The SH-60F helicopter approached the island slowly. Five miles out, the pilot executed a turn to the west and began a slow circuit around it. The weather had cleared sufficiently to enable the pilot, ATO — Airborne Tactical Officer — and SO — Sensor Operator — to see the bare outlines of the island, but not much more.
“How are we supposed to see anything from here?” the copilot grumbled. “The whole landscape is one white blur. They could have a battalion of troops there in winter gear and we’d never know it.”
“You fancy going in a little closer?” the pilot asked. “Weren’t you paying attention at the brief? They’ve got Stingers on that damned island.” He stopped talking and concentrated on maintaining level flight. Airflow over the land mass, probably from the rocky outcropping to the east, rocked the helicopter gently in the air. No cause for alarm, but after spending the last thirty minutes staring at the water below while it lapped at the frigid coast, he had no desire to let the normal develop into the unusual. Survival times were nil in the water, and land was too far away to reach if they had a problem.
“Well, let’s sneak in another two thousand yards,” the copilot suggested. “What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway?”
The pilot considered the request for a moment, then nodded. The range of a Stinger missile was no greater than two miles. Staying five miles away from the island provided an exceptional margin of safety, one that was tactically unnecessary. While he appreciated CAG’s concern, there was no point in burning fuel if they couldn’t bring back data.
“Just anything out of the ordinary,” the pilot answered. “Something too small for a fast mover like an S-3 to see. And I agree with you — hanging around out here, we’re not of any use. Just a little bit closer.”
“Fine with me. It’s damned cold out here, anyway. Maybe the pucker factor will warm me up some.”
The pilot smiled grimly. “Oh, it will do just that,” he said softly, remembering his days on patrol in Bosnia and the no-fly zone in Iran. Then, the mere hint of a Stinger missile was enough to raise the sweat level on any mission by a factor of ten. And rightfully so. “Let’s just keep a heads-up on this. The first indication of a launch will probably be visual. I fly the aircraft, you keep up the visual scan. Got it?”
The copilot nodded.
1435 Local
Aflu
“You hear that?” Sikes tapped out on White Wolf’s hand. “Helicopter.”
White Wolf tapped back the sign for interrogatory, and shot him a puzzled look.
Sikes closed his eyes and listened carefully. It was difficult to tell. The mass of ice surrounding the cavern was an effective sound-deadening barrier, but he thought he heard — yes, he was certain of it. He risked a slight nod, which White Wolf saw.
“U.S.?” White Wolf asked.
Sikes tipped his head slightly. It was, he was certain, a Seahawk. Barely audible, somewhere off in the distance, but he thought he could hear the distinctive whop-whop of the SAR helicopter at the edge of his perception.
But maybe not. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, an auditory hallucination born of desperate hope. He glanced around the ice cavern again. Ten armed Spetsnaz were scattered about the space, and another thirty were outside. He let his gaze rest on the leader of the group, the short, stocky man. For some reason, he didn’t appear to fit with the other ones. Not that something was wrong with him — he was clearly in command of this cadre — but there was something that set him apart. There was a difference — not military, he realized suddenly, that’s what it was. Though all the men were dressed alike, and possessed the same short haircut and broad features, there was something about their leader that was missing. Some difference in bearing, and the way that he spoke, that marked him as one whose life had not been shaped by the constant demands of doctrine.
Did it make a difference? He wasn’t certain. At this point, it was just another fact, another data point in the hostile environment around him.
“We have to get out,” he tapped quickly, feeling the determination run straight from his gut to his fingertips. As his fingers rested lightly on the old, wrinkled brown skin of the man next to him, he considered their odds. One man — no, two, he corrected himself — against the forty trained Special Forces men there. And their leader. He considered that fact again, wondering why it struck him as so important.
1430 Local
Seahawk 601
From fifteen hundred yards away, the island looked almost as featureless and impassive as it had from five miles. Except for a few additional contours and shadows in the cresting rocks, they might as well have stayed well outside of Stinger range. The pilot glanced at his companion. Their eyes met, and the copilot nodded. A grim smile spread across the face of the pilot. Whatever else he had to say about his copilot, it would never be that the man lacked balls. In that department, they were both light years ahead of their superiors.
The radio was squawking, as Jefferson demanded to know why the Seahawk was so close to the island. Every thirty seconds, the voice changed, as junior enlisted man was replaced by chief petty officer, and finally the tactical action officer. The next step, they both knew, would be someone on the admiral’s staff.
“Easier to ask forgiveness than permission,” the copilot said steadily. He reached over and flipped down the volume control on the radio.
The pilot brought the helicopter gently out of her orbit, turning her toward the island. Whatever there was to see would best be observed from directly overhead.
“They say the ‘Never Exceed’ speed on these babies is a hundred and eighty knots at sea level,” the copilot said musingly. “What do you think?”
The pilot shoved the throttles forward to full military power. “I think in about five minutes we’re going to try to break that record. And damned if I wouldn’t kill for some afterburners about now.”
1436 Local
Aflu
“Hey,” Sikes said loudly. “I need to go to the head — the can, the bathroom, whatever you guys call it.”
The Spetsnaz, now clustered around the entrance to the ice cave, ignored him. The door opened, and two more came in, and the sound of the helicopter reached Sikes plainly. His hopes rose. If he could just signal. “HEY!” he shouted. Finally, the man designated to serve as the interpreter walked over to him, annoyance plain on his face.
“Shut up.”
“I have to go to the head,” Sikes said, trying to work a pleading note into his voice. He crossed his legs, and crouched slightly. “Jesus, you guys have had us in here for hours. If I don’t get some relief soon, I’m gonna piss all over your floor. Just think what it would be like, trying to sleep in here with that smell. I don’t want that any more than you do. And it could get worse.” He stopped, wondering if the interpreter would know the word for diarrhea.
Disgust spread across the other man’s face. He studied Sikes carefully, then glanced down at White Wolf. “Him, too?” he said harshly.
White Wolf nodded.
The interpreter shot a frustrated look back toward the door, and then turned away abruptly. He walked over to the commander and said something too low for Sikes to understand. Finally, an unhappy look on his face, he came back over to them. “Later. As soon as-” his voice broke off as he glanced back at his superior.
“Okay, man,” Sikes said. “You asked for it.” He unzipped his parka, then reached for the zipper at the bottom of the front of his jumpsuit. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The commander, Sikes saw, was now staring at them. Sikes thought he saw surprise and dismay flick across the man’s face, then decided it might be as illusory as the first traces of the helicopter he heard. The commander snapped out a harsh, short sentence. Sikes recognized only the profanity.
“No,” the interpreter said hastily. “Putt that away.” He pointed at Sikes’s offending member. “We go outside,” he concluded, then followed with a short string of obscenities in Russian regarding Sikes’s ancestry and early toile
t training habits. Four Spetsnaz commandos came over and joined them, circling them.
An honor guard, Sikes thought, almost amused. For a brief second, he wondered if he would be able to take a leak with so many strangers watching. Back in his early days of BUDS training, he found to his surprise that he suffered a mild degree of bladder shyness. The old native rose to his feet, his joints creaking audibly as he unfolded. He stepped toward Sikes, barely brushing past the first commando.
The small entourage moved toward the door. Sikes could hear the noise of the helicopter fading away, indicating that it had already made its closest point of approach. A feeling of desperation flooded him, increasing the pressure on his bladder. If they left too soon — no, don’t think about it. He would just have to pray somebody was watching.
As they stepped back out into the frigid air, Sikes felt the blood drain away from his face. Cold, so cold — if the Spetsnaz had any sense, they would have taken his arctic gear from him immediately, he decided. Trying to survive for even five minutes outside in this would be impossible.
The interpreter shoved him, directing him over to the right of the entrance and behind a large rock. Even in the frigid air, Sikes could smell the distinctive odor of a latrine. With two guards on either side, he and the old native stepped toward the rock, then took aim at the icy formation. Yellow stains and spatters already marred its surface, evidence of their predecessors, and an answer to the question of whether or not warm urine would melt arctic ice. Clearly, it wouldn’t, freezing on contact instead.
Sikes tried to assume a nonchalant air as he prepared to pee. He gasped as he unzipped his jumpsuit and felt his balls shrivel up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw White Wolf give a wry grin. Evidently, the older man knew what to expect.
The noise of the helicopter suddenly changed pitch, reaching up toward the higher spectrum of its octave. Sikes glanced up with his eyes, careful to keep his head straight forward and focused on the business at hand. Up doppler, an indication that the helicopter had changed course and was now approaching them once again.
The Spetsnaz heard it, also. One of them motioned sharply to the interpreter, who barked, “No! Enough — back inside.” He grabbed Sikes by the shoulder and started to drag him toward the cave.
Sikes’s right arm curled around and behind the other man’s arm, coming up to brace his forearm under the interpreter’s elbow. Sikes lifted up sharply and felt the joint crack. The interpreter screamed and fell to his knees. As the sound of the helicopter deepened, obscuring every other noise in the area, he saw the Spetsnaz commander’s lips move, but couldn’t hear the order given. There were only a few seconds remaining. Desperately, he stared up at the helicopter, waved his hands, and then resorted to the only uniquely American gesture that came to mind.
As two Spetsnaz closed in on either side, weapons at the ready, Sikes raised one arm, his middle finger protruding from a clenched fist. If nothing else, at least they would know he was American. He was able to hold the gesture for only a few seconds. Suddenly, something hard crashed into the back of his skull. He blacked out immediately, and was unconscious before he hit the ice.
1437 Local
Seahawk 601
“Jesus,” the copilot said. He stared back at the figure, too astounded to feel the reflexive anger the gesture ordinarily invoked in him. “Hell, Brian,” he said, aware that his voice sounded distant. “One of them damned invaders just flipped me off.”
“What do you mean?” Brian replied, concentrating on maintaining safe altitude and level flight in the offshore burble of air. “You got the middle finger?”
“Yeah.” The copilot frowned, trying to remember his college days’ tour of Russia. “Only thing is, that gesture doesn’t mean the same thing in Russia that it does in the U.S. Now why would — oh, hell!”
“Get on the horn to Mother,” the pilot said, his voice hard. “Tell them that we just got a confirmation that our missing SEAL is alive.”
1506 Local
USS Jefferson
“We have to get him out of there,” Huerta said. The senior chief petty officer had no compunctions about standing up to anyone, including admirals, when it came to the safety of a fellow SEAL. “We don’t leave our people behind. Not ever.”
Batman rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily. How long had it been since he’d slept? “Of course we need to get him out,” he said, trying to concentrate. “Now that we know he’s alive.”
The old, grizzled SEAL shook his head. “Doesn’t matter to us either way, Admiral,” he said neutrally. “Dead or alive, we never leave a shipmate behind. Never.”
Batman looked up, saw the cold determination on the man’s face, and felt the beginning of hope. “Tough odds. According to all the reports, there’s thirty to fifty men on that island.”
“You might be better off just leaving the planning to us, Admiral,” the chief said, his demeanor defrosting slightly. “We’ve done this a time or two before.”
“But the odds?” Batman persisted.
The SEAL smiled coldly. “Who cares if they’re outnumbered?”
“You realize how stupid you were?” Batman glared at the two aviators.
The pilot met his stare defiantly. “We weren’t doing any good where we were. And at fifteen hundred yards, I’ve got time to get away from a Stinger.”
“But not at thirty yards. Which is exactly where you were, skimming over the surface of that island at ninety feet.” Batman pointed at the copilot. “And you, young man — even if your pilot doesn’t have any sense, have you forgotten that quickly what they taught you at OCS about obeying orders?”
The copilot blushed, glanced at his compadre, then faced forward. “No, Admiral,” he said softly, “I haven’t forgot at all. We spend a lot of time talking about getting the job done.”
Batman sighed. As much as he’d like to continue chewing them out for their foolishness, they both had a point. More importantly, they’d been right. And that made up for a hell of a lot of disobedience. If I try to discipline them, he thought ruefully, I’m liable to wake up surrounded by the SEALS. These two are heroes to them. He continued to glare at the two aviators.
Finally, as the tension built to unbearable levels he sighed. “You’re going to be pulling every Alert Five your squadron has for the next three months, you realize that?” He tossed the two aviators’ flight training folders on his desk. “And hell may freeze over before you ever get liberty.”
Both men nodded.
“And for your little role in this escapade, I think you’ve just volunteered for another mission,” Batman continued. “Seems like the information you brought back was important to a couple of fellows on this boat. To all of us, but to five others especially. You got any idea who that might be?”
“The SEALS?” the pilot asked.
Batman nodded. “Exactly. And they seem to think they can get in, grab their teammate, and get out. They have a little transportation problem, though. You men might be just the people to solve it for them.”
“Yes, sir,” the copilot said. He glanced at his pilot, suddenly aware that he’d usurped something that wasn’t his privilege.
The older aviator looked pale. “We’d be honored to fly them in, Admiral,” he said. “And out. If they’re anything like the man I saw on the ground, the outcome’s not in question.”
Batman fixed the aviator with a steely look, trying to hide the note of concern in his voice. “The outcome’s always in doubt, sir,” he said coldly. “And don’t you ever forget it.”
Senior Chief Huerta looked doubtfully at the two men. “You ever flown Special Forces before?” he demanded.
“Only once. About half an hour ago, when we found out your man was still alive,” the pilot retorted. “That good enough for you?”
“It will have to do.” The chief’s face softened slightly. “And don’t think we’re not damned grateful for that, too, sir.”
“You just make sure we get out in one piece,” the pilot sa
id. He bent over the plotting table and studied the chart before him. “What’s the plan?”
“A few details still to be worked out, sir,” the chief responded. He pointed to a flat spot near the entrance to the ice cavern the pilots had seen. “We figure we’ll want you to set down here. Our man may be injured.” He glanced up sharply. “You said there was someone else with him?”
The pilot nodded. “I couldn’t be certain, but it looked like two of them were prisoners, from the way the guards were herding them around.”
“Well, we might as well bring two out as one.”
“Chief, that does look a mite risky, setting down right in the middle of them, don’t you think?” the copilot said doubtfully. He looked up, and his eyes met the faded blue eyes of the chief.
“It would be, except they’re not gonna be there,” he said. He patted the copilot on the arm. “Don’t you worry, youngster, we’re a little bit smarter than that. Maybe in an armored helicopter we might come in closer, but as fragile as your bird is, we’ll need every advantage we can get. We’ve got a little diversion planned.”
“A diversion?” the pilot asked. “Like what?”
A lighter look lit the chief’s face. “Let’s just say we’ve got some allies we didn’t know about before,” he said carefully. “Up until now, they’ve been only voices on the radio. But one of the things we always try to do on a mission is to get indigenous forces to support us. Maybe not spearhead it — they’re usually not trained enough for that — but for something like a diversion, or harassing action, they’re damned fine.”
“Indigenous?” the copilot wondered. “But there’s nothing on that island — not apart from the intruders and your man.”
The chief traced one finger east along the Aleutian chain, touching several larger islands briefly. “Maybe not on that rock, but there are on other ones. This whole chain is almost an island nation. Inuit tribes live on most of the larger ones, and travel back and forth to the smaller ones as needed.” He reached across the table and pulled a brown folder toward him. “Did you guys get briefed on the native transmissions?”
Arctic Fire c-9 Page 18
