“Sure,” said Rick. “See you a bit later…and thanks.”
Cathy headed back to the upper decks, and the three SEALs walked across to the dirt road and swung right, breaking into an easy loping run as soon as they were out of the artificial light. The time was 2114 and Rick kept going for about 1,500 yards before leading the way quite suddenly into the woodland away from the lake. All along the left side of the road there had been tall, soaking wet foliage, and he knew the trees went back deeply for a long way. He knew from endless study of the satellite photographs. And he whispered to his companions they must keep going for one mile, to the open field beyond the pines, where the canisters could safely land.
After fifty yards they came to a stop in a place where the trees seemed less dense, and Rick signaled a halt. Each of the SEALs changed into sneakers and zipped their street shoes into their parka pockets. They then took out their tightly wrapped Gore-Tex lightweight waterproof trousers and pulled them on over their pants.
While the SEAL leader checked the GPS, Chief Cernic pulled out his compass and set it for a walking bearing, 320. They would endeavor to hold that line as they went, knowing the way back would be course 130. Walking a mile in a dense wood is very different from walking a mile along a road. It’s almost impossible to walk dead straight through a wood in broad daylight. In pitch dark it
Fred led the way, trying to avoid thick brush, and correcting the course when he could. They pressed forward for fifteen minutes, making somewhat slow progress. Rick thought they had gone no more than half a mile, and it was beginning to rain again. There was not a sliver of clear moonlight through the invisible clouds, and the skies were without stars. Nonetheless, the full moon was back there somewhere, and it provided a muted, diffused light, good enough for Fred to see about three or four yards ahead. He walked with his left arm out in front of him to avoid thin overhanging branches. Their footsteps made a soft padding sound, occasionally broken by the sound of a snapping twig.
Above them they heard the unmistakable call of a night owl. “Jesus, what the hell’s that?” Fred cried, in response to a quick scuffling of footsteps in front of him. “Probably a fucking grizzly,” said Lieutenant Schaeffer, walking right behind him. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Rick…he’ll kill it with his bare hands.”
The wood seemed endless, and Rick thought they must have gone almost a mile when the trees suddenly began to thin out, and they could feel the rain driving at them sideways from the left. Visibility was so limited they might just have been in a clearing. Only a whispered cry of “FUCK IT!!” from Fred clarified the situation. The Chief had hit a brick wall. Actually it was a low, dry stone wall, and he had hissed in fury rather than pain. It was fury with himself really, that he had slightly misjudged its position, when the satellites had identified it so clearly for them.
They gathered by the wall, and they could feel the wind rising, the rain slashing down. Exposed now, without any cover, the SEALs’ waterproof jackets and trousers provided welcome protection and warmth. Ray placed one of his dim chemical light markers, glowing red, on the wall, and they proceeded forward, still warm in their “double trousers” and shirts and sweaters under waterproof parkas. The baseball caps were too wet to matter, but at least they helped to keep their heads warm.
As the weather worsened, and the clock ticked on, it became clear they had reached the wide flat grazing pasture the satellite pictures had transmitted. Most of the neighboring fields were growing fields for cereals and vegetables and were presently sprouting green but sparse shoots. The mud was pretty terrible right here on the firmer grazing land, but on the winter wheat it would have been impossible. Tiresome clods of mud were already forming on the SEALs’ sneakers as they crossed the pasture.
This heavy rain was the one single area for which the backup team in Coronado had not been able to plan. The satellites had photographed these fields over and over, and they knew there was only limited grazing land right here…land over which the SEALs must heave their heavy burdens.
Thus the drop zone effectively selected itself. It had to be pasture, and the Coronado executive had decided to take a chance on the weather, hoping there would not be long soaking rains as the SEALs headed north on the waterways. Those hopes had been dashed during a filthy, wet week. And now the situation was as bad as anyone could have imagined. Rick Hunter knew he had the option to abort the mission, and that everyone would understand. But he, with his great strength, believed they could get the job done whatever the conditions.
And they stood in seriously soft going. They were in open country, about three hundred yards from the wood, the red glow of the chemical light barely visible against the wood’s blackness. The time was 2236, and almost five hundred miles to the north, Lieutenant Colonel Jaxtimer was flying over Finland, toward Russia.
The entry into Russian airspace went without a hitch. Major Parker called in their identifying numbers, and the Russian controllers cleared them instantly, scarcely checking that the numbers did in fact coincide with the flight plan filed by American Airlines. With the blessing of the Russian authorities, the B-52 pressed on southward toward Lake Onega.
Colonel Jaxtimer knew they had to drop their three-part cargo within a four-mile radius circle if the canisters were to lock on, and land, close to the beam from the SEALs’ target-marker on the ground.
Both the aircraft and the SEALs were working to the five-meter accuracy of the GPS. If the SEALs were down there, Colonel Jaxtimer would find them. The big laser sensor in the nose of the B-52 would pick up the beacon from twenty miles, about two and a half minutes of flying time. The canisters would be released when the special bombsight signaled. Once the marker had been picked up, it was a “hands-off” routine, as far as Colonel Jaxtimer and the US Air Force was concerned.
Behind the Colonel in the control cockpit, Lieutenant Chuck Rider was calling out their position relative to their destination every fifteen miles. Lieutenant Segal had located no threatening indications of a military radar sweep, from the ground or the air. To Russian eyes, the United States Air Force B-52 was just another long-haul commercial passenger jet headed south for the Middle East.
In fact, just about every aspect of the flight plan was a total fabrication. The aircraft was not headed for Bahrain, but for the gigantic US Air Force base outside of Dahran on the east coast of Saudi Arabia. There was also a chance the B-52’s fuel would not last the journey. If they met serious headwinds, the Air Force was sending another tanker out to meet them high over the northern end of the gulf.
By 2310 the SEALs were becoming very cold, and the rain had not abated. They stood shivering in the field, jogging up and down, trying to get the chill out of their limbs. Water streamed down their Gore-Tex trousers into their sneakers, which were now waterlogged. They were still dry under their parkas, but the cold rain on their faces was numbing. Rick Hunter prayed that the aircraft would not be late, and that the rain would stop. But it didn’t. The SEALs waited in soaking, windswept silence. None of them uttered one word of complaint.
While they waited, the B-52 raced southward, high above the coastal city of Belomorsk on the southwest corner of the White Sea. Its route would take it above the canal, west of the shoreline of the lake. Lieutenant Chuck Ryder had them steady on the required approach course, as the GPS mechanically counted down the range to the tour ship’s Green Stop. As they flew, the Air Force Lieutenant kept his eyes glued to the GPS, watching the numbers change as the satellites gave an update of their position every one and a half seconds. Right now they were crossing 65.30N. At 63.42N they would be slightly to the west of the city of Segeza, just sixty miles from the northern point of the lake and less than eleven minutes from the drop zone. There were only two rules for Colonel Jaxtimer…don’t be early, and maintain a steady course and speed. Any change would serve as a red flag to a Russian bear in a control tower.
The first rule was easy. They were already six minutes late because the favorable jet stream had eased off. The second rule required no great effort because everyone was right on top of their game. This was the US Air Force at its very best. Major Parker’s radio crackled with a communication from ground control. Once more he called out the identification numbers that would give him clear passage across the old Soviet Union.
Back on the ground Lieutenant Commander Rick Hunter strained to hear the sound of an approaching aircraft, although he knew full well that the B-52 would be far too high for that. There would be no sound whatsoever until it had passed overhead and downwind. He was hoping for a few seconds of warning before the canisters arrived, so he still listened and wondered how long they would have to wait. If anything, the rain was harder, and he struggled to control the shivering and shaking such remorseless cold, wet conditions can bring about.
By 2325, he had placed the laser marker unit on the ground and had activated it, its antenna pointing up and northward. The three SEALs then spread out around it, forming a triangle. They were twenty yards apart from each other. Such a formation would give them the best chance of seeing or hearing the airborne canisters as they came in. The marker unit made no sound as its beam lanced upward into the dark Russian sky, and the silence in the field was total, save for the splashing of the rain in the mud. For a moment Rick Hunter thought he might be going mad. How would anyone or anything find him in this freezing wasteland? What could he possibly be doing here?
