range. With a little luck, White Wolf’s man and the southern patrol would
be near the rocks at the same time, another consistency in their patrol
patterns they had not yet puzzled out. The two group leaders had agreed
that the veteran would determine the time for the attack, based on when his
more predictable prey was within range. At the first sign of difficulties
on the southern area, White Wolf would order his men to attack.
He looked back over his shoulder and motioned the two men behind him
to move forward. In addition to their shotguns, each one carried a bow and
arrow, a relic of times long past. But despite modern technology, most of
the men maintained at least some proficiency in the old way of the hunt,
just in case. Who knew when the shipments of weaponry and ammunition from
the mainland would suddenly cease, throwing the Inuit tribes back into
their own way of life? Without the old knowledge, the ways of the hunt and
the stalk, the secrets of silent killing, they could not have survived.
Their quarry was now reaching the westernmost point in his patrol
area, and would shortly begin the return trip to the rocks. White Wolf saw
the men flex their arms, keeping the muscles loose and the blood flowing.
They had already drawn three arrows each out of their quiver and placed
them in the snow alongside. No point in moving while the man was close and
risk alerting him.
Just before the patrol turned back to the west, White Wolf risked a
glance up over the rocks. He scanned the southern edge of the cliffs
carefully, searching for any sign of the other group. He almost smiled.
Wherever they were, it was beyond the ability of his old eyes to find them.
How much more difficult for the Russians it would be.
1045 Local
Tomcat 201
“Watch for icing,” Gator warned as the Tomcat passed through seven
thousand feet. “When you hit that cloud bank, you’re going to pick up some
moisture on the wings.”
“Already thinking about it,” Bird Dog answered cheerfully. “Don’t
worry, we’ll go through those clouds so fast you’ll never even know we were
there.”
“And that worries me almost as much,” Gator muttered darkly.
The Tomcat’s nose dropped through fifty degrees, picking up airspeed
as it did so. The dark night sky, speckled with stars and thin ribbons of
the aurora borealis streaking across it, suddenly disappeared. As Bird Dog
dove through the cloud layer, a dark nothingness surrounded the cockpit,
pressing in on the two aviators. Gator fiddled nervously with the gain
control on the radar, and could almost feel the icy crystals trying to
creep through some small gap in the canopy and collect on the wings.
Five seconds later, they broke out of it. In the utter darkness of
arctic night, it was more of a feeling of being free of the clouds than an
actual change in visibility. With their regular navigational lights off,
the F-14 was virtually invisible.
“Well, at least they can hear us,” Bird Dog said. “We’re at three
thousand feet.”
“The tallest of those cliffs is at two thousand,” Gator reminded him.
“Screaming through on the radar. Come left ten degrees to avoid them.”
“Roger.” Bird Dog made the course correction snappily, reveling in
the quick response of the Tomcat. “Just testing the flight surfaces,” he
said hastily. “That would be the first sign, some sluggishness in how she
handles on the turns.”
“Yeah, right.” Gator tried to remember if Bird Dog had ever avoided
making a sharp turn when a gradual one would do. He bent over his radar,
carefully watching the quickly approaching cliffs. It never hurt to be too
careful. Sure, the altimeter said they were at least three thousand feet,
but altimeters had been known to malfunction, so he kept his eyes glued to
the highest peaks.
If it hadn’t been for his paranoia, he might have missed the first
sign. As it was, the short, quick blip on the highly capable look-down
radar sent a jolt of alarm screaming up his back. The message transmitted
itself to his mind and mouth before he had time to consciously process it.