by Stephen Makk
“Will do, you’ll find ops over there to this side of the apron.”
The two SEALs were on an Arctic exercise with the Canadian forces when they’d been recalled. The message was, “Get here as soon as you can.”
They’d flagged down a passing truck and given the driver no option; he’d seen the two M4 carbines and told them to get in.
The two men walked over to base ops and entered.
“We’re here to see Colonel LaPaz. It’s Petty Officer Whitt and Operator Ford, USN.”
They were led into an office down the corridor. The Colonel stood and shook their hands.
“Petty Officer Whitt, Operator Ford, I’m LaPaz. I’ll get you fixed up with food and a coffee. You’ll be needing that after several days in the bush.”
“Sir.”
The two SEALs ate the food with a hungry passion.
The Air Force Colonel sat at their table. “Ok, let’s get down to business, Petty Officer Whitt,” said LaPaz.
“This came down from Admiral Kamov himself. You’re needed on an immediate rescue mission in the Arctic. North of Greenland on the icecap, a small aircraft has crashed with two aboard. We need to effect a rescue now.”
“Why us? There must be more appropriate units available.”
“Because these two are wanted by someone else, the Russian military, and they want them bad. There’s a man and a woman. They want the man most of all; he’s a Danish scientist that we can’t allow Ivan to get his hands on. The woman is a Mossad agent; she got him away from the Russians in Copenhagen. They fled to Norway and the Norwegians flew them to Svalbard. The Russian VDV landed and the two escaped by a light aircraft.”
“So, it won’t just be a rescue. The VDV will be after them too?”
The Colonel nodded.
“It’ll be us two against however many VDV they can get there?”
“That’s about it. I’m told that more SEALS will be on the way, but you’re the closest and the first.”
Whitt shook his head.
“Great, what’s the good news?”
LaPaz grinned. “We’re not sure exactly where they are.”
Whitt rolled his eyes.
“We’ll fly you to Thule AFB Northern Greenland; from there we’ll fly you to the prime spot then you and Operator Ford can jump in. See the Quartermaster, you can have whatever we’ve got.”
Thule AFB was mostly dark as the 737 approached. Lights around the base and along its taxiways lit up the snowy landscape. They touched down and taxied to the runway’s edge. A truck waited for them.
Inside, the two were provided with spare food and new, better radio sets. After a stopover, they were driven out to the de Havilland Twin Otter. It was a twin turboprop, high winged aircraft and would fly them to the drop zone.
The two SEALs pushed their gear on board and climbed in. The engines started, the aircraft taxied to the runway, then started the take-off roll and soon lifted off. It gained altitude, turned to the right then flew to the north east.
Over an hour later, the first officer, who doubled as loadmaster, left his seat and came into the main cabin. He raised his voice. “Ten miles to run, time to suit and chute. Altitude 2,500 feet.”
The two men put on their hoods, helmets and parachutes.
“We have an Epurb contact. It’s intermittent, so approximate. I’ll call your jump point; when you’re down then head east.”
Whitt nodded.
“Two miles to run, ready to go.”
The first officer opened the cabin door and the cold air blew a fearsome chill inside. A minute later came the call.
“Ready, ready.”
He slapped Whitt on his helmet and pointed to the door. One after the other, both men leapt from the aircraft.
Whitt counted down then pulled his release, and the chute deployed. It was dark and cold during the descent. He saw the ground by the faint moonlight, landed and rolled to a stop.
Within a minute of landing came a shout.
“Sir, sir.”
“Over here.”
Ford appeared through the dark mist, and they donned their skis. Whitt checked his compass and the two pushed off towards the east.
“Let’s split up and go wide, say 200 yards, and shout for them.” The two parted.
“Nils, Nils,” shouted Whitt. He heard Ford doing the same off to his left. About 20 minutes later he heard a woman’s voice. The shrill call carried better against background noise.
“Here, here,” she said. Out of the dark mist, he saw two figures, a man and a woman.
“Nils and Marjan?”
“Yes. It’s us, we’re here. Thank God to see you,” she said.
“Platoon Chief Whitt, Navy SEALs. Operator Ford will be here soon. We’ll contact our ops, they’ll get us out.” Ford appeared soon after. “Hi, we’re here for you. I’ve got some dry fruit energy bars. Here, take some.”
Ford also took out one of the new radio sets from Thule. He set it up to transmit.
“Northern star, northern star. This is Thor’s hammer, Thor’s hammer. We have the subjects. Over. Northern star, northern star. This is Thor’s hammer, Thor’s hammer. We have the subjects. Over.”
There was no reply.
“We’ll head west, Ford.” The four of them skiied off and Ford tried again 20 minutes later, but no reply. On the fourth attempt, the set crackled into life.
“Thor’s hammer, this is Northern star. Over.”
“Copy Northern star. Over.”
“We are detecting a flight towards your location. Suspect hostiles, over.”
“Copy Northern star. Request flight’s origin over.”
“Thor’s hammer. Flight is from Russia, northern region, expected in your area in 50 minutes. We have friendlies heading your way: ETA, two hours thirty.”
“Copy Northern star. Over.”
Whitt looked at Ford and shrugged.
Marjan skiied over. “What’s wrong?”
“Russians on the way. Probably VDV. Friendlies arriving too, but one and a half hours later. We’ll just have to keep going.”
Whitt knew this was a real pain in the butt. They’d have to avoid the Russians for one and a half to two hours. He knew they’d arrive in much greater numbers too. If they were detected, then it would be near certain that they’d be captured.
Off the west coast of Iceland. USS Stonewall Jackson.
The boat made way through a grey choppy sea in the darkness. She was at periscope depth with her photonic mast raised above the waves.
In the control room, Lieutenant Commander Lemineux, the boat’s Communications Officer, handed Nathan a communications slip.
PRIORITY RED
R 231347Z MAR 96 ZY12
COMSUBPAC PEARL HARBOR HAWAII//N1//
TO STONEWALL JACKSON
PACFLT// ID S072RQ81//
NAVAL OPS/02
MSGID/PACOPS 6722/COMSUBPAC ACTUAL//
MSG BEGINS://
COMMUNICATIONS BROADCAST FOR YOU AND LIEUTENANT COMMANDER KAMINSKI. VIEW IN PRIVATE.
MSG END://
Nathan looked to his XO and beckoned to her with his forefinger, nodding aft.
“Nikki, come on into my cabin.”
She followed him into his cabin aft of the control room.
“Nathan, is this wise?” she smiled cheekily. “The crew will talk.”
He ignored her remark. “We have a comms broadcast for the both of us.” He switched on his workstation and selected the link.
The USN logo faded and an image of Admiral Kamov, the CNO, appeared.
“Blake, Kaminski. A Danish scientist, Nils Sondergaard, and a Mossad officer, Marjan Ghazaryan, are alone on the icecap; their expected position is indicated at the end of this broadcast. NATO needs to rescue them as the Russians are after the Dane too. This is a Black Op, code 14 - 3.”
“Sir, what is it? Why is it a code 14-3?” asked Nikki.
Kamov leaned forward, his expression grim.
“Sondergaard has in
formation that we can’t afford the Russians to obtain. Whoever exploits the discovery he’s made will be at a significant advantage. He’s had an idea. It’s not just any idea, it’s occurred in the mind of Nils Sondergaard, Engineer, and only he in truth knows what it is.
“The Russians can’t be allowed to obtain it. Nathan, in extreme circumstances, if the Russians are going to capture Sondergaard, you are authorised to terminate him. A flight of enemy troops is expected to arrive in their area soon. SEALs are flying into a drop zone there too, but they’ll arrive two hours later. You are ordered to Reykjavik to pick up more SEALs. That will complete SEAL Force North. You will then proceed to the area. Land our reinforcements and extract the two civilians. The Russians are mobilizing and putting everything into this. Be ready for anything.”
Admiral Kamov paused. “Blake, take the USS Stonewall Jackson and get our man. Get Nils Sondergaard’s ass out of there. Communication ends.”
At Reykjansbaer pier, close to Reykjavik airport, six men and their equipment boarded the USS Stonewall Jackson. They were allocated bunks and their leader stopped a passing crewman.
“I need to see the Captain.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
The crewman walked off and entered the control room. “Sir, the grunts want to see you.”
“I’ll be there. XO, take the boat to sea, submerge and head north.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Nikki.
A few minutes later, Nathan entered the SEAL’s bunk room. A man in his early 30s turned to him.
“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Rice, SEAL team 4, this is Platoon Chief Konerko.”
Rice had a mixed-race Middle Eastern look and Konerko was of European descent. Both wore cropped Marine Corps style hair and looked like a pair of no-nonsense hard men.
“Commander Nathan Blake, welcome aboard the USS Stonewall Jackson. We’ll have you in theatre as soon as we can. The Galley is aft, wander around freely, but if a crewman asks you to do something, take notice and do it. If you need something, see Chief of the Boat. The COB’s name is Seamus Cox. Most of the crew know him as Dick, but not a Dick. He eats men like you for breakfast.”
The SEAL commander nodded. “Will do, sir. We’re in your domain here.”
Nathan left and returned to the control room, where he watched Nikki pull away from the pier and off to the north. She submerged the boat but remained at periscope depth for now.
“Planesman, bearing 300 degrees, speed nine knots.” She was on a heading to avoid the Snaefellsjokull peninsular.
“XO, let’s take a good look at the chart of northern Greenland. We’ll probably need to find a Polynya.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll contact the National Ice Center for a FLAP analysis.”
This is a Fractures, Leads and Polynyas analysis. A zone of Fracture is a crack in the ice and a Lead is one large enough to accommodate a submarine. These are often home to a Polynya, a Russian word: it’s a small ice-free zone.
“Their expected position is 230 miles east of Ellesmere Island. It’s a 43-hour transit to there, sir.”
“I know. Both sets of troops will have been there searching for long hours when we arrive.” Nathan frowned. “We’ll just have to surface as close as we can to their position, let our men out upstairs, locate the civilians, get them to our position and submerge.”
Nikki grinned. “You make that sound easy, sir. I think Ivan will be pulling every dirty trick in the book to stop us.” Nikki put her hand on Nathan’s lower arm. “Nathan, Kamov gave you permission to ‘terminate’ the Dane.”
“Nils Sondergaard.”
“Yes, Sondergaard,” she said. “The Russian commander is likely to have been given a similar order. He’ll have been told it’s better to kill him than have us rescue him.”
“Yes, Nikki. I’d thought that myself. I’m afraid I don’t rate his chances of coming out of this alive very highly.”
6
It was hard going skiing across the icecap. In places the snow was deep; in others, it was thinly covered. Marjan reasoned it was due to exposed areas and strengthening winds. Snow was driven off in blown powder tendrils.
They pushed on ever further west. She knew they’d never get to CFB Alert on their own, but they had to press on. It would give Nils hope, she figured, give him something to fight for. Push, swish, push, swish, on and on they headed over the icecap.
“Marjan, Marjan. Look,” said Nils excitedly. She turned to him, and he pointed upwards.
There, high in the sky, was a parachute flare. It fell, trailing smoke, with the canopy visible above.
“That was quick. There’s a distress flare in the pack we got from the aircraft. I saw it.”
Nils took his mitts off and rummaged about in the bag. He took it out, and by his light he saw that one end was orange day smoke, the other was a flare. He held up the flare and pulled. The flare shot up in the air, a flaming glow.
“I think it came from the north.” Marjan looked at the landscape, searching for the approaching rescuers.
It’s probably the Norwegians, she thought, but could be the Danish armed forces, they’re responsible for Greenland’s defence, or the Americans from Thule airbase. They couldn’t be far away now, she reasoned.
Whitt and Ford skiied to their position from their forward recon position.
“Who sent the flare up?”
“I did,” said Nils. “So they could find us.”
“You idiot. Who are they? They could be anybody.”
Whitt took out a pair of binoculars and scanned the direction he reasoned they’d be in.
Marjan stared too, looking into the dark ice field. There, finally, she saw them. She had a torch and took it from her zipped chest pocket but didn’t switch it on. There were four, six, no eight men. Skiing to their left.
“There they are. Shit, take cover.” Whitt had spotted them too.
“Shit. Nils, come on.” She dragged him over to where she knew there’d be deep snow. “Gouge out a snow hole now, quick.”
“What?”
“Just do it, Nils.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the SEALs doing the same. They scraped out a shallow snow hole and dived in, and Marjan dragged the loose snow over the pair of them. They were laid together only just covered by snow. She could hear the men’s voices now, maybe 50 yards away.
“Marjan, what’s going on? They’re here to rescue us.”
Her voice was a whisper. “Shut up. They’re Russian Paratroopers. They’re all carrying AK12s.”
“What’s that?”
“New Russian assault rifles. It can’t be anybody else. Now shut up and hope they miss us.”
Marjan heard them pass by some 30 yards away. They were speaking Russian, but the voices faded as they moved further on.
“Nils, I looked out and I think there were ten of them. They were heading north of our track. I think we should press on.” They got up and all four pressed on the way they were heading. Marjan was especially careful; she didn’t really settle as they were still out there.
Whitt turned to them. “Why did you fire the flare, dumb ass? You should have waited until we got there.”
Lieutenant Suvorov of the 83rd VDV Air Assault Brigade knew it would be difficult out here on the icecap. They’d so little to go on. He got the impression that they’d been sent so some officer could say, “Yes, we’re doing something.” They were doing an ass-covering exercise.
“Sir, listen,” said Sergeant Komarov.
He stopped and listened, but there was nothing. Then he heard it, the faint sound of aircraft engines. It wasn’t a jet, and was low. A minute or so later, he saw it. He recognised the four engines, the rear fuselage angled up and large vertical tail. It was an C-130 Hercules transport. It started to turn to the right; it must be looking to drop troops.
“Sergeant, get a man here with a Willow.”
“Sir.”
A soldier turned up with a Manpads, a man portable air defence system, the Willow or in N
ATO speak SA-25. It had three seekers: ultraviolet, near infrared and infrared.
“Soldier, you have release authority. Shoot it down.”
He switched it on, and the battery warmed the unit up. He set it over his shoulder and took aim. Through the sight, he saw a sensor flashing; he was in range for a hit.
The man pulled the trigger; the missile blew out of the tube and about six yards away the rocket motor lit. The missile sped off towards the C-130 and exploded in the port inboard engine.
The engine was blown off and the fuel in the wing tanks ignited. The aircraft’s left wing broke away and the Hercules tumbled flaming to the ground. It exploded on contact. The orange glow was visible over the snow-strewn landscape.
Lieutenant Suvorov skiied over to the Sergeant. “Sergeant, take two men and finish off any survivors.”
The Sergeant took two men with him and over the next two minutes, several gunshots were heard.
The VDV Sergeant returned.
“There were six of them still alive, sir. They’d all have gone before long; we just speeded nature up. Their main rifle was the M4 carbine. I went through their pockets. Americans, all SEALs.”
“We’ll be better off without them. Whoever fired the flare will still be around,” said Lieutenant Suvorov. “We need to find them.”
Maybe this ass-covering exercise would be useful after all.
Platoon Chief Whitt heard the aircraft and then saw the bright missile impact flash and the burning aircraft plummet in. He could see the burning wreck hundreds of yards away. Dammit. He knew it carried their reinforcements, and the damn Russians had took it out with a Manpads.
“What’s that?” asked Nils.
“Our lifeline,” said Marjan.
A few minutes later, Whitt heard several single gunshots. “Bastards.”
He saw Sondergaard looking at him quizzically.
“You want to know what that firing is, do you?”