But at what targets? Thanks to the air and sea picket Russia had established around the Bering sea, his own frontline airfields at Lavrentiya, Anadyr and Savoonga were out of range of anything but a ballistic missile strike, which the Americans would only conduct as a last resort. Strategic bombers launched out of Guam, or attack submarines, would also have the range and ability to launch cruise missiles, but not in the numbers needed to completely overwhelm his defenses in the way he had been able to do against Eielson and Elmendorf.
Savoonga however, as his southernmost airbase, was the most exposed. Twelve hours earlier he had begun airlifting heavy anti-air and anti-shipping missile defense systems to Savoonga to reinforce the airfield. A Russian navy destroyer flotilla was also én route to add its radar coverage and firepower to the island’s defense. That was why he was now able to move the bulk of his 6983rd drone unmanned aircraft to Savoonga, just 150 miles from Nome. They were ideally suited to flying out of the limited facilities at the forward base, because their pilots and system officers could be based at Anadyr, hundreds of miles away. They didn’t need to be quartered with their planes and he didn’t risk losing valuable pilots if the US against all odds successfully targeted Savoonga for another cruise missile attack.
The bulk of his precious 4th and 5th Air Battalions, his critical Su-57 fighters and pilots and ground crews, he would keep at Lavrentiya. To reach him there, even if did have the range, the enemy air force would have to fight its way across the skies of Alaska or the North Pacific and back again, and its navy would have to brave ring after ring of Russian anti-submarine defenses.
The American situation looked hopeless. But Bondarev wasn’t a man to take the enemy for granted. So he also had a surprise or two up his sleeve in Lavrentiya and Savoonga for any US aircraft or missile that did make it through.
Perri and Dave had been following the column of hostages for a couple of hours now, and it was clear they weren’t going down the coast to Kavalghak Bay. Once they had cleared the road out of town to the south of the bluff, they had turned northwest and started hiking up an old hunting trail that would take them over the bluff to the deserted inland of the island. It was harsh, windswept terrain that didn’t offer much in the way of game, berries or shelter, so the Islanders rarely ventured inland. The sea and the ice around the island were their home, not the rocky interior. They decided the destination must be Savoonga.
“Why would they be going to Savoonga?” Perri asked. “Wouldn’t it have been just as badly hit as Gambell?” He could have kicked himself. While they were online last time, he should have downloaded some news videos to see if there was any information about what had happened to Saint Lawrence. All they knew was what Sarge had told them, and that wasn’t much. He’d spent most of the time they were online asking questions, not giving out information.
“Where else could they be going, there’s nothing else in this direction except vole turds and bird droppings,” Dave asked.
“It’s going to take them days.”
“And us. Oh man,” Perri settled the straps of his backpack on his shoulders. “I hope we’ve got enough food.”
“Yeah? Well we could have carried about another 20 pounds except you’ve got me lugging this damned battery and radio,” Dave complained. He was carrying the same big backpack that Perri was carrying, with the difference being the bottom two-thirds of his pack was the car battery and on top was the Russian radio they’d liberated.
“You keep telling me how you’re the strongest of all your brothers,” Perri said. He was looking at the ground, seeing the scuff marks in the snow and dirt from hundreds of feet. Following the column wouldn’t be hard, they were leaving tracks you could probably see from space. He looked up to test the weather, saw low cloud, but no sign of rain. At least they’d be dry the next day or so. As he watched, he heard the now familiar sound of jet engines crossing the island from west to east. They hadn’t heard or seen any more signs of combat, so he had to assume the aircraft overhead weren’t American.
They trudged on, “Sarge said there were Russians in Savoonga, as well as Gambell. Maybe the ones in Savoonga were dug in better,” Perri speculated. “The ones here were pretty dumb, just hiding out in the town hall, waiting to get bombed. Maybe the guys up there were better prepared.” He thought about the radar station at Savoonga, the Air Force officer who’d come to talk to them. “I’m going to call Sarge tonight if we can get a signal,” he said. “Ask him does he know what’s happening at Savoonga. If we get that far, I’ve got cousins we could hide out with.”
Dave grunted, “I can tell you this for free. If we can’t get a signal on this stupid radio, it’s going in the nearest creek!”
There had been no working radio in the wrecked APC near the town hall, so Private Zubkhov had hiked out to the airfield. Two of the APCs out there were total write-offs, just burned out, half melted hulks. The third had taken a hit that had flipped it on its roof, shredded its tires and filled it full of holes before its fuel had caught fire, but the fire had burned upward, through the chassis, and the cabin was still pretty much intact. Except that the radio and handset were gone.
And Zubkhov had a pretty good idea where.
He leaned back in his chair inside the school master’s office, watching the display on the base station for it to pop up again, just to be sure. His orders were to keep the wounded comfortable and the prisoners fed until reinforcements arrived from Russia or the unit returned to Gambell. But if Russia had really intended to hold Gambell, it would be swarming with choppers, anti-air batteries and new troops. He wasn’t seeing anything like that. There weren’t going to be any ‘reinforcements’ for Gambell.
Air cover or not, a US Navy Seal team could sneak in here on a sub and who could stop them? Zubkhov and his team of gut-shot and crippled comrades? They were all going to end up dead, or as prisoners, probably be tried for war crimes. And once he started thinking about those Navy Seals, climbing out of the water in their wetsuits to cut his throat in the middle of the night, he couldn’t stop.
If he was going to get off this island, it had to be now. But he couldn’t just leave his comrades here to starve to death, so he had to work something out for them. Luckily when he’d been searching for the radio, he had found the solution.
Most of the wounded Russian soldiers were sleeping, which wasn’t surprising given firstly their injuries and secondly, that he had crushed quite a lot of sedative tablets into their food earlier in the day. One of them was awake, a young boy who had lost most of his foot, and who had said he had no appetite. He had joined the unit after Zubkhov and Zubkhov hadn’t really bothered to get to know him. Zubkhov looked at the chart at the end of his bed — Kirrilov, that was his name.
“I need some painkillers,” the guy said. “My foot hurts like hell.”
“OK, I got something for you here,” Zubkhov said, pulling out a syringe he had taken from the back of a wrecked field ambulance out at the airfield. “It’s pretty strong though.”
The man lifted his bedsheets to reveal a bloodied bandage. Zubkhov pulled it gingerly away and saw the man had lost the two leftmost toes from his foot, a strip down the side and most of his heel. “If all I did was sleep between now and when they airlift me off this bloody island that would be fine with me. So don’t hold back,” the boy said. He was propped up on one elbow, watching.