along Sikes’s head, while the other jerked his arms around him and bound
his wrists with something rough, slipping it under his gloves and white
parka. Even with that brief exposure to the frigid air, the skin on his
wrists started to ache.
The man who’d bound his arms then yanked him to his feet, pulling the
arms almost out of his shoulder sockets. Sikes repressed a groan. To show
weakness this early–that couldn’t help.
A phalanx of men surrounded him, pressing close in. The urge to
strike back, to lash out with his legs, was almost overpowering. He forced
himself to stay calm and think. To attack any one of them now would be
fatal. He might kill or seriously disable one, but the other multitudes
would kill him. Quickly, he hoped, although he suspected that would not be
the case after looking at their faces.
From the little he could see under the heavy-weather gear, the men
bore a striking resemblance to each other, almost as though they were from
the same family. High, bronzed cheekbones, narrow, almond-shaped eyes, and
dark coarse hair peeking out from under their caps were the common
denominators. They were alike in physique as well, broad in the shoulders,
slightly shorter than the average American, and giving the impression of
being heavily muscled.
Who the hell were these fellows? he wondered. He studied them again,
trying to find any identifying mark, but each man wore the same solid white
anonymous gear that he had on himself. A few differences in the
manufacturing, perhaps. He saw metal zippers poking out along several
pockets, a few ragged tears and rips that would have been immediately
repaired in American forces, but evidently these men were not as careful
with their gear. For what it was worth, that was a mistake. Above all
things, SEALs are fanatical about their equipment. Too often their lives
hang in the balance, depending on the reliability of a boat engine, the
tensile strength of a nylon rope, or on the comprehensive and completely
updated information on a routine chart. Had Sikes seen similar signs of
wear on his own men’s gear, he would have had serious doubts about their
qualifications to be a Navy SEAL.
He filed the fact away, along with the observation that there were no
identifying marks of any kind on the clothing–not names, unit insignia, or
even a country flag. Curious, but clearly indicative of the fact that
these men were professionals. Wherever they came from, however they were
trained, at least that much they had in common with the American forces.
A few of the men exchanged short phrases, but for the most part the
group maintained tactical silence. Seeing that he did not understand, one
motioned Sikes forward with his rifle, supplementing his instructions with
another shove in the back. Sikes stumbled, then fell into a slow walk. A
rifle butt prodded him in the ass, urging him to hurry. He feigned a
stunned, disbelieving face, and stumbled slightly as he walked, hoping to
convince them that he was in worse shape than he was. In reality, except
for the now-fading ache under his shoulder blade, and the strength-sapping
cold, he was in adequate shape.
The man who was in charge snapped out another set of orders, and three
of the men traded a look universal to all military men–the look of disgust
and disbelief when assigned some task they believe is below their
capabilities. Without argument, they turned and walked back to SEAL 3’s
body. The tallest of the three men handed his own pack over to a comrade,
then slung the SEAL’s body over his shoulder. The ease with which he moved
indicated massive upper body strength, a fact concealed by the heavy winter
clothing. Another fact in the database, Sikes thought. He walked for
fifteen minutes toward the base of the cliffs he’d seen from sea. Just
when he was actually beginning to feel the chill he’d been feigning for
those minutes, they all arrived at the base. Sikes studied the scree line
at the base of the cliff, and then noticed the dark rectangle set into the
base. He shook his head, wondering if he were in worse shape than he