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:
Rosenthal nodded grimly. “I’m well aware of that, Captain,” he said. “Unfortunately, the pararescue team we dispatched first was ambushed shortly after takeoff. A SAM brought down one of their two helicopters, with heavy casualties.” His gaze hardened. “Which makes your team it, I’m afraid. You and your men are the only airborne-qualified force we’ve got that can reach those crash sites sometime in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Someone shot down one of our helicopters?” Flynn said, staggered by the news. Carrying out a missile attack just outside the largest military base in Alaska represented an almost unthinkable escalation. “Who? The Russians?”
“Probably,” the general said tersely. He shrugged. “Look, son, for what it’s worth, your orders come straight from the top — from the SecDef and the Joint Chiefs. Their assessment is that your mission is of the utmost importance. If we’re going to have any hope of avoiding an all-out war with Russia, we’ve got to learn more about what really happened out there, both to our planes and to theirs. So it’s vital that you find any surviving aircrew and retrieve the flight recorders from every crash site you can reach.”
Flynn frowned. “That’s one hell of a tall order, sir.”
“Yes, it is,” Rosenthal said flatly. “And I don’t like this much more than you do. But there it is.” His chin came up as he looked Flynn straight in the eyes. “Your country is counting on you and your team right now. I know that may sound corny as hell, but it also happens to be true.”
Shit, shit, shit, Flynn thought irritably. He really hated these kinds of appeals to his patriotism, especially since they were practically guaranteed to work on him. Just stick a flea collar around my darned neck and call me Uncle Sam’s Pavlovian dog, he mused in disgust. That was how they got you, he knew, by invoking the danger to a land and a people you loved. And the trouble was, sometimes the danger was real. If the Russians were suddenly shooting down American planes and helicopters practically at will, it was harder and harder to see how the U.S. could avoid a major armed clash with Moscow.
“There’s one more thing that wasn’t included in the first draft of your orders,” Rosenthal continued. “But it comes straight from the Joint Chiefs, too. Apparently, there’s also a chance that you might run across another aircraft on the ground out there. An intact aircraft. And if you do, you’re to report its presence and location immediately, but you are not, repeat not, to take any further action… not without direct orders from either the SecDef or the JCS.”
“Exactly what kind of intact aircraft are we talking about?” Flynn asked carefully. Inside his mind, a whole new set of alarm bells were now going off. “One of ours? One of the Russians? Or one made by little green men from Mars?”
The general winced. “You now know as much about this as I do, Captain.” His expression was not happy. “I’m pushing hard for more data, especially since it may have some bearing on what happened to our Raptors and the other missing planes. And on why the Russians are being so goddamned aggressive all of a sudden. So far, though, I’m not getting very far.”
If those internal alarm bells got any louder, Flynn judged, he’d be metaphorically deaf real soon. He scowled. “Just for the record, sir, this sort of ‘need to know’ bullshit really pisses me off.”
“You’re not alone in that feeling, son,” Rosenthal said. A hint of frustration crept into his voice, confirming what he said. “And I fully understand your own particular aversion to this level of strict secrecy.”
That was true enough, Flynn realized. No matter how “prettied up” the orders justifying his exile to Barter Island may have been, the Pentagon’s version of the old boys’ network undoubtedly meant Rosenthal knew all about his earlier run-in with the CIA and its Libyan black ops arms smuggling.
“If it’s any consolation, Captain Flynn,” the general continued, “my strong suspicion is that there are a number of people back in Washington right now who are almost equally unhappy that you’re in charge of this mission.”
Flynn shook his head. “Frankly, sir, that’s not much consolation at all.” He sat back with a resigned sigh. “Okay, we’ll do our best.”
“I know you will, Captain,” Rosenthal said. “Now, from what I understand, there’s supposed to be a lull in this blizzard later tonight, but it may not last long. So organize your team and pull together any gear you’ll need fast. We’re putting Major Ingalls and Captain Van Horn and their HC-130J on standby out at the Barter Island airport right now. They’ll be ready to take off as soon as your men are on board.”
Sweating in the station’s steam heat, Flynn strode down the corridor toward Sergeant Andy Takirak’s tiny quarters. He’d thought briefly about stopping by his own room to wriggle out of his parka and the rest of his cold weather gear to get more comfortable, but he’d resisted the temptation. They were already on the clock, without any time to waste. And any layers he took off now were only ones he’d have to squeeze back into before they headed out to the airport.
Behind him, he heard a solid door bang open. Deep voices echoed through the station as the soldiers who’d been on outpost duty came hurrying back into the dining area to get out of the bitter, bone-chilling cold.
“Hey, what are you guys doing back inside?” he heard Cole Hynes ask, sounding annoyed. “You’re not due for another couple of hours.”
“The captain called us back in,” Vucovich told him. “He said we should grab some hot food and stand by for new orders.”
“What new orders?” Hynes demanded.
“Hell if we know,” Sanchez’s bass baritone rumbled. “I was freezing my balls off out there, so I’m sure not planning on bitching.”
That would change soon enough, Flynn thought somberly. Nobody in their right mind was going to be thrilled about the prospect of a night jump — let alone a night jump into the wilderness in the tail end of a blizzard. In fact, he might be lucky if he got out of this without a full-fledged mutiny on his hands. Or was mutiny only something that ever happened to the Navy?
He reached Takirak’s door, knocked once perfunctorily, and then pushed it open. “Sorry to bust in on you, Andy. But we’ve got a situation,” he said quickly.
Obviously caught off guard, Takirak looked up sharply from his tablet. He’d been sitting upright on his cot, apparently concentrating intently on something displayed on the tiny device. Hurriedly, he put the tablet facedown beside him. “Excuse me, sir? What kind of a situation?”
“A bad one,” Flynn said quietly. He kicked the door shut behind him and ran through a quick summary of their new orders.
When he was done, Takirak whistled softly and shook his head. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Oh, how I wish I was,” Flynn said with a twisted grin. “So, anyway, we’ve got a crapload of work to do and no time to do it in.” He nodded at the noncom’s tablet. “I’m sorry to cut into your poetry writing time, but there it is.”
Takirak stared at him with a puzzled expression. “Poetry, sir? Me?”
Flynn colored slightly. “Ah, shit, Andy. M-Squared hacked us all a while back, and he blew the whistle on that amateur writing group you’re part of. Forget I mentioned it.”
For a moment, the older man looked furious. It was not an expression Flynn had ever seen on him before and it made the powerfully built National Guard NCO seem strangely dangerous. But then, visibly, Takirak forced himself to calm down. He donned a half-abashed grin instead. “Already forgotten, Captain.” He shook his head slowly. “Somehow, Senior Airman Mitchell keeps managing to surprise me. I must be losing my touch.”