He heard one of the idling aircraft rev its engines and he pulled himself away from the frozen vigil. Running clumsily in his heavy cold-weather gear, he made for the open side door of the first airplane. Jumping in, he caught a dirty look from the pilot, who immediately jammed the throttle forward. Tipton staggered to an empty seat next to the corporal as the Osprey bounced down the runway and lunged into the air.
“No sign?” the corporal yelled over the plane’s noisy motors.
Tipton shook his head, painfully reciting the mantra “no man left behind” in his head. Turning away from the corporal, he sought solace by staring out a small side window.
The Osprey, with its sister ship following close behind, flew over Coronation Gulf to gain altitude, then slowly banked around to the west in the direction of Alaska. Tipton absently stared down at the lights of a ship steaming to the east. In the first rays of dawn, he could see it was an icebreaker towing a large barge in its wake.
“Where are they?” Tipton murmured to himself, then closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep.
55
TIPTON NEVER KNEW THAT HE HAD GAZED DOWN upon his Delta Force comrades. What he also didn’t know was that the men were suffering all the creature comforts of a medieval dungeon.
Zak’s security team had carefully stripped the commandos of their weapons and communication gear before marching them onto the deck of the barge, along with the Polar Dawn’s crew. The Americans were then unceremoniously forced at gunpoint into a small storage hold at the bow of the barge. As the last captive was forced down the hold’s steel steps, Roman glanced
back to see two men hoisting the Zodiac inflatables aboard and securing them along the stern rail.
In the only sign of pity shown the captives, two cases of bottled water, frozen solid in the cold, were tossed into the hold before its heavy steel door was slammed shut. The door’s locking turn lever was flung over, then the rattling of a chain could be heard securing the lever in place. Standing silently inside the freezing black bay, the men felt an impending sense of doom hanging over them.
Then a penlight popped on, and soon another. Roman found his in a chest pocket and twisted it on, thankful that he had something of use that hadn’t been confiscated.
The multiple beams scanned the bay, taking in the scared faces of the forty-five other men. Roman noticed that the hold was not large. There was an open hatchway on the stern bulkhead in addition to the locked hatch through which they had entered. Two high coils of thick mooring line were stacked in one corner, while a small mountain of tires lined one bulkhead. The grimy, worn tires were extra hull bumpers, used to line the barge when at dock. As he took inventory, Roman heard the powerful diesel engines of the adjacent icebreaker fire up and then idle with a deep rumble.
Roman turned his light toward the crew of the Polar Dawn. “Is the captain amongst you?” he asked.
A distinguished-looking man with a gray Vandyke beard stepped forward.
“I’m Murdock, ex-captain of the Polar Dawn.”
Roman introduced himself and recited his mission orders. Murdock cut him off.
“Captain, it was an admirable effort to rescue us. But pardon me if I don’t thank you for freeing us from the hands of the Canadian Mounties,” he said drily, waving an arm around the dank confinement.
“We were obviously not anticipating outside interference,” Roman replied. “Do you know who these people are?”
“I might well ask you the same question,” Murdock replied. “I know that a private firm runs these icebreakers as commercial escort ships under license from the Canadian government. They evidently own the barges, too. Why they would have armed security and an interest in taking us hostage, I have no clue.”
Roman was equally stumped. His pre-mission intelligence outlined no threats besides the Canadian Navy and the Mounted Police. It just didn’t make sense.
The men heard the icebreaker’s engines throttle higher, then felt a slight jar as the lead ship pulled away from the dock, towing the barge with it. After clearing the port waters, the engine revolutions increased again, and the confined men could begin to feel the barge pitch and roll as they entered the choppy waters of Coronation Gulf.
“Captain, any speculation as to where they might be taking us?” Roman asked.
Murdock shrugged. “We are a considerable distance from any significant points of civilization. I wouldn’t think that they would leave Canadian waters, but that could still leave us in for a long, cold ride.”
Roman heard some grunting and kicking across the hold and shined his light up the entry steps. On the landing, Sergeant Bojorquez was wrestling with the door, slamming his weight against the hatch lever, before releasing a string of profanities. Noting the beam of light on him, he straightened up and faced Roman.
“No-go on the door, sir. The outside lever is chained tight. We’d need a blowtorch to get this thing off.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.” Roman turned to Murdock. “Is there another way out of here?”
Murdock pointed to the open hatchway facing the stern.
“I’m sure that leads down a ladder into the number 1 hold. This tub has four holds, each big enough to park a skyscraper in. There should be an interior passageway from one hold to the next, accessible by climbing down that ladder and up another on the opposite side.”
“What about the main hatch covers? Any chance of prying them off ?”
“No way, not without a crane. Each one probably weighs three tons. I would think our only chance is out the stern. There’s probably a similar hold or separate access way to the main deck.” He stared at Roman with resolve. “It will take some time to search with just a penlight.”