Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1) (25 page)

“That’s good,” Justin replied on his radio. He held tight to the door handle, as the Land Rover slid to the left.

“Sorry,” Anna, the driver, mumbled.

The gravel road connecting Arctic Bay to Nanisivik was coated with a thin layer of fresh snow. It provided sufficient tire traction for most of the trip but also concealed slippery ice patches.

“Don’t worry, you’re doing a great job,” Justin said to Anna. “Kiawak, is the Otter back from Grise Fiord?”

“Yeah, got here ten minutes ago. He brought those Danish rifles we found, and we’re gonna use them to pierce new holes in their butts.”

“Is Carrie with you?”

“No, she dropped us off at my place, and she’s been looking for a vantage point but hasn’t made up her mind yet.”

“Did any of the contractors stay?”

“Hmmm, less than what I thought. A handful or so.”

“Better than nothing,” Justin said, “since we didn’t get anyone from Resolute.”

“I guess. How far are you?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes, maybe.”

“OK, we’ll see you when you get here.”

“All right. It’s all falling into place.” Justin glanced at Anna, then at the Toyota truck in front of them. Their Land Rover was the third car in the fifty-vehicle convoy. “Kiawak just got those Let Støttevåbens we found in Nuqatlak’s place in Grise Fiord. Those should greatly increase our firepower.”

“Great,” Anna said, struggling with the steering wheel.

The radio crackled. “Justin, can you hear me? This is Ned,” said the driver of the lead car in the convoy. “I’ve got some bad news.”

“What is it?” Justin said.

“Emily just finished telling me we’ve got the wrong place. Our plan, our defenses, our entire operation is wrong.”

“OK, calm down and tell me what you mean.”

“She says the Danes are not coming by sea. They’re landing at the airport.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Nanisivik, Canada

April 14, 07:55 a.m.

“Are you sure about this?” Kiawak asked over the radio, trying to curb the anger in his voice.

“Absolutely,” Justin replied. “Emily—I mean Moore—is so convinced this intel is true, she’s coming to join our forces.”

“That’s what I call conviction. We should move our positions to the airport.”

“Yeah, right away. The Danes have probably realized their mole has been caught, and they’ve changed their plans.”

“When did Emily say the Hercules is landing?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she knew. Could be anytime.”

“The terrain around the airport isn’t great, lots of small hills and very little cover,” Kiawak said. “We may still have the upper hand, especially if we get there before the Danish troops spread out. We’re moving there right away.”

“OK, we’re turning the convoy around as we speak,” Justin replied, then hung up.

“What are you thinking?” Kiawak asked Carrie, who was gazing at the ceiling of the Parting Waters.

“I’m thinking how it would feel to drive two Hellfire missiles deep into the guts of that Hercules.”

“I’m sure you’ll get your chance to do that. Now, let’s buckle up.”

Nanisivik Airport, Canada

April 14, 8:15 a.m.

The aft ramp lowered slowly onto the packed gravel airstrip. The freezing wind swept around the doorway, its loud howling protesting the arrival of the C-130J Super Hercules airplane. The recruits stared at the snowstorm brewing outside. Gray clouds hung over the hills on both sides of the runway.

“Soldiers, welcome to Nanisivik,” Gunter’s voice echoed over the intercom system. “Everyone knows his job, so let’s go out and do it.”

Magnus appeared at the small door connecting the cockpit to the galley and the cargo compartment. The latter had been configured for maximum seating capacity, and the troops were packed in tight rows. They were stretching their legs and chatting with each other.

“How was the trip?” Magnus asked Valgerda.

She stood up from her seat, the first one to the right of the galley. “Manageable.” She straightened her hair. “They behaved—well, mostly.”

“Time to go, soldiers,” Magnus shouted. “Form a single file when exiting the plane and line up to the left in platoon formation. We’ll hand out weapons once my team’s ready. The terminal is our first target. Secure a perimeter and take control of the Otter and the two Bell choppers in the hangar. Don’t wreck them, since we’ll need them for our next missions.”

“Magnus,” Gunter’s voice came over his earpiece. “A hostile truck is approaching the plane. Take care of it.”

“Right away,” he replied on the small mike incorporated on his Kevlar helmet.

“No, I’ve got it,” Yuliya said and moved in front of Magnus.

She unzipped her white Gore-Tex jacket and removed her sidearm—the easily concealable HK MP5—from the holster wrapped around her shoulder. Then she ran across the cargo compartment and jumped off the ramp. Her heavy combat boots crunched on the gravel. She ignored the wind gusts and stared at the incoming vehicle, an old model Ford. It was still about three hundred feet away. Yuliya guessed it would take the driver about twenty seconds to reach the airplane.

She turned around and gazed at the gravel airstrip. The airplane’s nose wheel had stopped a few feet short of the end of the runway. Both pilots had fought with the airplane’s controls to complete the wheel brake operation. A large snow bank towered near the cockpit, casting a shadow feet away from its front glass.
This is probably the largest and the heaviest airplane to ever land here.
She shook her head at the deep ditches the Super Hercules’s wheels had dug into the runway.

She looked up at the approaching Ford. The driver—maybe in his sixties—did not seem too impressed, judging by his burning eyes.

“What the hell are you doing here?” the old man spit out his words. He stopped the truck and got out.

“Get lost,” Yuliya shouted back.

“Who do you think you are?” The old man began to walk toward her.

Yuliya waited until he was at point-blank range, before bringing out her gun from behind her back. The old man gawked at the weapon. She jabbed its short barrel into the old man’s chest and squeezed the trigger. His shriek was muffled by the gunfire and cut off with the thud of his dead body collapsing to the ground.

“The coast is clear,” Yuliya whispered on her mike, turning around to face the aft ramp. “Ægir Rise!”

As soon as she shouted the code words, waves of recruits burst out of the airplane, like the God of the Sea in the Norse mythology rising with rage from the watery depths. They formed four platoons with wild hoorays. Four men from Magnus’s team carried out two large containers, the weapon caches. As soon as Gunter stepped off the plane, every recruit was ordered to pick up a Gevær M/95 automatic weapon, the standard assault rifle of the Danish army, along with four magazines, each containing thirty rounds. They also picked up a side weapon, the small Sig Sauer P210, and an extra magazine for it. Two men in Magnus’s team were armed with Barrett M95 sniper rifles. The other five, including Valgerda, carried Gevær M/95s specially fitted with 40mm grenade launchers.

Valgerda joined Magnus, who was standing by the old Ford, and jumped into the vehicle’s truck box.

“Let the rookies drive,” she said.

Magnus nodded. “Sargon, Vince, Ali, and Dominique,” he shouted at four men in the front row of the closest platoon. “Step forward. You’re coming with us to be the leading unit as we take over the terminal. Hurry up!”

The recruits obeyed his order. Sargon and Vince climbed in the cabin. Ali and Dominique sat across from Magnus and Valgerda.

“Man, it’s so freaking cold,” Ali, a small bearded man, complained as he leaned against the side rail.

“No worries,” Valgerda replied. “We’ll light up this place so it’s blazing hot.”

* * *

“They’ve overrun the terminal,” Joe said. He was scanning the windows of the one-story building through his powerful binoculars. “Some blond guy is having a smoke by the hangar.” He adjusted the zoom, swinging his head to the left. “Other people are moving toward the road, about a mile to our left.”

“Shit,” Kiawak swore and spat on the ground, “Herman’s probably dead. I see someone else driving his Ford. Now the sons of bitches have another airplane and two choppers, besides the one they flew in, and they’re heavily armed.”

He counted up to fifty silhouettes, mostly in winter fatigues, each brandishing an assault rifle. He tossed his binoculars on the passenger’s seat of his Toyota and plodded for the truck box. Their small convoy of five vehicles was parked next to a small ice hill, which seemed to provide them sufficient cover from the airstrip.

“What are you doing?” Joe followed him.

“I’m out for revenge, what do you think I’m doing?” Kiawak lifted the black tarpaulin cover, pulling out one of the Let Støttevåben machine guns.

“You’re gonna just run down there and kill everyone?”

“Save it, Joe. I’m not gonna stay here and wait.”

He slammed a 100-round C-Mag drum into the receiver and pulled back the bolt. His action slid a round from the magazine into the gun’s chamber. The weapon was ready. All Kiawak had to do was tap the safety switch, which he did with a flick of his finger.

“We need a plan.” Joe blocked the path of Kiawak, who sidestepped around him and went through a tall heap of snow. “We need a strategy.”

“We don’t have time for that.” Kiawak turned around. “We planned our defenses at the inlet, and see what happened?”

“That’s because we had the wrong place. Now we know where the enemy is.”

“I’m going downhill,” Kiawak shouted at the other eight men, who were standing quietly around their vehicles. “Who’s coming with me?”

“Kiawak, you’re a hunter. Think like a hunter,” Joe said. “This is like chasing a polar bear.”

“Yes, kind of. Here we have our chase dogs and our snowmobiles, and then hunters surround the polar bear. Oh, wait, we can’t really surround these sons of bitches because they completely outnumber us.” Kiawak raised his voice as he spurted out his last words.

“My point is that you need hunters, you need many people for a successful kill. We’ve got to wait for Justin and the rest of our men.”

“How far are they?” Kiawak asked after a deep sigh.

“Can you check how long until they’re here?” Joe called to one of the men.

“We can stop their advance. We can do this.” Kiawak took his binoculars and glanced at the airstrip. Then he spat on the ground.

“What now?” Joe asked.

“More black flies scattering around the runway. I’d love to swat the bastards.” Kiawak pointed his weapon at one of the Danes and gently stroked its metallic trigger.

“Even if everyone was here, they’re still out of range of our guns,” Joe replied, looking through his own rifle sight. “They’re probably a thousand yards away, maybe even a little more than—”

A metallic bang cut off his words. It sounded like a heavy hammer striking a steel barrel. Joe glanced to the right side of Kiawak’s truck, less than four feet away from his position, and noticed a bullet hole the size of his fist. Before he could say another word, the window glass shattered, spraying a storm of slivers around him.

“Hell,” Joe yelled, dropping into a snow bank. “They may be out of
our
range, but we’re getting hammered by their snipers.”

“Justin says they’re about two miles and a half south,” a man shouted, while crawling for shelter behind one of the Suburbans.

“That’s maybe five minutes,” Joe said.

“Where’s Carrie?” Kiawak raised his head from the pool of slush where the sniper shots had sent him and ran his eyes over the horizon.

“She’s behind the ice ridge.” Joe pointed to his left. “I guess she anticipated sniper fire.”

“Well, when’s she coming out to fight? Because we—”

He was interrupted by a deafening blast as the Seahawk arrowed through the sky, a few feet above ground. As it descended over the runway, rapid reports of machine gun fire from the Seahawk began mowing down the Danish vanguard that had begun climbing the hills.

Kiawak saw a few silhouettes falling to the ground. His men shouted battle cries with every rattle of the Seahawk’s weapons.

The air assault lasted for a few seconds and then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the helicopter vanished, taking cover behind the ice hills, a few hundred yards away from the trucks.

“There you go, girl,” Kiawak yelled. “Give them hell.”

* * *

“What’s the casualty count?” Gunter stomped out of the airport terminal. Yuliya followed two steps behind him.

“We’re still checking, but we’ve confirmed four dead,” Valgerda replied over the radio. She was crouched behind the Hercules’s nose wheels, clutching her assault rifle. “The attack was uncoordinated and—”

“I saw the attack,” Gunter interrupted her, “and how it was or it wasn’t carried out. But how come these idiots have Seahawk choppers? And how the hell do they know of our change of plans?”

Valgerda knew better than to offer a guess.

“We’re setting up positions, sir,” Magnus replied. He was digging up a small trench in the snow banks by the runway. His men, the foremost unit of the Danish troops, had suffered two casualties, both recruits. “There will be no more surprises.”

“Support sniper fire with machine guns from one of the Bells,” Gunter commanded.

“I’ve got it,” Yuliya said. “Yuri, Alexei, come with me,” she called to two of the guards. They left Gunter’s side and began to jog toward the hangar.

“We’ve got to take that hill. Now!” Gunter said. “I don’t want to get pinned down here while they call in reinforcements.”

“We’ll take the hill, sir,” Magnus replied. “It won’t take long.”

* * *

The machine gun rattle greeted Justin even before his convoy took the last couple of turns snaking down the airport road. As soon as they stopped, about thirty yards behind Kiawak’s truck, two bullets struck the hood of their Land Rover.