Arctic Storm Rising

Flynn swung away from the bus and stared down the icy track leading into Kaktovik, hoping that he would see two figures trudging toward the radar station. But there was nothing moving. In the distance, the little village’s street and house lights twinkled brightly against a night sky speckled with thousands upon thousands of stars.

At least some of the meteorologists’ predictions of improving weather had panned out, he realized. Thick clouds still obscured most of the mountain peaks south of the small island, but the skies overhead were clearing and the north winds had calmed down some. If similar conditions held over their drop zone, the jump might not be quite as suicidal as he’d feared. But that still seemed like a big “if” when there were so many lives on the line.

Two of his men, Vucovich and Airman Peter Kim, steered their snow machines out of the station’s large-vehicle maintenance bay. Each vehicle towed an empty sled behind it. With a flourish of loud, lawnmower-like motors, they pulled up beside Flynn.

Vucovich pushed his goggles up onto his forehead. “Want us to scout the town for the sarge and M-Squared, Captain?” he asked. “It ain’t that big.”

Flynn thought about that and then shook his head. As it was, it would take more time than they could easily afford to secure the two snow machines and their sleds aboard the HC-130J’s single available equipment pallet. And the aircraft’s loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Tim Wahl, was already waiting for them with growing impatience. “Takirak knows we’re headed to the airport,” he said, more confidently than he felt. “Once he’s got Airman Mitchell in hand, he’ll meet us there. In the meantime, you guys go report to Wahl and help him load your vehicles.”

Vucovich nodded. He pulled his goggles back down and thumped Kim in the shoulder. “Let’s hit it, Pete. Last man to the airport has to do all the grunt work.” Grinning widely, they opened their throttles and sped away across the tundra, trailing plumes of ice and snow from under their ski runners.

Flynn watched them go with a bemused grin. He’d completely misread his team’s likely reaction to their new orders. Far from plunging them into gloom, the prospect of action — even incredibly hazardous action, like making a parachute jump at night over mountains — had them all pumped up. He guessed that was a combination of the same craving for adventure that had caused most of them to enlist in the first place — plus the natural, wild-eyed optimism of youth, and a desperate willingness to do anything that would get them out of the dull, grinding routine of sentry duty on this isolated island.

He turned back to find Sanchez looming over him. The big New Mexican was the only one who looked even a little disgruntled. But that was because Flynn was making him leave his beloved Carl Gustaf 84mm recoilless rifle behind. On a search-and-rescue mission, they would need extra supplies and medical equipment more than a heavy weapon designed to blow open bunkers and kill armored vehicles.

“Everything’s loaded on the bus, sir,” Sanchez reported. “The sergeant and M-Squared’s stuff, too.”

Flynn nodded. He looked down the track toward Kaktovik one more time and then shrugged. They couldn’t wait here any longer. “Then let’s mount up, Specialist,” he said. “But pass the word for everyone to keep their eyes peeled on the way through town. Our two missing guys can’t have gone far.”