Rogov turned to him and almost smiled. He raised one finger and waggled it at the executive officer in one of his sudden changes of mood that so unnerved the crew. “You’re making two assumptions, both of which are wrong. First, that there will be more than one aircraft in the area. As of now, we have indications of only one. And second, if there is only one aircraft, you’re assuming that the shot will miss.”
“But with a new system, op-tested only once and still in prototype stage-” the executive officer began.
Rogov cut him off with a sharp laugh. “Then do not miss.”
The Spetsnaz commander pushed the door open. Finally, the vicious storm had started to break. Wind speed had dropped to less than thirty knots, and visibility had increased to at least two kilometers. Not ideal weather, but certainly not the paralyzing arctic blast that it had been two hours ago.
Even foul weather was better than having Rogov with them. He sighed, wondering if there was any way to convince the senior Cossack to stay on board the submarine. There was nothing in this part of the mission that he could help with, anyway.
Behind him, his men crowded toward the door, eager to escape the confines of the dripping cave. The commander made a small hand motion. No words were necessary when dealing with these highly trained special warfare commandos. He heard a few small noises behind him, and knew without turning to look that they were readying their gear. Finally, sensing that they were ready, he shoved the door open the rest of the way. Though the ice cave had never been warm, the frigid air that poured in was markedly colder than the interior temperature. If nothing else, he thought, ice was a good insulator. Five hours’ worth of body heat had accumulated in the small cavern, although their breath still frosted on their full whiskers and the air still gnawed at exposed flesh.
He stepped out into the open and surveyed the land around him. It was just as he’d been briefed. A low, flat plain rose gently toward the cliff that contained their cave, ice covering tundra. Except for the wind still screaming across the craggy ridge behind him, it was silent. There were no signs of habitation or wildlife, and certainly not of vegetation. Nothing could have survived for long on this island — nothing.
He turned back and smiled at his companions. They moved out quietly, almost noiselessly, the fresh, windblown snow barely crunching under their arctic-wear boots. They fanned out in teams of two, their commander staying carefully out of the way by the ice cavern, watching. He was the safety observer for the operation, a role he took extremely seriously. He had to, given the nature of the explosives his men were handling.
Each man had shouldered a pack onto his back, something slightly larger than a knapsack. Each bag contained four specifically designed explosive devices, for which the outlaw gang of Cossacks had paid a small fortune to the Japanese. Microsecond timers, all slaved to a common signal, were nestled in a special titanium compartment at the end of each long, cylindrical wand. Packed in the rest of the two-foot shaft was a special formula of highly toxic plastic explosive formulated for use in sub-zero environments. According to the Japanese, each stick would blast a hole five feet straight down into the frozen ice and tundra. The charge was shaped to blow a stream of ice and water out of the hole. The melted sides of each cylinder would immediately refreeze, creating a smooth, slick interior surface to each shaft. The bottom of each hole might be a bit ragged, he mused, but that would hardly matter.
He watched the two teams measure carefully, setting the charges at the corners of a twenty-foot box. Each man then extracted an ice drill from the pack, and began the laborious process of creating a tamping hole for the charge.
Thirty minutes later, after each hole was complete, they measured again. Exactly on point, as the commander had known they would be. Behind the wool scarf that covered his mouth, the smile broadened once again. The four holes would hold the support structure for a small but potent antiair defense system. With the help of German engineers, experienced in the manufacture of Stinger missiles and their own superb brand of weaponry, they had built a modular, transportable system that had no equal in the world. One-tenth the size of an American Patriot battery, yet capable of being operated in either a local or remote mode, the system could track and target twenty incoming aircraft simultaneously. It was also effective against missiles operating at less than Mach 5, a limitation that put most other nations’ armament well within its capabilities.
Once in place, the system would be virtually automatic. requiring operator input only to disable it from incoming friendly flights.
He watched as the men carefully set their charges into the holes, then returned to join him at his side. The commander reached into his own backpack and extracted the firing control box. After ensuring that everyone was safely out of harm’s way and had covered their ears and turned away from the holes, he clamped a large set of earphones over his ears and turned away. Holding the remote control at an angle away from his body, he punched the detonation switch.
The reaction was immediate and impressive. The explosion shook the ground under their feet, setting off a series of groans and creaks, not only from the ice underneath them but from the sculptured cliffs around their cave. For a moment, he wondered whether the island, essentially ice covering an old volcanic flume, could withstand the shock. Even at a distance of fifty feet from the explosions, ice rained down on them.
Thirty seconds later, the ominous rumbling and creaking under his feet subsided. He removed his earphones and checked his comrades, pleased to note that not a one of them showed the slightest bit of concern. He motioned again, and the four men set out to check their holes.
For the first time since he’d started the evolution, his thoughts wandered. He stared out at the icy, dark gray sea, wondering where the transport was. According to his information, a Ropuchka amphibious transport ship was en route to the area at that very moment, following carefully in the wake of a Russian icebreaker. In the Ropuchka were antiair batteries that would be erected over these holes, as well as a support crew of technicians, engineers, and guards.
Not that there was anything to guard against. He glanced around the landscape, still uneasy for some reason he couldn’t exactly define. Not a single survey had ever turned up a trace of life on the island, and he saw no indications now that those estimates had been wrong. Still … Well, it never hurt to be too careful. After they’d finished inspecting the blast holes, he’d send two men out on a quick area survey, just to make absolutely sure that the island was completely uninhabited. He looked behind him, assessing the difficulty of climbing the jutting spires carved into the ice. What might be impossible for most men would simply be the first challenge his team had had all week.
“What did your SAR find?” the familiar voice said. Batman smiled, despite the seriousness of the situation. Tombstone had been his wingman for too many years for his voice to be anything except immediately recognizable.
“The same thing your P-3’s found — nothing,” Batman answered. “One of the S-3 pilots thought he saw an oil slick, but it’s hard to tell in this weather. The wave action would have dispersed anything floating on the surface by now.”
“No debris?”
Rear Admiral Edward Everett “Batman” Wayne shook his head glumly. “Admiral, I wish I had better news for you, but I just don’t. You know how hard it is to find wreckage from a boat in this weather.”