“You’re damned lucky you’ve got me back here, you know that?” Gator said.
“Oh, really? Why is that?” Bird Dog answered, as he laid in a level course for the carrier.
“Because any other backseater in his right mind would’ve filled his shorts about two minutes ago,” Gator said, amusement in his voice. “It’d serve you right, flying in a stinking cockpit for a couple of months. They never can get the smell out.”
“I guess there’s always something to be grateful for,” Bird Dog answered. “Now, let’s just hope we did the job on the ground,” he continued, his voice suddenly sober.
The Cossack commando barely had time to glance up as the Tomcat screamed in over the barren landscape, only fifty feet above him. He swore reflexively, and dived for the ground. The low, ominous rumble of the engines reverberated through his body. He buried his hands under his arms and waited.
The initial blast tossed him two feet off the icy surface of the island; gravity slammed him back down hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He gasped, trying to breathe, and finally drew a deep, shuddering lungful of air.
The noise hit him again first. He wondered for a moment whether the Tomcat had come around to make a second run on the cliffs. He looked up, trying to focus on the landscape in front of him.
To his horrified eyes, it looked like a wave. Something he’d see in the warmer coast waters of the Black Sea, a phenomenon that belonged somewhere other than this desolate, forsaken island. The land curled slightly at the top, leaning over the rest of the cliff, increasing its similarity to an ocean breaker.
The commando shouted, his words already lost in the massive cacophony of forty thousand tons of avalanche. Two seconds later, the massive wall of ice and snow cut off his words. Forever.
The ground played trampoline for almost three minutes before the violent motion subsided into a series of sharp jolts. At the same time, the wind dropped perceptibly, though the searing blindness of the whiteout remained. Huerta kept his eyes firmly shut, guarding delicate tissues with one hand over his face. The other flailed about him, searching for Morning Eagle.
Finally, after a series of gentle rumbles no more than 4.0 on the Richter scale, Huerta took a chance and stood up. His feet swayed under him slightly, and he had to bend forward to keep his balance in the gusting winds. Still, at least he could move. He opened one eye cautiously. The whiteout was receding, and he could now see almost five feet in front of him.
He scanned the landscape quickly. Crumpled against a rock, curled into a small ball, was Morning Eagle. The Chief SEAL walked over, dropped to his knees, and felt for a pulse. It pounded hard and strong under his fingers, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He checked the man for injuries quickly, a difficult process in the heavy winter parkas. Finally, satisfied that there was no life-threatening damage, the SEAL stood. He touched his pocket, felt the reassuring bulk of the hand-held radio. He held it out, toggled it on, and started walking over toward the rift that had been their aim point.
He took two steps, and then stopped short and gasped. Despite his long experience with naval ordnance, the damage was astounding. The first forty feet of the cliff had sheared off, cascading down the side of the hill. They’d barely been far enough away to avoid being caught up in it. He glanced back at Morning Eagle, wondering if the man would ever realize how lucky they’d been. That was one damned fine pilot.
He lifted the radio to his mouth. “Jefferson, SEAL Team One,” he said in the clear, hardly caring whether or not anyone else could hear them. “Request medical evacuation. Assessment of bomb damage follows — on target, on time. Out.”
With that done, he crossed back to Morning Eagle and sat down beside him. Pulling his pistol out of his other pocket, he sat down to wait.
The Combat Direction Center exploded in wild cheers and victory cries. The TAO stood up, glanced sternly around the spacious compartment, and tried to frown disapprovingly. However, he couldn’t repress the mad exultation coursing through his own body, and settled for a cursory wave of his hand.
The chief sitting next to him took it in, his own rebel victory cry just dying on his lips. “Let’s let them celebrate now, sir,” the chief said. “You take your victories where you can get ‘em.”
The TAO nodded and stared back at the large blue screen dominating the forward half of the room. The small symbol for friendly aircraft separated itself from the mass of land, and was tracking slowly back toward the aircraft carrier. “You take your victories where you can get ‘em,” he echoed softly, and picked up the mike. There was one aircrew that was going to be doing just that in a matter of seconds.
“Hang in there, buddy,” Huerta said softly. He patted Morning Eagle on the arm gently. In the last few minutes, the man’s breathing had gotten deeper and more stentorian. Although his pulse was still strong, Huerta was gravely worried about the condition of the young native. “They’ll be comin’ for us soon — you wait. We don’t ever leave our friends behind. Not ever.”
Huerta stared at the horizon, now growing dark as the sun crept down below it, hoping that the SAR aircraft would make it out in time.
CHAPTER 13
Rogov crept through the massive jumble of ice blocks, barely daring to breathe. The explosion had shaken him, much more than he anticipated. While it had seemed reasonable that the Americans might attempt something like this, the sheer magnitude of the avalanche and the deafening noise had shaken him.
He heard voices, maybe thirty yards off. He ran his hands over himself one more time, checking to see that he was intact and that his identification had been removed. He took a deep breath, then another. While the loss of the twenty-eight Spetsnaz commandos clustered at the base of the cliff meant nothing to him personally, it presented some tactical problems. He’d counted on being able to pass more of them off as injured Inuits, at least enough to simultaneously take the bridge and Combat and the admiral’s quarters. He shook his head. The only predictable thing about unconventional warfare was that it was unpredictable. On a mission such as this, it was expected that he would adapt, overcome, and adjust to any changes in circumstances.
He looked behind him, counting heads. Eight Spetsnaz were up and moving, a few of them shaking off minor injuries. He checked their faces, noting the look of cold resolve in each man’s eyes. He nodded. Commanding men such as these, he could do nothing less than his best.
He gave the signal, and the Spetsnaz commandos dispersed, creeping ever closer to the small, abandoned group. When they were ten feet away, more or less, they arranged themselves on the ground. Rogov heard low moans start to issue, more inviting evidence of injured allies for the Americans. He rearranged his face in an expression of pain, found a convenient ice spire to drape himself over, and moaned. In truth, there was not much pain he had to simulate, since the aerial bombardment had shaken him up badly, giving him a few additional bruises. He grimaced. All the better for realism. Injuries, but nothing so serious as to slow them down.
He looked down at the old Inuit lying at his feet. Better to let him live for now, use him to support the deception. If he could keep the helo’s crew focused on the injured old man and his obviously Inuit features, they might miss any clues to the real identity of the rest of the supposed natives.