Their radios, weapons, and other gear had been apportioned to balance everyone out. Oliver was the heaviest, so he carried the least. Lee was the lightest which meant he had to carry more. Once on the ground the gear would be redistributed.
After the check was complete, and the men had fastened their helmets, specially trained Physiology Technicians (PTs) led them out to a C-130. Once inside the plane’s cargo bay it was time for everyone, crew included, to don oxygen masks for use above 13,000 feet.
The jump suit wasn’t made for sitting, but Falco did his best. A PT helped him strap in. Falco let his helmet rest on the bulkhead behind him and closed his eyes. He wasn’t scared—he was terrified. The HALO jump was bad enough. And the knowledge that he was going to land in Russian held territory boosted his fear index from 8 to 10.
Falco felt the plane lift off, and tried to think of something other than dying. Parker came to mind. There was something about her half smile … The slight lift at both corners of Parker’s mouth made it seem like she was perpetually amused. At what? Life? Him? Why was she single anyway?
A PT interrupted his thoughts. “We’re going on inline aircraft oxygen now.” Once the proper adjustments were made Falco could relax again. Oliver offered him a thumbs up and he returned it.
The distance between Anchorage and Big Diomede was 666 miles. Six-six-six. The number of the beast. And, since the C-130 was doing about 320 mph, the drop zone was roughly two hours away. Falco closed his eyes for the second time. And the drone of the engines helped put him to sleep. So when the voice spoke into his helmet it seemed as if less than a minute had passed. “We’re ten minutes out, Major … It’s time for the gear-up and pre-jump check.” He was alive! The C-130 was still in the air.
The “gear-up” involved connecting to his own oxygen supply, clipping a low-hanging front-pack to his harness, and checking to ensure that all the straps and hooks were properly secured. The jumpmaster held his arm out at shoulder height before bringing his palm up to touch his helmet. That meant “shuffle to the rear.” The ramp was down, and the darkness was waiting to swallow them up. Falco didn’t want to go. Nor did he want to remain behind as his team fell into the night. The light blinked green, and the jumpmaster yelled, “Go!” over their radios.
They waddled forward and fell. And fell some more. Falco felt the slipstream tug at his jumpsuit, as the rush of frigid air searched for a way to get in. His arms were back, and his legs were straight. Taken together they caused his body to pitch forward. An altimeter was strapped to Falco’s left wrist. But he put his trust in the main chute’s automatic activation device knowing the others would as well. And that would help to keep them together.
As Falco fell he saw flashes of light and knew that the incoming cruise missiles were striking their targets. That’ll keep the bastards busy , he thought.
Then came a powerful jerk as his chute opened and pulled him upwards. It was designed to glide for considerable distances, and would, so long as Falco did the right things. Making use of lights entailed some risk, but so did operating without them. A chute-to-chute collision could be disastrous—and there was the risk of getting separated as well. Falco kept it brief. “Lights.”
Two strobes appeared. Both were a safe distance away. “Confirmed. Form on me. ”
Falco glanced at his altimeter. Three thousand feet. Good.
Big Diomede was shaped like an oval, with high bluffs all around, and a mostly flat top. There were some low hills though … Two in particular. The team called them “Alpha” and “Beta.” Their target was Alpha.
Falco had an internally lit GPS on his right wrist. The controller used it to steer as he lost altitude. “Alpha is directly ahead. Get ready.”
The ground came up quickly, his boots hit, and Falco hurried to dump the air out from under his chute. It billowed before it collapsed. “Down.”
Oliver echoed the word, as did Lee. Falco couldn’t see a damned thing. He removed his helmet. Cold air stung his cheeks. He pulled a black balaclava on over his head, released the pack, and opened the flap. The high priority items were on top. Falco’s night vision rig being the most important. He pulled it on.
With his “eyes” on, Falco removed the compact Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun from the bag, and put a round into the chamber. The weapon was threaded for a suppressor—and equipped with a laser sight. Falco was ready to fight.
The next task was to grab a pair of thermal imaging binoculars and perform a slow 360. Had the team been able to land undetected? Or were Russian troops closing in? Falco felt a sense of relief. The immediate area was clear.
Now it was time to communicate. Oliver was on it. “This is Sinker-Two … We’re down. Zero contact. Over.” The message was encrypted, and too brief for the enemy to get a fix on.
The reply was equally short. “This is Redwood. Roger that. Out.”
“Okay, Lee,” Falco said. “We’re going to stick out like a sore thumb once the sun rises. Let’s dig in.”
A thick layer of permafrost made it impossible to dig a true fighting position. The best they could do was to scrape troughs out of the crusty ice, each pointing away from the others, to form a three pointed star. That meant each team member would be responsible for a 120-degree swath of the surrounding countryside.
After that it was a matter of taking a pee, erasing their footprints, and pulling artic camo netting over their positions. The well insulated jumpsuits would have been a liability somewhere else. But they were perfect for lying on a field of ice, and Falco felt thankful for his, as he checked the time. It was 0516 and the airborne assault was scheduled to begin at 0600. Were the Russians expecting one? Or did they view the cruise missile attack as a one-off?
No, Falco decided, the Russian CO couldn’t allow himself to make that kind of assumption. So, what was he doing to prepare?
Falco began a slow painstaking examination of the countryside in front of him. He was facing west, but he couldn’t see the buildings there, because they were hidden by the high bluff. He’d been able to study satellite imagery however, and knew that a new “port” had been constructed on that side of the island. That’s what a six-month old TASS story called it. And the U.S. Intel community hadn’t seen any reason to contradict the claim back then.
But now, after closer scrutiny, it was clear that the “port” was actually designed to anchor the east end of the floating bridge. So preparatory work had begun well before the “Heath incident” in the South China Sea.
As the sun rose higher the recently constructed “service road” was revealed. Falco could see where it surfaced on the plateau and ran west to east across the island’s midriff. Miniature mountains of rock and soil marked the road’s route as it passed south of the team’s position, and made its way to the “new research station” on the east side of the island.
Except the research station was actually intended to serve as the starting point for the short span that would connect Big Diomede with the American island of Little Diomede a few miles away. All of which made sense, from a Russian perspective anyway.
What didn’t make sense was the fact that Falco hadn’t seen any enemy troops yet. Where were the fire breathing Spetsnaz? The team was equipped with low power, encrypted radios for interpersonal use. Falco spoke into a BOOM mike. “I have zip over here … Have you seen anyone?”
“Nada.”
“Zilch.”
“Okay, radio it in. But keep scanning. This doesn’t feel right.”
“Don’t move,” Oliver said. “Drone at two o’clock north.”
Every fiber of Falco’s being wanted to turn and look. He didn’t. Thirty seconds passed. “Clear,” Oliver said. “I’ll call it in.”
He did. But then it was Lee’s turn. “Hold still … We have another drone to the south. Nine o’clock.”
Falco waited for Lee to give the all clear. He didn’t and the reason was obvious. Falco could hear the machine whirring directly overhead! “We’re busted,” Falco said, as he
rolled over onto his back. The device was small by military standards, but large enough to carry a camera, and held aloft by four rotating blades. “Call it in.” The MP7 produced a soft clacking sound as the green dot wobbled on the drone. The 4.6X30mm slugs tore it apart. Pieces of plastic rained down on them. “Holy shit,” Lee said. “You nailed a drone! That’s amazing.”
“He got lucky,” Oliver put in.
Falco’s attention was elsewhere. Would destroying the device bring the Russians down on them? Falco didn’t have time to worry about that as the steady drone of engines was heard, and a fleet of prop planes appeared. Falco spotted C-130s, Beech King Airs, a CASA C-212, and a menagerie of other civilian aircraft that Colonel Waya and his staff had pressed into service. Chutes blossomed as tiny figures poured out of them. The 4th Brigade Combat Team had arrived .
Falco felt a sense of jubilation. But the feeling was short lived. Eight Russian SU-34 fighters appeared out of the west and Falco watched in horror as the sleek planes fell on the defenseless transports. Missiles destroyed some, while guns tore the rest to shreds. It’s a trap , Falco concluded as a C-130 caught fire. They knew we would come, and they were waiting.
The transport wanted to nose over. But if the pilot allowed the plane to do that the parachutists wouldn’t be able to jump. So he or she was battling to keep the burning plane level as paratroopers spilled from the back. Then the transport exploded. A lump formed in Falco’s throat as pieces of flaming debris fell from the lead gray sky.
“Heads up,” Lee said. “There are at least six-zero bad guys coming our way … They’re boiling up around those mounds.”
Falco looked, saw the black dots hurrying his way, and something more as well … SAMs sleeted into the air as pop-up missile launchers appeared. A Beech King was replaced by an orange flash and a puff of black smoke.
Falco keyed his mike. “SAM launch! SAM launch!”
“Here comes the cavalry,” Oliver said, as four American fighters bored in from the east. Except that two of them were Russian MiG-21s! Falco thought of Parker. Was she flying one of them? Of course she was … The MiGs were notoriously difficult to control, had a limited range, and were equipped with outdated avionics. The fact that the brass had sent Parker out in a 21 demonstrated how desperate they were.
Still, the MiG pilots had one advantage, and that was surprise. Their Russian counterparts mistook the 21s for allies at first, failed to engage them, and paid the price. Two 34s were eliminated in a matter of seconds. One blew up, and the other corkscrewed into the strait. But Falco had his own job to do, and things were heating up. “Hey, Major,” Oliver said. “We’re going to be ass deep in Spetsnaz two minutes from now. ”
Falco swore. Oliver was correct … Russian troops were a thousand yards away, and closing. He’d been watching the air war—and his situational awareness had suffered as a result. Falco’s breath fogged the air as he spoke into the mike. “Any available aircraft, this is Wombat. Our position is about to be overrun! Requesting close air support. Enemy troops are a thousand yards west of our position and closing fast. We’re popping smoke.”
Oliver heard the comment and tossed a canister toward the Russians. Red smoke boiled up into the air.
“Wombat, this is Stripper and Slowboy inbound. We see your smoke.”
Falco turned to look. “Stripper, you are cleared hot.”
Help was on the way, but Falco knew it wouldn’t arrive quickly enough to solve all of their problems. Fortunately the Russians were concentrated on the team’s western flank.
Geysers of ice jumped into the air, as some of the enemy fired their AK-47s in an attempt to suppress fire, while the rest of them surged forward. One of the Russians fired a RPG and it landed just short of the American position. There was a flash of light, followed by a BOOM. A column of dirty ice shot up into the air—and Falco felt some of it land on him.
Falco knew the MP7s were worthless at the present range, and instructed the others to keep their heads down. “Save your ammo for when they get closer,” Falco said. “What have we got? Two grenades apiece? Throw them downhill on my order.”
It took a tremendous amount of self-discipline to withhold fire as Russians spread out and ran up the slope. But then, when they were about 50 feet away, Falco gave the order. “Grenades!” He threw his in quick succession, and opened fire once they were in the air.
Half the grenades exploded without doing significant damage, but Falco saw two enemy soldiers fall, as shrapnel cut them down. Then it was time to fire the MP7. The submachine gun’s high rate of fire was perfect for the situation. More Russians fell, and the rest were forced to hit the dirt. And that was when Parker’s voice came in over his headset. “Stripper is in with guns, Slowboy with bombs, from the east.”
As Falco went face down on the ice the MiG-21 came in from the east. It was fitted with twin Gryazev-Shipunov 23mm autocannons. And, when Parker fired them they plowed a bloody trench through the Russian ranks, leaving little more than chunks of raw meat behind.
Slowboy’s 500 pound gravity bomb was like an afterthought. It hit, took a bounce, and exploded over the soldiers in the rear. Those lucky enough to survive turned and ran.
Hundreds of American soldiers were on the ground by then, slugging it out with the Spetsnaz troopers who had been hidden underground. As a pair of F-15 Strike Eagles arrived overhead, the air war shifted in favor of the invaders. The controllers spent the next hour calling in strikes on troop concentrations, popup missile launchers, and the mortar tubes that seemed to materialize out of nowhere.
It took the rest of the day for Waya’s soldiers to hunt the surviving Russians down, fight their way into clusters of underground bunkers, and secure them. Then came the task of processing prisoners—and making preparations for what promised to be a cold night.
Some of the Americans could flake out in cleared bunkers. But there was the chance that the Russians would launch a nighttime counterattack. That meant Colonel Waya had to keep half his force up on the surface and ready to fight.
Having completed their mission, for the moment anyway, the JTACs went looking for a place to take refuge. The signals company took them in … And that meant they had a relatively cozy underground bunker to sleep in. The conveniences included some crudely constructed bunk beds, floors that consisted of wooden cargo pallets, and light bulbs that dangled from the ceiling. There were personal belongings too, including sleeping bags, uniforms, bottles of vodka, and a wealth of pornographic magazines.
After eating most of an MRE, and using gritty Russian soap to wash with, Falco chose a lower bunk. The mattress was thin. And when Falco looked up the photo of a Russian girl was looking down at him. She had a pretty face. Was her soldier dead? Or had he been taken prisoner?
Falco closed his eyes. There was so much pain in the world. Sleep found him … And so did the dreams. None of them made sense. And that was the way of things.
Chapter Eight
Chukchi Sea, 25 miles northwest of Wainright, Alaska, USA
C aptain Marvin Soto stood with his feet spread as the Coast Guard icebreaker Northern Dawn shouldered her way between two looming icebergs, and pushed them aside. The helmsman stood a few feet to Soto’s right with both hands on the chrome steering wheel. It was wrapped with white cord and looked very retro in an age when joysticks were used to steer large vessels. But even though the Dawn had been launched back in 1976, and refitted more than once, the old lady still retained some of her original elements. And Soto liked it that way.
He was looking out over a layer of so-called “steam fog,” which occurred when a layer of cold air slid in over warmer water. “Warmer” being a relative term where the Beaufort Sea was concerned.
Soto felt the Dawn shudder slightly as powerful engines drove the ship’s steel reinforced bow through a four-foot thick chunk of floating ice. The icebreaker could break through sheets of ice up to twenty-one feet thick if she was required to. But that won’t be necessary today , Soto mused. The skeptics
could say whatever they wanted to, but Soto had seen the ice pack shrink year-after-year, and he knew that global warming was to blame. Not that anyone was focused on that … They were too busy killing each other .
Thinking about the war caused Soto to shift his attention to what he thought of as “the abomination” mounted on the icebreaker’s bow. A wisp of fog was blown away to reveal the five inch MK-45 deck gun. The weapon had no place on a ship like the Northern Dawn to Soto’s way of thinking, but had been added a few weeks earlier nevertheless.
There had been a time when all icebreakers were armed. That was during and immediately after WWII. But things had changed since then. And by the time the Dawn put to sea in ’76 icebreakers were no longer viewed as warships. The Dawn’s purpose was to keep shipping channels open—and to serve as a platform for scientific research.
Now everything was turned on its head. The Dawn still had an obligation to keep shipping lanes open. But the icebreaker had been given a second and equally important mission … And that was to serve as a submarine tender for the navy’s nuclear powered ballistic missile submarines, at least two of which prowled artic waters at any given time. They, along with twelve sister subs, carried fifty percent of the country’s thermonuclear warheads.
The other components of the so-called “nuclear triad” included long range bombers and land-based intercontinental ballistic missiles. Taken together those capabilities served to prevent countries like China, Russia, and North Korea from launching preemptive strikes against the American homeland. But even though Soto understood the strategic importance of his ship’s new role he didn’t have to like it. Soto’s reverie was interrupted by the Dawn’s second officer, Lieutenant Linda Penny. “We’re coming up on Point Barrow, sir … Requesting permission to turn onto heading 70 degrees north.”
Penny was wearing a Coast Guard ball cap, and had her hair pulled back into a short pony tail. She was waiting for Soto to approve the change in course. He went over to take a look at the chart and the GPS. Not because he didn’t trust Penny, but because the check was SOP. Soto nodded. “That’s correct.”
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