CARRIER 9: ARCTIC FIRE By: Keith Douglass

their more modern weapons.

Two Inuit warriors fell, and rolled in crumpled balls along the rough

ice. Brief anguish tore at White Wolf, to be replaced almost instantly by

a sinking feeling. Instead of being blinded by the light, the men seemed

to be as capable of functioning immediately after the flares went out as

his men were. Spread out in a long line, armed with shotguns that had seen

better days, the Inuits were no match for the Russian Spetsnaz.

Kalishnikovs barked, and three more men fell.

The remaining two Inuits cast an uncertain look back up at the cliffs,

then decided that retreat was the better part of valor. They turned their

backs on the Russians and scrambled for the rocks, moving as fast as

possible in that landscape. White Wolf watched them approach, anguish and

hope warring in his heart. Ten more feet and they could–another man fell,

rolled in the snow, and fetched up against the boulder that had been his

destination. The remaining lone figure streaked across the landscape,

finally reaching the safety of the rocks. From forty feet away, White Wolf

could see the man crouch behind a hefty outcropping, his heaving chest

detectable even under the heavy garments.

Looking to the south, White Wolf could see the bright spatter of

gunfire marking the darkness, evidence of the southern battle mirroring his

own. In the sudden light of one spate of weapon fire, he finally got a

close look at the face of the Spetsnaz commando. Instead of seeing broad,

Slavic features so like his own, he saw an insect face, complete with

protruding eyeballs and jet-black shiny carapace. For the briefest second,

old legends about giant insects flashed through his mind. Then he realized

what he was seeing.

Night vision goggles. He groaned, now heedless of the noise. The men

approaching would be half-deafened by the gunfire anyway, and there seemed

no other way to let out the hard, cold feeling creeping through his body.

He heard sharp, guttural commands snapped, and the team of fifteen

soldiers approached the cliffs warily, weapons at ready.

The sole survivor, crouched behind the rock, looked up at White Wolf.

Their eyes locked, and something wordless passed between them.

The lead Spetsnaz raised his weapon, took careful aim, and fired.

Instead of the sharp report of gunfire, White Wolf heard only a muffled

whoosh. Grenade-launcher, he thought despairingly. He hunkered down

behind his own rock, knowing that the man below him was doomed.

Thirty minutes later, as the Spetsnaz patrol caught up with him among

the icy spires, he put himself in the same category.

USS Jefferson

“How the hell can they be under fire?” Batman growled. “They’re over

American soil.”

“That’s what Bird Dog reported, Admiral,” the IAU said. He shook his

head, puzzled. “Unless it’s Greenpeace–they’ve been known to get militant

at times.”

“I refuse to believe that Greenpeace is taking on the United States

Navy. Get me some other options.” Batman stomped out and headed for CVIC.

Maybe Lab Rat had some other ideas.

Aflu

The Spetsnaz, herded White Wolf roughly over to the far wall of the

ice cave. They trussed his arms and legs, and shoved him over against

Sikes.

The two prisoners regarded each other gravely. Old black eyes, shiny

as obsidian, stared into pale blue ones. In that look, they each saw

something they could respect in the other. Finally, Sikes nodded. “We

wait for our chance,” he murmured, his lips barely moving.

As careful as he’d been, one of the Spetsnaz overheard the exchange.

He turned on them, and waved his Kalishnikov menacingly. The interpreter

hurried over. “No talk, no talk,” he said sternly.

Sikes shrugged and tried to look bored.

The Inuit moved closer to him, as though trying to pool his body

warmth with Sikes’s to fight off the cold. He twisted his hands behind him

and touched the SEAL’s arm. Tap-tap-tap. Sikes tried to maintain his

bored expression as he considered the pattern of the taps. Was it–yes,

indeed it was. Somehow, somewhere, this old native man had learned Morse

code. And damned well; he had a feel for it. Now, if he could only recall

his own training four years ago in BUDS.

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