“Negative. No ESM, either. At four hundred knots, this could be our friendly neighborhood Bear. Or-“
“Or one of his hotshot little buddies,” Bird Dog said. “A MiG.”
“Keep your finger off the weapon button until we know for sure,” Gator warned. “I’m still in tracking mode. I’m not going to light him up until he’s closer.”
“If it is a MiG, when are we within weapons range?”
“Another twenty miles. Less than that, if he doesn’t have the latest ESM warning modifications on him.”
“Well, let’s just go see, shall we?” Bird Dog said softly. He shoved the throttle forward, increasing airspeed to just over five hundred knots. “I’m staying at altitude for now — might need the gas later. You let Mother know what’s going on, and I’ll get us over there.”
Bird Dog heard Gator switch over to tactical and begin briefing the watch team in CDC on board Jefferson. Although the TAO there would already have their contact information, since it was transmitted automatically via LINK I I to the ship’s central target processing unit, Gator was making sure that no one else was holding any contacts in the area. The other Tomcats were holding nothing but blue sky, Jefferson reported, a note of excitement already creeping into the TAO’s voice. He heard the TAO say, “Roger, Tomcat Two-oh-one, come right to course zero-one-zero and investigate — oh.” The voice trailed off as the TAO evidently noticed from the speed leader on his large screen display that Bird Dog was already doing exactly that.
“The pilot reports he will be overhead in twenty minutes,” the senior Spetsnaz reported. He glanced over at Rogov, whose face was an impassive, unreadable mask.
“Very well.” Rogov ignored the man. Whether or not he believed the story that it was merely a surveillance aircraft checking up on the detachment made little difference now. Twenty minutes from now — nineteen, he thought, glancing at his watch — forty Special Forces paratroopers would be spilling out the back end of the transport aircraft and parachuting down to the island. Unlike the Spetsnaz team with him now, these men were carefully selected. Each one of them was a Cossack, born and bred in the harsh outer reaches of the former Soviet Union, owing allegiance primarily to their tribe rather than any political subdivision. Rogov smiled. As skilled and deadly as the Spetsnaz on the initial team, each one of the paratroopers had sworn undying loyalty to his hetman, holder of the traditional Cossack mace. If the Spetsnaz could have seen him during their last ceremony, clad in his ancient Cossack regalia, they would not have doubted his prowess at the beginning of this mission and they would have known what he knew now: The Cossacks were coming.
CHAPTER 8
The fast craft skimmed over the top of the waves, acting almost like a hovercraft as it shot over the surface of the water. Sea state 2 consisted of mild swells without white tops, and Carter had the throttle slammed full forward. But even small swells act like a roller coaster at eighty knots.
“No sign of activity,” Sikes shouted, struggling to be heard over the noise of the sea and the wind in the boat. “May be a false alarm.”
The chief shook his head. “Doubtful. I don’t know, sir, but there usually aren’t too many of those. Not if they’re sending us in.”
Sikes nodded and gave up. It was all he could do to hold on to his lunch in the boat, and a lengthy political discussion was out of the question.
Ahead, the island jutted out of the sea like a fortress. The West end was relatively flat, climbing sharply into jagged peaks and spires. He studied the landscape, wondering if they’d brought enough pitons and line. Climbing up that icy moonscape would challenge every bit of their physical reserves. And the danger; he considered it grimly. Intruders — if indeed there were any on the island — could be hiding behind any spire, waiting silently for the SEALs to make their approach. The tactical advantage would be theirs. The only way to achieve any degree of tactical surprise would be to airlift in with a helicopter, and even that would be problematic. First, the noise of the helicopter would alert their prey, and second, even the most reliable aircraft developed odd quirks and problems in the frigid environment. No, he decided, on balance it was better that they go in by boat, even with the problems that patrolling the jagged cliffs presented.
Fifty feet off the coast, now blindingly reflective under the afternoon sun, Carter slowed the boat to twenty knots. He turned broadside to the island, carefully making his way toward the westernmost tip. The plan was to begin their sweep there, working slowly toward the cliffs, postponing the decision to climb until they were closer in. If nothing else, it would give them time to adjust to the realities of arctic patrolling.
Five minutes later, the fast boat edged up to the ice, the SEAL stationed in the bow carefully surveying the water beneath her hull for obstructions. When the bow bumped gently against the shore, he jumped out, pulling the bowline behind him. Two other SEALs followed. As the first order of business, they drove a piton into the hard-packed ice to provide a mooring point for the boat. One of them would stay behind and stand guard while the other four executed the patrol in pairs of two.
Sikes was the last one out of the boat. After the gale-force winds that traveling at eighty knots generated, the almost calm air felt warmer. An illusion, he knew. Unprotected, skin and tissue would freeze within a matter of seconds. He checked the lookout SEAL carefully, making sure his gear was in order, then pirouetted 360 degrees while the other man returned the favor. Satisfied that they were as well equipped against the environment as they could be, Sikes made a sharp hand motion. Without a word, one SEAL joined on him, while the fifth SEAL and Huerta stepped away together. With one last sharp nod to the lookout, Sikes pointed northeast. They took off at a steady, energy-conserving walk.
The ice under his feet was rough, the surface edged in tiny nooks and crannies from the ever-constant wind. A light dusting of snow blew along the surface, swirling around their ankles and obscuring the uneven surface. Still, he reflected, it was better than winter ice in the States, where intermittent warming and refreezing turned the surface slick as glass. Here, at least there was enough traction to walk. Just as well, since he couldn’t see the ice beneath his feet for the blowing snow. His partner moved forward and took point. Sikes followed five yards behind, carefully surveying the landscape. After a few moments, it became apparent there was not much to see. The land was featureless, except for the jagged peaks ahead of them, and any traces of human habitation had been swept away by the wind. He glanced to the north, where he could barely make out the figures of the other two SEALS.
The wind picked up slightly, and he noticed the difference. It crept around the edges of his face mask, trying to find some purchase in the lining or some overlooked gap in his clothing. He could feel the heat rising off his skin as he walked, felt the air sucking at it.
The point man stopped suddenly. He pointed and made a motion to Sikes. Sikes moved forward until he was standing by the man. “What was it?”
“Don’t know for sure — something dark green, blowing in the wind. In this wind, it was gone before I could get a good look at it. Man-made, though — definitely.”
Sikes lifted the radio to his mouth and quickly briefed the other group and the lookout on the sighting. Even after a few moments of standing still, he could feel his muscles start to tighten as the cold seeped in.