Charles Taylor - First Salvo

Ryng’s technical specialist and small arms expert, Rick Carpenter, was second to last. Once again, tradition took over as he turned to Bernie Ryng and saluted with his left hand. Denny Bush had decided that the last man to see their leader alive before they rejoined on the ground should always proffer the left-handed salute, “to let Bernie know we care,” he had explained with a laugh.

Bernie Ryng never looked about the fuselage for anything left behind. None of these men had ever made a mistake since the team was formed. He moved up to the position Rick had just vacated, grinning inwardly as he always did at the left-handed salute, and jumped after a silent, automatic count.

The fishing boat they made contact with took them around the north tip of Prince Charles Island, a long, narrow strip of land just off the main island of Spitzbergen. The little island served as a good decoy. They ran south down the narrow channel toward the main harbor. There was little chance of running into any humans along that deserted coast, nor was there any radar.

The two main settlements on Spitzbergen bordered the harbor that cut well into the mountains, which rose fjord-like on the southwest side of the island. Four months of the year, they were snow free because of the warm current that passed within a couple of hundred miles. The nearby current also thawed the tundra enough to make it almost impassably boggy.

The Russians lived in the first community, Barentsburg, situated at the widest part of the harbor near the entrance. The supply ship that had left Murmansk the week before was anchored off the town. About twenty miles farther into the harbor was the Norwegian settlement of Longyearbyen, which included the airport used by both groups.

The SEAL team landed across the harbor from Barentsburg. About a mile and a half up the coast, they were out of sight of the settlement. Less than five hundred yards inland from the shore, Ryng found a perfect spot to conceal their equipment. Then he split the team into two groups. His section would transit to Longyearbyen to investigate the Norwegian settlement. The second had to learn what was underneath the tarpaulins on the Soviet ship.

It was late summer in Spitzbergen, six hundred miles north of Norway in the land of the midnight sun. There was no total darkness, not even in the first week of September. In what would normally be the middle of the night, the sky and land still had an eerie luminosity. The sun, a golden spectacle on the horizon, cast long shadows that contrasted with the crystal reflection on the mountain glaciers. Ryng had to pass the Soviet base and make his way to Longyearbyen without the security of total darkness that the team had been trained to exploit. Even more difficult would be the other mission, aboard the Soviet ship. That problem was left to Harry Winters — he was trained to be innovative, and Bernie never doubted for a moment that Harry could pull it off.

The evening was a chilly thirty-five degrees when they separated. Dressed in dark trousers and turtlenecks, faces blackened, they blended with the long shadows and the darkness of the icy waters.

An electric motor, attached to high-capacity batteries that would last them well into the next day, pushed their low rubber boat at about seven knots. Once past Barentsburg, Ryng was no longer concerned with detection. Nothing existed between the two settlements but cold, barren, snowcapped mountains. The only passage between them in the summer was by helicopter or boat. At night, even though they were the only floating object, they would never be seen darting through the shadows.

It was one-thirty in the morning when they came opposite the Norwegian town. Ryng could see nothing moving. Lights glowed in some of the windows, mostly in two larger buildings. He swung his binoculars around to the airfield. There the lights, even with the sun hovering on the horizon, were brilliant. In the glare he saw two huge Aeroflot planes. Continuing to scan the area, something in his mind — a sixth sense — made him swing back. He steadied himself on the edge of the boat, the glasses centered on one of the aircraft.

Lousy camouflage! There was no doubt about the exterior markings. Both military! He suspected that whatever was in the supply ship at Barentsburg was also connected with these two planes.

“What have you got here, Bernie?”

“Two Bear bombers, I think. Here, take a look.” He handed the glasses to Denny Bush, the technical specialist.

“You’re right,” agreed Bush, handing them back. “But take a look at those pods under the wings. I never saw anything like that before.”

Ryng shook his head unhappily. “Damn, I was hoping maybe you’d recognize them. I guess we’ll just have to find someone who does know.” Restarting the electric motor, he quietly maneuvered the boat across the half mile, slipping gently under a broken-down pier which was attached to an even more dilapidated fishing shack that had been left to the hazards of the frozen harbor for too many winters.

After concealing the rubber boat underneath, Bush unwrapped a waterproof packet and distributed weapons. Each man received a Browning 9mm pistol with three clips of ammunition, thirty-nine rounds apiece. Ryng had selected this particular weapon for its close-in effect; he never allowed them to use a pistol at more than twenty yards. The team didn’t work that way. Each man also had two knives. Bush, as usual, was most comfortable with his garroting wire.

Ryng gestured toward one of the lighted buildings. It was at the base of a rocky outcrop. “You and Wally go around that side,” he whispered to Bush. “Rick and I will try the other. Don’t bother with anybody yet.” They all disappeared into the shadows. Anyone looking in their direction might have thought the quick movements were simply his imagination. One man would dart across a patch of ground stealthily and swiftly. Then the other would move, always covered by the first.

Ryng knew from the satellite photos he’d gone over the day before that this was the town recreation hall. All the local events were held here — chess tournaments with the Russians, dances, holiday feasts. This was the center of activity for Longyearbyen, its heart and pulse in the long, dark winters.

He peeked through a window into a well-lighted room. It was jammed with men. Some were asleep on the floor, others rested with their backs against the wall. At one end, in the only chairs, sat two men, guns across their knees. Ryng recognized the weapons, brand new AK-74s, Russian made. He couldn’t tell who the guards were — they had no uniforms — but they knew how to handle those guns. He could tell just by the way they held them. And even at 2:30 a.m., they were wide awake and alert.

He scurried back into the shadows. Rick was already there and Ryng nodded at him to speak. “Room full of women, all asleep, I think. Two men guarding them with AK-74s. One has tear gas grenades.” Ryng hadn’t noticed grenades in the room he had observed. “I wouldn’t try anything with them, Bernie, not right away. They look sharp.”

“I agree,” Ryng said as they crouched in the dark waiting for Bush.

Rick’s alert eyes caught Denny Bush darting through the shadows with Wally a second or two behind him. Then, so silent that only Ryng knew they were there, the two men settled bedside them. “Prisoners?” Bernie whispered.

“One big room,” Denny replied. “Must be two hundred men in there, all young. A couple of them are tied up, probably troublemakers. There’re four men guarding them. One’s wearing a black beret.”

So that was the reason! “That’s why they don’t need many guards,” Ryng remarked under his breath. Russian marines! Some of the Black Beret units were almost as good as their U.S. counterparts. “How many entrances?”