orgy in the handler’s office before the JAST bird returned from its
mission, if he’d given it the slightest reason to.
0950 Local
East End, Aflu
White Wolf’s grandson studied the sky. The gods were cooperating, it
appeared. Low, scudding clouds rolled in from the north, ominously low to
the wind-lashed sea. At the horizon, the clouds and the sea were the same
color, a dull, white-gray, featureless wall. Soon, he knew, the storm
would blow in, driving visibility to barely two feet. They had to be off
the cliffs by then, or the entire plan would have to be scuttled.
Or worse, he thought grimly. The small group had no way of
communicating with the aircraft inbound from the American ship. If the
fighter-bomber pilot thought he could complete the mission, he would,
assuming that all of the ground forces had cleared the area in accordance
with the plan. He’d never really see the small band of Inuits and SEALs
trapped on the cliffs in the whiteout.
All the more reason to get to it, and get to it quickly. He turned
and motioned Senior Chief Huerta up to the front of the line.
“Here,” he said, pointing at a deep rift in the jagged ice. “A
fracture line.”
The SEAL studied the narrow chasm thoughtfully. “Might could do it
with explosives,” he suggested.
The Inuit shook his head. “We’d get a surface shear. Sure, a lot of
debris would rain down, but that’s not nearly what we’re aiming for. Is
it?” It was his turn to study the other man carefully.
The two of them were about the same age, which should have given them
a good deal in common. And it did, the Alaskan native decided, although he
didn’t know if the other man would understand that. Family, phases of
life, the way they coped with their harsh environment–while the SEAL may
have seen more of the world than the island-bound native, the harsh
realities of the sea and ice were the same for both. No amount of
training, experience, or philosophy could change that.
“No, we need more force,” he continued. He pointed down at the slope
in front of him. “See that? I want the forward thirty feet of this cliff
to shear off.”
“Okay, You’re the expert around here.” Huerta trudged back to his
knapsack, motioning his men around him. Together, they carefully unpacked
the array of sophisticated targeting laser devices they were carrying.
They fanned out around the area, each one carrying one of the precious
target designators. Ten minutes later, all four devices were pointed in
different locations, each one throwing a red spot on the edge of the rift.
The SEALs rejoined the natives, and both took a moment to proudly
survey their handiwork. “They’ll be dropping dumb bombs, but these laser
pointers will give them a damned clear landmark.” He gestured at the
spires and jagged outcroppings of rock around them. “Without this, all
this terrain looks too much alike. Hell, the target point isn’t even
visible until you break out over that last ridge.”
Finally, Morning Eagle glanced up at the sky again. “We leave now,”
he said forcefully. “We have maybe thirty minutes.”
“I expect you’re right. And I don’t wanna take the chance that you
aren’t.”
Morning Eagle took point, and carefully began retracing his path to
the east, over the harshest surfaces of the icy environment.
Even for the Inuits, accustomed to this terrain, it was tough going.
Twenty minutes later, all the men were soaked with sweat inside their
protective gear. To stop now would be suicide. Only their body heat kept
the sweat from freezing into an icy, killing sheen of ice. They trudged
on, their breathing becoming more labored, heavy droplets of moisture
fogging the air as they panted.
Finally, they reached the edge of the ice floe and started their way
downward. Ten minutes later, they were gathered around the small boats the
Inuits had provided.
The SEAL senior chief glanced up at the sky again. “Do we start back
to your island now?”
Morning Eagle shook his head. “Too late.” He pointed at one massive
billow now ten degrees off their vertical. “Whiteout before we’re halfway