Noskov nodded, then, sans any good-bye, he whirled away from the camera and limped off on his artificial leg, shouting to the men unloading the BMP-3s that they weren’t fast enough and that he would shoot them if they didn’t hurry.
Well, so far, the operation was unfolding as planned, and based upon the enemy’s initial response, it seemed Colonel Pavel Doletskaya had somehow managed to keep silent.
Izotov could not understand that — unless, of course, the Americans had accidentally killed the colonel, for Izotov refused to believe that one man’s force of will could be that strong.
Or could it?
Soldiers at Fort Lewis were pumped with adrenaline, and Special Forces Team Sergeant Nathan Vatz was no exception. He was about to leave his barracks and head to Robert Gray Army Airfield, his load-out bag slung over his shoulders.
In the hall outside his room, he spotted Staff Sergeant Marc Rakken rushing toward him. “Yo, Nate, I just heard, man!”
“Yeah, I know, it’s crazy.”
“Why couldn’t they invade someplace warm?”
“The Russians can’t take the heat.”
Rakken nodded then raised his brows. “Maybe we’ll bump into some snow bunnies up there, eh?”
“So you’re going, too?”
“The brigade’s already got a quartering party heading up to start RSOI base ops.”
Establishing a reception, staging, onward movement and integration base, which included all the support facilities the brigade would need to operate, was the first step of moving 3,900 folks riding in more than 300 Stryker vehicles up to Canada. Once those facilities were established and artillery had arrived, the infantry would roll in and begin operations.
Rakken added, “I just heard they’ve called up the Fourth in Alaska, so those Strykers will be rolling down. I heard another rumor that a brigade from the Tenth Mountain Division is heading up in about sixty sorties of C-17s. They’ll establish the first blocking positions.”
“And what are the Canadians doing about all this?” Vatz flashed a crooked grin.
Rakken pretended to think hard. “Trying to duck.”
“I thought so. Well, good hunting then, huh?”
Rakken slapped a palm on Vatz’s shoulder. “I just wanted to give you this before you go.”
“Oh, man, don’t do that.”
Vatz stared down at the closed knife in Rakken’s other hand; it was a balisong, or Filipino “butterfly knife,” with two handles that counter-rotated around the tang and concealed the blade within them when not in use.
Only this wasn’t an ordinary balisong. This was Rakken’s prized possession: a custom Venturi made of intricately patterned Damascus steel with black lip pearl inlays in the handles. It was as much a piece of art as it was a functional cutting tool, and it had been designed and crafted by famed knife maker Darrel Ralph.
“Nate, I’m giving this to you for two reasons: first, if one of us is going to make it, it’s going to be you. I believe that. And second, I’m just tired of carrying it.”
Vatz shook his head. He didn’t believe a word of it. And in a world full of high-tech toys, it was ironic that they should be standing there, discussing the exchange of a knife. Nevertheless, he took the balisong and slid it into one of his hip pockets. “You’re too much, Marc. I’ll borrow it. Give it to you when we get back, if we’re not all frostbitten by then.”
“All right, you got a deal. Good luck up there. And if you SF boys need any real men to come bail out your sorry asses, just give me or Appleman a call on the cell, ’kay?”
Vatz snorted, raised his fist to meet Rakken’s for a pound. Then he muttered a quick, “See ya,” and jogged off.
Captain Jake Boyd spotted the rescue chopper’s searchlight sweeping across the snow, so he sat up and began to wave them in. He wouldn’t miss the unforgiving cold or the sight of his beautiful fighter plane burning in the distance.
The blood had frozen on his lips and chin, and he could barely feel his cheeks. He slowly, carefully, got up as the chopper turned and pitched its nose for the landing.
Boyd’s heart sank.
The searchlight had blinded him, and he’d only seen a vague silhouette in the sky.
Now he saw it, a Ka-29, setting down with heavily armed infantrymen hopping down from the bay door.
Boyd had both pistols now, one in each hand; he charged back to the ejection seat and threw himself down behind it, then came back up and began firing at the oncoming troops.
He struck one soldier in the leg, caught another in the thigh, as they suddenly raked his position with so much fire that he could no long hear the whomping of rotors, only the echoing bang and subsequent ricocheting of rounds off metal.
He keyed the mike of his emergency radio. “This is Ghost Hawk on the ground! I’m being engaged by Russian infantry! What’s the ETA on that rescue bird?”
A sudden and nearby thump made him whirl.
Grenade. Right there.
He sprang up, knew that if he ran backward, they’d simply gun him down.
So he did what any other red-blooded American fighter pilot would do: he ran directly at the troops, screaming and firing.
The grenade exploded behind him, knocking him to his chest. That was when the first stabs of pain came, when he realized he’d been shot — and not just once.
He glanced up at the Russians, cursed as one came over, raised his pistol.
Stephanie’s voice was coming from the radio. He should have told her how he felt, should have told her what she meant to him.
But at least now, at the end, he had that music, that sweet music of her crying out.
As Major Stephanie Halverson lifted off, her eyes burned with the knowledge that Jake was dead.
She’d been monitoring the radio, had listened to his last transmission. She wanted more than anything to streak back there and finish off the men who had killed him. But it was too late now.
The skies above the Northwest Territories were alive with incoming transports and fighters, and Halverson and the other three pilots training at Igloo Base had been tasked with getting up there and intercepting as many as possible, all while attempting to evade detection from those fighters.
There would be no dogfight — just a standoff surgical removal of those lumbering AN-130s.
But she could barely keep her thoughts focused on the task. She kept telling herself that she shouldn’t have been so distant from him, that she could sense how he’d felt about her, that she, too, had felt the same.
She raced into the heavens, going supersonic, moving into her standoff position to begin launching missiles at the cargo planes, now at 28,450 feet and descending rapidly.
A check of the 130s’ range revealed they were about fifteen kilometers away, within the Sidewinder’s killing zone. Her electronic countermeasures — including the jamming of enemy radar systems — were fully engaged.
And her first two missiles were locked on.
Her wingman, Captain Lisa Johansson, call sign Sapphire, announced that she, too, was locked up and ready to fire. The other two JSF fighters were already engaging the enemy.
Halverson opened her mouth to give the order—
Just as the alarms went off in her cockpit.
Incoming enemy missiles launched from Sukhoi SU- 35 long-range interceptors. She already had the angle of arrival.
The computer identified the missiles as Vympel R-84s, the latest incarnation of Russia’s short-range, air-to-air missile, considered by most combat pilots to be one of the world’s most formidable weapons.
“Sapphire, abort missile launch! We got incoming. Check countermeasures. IR flares and chaff! Evade!”
SEVENTEEN
In February 2006, the Marine Corps Special Operation Command (MARSOC) was activated, which in effect made Force Recon Marines an official part of the U.S. Special Operations Command (SOCOM) team along with the other special operations units — SEALS, Rangers, Army Special Forces, and Special Tactics teams. MARSOC was fully constituted in 2010 and became part of the Joint Strike Force at that time as well.