Spetsnaz commander stood, hefting the missile easily on his shoulder. “No other choice, now.”
“Stop it!” Rogov struggled to his feet, wondering when the ability to move so quickly had left him. “Didn’t you see the tail markings? That’s an American aircraft.” He put one hand on the rugged missile barrel.
“So?” The Spetsnaz commander bore-sighted the aircraft, trapping its tail end easily in the cross-hairs of the simple scope. “If she gets a report back to her base, our mission is blown.”
“No! If you shoot down that aircraft, there’s no chance. Do you think the Americans would let that go unavenged?”
The Spetsnaz commander shrugged, barely moving the missile off its target. “It is already compromised beyond recovery if they’ve seen us. You failed to follow my advice in this matter.”
“You agreed with posting the sentries. You insisted on it,” Rogov shouted.
“Yes, but I also said that they should return to the cave if contact were gained. You ignored that. No, this is all your fault.”
Rogov saw the man’s finger curl around the firing trigger as he braced himself for the recoil. “No!” he shouted. As the Spetsnaz’s finger tightened, Rogov slammed his fist down on the top of the tube.
The Spetsnaz commander was quick, but not as quick as the missile.
As the tube started its downward arc, the missile left out, quickly gaining speed. Before it could recover from its initial firing vector, and begin seeking out the heat source that had called to it so sweetly just moments before, it impacted the barren ice and snow below. The fireball explosion blasted both men.
“You fool!” The Spetsnaz commander tossed the empty tube away, murder in his eyes. “The rest of the missiles are in the cavern. There is no time-” His voice broke off suddenly as he saw the pistol in Rogov’s hand.
“There are many chances, Comrade,” Rogov said sarcastically. “You had yours — now, I’m afraid, we’ll have to do things my way.”
The Spetsnaz commander moved swiftly, almost blurring in Rogov’s vision. But he’d been prepared for that. At the first movement, he fired, aiming not for the head but taking the more certain gut shot.
The Spetsnaz commander howled as the 9mm bullet gouged out a bloody path through skin, muscle, and vital organs. The impact spun him around, and he finally fell to the ice, on his back, leaving a trail of spattered blood behind him.
His guts steamed, and blood pooled quickly over the parka, freezing almost immediately. Rogov watched the color drain from the man’s face. He was tough, he would give him that. The Spetsnaz commander, even with half of his midsection in shredded tatters, was trying to climb to his feet, reaching for his weapon, still fighting despite the soon-to-be-fatal shot.
Rogov watched him, unwilling to get too near the man while even a trace of life remained in the body. He saw the man fumble in his pocket for his pistol, and ventured close enough to him to kick his hand away.
Rogov crouched down in the snow, still well out of reach of the Spetsnaz, and aimed the pistol at the man’s temple. “You don’t understand everything — not at all,” he said softly, pitching his voice low. He glanced around him briefly, wondering if the other men had heard the shot. Probably not with the silencer still affixed, although there was no telling how long it would be effective in this climate. Even now, he suspected, the cold had frozen the extended cylinder permanently to the barrel.
“They will kill you for this,” the Spetsnaz managed to gasp. “Kill you.”
Rogov smiled. “Did you really believe that was our mission?” he asked. Rogov shook his head. “And I was worried about you,” he admitted.
He could see the Spetsnaz commander’s face turning pale as blood flowed away from the brain, struggling to replace the frozen, pulsing mass in the man’s midsection. “Since you’re dead, I’ll tell you,” Rogov said. “In memory of your bravery, however foolhardy. There are no missiles on the way, Comrade Spetsnaz. None at all. There never have been, there never will be. Do you really think that we would be so foolish as to provoke an international incident by planting our own guns and missiles on American soil?” He shook his head again, wondering about the inflexible military mentality that made such lies plausible to men like this. “No, it is a much deeper plan than that,” he finished.
The Spetsnaz commander gave one final gasp, and then grew still. Within moments, Rogov could see ice starting to rim the delicate tissues exposed to the elements.
Now what? he wondered. This possibility had been discussed, that he would have to eliminate one or more of the Spetsnaz commandos. It had seemed a far easier — and safer — plan back in Russia, but now the difficulties seemed to have increased logarithmically. If it had been anyone except the commander, he thought, and shook his head again. No, this is the way it would have to be. Tension between the men had already been running too high. With the commander eliminated, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance the rest of the men would obey him unquestioningly, yielding with that peculiarly Slavic resignation to authority. And perhaps this would increase his stature within the group.
He debated for a moment trying to hide the body, and then decided against it. The Spetsnaz would, he was certain, send out patrols to try to locate the missing commando. Better that they know where it was now, and that Rogov admitted responsibility.
He stood and watched the speck that was the P-3 Orion dwindle in the distance. Now it was time for the next phase of the plan to unfold. He trudged down the slope to the cavern to await his new subordinates.
1640 Local
Pathfinder 731
“Jesus, did you see that?” Eel yelped.
“You betcha.” The pilot’s voice was grim, “And I don’t care what Intelligence says, there damn well is somebody down there. Radio emissions, ghost contacts — hell, it’s entirely different when somebody starts shooting missiles at YOU.”
“Better lucky than good,” Eel said automatically. He stared back aft at the frozen landscape fading in the distance behind them.
Had they been lucky? one part of his mind wondered. They had to be — what else could explain the missile impacting with the ground instead of clawing up the ass of the Orion? A misfire, perhaps? Or something wrong with the guidance system on the Stinger? He shook his head, wondering at the possibilities. The Stinger was among the most simple weapons to operate, a feature that made it popular with every insurgent nation around the world. Simple, easily transportable, and almost unbearably deadly. It had been the advent of Stinger missiles on the ground in Afghanistan that had driven back the potent Soviet air force, and forced the Russians to a virtual defeat there.
As the adrenaline started to fade away, he felt his hands quiver. One Stinger missile versus one P-3 Orion aircraft — no contest, he decided. A Stinger would do fatal damage to the aircraft too quickly, and the lumbering Orion had too few tricks up its sleeves to evade it. The flares might have worked, but at that point, Eel was unwilling to bet his life on it. And glad he hadn’t been required to.
“You mind giving me a fly-to point for home?” the pilot said harshly. “I think there are some folks on the ground who are going to be mighty interested in talking to us.”
Eel returned to his console, automatically running the configuration of speeds and distance vectors necessary to take them back to their home base in Adak. That done, he punched in the communications circuit of their home base and began trying to raise the operations officer. After a few seconds, he broke off, and called up the USS Thomas Jefferson, asking them to come up on the same circuit. He had a feeling that the carrier battle group to the south would be at least as interested, if not more so, in what he had to tell his boss.
1658 Local
East Side, Aflu
White Wolf crouched behind the ice and rock, hugging up close to it. He felt the vibrations from the explosion radiate through his bearskin parka, felt the intricate crystalline structure of ice and rock tremble beneath his sensitive fingers. Some small part of him reached out to the surrounding cliffs and rocks, searching for any sign of instability. Long experience with avalanches and earthquakes had bred into the native Inuit population an uncanny ability to sense the movement of the earth around them.
White Wolf glanced at his grandson, Morning Eagle. While the younger man had less time treading the frozen tundra of their homeland, four years of service in the United States Army Special Forces had brought his earth skills up to par with his grandfather’s.
Their eyes met, and agreement passed between them. No, there was no immediate danger — at least not from this explosion. The earth around them would stay secure and stable, but neither was certain that the same could be said for the people crawling around Mother Earth’s surface. White Wolf made a small motion with his hand, barely a movement. The other man nodded. They moved out silently, wraiths against the barren arctic landscape. Forty paces down the path, a bare trail that no one except an Inuit could have spotted, White Wolf paused. Morning Eagle stopped five paces behind him, far enough away that they would not both be immediately caught up in any break in the thin crust of ice ahead. Then the younger man heard it, too.
They moved to the edge of the path, climbed two small shelves, and peered down at the campsite below them. The sharp glare of light was almost painful to their eyes, accustomed as they were to the gent
le days and long nights of the arctic winter. Fire ringed a crater in the ice, the center of which was burning a hellish red-gold in the midst of the blackened, crusted circle.
White Wolf pointed at the men assembled below. Four of them — five counting the dead body they’d seen further down the trail.
After watching the intruders for ten minutes, the Inuits slipped silently away, back to the other side of their island and to their boat. The noise of the outboard motors couldn’t be avoided, but they decided that the safety distance from the island would bring was worth the risk. Even so, White Wolf surmised, the white men arguing on the ice on the other side of the small island would probably not even understand what had happened. But the Inuits did — oh, yes, they certainly understood this latest skirmish in the ongoing battle between two giant nations laying claim to the Inuit territory.
And, given half a chance, the Inuits would have a say in their own destiny. That they would.
CHAPTER 6
Wednesday, 28 December
0800 Local
Adak
Tombstone Magruder held the radio receiver away from his ear. The voice screaming on the other end of the encrypted circuit was clearly audible to everyone in the room. He watched his chief of staff frown, his junior officers struggle to maintain their composure.
Finally, when the voice paused for breath, Tombstone put the receiver back to his mouth. “Yes, Admiral,” he said mildly. “I understand your position. But I’m not certain that there’s anything-” Tombstone stopped talking as the voice on the other end of the speaker resumed its tirade.
Finally, when he’d had enough, Tombstone interrupted. “I appreciate your call, Admiral Carmichael, but I’m a bit confused by your orders. The last time I studied our chain of command structure, ALASKCOM reported to commander, Pacific Fleet, not to Third Fleet. I called to discuss your tactical situation in my geographic area, not give you rudder order. Perhaps I didn’t make that clear.” This time, he kept the receiver at his ear, sacrificing the safety of his eardrums for a little privacy. He waved his hand dismissively at his staff as he listened to the tirade resume.
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