carefully.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. Especially with these EW–electronic
warfare–signals that keep cropping up. Too many unexplained oddities in
this tactical world.”
“I’m staying heads up on the ESM gear, sir,” the technician replied.
“And the frequency they reported is well within our capabilities. If
somebody’s talking down there, we’ll know it.”
1600 Local
Aflu
“They landed, cleaned the fish they’d caught, ate, then left,” the
commando reported.
“And your men weren’t seen?” Rogov demanded.
The Spetsnaz officer shook his head. “There was no sign of it. The
men were well hidden in the cliffs, and the natives left immediately after
they’d eaten.”
“Then why did they come ashore at all?”
The commando shrugged. “Who knows why these people do anything?
Maybe their gods told them to; maybe one of them had to take a crap. All I
can tell you is that they came, they left. I’ve left two men on watch
there, but we won’t be able to keep that up forever. The hike across the
cliffs takes too long.”
“Keep me advised.”
Rogov stared up at the clear sky, which was already starting to darken
as the short day ended. At this latitude, there were no more than a few
hours of daylight out of every twenty-four. Dismal living conditions,
especially when the frequent winter storms obscured even those few hours of
sunlight. He shook his head, marveling at the strength of his ancestors
who survived the long march across this land bridge to enter the North
American continent.
He snugged the cold weather parka more closely around his face and
readjusted the wool scarf covering his mouth and nose. After only a few
hours ashore, his goggles were already slightly pitted from the blowing ice
crystals. A thin tracery of ice had taken hold around the edge of one
lens. He considered taking the goggles off long enough to clean them, but
the memory of the sharp cold that had bitten into his face last time he
tried that dissuaded him.
The Spetsnaz commander had been absolutely insistent on the importance
of maintaining an outside watch, and rightly so. Rogov was tempted to
remove himself from the watch rotation, but in the end decided that he
would take his turn in order to assert his equal standing among the small
band of trained killers he commanded. He shook his head as he turned
around, scanning the horizon and air above him. Two days ago, he hadn’t
known he’d be worried about that.
Living under Aflu conditions was already proving more harshly draining
than he ever dreamed possible. Subsisting on field rations, trying to
catch a few shivering hours of sleep in the dank cave, and pushing the men
to complete the foundations for the weapons systems had taken more out of
him than he thought possible. Was it possible, he wondered, that he’d been
a fool to insist on supervising this mission personally? At forty-eight
years of age, he was a good fifteen years older than the most senior
Spetsnaz here. How significant that was hadn’t shown up until he’d come
ashore.
Somehow, the Spetsnaz seemed to thrive under the hostile, alien
conditions. The danger, cold, and deprivation just seemed to bring a
gleefully unholy look to their eyes. Nothing bothered them, not even the
small section of ice cave crumbling in on them last night, almost landing
on Rogov. He’d cried out, he remembered, when the first slabs of ice had
hit his sleeping bag. The disdain in the other men’s eyes had been
evident.
Off on the horizon, the thin traces of color were already deepening,
evidence of the approaching dark. A flicker of movement caught his eye.
He squinted. Had he seen something or was it just–no, there it was again,
barely visible against the gloom.
He raised the radio to his lips, then paused. If it were a military
aircraft, he ran the risk of its detecting the radio transmission. Better
to be safe, he decided, and tucked the radio back into the oversize pocket
on his parka. He turned and moved quickly toward the entrance to the ice
cave.
The Spetsnaz were assembled and standing together as he entered the