First Salvo (15 page)

“Can you do anything for him?”

“Yeah. Another few hundred cc’s and Wally Land will disappear without a thought in the world.”

Ryng’s knuckles whitened perceptibly. “We’re down to minutes ourselves.” There were only so many people on the whole damned island, and the Russians would know there were no Norwegians that could mount an operation like the one that had just taken place. They had just minutes to escape. Ryng nodded, his eyes avoiding Denny’s. Wally Land’s face was tranquil when they left him in the shack. They crawled down under the old pier, making their way between broken-down pilings and remnants of fishing gear to the rubber boat. Their only purpose now was to escape— to survive. They kept two automatic rifles, their pistols, and a few fragmentation grenades. Everything else—food, medicine, electronic gear—was dumped. Ryng kept his radio.

They pushed off from the pier simultaneous with a succession of explosions from the direction of the airport. They could see tall, greasy tongues of flame erupting into the sky—burning aviation fuel. So much for the bombers. If Harry Winters was successful with that freighter…

The electric motor purred inaudibly.
Christ
, Ryng thought impatiently,
I couldn’t care less about how quiet the engine is. All that matters now is speed. I’d take it big and noisy and fast, anything to get us the hell out of here
. Silently and with agonizing slowness, the little motor pushed them across the harbor toward the opposite shore. They would follow the coastline as far as they could. If they were followed, then they’d just have to move ashore and somehow get back to civilization overland.

The day was clear and crisp, barely a cloud in sight. It was a perfect arctic autumn day. After months of perpetual daylight, the harbor would soon begin its annual season of darkness.
How lovely it would have been to have conducted this operation under that kind of cover
, Ryng thought.
But then it would have been forty below zero, the arctic winds would have frozen Denny’s fingers as he tried to set his bombs, and the harbor would have been frozen solid
.

The familiar noise of a helicopter in the distance snapped Ryng out of his momentary reverie. Perhaps if they had been on land, they could have hidden, but there was no way they could escape the helo that was moving slowly in their direction. The rhythmic thrum of the engine swept across the water, the bass-drum boom magnifying as it rebounded between the peaks on either side of the harbor.

The helo swept back and forth in a zigzag pattern, unsure of what it was looking for, what it might find. In the small boat, the two men placed their rifles on automatic, laying their extra magazines within easy reach. The AK-74 was terrific for what they had done earlier, but it was next to useless against a helicopter—even with incredible luck.

Quite unexpectedly, a deep rumbling from the direction of the harbor mouth caught their attention for an instant. It started like distant thunder, a low growling on the horizon. Lasting no more than two seconds, the rumble became a thunderclap echoing up the harbor, oscillating between the peaks on either side. Beyond the harbor, rising in oily black clouds that rolled over and through one another, came the proof to Ryng that Harry Winters had completed his part of the bargain. There was no doubt in Ryng’s mind that Harry had pulled it off.

“Harry…” Denny offered tentatively.

“Yeah,” Ryng responded. “He’s never missed yet.” A low whistle escaped from his pursed lips.

“I hope he made it—” he began, but Ryng cut him off, gesturing toward the helo.

Ryng headed for the shore on an angle. A wide, glacial river poured into the harbor ahead of them. There would be no way they could cross that if they went ashore on this side of it. He had to get to the other side, and he needed time and something other than the quiet little electric motor that pushed them sluggishly along.
It didn’t seem so slow when we came in here
, Ryng reminded himself,
but no one was after us then
. He looked over his shoulder as the helo closed in. It had spotted them.

They both recognized the telltale increase in pitch and knew without looking that they’d been seen. The helo banked as it changed course in their direction, lowering altitude to inspect what had been sighted.

The first pass was free. As the craft hovered just ahead of them, they fired together. It seemed a foolish venture, handheld guns pumping small antipersonnel bullets into a huge metal machine. Three clips each were expended senselessly while the helo backed off to a safe distance.

Ryng swung the boat toward shore. They’d be easy targets on shore—but they were sitting ducks in the boat.

Raucous noise shattered the peaceful arctic calm. Either man could have described the developing scene if he had been blind. Once again the increase of engine revolutions, the thwack of the rotors. The helo was making another pass at them. They waited with loaded clips, bobbing along like toy ducks at a shooting range.

Even before the helo came within range of their rifles, the chatter of machine gun fire added a new dimension to the sounds of the harbor. Foamy trails, punctuated by tiny fountains of water, heralded the path of the bullets, racing first one way and then another. But Ryng realized they had one advantage. The machine guns were attached to a vehicle hanging in the air, swinging as if on a thread, making it more difficult to aim. The trails continued to sweep aimlessly across the water, leaving a white froth behind them.

Ryng whipped the little boat about frantically with one arm— anything to provide a harder target—while he fired wildly with the other. In the hail of bullets, Denny was transformed into a madman, emptying clip after clip when the helo came anywhere within range. As he expended the last shot in a clip, he would yank it out, inserting one clenched between his teeth, mechanically jamming another in his mouth even as he began squeezing the trigger.

Now a path of bullets swept erratically across their craft. There were two, maybe three, thuds as the bullets hit and passed through. The boat was intended to be self-sealing, and they held their breaths. It was! But it was built for occasional damage, not .50-caliber slugs.

The helo circled away, this time climbing slightly.

“Oh, shit! You know what that means,” Denny hollered. “The heavy stuff—
rockets!
”

And as he uttered the final word, they saw the telltale wisps of smoke. One—two—three. They could see the rocket trails, make out the rockets themselves as they bore down on them. The first struck twenty yards in front, erupting in a cloud of water and shrapnel. The second passed close overhead, cutting the air with a howl in concert with the blast as it hit the water fifteen yards away. The final one was too close. It might have been a good aim or a lucky shot. In any case, the buzz of metal shards told Ryng there was no more time.

The hiss of escaping air added a new dimension to the sounds around them. Looking down, Ryng saw a large tear in the rubber, no more than an inch to the left of his knee. There was no way any self-sealer was going to solve that problem. Before he could call attention to it, Denny was reaching around him, jamming his shirt into the hole.

“That’ll buy us a couple of minutes,” Denny shouted above the sound of the helo making its next approach. “I hope to hell they’re not developing a style up there. That last was too close.”

This time the helo came in much closer. Now they could even hear the pop as the rockets were fired and the whooshing noise of the weapon as it raced at them. Above it all, Ryng heard the steady chatter of Denny’s gun, clip after clip, working so rapidly that he functioned like a machine gunner.

Whump!
A rocket burst directly in front, not more than ten yards away. A second exploded into the water within yards of Denny, the third passing well astern. Clouds of water poured down on them. The helo was bearing down now, diving behind the rocket fire, machine guns blazing. Ryng rolled into the bottom of the boat, hands over his head, knees drawn up. Operating only by instinct at that moment, trying to hide like an ostrich, thinking he couldn’t be seen if his head were buried.

Then he looked up as the helo roared overhead, a perfect target, but Denny was no longer shooting. Ryng noticed a wisp of black smoke, then a rush of it from the exhausts behind the engine. The helo banked sharply, increasing altitude at the same time. The smoke! They’d hit it!

“Look at that! No shit, will you look…”

Bernie Ryng turned impulsively, overcome with joy. Just as quickly it became horror. He found himself staring in fear at what was beside him. Denny was as dead as could be. There hadn’t been a sound, no shout, no thrashing to indicate he’d been hit. A shard of metal protruded in grisly fashion from his forehead. There was no blood. It was impossible to tell how deeply the chunk of shrapnel had penetrated, but it was enough to have killed Denny instantly.

Ryng rolled into a sitting position from the corpse. The boat was riddled with innumerable holes. Air hissed out, water sputtered in as it hopelessly tried to seal itself. The jagged tears were so deep that there was no chance the boat could float. Water was already lapping over one corner, its weight dragging the craft down.

The helo now hovered a few hundred yards off, still smoking. The engine was powerful enough to keep it airborne, but Ryng could sense the ragged sound of a machine struggling with itself.

There was only one option left. Ryng threw the last ammo bag around his neck and rolled off the shoreward side into the piercing-cold water less than fifty yards from land. He doubled over to pull off his shoes, then thought better of it. Once on land, he had a long way to go. He knew that the terrain was rough, all sharp stone and gravel, midsummer tundra that had defrosted down a foot or so. And there were innumerable rocky hills and cliffs along the shoreline.

The tempo of the helo’s engine increased as it dove toward him, machine guns once again blazing. The line of bullets raced toward him. He dove, struggling against the double fear of icy water as a contrast to bullets. When his lungs burned more than he could stand, he surfaced, his face in the direction where he expected the helicopter to be. It was there, hovering like a bird of prey. He sucked down another breath and arched his body to dive again. But he stopped at the last minute.

More smoke was pouring out of the craft now, dense black clouds. It was in as much trouble as he was. Maybe it would have to turn back. The odds of any man surviving alone in this water much longer were poor.

Ryng struggled toward shore, his eyes never leaving the helo. Then he saw what he had never expected. The helo was making one last pass, but it wasn’t shooting. He watched in numb curiosity, ready to dive until he saw an object fall from the side of the fuselage. As it seemed to grow in size, he realized from a distance what it was. A depth charge! The helo was equipped for antisubmarine duty. He thrashed frantically for shore.

The charge tumbled end over end, hitting the water with a huge splash, followed by a graceful waterspout.

Ryng’s mind went blind with fear. Then he grabbed his knees, rolling into a ball. The ensuing explosion thundered through his head, driving the air out of his lungs, pressing inward, forcing water down his throat, into his eyes, creating pressure like a giant sledgehammer. Time seemed to stop from the pain. He had no idea if he was conscious—no idea if he was alive or dead.

Then he found himself struggling for shore. Was there enough strength left in him to make the beach? Would he crawl out onto the sand to die in agony, spilling blood across the sand from his ruptured guts?

Strangely enough, he had some energy left, though he could hear nothing but a ringing in his head. He splashed awkwardly through the water, but there was little feeling in his hands and feet. He rolled over onto his back, expecting to see his nemesis swooping down, machine guns blazing.

But there was nothing. In the distance toward Longyearbyen, he made out a smoky cloud descending toward the land.
It must be
, he thought.
The damned helo couldn’t stay up any longer
. Then he realized the ammo bag, with his only weapon, was gone!

He turned back on his belly and pulled for the shore, not more than twenty yards away now, though it seemed like miles. Each yard closer to the beach became interminable. But his will to live won out. Only sheer determination got him the last few feet to the water’s edge.

Dragging himself out of the water onto the beach was an even greater effort. There was some sand, but mostly rocks. Yet they were like a down pillow to him, so soft and welcoming after the terror of nearly drowning.

There was some scrub brush farther up the beach beyond the high-tide mark. He half crawled, half dragged himself into it, then fell forward on his face. It seemed natural to him that he should pass out. It would be his body’s way of telling him that he had abused it past redemption. But he remained conscious. His first physical sensation as he lay there collecting his thoughts, mentally identifying the various parts of his body that were still intact, was from his stomach. It was churning violently.

Could this be the way it would be? Safety, then death? Was it now that the insides that he couldn’t feel would suddenly turn on him? His body jerked in a spasm as he felt the sudden contractions of vomiting overwhelming him. But it didn’t matter. He had never in his life been so overjoyed at being ill. Great quantities of seawater—not blood—came up.

As his stomach completed nature’s job, he slumped down again in relief. The pressure from the depth charge must have forced all that water down his throat. He remembered the unbelievable weight on his head, his eyes. And he realized that the water must have been too shallow for the depth charge to do the job they’d intended. At that depth, the bottom must have deflected the blast upward. He vaguely remembered the tremendous waterspout. The explosion probably occurred right on the bottom so that it went straight back up rather than spreading out as it was designed to do. There had been only one blast. If they dropped any others, the water must have been too shallow to set them off!