Recon photos, commencing at first light on D minus 2, indicated Soviet shock forces in Eastern Europe were no longer involved in exercises of any kind. Offensive units were taking position near the western borders. Their political units had apparently already infiltrated government offices in Warsaw Pact countries, for communications from these capital cities to the outside world were limited at best. Computer projections now anticipated a full-scale attack across a broad frontier in no less than forty-eight hours.
SPITZBERGEN, THE HARBOR
Harry Winters knew, at the end of Ryng’s last transmission, that there was little time to complete his end of the job. Bernie was not one to let grass sprout up around him. If the Russians were already sewing their decoys in the gap more than two thousand miles to the south, he had to move even in the inadequate cover of the midnight sun.
There was no chance, or even reason, to try to get back aboard the Russian freighter as they had done before when they had appropriated the supply boat. With one man missing, the Russians would likely be a bit more security conscious, and so a device would have to be planted under the hull. He couldn’t use anything activated from shore. Considering the odds of a storm or fog or even the possible great distance were they to be interrupted for some reason, detonation would be too uncertain. It had to be an intelligent device.
The only problem was time. Once Bernie and his boys began to warm things up around the airfield, Harry knew it was probable that the ship would immediately get under way and move offshore. How long would Bernie take? He had no idea where Ryng might be at any given moment and over the years they’d learned never to bother each other at these times. Even though he’d never seen the field, Winters knew there was no way four Americans were going to sneak up on those Russian bombers in broad daylight, not with Black Berets guarding them. It seemed likely to him that Bernie might want to borrow some of the Soviet uniforms. That would take some time. Would he try to release the Norwegians beforehand? No way! That would only add to the chance of getting one of his own hurt unnecessarily and even compromise the objective of getting the bombers and the decoy torpedoes that had already been offloaded.
Two of Winters’s men were experts at assembling the device he determined would sink the ship. There was no leeway for error. He gave Bernie three hours to get some sleep, another hour to waylay some Black Berets and borrow their uniforms, and another hour to carry out the mission. The first sign of action at the airfield would get that ship out to sea, or at least under way in the harbor. So he designed the timer for six hours from now, just to insure it held off until the ship made it to deep water.
Making the bomb, installing the timer, then waterproofing it was no problem. Any one of them could do it in his sleep, and each man could do the other’s job with no hesitation.
The problem was getting out there and getting the damn thing properly planted so it wouldn’t fall off on its own or be jarred loose by the motion of the ship. That’s what took time and planning. But it could be done and done right.
Two hours later, Winters slipped into the water across the harbor from the freighter. Martin Gable was right behind him. The bomb was strapped to an electrically-powered sled. Ryng had fashioned it years ago to glide through the water ahead of them, towing both divers and their gear. Winters realized that Bernie had considered the frigid water. He had made it a two-man mission because one man might not make it to the ship and back on his own. If neither was back on shore in three hours, the remaining two had been ordered to take off to the meeting place Ryng had planned for them.
It was dark under the hull and very, very cold. Their wetsuits were insulated and designed to survive forty-degree water for a period of time — but not over a long span of continuous immersion. Winters’s flashlight settled on Marty’s hands for a moment and held it there just long enough to see the difficulty the man was having. Each movement was slow and deliberate, an intense effort to insure that nothing could go wrong after the bomb was set. After each step, Marty would close his fists, squeezing them together rhythmically a few times to recover as much circulation as possible. Winters realized that if the hands already functioned in that manner, then the rest of the man’s body could not endure forever. Once the cold took hold of one part of the body, impairment of other functions followed quickly.
The final step was Harry’s — to install the timer. Totally absorbed, he forgot Marty, his mind wholly involved with overriding the ache in his hands as he set the delicate instrument. When he finally looked up, there was no Marty beside him. Flashing his light about the darkness under the hull, he caught sight of the man floating a few feet below, arms outstretched, fists still rhythmically clasping and unclasping, though now it appeared more a macabre, slow-motion ballet.
The spectacle was unmistakable. Harry had seen it in training films time and again. It was the final dance — that of a diver dying from the cold, his heart pumping more slowly, his brain functions dimming.
Winters floated down and held the flashlight to Marty’s face. The man stared back blankly, head shaking slowly up and down to indicate that he knew what was next. It was understood, an integral part of their training.
Marty reached slowly for his belt, his fingers fumbling. Unable to make them do what he wanted, his fist opened painfully and with an index finger he gestured in slow motion that Winters should do it for him.
Harry grasped the belt, extracting a tubular plastic container no more than an inch in diameter. He held it out to his friend. Marty’s fingers attempted to close over the object, but there was no way he could grip it. He pulled back his hand and with an effort opened and closed his fist. He desperately wanted to restore just enough circulation to handle the job himself. It was something that a man would want to do, hating to ask his partner to do it for him.
But eventually there was no choice. Time was against him and Marty knew it. At least one of them had to get back. And it would be impossible for a man in his condition to both give himself the injection and make sure his body sank before it took effect.
His head bobbed sluggishly, this time in sadness. Harry would have to do it. As Winters came closer, Marty clumsily patted him on the shoulder to show that he understood and that he was sorry. Then he rolled sideways.
Winters pulled off the top of the plastic container. In the artificial light, he could see the tiny needle reflecting sharply back at him. He put the object against Marty’s arm, hesitated for a split second, then pushed. They were told it would take almost no effort. The experts were right. Before Winters fully understood how easily the instrument worked, he saw Marty’s body tense and then relax. He was already dead.
Quickly, feeling the adrenaline pulsing through his own system, Winters released the tanks from Marty’s back, puncturing the valve that would sink them. Finally he pulled the cord on the back of Marty’s wet suit where the tank had been. It would insure that the body would sink — no chance of its coming to the surface beside the Russian ship. Martin Gable became the first American casualty of the operation.
Then he pushed the button on the electric motor and whisked away from the freighter. The return trip would not be that long. The sled had lost much of its burden. But now that he was motionless, he could feel the intensity of the cold, the numbing pain that came as his system wore down, the heart unable to pump blood fast enough to make the machine called the human body efficient enough to survive.
Winters checked off the interminable minutes it took to get back to shore — twenty, eighteen, fifteen, ten, eight, six…