lapped at the frigid coast, he had no desire to let the normal develop into
the unusual. Survival times were nil in the water, and land was too far
away to reach if they had a problem.
“Well, let’s sneak in another two thousand yards,” the copilot
suggested. “What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway?”
The pilot considered the request for a moment, then nodded. The range
of a Stinger missile was no greater than two miles. Staying five miles
away from the island provided an exceptional margin of safety, one that was
tactically unnecessary. While he appreciated CAG’s concern, there was no
point in burning fuel if they couldn’t bring back data.
“Just anything out of the ordinary,” the pilot answered. “Something
too small for a fast mover like an S-3 to see. And I agree with
you–hanging around out here, we’re not of any use. Just a little bit
closer.”
“Fine with me. It’s damned cold out here, anyway. Maybe the pucker
factor will warm me up some.”
The pilot smiled grimly. “Oh, it will do just that,” he said softly,
remembering his days on patrol in Bosnia and the no-fly zone in Iran.
Then, the mere hint of a Stinger missile was enough to raise the sweat
level on any mission by a factor of ten. And rightfully so. “Let’s just
keep a heads-up on this. The first indication of a launch will probably be
visual. I fly the aircraft, you keep up the visual scan. Got it?”
The copilot nodded.
1435 Local
Aflu
“You hear that?” Sikes tapped out on White Wolf’s hand. “Helicopter.”
White Wolf tapped back the sign for interrogatory, and shot him a
puzzled look.
Sikes closed his eyes and listened carefully. It was difficult to
tell. The mass of ice surrounding the cavern was an effective
sound-deadening barrier, but he thought he heard–yes, he was certain of
it. He risked a slight nod, which White Wolf saw.
“U.S.?” White Wolf asked.
Sikes tipped his head slightly. It was, he was certain, a Seahawk.
Barely audible, somewhere off in the distance, but he thought he could hear
the distinctive whop-whop of the SAR helicopter at the edge of his
perception.
But maybe not. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, an auditory
hallucination born of desperate hope. He glanced around the ice cavern
again. Ten armed Spetsnaz were scattered about the space, and another
thirty were outside. He let his gaze rest on the leader of the group, the
short, stocky man. For some reason, he didn’t appear to fit with the other
ones. Not that something was wrong with him–he was clearly in command of
this cadre–but there was something that set him apart. There was a
difference–not military, he realized suddenly, that’s what it was. Though
all the men were dressed alike, and possessed the same short haircut and
broad features, there was something about their leader that was missing.
Some difference in bearing, and the way that he spoke, that marked him as
one whose life had not been shaped by the constant demands of doctrine.
Did it make a difference? He wasn’t certain. At this point, it was
just another fact, another data point in the hostile environment around
him.
“We have to get out,” he tapped quickly, feeling the determination run
straight from his gut to his fingertips. As his fingers rested lightly on
the old, wrinkled brown skin of the man next to him, he considered their
odds. One man–no, two, he corrected himself–against the forty trained
Special Forces men there. And their leader. He considered that fact
again, wondering why it struck him as so important.
1430 Local
Seahawk 601
From fifteen hundred yards away, the island looked almost as
featureless and impassive as it had from five miles. Except for a few
additional contours and shadows in the cresting rocks, they might as well
have stayed well outside of Stinger range. The pilot glanced at his
companion. Their eyes met, and the copilot nodded. A grim smile spread
across the face of the pilot. Whatever else he had to say about his
copilot, it would never be that the man lacked balls. In that department,