“Sergeant Bojorquez, would you accompany me, please?” Roman called out.
A bull-shaped man with black eyes and prematurely gray hair threw down the side of a crate, then walked over and joined Roman. The Army captain strode off toward an elevated ridge that ran along one side of the landing zone.
“Nice clear night, sir,” Bojorquez said.
“Clear and cold as a penguin’s butt,” Roman replied, grimacing in the ten-degree temperature. He had spent his youth in Hawaii and still hadn’t adjusted to cold weather despite years of Arctic training.
“Could be worse,” Bojorquez said, flashing a set of bright white teeth. “At least it ain’t snowing.”
They hiked up the ridge, stepping over and through rough sections of ice that crunched drily under their boots. Reaching the crest, they peered across a gentle slope of uneven ice that stretched down the opposite side. The inky black waters of Coronation Gulf rippled a mile away, while two miles beyond twinkled the lights of Kugluktuk. Dropped from a low-flying C-130 out of Eielson Air Force Base in Fairbanks, Roman and his team had been sent in to seize and extract the crew of the Polar Dawn on a mission authorized by the President.
“What’s your assessment? ” Roman asked, staring at the small town’s lights.
The sergeant was a twenty-year man, having served in Somalia and Iraq before being recruited into the elite Delta Forces. Like most of the members of the Arctic unit, he had served multiple tours in the rugged mountains of Afghanistan.
“Satellite recon looks pretty accurate. That plateau’s not too chewed up,” he said, motioning behind them toward the drop zone. “We’ll get a decent runway cleared, no problem.”
He gazed down toward the gulf waters and raised an arm. “That stretch to the drink is a little longer than I’d like to see.”
“My concern as well,” Roman replied. “We’ve got such short nightfall, I hate to think of the darkness we’ll lose just getting the boats into the water.”
“No reason we can’t get a head start tonight, Captain.”
Roman looked at his watch, then nodded. “Get the Zodiacs down as far as you can before daybreak and cover them up. We might as well burn some energy tonight, since we have a long day of rest tomorrow.”
Under the remaining cover of darkness, the small commando team hustled across the ice like rabbits on adrenaline. The men of Green Squad quickly took up the task of carving out an ice runway capable of supporting a pair of CV-22 Ospreys, which would be their ticket out. The drop zone had been selected for just that reason, offering a flat plateau hidden from view yet within striking distance of Kugluktuk. Though the tilt-rotor Ospreys were capable of a vertical landing and takeoff, safety concerns with the fickle Arctic weather prompted orders that they be deployed conventionally. The soldiers measured and marked a narrow, five-hundred-foot path across the ice, then put the minibulldozers to work. Powered for silent running, the tiny machines furiously scraped and shoved the ice until a crude landing strip began to take shape.
At the edge of the runway, the Blue Squad hacked a small enclosure into the ice, which partially concealed a half dozen white bivouac tents that served as shelter. Once the camp was complete, the soldiers set about inflating the rubber Zodiacs, each boat large enough to carry twenty men, then the boats were placed on aluminum sled runners for transport over the ice.
Roman and Bojorquez lent a hand to the four men of Blue Squad as they pushed the two boats across the ice. The southern sky was already beginning to lighten when they reached the crest of the ridge. Roman stopped and rested for a moment, eyeing the distant light of a ship crossing the gulf toward Kugluktuk. Urging the men to keep moving, they started down the slope. Despite the declining grade, they found the ice more jagged and coarse, making the going arduous. The forward runners often jammed into small crevices, requiring added exertion to pull free.
The inflatable boats had been pushed a half mile when the golden flames of the sun arced over the southeast horizon. The men fought to push the boats faster, knowing that premature exposure was the greatest risk to their mission. Yet Roman abandoned his plan to ditch the boats at first light and pushed the team forward.
It took a full hour before the exhausted men finally reached the shores of Coronation Gulf. Roman had the boats flipped upside down and concealed in a blanket of snow and ice. Hastily making their way back to camp, they found the landing strip completed by their cohorts. Roman made a quick inspection, then retired to his tent with a feeling of satisfaction. The mission preparations had gone without a hitch. When the long Arctic day passed, they would be ready to go.
50
The De Havilland otter touched down harshly on the flat ice runway, then taxied to a small block building with TUKTOYAKTUK painted in faded lettering on it. As the plane’s twin propellers ground to a halt, an airport worker in a thick orange jumpsuit jogged up and opened the side door, letting a blast of frigid air into the interior. Pitt waited at the back of the plane as the other passengers, mostly oil company employees, donned heavy jackets before exiting down the stairs. Eventually making his way off the plane, he was welcomed by a numbing gust that knocked the temperature several degrees below zero on the windchill factor.
Hustling toward the small terminal, he was nearly sideswiped by a rusty pickup truck that had crossed the runway and rattled to a stop in front of the door. A squat man hopped out, covered from head to foot in multiple layers of cold-weather gear. The bulky clothing gave him the effect of a giant walking pincushion.
“Would that be King Tut’s mummy or my Director of Underwater Technology buried under there?” Pitt asked as the man blocked his path.
The man yanked a scarf away from his jaw, revealing the staunch face of Al Giordino.
“It is I, your tropics-loving Director of Technology,” he replied. “Hop into my heated chariot before we both turn into Popsicles.”
Pitt grabbed his luggage off a cart headed toward the terminal and threw it into the open truck bed. Inside the terminal, a plain-looking woman with short hair stood by the window staring out at the two men. As they climbed into the truck, she walked to a pay phone in the terminal and promptly made a collect call to Vancouver.
Giordino shoved the truck into gear, then held his gloved hands in front of the heater vent as he stepped on the gas.
“The ship’s crew took a vote,” he said. “You owe us a cold-weather pay bonus plus a week’s vacation in Bora-Bora at the end of this job.”
“I don’t understand,” Pitt smiled. “The long summer days in the Arctic are renowned for their balmy weather.”
“It ain’t summer yet. The high was twelve degrees yesterday, and there’s another cold front moving our way. Which reminds me, did Rudi escape our winter wonderland successfully?”
“Yes. We missed each other in transit, but he phoned to tell me he was warmly ensconced back at NUMA headquarters.”
“He’s probably sipping mai tais along the banks of the Potomac this very moment just to spite me.”
The airfield was adjacent to the small town, and Giordino had only a few blocks to drive until reaching the waterfront docks. Located on the barren coast of the Northwest Territories, Tuktoyaktuk was a tiny Inuvialuit settlement that had grown into a small hub for regional oil and gas exploration.
The turquoise hull of the Narwhal came into view, and Giordino drove slightly past the vessel, parking the truck next to a building marked HARBORMASTER’S OFFICE. He returned the keys to the borrowed truck inside, then helped Pitt with his bags. Captain Stenseth and Jack Dahlgren were quick to greet Pitt as he boarded the NUMA ship.