Arctic Storm Rising Dale Brown (literature books to read TXT) 📖

layer built up, until, with a suddencraacckk that reverberated through the hull, it gave way. Instantly, Podmoskovye bobbed through the shattered ice like a cork, bouncing high into the open air. Yalinsky sprang into action, opening valvesto allow more water back into her ballast tanks until she rode evenly, at rest in the center of a raised mound of broken blocksof meter-thick ice.

At Nakhimov’s next orders, more sailors and officers went to work, climbing out through a hatch at the top of the sail and then slithering down onto the ice-sheathed hull. Quickly, they started clearing away the blocks of ice covering another, larger hatch farther back along the submarine’s 166-meter-long hull. Once it was clear, sailors began hauling thick hoses up through the hatch and out onto the ice cap. These hoses were connected to the aviation fuel bladders and pumps occupying Podmoskovye’s minisub hangar.

“Send a signal to Saint Petersburg,” Nakhimov ordered, turning away from the edge of the sail with a satisfied smile. “InformFleet Headquarters that we are on station one hundred and sixty kilometers from the American coast, and ready to assist inflight operations.”

Thirty-Two

Totem One, over the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

A Short Time Later

Major Jack “Ripper” Ingalls looked out through the HC-130J’s cockpit windows. Through breaks in the clouds scudding southward,he caught glimpses of a vast sea of rugged, snow-capped peaks spreading out ahead of them as far as the eye could see. Palelight from the nearly full moon low in the east created an eerie patchwork of gleaming white snowfields and impenetrable shadow.The Super Hercules was at seven thousand feet, high enough to clear the tallest mountains on their flight path, but not bymuch.

Beside him, Laura Van Horn had her head down while she keenly studied their navigation display. After taking off from BarterIsland, they’d made a slow, climbing turn over the coastal plain, babying the aircraft since their left inboard engine wasstill out of action. Now they were headed due south, taking the most direct possible route toward the drop zone for Nick Flynn’steam. “We’re ten minutes out, Rip,” she said. “Time to start our descent.”

“Copy that, descending,” Ingalls said with a tight nod. He pushed the steering yoke forward very gradually, not by much, no more than a degree or two. This approach to the drop zone was a tricky one. Past the midpoint of the Brooks Range, the highest peaks tended to diminish in elevation, but some of them still spiked nearly a mile into the sky. If the HC-130J came in too low, it risked slamming head-on into a mountainside. If it came in too high, there’d be no way to descend rapidly enough to drop Flynn and his men from a safe height.

Ingalls saw the airspeed indicator on his HUD rising and throttled back a bit. Ideally, he wanted to cross the drop zone atno more than 130 knots. Much faster and any parachute jump would be far too hazardous. Much slower and he risked stallingout, especially with the drag from their dead Number Two engine. He blinked away a bead of sweat. This was a high-wire actfrom beginning to end, with no safety net waiting to save anyone if he screwed up.

 

Aft of the HC-130J’s cockpit, Flynn sat hunched over in one of the mesh seats that lined the sides of the cargo compartment.Between his parachute harness, weapons, and other gear, he was carrying well over a hundred pounds of extra weight strappedto his back, chest, and thighs. Add the tendency of the big aircraft to shimmy and shake in turbulence every few seconds,and there was no way he could hope to get comfortable. Thank God this was such a short flight, he decided.

He turned his head to look at the rest of his team. Soldiers and airmen gave him answering grins or flashed thumbs-up signs.Another positive of the quick trip, Flynn thought dryly. Nobody’d had much time yet to consider what a really dumbass ideathis was.

And then Staff Sergeant Wahl was leaning over him, holding on to a seat frame. “Six-minute warning, sir,” the HC-130 crewman yelled into Flynn’s ear. For the purposes of this flight, Wahl was acting as both loadmaster and jumpmaster. Despite the half-inch-thick insulation covering almost every exposed metal inch of the aircraft’s fuselage, the deafening roar from the Super Hercules’s big engines made it sound like the other man was a hundred yards away.

Wahl saw his answering nod and moved out into the middle of the compartment. He waved his arms to get everyone’s attention.“Get ready!” He used hand signals to make sure he could be understood over all the pounding racket.

Obeying the command, Flynn and the others unbuckled their seat belts.

“Port-side personnel, stand up!”

Made awkward by all their heavy equipment, Flynn and the five men with him on the HC-130’s left side staggered upright andturned toward the rear of the plane. As the first man slated to jump, he was at the head of the line.

“Starboard-side personnel, stand up!” Wahl shouted next.

Now those seated on the right side clambered to their feet. Sergeant Andy Takirak, who would be the last man out, was at theback. A gauze bandage covered the jagged cut on his forehead. He met Flynn’s gaze and nodded confidently, as if to confirmthat he was ready to go despite his minor injury.

Wahl spoke briefly into the intercom mike attached to his flight helmet, checking in with the cockpit crew. He nodded sharplyat what they told him and then looked back at the waiting paratroopers. “Hook up!”

Flynn grabbed his static line and snapped its hook over the anchor cable stretched above his head. Behind him, the othersin his stick did the same. Those to his right followed suit, hooking onto another anchor cable running down that side of theaircraft.

Wahl moved down the line of heavily burdened soldiers and airmen, watching closely as they checked their static lines and equipment and then did the same for the man in front of them. Satisfied by what he