Ninety Degrees North

by Stephen Makk

  “What the…? Fiddler, break right.”

  They’d turn into the oncoming aircraft. Skull knew it would be behind them as they completed the turn. He’d keep hard G on to come back into the opposition. He saw more rounds whizz by his wingman, just a few meters from his aircraft.

  “Damn it.” Lieutenant Hakon knew they must have a four-ship escorting the Il-76, that’s what comes from a radar off approach. It’s stealthy, but you’re blind. He pulled up to bleed off some speed and saw that Fiddler now had an SU30 pulling in behind.

  “Fiddler, break left, bogey on your six.”

  As his wingman turned, Skull saw a missile leave a hardpoint on the SU30. “Vampire on your six, vampire.”

  Fiddler pulled to his left and within seconds saw one of the original SU30s in front and to the left. Fiddler pickled the stick and an AIM9X Sidewinder shot off after the Russian fighter.

  Skull breaker, now inverted, saw the Russian short range Vymple R-73 missile strike his wingman in the tailpipe. The F16 broke up and tumbled head over heels. As he turned, he saw an SU30 flaming down towards the sea. “Good shot, Fiddler.”

  “Shit.” He’d nearly missed it.

  Skull rolled right way up and pulled right; an SU30 came into his death cone and he released a Sidewinder 9X. It sped off after its prey. He pulled hard right and out of the corner of his eye saw the SU30 explode.

  “Skull breaker fox two.” He felt himself grey out with the G, but fought it with tensing moves by his body.

  Soon he saw one of the SU30s that had pounced on them, and as soon as he could he pickled the stick and an AIM 9X rushed off after the Sukhoi. “Skull breaker fox two.”

  He rolled inverted and pulled back on the stick. He looked up and saw it. “Yes.” He fired another AIM9X at the SU30. “Skull breaker fox two.” Where the hell was the other one?

  He pulled left and looked about: nothing. He felt a rushing but brief hot sensation, and saw flames inside the canopy as the Vymple R-73 smashed into his Pratt and Whitney PW220E engine. His F16 fell burning from the sky.

  Neither of the RNoAF pilots had ejected, but then neither had three Russian SU30 pilots.

  It was done. A quiet sky and grey sea returned to its cold Arctic peace. Just storm petrels and the odd albatross roamed the unforgiving northern skies.

  The Ilyushin transport, now with just one fighter in escort, flew on towards Svalbard.

  Men dressed in white cold weather combat gear sat in the cargo hold of the Il-76, cleaned their AK 12s and filled the magazines. They joked about how the only difference between Norwegian women and a walrus was makeup.

  The 83rd VDV Air Assault Brigade of the Russian Airborne were no tourists.

  Svalbard.

  The early morning snow was clearing and the half platoon, around ten men of the Jegerkommando, skiied down the hill towards Longyearbyen. Major Tandberg brought up the rear. They were still high but descending towards the town when he looked up and pulled to a stop.

  “Troop, pull up.” They turned on their skis and came to a stop. Tandberg looked up and listened. He heard a distant jet aircraft; it grew louder. Odd, he frowned, there was no traffic due, and he could tell it was a large aircraft. Then he saw them. Descending through the still snowy sky were paratroopers, and hanging ten feet or so below them were large Bergens. This was unexpected; he hadn’t been told of any exercise being due. As they came down and approached for landing, he noticed their uniforms weren’t Norwegian.

  “Over by the ridge to the left, take cover.” Something wasn’t right.

  His men skiied over and got down behind the ridge. They landed and started to put on their Bergens and took out their assault rifles. He heard voices, and the paratrooper commander shouted out instructions to his men in Russian.

  He didn’t like it but knew he’d no option but to make contact. He knew some Russian; they’d taken lessons. He raised his head and shoulders above the ridgeline.

  “Ya Mayor Tandberg Jegerkommando, kto ty?” Who are you?

  There was the sound of gunfire as bullets hit the ridge. Tandberg took cover and his men returned fire.

  “Over to the right, keep down. Get on the radio and report in.”

  Gunfire had turned into a full firefight. He heard one of the Russians scream, another shouted. Fire poured into the ridge. As they moved to the right, he heard a cry from one of his men.

  “Medic, medic.” A soldier ran over and attended to the man.

  They moved further to the right in the direction of their cabin, and the house where their two charges were. The Russians could only be here for the pair of them, or maybe just the Danish scientist. More paratroopers landed to their left and opened fire on them. He heard more gunfire in the distance, from near the runway. He called over the radio operator.

  “Call Lieutenant Ellasson, get him to reinforce the runway.”

  “Sir.”

  He knew there was no realistic option but to pull back and take up a defensive position; the Russians outnumbered them.

  Tandberg pulled his men back towards the cabin refuge. His men pulled back by section and laid down covering fire. The Russians sensed that the Norwegians were withdrawing and pressed home the attack.

  “Let them come forward,” ordered Tandberg.

  “Now, grenades and covering fire.”

  His troops launched underslung grenades from their rifles. Two heavy machine guns spit intense fire at the oncoming VDV airborne invaders. They halted the attack under the intense fire. Men screamed as grenades blew limbs off and shredded bodies. He knew there was a natural defensive ridge above the building they’d need to protect. Men were pulled back to take up the position.

  “Satellite radio. Sergeant, patch me through to Soreissa control.”

  After two minutes, the Sergeant established contact.

  “Svalbard command actual, come in Soreissa.”

  “Soreissa control here.”

  “Major Tandberg, a large Russian airborne force parachuted in. We are greatly outnumbered, over.”

  “Copy Tandberg. Reported your situation to Brigade Nord command Bardufoss and Jorstadmoen. Hold your position, over.”

  “Copy Soreissa.”

  He knew it would be many hours until they could be reinforced, so they’d just do their best. The Jegerkommando took up defensive positions behind the ridge. The VDV came on and took heavy casualties from grenades, heavy machine guns and sniper fire.

  Marjan looked out of the house window, then took up her H&K 416 and all the spare rounds she could. She donned her white combat clothing and headed for the door.

  “Let the Norwegian army defend us, stay back,” said Nils, his concern obvious.

  “No chance. I’m here to protect you and that’s what I’ll do. I’m first and foremost IDF. We don’t hide from the enemy; we take the fight to him.” Marjan left and made her way up through the blowing snow to the ridge.

  She saw Major Tandberg.

  “Sir, where do you want me?”

  Rounds flew by overhead; the Russians were laying down heavy fire. One of his men was hit in the neck, he slumped bleeding. She knew he was dying.

  He looked at her and briefly considered sending her back but knew he needed all the help he could get.

  “Get Nils Sondergaard and get the both of you down to the runway, report to Lieutenant Ellasson.”

  “Sir.” She rushed back down the slope and into the house.

  “Nils, get your heavy gear on and come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “We’re going to make our stand at the runway. Move, now.”

  He knew there was no trying to talk her out of it. Nils put on his cold weather gear and left the house. He stopped outside and collected the skis.

  “We don’t need those,” said Marjan.

  “You never know, I’m taking them.”

  They got down to the runway and reported in.

  Lieutenant Ellasson saw that Nils had no weapon. “See the Corporal at the north end,
he’ll get you a rifle.”

  Nils started to object but knew it made sense. The Corporal provided him with a H&K 416 and ran through its operation with him.

  Some ten minutes later, the men by the runway started taking fire from the north. The VDV had outflanked the house and the main force of Jegerkommando and come in from behind. The men at the runway put up defensive fire. Marjan returned their fire, Nils reluctantly joined in too.

  The Norwegians took up positions behind two snow clearing vehicles. Russian fire poured into their position. The men returned fire, holding the attackers back. Nils aimed at the muzzle flashes, hoping some rounds hit home. Here I am, a soldier, what the hell am I doing?

  The Norwegian soldier next to him fell back, and Nils turned and looked at him. There was a hole below his right eye and the snow seemingly sucked out blood from the red grey mush at the back of his head. Nils felt sickened and angered. He held up his rifle behind his cover and fired at the Russians who seemed to be advancing.

  The VDV outnumbered them and pressed home the attack. Bullets flew in and struck the vehicles, rounds zipped as they struck, spinning off.

  Marjan hit the side of the truck as she fell against it.

  “Nils, come on withdraw, fall back.”

  “I can get the bastards, they’re getting nearer.”

  “Come on, get away, there’s a reason for that, we’re being overrun. They’re taking casualties but there’s too many of them. Come on, damn you.”

  She pulled him away from the vehicle. He followed her to the rear and they dropped into a hollow as a grenade exploded 20 yards away.

  “They’re going to come through here. The Jegerkommando are giving them hell, but there’s too few. We have to get away.” She saw him looking back towards the fight. “Now, Nils. We’re in deep shit.”

  They ran back towards the town. She could make a stand there or melt off into the hills, probably the hills, she knew.

  “Look Marjan.” He pointed at a small aircraft on the runway. “It’s a Piper PA-46, similar to the type I learned in.”

  “So what?”

  “You say we’re being overrun, yes?”

  She nodded. “Nils, we have to get away; it’s not the time to go aircraft spotting.”

  “Marjan, if it’s got fuel,” he swallowed, “I can fly us out of here.”

  “What?”

  He ran for the aircraft, she followed.

  “Yes, it’s fully fuelled, get in.”

  Marjan stopped. “Where to? How far can this thing fly?”

  Nils grinned. “Over 1,000 miles, one way.” He looked down. “There’s Canadian Forces Base CFB Alert, Ellesmere Island. Canada. We might just make Thule, a USAF base in Northern Greenland. The Russian Air Force will be buzzing around the north of Norway. Come on, Marjan.”

  She knew the situation was desperate, but that desperate? They loaded all they had: weapons and the skis still slung over Nils back.

  The turbocharged T10 Lycoming burst into life. Nils gunned the throttle and watched the engine temperature rise. He went through the checklist: 2,500 RPM, amps and volts check, fuel and oil pressures, mixture best power.

  The Russians were at the far end of the runway and he knew it’d be best to gain altitude fast. He released the brakes and turned her around. Nils lined up on the centreline, opened the throttle to full and pulled away. No one was listening, but he looked at the aircraft ID code written on the control panel, LN-WVT, and hit the radio transmit.

  “Lima November Whisky Victor Tango, departing to the west, rolling.”

  As the speed built up, he felt the rudder authority build. Keep on the centre line, watch the airspeed climb. He let it pass ten knots over the 80 knot flying speed and eased back on the yoke. The aircraft climbed away, and he glanced down and saw the runway recede. Gear up, fuel on correct tank, flaps up.

  The Russians hadn’t fired at them; maybe no one had told them to. Nils grinned, pulled back from full revs and turned left. Get some altitude, head west and worry about exactly where we’re going once we’re on the way. He forgot about the Russians; pilots don’t care about what’s behind them, and they were behind now.

  “Marjan, you were an Officer in the IDF. Get a chart and give me a heading.”

  She took out whatever charts were available from the rack to the rear and plotted a course. She compared this with the GPS on the largest scale and got a heading from their current position to the destination. The two matched within a few degrees.

  “Ok, Nils, we’re going for CFB Alert. Heading 282 degrees.”

  He pulled the heading to 282. “On 282.”

  She set the ICOM radio to 8.33kHz, the open distress channel. After 100 miles she broadcast on the set.

  “Lima November Whisky Victor Tango our position is…” She read off the current lat and long. “Our heading is CFB Alert, please broadcast on our details, over.”

  Marjan repeated the transmission every 100 miles. At 300 miles from Svalbard, Nils saw the northeast coast of Greenland to their left on the GPS display.

  Another 100 miles, she repeated the transmission.

  “Lima November Whisky Victor Tango our position is…” she read off the current lat and long. “Our heading is CFB Alert, speed 90 knots, please broadcast on our details, over.”

  “Copy Lima November Whisky Victor Tango. We are Gnorth, a ground call sign. We receive your message and will rebroadcast. Over.”

  Marjan smiled. “Thank you Gnorth, ID please?”

  “Lima November Whisky Victor Tango, we are a geographical survey location, we are from the French Arctic survey. Are you in distress? Over.”

  “Negative Gnorth, pass on our location and destination please. We have onboard one Israeli citizen and one Danish citizen, Nils Sondergaard, over.”

  “Will comply, over.”

  She turned to Nils. “At least our position and course are known.”

  Fifty minutes later, and still hundreds of miles from CFB Alert, the engine spluttered. It kicked into life again and then died. They heard only the wind noise now. Nils set up what he hoped was the best glide slope. The batteries were still fully charged.

  “Lima November Whisky Victor Tango our position is…” She read off the current lat and long. “Engine failure, we are going down. Repeat.” She broadcast again, but with no reply. The cloud mercifully cleared and with a moon out they saw as best they could their location. An eerie white landscape stretched out flat in all directions.

  “I’ll do my best, but expect a rough landing.”

  Nils could tell they were descending, but their altitude was a problem. It was hard to gauge the altitude until late on.

  “Here we are, brace yourself.”

  The aircraft touched down and rebounded, then came down again and rebounded. It came down again and this time stayed down. The snow rushed by, then started to slow. Eventually, the Piper came to a stop with the nose in and its tail high.

  “There’s the good news,” said Nils.

  “What good news?”

  “We survived.”

  She shook her head. “Yeah, there is that.”

  The two of them put on their warm hoods and snow goggles. They pushed open the port door and took out the rifles and skis. There was an emergency supplies kit, so she placed it in a pack. At the rear of the cabin, she removed a cylindrical object from its mount and placed it in the pack. She then strapped the pack to her back.

  “What’s that thing?”

  “It’s an EPURB, a location beacon.”

  “What now?” asked Nils. “Wait by the aircraft?”

  “No, we press on,” Marjan replied. She took out a handheld compass and pointed in the direction of CFB Alert.

  “Let’s hope the French passed on our location.”

  The two of them pushed off, with Marjan in the lead. She knew that their survival was now in the balance. Was their position, course and speed rebroadcast on? They’d live or die, depending on that.

  Two figures in the
white Arctic vast pressed on, their skis and ski poles pushed them slowly, rhythmically towards the west.

  Their only thoughts were of survival.

  5

  Moscow.

  The Dacha lay off the road in snow covered forest land. Viktoria Shaykhlislamova, head of the SVR, and General Vladimir Yegorov sat on the couch in the Dacha. Denisov, a senior member of the inner state cadre, gave the pair of them a hard stare.

  “You will have seen this communication picked up by the Spetssvyaz?”

  “Yes, sir. I passed it on to your office,” said Shaykhlislamova.

  “Yegorov?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How the fuck has this bastard got to some frozen shit hole off northern Greenland? Yegorov, you had the VDV on Svalbard. How did the beer-swilling, bacon-eating Danish idiot get there?”

  “The local commander reported a small aircraft taking off. It must have been him.”

  Denisov glared at him. “And they didn’t try to shoot it down?”

  “Sir, they had no man portable air defence systems.”

  “So, they’d no missiles.” Denisov slapped the coffee table. “They had fucking guns didn’t they?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the General sheepishly.

  Shaykhlislamova perked up. “He must be with the Mossad agent, we don’t have her name. They did crash according to the signal intercepts, and they did report their position to a French Arctic survey team. That was rebroadcast via satellite. So, we have a rough idea of where they are.”

  “The Americans will no doubt have the same info as us,” scowled Denisov. “We must get him soon. It’s as cold up there as a reindeer’s asshole; they can’t last long. Yegorov, get whoever you need out there, mobilise whoever or whatever you need. Catch them and figure out a way to get them here.”

  “Sir, we will.”

  Canadian Forces Base. Goose Bay. Newfoundland and Labrador.

  The big blue Toyota 4x4 pulled up at the main gate. Two soldiers in white combat gear got out and one of the two soldiers showed his pass to the gate. “Petty Officer Whitt, Navy SEALs. See that the truck driver is paid, he got us here El Rapido.”