Colonel Bulgan stood to one side of the helicopter, his eyes fixed on the peaks across the harbor. He tried to pick out the exact one that Ryng would now be ascending, but they blurred together in the whiteness of the mountain range. The colonel had changed after his nap and was now outfitted in fresh black fatigues. Grenades and clips for his rifle hung off his uniform. His AK-74 was cradled in his right hand. Bulgan had no expectations of using it from the helo, but he would feel more comfortable with it if they had to settle down for any reason. It was only revenge now, revenge for a failed mission. He would pursue this vendetta if for no other reason than that this American had ruined his career, perhaps even the all-important North Atlantic strategy.
The colonel looked at his watch again, then at the careful track laid out on his map. Ryng would be about to enter the snow, if he had not already. It was time now. He jerked an arm in signal to the pilot and climbed into the helo.
ABOARD THE CARRIER H.M.S. ILLUSTRIOUS, THE GREENLAND SEA
Admiral Sir Jonathan Harrow, O.B.E., had always been more than comfortable in making complex decisions. Yet right now he was involved in the most difficult one of his career.
According to the best NATO estimates, it was little less than hours to D-Day. However, that point in time had already come and gone aboard his flagship, H.M.S. Illustrious, an antisubmarine aircraft carrier. Illustrious and her escorts, now positioned approximately two hundred miles west southwest of Spitzbergen, had been under attack by Soviet submarines for the past six hours. Illustrious had taken a torpedo in her forward engine room two hours before and had only just regained normal operating speed.
Admiral Harrow’s escorts, along with the carrier’s helicopters, had been prosecuting subsurface contacts until he sometimes thought that the entire attack submarine contingent of the Soviet Northern Fleet had surrounded him. But he knew better. Most of them were already to the south, heading for the open waters of the North Atlantic. He was sure those harassing him had been detached to insure his group did not turn south.
Now Admiral Harrow again extracted the message from his shirt pocket and reread it. He knew there was no choice. Land-based aircraft would never get to Spitzbergen on time, at least not without a challenge by Soviet forces. He had no choice but to obey orders. He called the commanding officer of Illustrious over to him and gave the orders that would launch the five Harrier attack fighters that comprised the tiny carrier’s air defense complement. Admiral Harrow also advised that he would speak to the pilots in the ready room in five minutes. It seemed that, in addition to the priority target, an unknown airfield on the southern end of Svalbard’s largest island, they should keep a lookout for any other provocative incidents. An American SEAL team, backed up by armed Norwegian fishing craft, was also operating in the area. But there had been no confirmation whether or not their mission had been successful. His was a desperation mission if they’d failed.
Thirty minutes later, Illustrious turned into the wind to launch her Harriers. They orbited once over their ship before disappearing in the direction of Longyearbyen airport. Admiral Harrow had explained their mission, adding that there were no friendly aircraft in the region and that there were more Bear bombers, likely under fighter escort, headed toward the island. He silently wished them well as they disappeared to the east. Now Illustrious was alone, her meager missile defense the only protection from air attack. Harrow wondered who might be crazy enough to take a SEAL team into that godforsaken place.
SPITZBERGEN
Ryng wished he had a cigarette even though he hadn’t smoked for years. It would give him something to do with his hands. If he had been able to save even one weapon when their boat was hit, he’d be cleaning it now, or at least insuring that it would function perfectly when needed.
Instead, he was perched on a small, flat rock, snuggled close to a boulder that would initially keep him out of sight of any helicopter coming over the range to the east. The snow line was about a hundred yards above him.
It was a good thousand yards to the summit, more than half a mile. It wasn’t as steep as some of the territory he’d covered in the past hour, and he had already picked out his course to the top, but it would be slower going than he liked.
Ryng waited. A tempting voice in the back of his mind kept saying, Aw, go ahead, because once you get over the top it’s downhill all the way. But another voice, the one developed through years of training, was the one he followed. It told him that the odds for the downhill side were very long indeed if he tried to make it now.
He waited — waited for the hum of the rotors that would presage a helo coming over the peaks to his right, a hum that would be followed by the louder beat as the craft closed in on his position.
How the hell do you fight a goddamn helicopter armed with rockets and machine guns? Throw rocks at it? Ryng glanced around him. There were rocks, but nothing else. He picked one up and threw it in disgust. As it landed and bounced down the hill, a small cloud of birds rose at the intrusion. As quickly as they flew into the air, they settled down with irritated squawking at the disturbance. Stay quiet, he told himself. Disturbing those birds is like waving a handkerchief.
It wasn’t long before the sound came to his ears. Ryng watched patiently as the craft came close over the snow of the adjacent peak, skirting first along the top of the ridge above him. It didn’t bother with the valley area below him. That convinced Ryng that this time someone who knew what he was doing was riding shotgun.
For some reason, the helo swept the area to his left as it approached the snow line, keeping low, hovering whenever it neared a shadowed area. Each time, the birds rose whether in defiance or confusion, forcing the helo to rise and drift off to avoid fouling its rotors.
That’s one idea, Ryng thought — piss off the birds and maybe they’ll do the work for me. The more he thought about the idea, the more feasible it became, considering that he had nothing whatsoever to defend himself with. Now, on the opposite side of the boulder from the helo, he collected a small arsenal of rocks, heavy enough, he thought, to upset nesting birds, light enough to be somewhat accurate.
Time to waste some of his ammunition. He threw half-a-dozen stones as rapidly as he could down the slope to his left. He hoped that the disturbed birds would draw some fire.
It worked too perfectly.
With a roar, the helo banked in his direction, swooping toward the rising birds. Ryng saw the telltale smoke from either side as two rockets were fired into the slope above the frantic birds.
Wham… wham. The rockets burst fifty feet above the spot, sending an avalanche of rocks down through the area. The loose surface would wipe out anything in its path as it increased in mass.
Smart — but not so smart, Ryng said to himself. Went for the quick kill without checking first. Maybe he figures I still have some protection. On the other hand, he’s just used up half his rocket load — only two left.
As he watched, fascinated by the small craft’s firepower, the helo circled at a slightly higher altitude. Then the air was shattered by the multibarreled machine guns. Something obviously had attracted the helo’s eye. Whatever it was, a deadly hail of bullets sprayed the area.