Arctic Fire c-9

by Keith Douglass

  “Not a chance. Those men were depending on us.”

  He heard Gator sigh. “Well, I guess they were at that,” the RIO said finally. “How close do you think you got?” he continued, his professionalism overriding what must have been a terrifying ride for the backseater.

  “Pretty damned close, I think,” Bird Dog said. He felt a sudden surge of joy. “Damned close. In fact, it felt like it went spot-on.”

  “It’s not like we can fly over and do a BDA — A bomb damage assessment,” the RIO said. “But from what I could see from back here, it looked good to me, too. Let’s get back to the boat and wait for the weather to chill out.”

  “Bad choice of words,” Bird Dog responded. He put the Tomcat in a gentle curve, the motion seeming unusually cautious after the wild maneuver he’d just pulled off.

  “You icing?” Gator said anxiously.

  Bird Dog glanced at his instruments, then out the window at the wing. “Looks like a little — but not enough to hurt us, now that we’re out of the storm. The deicers will take care of it.”

  “You’re damned lucky you’ve got me back here, you know that?” Gator said.

  “Oh, really? Why is that?” Bird Dog answered, as he laid in a level course for the carrier.

  “Because any other backseater in his right mind would’ve filled his shorts about two minutes ago,” Gator said, amusement in his voice. “It’d serve you right, flying in a stinking cockpit for a couple of months. They never can get the smell out.”

  “I guess there’s always something to be grateful for,” Bird Dog answered. “Now, let’s just hope we did the job on the ground,” he continued, his voice suddenly sober.

  Aflu

  The Cossack commando barely had time to glance up as the Tomcat screamed in over the barren landscape, only fifty feet above him. He swore reflexively, and dived for the ground. The low, ominous rumble of the engines reverberated through his body. He buried his hands under his arms and waited.

  The initial blast tossed him two feet off the icy surface of the island; gravity slammed him back down hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He gasped, trying to breathe, and finally drew a deep, shuddering lungful of air.

  The noise hit him again first. He wondered for a moment whether the Tomcat had come around to make a second run on the cliffs. He looked up, trying to focus on the landscape in front of him.

  To his horrified eyes, it looked like a wave. Something he’d see in the warmer coast waters of the Black Sea, a phenomenon that belonged somewhere other than this desolate, forsaken island. The land curled slightly at the top, leaning over the rest of the cliff, increasing its similarity to an ocean breaker.

  The commando shouted, his words already lost in the massive cacophony of forty thousand tons of avalanche. Two seconds later, the massive wall of ice and snow cut off his words. Forever.

  1031 Local

  Aflu

  The ground played trampoline for almost three minutes before the violent motion subsided into a series of sharp jolts. At the same time, the wind dropped perceptibly, though the searing blindness of the whiteout remained. Huerta kept his eyes firmly shut, guarding delicate tissues with one hand over his face. The other flailed about him, searching for Morning Eagle.

  Finally, after a series of gentle rumbles no more than 4.0 on the Richter scale, Huerta took a chance and stood up. His feet swayed under him slightly, and he had to bend forward to keep his balance in the gusting winds. Still, at least he could move. He opened one eye cautiously. The whiteout was receding, and he could now see almost five feet in front of him.

  He scanned the landscape quickly. Crumpled against a rock, curled into a small ball, was Morning Eagle. The Chief SEAL walked over, dropped to his knees, and felt for a pulse. It pounded hard and strong under his fingers, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He checked the man for injuries quickly, a difficult process in the heavy winter parkas. Finally, satisfied that there was no life-threatening damage, the SEAL stood. He touched his pocket, felt the reassuring bulk of the hand-held radio. He held it out, toggled it on, and started walking over toward the rift that had been their aim point.

  He took two steps, and then stopped short and gasped. Despite his long experience with naval ordnance, the damage was astounding. The first forty feet of the cliff had sheared off, cascading down the side of the hill. They’d barely been far enough away to avoid being caught up in it. He glanced back at Morning Eagle, wondering if the man would ever realize how lucky they’d been. That was one damned fine pilot.

  He lifted the radio to his mouth. “Jefferson, SEAL Team One,” he said in the clear, hardly caring whether or not anyone else could hear them. “Request medical evacuation. Assessment of bomb damage follows — on target, on time. Out.”

  With that done, he crossed back to Morning Eagle and sat down beside him. Pulling his pistol out of his other pocket, he sat down to wait.

  1035 Local

  USS Jefferson

  The Combat Direction Center exploded in wild cheers and victory cries. The TAO stood up, glanced sternly around the spacious compartment, and tried to frown disapprovingly. However, he couldn’t repress the mad exultation coursing through his own body, and settled for a cursory wave of his hand.

  The chief sitting next to him took it in, his own rebel victory cry just dying on his lips. “Let’s let them celebrate now, sir,” the chief said. “You take your victories where you can get ‘em.”

  The TAO nodded and stared back at the large blue screen dominating the forward half of the room. The small symbol for friendly aircraft separated itself from the mass of land, and was tracking slowly back toward the aircraft carrier. “You take your victories where you can get ‘em,” he echoed softly, and picked up the mike. There was one aircrew that was going to be doing just that in a matter of seconds.

  1050 Local

  Aflu

  “Hang in there, buddy,” Huerta said softly. He patted Morning Eagle on the arm gently. In the last few minutes, the man’s breathing had gotten deeper and more stentorian. Although his pulse was still strong, Huerta was gravely worried about the condition of the young native. “They’ll be comin’ for us soon — you wait. We don’t ever leave our friends behind. Not ever.”

  Huerta stared at the horizon, now growing dark as the sun crept down below it, hoping that the SAR aircraft would make it out in time.

  CHAPTER 13

  Friday, 30 December

  1100 Local

  Aflu

  Rogov crept through the massive jumble of ice blocks, barely daring to breathe. The explosion had shaken him, much more than he anticipated. While it had seemed reasonable that the Americans might attempt something like this, the sheer magnitude of the avalanche and the deafening noise had shaken him.

  He heard voices, maybe thirty yards off. He ran his hands over himself one more time, checking to see that he was intact and that his identification had been removed. He took a deep breath, then another. While the loss of the twenty-eight Spetsnaz commandos clustered at the base of the cliff meant nothing to him personally, it presented some tactical problems. He’d counted on being able to pass more of them off as injured Inuits, at least enough to simultaneously take the bridge and Combat and the admiral’s quarters. He shook his head. The only predictable thing about unconventional warfare was that it was unpredictable. On a mission such as this, it was expected that he would adapt, overcome, and adjust to any changes in circumstances.

  He looked behind him, counting heads. Eight Spetsnaz were up and moving, a few of them shaking off minor injuries. He checked their faces, noting the look of cold resolve in each man’s eyes. He nodded. Commanding men such as these, he could do nothing less than his best.

  He gave the signal, and the Spetsnaz commandos dispersed, creeping ever closer to the small, abandoned group. When they were ten feet away, more or less, they arranged themselves on the ground. Rogov heard low moans start to issue, more inviting evidence of injured allies for the Americans. He rearranged
his face in an expression of pain, found a convenient ice spire to drape himself over, and moaned. In truth, there was not much pain he had to simulate, since the aerial bombardment had shaken him up badly, giving him a few additional bruises. He grimaced. All the better for realism. Injuries, but nothing so serious as to slow them down.

  He looked down at the old Inuit lying at his feet. Better to let him live for now, use him to support the deception. If he could keep the helo’s crew focused on the injured old man and his obviously Inuit features, they might miss any clues to the real identity of the rest of the supposed natives.

  But the SEAL? Where was he? Rogov scanned the landscape around him quickly, looking for his other prisoner, then made a rapid time-distance calculation. There wasn’t time to look for him, not and make the airlift quickly. Furthermore, the American SEAL would surely have given them away at the very first opportunity. A loose end, and one that he would have eliminated quickly if the man had been in sight.

  No time. Rogov shrugged. The hostile land would kill the man as quickly as a bullet, although he would have preferred the reassurance of the latter to the former.

  If they had the chance, the Americans would kill him for this, he knew. There would be no trial, no investigation, no complicated legal maneuverings. A quick death sentence, one that the SEAL’s teammates would impose the moment they knew what had happened.

  But then again, they wouldn’t be given that opportunity. Rogov had other plans immediately following his arrival on board USS Jefferson.

  1102 Local

  Tomcat 201

  “Tomcat Two-oh-one, say state,” the operations specialist on board Jefferson inquired anxiously.

  Bird Dog glanced down at the fuel indicator and swore quietly. Between the exhilaration of the attack and checking for icing on the wings, he’d forgotten the most basic safety in flight protocols. His fuel was now creeping dangerously low, his reserves sapped by the extended time at afterburners necessary to escape the target site.

  “Three point two,” he answered calmly. “Might be nice to get a drink before we try to get back on board.”

  “Roger,” the OS said, and gave the vector to the KA-6 tanker.

  “Got plenty of gas for one pass,” Gator said. “But I agree — no point in taking any chances.”

  Bird Dog laughed. “That’s not what you said five minutes ago,” he said, an injured tone in his voice.

  1110 Local

  USS Jefferson

  “Intercept with the tanker in two mikes,” the TAO reported to TFCC. “And the SAR helicopter is airborne now, en route to the island. Medical is standing by.”

  Tombstone settled into the elevated brown leatherette chair in TFCC and studied the screen carefully. Injuries — it was to be expected. But according to the SEAL team reports, there were enough uninjured men to attempt penetration of the intruder fortress. The avalanche had decimated the forces sufficiently to allow them to proceed, and they were on track to evacuate the wounded immediately, absolutely imperative in this climate. He shook his head, wondering why he had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Aside from the dare-devil maneuvers of the young Tomcat pilot — he almost smiled, remembering the stunts Bird Dog had pulled on their last cruise when Tombstone had been in command of the carrier group — things had gone pretty much as planned. Why, then, couldn’t he relax?

  “Too long out of the saddle,” he said out loud, to no one in particular.

  “Sir?” the TFCC TAO said, turning to look back at him.

  Tombstone flushed. “Nothing,” he muttered, swearing silently. What the hell was this, voicing the random concerns and thoughts that flitted through every commander’s mind? Had he been away from real operations for too long?

  “How long until the SAR helicopter arrives?” He asked to cover his embarrassment.

  “One minute, Admiral,” the TAO said crisply. “They should be back on board in five minutes.” The TAO glanced back at him curiously.

  “Very well.” Tombstone willed himself to sit still and concentrate on the screen. Whatever niggling concerns were in the back of his mind, no one else seemed to share them.

  1112 Local

  Tomcat 201

  “Got a visual,” Bird Dog said. He pulled back on the throttle, slowing the Tomcat to rendezvous speed. “A quick plug, a fast drink, and we’re out of here,” he said over tactical.

  “Gee, Bird Dog, you’re a cheap date,” the female copilot of the tanker quipped. “Might want to do something about that. I hear they’ve got all sorts of solutions for that sort of male problem these days.”

  Gator laughed, while Bird Dog fumbled for a smart-ass reply.

  1131 Local

  Aflu

  The helicopter hovered overhead, kicking up snow and ice in the downdraft of its powerful rotors. Huerta swore and motioned it up. The pilot complied, and the draft, only slightly less gusting than the whiteout storm, abated slightly. “You the guys who called for a ride home?” his radio crackled. “Where do you want the pickup, here or down on level ground?”

  Huerta glanced up at the helicopter, thinking it through. Of the ten men around him, all but Morning Eagle were moving around well enough to get down the slope, even with the clutter of debris that now covered it.

  “On the flat,” he decided. He motioned to the men and trotted over. “Let’s get him down there,” he said, pointing to Morning Eagle. The two men grunted something unintelligible and started fashioning a rough structure out of tent fragments and ski poles.

  Huerta spared a few moments to appraise their gear. Good solid stuff, he thought, one part of his mind coldly evaluating its tactical usefulness. Moments later, Morning Eagle was slung over the stretcher, strapped down by more torn fragments of tent. “Let’s go,” he ordered. He took point, leading the small band through a relatively flat part of the debris.

  Had he not been so shaken by the avalanche, focused on the mission ahead, and still suffering a few minor scrapes and bruises by the bombardment himself, Huerta might have stopped to wonder about the equipment he’d just seen. And if he had, he might have remembered that the Inuits who had made the journey over the seas with him had been carrying outdated Navy equipment, not modern combat gear. And that would have struck him as strange.

  1135 Local

  Tomcat 201

  “Easy, easy,” Gator cautioned.

  “I’m okay,” Bird Dog snapped. And he would be, in just a few minutes, if he could get his goddamned hands to quit shaking, his gut to stop twisting into a knot.

  Intellectually, he knew it was just the aftereffects of the adrenaline bleeding out of his system, but the feeling frightened him nonetheless. And made him angry — how he’d managed to navigate the aircraft through the near-impossible bombardment mission, only to fall apart during level flight.

  Not that tanking was that easy a task. Aside from a night landing on a carrier, it was one of the most dangerous and difficult evolutions a carrier pilot underwent. Approaching another aircraft from behind, slowly adjusting the airspeed until the two were perfectly matched, and then plugging the refueling probe of a Tomcat into the small, three-foot basket trailing out the end of a KA-6 tanker called for steady hands and a cool head. He couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now, not this close to another aircraft. Too many collisions took place just at this point.

  “Hold it!” Gator said sharply. “Bird Dog, back off and take a look again. You’re all over the sky, man.”

  Bird Dog swore softly. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he insisted.

  “You’re not.” Gator’s voice was firm. “Just ease off — let’s try this again.” Gator’s calm, professional tones couldn’t mask the real note of concern in his voice. “You’re a little heavy — all that ice hasn’t melted yet, and it’s affecting your flight characteristics, but it’s real doable — just take it slow, let me kick the heaters up another notch.”

  Bird Dog concentrated on the dancing basket in front of him. It was, he realized, not the basket
that was moving but his dancing Tomcat. He tried to quiet the tremor in his hands, the jerk in his right foot.

  “Think of something calm,” Gator’s voice soothed. “Man, you just blew the hell out of a lot of bad guys back there. Think about that.”

  Bird Dog concentrated, focusing on the moments immediately after he’d dropped the weapons. It had been a clear, cool feeling, one buoyed up with exhilaration and joy far beyond anything he’d experienced in the air before. Even shooting down his first MiG hadn’t come close to knowing he’d just done a hell of a job under impossible circumstances. He focused, letting the feeling come back, letting the raw sensation of power replace the tentativeness in his hands and legs.

  After a few moments, he took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, his voice now calm and strong. “I’ve got it.”

  After what he’d been through, plugging this little basket would be a piece of cake. He grinned, relishing the challenge, and slid the Tomcat smoothly forward. The refueling probe rammed home, jarring the aircraft slightly.

  “Good job,” Gator said softly. Not for the first time, he marveled at his pilot’s ability to focus, to compartmentalize and stay right in the moment. Whether Bird Dog knew it or not, Gator decided, he was one hell of a pilot.

  Not that Gator was going to tell him that. The RIO glanced down at his gauges and saw a solid lock and fuel flowing into the aircraft. “How much you going to take on?” he asked Bird Dog.

  “Six thousand pounds,” the pilot said, his hands and feet moving quickly to make the minor adjustments in airspeed and altitude to keep the aircraft firmly mated. “That gives us enough fuel for a couple of passes. If we need them.”

  And they would not, Gator decided, relaxing. The mood that Bird Dog was in, he might not even need the arresting wire to get on board.