The helo drifted away, moving on down the beach slowly in a crisscross pattern. Ryng rolled over now and peered out. The water was twenty-five yards away from where he lay. Must’ve been a hell of a crawl, he thought. Why no trail? He dug at the ground. Nothing could leave much of a path in this crap. It was hard — sand and mud packed together. Like the silt that came from under glaciers, he realized, only this stuff had had time to harden. There was gravel too, and some pebbles, but no rocks. They likely had been ground into those few pebbles by some past glacier.
Inland, away from the water, no more than another 100 yards away, the mountains rose up sharply from sheer cliffs. Nothing grew on them; nothing could grow between the climate and the vertical surface. That’s what made it so easy for that helo. The space between the water and the cliffs, which no man was going to climb, couldn’t have been more than a 150 yards. It was simple to swing the bird back and forth. No need for a search plan. Just cover every inch of ground.
It was also no place to stay. He looked toward the west, where the safety of the open ocean should be, where the remainder of his team was supposed to meet sometime. But he had no idea when. He had no concept of time, how long he’d been unconscious.
There were two items that occupied Bernie Ryng’s mind at this stage. The first was wholly instinctive — survival — and was the first order of business. But the second meant almost as much to him, for he was a military man and order and discipline were vitally important. He had been sent on a mission by a man he loved and respected and who was depending on him. It was vital that Dave Pratt know that much of the mission had been carried out. The decoys that had already been unloaded at Longyearbyen airport had been destroyed. The aircraft intended to carry them would never fly again. Most important, the ship that carried those decoys to Spitzbergen, and still had much of that cargo on board ready to be unloaded and taken to the airport, had been sunk in deep water. That last element was the most critical, the factor that North Atlantic strategy would be based upon in the coming hours. He had to get that information to Pratt.
Ryng reached inside his shirt, searching for the chart of the harbor area. What he extracted was a soggy mess, still neatly folded but decidedly wet. With the care and precision brought on by years of training, he unfolded it gently. Open it to the first fold, he told himself. Stop. Pat it flat out. Make sure no edges are tucked under that are going to tear on the next fold…
As he followed each step of the process, a chill came over him. He shivered involuntarily. His shirt and pants were damp but not wet. That meant he’d been out of the water long enough for the combination of body heat and air to evaporate much of the water. But then again, his uniform was designed to dry quickly for just such occasions.
Not more than two hours, he determined, otherwise he might be even colder, his body temperature lower. Then hypothermia. That would be his greatest enemy. This time of year, a fifty-degree day was balmy. But at least the sky was clear, the air dry.
The chart lay flat in his lap. He saw where he was and what he would have to do. The map was printed to withstand immersion. And now he silently thanked some cartographic clerk back in the States who’d made sure the job was done right when he transposed the satellite data onto the chart.
Ryng saw the glacial stream that came down near where he now sat, the one they’d seen from the boat before the helo attacked. He stood up to check — a couple of hundred yards away. Using his thumbnail, he marked the rough surface to the meeting point. Twelve, fifteen miles, no more. Nothing like thumbnail navigation.
A couple of miles down the beach, he saw the helo turn out over the water and head back toward its base. But don’t kid yourself. They’re not going to give up that easy. Maybe they’ll go back, but just maybe they’ll swing out and then dash back to see if they fooled you. Remember, there’s no such thing as a dead man until you have a body — or a piece of one! Grab your ass and lead on out of here, but remember that body they want. Better yet, think about a separate arm or leg!
The next instant when he raised his head, the helo had reversed course, returning to his side of the harbor, just as he’d suspected!
With that he started out, moving from one clump of scrub to the next, mindful of the helo which now seemed intent on searching a section of water a few miles farther on. “Thank God you had the good sense to keep these shoes,” he muttered out loud to himself. He could feel the sharp pebbles through his soles, some smooth like bullets, but others, rolled the wrong way underneath all that ice, were sharp as arrowheads.
At the glacial stream, he stopped to check the helo. It was still zipping back and forth on some inane path in an exercise that didn’t make sense. The stream wasn’t at all deep. It was a miniature flood plain, a delta at the base of a tiny glacier now receded back into the mountains. This time of year, it exuded a steady flow of water, but not enough to cut a deep trench.
Gingerly, he stepped out, his eye already on more scrub fifty yards away on the other side. He lurched forward, his foot sinking up to the ankle. Taking a second step, he again sank in. Pulling, the rear foot made a sucking sound as it escaped from the grayish-brown silt. Wherever the water ran, the damn stuff was just mud, he thought. Each step was an effort, the mud clinging, pulling relentlessly at his shoes. It would take twice as long as he’d estimated to get across. If the helo came back…
He struggled on, trying to move faster. But he could only move so fast. The last half-dozen hours had taken their toll. No one could put his body through what his had already done and cut through this stuff like a sprinter.
The water and the mud were cold — ice cold, glacier cold. He could feel the creeping numbness in his feet. Perhaps it would be easier if he couldn’t feel anything. Just plod along, steady pace, no discomfort, perhaps eventually move faster.
He was finally halfway across. No wonder I wanted to get the boat to the other side of this crap before they attacked, he thought. He’d forgotten to look more closely at his map to see how many more of these little streams there were.
Too many and he might as well kiss it all good-bye. It was taking so long it was more like crossing a river.
He looked back out to the helo. Same place. No, wait a minute. He remembered the peak he had been sighting it against. The helo was to the left of that now. As he staggered along, muddy step after muddy step, he watched its perspective change. Damn! He’s headed back this way.
He thought of his tracks and then he thought of a wounded animal in the snow. No shit, Ryng, you should have waited until he got low on fuel and headed back for a drink. Now you’ve got yourself in a hell of a fix! He felt his heart beat faster, partly from exertion, partly from fear, as he attempted to pick up the pace, one sucking, muddy, numbing footstep at a time.