If the truth be known, he admitted to himself, the men didn’t really need
him on this mission. They were more than capable of handling every aspect
of it alone. Still, it was a matter of pride for the SEAL officer corps to
be able to get down and dirty with the best of their enlisted men. Since
Sikes’s cold-weather experience was limited, he’d made it a point to come
along on this mission to watch the chief in action. Nothing beat firsthand
experience, and what he learned on this relatively simple expedition might
save his life later. You never knew, he thought, shaking his head, just
what bit of arcane, novel or trivial fact made the difference between
success and failure. And for the SEAL team, the latter outcome was
completely unacceptable.
And to be working with Admiral Wayne again on board Jefferson made his
current assignment as Officer in Charge of the Jefferson’s SEAL detachment
all the more satisfying. The admiral understood Special Forces, Sikes
reflected, watching the senior chief move easily around the bobbing
platform. And, as a matter of fact, Sikes took credit for that.
Four years earlier, one of then-Commander Wayne’s squadron mates,
Lieutenant Commander Willie “Coyote” Grant, had been shot down on a mission
over Korea. Captured and tortured by the North Korean forces, only the
intervention of a SEAL team made his escape possible. And although he’d
been a boot lieutenant at the time, Sikes had been part of it. Senior
Chief Huerta had personally snatched Coyote out of the firing zone.
Not that Coyote hadn’t done a damned fine job of working his way over
to the extraction point, he remembered. He might even have made it the
entire way alone. They’d never know for sure, and as far as Sikes was
concerned, Admiral Wayne would never have to worry about this SEAL team.
The day he’d checked on board, Admiral Wayne had made it damned clear that
he remembered the SEALs that had pulled Coyote’s butt out of the fire.
So if Admiral Wayne wanted to know who the Radio Shack junkies were on
some piece of rock and ice in the middle of the ocean, Sikes was damned
happy to go find out.
1500 Local
Kiska
“Another one,” Morning Eagle announced.
White Wolf looked up from the radio, concern furrowing his broad,
smooth face. “Two days, two sets of invaders.” He shook his head,
straining to catch the high-pitched squeal of a powerful outboard motor in
the distance.
“More Russians?” Morning Eagle asked.
“Does it matter?”
The younger man nodded his agreement. The alien mainlanders, with
their hurried, strange ways and their lack of understanding of the islands,
were as foreign to the Inuits as the Russians were. It made little
difference to the natives of the island chain which set of masters claimed
dominion over their territory. The harsh environment was their first
taskmaster, the scrabble to remain alive in these hostile surroundings a
more constant threat than the political ambitions of those from warmer
climates. Voting in the white man’s political system or bowing to the
peremptory dictates of a Russian comrade had little effect on that.
“The Americans will come. I’m certain of it,” White Wolf said
finally. “And if they don’t-” He shrugged, indicating that no matter what,
the tribe would continue.
“You called them.” The younger man looked questioningly at his elder.
“Why?”
The older man stared at the horizon, listening as the sound of the
quickly approaching engine deepened to a fierce growl. “Many years ago,
there was a man,” he said reflectively. “The mainlanders–you know what
I’ve said about them.” He cast a sidelong glance at the younger man to
make sure he was paying attention.
The young man nodded. “Not to trust them. That we were no more than
enslaved tribes to them.”
White Wolf nodded. “Yes, that’s true for most of them. But I made a
promise to one man–a man I found I could trust–so many years ago. A
promise, it’s a sacred thing. You give your word, that’s the most that you
have to give any other man. Do you understand?”
Morning Eagle looked doubtful. “I suppose so. Even to a white man, a