Huerta stared at the horizon, now growing dark as the sun crept down below it, hoping that the SAR aircraft would make it out in time.
CHAPTER 13
Rogov crept through the massive jumble of ice blocks, barely daring to breathe. The explosion had shaken him, much more than he anticipated. While it had seemed reasonable that the Americans might attempt something like this, the sheer magnitude of the avalanche and the deafening noise had shaken him.
He heard voices, maybe thirty yards off. He ran his hands over himself one more time, checking to see that he was intact and that his identification had been removed. He took a deep breath, then another. While the loss of the twenty-eight Spetsnaz commandos clustered at the base of the cliff meant nothing to him personally, it presented some tactical problems. He’d counted on being able to pass more of them off as injured Inuits, at least enough to simultaneously take the bridge and Combat and the admiral’s quarters. He shook his head. The only predictable thing about unconventional warfare was that it was unpredictable. On a mission such as this, it was expected that he would adapt, overcome, and adjust to any changes in circumstances.
He looked behind him, counting heads. Eight Spetsnaz were up and moving, a few of them shaking off minor injuries. He checked their faces, noting the look of cold resolve in each man’s eyes. He nodded. Commanding men such as these, he could do nothing less than his best.
He gave the signal, and the Spetsnaz commandos dispersed, creeping ever closer to the small, abandoned group. When they were ten feet away, more or less, they arranged themselves on the ground. Rogov heard low moans start to issue, more inviting evidence of injured allies for the Americans. He rearranged his face in an expression of pain, found a convenient ice spire to drape himself over, and moaned. In truth, there was not much pain he had to simulate, since the aerial bombardment had shaken him up badly, giving him a few additional bruises. He grimaced. All the better for realism. Injuries, but nothing so serious as to slow them down.
He looked down at the old Inuit lying at his feet. Better to let him live for now, use him to support the deception. If he could keep the helo’s crew focused on the injured old man and his obviously Inuit features, they might miss any clues to the real identity of the rest of the supposed natives.
But the SEAL? Where was he? Rogov scanned the landscape around him quickly, looking for his other prisoner, then made a rapid time-distance calculation. There wasn’t time to look for him, not and make the airlift quickly. Furthermore, the American SEAL would surely have given them away at the very first opportunity. A loose end, and one that he would have eliminated quickly if the man had been in sight.
No time. Rogov shrugged. The hostile land would kill the man as quickly as a bullet, although he would have preferred the reassurance of the latter to the former.
If they had the chance, the Americans would kill him for this, he knew. There would be no trial, no investigation, no complicated legal maneuverings. A quick death sentence, one that the SEAL’s teammates would impose the moment they knew what had happened.
But then again, they wouldn’t be given that opportunity. Rogov had other plans immediately following his arrival on board USS Jefferson.
“Tomcat Two-oh-one, say state,” the operations specialist on board Jefferson inquired anxiously.
Bird Dog glanced down at the fuel indicator and swore quietly. Between the exhilaration of the attack and checking for icing on the wings, he’d forgotten the most basic safety in flight protocols. His fuel was now creeping dangerously low, his reserves sapped by the extended time at afterburners necessary to escape the target site.
“Three point two,” he answered calmly. “Might be nice to get a drink before we try to get back on board.”
“Roger,” the OS said, and gave the vector to the KA-6 tanker.
“Got plenty of gas for one pass,” Gator said. “But I agree — no point in taking any chances.”
Bird Dog laughed. “That’s not what you said five minutes ago,” he said, an injured tone in his voice.
“Intercept with the tanker in two mikes,” the TAO reported to TFCC. “And the SAR helicopter is airborne now, en route to the island. Medical is standing by.”
Tombstone settled into the elevated brown leatherette chair in TFCC and studied the screen carefully. Injuries — it was to be expected. But according to the SEAL team reports, there were enough uninjured men to attempt penetration of the intruder fortress. The avalanche had decimated the forces sufficiently to allow them to proceed, and they were on track to evacuate the wounded immediately, absolutely imperative in this climate. He shook his head, wondering why he had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Aside from the dare-devil maneuvers of the young Tomcat pilot — he almost smiled, remembering the stunts Bird Dog had pulled on their last cruise when Tombstone had been in command of the carrier group — things had gone pretty much as planned. Why, then, couldn’t he relax?
“Too long out of the saddle,” he said out loud, to no one in particular.
“Sir?” the TFCC TAO said, turning to look back at him.
Tombstone flushed. “Nothing,” he muttered, swearing silently. What the hell was this, voicing the random concerns and thoughts that flitted through every commander’s mind? Had he been away from real operations for too long?
“How long until the SAR helicopter arrives?” He asked to cover his embarrassment.
“One minute, Admiral,” the TAO said crisply. “They should be back on board in five minutes.” The TAO glanced back at him curiously.
“Very well.” Tombstone willed himself to sit still and concentrate on the screen. Whatever niggling concerns were in the back of his mind, no one else seemed to share them.
“Got a visual,” Bird Dog said. He pulled back on the throttle, slowing the Tomcat to rendezvous speed. “A quick plug, a fast drink, and we’re out of here,” he said over tactical.
“Gee, Bird Dog, you’re a cheap date,” the female copilot of the tanker quipped. “Might want to do something about that. I hear they’ve got all sorts of solutions for that sort of male problem these days.”
Gator laughed, while Bird Dog fumbled for a smart-ass reply.
The helicopter hovered overhead, kicking up snow and ice in the downdraft of its powerful rotors. Huerta swore and motioned it up. The pilot complied, and the draft, only slightly less gusting than the whiteout storm, abated slightly. “You the guys who called for a ride home?” his radio crackled. “Where do you want the pickup, here or down on level ground?”
Huerta glanced up at the helicopter, thinking it through. Of the ten men around him, all but Morning Eagle were moving around well enough to get down the slope, even with the clutter of debris that now covered it.
“On the flat,” he decided. He motioned to the men and trotted over. “Let’s get him down there,” he said, pointing to Morning Eagle. The two men grunted something unintelligible and started fashioning a rough structure out of tent fragments and ski poles.
Huerta spared a few moments to appraise their gear. Good solid stuff, he thought, one part of his mind coldly evaluating its tactical usefulness. Moments later, Morning Eagle was slung over the stretcher, strapped down by more torn fragments of tent. “Let’s go,” he ordered. He took point, leading the small band through a relatively flat part of the debris.
