by Stephen Makk
“The CIA will have people here, won’t they? What’s the problem?” Marjan frowned.
“Jurisdiction. The US and the European sides both want him, so it’s a bit of a standoff.” The girl thumbed the counter. “Eat your breakfast and get the hunk one too.”
After breakfast, Nils fixed Marjan with a gaze. He tried his best to ignore her dark deep eyes, her smiling lips. “You do this kind of thing all the time do you?”
“No,” she grinned. “Only when I’m lucky, clients are usually fat bankers or drug cartel gang lords.”
“I was a Radar Engineer and then this shit. And you, that’s the good part.” She looked at a couple getting up to pay. “I was a surfing girl, always on the beach, then it was the IDF and I got involved in some undercover work. It went on from there.”
Nils found all this a little hard to take. The only thing making all this real was the killings he’d seen on the streets of Allerod. Mossad and the Russian SVR: it was hard to take in. He’d been shocked; he admitted if it wasn’t for those events he’d have just run off and that would have been it. Except he knew it wouldn’t have been just it. Things would have got worse; they’d have come for him at work or just after.
A cell phone rang. The girl who called herself Boss answered. “Yes, factory vault 85G. Boss speaking. They have? I thought they’d be arguing for weeks.” She listened for a few minutes.
“So, it’s not really a solution, it’s a holding place?” She nodded and listened longer. “Right, we’ll be there today. I will.” She tapped the phone screen to off. “That was Tel Aviv, as I’m sure you guessed. Ok, we’re off. Get your bags and come on.”
“Where are we going?” asked Marjan.
Boss smiled. “NATO is still in a catfight. For the time being, he’ll be held in a secure location in European territory where the Russians can’t get their hands on him. What happens eventually…?” The Boss shrugged.
“So where are we going?” asked Marjan again.
“North. The far north. You two are going to Svalbard, or Spitsbergen as it was known. A Norwegian Arctic Island. Surprisingly in the Arctic Sea.”
“Svalbard, what the hell’s there?”
“Polar bears, seals, wolves and shit. There are substantial settlements there, and the Norwegian forces will be watching over you. We’ll go now to Gardermoen air station, an RNoAF base. From there you’ll be flown to Svalbard via Bardufoss RNoAF. Come on, it’s not far to the air station, we’ll get a taxi.”
At the air station gate, Boss showed her passport to the guard who picked up the phone.
“Wait here. Someone will be along to meet you.”
An officer turned up in a truck. “Hi, I’m Major Nyylin. Climb in.”
They headed for the main complex. They were offered food and taken to an equipment store.
“Here, get your cold-weather gear. What you’ve got on is no good,” said the Corporal in the store. There were allocated coats, trousers, boots, hats, snow goggles and thermal underwear. He placed skis, ski boots and snowshoes on the counter.
“You can change in there,” the officer pointed.
The three of them walked into a changing room.
“Where’s yours?” asked Marjan.
“I’m not coming with you,” said Boss. “I’m not stupid. I was told to keep an eye on you, so that’s what I’m doing.” She smiled, nodding towards Nils. “I’m looking forward to this.”
Nils felt self-conscious removing his clothes including his underwear in front of Marjan and Boss, but Marjan had to do the same, so he got on with it. He flicked a few glances her way as she stripped off. Not bad.
“Ok, now that you’re dressed, I think you two can go,” said Boss. “Not bad, Nils, you can bend me over any time. You’re a lucky cow, Marjan.”
Marjan and Nils were taken outside to a waiting Lockheed C-130J transport aircraft. Flakes of snow were thickening. It wasn’t exactly plush inside, but they picked two seats facing the opposite side of the aircraft and strapped in. Four Rolls Royce AE turboprops spooled up, and it rolled down the runway and climbed off towards the north.
The Arctic beckoned and Marjan shivered, but not from the cold.
At RNoAF Bardufoss, 16 Norwegian soldiers in Arctic whites got on, and they pulled a large low box on wheels up the ramp. All looked like Rambo or Schwarzenegger, with weapons dangling from them or carried in their arms. They nodded but kept to themselves.
As they rolled down the runway, Marjan shouted, “Who are you?”
One looked over and yelled, “Jegerkommando.”
He wasn’t talkative, so she sat back for the flight north.
They landed at Svalbard, and the ramp opened and a draft of cold air rushed in. Nils pulled his hood cord tighter.
They walked down the ramp into a grey, windswept, snow-covered land. Mountains were visible in the distance. A truck waited for them, and the soldiers loaded up the wheeled box, then Nils, Marjan and the troops got into the truck and they left the airstrip.
They stopped at a wooden house at the end of a row of similar houses. A soldier from the base showed Nils and Marjan to their house. It was a reasonable size, with two bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen. The furnishing was functional but tasteful.
The two of them were left alone and they unloaded the supplies they’d been given and explored the house.
There was a knock at the door, and Nils opened it. A soldier in full Arctic whites walked in, and Nils recognised him from the flight. Marjan walked into the room and shook the man’s hand.
“Sit, please,” said Nils.
The soldier sat in a chair and faced them on the couch.
“Hello, I’m Major Tandberg, Jegerkommando. We’re here to make sure you come to no harm; we’re staying in a dormitory close to here. We can bring whatever supplies you may need from the island store. We can take you there if you wish,” he said, looking at Marjan.
“The C130-J will be returning to Bardufoss for more equipment.”
“Are we under threat here?” she asked.
“Not that we know, but we must be ready for that. We’re bringing in a NASAMS 2 anti-aircraft missile system and its AN/MPQ-64 Sentinel radar. We’ll be close by, but we’ll have patrols out around the island constantly. We have more men due on the next flight.”
“Does that mean we’re confined to the house?” asked Nils.
“No, you can go out around the settlement or further away skiing. But you must let me know; I’ll have an escort with you at all times. You can get me on this.” He passed over a military-style walky-talky. “The channel’s already set. Press that button to speak. Your call sign is White Goose. I’m Osprey.” Major Tandberg stood. “That’s it for now. Enjoy your arctic vacation.” The Major left.
“Ok, let’s see about a coffee, Nils.”
She returned from the kitchen with two cups. “Are you happy with things?”
He took the cup from her. “I could do with a computer, online. Otherwise, I’ll go stir crazy.”
“You’ll have to speak with Osprey on that one. I think they will get you one, as long as you don’t try to contact the people in the forums.”
He nodded. “Yeah, that’s a given.”
“This looks like it could get to be a problem: the Jegerkommando, they’re worried about Russian company.” She frowned. “I’ll ask for a Tavor, but I doubt I’ll get one.”
He frowned. “What’s that?”
“An Israeli army assault rifle.” She shrugged. “What else would I need?” She sighed. “I suppose one of those HK416s they carry will do.”
Nils stood and looked out of the window. “It’s dark now; the light doesn’t last long.”
“It’s that time of year, Nils. It’s hardly light at all midday, dusk for an hour, and that’s it.”
“Not much to do tonight. There are some films in the rack. We’ll have sat or cable TV.”
“Nils?” She sat up. “How about we go out skiing tomorrow, explore the place?”
“Yeah, sounds ok by me. We’ll need to call the Major tomorrow.”
The two of them microwaved a meal, watched TV and then went to bed.
The following morning Nils fixed breakfast, while Marjan got the skiing equipment ready and called Osprey. They dressed in the warm weather gear, strapped on the LED lights and went outside, where two Jegerkommando were waiting.
“You lead the way,” one of them said. “We’ll stay 150 meters or so behind.”
They pushed off into the darkness, and the head-mounted lights illuminated the way. They started off by heading toward the main settlement.
The snow was best just off the road and Nils set up a loping gait; the cross-country skis swished one after the other. Nils looked up and it was just possible to see the tops of the snow-covered mountains.
They passed close to the runway. He looked over and there were two aircraft, an ATR two engine turboprop, probably seating around 50, thought Nils. He’d long been interested in aircraft, he’d taken lessons and almost got his licence, but his career had intervened. There was also an old-looking Piper PA 46 single engine aircraft, similar to the one he’d learned in.
They skiied on and were now close to the main settlement. Marjan skiied up to the store and went inside, and Nils followed her. She bought a few items, mostly bottles, creams and sprays for the bathroom. Nils hadn’t a clue what most of them were for.
They left, donned the skis and moved on. As it became lighter, he pointed up the slope of a hillside. They ascended, then stopped. They looked back over the settlement of Longyearbyen.
“It’s bigger than you think,” she said.
“Yeah, I thought there’d be a few huts and that’d be it. But no, it’s a small town really.”
They heard engine noise off to the right in the distance, and there it was, the C-130J returning with the rest of its load and more troops. It was flying low with its gear down on finals for the runway.
They skiied back down towards the town and walked around. There was a pharmacy, a hotel, supermarket, library and a pub. Nils stopped outside the Svalbar Pub.
“This, we have to try,” he said grinning.
“I’ll go along with that,” smiled Marjan. They spent the day skiing further out of town and then around six called at the pub for a few drinks. The two Jagerkommandos went in too but didn’t drink.
Moscow.
The dark blue Mercedes S-class sped down the forested snow-covered road several miles north of the city close to the Moscow Canal. The car pulled off the road and stopped at a tall gate.
The guard looked inside at the occupants and inspected their passes. “Welcome.”
The gate opened and the car drew up to a Dacha, a large house behind birch trees. A striking woman in her fifties and a man of similar age in a military uniform got out and walked to the door, then another guard let them in.
They were taken to a comfortable room with a desk, couch, chairs and a large flat TV.
“Hello.”
The man sat watching the TV didn’t get up, but muted the sound. “Sit where you want.”
Viktoria Shaykhlislamova, head of the SVR, and General Vladimir Yegorov, Chief of Russian Defence staff, sat on the couch. The man on the chair was Denisov, a senior member of the inner state cadre. Second in command of the government, some said the power behind the throne.
“Well, make your report.”
The woman spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel. “The Mossad tried to trick us. I’ll admit, the bastards did so for a short while, but not for long. They led us to Berlin, a false lead. We’ll get them back by setting them a puzzle in Syria; they won’t like it.”
“So, where is he?” asked Denisov.
“He’s in Svalbard, he’s being watched over by the Norwegian forces. The Americans and the Europeans are still squabbling over him.”
“Svalbard,” said Denisov, “an Arctic waste of a place. I visited it back when I worked for you lot. Do you want tea?” He pressed a switch on his wristwatch, and a man appeared at the door.
“Sir?”
“Bring tea and some biscuits.”
The man nodded and left.
“Mossad,” Denisov spat it out. “Once, if I’d visited Israel, they’d have taken me to some cellar and tortured me. Now they’d play the national anthem as I left the aircraft.” He shook his head. “I know our people still want to get their hands on him. I had some radar nutcase and an akademisyen, both from Yekaterinburg, in here yesterday. Neither spoke Russian; it was maths or fuck all. They were quizzing me on this quantum shit. They want this Dane badly. Any ideas, Shaykhlislamova?”
She spoke carefully. “We could get people in there, but getting him out, that’s very tough. I couldn’t promise we could do it.” Viktoria looked to the General.
General Yegorov cleared his throat. “He’s protected by a couple of platoons of Jagerkommando, and that’s not good. We could do it two ways: one is a team of Spetsnaz inserted quietly, the other isn’t. It involves….”
Denisov broke him off. “Which is more likely to succeed?”
“The second one, sir, but…”
“Never mind, General Yegorov, just get it done. NATO’s not having him. I want that Danish egghead here or killed in the attempt.”
Svalbard.
“Look what I got.”
Nils looked up from the computer screen. Marjan was stood in jeans and a camouflage tee-shirt with a white H&K 416 assault rifle cradled from her right upper arm across her chest.
“I got it from the Jagerkommando.”
“You don’t say. How?”
“I sweet-talked one of them. I told him of my background in the IDF, he gave me this and a case of mags.” She grinned and ran her hands over the weapon, caressing it. “They had some spare 416s. Does it suit me?”
“You look like Lara Croft.”
She looked at him, chin up, with a cheeky smile.
“I think I’d need better boobs for that role, Nils.”
He turned back to the computer. He knew whatever he said would be picked apart.
Marjan came into the room again later.
“Are you ready to go down to the Svalbar pub?”
“Yeah, ok.” Nils started to get his warm weather gear on along with his coat.
Matjan stood by the door with the H&K 416 slung over her shoulder.
“What’s that for?”
“The Jegerkommando said that it’s mine, and that I should keep it with me at all times. That was true in the IDF too. Come on.”
The two of then donned their skis outside while two Jegerkommando looked on. One raised a hand. They’d follow behind.
Nils and Marjan pushed off towards the town.
Several minutes later, Marjan took her skis off and opened the pub door. They stepped inside followed by the Norwegian troops.
At the bar, the server looked up at them.
“Hi.” She looked at the 416 slung over Marjan’s shoulder and frowned slightly.
“It’s the men,” said Marjan. “They can be pushy you know. A girl needs protection.”
They took two beers and sat at a table striking up a conversation with some Norwegians visiting Svalbard. The night wore on.
Over a thousand miles away, near Zelenoborsk, west of the Urals, several platoons of men dressed in Arctic whites listened to their briefing as they prepared their weapons.
4
RNoAF control. Soreissa near Bardufoss. Northern Norway.
“Contact, contact, multiple bogeys, bearing 86 degrees, range 1,150km. Heading 306 degrees, speed 390 knots. Heading is Svalbard, repeat multiple bogeys heading for Svalbard. Return indicates Mil traffic, Russia based.”
The duty Wing Commander looked at the map and estimated their progress. He called his opposite number at Bardufoss.
“Yes, I’ve seen it too. I’ll get the QRA up.”
The RNoAF Bardufoss duty Commander activated the base announcement speakers. Echoing around the base came the alert: “Scramble QRA, re
peat scramble QRA. Bogeys inbound heading for Svalbard.”
Heavy concrete doors started to slide back from the two hardened aircraft shelters. Ground crews made a few last checks on the two F16s. Two crew climbed in the aircraft and started; under two minutes later they lifted from the runway, wheels up, and turned north.
Lieutenant Hakon ‘Skull breaker’ Solbakken was lead, and Cristian ‘Fiddler’ Musial was his wingman.
“Hare flight, your intercept course is eight degrees.”
“Copy, Soreissa.”
The transit north over the Barents Sea was a four fifths cloud over the grey waves below.
“Hare one, read my vector, Soreissa. I’m going to come in visual from behind.”
“Copy, Hare one. Your vector is ten degrees, range 12 kilometres.” Two minutes later the controller’s female voice came on again.“Hare flight, come to vector 281 degrees, target is three kilometres to your port.”
“Copy.” Skull breaker pulled the stick left and lined up the HUD on the bearing. His wingman did the same. Looking ahead, he squinted: there. The aircraft gained on them.
“Soreissa control, I have a visual, two SU30 escorting an Il-76. I suspect 76 is carrying troops.”
Two formidable Russian fighters, Sukhoi SU30s, which were among the best in the world, escorted an Ilyushin Il-76 four engine transport aircraft.
They seemed unaware of his presence; he’d let them know they had company by switching on his radar.
“Fiddler, keep to one point five km separation, I’m going to turn the torch on.”
“Copy Skull.”
He turned on his radar, illuminating the three aircraft. It took 20 seconds for the radar to warm up and the two Russian fighters to register it. They both pulled hard to the left, leaving the 76. At that moment, gunfire tracers streaked across the sky in front of him from right to left.