Charles Taylor - First Salvo

Bernie Ryng had to make up his mind which was the most dangerous — the suddenly treacherous soft spots in the tundra surface or the arctic terns. This time of year, the birds nesting on the tundra were invisible, blending in with the arctic growth until he was almost on top of them. Then they would swirl angrily into the air, squawking their anger at the sudden disturbance. Though they settled quickly to the ground as he passed, they could serve as a signpost to his location if a helo were to slip over the nearby ridges to either side. Even an idiot , thought Ryng, would know there was almost nothing in the area to upset the birds, nothing but a man .

Most of their eggs were already hatched, but some untended nests still held the rich food that Ryng knew would offer enough sustenance to last him until he crossed the peak. He’d never been a fan of raw eggs, and these had an odd, brackish flavor to them, but they were small enough to slip down his throat quickly. A little pressure on the soft, tangled vegetation at his feet was enough to form a puddle of drinking water to wash them down. His stomach growled back at the unusual food, but Ryng paid little attention to it. He’d eaten much worse in the past.

Perhaps five hours had passed since the last helo had chased him under the boulder in that first hidden valley. That bothered him. It meant that someone was thinking the way he was. There was no need on the Russians’ part to waste fuel or ammunition. If their plans had been for a short stay on Spitzbergen, their supplies would necessarily be limited. Why wouldn’t one of those Black Beret officers do exactly the same thing as he would? Figure out your quarry, then wait for him at the most logical spot.

Ryng glared up at the peak in front of him. It was not especially high, but the path to the top was not a straight line either. He pondered his choices, mapping a course in his mind as his eyes searched out secure hiding places. The course became gradually steeper as it progressed, but not once did he allow himself to be positioned where he could not seek cover. The snow line began about halfway up. Once he reached it, he would be a perfect target. His blood photographed against the whiteness would provide perfect proof to Moscow that Bernie Ryng had been had.

While he rose to begin the final ascent, that little voice echoed through his mind, quiet at first, then more insistent. If they’ve been letting you travel this far and this long , Ryng thought to himself, don’t you think they might have a plan? Do you really think a Black Beret officer would be dumb enough to let you go on your merry way without having something in mind? Ryng looked back up at the peak. The voice made sense. Don’t you think they have maps and photos equal to your own? he continued to reason. If you were chasing one of them, would you let him hop from shadow to shadow, or would you plot a logical track and wait until he gets to the snow? Why do it the hard way when there’s a nice, easy way to do the job without wasting precious fuel?

Right, Ryng answered himself. I have to stop at the snow line and wait. He’ll be there, surer than shit, about the time he figures I’m far enough into the snow to thrash around like a scared rabbit. Just don’t pass the snow line, Ryng. Wait there until they come for you. Then take your chances. In the snow, you won’t have any.

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.

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.

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.