Arctic Front

By the time the Royal Canadian Air Force F-18s from NORAD, released by headquarters in Cheyenne Mountain to escort the general’s plane for the second half of his journey to Alaska, were high over the Rockies in Alberta, Major John Reach’s unorthodox firing was known to everyone aboard the Boeing and among ground operators from Anchorage to Nome. Freeman hoped it would sweep right through Alaska Command, especially through the twenty-two hundred men of the MEU and to every pilot aboard the MEU’s four Apache attack choppers and those who would be driving the sixteen CH-46 and CH-53 medium- and heavy-lift assault transport choppers, to every man and woman associated with Operation Arctic Front, that old Hardass Freeman was back. Besides, if he didn’t take Rat Island, the Pentagon’d fire him. If he didn’t take it, he’d fire himself.

Freeman called Fort Bragg to ask for two of the remaining one-hundred-man Delta Force companies, the best combination of demolition, radio, and hand-to-hand specialists who, with their blood brothers, the SAS, would go in first.

However, Delta Force command, even drafting instructors from its Shooting House — used for antiterrorist training at Bragg — could come up with only seventy men at most, only as many as the SAS would have, the remaining SAS and Delta Force already in action trying to take out the Siberian prepo sites — giant ammunition and fuel dumps — believed hidden and well-camouflaged in the Urals. Most of these were American and British commandos from SAS and Delta Force who in ‘91 had been dropped behind the lines during the Iraqi war looking for the kind of upgraded Scuds that some Moslem fundamentalist groups were now threatening to use against the British and American southern command that was spread out between the Black and Caspian seas.

With SAS and Delta Force commandos combined Freeman would have only one hundred and fifty men at most to throw in on the HALO jump, but with what he had in mind — a quick, unexpected spearhead attack by the superbly trained British and American commandos — it might be enough. To bolster that confidence, he had personally requested that the survivors of the SAS raid into Moscow — especially young David Brentwood, who also had the experience of the Pyongyang raid behind him— be included in the attack.

Freeman also insisted Big Diomede be referred to as Rat Island because of the danger of mixing up Big Diomede and Little Diomede in the maze of radio transmits that would fill the air once the assault was underway, and that if the Siberians were stupid enough to risk sending troops across the ice to assault Little Diomede’s Patriot antiballistic missile batteries, the batteries should be destroyed. The last thing Freeman said he wanted was casualties from “shorts” or AD — accidental discharge — that is, friendly fire. He knew better than most soldiers that up to 12 percent of all casualties would result from friendly fire anyway. After D-Day in July ‘44, the U.S. breakout from Rommel’s beachhead defenses into the bocage—the open hedgerow country — had been seriously delayed because of “shorts.” “Second Household Cavalry,” he told his new interim aide, “suffered more casualties preparing for D-Day than they suffered in the first four months after D-Day. You believe that?”

“Ah — yes. I don’t know, sir.”

“It’s true, all right,” said Freeman.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know,” said the aide, still unnerved by Reach’s dismissal.

“No reason you should, Captain,” Freeman assured him.

“But just about every possibility in war has already been thought of. Trick is to think of it again.” Freeman smiled. “You read your history, Captain. It’s all in there.” Freeman steathed himself against the buffeting of a wind shear that suddenly sucked the plane down in a gut-wrenching plunge. All the while his gaze remained fixed on the play-dough model of Ratmanov that he’d made up after ordering four loaves of bread from the gallery, squeezing the bread into the tooth shape of the island.

“Course,” said Freeman, “there’s always the surprise factor.” Rule of thumb told him that for any assault on the island to stand a ghost of a chance he should have a five-to-one advantage, but then again that’s just what the Siberians would expect from the Americans — a massive chopper-borne attack.

Everything came down to a matter of speed — the kind of speed the black-hooded SAS had used on May 6, 1980, “cleaning out” the Iranian Embassy, taking out all the terrorists, and rescuing the hostages in eleven minutes flat — with the kind of professionalism and hair-trigger expertise that young Brentwood and his SAS troop had penetrated the Kremlin’s defenses. Suddenly Freeman was gripped by a bowel-chilling fear. He recalled the report of at least two navy flyers going down. They had ejected safely, but no ID flares appeared, though they would have shown up brilliantly against the snow if the flyers had had time to activate them. Which meant that the moment his SAS/Delta Force airborne troops landed, enemy troops might well be ready to swarm up and out like cockroaches, bringing the battle to the Allied force before any of the British or Americans had landed.”What we need against those rats,” said Freeman, “is a big can of Raid! Get the Elmendorf — the air commander.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the young captain contacted Elmendorf he tried to figure out what the general was up to. You had to start figuring things out with Freeman; otherwise the hardass would come down on you like a ton of bricks. As he heard Freeman outlining his latest brain wave to Elmendorf, the captain couldn’t help thinking there were a lot of guys who’d like to see Hardass on the end of the first chute.

After the call Freeman seemed more relaxed, even if preoccupied. His calm blue eyes now fixed on the dough model like a chess player, noting again how the island sloped steeply westward from the seventeen-hundred-foot- high eastern cliffs. You could go around the island — come in the back door — but the island was so small (five miles long and three miles at its widest) that it didn’t matter where you landed a combined SAS/Delta team of a hundred and forty men, providing they didn’t land too close to the cliff’s edge. As the general stared at the cliffs of his makeshift model, he was no longer aboard the Boeing but back at Monte Casino, where the Nazi troops, reinforced by SS commandos, held off the attacking Allies for weeks. Weeks were something Freeman knew he couldn’t afford. Every day lost was another day that the Siberians could use to reinforce their far eastern flank. It had to be a complete surprise after the air force had roughed up the Rat’s nest with their cruise missiles.

Running his hand through a shock of graying hair, Freeman kept his gaze on the model, trying to think what the Siberian commander would do if the cruise missile attack didn’t do the trick and if the Siberian anticipated an airborne invasion. Hopefully the missiles would knock out the island’s main defenses from the sheer shock of the explosions. A piece of crust — part of the cliff’s edge — was swelling as the cabin pressure altered during the Boeing’s descent, then fell off.

“We should be so lucky, eh, General?” said the captain, handing him a coffee. “They say the SPETS are their upper crust, General.”

“Yes,” answered Freeman. He sounded morose. Suddenly feeling all eyes on him, as if every console operator on the Boeing had suddenly become unnerved by his tone, Freeman adopted an airy, friendly mood. “You know what the upper crust is, gentlemen?” he asked, immediately answering his own question. “Lot of crumbs stuck together with dough!”

A few laughs, some groans.

“You’re right. It’s awful. All right then — how about this? Guy comes home and his wife points to the light bulb and says, ‘That bulb’s been flickering on and off all day. It’s not the bulb — it must be the wiring or something. Will you fix it?’

“ ‘Do I look like an electrician?’ says the guy and flops down in front of the TV. ‘Get an electrician.’

“Next day he comes home and she tells him the tap in the basement is dripping — driving her nuts. Will he fix it? ‘Hey— do I look like a plumber?’ he says and flops back down in front of the TV. Next night he comes home, the light’s working fine— and no more dripping tap.

“ ‘You did it yourself!’ he says.

“ ‘No,’ she answers. ‘That young guy down the lane out of work. He fixed them.’

“ ‘What’d he charge?’

‘“I asked him, and he said he didn’t want any money. Either I could go to bed with him or bake him a cake.’

“ ‘Geez!’ says the husband. ‘Hope you baked him a cake!’ and she says, ‘Do I look like Betty Crocker?’ “

Laughter was mixed with the whine of the undercarriage going down. Buckling up, Freeman turned to his interim aide. “You know what causes the largest percentage of pre-invasion casualties, son?”

“Airborne, sir?”

“If you like.”

“Practice jumps, sir. Chutes that don’t open,” replied the captain. “Friendly fire.”

“Vehicle accidents,” said Freeman. “Most of our young Turks are under twenty-four, Captain. Drive like