Arctic Storm Rising
- Автор: Браун Дейл
- Серия: Nick Flynn #1
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 9780063015050
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «Arctic Storm Rising». Краткое содержание книги:
“Might want to go easy on that right now,” the older man said with a faint suggestion of amusement of his own. “Yakking to the walls will come natural enough to all of us by the time the serious winter sets in.”
As more soldiers and airmen arrived, Takirak put them to work offloading the small two-man vehicles, sleds, fuel cans, ammunition boxes, and other supplies and prepping them for use. There was less grousing than usual. Some of that was probably due to the usual adrenaline rush conferred by surviving a jump out of a perfectly good airplane. A bit more might be owed to the vast stretch of empty country in which they now found themselves. As far as the eye could see in all directions, they were the only living human beings. There were no trees or signs of other vegetation. Effectively, their little band was all on its own in a flat, almost featureless plain of snow and ice, broken only by a range of low, rocky hills halfway to the northern horizon. Their voices were instinctively hushed, as though they were awed visitors wandering around inside the echoing interior of a huge cathedral.
In fact, it wasn’t until they were almost finished emptying the two pallets that Senior Airman Mark Mitchell — M-Squared to his friends — finally got up enough nerve to ask the question that had to be on everyone else’s mind. “Say, sir? Uh, where’s everybody else? Did those Herky Bird pilots screw up their navigation and drop us in the wrong place?”
Flynn put down the boxes of MREs he’d carried over to one of the sleds and turned his head to meet the red-haired airman’s mildly worried gaze. Mitchell had earned his jump wings during a stab at the Air Force’s pararescue course. He’d been bounced for what his personnel file dryly called “attitude adjustment issues.” Based on Flynn’s personal observation over the past several days, that probably meant the airman had pulled one prank too many on his instructors. After a succession of other scrapes in various units, he’d been “volunteered” to serve as the new Joint Force team’s communications specialist. In the field, that meant carting around the team’s AN/PRC-162 manpack radio and sticking close to his new commander’s side at all times.
Mitchell’s curiosity and concern were natural. The training and readiness exercise they’d piggybacked onto involved four other C-130s carrying more than three hundred paratroopers belonging to the Army’s Fourth Brigade Combat Team (Airborne). By rights, this snow-covered plain should be filled with other soldiers assembling into platoons and sorting out their own gear.
“We’re on the right drop zone,” Flynn assured the airman, raising his voice slightly so that everyone could hear him. “The rest of the troops are jumping onto a DZ closer to Deadhorse. Their COs have their own training exercise plans for their units. But I’ve got something different in mind for us.”
Another soldier, Private First Class Cole Hynes, pushed forward. Short and square shouldered, Hynes had a temper that had cost him his sergeant’s stripes a few months back. Apart from his pugnacity, his soldier skills were first-rate. On the team’s improvised firing range at Kaktovik, he’d proved able to rapidly put rounds on target at six hundred yards with their M249 Para light machine gun. “Just how far from Deadhorse are we, sir?” he asked with a frown, eyeing the miles and miles of untouched snow in all directions.
It was time to pull the pin on his unwelcome surprise, Flynn realized. Except for Takirak, he’d kept the details of this planned field exercise close to his chest. He’d done so precisely because he didn’t want any of his troops to duck out before climbing aboard the C-130 by “accidentally on purpose” twisting an ankle or coming down with some mystery illness. The Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés had motivated his men to conquer or die by burning the ships that had carried them to Mexico. His task today was considerably simpler, which was probably just as well because it would be damned hard to set anything ablaze on this frozen, treeless plain. Instead of defeating a hostile empire whose fighting forces outnumbered his by a hundred to one, all he wanted to accomplish was toughen up his men physically and teach them to make the best use of their winter gear, snowshoes, and skis before the harsh Arctic winter fully set in and made this type of training too hazardous.
“We’re roughly fifty-nine miles from the airport at Deadhorse,” he announced calmly. “That’s as the crow flies.” He paused to make sure they were all focused on him. “Or, in our case, as the man marches.” He checked his watch. “In approximately seventy-two hours, a plane will land there to ferry us back to Kaktovik. It will take off again sixty minutes later, whether we’re on board or not. So that’s how long we’ve got to finish this little jaunt.”
Hynes, Mitchell, and the others stared at him in consternation. “You’re shitting me,” someone muttered from the back of the little knot of soldiers.
“Nope,” Flynn assured him. He glanced at Takirak. “I’m dead serious, aren’t I, Sergeant?”
The noncom nodded stoically. “Yes, sir.” A dry smile darted across his weathered face and then disappeared. “Only fifty-nine miles in three days? With clear weather in the forecast?” He shook his head. “Heck, that’s practically a stroll in the park.”
“Yeah, but it’s a pretty fricking cold park, Sarge,” Mitchell pointed out.
“Which is why you’re wearing all of that fancy winter gear provided by Uncle Sam, courtesy of the generous taxpayers of these United States,” Takirak reminded him. He looked around the circle of dubious faces. “So quit your bitching and get organized, ladies. I want both pallets unloaded and all of this extra gear stowed on the sleds in ten minutes. Because whether you’re happy about it or not, we’re hiking north to Deadhorse. So there’s no sense in wasting more daylight.” He glanced at Flynn. “With your permission, sir?”
“Carry on, Sergeant,” Flynn agreed. He stepped back out of the way as the knot of soldiers and airmen broke up and went to work again. Thank God for an experienced NCO, he thought for what had to be the hundredth time over just the past week. Loner himself or not, the National Guard sergeant had the right touch when it came to handling 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 moved out north across the tundra — tromping steadily toward the low hills along the northern horizon. The noncom and another man were a few hundred yards out in front as scouts. Bringing up the rear, two more men drove the snow machines and towed sleds piled high with their extra supplies, puttering along at very low throttle to keep pace with the soldiers on foot ahead of them.
At the head of the central column, Flynn settled his rucksack across his back and started off. Mitchell came next, bowed slightly under 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.”