Ian Slater - Arctic Front

Delivery of the three-man crafts, ordered much earlier in the campaign by Freeman, had been delayed not because of any mechanical malfunction but because of the general’s insistence that the usual black skirting for the air cushion be painted white. The delay in delivery meant that the eight “designated drivers,” as David Brentwood had called them, had had only an hour or so to practice the previous evening. Now, with one Stallion, gone, he had only four drivers. But the controls were simple, even if Aussie complained of their “bloody Sunday” lawnmower noise and the rough ride, which frankly had surprised all of them except Robert Brentwood who, as part of his naval training in combined ops amphibious training, was already familiar with the gut-shuddering motion of ACVs, in particular the monstrous, barge-sized marine hovercrafts.

As the four craft from the remaining Stallion slid effortlessly down the rollers of the Stallion’s ramp door, guided by the six-man S/D and four-man sub crew team, the crews of the three choppers, zipping up their thick thermal jackets, were already busy spreading out the camouflage nets over the lone Stallion and two Cobras.

“Did you know the men on the Stallion well?” Robert Brentwood asked his younger brother, in an effort to share his loss of the four submariners.

“No.” It was said almost rudely, but David, as commander of the land part of the mission, was too preoccupied with its details for any sentiment to intrude. Besides, there was a nagging, albeit childish, determination on his part not to show any weakness to his older brother. As if reading his mind, Robert immediately deferred to his younger brother’s authority on the timing of the mission now that there had been the complication of the Havoc attack. “Wait till nightfall? “

“No,” answered David, adjusting his ammo pouch pack. “We go now.”

“You worried about that Havoc?”

“Yes. Maybe they’ll send out a search party. Better we push off soon as the birds are covered.”

Aussie looked around at the mention of “birds,” obviously thinking of making a crack, but he didn’t. There was too much to do helping Choir who, with David and Aussie, would man the lead Arrow; the sub crew of four and the other three Delta men would spread out in the other three Arrows. Some weapons, including a Stinger, a LAW antitank tube, and Aussie’s long sniper rifle, had to be strapped to the fuselage before they left. Choir was checking the front of the Arrow, making sure the protective plastic barrel cap was tight enough to withstand the rapid vibration of the air cushion.

Robert Brentwood called the other three submariners over. He would be driving one of the Arrows, Rogers another. “Remember, we’ll go in single file — S/D One leading, S/D Two covering our rear. Literally.” A couple of men smiled.”They’re the ones with experience in this kind of operation. Rogers—”

“Sir?”

“You’ll be right behind their lead Arrow. I’ll be behind you. Remember, single line formation for as long as we can — hopefully the whole way. But if anything goes wrong and we’re fired on from the flanks, then we move to abreast position.”

“Whose breast?” interjected Aussie nearby. The submariners ignored him. Robert reassured them. “Your part’ll start on the sub.” They all knew he meant if they reached Port Baikal and could take a GST without being killed first. But Brentwood knew it wasn’t time to kindle the doubt in everyone’s mind.

“What are they going to do after?” asked Rogers. He meant what would happen to the S/D team.

“They’ll come back to the choppers, wait till darkness or a snowstorm, whichever comes first, and take off with the Cobras and the Stallion. Look, don’t worry. Once we get a sub we’ll be the safest of all.” Only Rogers understood immediately, the point being that, once they were below, the sub would be the same as any other of the three or four GSTs they figured were operating in the lake.

“It’ll be a lookalike masked ball,” Robert Brentwood joked. “All look the same; nobody’ll be able to see us anyway. All done by sound, remember, fellas.”

“Quiet!” It was Aussie Lewis, and through the ear-ringing silence of the forest they could hear the distant chopping sound of helicopters. “Sure as hell’s not ours,” pronounced one of the Cobra pilots.

“Get those Arrows out of the open!” ordered Aussie.

With everyone but Aussie Lewis lending a hand, the four Arrows were pushed back up the rollers into the Stallion beneath the camouflage net.

Aussie broke off into the cover of the forest, whipping off the canvas cover from the Haskins rifle, and, without flipping open the bipod, rested the ice-cold, twenty-three-pound weapon against a fir, turning the scope’s “bullet” impact screw. Withdrawing the bolt — this being necessary before loading each 1.5-ounce bullet, whose combination incendiary/HE/high temperature, super-hardened penetrator head was capable of smashing through a plane engine or passing through an APC — he waited. Either way, Lewis figured if the Siberians spotted something and hovered over them even for a second, he’d cost them a pilot, gunner, or the “whole mother,” as the three Delta men called an enemy chopper. The noise was louder now; the rotor slap, while not overhead, was coming much closer. He glimpsed Rogers, the submariner, only about ten feet from him, under one of the Cobra’s nets, eyes closed. Another prayer. Aussie preferred to trust in his Kevlar bullet-proof vest. He saw movement — Choir Williams kneeling beneath the camouflage net of the Stallion, ready with his squad automatic weapon, and Salvini, one of the Delta men, his M-60 resting on his knee, right hand on the grip.

In Port Baikal, the overtime midnight-to-eight shift over, Nefski’s subaltern came home to his small, drab apartment block, one of the largest buildings in the town. Taking off his greatcoat, he kissed his wife, her Buryat face lined with the travail of being a garrison wife. He told her that she looked tired.

“ Kak vsegda” —”Like always,” she replied, surprised by the kiss.

Hanging up his coat in their apartment’s tiny hallway, he glanced at the laundry bag that hung from the knob on their bedroom door and announced generously that he’d take it down the hallway to the communal laundry for her.

“I’ll do it,” she said. She always had.

“Rest,” he said.

“Rest?” She hadn’t heard him tell her to rest in twenty-two years. Not even when their second child, now a KGB border guard like his father, had been born did he tell her to rest. Whenever he was off guard duty she was expected to be his servant — the only thing he’d do would be to take his boots off, then it was “You have the samovar going?” And always, like this evening, it was going. Except tonight there was no question about the samovar — His Royal Highness had become Comrade Highness. Peeling one of the onions she’d had in the line of glass jars she kept in the window to catch what winter sun she could, Tanya’s eyes began to water and, taking the kitchen rag from its rack by the old age-veined porcelain sink, she wiped her eyes. Seeing the rag was ready for washing, she took it out into the hallway. “Ivan!” she called. The moment he looked back at her from the front door, he was a picture of guilt, a thief running away with the laundry bag. Another peculiar thing — he’d changed into his best weekend trousers.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“Nothing. Can’t a man offer to help his wife now and then?” he shot back defensively. “All the time we hear about Siberian women complaining they are slaves, you never get help. Well? I’m giving you help, woman.”