“Just anything out of the ordinary,” the pilot answered. “Something too small for a fast mover like an S-3 to see. And I agree with you — hanging around out here, we’re not of any use. Just a little bit closer.”
“Fine with me. It’s damned cold out here, anyway. Maybe the pucker factor will warm me up some.”
The pilot smiled grimly. “Oh, it will do just that,” he said softly, remembering his days on patrol in Bosnia and the no-fly zone in Iran. Then, the mere hint of a Stinger missile was enough to raise the sweat level on any mission by a factor of ten. And rightfully so. “Let’s just keep a heads-up on this. The first indication of a launch will probably be visual. I fly the aircraft, you keep up the visual scan. Got it?”
The copilot nodded.
“You hear that?” Sikes tapped out on White Wolf’s hand. “Helicopter.”
White Wolf tapped back the sign for interrogatory, and shot him a puzzled look.
Sikes closed his eyes and listened carefully. It was difficult to tell. The mass of ice surrounding the cavern was an effective sound-deadening barrier, but he thought he heard — yes, he was certain of it. He risked a slight nod, which White Wolf saw.
“U.S.?” White Wolf asked.
Sikes tipped his head slightly. It was, he was certain, a Seahawk. Barely audible, somewhere off in the distance, but he thought he could hear the distinctive whop-whop of the SAR helicopter at the edge of his perception.
But maybe not. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, an auditory hallucination born of desperate hope. He glanced around the ice cavern again. Ten armed Spetsnaz were scattered about the space, and another thirty were outside. He let his gaze rest on the leader of the group, the short, stocky man. For some reason, he didn’t appear to fit with the other ones. Not that something was wrong with him — he was clearly in command of this cadre — but there was something that set him apart. There was a difference — not military, he realized suddenly, that’s what it was. Though all the men were dressed alike, and possessed the same short haircut and broad features, there was something about their leader that was missing. Some difference in bearing, and the way that he spoke, that marked him as one whose life had not been shaped by the constant demands of doctrine.
Did it make a difference? He wasn’t certain. At this point, it was just another fact, another data point in the hostile environment around him.
“We have to get out,” he tapped quickly, feeling the determination run straight from his gut to his fingertips. As his fingers rested lightly on the old, wrinkled brown skin of the man next to him, he considered their odds. One man — no, two, he corrected himself — against the forty trained Special Forces men there. And their leader. He considered that fact again, wondering why it struck him as so important.
From fifteen hundred yards away, the island looked almost as featureless and impassive as it had from five miles. Except for a few additional contours and shadows in the cresting rocks, they might as well have stayed well outside of Stinger range. The pilot glanced at his companion. Their eyes met, and the copilot nodded. A grim smile spread across the face of the pilot. Whatever else he had to say about his copilot, it would never be that the man lacked balls. In that department, they were both light years ahead of their superiors.
The radio was squawking, as Jefferson demanded to know why the Seahawk was so close to the island. Every thirty seconds, the voice changed, as junior enlisted man was replaced by chief petty officer, and finally the tactical action officer. The next step, they both knew, would be someone on the admiral’s staff.
“Easier to ask forgiveness than permission,” the copilot said steadily. He reached over and flipped down the volume control on the radio.
The pilot brought the helicopter gently out of her orbit, turning her toward the island. Whatever there was to see would best be observed from directly overhead.
“They say the ‘Never Exceed’ speed on these babies is a hundred and eighty knots at sea level,” the copilot said musingly. “What do you think?”
The pilot shoved the throttles forward to full military power. “I think in about five minutes we’re going to try to break that record. And damned if I wouldn’t kill for some afterburners about now.”
“Hey,” Sikes said loudly. “I need to go to the head — the can, the bathroom, whatever you guys call it.”
The Spetsnaz, now clustered around the entrance to the ice cave, ignored him. The door opened, and two more came in, and the sound of the helicopter reached Sikes plainly. His hopes rose. If he could just signal. “HEY!” he shouted. Finally, the man designated to serve as the interpreter walked over to him, annoyance plain on his face.
“Shut up.”
“I have to go to the head,” Sikes said, trying to work a pleading note into his voice. He crossed his legs, and crouched slightly. “Jesus, you guys have had us in here for hours. If I don’t get some relief soon, I’m gonna piss all over your floor. Just think what it would be like, trying to sleep in here with that smell. I don’t want that any more than you do. And it could get worse.” He stopped, wondering if the interpreter would know the word for diarrhea.
Disgust spread across the other man’s face. He studied Sikes carefully, then glanced down at White Wolf. “Him, too?” he said harshly.
White Wolf nodded.
The interpreter shot a frustrated look back toward the door, and then turned away abruptly. He walked over to the commander and said something too low for Sikes to understand. Finally, an unhappy look on his face, he came back over to them. “Later. As soon as-” his voice broke off as he glanced back at his superior.
“Okay, man,” Sikes said. “You asked for it.” He unzipped his parka, then reached for the zipper at the bottom of the front of his jumpsuit. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The commander, Sikes saw, was now staring at them. Sikes thought he saw surprise and dismay flick across the man’s face, then decided it might be as illusory as the first traces of the helicopter he heard. The commander snapped out a harsh, short sentence. Sikes recognized only the profanity.
“No,” the interpreter said hastily. “Putt that away.” He pointed at Sikes’s offending member. “We go outside,” he concluded, then followed with a short string of obscenities in Russian regarding Sikes’s ancestry and early toilet training habits. Four Spetsnaz commandos came over and joined them, circling them.
An honor guard, Sikes thought, almost amused. For a brief second, he wondered if he would be able to take a leak with so many strangers watching. Back in his early days of BUDS training, he found to his surprise that he suffered a mild degree of bladder shyness. The old native rose to his feet, his joints creaking audibly as he unfolded. He stepped toward Sikes, barely brushing past the first commando.
The small entourage moved toward the door. Sikes could hear the noise of the helicopter fading away, indicating that it had already made its closest point of approach. A feeling of desperation flooded him, increasing the pressure on his bladder. If they left too soon — no, don’t think about it. He would just have to pray somebody was watching.
As they stepped back out into the frigid air, Sikes felt the blood drain away from his face. Cold, so cold — if the Spetsnaz had any sense, they would have taken his arctic gear from him immediately, he decided. Trying to survive for even five minutes outside in this would be impossible.