him slightly, and he had to bend forward to keep his balance in the gusting
winds. Still, at least he could move. He opened one eye cautiously. The
whiteout was receding, and he could now see almost five feet in front of
him.
He scanned the landscape quickly. Crumpled against a rock, curled
into a small ball, was Morning Eagle. The Chief SEAL walked over, dropped
to his knees, and felt for a pulse. It pounded hard and strong under his
fingers, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He checked the man for injuries
quickly, a difficult process in the heavy winter parkas. Finally,
satisfied that there was no life-threatening damage, the SEAL stood. He
touched his pocket, felt the reassuring bulk of the hand-held radio. He
held it out, toggled it on, and started walking over toward the rift that
had been their aim point.
He took two steps, and then stopped short and gasped. Despite his
long experience with naval ordnance, the damage was astounding. The first
forty feet of the cliff had sheared off, cascading down the side of the
hill. They’d barely been far enough away to avoid being caught up in it.
He glanced back at Morning Eagle, wondering if the man would ever realize
how lucky they’d been. That was one damned fine pilot.
He lifted the radio to his mouth. “Jefferson, SEAL Team One,” he said
in the clear, hardly caring whether or not anyone else could hear them.
“Request medical evacuation. Assessment of bomb damage follows–on target,
on time. Out.”
With that done, he crossed back to Morning Eagle and sat down beside
him. Pulling his pistol out of his other pocket, he sat down to wait.
1035 Local
USS Jefferson
The Combat Direction Center exploded in wild cheers and victory cries.
The TAO stood up, glanced sternly around the spacious compartment, and
tried to frown disapprovingly. However, he couldn’t repress the mad
exultation coursing through his own body, and settled for a cursory wave of
his hand.
The chief sitting next to him took it in, his own rebel victory cry
just dying on his lips. “Let’s let them celebrate now, sir,” the chief
said. “You take your victories where you can get ’em.”
The TAO nodded and stared back at the large blue screen dominating the
forward half of the room. The small symbol for friendly aircraft separated
itself from the mass of land, and was tracking slowly back toward the
aircraft carrier. “You take your victories where you can get ’em,” he
echoed softly, and picked up the mike. There was one aircrew that was
going to be doing just that in a matter of seconds.
1050 Local
Aflu
“Hang in there, buddy,” Huerta said softly. He patted Morning Eagle
on the arm gently. In the last few minutes, the man’s breathing had gotten
deeper and more stentorian. Although his pulse was still strong, Huerta
was gravely worried about the condition of the young native. “They’ll be
comin’ for us soon–you wait. We don’t ever leave our friends behind. Not
ever.”
Huerta stared at the horizon, now growing dark as the sun crept down
below it, hoping that the SAR aircraft would make it out in time.
CHAPTER 13
Friday, 30 December
1100 Local
Aflu
Rogov crept through the massive jumble of ice blocks, barely daring to
breathe. The explosion had shaken him, much more than he anticipated.
While it had seemed reasonable that the Americans might attempt something
like this, the sheer magnitude of the avalanche and the deafening noise had
shaken him.
He heard voices, maybe thirty yards off. He ran his hands over
himself one more time, checking to see that he was intact and that his
identification had been removed. He took a deep breath, then another.
While the loss of the twenty-eight Spetsnaz commandos clustered at the base
of the cliff meant nothing to him personally, it presented some tactical
problems. He’d counted on being able to pass more of them off as injured
Inuits, at least enough to simultaneously take the bridge and Combat and
the admiral’s quarters. He shook his head. The only predictable thing
about unconventional warfare was that it was unpredictable. On a mission