Arctic Storm Rising by Dale Brown (readera ebook reader .TXT) 📗

what was still more a prickly bunch of individuals than a solid military unit.

In the end, it took closer to fifteen minutes to organize the march column to Takirak’s satisfaction, but at last they movedout north across the tundra—tromping steadily toward the low hills along the northern horizon. The noncom and another manwere a few hundred yards out in front as scouts. Bringing up the rear, two more men drove the snow machines and towed sledspiled high with their extra supplies, puttering along at very low throttle to keep pace with the soldiers on foot ahead ofthem.

At the head of the central column, Flynn settled his rucksack across his back and started off. Mitchell came next, bowed slightlyunder the weight of his own gear and their radio. “Man, I thought I was joining the Air Force, not the fucking Foreign Legion,”he heard the communications specialist grumble under his breath. “All this ‘march or die’ shit is gonna get old real fast.”

Flynn looked back over his shoulder with a grin. “It’s not actually ‘march or die,’ Airman Mitchell.”

“No, sir?” the radioman asked.

“Nope,” Flynn continued. “Not enough sand, for a start.”

“Hell of a lot of snow, though, sir,” Mitchell pointed out.

Flynn nodded. His grin widened. “That’s why it’s more like ‘march or freeze your ass off.’”

Mitchell snorted. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re kinda mean, sir?”

“All the time, ever since I was a kid,” Flynn said, still smiling. “And that was just my mother.”

Deadhorse Airport, Prudhoe Bay, Alaska

Three Days Later

Flynn concentrated on putting one snowshoed foot in front of the other. After three days and nearly sixty miles of marchingnorth across this frozen landscape, the rhythm had become second nature to him. His breath puffed out in a little cloud ofsteam that drifted away on the icy breeze. He looked back at his men. Though their shoulders were bowed down under the weightof their rucksacks, they were all in position in the column and moving easily, almost gracefully, through the snow.

The first day’s march had been the roughest on all of them, except for Andy Takirak. Within the first few miles, every stephad been painful and every breath an agony as they sucked in bone-dry air chilled to just above zero. By the time they madecamp, his little band of soldiers and airmen were too tired even to bitch about the situation he’d dropped them in. Only theNational Guard sergeant had seemed disgustingly cheerful when he prodded them awake the following morning, hours before sunrise.Everyone else had been wrapped in misery, all too aware of aching feet, calves, and shoulders.

That had changed sometime during the second day’s even longer hike. One moment, Flynn felt like all he could do was focus on taking the next painful step—slogging along in an endless procession of discomfort where sheer willpower was the only thing keeping him moving. Then, suddenly, he’d felt his head come up and his shoulders go back. His breathing had eased, too. Oh, his feet and back still hurt . . . but it no longer mattered. Or at least not as much. A quick check of the march column had showed that the rest of his team was experiencing something similar. Even their usual crappy jokes and banter had started to bounce back and forth again.

“They’re over the hump,” Takirak had said matter-of-factly during their next rest break.

Flynn had nodded, understanding what the older man meant. The “hump” was that almost indefinable psychological moment whenyou realized that what had seemed impossibly difficult was doable after all. There was a hump somewhere in every challengingsituation, and if you managed to get past it you learned a lot about yourself . . . and the others who’d been there with you.

Like all good things, that brief moment of elation had faded again under the strain of marching so far and so fast. But itlingered inside every man as a source of confidence and renewed strength. They knew now that they were going to make it—thatthey’d reach Deadhorse on time if they just refused to give up.

A droning roar off to the east brought Flynn’s head up again. There, coming in low, on its final approach to the airport,was an Alaska Air National Guard C-130J turboprop. He glanced at his watch.

From behind him, Mitchell asked, “Is that our ride, sir?”

Flynn nodded, feeling a grin starting to spread on his face. “That it is, Airman. And right on time.” He moved off to theside of the column of marching men and raised his voice. “Well done, guys! You did it.”

Answering smiles spread along the line of weary, unshaven faces. Bringing up the rear, with his light machine gun draped overhis shoulder, Hynes pulled down his thermal mask. “Hey, Captain,” he asked. “Is that it? Aren’t you going to make some long,inspiring speech?”

Flynn shook his head. “Hell no, PFC.” He nodded toward the runway, now visible just a few hundred yards ahead of them. The Super Hercules had landed and was taxiing down the strip. “Hear those propellers?”

“Yeah?” Hynes said curiously.

“Well, that’s my speech,” Flynn told him with a laugh. “Know what they sound like to me?”

“Victory?”

“Yep,” Flynn agreed. “Victory . . . and hot food, showers, and clean sheets.”

That drew whoops and cheers. Hynes and the others grinned even wider. “Roger that, sir!”

Nine

Deep in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

Some Days Later

In a whirling flurry of rotor-blown snow, a large twin-engine helicopter settled heavily onto the tundra. Painted white withred stripes, it was a Boeing Vertol 234 heavy-lift helicopter—the civilian version of a military CH-47 Chinook. As its turboshaftengines spooled down, both rotors gradually slowed and then stopped moving. The rear ramp whined down and thudded into thesnow, revealing a compartment crammed full with nearly eleven metric tons of cargo. A couple pieces of small constructionequipment—walk-behind, smooth-drum, compaction rollers—were strapped down closest to the opening. Large sections of foldedwhite fabric and long aluminum stringers filled the rest of the fuselage from floor to ceiling.

Kept comfortable despite the cold by his fashionable gray-and-blue Rossignol ski