always, but there was nothing in their code of conduct that demanded
suicide. For a brief moment, he wondered if he could somehow provoke them
into firing and shooting each other, since their fields of fire were not
limited by their formation, but decided against it. Slowly, he stood. He
faced the man closest to him, and dropped his weapon to the ground.
In the distance, he could see the two members of the other team moving
now, heading back toward the boat. Somehow, they’d managed to avoid the
attention of the parachuters.
While the lead man fixed his gun on Sikes, he heard another man bark
out rough commands. The group of parachuters quickly shed their gear and
assembled themselves into five-man teams, looking very much like American
SEALs in the way they moved and held themselves. He felt the chill bite
deeper, wondering if these were the famous Spetsnaz he’d heard of so many
times before but encountered only once.
He saw the men deploy in a standard search pattern. Off in the
distance, his teammates were just reaching the boat. He heard a man cry
out, and saw several start to run toward the boat, struggling to make
headway against the wind in their heavy winter garments. The lead pair of
parachuters stopped and raised their weapons. Gunfire cracked out again,
oddly muted by the wind.
He saw his men reach the boat and leap into it, one step behind the
lookout, who was already gunning the engine. The boat backed out, gaining
speed at an incredible rate. As soon as it was clear of the land, it
heeled sharply and pointed, bow out, to sea, quickly accelerating to its
maximum speed of eighty knots. He breathed a sigh of relief and glanced
down at his teammate. One dead, one captured, three alive. At least, if
the boat could evade gunfire, the report would make it back to the carrier.
As he stared at the grim face of the man approaching him, he realized that
that was more than he could expect to do.
White Wolf stared at the action below, motionless, not even flinching
at the harsh, chattering whine of the automatic weapon fire. Born and bred
to this land, familiar with every nuance of its territory, he was truly
invisible to the Spetsnaz infesting his terrain. He made a small motion to
his grandson, who approached and put his ear close to the old man’s mouth.
“See the mistakes they make?” the elder said quietly, his voice barely
a whisper. “The positioning, the noise–they know nothing of this land.”
The younger man swallowed nervously. “We are so close,” he said in
the same barely audible tones. “Your safety is important.”
The old man made a small movement with his mouth. “If I cannot evade
these men, then it is time for me to die,” he said. “These things–you see
how difficult it will be for the Americans when they come. These intruders
are already scattered about our land, and dislodging them without killing
the man they’ve taken will be impossible.”
“Better them than us,” the younger man said harshly. “And what
exactly have they given us? Taken our land, given diseases to our
people–why should we help the Americans?”
The old man gazed at him levelly, his eyes cold and proud. “My word.”
The younger man sighed. “Yes, yes, there is that.” He glanced back
down at the land below, moving his head slowly so as to be undetectable.
“What can we do? So many of them.”
“And so inexperienced,” the older man murmured. “They have many
lessons left to learn–and this one will not be pleasant.”
CHAPTER 9
Thursday, 29 December
1800 Local
Tomcat 201
“A fucking invasion,” Bird Dog breathed. “Oh, deep holy shit, Gator.”
“Don’t get happy with the weapons yet,” Gator said tightly. “Mother’s
having a fit on the other end. A MiG they know what to do with. Same
thing with a Bear. But an amphibious landing–or an airborne one–is a
little outside of our marching orders. The admiral’s on the circuit,
yelling that if we so much as twitch wrong we could start an international
incident.”
“Like the Russians haven’t?” Bird Dog asked. “Putting paratroopers on