Arctic Fire c-9

by Keith Douglass

  Rogov wedged one heavily gloved hand into a crack in the ice and leaned forward against the belaying line. Perched near the top of a cliff, hidden from below by the jagged spikes, his position was somewhat precarious. The wind gusted harder at this altitude, and the surface of the ice was smooth, offering few footholds. Without the rappelling team, they could not have made it up to this site.

  Yet, for all the difficulty in reaching it, it was perfect. He had a clear field of vision of the area below, including the prospective weapons station. Abandoning the ice cave as soon as they heard the boat approach, the Spetsnaz and Rogov had quickly availed themselves of their prearranged routes to the peaks. From their vantage points they saw the boat approach, do a careful survey of the western end of the island, and then moor to the far end. While the two teams had been difficult to see against the landscape, the night vision goggles made the job easier.

  Rogov glanced up at the sky again, his heart swelling with pride. Arrayed against the overcast, all forty chutes had opened perfectly, and the men they carried were now drifting down to the ground. As their altitude decreased, their rate of descent began to seem impossibly fast. From this angle, it seemed inevitable that at least half of them would suffer broken legs or ankles upon landing.

  Yet he’d watched them execute this similar maneuver many times before, always without casualties, and always precisely on time and on target.

  He shifted his gaze back down to the Americans. At the first sound of the transport aircraft, they’d ceased all movement, making them a bit more difficult to spot, but he could still ascertain their location. He wondered what they were thinking, staring up at the parachutes. He saw one man look up, a break in patrol routine, flashing his tanned face against the white background and now easily visible. No matter, he thought. The men descending from the heavens had their ways of dealing with Americans. Oh, yes, indeed they did.

  Sikes saw the first man touch down fifty yards away from him. He tightened his hand on his weapon and brought it up slowly, careful to make no sudden movements that might startle the other man into firing. He watched as the unidentified parachuter snapped his quick-release harness, the wind quickly catching the gusting folds of the parachute and blowing it away. In the same motion, the man brought the weapon he’d been carrying at port arms up, aiming it at Sikes.

  For a few moments, it was a Mexican standoff, each of them drawing down on the other with their weapons. Then, as ten more parachuters alighted behind them, the first man fired.

  Sikes hit the deck the second he saw the man tighten his finger around the trigger, some instinct warning him he was in mortal danger. He brought his own weapon up and squeezed off a shot. He saw the first parachuter leap backward as though shoved in the middle of his chest with a heavy hand, and a bright red stain blossomed on his chest. Gunfire exploded around him, the rounds, every fifth one a tracer, exploding the ice into shards around him. The ricochets sang wildly with a distinctive high-pitched squeal as rounds left the ice at acute angles. He saw the SEAL beside him drop to the ground, falling face forward into the rough ice and blowing snow. The swirling particles partially hid the body.

  Sikes returned fire, stopping only when the other side did. The odds were impossible, yet he’d be damned if he’d give up without a fight. As the gunfire from the other side ceased, he dropped to one knee, still holding his weapon at the ready. Not taking his eyes off the parachuters, he rolled his teammate over onto his back. He groaned.

  Half of the man’s face was missing, the bloody, seeping mass that had been its lower right quadrant already freezing in the arctic air. He’d taken another round in the gut, and on its way out, the round had evidently hit bone and ricocheted out the side of the man’s body, blowing a massive, gaping wound in his right side. Irrelevantly, he noted the layers of clothing now exposed by the wound, layer upon layer carefully designed and donned to allow survival in this environment. For some reason, that struck him as particularly poignant.

  He turned back toward the parachuters, rage fueling his movements. While he’d examined his friend, they’d moved imperceptibly closer, and he was now ringed by silent white shapes carrying arctic-prepped weapons. He snarled, hating to bow to the inevitable. A SEAL fought, and fought always, but there was nothing in their code of conduct that demanded suicide. For a brief moment, he wondered if he could somehow provoke them into firing and shooting each other, since their fields of fire were not limited by their formation, but decided against it. Slowly, he stood. He faced the man closest to him, and dropped his weapon to the ground.

  In the distance, he could see the two members of the other team moving now, heading back toward the boat. Somehow, they’d managed to avoid the attention of the parachuters.

  While the lead man fixed his gun on Sikes, he heard another man bark out rough commands. The group of parachuters quickly shed their gear and assembled themselves into five-man teams, looking very much like American SEALs in the way they moved and held themselves. He felt the chill bite deeper, wondering if these were the famous Spetsnaz he’d heard of so many times before but encountered only once.

  He saw the men deploy in a standard search pattern. Off in the distance, his teammates were just reaching the boat. He heard a man cry out, and saw several start to run toward the boat, struggling to make headway against the wind in their heavy winter garments. The lead pair of parachuters stopped and raised their weapons. Gunfire cracked out again, oddly muted by the wind.

  He saw his men reach the boat and leap into it, one step behind the lookout, who was already gunning the engine. The boat backed out, gaining speed at an incredible rate. As soon as it was clear of the land, it heeled sharply and pointed, bow out, to sea, quickly accelerating to its maximum speed of eighty knots. He breathed a sigh of relief and glanced down at his teammate. One dead, one captured, three alive. At least, if the boat could evade gunfire, the report would make it back to the carrier. As he stared at the grim face of the man approaching him, he realized that that was more than he could expect to do.

  White Wolf stared at the action below, motionless, not even flinching at the harsh, chattering whine of the automatic weapon fire. Born and bred to this land, familiar with every nuance of its territory, he was truly invisible to the Spetsnaz infesting his terrain. He made a small motion to his grandson, who approached and put his ear close to the old man’s mouth.

  “See the mistakes they make?” the elder said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. “The positioning, the noise — they know nothing of this land.”

  The younger man swallowed nervously. “We are so close,” he said in the same barely audible tones. “Your safety is important.”

  The old man made a small movement with his mouth. “If I cannot evade these men, then it is time for me to die,” he said. “These things — you see how difficult it will be for the Americans when they come. These intruders are already scattered about our land, and dislodging them without killing the man they’ve taken will be impossible.”

  “Better them than us,” the younger man said harshly. “And what exactly have they given us? Taken our land, given diseases to our people — why should we help the Americans?”

  The old man gazed at him levelly, his eyes cold and proud. “My word.”

  The younger man sighed. “Yes, yes, there is that.” He glanced back down at the land below, moving his head slowly so as to be undetectable. “What can we do? So many of them.”

  “And so inexperienced,” the older man murmured. “They have many lessons left to learn — and this one will not be pleasant.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Thursday, 29 December

  1800 Local

  Tomcat 201

  “A fucking invasion,” Bird Dog breathed. “Oh, deep holy shit, Gator.”

  “Don’t get happy with the weapons yet,” Gator said tightly. “Mother’s having a fit on the other end. A MiG they know what to do with. Same thing with a Bear. But an amphibious landing — or an airborne one — is a little
outside of our marching orders. The admiral’s on the circuit, yelling that if we so much as twitch wrong we could start an international incident.”

  “Like the Russians haven’t?” Bird Dog asked. “Putting paratroopers on American soil seems to be a hell of an unneighborly thing to do. Not to mention shooting at our P3 aircraft.”

  The Tomcat was circling at seven thousand feet, monitoring the progress of the paratroopers down to the ice. They blended quickly with the landscape, and were invisible after they landed to the aircraft above.

  “Hell, I wish we had some Rockeyes,” Bird Dog said, referring to the ground munitions missile that carried a payload of tiny bomblets that exploded on the ground. They were the weapons of choice for use against enemy troops.

  “You think you’re gonna get permission to drop bombs on U.S. soil?” Gator demanded. “Think, man, think! For once in your life, just consider the consequences.”

  “We drop bombs on American soil at the range,” Bird Dog argued. “What, you want us to sit up here and watch these bastards invade?”

  “And just who the hell are they, do you think?” Gator snapped. “What insignia did you see on that aircraft they jumped out of?”

  “You know who they are.”

  “When are you going to understand that your gut-level instinct isn’t enough, not in today’s world, Bird Dog. You’ve got no proof that that was a Russian aircraft — nothing at all. No transponder, no aircraft insignia, no Russian being spoken on International Air Distress — IAD. Just how do you think we’re going to look?”

  “They shot at our aircraft. What more do you want?” Bird Dog exploded. “Am I the only one in this battle group that’s getting tired of every terrorist in the world taking a shot at American troops?”

  Gator’s voice turned colder than Bird Dog had ever heard it before. “If you can’t get it through your thick skull that we follow orders first, then you’d best find some other way to make a living. This isn’t about barrel rolls and Immelmanns, you asshole. This is about a very nasty situation and a world the rest of the country thinks is at peace. Hold it-” he said suddenly. “Mother’s talking.”

  Bird Dog leaned forward against his ejection harness, feeling the straps cut into his shoulders. The pain gave him the feeling that he was doing something, which he desperately needed right now. The sight of invaders tromping across American soil — American soil, even if it was ice and frost and rime — touched some fundamental core of his being. It was one thing to watch the Chinese invade the Spratlys, the Russians take on the Norwegians, or any one of a number of nations attack a neighbor, but this was different. Different for him, at least. Along with the cool iciness and pounding adrenaline he had come to expect in battle, he felt an outrage so strong as to border on rage. Invaders, tromping across American soil — the battle group had to do something.

  “Get a trail on that transport,” Gator said finally. “High and behind, in position for a shot. But weapons tight right now — unless it’s in self-defense, you don’t even think about touching the weapons switch. You got that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Bird Dog snapped. He jerked the Tomcat back, standing her on her tail and screaming up to altitude. Over the ICS, he heard Gator gasp, and then the harsh grunt of the M1 maneuver. Bird Dog’s face twisted. Served his RIO right if he felt a little uncomfortable. Who the hell was he, anyway, taking an amphibious landing so casually? What did he think this was, the Spratlys?

  “Cut this shit out,” Gator finally grunted.

  “Cut what out, shipmate?” Bird Dog snapped. “You told me to gain altitude — I gained altitude. And if you and the rest of the pussies on that carrier had any balls, you’d let me do something about this.”

  USS Jefferson

  Batman stared at the tactical symbol on the large screen display, watching the hostile contact turn north and head away from the Aleutian chain. “That fighter jock is sure about this?” he asked. “Who’s in Two-oh-one, anyway?”

  “Yes, Admiral, they sounded certain. It’s Gator and Bird Dog from VF95,” the TAO answered. He turned and gave the admiral a questioning look as he heard a sharp snort behind him.

  “Bird Dog,” Batman muttered. “I should’ve known. Anytime something starts happening, that youngster’s in the middle of it. Damnedest luck.”

  He looked up and saw Captain Craig’s face twitch. “You got something on your mind, COS?” Batman demanded.

  “No, Admiral,” the chief of staff said quietly. “You’re right, that young pilot does seem to be in the middle of every tactical situation he’s been near since he’s been in the Navy.” COS stopped and carefully assessed the man standing before him. “I was just thinking about someone else, that’s all.”

  Batman stared at him. “Why, you old fart. Are you saying-?”

  The chief of staff nodded.

  Batman stared at the COS for a second, then turned back to the screen. “Maybe I won’t court-martial his ass after all. TAO,” he said, raising his voice, “get those Alert-Five Tomcats in the air. And move four Hornets and four more Tomcats to Alert Five. I want asses and cockpits on the deck and metal in the air. Now.”

  The TAO nodded, and picked up the white phone to call the CDC TAO. His counterpart twenty frames down the passageway would automatically add tankers and SAR support to his revised flight schedule.

  Moments later, the full-throated growl of a Tomcat engine ramping up shook TFCC, which was located directly under the flight deck. Batman stared up at the overhead. “Damn, those bastards are getting faster every day.”

  1910 Local

  Kiska

  “How many of you are with me?” the old Inuit demanded. He gazed around at the circle of faces arrayed before him. To an outsider, the men would have seemed impassive, but he could read the subtle emotions as easily as he could distinguish between new-fallen snow and ice. He frowned. “There is a problem?”

  One of the older men stirred. “This mission — we are not young men anymore,” he began. He glanced around the circle, saw heads nodding in support.

  “Not all of us are old,” the elder argued.

  “This is your war,” a younger man piped up. “What have these men ever done for us? Let them kill themselves out there on the ice, for all I care.”

  “You forget your place,” the older man said softly. “You are here at our tolerance only — you have no say in these matters.”

  “The old ways.” The young man looked disgusted. “What have they gotten us?”

  “You forget who you are at a price,” the old man responded sharply. “If you have no honor, then you are nothing — do you understand, nothing. You would no longer exist to me.”

  “All this talk about honor is a fine thing, but what have the mainlanders done to our people?”

  “And you would rather live under the heels of these others? Have you not listened? Those men are Cossacks. Cossacks, I say.” He saw a stir of uncertainty ripple across the faces. “Don’t the stories mean anything to you?” he pressed.

  An uneasy silence fell over the group. Men avoided each other’s eyes. The women, standing in the back of the room, murmured quietly among themselves. Finally, the eldest woman spoke up. “Stories are kept safe for a reason,” she said quietly. “The things I know — the things my mother taught me, and her mother before her, and on and on, are true. Above all, we must not let these invaders stay on our soil.” Around her, the women moved closer in support.

  The elder whirled on the circle of men. “Even the women remember,” he said, disgusted. “And who would know better than they? Murder, rape, killing as the whim seizes them — this is what the Cossacks would bring to us.” He made a motion as if to spit on the floor. “And you complain about the mainlanders? Pah! You know nothing.”

  Finally, one elder spoke into the silence. “Better mainlanders than Cossacks,” he said, his conviction growing as he spoke. “Though it last happened centuries ago, that people has not changed. I would rather live with sickness and di
sease than under the Cossack hand. We should go.”

  The mood shifted in the room, as one by one the men nodded assent. The women looked even graver than they, knowing that many of them would be widowed or would lose a son in the weeks to come.

  “It is done, then.” He turned to a younger man. “Your army experience — it will come in handy now. Begin assembling all the weapons that we have here, including all of the portable communications systems. Hand-held radios, GPS — all here as soon as you can.”

  The younger man looked grim. “Be all that you can be,” he said finally. A tight smile crossed his face.

  2120 Local

  USS Jefferson

  “How many men?” Admiral Wayne asked again.

  The young SEAL petty officer looked haggard and drawn. “At least thirty, maybe more. Maybe forty, I don’t know for sure,” he said. His fatigue was evident in his voice.

  “Could you see whether your teammates were shot?” Lab Rat asked. He stared at the man before him, wondering at the combination of strength, training, and sheer courage that had brought the SEALs back alive.

  “I don’t know. We were too far away. I heard gunfire — a Kalishnikov, I’m certain of it. One burst from an M16, that’s all. I thought I saw a SEAL on the ground, but I couldn’t be sure.”

  Batman turned to Lab Rat. “I suggest you start talking to the other SEALS, Commander,” he said. “We’re going to have to get them out.”

  “Let me go, sir,” the SEAL they were interrogating said suddenly. A look of desperation crossed his face. “We don’t leave our men behind — never.”

  Batman regarded him carefully. “This mission isn’t going in the next five minutes, son,” he said quietly. “You let the commander finish up with you, then you hit the rack for a good solid twelve hours. After that, we’ll see what you and your shipmates look like. If you’re up to it, there’ll be a spot on the mission for you.”