Arctic Drift (Dirk Pitt 20)

“Are you on a secure line?”

“No.”

Sandecker hesitated. “The chickens want to lay some eggs, but the rooster is still pacing the henhouse.”

“How soon before breakfast?”

“Soon. Very soon.”

Pitt knew that Sandecker often referred to the Pentagon generals as chickens, due to the eagle insignias on their caps. The message was clear. The Secretary of Defense was pushing for a military response, but the President had not made up his mind yet. A decision would be forthcoming shortly.

“The Canadian demand is being treated seriously,” Sandecker continued. “You need to collect your vessel and get on over to Alaska, assuming the Canadians will let you leave port. Don’t mess around, Dirk. I can’t give you any support in Canadian waters. This thing will likely blow over in a few weeks and you can resume your search then.”

A few weeks could easily turn into months, and the summer season in the Arctic would be lost. Add an early cold snap and they would be shut out from searching around King William Island until the following spring thaw.

“You’re right, Admiral. I’ll take the Narwhal and sail her to calmer waters.”

“Do it, Dirk. And don’t delay.”

Pitt hung up the phone with no intention of sailing the Narwhal to Alaska. If his phone conversation was being monitored, he could say nothing different. And he had not lied to Sandecker. Taking the Narwhal farther along the passage would indeed be sailing into much calmer waters than the Beaufort Sea.

At the other end of the line, Sandecker hung up the phone and shook his head. He knew Pitt almost like a son. And he knew full well that he wasn’t about to sail the Narwhal to Alaska.

49

THE WHITE FLECKS FLOATED LAZILY IN THE DARK sky, growing larger to the eye as they approached the earth. It was only when they reached an altitude of a hu

ndred feet or so that their rapid speed of descent became apparent. A few seconds later, they struck the ice-covered ground, landing with a crackling thud. First to touch down was a trio of large wooden boxes, painted flat white to blend with the surroundings. Then human forms followed, ten in all, each recoiling into a ball as their feet touched the ground. Instantly, each man stripped off his harness and rolled his parachute into a ball, then quickly buried the entirety beneath a foot of ice.

A moderate breeze had scattered the men over a half-mile swath, but within minutes they had assembled near one of the crates. Though it was a moonless night, visibility was better than a hundred yards because of the stars that twinkled brightly overhead. The men quickly lined up in front of their commander, a tall, deeply tanned man named Rick Roman. Like the men under him, Roman was dressed in a white camouflage snowsuit with matching helmet and drop-down night vision goggles. On his hip, he carried a holstered Colt .45 automatic pistol.

“Quality drop, men. We’ve only got an hour of darkness ahead of us, so let’s get to work. Green Squad has runway detail, and Blue Squad has Zodiac and base assembly. Let’s move.”

The men, members of the Army’s elite Delta Force, quickly attacked the large crates, spilling their contents. Two of the boxes each contained a Zodiac inflatable boat along with some cold-weather bivouac gear. The third crate contained two Bob-cat compact track loaders, converted to run on electric batteries. A smaller container inside held additional weapons, ammunition, meals, and medical kits.

“Sergeant Bojorquez, would you accompany me, please?” Roman called out.

A bull-shaped man with black eyes and prematurely gray hair threw down the side of a crate, then walked over and joined Roman. The Army captain strode off toward an elevated ridge that ran along one side of the landing zone.

“Nice clear night, sir,” Bojorquez said.

“Clear and cold as a penguin’s butt,” Roman replied, grimacing in the ten-degree temperature. He had spent his youth in Hawaii and still hadn’t adjusted to cold weather despite years of Arctic training.

“Could be worse,” Bojorquez said, flashing a set of bright white teeth. “At least it ain’t snowing.”

They hiked up the ridge, stepping over and through rough sections of ice that crunched drily under their boots. Reaching the crest, they peered across a gentle slope of uneven ice that stretched down the opposite side. The inky black waters of Coronation Gulf rippled a mile away, while two miles beyond twinkled the lights of Kugluktuk. Dropped from a low-flying C-130 out of Eielson Air Force Base in Fairbanks, Roman and his team had been sent in to seize and extract the crew of the Polar Dawn on a mission authorized by the President.

“What’s your assessment? ” Roman asked, staring at the small town’s lights.

The sergeant was a twenty-year man, having served in Somalia and Iraq before being recruited into the elite Delta Forces. Like most of the members of the Arctic unit, he had served multiple tours in the rugged mountains of Afghanistan.

“Satellite recon looks pretty accurate. That plateau’s not too chewed up,” he said, motioning behind them toward the drop zone. “We’ll get a decent runway cleared, no problem.”

He gazed down toward the gulf waters and raised an arm. “That stretch to the drink is a little longer than I’d like to see.”

“My concern as well,” Roman replied. “We’ve got such short nightfall, I hate to think of the darkness we’ll lose just getting the boats into the water.”

“No reason we can’t get a head start tonight, Captain.”