CARRIER 9: ARCTIC FIRE By: Keith Douglass

White Wolf, regarding the groups, would have to be in their ability to move

undetected across the land. No mainlander–and that included

Russians–could match that. Weapons were fine, but it was getting close

enough to use them that was the real problem.

The young veteran returned to his side. “I still think you should

stay here,” he said, continuing an argument from the night before. “it

will be dangerous.”

That was exactly the wrong argument to make. White Wolf drew himself

tall, feeling the old vertebrae creak and complain with the effort. “I

gave my word,” he said quietly. He held his hands out before him, spread

them open. “Do you think I have a choice?”

His grandson sighed. “I suppose not. But for God’s sake, don’t take

any chances.”

White Wolf glanced at the seven other men clustering around him. Most

of them were at least twenty years his junior, a few even younger, one

almost as old. All in all, good men, made strong by the forces of nature

they contended with daily.

He jerked to the north with his head, and set off across the rough

terrain without waiting to see if they followed.

1015 Local

Tomcat 201

“I’d say hell would freeze over before they decide what to do, but

that would be a bad choice of words in this case,” Bird Dog said.

Gator sighed. “You think every problem can be solved with

five-hundred-pound bombs?”

“No, of course not. Sometimes you want to use your

two-thousand-pounder,” Bird Dog snapped. “But there’s not a damned air

contact within five hundred miles of this place, according to E-2. And as

close as Jefferson is to this island, we could be pulling Alert, sitting on

the deck waiting for them to show up, instead of stuck in some miserable

orbit overhead.”

“What if the E-2 doesn’t hold it until it’s too late?”

“Like that will happen,” Bird Dog snorted.

“Okay, how about this?” Gator asked, tired of the argument. “We drop

down to five thousand feet, take a quick visual on the island. Then we

come back up and do what CAG wants for a change. That make you happy?”

Bird Dog nodded, knowing his backseater could see the gesture. “I’d

feel more like I knew what was going on if I could at least take a look at

the island occasionally. But with our cloud layer, it’s gonna be more like

three thousand feet instead of five thousand. You up for that?”

“Just don’t run me into a cliff, Bird Dog. That’s all I ask this

trip.”

1020 Local

Aflu

Cover was scant as White Wolf led his men down to the base of the

cliffs. Twenty feet from the main cliff base, it degenerated into little

more than a series of rocky protuberances from the ice, boulders barely

waist-high. He crept forward as far as he dared, then dropped to the

ground and waited. Behind him, he heard his men moving into position.

Hours of observation had revealed the fact that the northern patrol

was a relatively predictable, if otherwise diligent, watch-stander. His

approach to maintaining security consisted of walking east and west along

the northern half of the island, occasionally glancing around, and making

regular radio reports. It took him approximately thirty minutes to reach

the end of the island, surveil the sea, and then commence the return trip.

As his back was turned while he was heading west, White Wolf took advantage

of his relatively infrequent observances to move the men into position.

The veteran would have the harder time of it, he thought, feeling the

cold start to creep into his belly. The southern intruder patrol had

appeared to be far more unpredictable, varying the times at which he

started his rounds, and occasionally stopping to carefully surveil all 360

degrees around him. Twice in the last five hours he hadn’t even continued

on to the end of the island, but had instead unexpectedly doubled back on

his path. For the veteran, that meant a shorter time period to get his men

in position.

There was one constant in both men’s routines, however. At some point

during their circuit of their area, each one moved back to within assault

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