Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1) (29 page)

Amaruq fired off the throttle. Justin sighed, staring at the M-16 in his hands. He held Amaruq’s dark blue eyes for a moment, realizing he was powerless against the storm brewing in the old man’s soul.

“Fine.” Justin began to move aside. “Just pick up Kiawak and his men and get back right away. Don’t even think about—”

His last words were lost amidst the snowmobile’s engine blast. Amaruq hacked his way into a snow bank and down the steep hillside.

* * *

Amaruq avoided the crooked trails plodded by the trucks’ tires. He cut through the snow as far away from the Danes as the broken and rugged permafrost would allow him. At first, he slalomed in a regular pattern, with slow, circular turns and rare jumps, as he dodged ice hills, rock boulders, and snow crevasses. Aware of his vulnerable position as he approached the enemy flanks alone, Amaruq picked up speed. At the same time, he shifted into a largely dangerous and mostly improvised descent. Sharp S curves, swift zigzag maneuvers, and random leaps over rifts, as well as increased cover fire from Justin and his men, allowed Amaruq to swoop unharmed close to Kiawak’s jammed truck.

“Fifty more feet, you can do it,” Amaruq whispered to himself, hanging onto the handlebar while the snowmobile sprang over a pressure ridge and landed on an ice patch. “Crap,” he swore, his body bouncing on the seat.

The snowmobile kept sliding and swerving, in danger of tipping over at any moment. His fingernails clawed through his gloves, as he tried to cling to the tottering vehicle. The left ski had broken off as a result of a bad landing. The sled was now tilting to that side. He steered to the right to counterbalance the drag and felt the snowmobile losing traction.
The rubber’s probably broken or one of the lugs is damaged.
He was not in control of the snowmobile any more.

A barrage of bullets scraped the ice a few feet in front of him. Amaruq ducked. His head was at the same level as the snowmobile’s windshield. He released the throttle and tapped the brakes, seeking cover behind a tall mound of ice boulders. Then he screamed in pain from a sharp stab in his right arm. A bullet had struck him by the elbow.

“Ah.”

It was all Amaruq could grumble before finding himself airborne and rolling to his side in midair before plunging head first into a deep snow bank, a few feet away from a large crevasse in the snow.

* * *

Carrie completed a small circle around the Twin Otter. The airplane needed a much larger space to perform any rotational maneuvers and a much longer time frame. On the other hand, the Seahawk could change its direction in a matter of seconds. But the airplane had the upper hand if it came to a straight-line pursuit because of its two powerful turboprop engines.

Understanding the Seahawk’s weakness, Carrie zigzagged left and right, climbing and dropping constantly, avoiding a fatal fall in the crosshairs of her pursuers, and always maintaining a safe distance of no less than three thousand feet. Beyond the maximum fire range of medium-caliber weapons, she felt relatively confident playing cat and mouse with the airplane.
If they had any rockets or missiles, they would have launched them by now.

The altimeter locked the Seahawk’s position at nine hundred feet above ground. Carrie searched the entire battleground for the best location to bury the enemy airplane. She noticed two trucks far to the sides and assumed they were the teams of Kiawak and Joe. Carrie looked through the helicopter’s camera mounted at the tip of the fuselage. The image on the screen was grayish and somewhat blurry, but she recognized human silhouettes spread out in fighting positions in trenches or stretched without moving on the snow.

She veered to her left, dropping about eighty feet, and glanced at her radar screen, looking for the Twin Otter. It was still behind her. She glanced again at the field below, this time through the windshield, and noticed a quickly moving dot darting over the snow banks and the ice mounds.
What on earth is that?
Puzzled by the discovery, she dove in for a better look. At three hundred feet, the shape of the object became clear.
A snowmobile is all Justin has for backup?

Carrie tapped the throttle and the Seahawk responded with a swift ascent. The Twin Otter repeated the same maneuver, but at a slower pace. She reached for the radio just as the snowmobile slammed right into a snow bank, dropping out of sight.
What the hell just happened? Did he get shot or lose control of the sled?

“Hey, Justin, come in.”

“Carrie, where are you?” Justin replied.

“About half a mile to the left of the field. Can you see me?”

“I can’t see anything. We’re being hammered here and almost out of ammo.”

“I hear you.”

Carrie made a quick right turn.

“I was planning to drop the Otter over the enemy to help with the explosion.”

“No time for tricks, Carrie. Kill these bastards now before they wipe us all out. And the explosion plan failed.”

“Repeat your last,” Carrie said. “Did you say it failed?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Got it,” Carrie replied. “Did you send the snowmobile to extract them?”

“Kind of. Don’t know if Amaruq made it.”

Carrie swallowed hard before breaking the bad news to him. “Justin, he didn’t make it. I saw the sled crash into a snow bank and almost fall into a crevasse.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”

“And the driver? Amaruq?”

“I didn’t see him, but I’m getting closer. Let me take another look.”

The Seahawk circled at about two hundred feet. Carrie tapped a few controls, pointing the camera and zooming in on the snowmobile.

“Wait a second,” she shouted. “Justin, I think he’s alive. This guy, he’s alive.”

* * *

Amaruq found it impossible to tell whether his dizzy head was spinning around or his body was still rolling on the ground. In any case, he drove his hands deep into the snow, scraping the ice layer underneath, desperately searching for something to cling onto and stop his fall. The burning pain coming from his arm did little to deter his efforts. He grabbed at the edge of a rock jutting above the ice and stopped sliding.

He stayed there, lying on his back, staring at the gray clouds in the sky. A minute or two passed, as Amaruq tried to catch his breath. He noticed a bloody slush around his right elbow by the bullet wound. His left glove was missing, and his fingers were already beginning to suffer the frostbite.
At least I’m alive. But where exactly am I?

He stuck his head up after brushing snowflakes and ice chunks off his face. The crevasse was about two feet to his right.

“I barely missed it,” he mumbled, wondering about the depth of the pit.

A couple of bullets landed within arm’s reach. Their screech helped Amaruq by pointing him in the right direction. He crawled to his left and saw Kiawak’s Toyota, less than thirty feet down the hill.

“Kiawak,” he shouted, as he began crawling toward them. “Kiawak, Kiawak.”

“Amaruq? What are
you
doing here?” Kiawak’s voice was so feeble Amaruq wondered whether it was his imagination or he really heard Kiawak’s words.

“I’m saving your sorry ass,” he replied. “Since no one else was willing to take the job.”

“Good for them. Is Joe out of this hellhole?”

“No, they’re waiting for you to light the fuses.”

A bullet slammed against the side rail of the truck.

“It’s over, Amaruq. Let’s get out of here.”

“What about the explosion?”

“It’s over, get it? My freaking leg, it’s broken. Sam’s dead, Nilak’s dead.”

Amaruq stared at Kiawak. A pool of blood had gathered around his left side. Iluak sobbed next to his brother’s body.

“You’ll be fine.” Amaruq reached to give Iluak a reassuring pat on his shoulders. The man’s empty stare showed he was transported to another reality. “Both of you are going to be fine. I’ll get you out of here. I wonder if the truck’s still working.”

“You’re not touching my truck.”

“I have to. I’ve got to finish setting the explosives.”

“No, it’s not gonna work. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Oh, shut up! I’ve heard that enough for one day. Nothing bad will happen to me.”

“You’re already bleeding like a walrus.” Kiawak pointed at Amaruq’s arm.

“Flesh wound, nothing big. But if Joe and I don’t set off the charges, we’ll still have to deal with these Danes.”

A few metallic thuds against the truck confirmed his words. Amaruq slid into the trench dug by Kiawak and Iluak.

“How many more are left?” Amaruq asked.

“You’re drunk, man,” Kiawak replied. “How can you—”

“What? Save your ass while drunk? I don’t know. You tell me, since it was your whisky that gave me the courage to drive from Nanisivik.”

“
Courage
was not the word I had in mind.”

“Whatever it was, don’t say it, unless it’s ‘thank you.’ How many more explosives are left?”

“Twelve sticks for three charges.”

“How far apart?”

“Fifty feet.”

“Is the truck stalled?”

“No, it shouldn’t be. I hit the ice block when I got shot. You’ll have some trouble backing it out.”

“If I drive down, it shouldn’t be that difficult.”

“Don’t forget to double-check the wires. I’ve already placed the caps on the dyno sticks. At the end, once you’re ready, give Joe the signal with the flare gun. You know how to use that, right?”

“Yes, you know I do.”

“Just making sure. Take care, old wolf. Don’t get yourself killed.”

“I won’t.”

Amaruq peeked from underneath the rear tire. He waited for a few seconds, glided over the ice, and pushed himself up. At first, he clung onto the truck step then climbed up and reached the driver’s seat.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you drive my baby, especially now that it’s full of explosives.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t make a dent.”

A bullet skimmed over the hood of the truck at that same instant.

“See,” Amaruq said with a grin. “What was I saying?
I
won’t make a dent.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Nanisivik, Canada

April 14, 11:21 a.m.

Carrie held her left thumb over the firing button of the Seahawk machine gun as she flew over the front lines of the Danish troops and gave them a fierce pounding. The helicopter completed a daring descent over the runway. She brought up the Seahawk to escape any backlash from the troops her onslaught had spared. Several metal-on-metal clunks came from underneath the helicopter. The Seahawk was hit. Flying instruments issued no warnings about any noticeable damage.
Time to bring out the big guns.
Carrie smiled.

She leveled the Seahawk at a thousand feet. The Twin Otter was far behind over the airstrip. Carrie surveyed the Danish troops for the place where a Hellfire missile would cause the most casualties. There was some movement at the center of the vanguard, a few men pressing ahead. She tapped a couple of switches, calibrating the missile for air-to-ground combat. Entering a series of numbers, she set the striking coordinates for the laser-guided weapon. Then she flipped a switch to the right of the throttle.

“May God have mercy on their souls,” she muttered and pressed the missile launch button.

The missile screamed as it whooshed off the left launcher of the weapons pylon. A dense cloud of white smoke swallowed the underside of the helicopter. The missile tore the sky’s veil. Less than a second later, the Hellfire missile stabbed right through the heart of the Danish camp. The blast fragmentation warhead exploded with a hailstorm of metal shrapnel, brash ice, and rock fragments, scattering everything outward in a wide ring of death. The missile blew a large crater in the ice sheet—about fifty feet wide—as well as many smaller pockets. Nothing seemed to be moving around the explosion site.

Before Carrie could savor her success, two electronic alerts beeped throughout the Seahawk’s cabin. She grasped the throttle, jerking the helicopter upwards, before glancing at the control system.

“Crap,” she shouted.

The tail rotor had taken a hit.

One of the crossbeam blades was clipped severely, and the rotor shaft was also damaged, according to the control panel instruments. Once the tail rotor blades stopped spinning, the Seahawk’s airborne balance was at risk. There was nothing else left in the helicopter to counteract the torque force of the main rotor. The Seahawk would pinwheel its way to a crash because of its downward yaw movement.

The altimeter needle swung sharply to the left. The helicopter plunged tens of feet in a single second. Carrie pressed the throttle, trying to keep a high speed while flying forward. This maneuver could allow her to use the helicopter’s tail as if flying an airplane, while she picked a safe area for the crash-landing. As soon as she began this emergency maneuver, the radar informed her the Twin Otter had closed the distance. The enemy airplane was tailing the Seahawk at the unsafe distance of less than a thousand and five hundred feet.

Carrie had no time to blurt out a string of curses. The left side window cracked, the bulletproof glass stopping the incoming bullets. More bullets clobbered the helicopter’s metallic frame. The alarms blared from almost all the control panel sensors.

“I get it, I get it,” Carrie yelled at the machine. “We’re gonna crash. We’re gonna freaking crash. But not yet. Not yet.”

She silenced the angry alarms with quick gestures of her hands, and prepared to launch the second Hellfire missile. She fed into the system the coordinates and pressed the launch button without any further delay.

“Take that, you pricks,” she shouted.

The Hellfire missile darted forward for a brief second. Then it took a left turn and aimed for its target. Carrie pirouetted to her right, just as the missile slammed into the cockpit of the Twin Otter. A million pieces of scorched debris rained over the ground.