In the distance, he could see the two members of the other team moving now, heading back toward the boat. Somehow, they’d managed to avoid the attention of the parachuters.
While the lead man fixed his gun on Sikes, he heard another man bark out rough commands. The group of parachuters quickly shed their gear and assembled themselves into five-man teams, looking very much like American SEALs in the way they moved and held themselves. He felt the chill bite deeper, wondering if these were the famous Spetsnaz he’d heard of so many times before but encountered only once.
He saw the men deploy in a standard search pattern. Off in the distance, his teammates were just reaching the boat. He heard a man cry out, and saw several start to run toward the boat, struggling to make headway against the wind in their heavy winter garments. The lead pair of parachuters stopped and raised their weapons. Gunfire cracked out again, oddly muted by the wind.
He saw his men reach the boat and leap into it, one step behind the lookout, who was already gunning the engine. The boat backed out, gaining speed at an incredible rate. As soon as it was clear of the land, it heeled sharply and pointed, bow out, to sea, quickly accelerating to its maximum speed of eighty knots. He breathed a sigh of relief and glanced down at his teammate. One dead, one captured, three alive. At least, if the boat could evade gunfire, the report would make it back to the carrier. As he stared at the grim face of the man approaching him, he realized that that was more than he could expect to do.
White Wolf stared at the action below, motionless, not even flinching at the harsh, chattering whine of the automatic weapon fire. Born and bred to this land, familiar with every nuance of its territory, he was truly invisible to the Spetsnaz infesting his terrain. He made a small motion to his grandson, who approached and put his ear close to the old man’s mouth.
“See the mistakes they make?” the elder said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. “The positioning, the noise — they know nothing of this land.”
The younger man swallowed nervously. “We are so close,” he said in the same barely audible tones. “Your safety is important.”
The old man made a small movement with his mouth. “If I cannot evade these men, then it is time for me to die,” he said. “These things — you see how difficult it will be for the Americans when they come. These intruders are already scattered about our land, and dislodging them without killing the man they’ve taken will be impossible.”
“Better them than us,” the younger man said harshly. “And what exactly have they given us? Taken our land, given diseases to our people — why should we help the Americans?”
The old man gazed at him levelly, his eyes cold and proud. “My word.”
The younger man sighed. “Yes, yes, there is that.” He glanced back down at the land below, moving his head slowly so as to be undetectable. “What can we do? So many of them.”
“And so inexperienced,” the older man murmured. “They have many lessons left to learn — and this one will not be pleasant.”
CHAPTER 9
“A fucking invasion,” Bird Dog breathed. “Oh, deep holy shit, Gator.”
“Don’t get happy with the weapons yet,” Gator said tightly. “Mother’s having a fit on the other end. A MiG they know what to do with. Same thing with a Bear. But an amphibious landing — or an airborne one — is a little outside of our marching orders. The admiral’s on the circuit, yelling that if we so much as twitch wrong we could start an international incident.”
“Like the Russians haven’t?” Bird Dog asked. “Putting paratroopers on American soil seems to be a hell of an unneighborly thing to do. Not to mention shooting at our P3 aircraft.”
The Tomcat was circling at seven thousand feet, monitoring the progress of the paratroopers down to the ice. They blended quickly with the landscape, and were invisible after they landed to the aircraft above.
“Hell, I wish we had some Rockeyes,” Bird Dog said, referring to the ground munitions missile that carried a payload of tiny bomblets that exploded on the ground. They were the weapons of choice for use against enemy troops.
“You think you’re gonna get permission to drop bombs on U.S. soil?” Gator demanded. “Think, man, think! For once in your life, just consider the consequences.”
“We drop bombs on American soil at the range,” Bird Dog argued. “What, you want us to sit up here and watch these bastards invade?”
“And just who the hell are they, do you think?” Gator snapped. “What insignia did you see on that aircraft they jumped out of?”
“You know who they are.”
“When are you going to understand that your gut-level instinct isn’t enough, not in today’s world, Bird Dog. You’ve got no proof that that was a Russian aircraft — nothing at all. No transponder, no aircraft insignia, no Russian being spoken on International Air Distress — IAD. Just how do you think we’re going to look?”
“They shot at our aircraft. What more do you want?” Bird Dog exploded. “Am I the only one in this battle group that’s getting tired of every terrorist in the world taking a shot at American troops?”
Gator’s voice turned colder than Bird Dog had ever heard it before. “If you can’t get it through your thick skull that we follow orders first, then you’d best find some other way to make a living. This isn’t about barrel rolls and Immelmanns, you asshole. This is about a very nasty situation and a world the rest of the country thinks is at peace. Hold it-” he said suddenly. “Mother’s talking.”
Bird Dog leaned forward against his ejection harness, feeling the straps cut into his shoulders. The pain gave him the feeling that he was doing something, which he desperately needed right now. The sight of invaders tromping across American soil — American soil, even if it was ice and frost and rime — touched some fundamental core of his being. It was one thing to watch the Chinese invade the Spratlys, the Russians take on the Norwegians, or any one of a number of nations attack a neighbor, but this was different. Different for him, at least. Along with the cool iciness and pounding adrenaline he had come to expect in battle, he felt an outrage so strong as to border on rage. Invaders, tromping across American soil — the battle group had to do something.
“Get a trail on that transport,” Gator said finally. “High and behind, in position for a shot. But weapons tight right now — unless it’s in self-defense, you don’t even think about touching the weapons switch. You got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Bird Dog snapped. He jerked the Tomcat back, standing her on her tail and screaming up to altitude. Over the ICS, he heard Gator gasp, and then the harsh grunt of the M1 maneuver. Bird Dog’s face twisted. Served his RIO right if he felt a little uncomfortable. Who the hell was he, anyway, taking an amphibious landing so casually? What did he think this was, the Spratlys?
“Cut this shit out,” Gator finally grunted.
“Cut what out, shipmate?” Bird Dog snapped. “You told me to gain altitude — I gained altitude. And if you and the rest of the pussies on that carrier had any balls, you’d let me do something about this.”
Batman stared at the tactical symbol on the large screen display, watching the hostile contact turn north and head away from the Aleutian chain. “That fighter jock is sure about this?” he asked. “Who’s in Two-oh-one, anyway?”