Charles Taylor - First Salvo

Svalbard! That was it! Spitzbergen — that island in the middle of nowhere. Longyearbyen! Russian bombers. Black Berets. Their boat. Theirs? That’s right. Denny? Forget it. Denny’s dead — no head left. I’m alive.

Why? Rockets… machine guns… depth charges…

Hold it! That’s it…depth charges. That’s what happened. Son of a bitch!

It came back now… flash… flash… flash!

The tremendous kick in the guts… shit, no! All over. That’s what happened. I swam for it. Helo disappeared for some reason… smoke! That’s it! That’s why I’m still alive. The son of a bitch couldn’t stay up any longer… maybe thought I was dead. But, a signpost in his unconscious flashed — I survived!

Smell returned. And with it his stomach churned, for he was lying in his own vomit. It wasn’t just salt water. That’s why his eyes were stuck shut — must have been face down in the stuff!

Cautiously he rubbed around the other eye, gently blinking it open. Christ, they stung. Why the hell shouldn’t they? Salt water, gravel — what a hell of a paste.

He rolled slightly to search for the sun. Forget it! Almost twenty-four hours of sun up here — no way to tell the time.

He was about to get to his knees when something in his subconscious rebelled. Listen!

There it was, only louder now. The realization came quickly. Only one thing made that steady, monotonous tone, that thrum, that relentless beat as it drew closer. He couldn’t see it, but he knew without a doubt it was a helicopter.

No dummies, those Soviet marines! They knew better. They were trained just like he had been. No body, no proof of death. Bring back the body and that job’s finished, then get on to the next body.

That helo that had gone down smoking must have informed base that they were dropping depth charges, using their last available weapon because they’d seen a body still moving down there. They’d all know there was no reason it should survive a depth charge. But they were also the type that knew, just like he would, that you never trust to luck — or even probability — that your enemy is dead if your enemy had just done what Ryng’s team had. Bring us a body, their leader would say, or just part of one. An arm or a leg will do. But bring back something to prove we don’t have to worry for the time being.

Whump… whump… whump . Now he knew where it was — almost overhead. They hadn’t seen him or the change in rotor beat would have indicated that they were hovering.

But they were covering that forsaken beach very slowly, looking for any trace that would either prove he was dead or tell them where he’d gotten to.

Ryng rolled his head, staring up. He was looking through the branches of the scrub brush. He put his head back down, satisfied that he was under some sort of cover for the time being. He felt the ooze as he rested his head on the ground, but there was no point in moving. Even as the stink came back to him again, he knew he would be crazy if he moved another muscle.

Almost on top of him now. He could feel the draft of the rotors. He caught the first movement of the bush above him, then the increased shaking as the helo passed directly overhead. Dust churned up around him, assaulting his eyes, working into his nose and mouth. Instinctively, he moved both hands over his face, covering it as best he could without moving the rest of his body. He would be harder to see through the dust, but he was damned if he’d do anything that would give them the slightest chance. There wasn’t much cover around him. The brush was about the only thing he remembered that gave any shelter as he crawled up that beach. But when? Minutes, or hours ago?

Don’t move , he ordered himself. No automatic reactions. Don’t roll over. Don’t pull your knees up. Don’t do a damned thing but cover your face. Save those senses ’cause you’re going to need them later. Blow it now, and all you’ll know is lead. The last sound you will hear, Mr. Ryng , his brain repeated again and again, is your own scream. So just take your shit like a man and in a few moments they’ll move on and you can take inventory. In just a few moments, you’ll find out whether you can move, whether you’re going to have a chance of getting your ass out of here, or whether carrion-eating seagulls are eventually going to lead them to your body . Again and again, the same voice repeated itself, just as he had trained himself to do years before, letting the mind take over, letting it control the body. Sometimes it made the body do superhuman things and sometimes it taught the body to stop.

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.