weather gear. Although there was not much chance of hiding what his true occupation was, given the nature and quality of his clothing. And the M-16—no point in even trying to pretend he was a civilian.
“You are SEAL?” the man asked.
Sikes shook his head in the negative. Under the Geneva Convention, he was required to provide only name, rank, service, and military I.D. number. While it might be obvious to both parties that he was a SEAL, the Code of Conduct required him to stick to just that information for as long as it was humanly possible. Under extreme torture — well, that was another matter entirely. Experience during Vietnam had taught the United States Navy that even the finest officer held his or her limits, a point beyond which the body overrode the mind’s convictions in a form of self-preservation instinct. After reading the memoirs of many POWs, Sikes knew that the point came earlier for some, later for others, but for every man, there was some such breaking point.
And of course they knew what a SEAL was, he thought. Just as he knew what Spetsnaz were, and the names of the special forces of twenty other nations he could name immediately. They all knew of each other, the small, secret bands of men — and, in some countries, women as well — that fought the unconventional war, taking conflict deep into the heart of enemy territory by skill and deception, laying the groundwork for the arrival of conventional troops and gathering intelligence critical to the success of every mission. American soil, a man dressed like he was — there were only two possibilities. Russian or American. And since they hadn’t even bothered to ask about the first, he had a sinking feeling he knew who they were.
The other man stepped forward and landed a solid punch on the left side of his face. The force knocked him out of the chair and sent him sprawling on the damp ice floor. He felt the skin scrape off the other side of his face, and his previously uninjured shoulder was now screaming in protest. As before, he lay motionless. The man walked up to him and kicked him solidly in the crotch.
While the layers of arctic clothing and padding must have cushioned the blow somewhat, Sikes could not believe the agony that coursed up his body, paralyzing his breathing and starting a gag reflex that threatened to turn into the real thing. The pain, oh, God, the pain. He tried to suppress a groan and couldn’t as his body curled into a fetal shape. His consciousness dimmed out at its edges, his eyesight losing color and going gray. While he was still lying on the deck gasping for breath, the man walked around to his other side and kicked him solidly in the kidney. Sikes felt tissue rupture, the incredible pain radiating down his other leg, and the nausea now forcing him to vomit. He tried desperately to hold on to consciousness and failed.
Rogov stared down at the man on the ground. A SEAL, no doubt about it. He recognized the look in the man’s eyes as easily as he saw it in his own troops. A field interrogation would be unlikely to yield anything of interest, he decided. No, not on this one.
“When is our next communication break with the submarine?” he asked.
The communications officer glanced at his watch. “Eighteen hours.”
“Very well. Make the necessary arrangements. We will transport him back to the boat for further interrogation. The drugs, the other techniques-” Rogov glanced around the ice cave. “A nice outpost, but it lacks certain essential equipment. You understand?”
His communications officer nodded. “If the weather holds, we should be able to transport him in twenty-four hours. That will give them time to come to communications depth, receive our message, and make preparations for receiving this.”
Rogov fixed him with a glare as cold as the weather outside. “Ensure that that happens. And as for the weather — after centuries of exile in Siberia, do you really think that we should worry about that?”
The communications officer nodded again.
Rogov turned and snapped out a command for his operations officer. A man detached himself from his comrades and walked over, still chewing on a high protein, calorie-rich field ration he had taken from his pack.
“You understand, this is an American SEAL?” Rogov asked.
“Of course, sir,” the operations officer said after swallowing the chewy mouthful. “Obvious from his gear, isn’t it?”
“And what else is so very obvious?” Rogov sneered.
The operations officer looked uncertain. “That when there is one, there are more,” he said tentatively. Seeing the expression on Rogov’s face, his voice took on a more confident note. “And the SEALs do not leave their comrades behind. Never.”
“Ah. Then you’ve already made preparations for an adequate defense of this entire area, have you not?”
“Indeed. But I will review them once again. It might be a wise idea to supplement certain positions.”
The operations officer glanced over at the crumpled body of the SEAL, tossed carelessly in a far corner of the ice cave. He pointed to it. “You know the other thing we have learned about SEALS. They do not leave their dead behind.”
Rogov sneered. “They have this time.” But the expression on the operations officer’s face made him add another phrase silently — for now.
Sweat streamed down Bird Dog’s face, stinging his eyes. He reached for the towel draped across the frame of the Stairmaster and glanced down at the LCD display. Fifty minutes elapsed, and two more steep hills coming up. Already his legs were burning, the lactic acid buildup turning them heavy and wooden. Still he pounded, increasing his stepping rate until he could no longer feel his feet.
“You can’t kill us in the air, so you’re trying to do it on land, is that it?” Gator gasped from the other machine.
“No pain, no gain,” Bird Dog grunted. He reached out and touched the level display, increasing the difficulty from seven to nine. Immediately, he felt the added resistance of the stairs as he struggled to force each one down. Those next two hills — he groaned, then made himself work for it.
“I quit.” Gator ground to a halt, then spent a few moments stepping gently on the machine to cool down. He picked up his towel and wiped his face off, then snapped it at Bird Dog. “And you would, too, if you had any sense.”
“Ten more minutes,” Bird Dog grunted.
Gator dismounted his machine and walked around to stand in front of Bird Dog. “Don’t you think this is about enough?” he asked quietly. “I know it’s frustrating, being up there and not being able to do anything, but pushing yourself to the point of exhaustion isn’t going to help any. Hell, you end up all stiff and muscle-bound tomorrow, you’re not going to be able to pull that turkey out of a tight turn if you want to.”
Bird Dog didn’t answer, keeping his eyes fixed on the numbers ticking off on the time clock. Finally, when the minutes display reached sixty, the machine started beeping at him. The queue of sailors waiting for the machine started protesting.
“Okay. That should do it,” Bird Dog said finally, stepping off the machine and grabbing his towel. “Maybe at least I can get some sleep tonight.”
“You’re not sleeping?” Gator shot him a worried look. “You okay, man?”
“Sure, I’m fine. Just needed to work off some energy, that’s all.”
But it wasn’t, and Gator knew it. Bird Dog knew that his RIO knew him better than anyone else on the ship. The communications between the two men was almost psychic. And Gator knew that the idea of foreign soldiers tromping over American soil was eating at his pilot like nothing he’d ever seen before.
If pressed, Bird Dog admitted, he wouldn’t have expected to have that strong a reaction. Sure, he’d taken numerous oaths since he’d joined the service, reciting gravely the words about protecting and defending the Constitution against all powers both foreign and domestic, swearing allegiance and obedience to his superiors. But in the last four years, even though he’d seen conflict over the Spratly Islands, he’d never really understood what a secret trust those words imposed on him. It bothered him, and it was even worse that no one else seemed as upset as he was. Hell, if he were the admiral, he would have nuked those sons of bitches to kingdom come by now rather than tolerate what amounted to an armed invasion on American soil. Even if it was just a rocky outcrop of ice and snow in the middle of the godforsaken North Pacific.
“A shower, maybe something to eat,” Gator said. He glanced at his pilot appraisingly. “Sound good?”
Bird Dog tried to smirk. “Are you asking me on a date, Gator?”
“In your wildest dreams, asshole,” the RIO said promptly. “Even if you had boobs, you wouldn’t be my type.”
