Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1) (30 page)

Carrie allowed herself a brief moment of celebration. A new electronic beep, sharper and louder than the previous ones, warned her of a new failure. This time it was coming from the main rotor. Other bullets had damaged its blades. The Seahawk dropped fast, spiraling about thirty feet each second.

A controlled crash-landing had become impossible. The Seahawk pirouetted another time, driven by gravity. For the first time in hundreds of hours of flying, Carrie began to feel dizzy. Her eyes became blurry. She tapped buttons and switches and levers, uncertain of the one controlling the emergency jettison of the pilot’s door.

Her efforts failed. The door’s lock mechanism was damaged and had jammed the door. The ground approached. The helicopter plunged quickly, swinging uncontrollably while falling to its imminent crash.

Carrie cursed the door, realizing it was useless to try and pry it open. She reached for her Browning 9mm pistol. With the Seahawk taking its last twirls, she aimed the gun at the door latch and pulled the trigger. She emptied the magazine in a rapid burst of fire and threw her body against the door.

The door swung open.

She found herself falling through the air and the black smoke. The helicopter swept across the sky. Its main rotor blades wheeled slower and slower, while the ground approached faster and faster. The helicopter took another final twirl before crashing into the ice sheet. Carrie plopped into a deep snow bank, just as the Seahawk’s explosion rocked the entire hillside.

Sharp metal pieces from the helicopter’s wreckage, ice, and rock slivers flew all over the field. Then the freezing waters of the crater devoured the Seahawk’s burning remains. The ice sheet began cracking with a blaring noise, eating up adjacent hills, ridges and snow banks.

* * *

Kneeling by the Toyota truck, Amaruq held the orange flare gun in his left hand. He double-checked to make sure it was loaded properly. He glanced at the last charge of dynamite he had just finished connecting to the electrical detonator box by his feet. The only thing left to do was to signal Joe by firing the flare gun.

Amaruq pulled the trigger and watched the yellowish trace arch over the Danish camp. A similar flare rose up from the other side a moment later, indicating Joe was in position and the blast was forthcoming. He reached for the detonator controller, a yellow plastic box, which fit easily in his palm. He pressed a white button labeled CHARGE and held his thumb on the switch. The device began creating the necessary electrical charge to light up the detonators.

Amaruq was not certain if Kiawak had synchronized the blasting caps for a simultaneous explosion of all charges or if the long row of dynamites would go off one charge after the other. In any case, he would have to cover at least two hundred feet, to escape the explosion’s range and to survive the blast of the dynamite charges.

His thumb pressed hard on the detonator switch, Amaruq began crawling toward safety. But he was exposed to the enemy, who had noticed his bright signaling flare. Bullets filled the air around him. He kept moving forward, his head a couple of inches off the snow, his body half sunk into the snow.

“You’re almost there, keep going,” he encouraged himself. “Right behind—”

A bullet ricocheted off an ice boulder, striking Amaruq in his left foot. It skimmed over his pants, carving a flesh wound. He brushed it aside. But the next bullet hit him in the shoulder, pinning him to the snow. He screamed and turned sideways, trying to push his body deeper into the snow. A third bullet snuffed the air out of his lungs.

Amaruq looked at his bleeding chest, then glanced at the detonator. His fingers were still wrapped around it in a fierce grip. The red indicator light was steady. It meant the explosive charges were ready for the blast.

He tried to lift his right shoulder, but a gut-wrenching pain zapped through his entire body. He was running out of breath and he could not even crawl an inch. He was stuck within the deadly range of the explosion. Another screaming bullet shattered his kneecap, forcing Amaruq to make a decision.

With great strain, he slid his trembling index finger until it rested over the DETONATE button, while keeping his thumb over the CHARGE switch. He took a deep breath, knowing it was his last. Once he was certain his fingers were not going to fail him at the last moment, he pushed the DETONATE button and began the countdown in his mind.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

* * *

The simultaneous explosions made the earlier Hellfire blast and the helicopter crash resemble fireworks at a New Year’s party. Kiawak had coordinated the blasting caps to detonate all at once. Joe’s team set off their string of dynamite charges at the same time. The explosion not only split open the entire ice surface of the lake, but also blew away rocks from its bottom. The ice sheet caved in piece by piece, starting at the sides and dragging underneath everything and everyone still over it.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Nanisivik, Canada

April 14, 11:47 a.m.

“Amaruq? Has anyone seen Amaruq?” Kiawak shouted at a couple of men carrying him to a safer area on higher ground, away from the ice edges collapsing into the lake.

Their only reply was a sad headshake, as they placed him in the backseat of a truck.

Kiawak glanced to his right and saw a man running toward him. “Justin, where’s Amaruq?”

“I have no idea. Carrie . . .” he could not finish his thought.

Kiawak said, “She’s still alive. I have this feeling she’s still alive.”

Justin nodded without conviction. “How are you doing?”

Kiawak coughed before answering, “I’ll make it.”

Justin looked at Kiawak’s left side. The wound still bled over his clothes. “Our plan worked.” Justin tilted his head toward the lake.

The scene resembled a catastrophic shipwreck. Some of Justin’s men were helping the Danes who had survived the explosion. They were getting them out of the freezing waters. “I think it’s over.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it is. Whoever’s left of the Danish troops that are not turning into ice cubes are making a run for the Hercules.”

“Don’t let anyone get away.” Kiawak raised his head to observe the situation through the truck window. “And send someone to look for Amaruq.”

“I’ll look for him. Joe’s taking care of the runaway and the Hercules.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Anna whispered to Justin. She had just arrived with a group of men carrying more wounded in makeshift stretchers. Anna sat by Kiawak and tried to catch her breath.

“OK.” Justin stood up and began plodding through the snow, treading a few feet away from the broken shores of the lake. “Carrie, Amaruq,” he shouted, his hands funneled in front of his mouth. “Amaruq, Carrie, where are you?”

* * *

On the other side of the lake, Neville, Max, and other men were helping out the Danes who could swim to the shore. Joe and Ned had begun the final sweep against the remaining Danish troops. They had encountered a few pockets of resistance around the airport terminal and next to the Super Hercules airplane.

“So, why are we stuck here saving these pricks?” Max gestured toward a blond in a white jacket clinging to a large, floating ice chunk.

“Because now they’re POWs,” Neville replied. “And because Joe ordered us.”

“These sons of bitches were trying to kill us less than ten minutes ago. Now, we’re supposed to save their lives?”

“We’re not saving their lives. Do you see us get wet? No. We simply stay here, and if they wash ashore, then we pick them up.”

The blond struggled to lift his body over the slippery edge of the shore, but his efforts were unsuccessful. After the blond’s second try, Neville stepped forward very carefully. He offered the stock of his assault rifle to the survivor. He thought it was ironic that the same rifle had been shooting bullets toward the blond and his band of brothers. The rifle now served to save the Danish recruit’s life.

* * *

“Get this plane in the air. Right away!” Gunter screamed at the pilot, who was already scrambling with the airplane’s flight controls. “You too.” Gunter turned to the second pilot. “Hurry up!”

The Super Hercules began to turn around at a slow pace. The mammoth airplane required a few minutes for the jet engines to reach the takeoff speed. The gravel airstrip and the unfavorable positioning of the airplane—at the far end of the runway—were turning the routine step into an almost impossible goal.

It did not help that half a dozen men were pounding the flight deck with countless rounds of firearms. The cockpit’s windshield and side windows were bulletproof, capable of resisting heavy barrages from all kinds of small-caliber weapons. Nevertheless, spider-web cracks made the pilot’s task very laborious.

The increasing tension had eaten up all of Gunter’s patience. “Hurry up; hurry the hell up,” he shouted at both pilots.

He marched through the door connecting the cockpit to the cargo compartment. Two men were shooting sporadically through two broken windows. These five people aboard the airplane were the lowly remains of the Danish contingent. Gunter and the two men had made it safely through the shootout ordeal to the airplane. It was the last resort for their escape, their flight out of hell.

“More men are closing in, sir,” one of the shooters said. He reloaded his Gevær M/95. “I’m down to my last mag.”

“All I’ve left are seven bullets,” the other man said, raising his Sig Sauer pistol. His empty assault rifle lay discarded on the floor.

“Hold them back for another minute or so,” Gunter shouted over bullets battering the metallic walls.

The airplane jolted forward and began rolling on the gravel.

“There we go,” Gunter said with a sigh.

He hurried back to the cockpit, as the airplane picked up speed. “How long until we’re airborne?” he asked the pilots.

“Soon, very soon,” replied one of them. He flipped some switches and checked a few gauges on the control panel. “All systems are fully operational. No considerable damage to the wings or the engines.”

“How much fuel do we have?” Gunter asked with a considerable amount of pleasure in his voice. The jet engine rumbles boosted his confidence.

“Sufficient to take us out of here,” the other pilot replied. “Still, we may need to make a stop on the east shore of Baffin Island.”

Gunter counted the seconds in silence, as the airplane defeated gravity and began to climb up, slowly at first, but picking up speed with every passing moment. The gravel runway, along with the carnage, fell behind them.

Gunter took a seat and closed his eyes.
What a defeat. What an incredible defeat. I hope the Russians will still release Helma. They will have to. I did what I was told and the results . . . well, I can’t control the results. We were prepared, but we made mistakes. We rushed our attack. We did not have enough people. I followed the FSB’s orders. They wanted a swift but small attack. We underestimated the Canadians and their reaction. They discovered our plans and ambushed us. Yes, that’s what I will say, and the Russians better accept it. I’ll not allow myself to be jerked around by them anymore.

* * *

“Carrie, Amaruq. Carrie,” Justin kept shouting, as he reached the end of the hillside. He had searched the nearby area twice, without finding any trace of Carrie. Amaruq had disappeared as well. “Carrie, Amaruq, can you hear me? Carrie, Amaruq, where are you?” he repeated his shouts.

He noticed a large metallic object jutting out from the snow. He dropped to his knees and began sifting through the snow. Debris from the crashed helicopter was littering the area. Justin was careful to avoid any cuts by the sharp edges. He lifted some twisted parts of what seemed to be the helicopter’s passenger door. He almost jumped with joy because of what he found underneath the wreckage. After brushing the snow to the side, he uncovered a Kevlar helmet. He stared at Carrie’s ice-cold and pale face.

“Carrie,” Justin whispered in her ear. He felt at the side of her neck for a pulse. He found it, barely throbbing, slow and irregular, but still beating. “Stay . . . stay with me,” he whispered. “Don’t die on me now.” He drew in a deep breath. “Help,” he shouted, but his voice wheezed out only slightly louder than a whisper. He coughed to clear his throat before trying again, “Help, help. I need some help here. Help.”

A couple of men sprinted toward him.

“I’ve found Carrie,” he said. “Let’s get her out.”

“The chopper’s pilot,” one of the men mumbled.

“Yes,” the other man replied quietly.

“Let’s be gentle when we move her,” Justin said. “Take the clips out, and make a stretcher with those rifles.”

A third man arrived to lend them a hand. They threw their jackets over two rifles and used scarves and belts to form a somewhat sturdy stretcher. They placed Carrie over it and began to tread slowly toward the runway.

“Hey, hey, driver,” Justin shouted at a man in the driver’s seat of a truck by the airport terminal. “We need your truck. Hurry up!”

The man stepped on the gas and rolled the truck to a stop by Justin’s feet.

“Open the door, the back door,” Justin said.

They placed Carrie in the backseats, her head resting carefully on a jacket rolled up as a pillow. Her arms and feet hung unnaturally.

“I’ll take over from here.” Justin dismissed the men and climbed in the driver’s seat. “Hold on, Carrie,” he said. “I will
not
let you die.”

Only if we had a doctor out here.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Nanisivik, Canada

April 14, 11:54 a.m.

“Emily, what in the world are
you
doing here?” Justin could not contain his enthusiasm in seeing the nurse awaiting their arrival at the top of the hill. She was holding a box in her left hand. The words FIRST AID and a large white cross were embossed on its side.