Up From the Depths (2 page)

Chapter 2

Brooks Mountain Range, Alaska

The MC-130 Combat Talon aircraft that had once carried the joint special operations units from Elmendorf Air Force Base lay broken on the frozen tundra. The remaining fuel that hadn’t been purged from the tanks and lines formed a dark pinkish/red stain on the otherwise white landscape. The left wing of the plane was sheared off from the fuselage and discarded several hundred yards from the rest of the wreckage.

Captain Declan O’Toole, ODA-141, 1st Special Forces Group formerly stationed at Joint Base Lewis/McChord, unbuckled and stood up from his seat. He looked around the darkened cargo bay. In the dim light coming through the hole in the side of the airframe where the wing had once been, he was able to tell it was night. His inner ear told him that the plane was at an angle. The loose equipment under his boots informed him that several of the mission support pallets had broken loose and spilled their contents all over the converted cargo plane’s hold.

“Harris! Captain Harris!” O’Toole called out for the Ranger officer.

“Here!” a voice answered from somewhere.

“Find out who’s injured,” O’Toole directed as he took a step and kicked loose small arms ammunition across the decking. “And get someone to police up these fucking live rounds!”

“Hoo-ah!”

O’Toole climbed over the cargo and up to the cockpit to check on the flight crew. He was met at the door by the flight engineer who was struggling with a large survival pack in one hand and flashlight in the other.

“Anybody injured or dead up here?”

“No. We made it without anything serious,” the flight engineer answered as the beam waved crazily around from his struggle to get his pack out of the door. The light illuminated a cut across the bridge of the engineer’s nose, besides that, he looked uninjured.

“After a landing like that, we’re spending most of our time shoveling out our shorts,” the engineer said as he finally got his pack out the door.

O’Toole smirked as he tried to see behind the man and into the dim lit flight deck. The smell and bacon crackle of an electrical fire reached him from where he stood. Several overhead panels arced and shot sparks that briefly illuminated scenes of movement as the rest of the flight crew moved to exit the downed aircraft. O’Toole climbed back down into the cargo area to assess the evacuation process. Harris had already opened one of the side doors and started a human chain passing the gear along to be stacked outside. The injured were being assessed inside the aircraft until they could be moved to a makeshift shelter using ponchos and poncho liners and lit by the green glow of chemical lights and the harsh white of flares that had been set up outside at a safe distance from the downed aircraft. They all smelled the rich, heady aroma of aviation fuel.

O’Toole picked his way through the scattered cargo and towards the rear of the plane. The pallets he was looking for appeared to be undamaged and still strapped in place. Pulling his knife, he quickly cut through the tie down straps and began pushing aside items that had fallen on top of what he was searching for.

“Need some help there?” Sergeant William Sands, his ODA team sergeant, asked cracking and shaking a chem-light that soon bathed the area in a green glow. The two men cut loose the cargo sleds and worked them free of the rest of the disrupted equipment before handing them off to the human unloading chain.

O’Toole went back to the pallets and hacked through the remaining straps, sheathed his knife and began handing gear to Sands who passed it along to the next soldier in line until it was outside and being stacked.

Harris sent one of the squads of Rangers to search the perimeter for any equipment and survivors that may have tumbled out of the plane during the harsh landing. The rest of the Rangers formed a security perimeter or tended to their wounded while the flight crew made their way out of the MC-130. Out of all the people onboard, only the load master and two Rangers had injuries severe enough that would limit their mobility. The loadmaster had been caught between a bulkhead and a heavily loaded pallet. During the landing, the pallet had torn loose from its tie downs and slammed the man against the bulkhead. His were the most serious injuries. One of the sleds was already allocated for his transportation.

With the rear cargo ramp heavily damaged and jammed shut from impact, all unloading would have to be out the left side door that was tilted up at an angle. It took longer to unload out that door but it was the only option unless they wanted to waste time and attempt to dig a tunnel to the right side door and somehow manhandle all the cargo that way. Hopefully, the essential equipment would be out of the aircraft before the next wave of the blizzard descended on the little valley they had crashed in. If only the aircraft hadn’t been so overloaded on takeoff and wasn’t struck by a rogue down draft that forced one wingtip and engine into a stand of trees at the end of the runway. That impact had led to this crash. The unloading took a very short time as the men were highly motivated to empty the airframe as fast as they could. The threat of the wind changing and creating white out conditions was always a healthy motivator.

Harris with his RTO walked over to where O’Toole and Sands were connecting the cargo sleds and inspecting the equipment that was to be carried on them.

“Captain, I think I know where we are.”

O’Toole looked up. “You think? Can you be a bit more specific than that?”

“Yes sir, I can,” Harris replied as he opened the map already folded to the grid he thought they were in.

“Talking with the pilots and checking my GPS, we’re here in this valley,” he indicated on the map. “Our target is northeast of us about 40 klicks.”

“Tell me some good news,” O’Toole quipped doing the math in this head to determine the distance in miles.

“I’m getting to that. If we head west, there’s an Inuit village 12 klicks from here that we can hold up at and call in for extraction.”

“Excuse me? Call for extraction?” O’Toole looked at the younger officer with a mixture of disbelief and anger.

“Yes sir. We lost the initiative. We’re on the ground with injured with the worst part of a blizzard bearing down on us. Proceeding to the objective on foot is out of the question. We need to get out of this weather, regroup, gather our resources and call for extraction. If they can’t get us, then we wait out the weather then start heading back when it clears. We’re combat ineffective,” the Ranger officer said.

“Captain, you’re a Ranger in the United States Army. Reach down your pants, grab a double handful of balls and man up,” O’Toole said. “We drive on,” he said before walking a short distance away to calm down and gather his thoughts.

“What’s wrong with him?” Harris asked, a blank look on his face.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Sands replied, his voice taking on a level of chill that surpassed the current environment. “We are going to close with the enemy. We are going to engage them with shock and awe. We are going to terminate them with extreme prejudice. Then we are going to piss on the graves of their ancestors,” he said, enunciating his words precisely. “Hoo-ah?”

Harris was unsure how to respond to that statement.

Willis and the rest of Shark Platoon had commandeered two of the cargo sleds that had been unloaded from the MC-130. The sleds had been loaded on the plane under the assumption that when the lead plane air-dropped the Polaris snowmobiles and fuel bladders that right behind them would be the assault element with the rest of the equipment. That part of the mission had already been blown. The lead planes had taken off hours earlier and not just minutes ahead of the personnel that would be directly involved in the operation.

Now, they would have to pull the sleds all the way to the target unless they found their vehicles. That the lead planes had actually dropped their cargo at Drop Zone Fox was wishful thinking given the weather conditions. The SEALs were almost finished loading the last of their gear when O’Toole walked over.

“How’d your team manage the landing?” O’Toole asked Willis.

“Bumped and bruised but we’re good to go,” Willis replied. O’Toole nodded, remaining silent.

“How about your team?” Willis asked.

“We’re good. A couple of the Rangers got banged up, some broken bones. Loadmaster took the worst of it,” O’Toole said.

“Wrong place at the wrong time,” Willis commented. “We’ve all been there.” The SEAL officer looked at his Army Special Forces counterpart. They had spent enough time together at Elmendorf for him to notice that something was bothering O’Toole.

“What’s up with Ranger Rick?” Willis asked, jerking his head in the direction of the huddle of soldiers where Harris was gesticulating while holding a map.

“Harris wants to head to an Inuit village, hunker down, wait out the storm then call for extraction,” O’Toole said.

“That’s not going to work,” Willis said. “He sat in on the briefing, he knows the score. It’s all or nothing.”

O’Toole nodded agreement.

“I’ll square him away if my team sergeant doesn’t,” O’Toole said, nodded and walked back to where Sands and Harris were locked in conversation now joined by the flight crew.

“Captain, we need to get our shit together, get out of this valley and move to the objective,” Sands was saying as O’Toole approached.

“I don’t see it that way,
Sergeant
,” Harris said, stressing Sands’ rank as he shook his head. “We have wounded men that need to be taken care of, we need to get them out of the path of this blizzard and call for medical evac.”

“I agree with the captain here,” the Air Force major stated nodding his head.

“Then it’s settled, we’ll break up the men into details and head for the village,” Harris stated.

“Hold on there,” O’Toole said stepping into the small circle of soldiers and airmen. “We have a mission to complete and we need all available personnel to get it done.”

“Captain, you do realize we crashed?” the Air Force senior officer asked sarcastically. “We are in no condition to complete anything.” he said. O’Toole turned to face the officer.

“Hey, air scout, I’m grateful you got us down more or less in one piece. We’re on the ground and you’re in my house now,” he said. “Once we landed, this became my operation and you now fall under my command,” O’Toole said.

“We’re not combat soldiers,” the pilot said.

“You have my sympathies,” O’Toole said. “Until we get these sleds loaded with mission critical gear, you’ve been drafted into the Army. You will follow orders and help us load equipment then you can fuck off to that Inuit village with the wounded.”

The Air Force officer didn’t know how to reply to O’Toole’s statement. He outranked the Army officer but this was a special operations mission and they were on the ground. The senior Army officer was in command at this point. If events had worked out the way they were supposed to, his plane would have still been in the air and he would already be heading back to Elmendorf.

“Do we understand each other?” O’Toole asked. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Harris.

“Captain Harris, when you’re finished usurping command authority, you will assign these men to a detail that will take the wounded to the Inuit village while the rest of us head for the objective. End of discussion.”

O’Toole looked at Sands with a nod. “Sergeant, you’re in charge of making sure that happens,” he directed before walking away to rejoin the rest of ODA-141.

The pocket of clear weather broke shortly after that and the blizzard swept through the small valley driving snow horizontally and diminishing visibility. It took more time to organize the survivors into groups than O’Toole was comfortable with. Already the airframe was partially covered from all the blowing snow. The SEALs of Shark Platoon followed behind a two-man pathfinder/scout Ranger element that was leading the group out of the valley. A short squad of Rangers was assigned to the walking wounded to provide support and security. They would make sure the Air Force flight crew would reach the native village. O’Toole saw the looks of disappointment on the Ranger’s faces that were assigned to that duty. Everyone wanted in on this operation. Captain Harris and the rest of the Rangers followed behind ODA-141 as they moved away from the wreckage and deeper into the mountains. O’Toole calculated that at their current pace, they would reach the area where the snowmobiles, fuel, and the rest of their mission gear had been dropped in 4-5 hours.

If the storm didn’t get any worse.

***

Chapter 3

New York City, Museum of Natural History

“Ski, this is Anatoli Breckhov, of the Russian Embassy,” Warrant Officer Dayna Doyle said as she introduced the senior non-commissioned officer of Sierra-3 Forward Recon Team to the Eastern European diplomat. Stanislaus Luzetski extended his hand in greeting.

The two men shook hands, the Russian was a slight built man with the beginning of a middle age spread about his waist but his grip was firm. The man that stood behind him, an obvious bodyguard, was built like a bear. A Russian bear to be exact.

“So this is the infamous Sergeant Luzetski,” Breckhov said with a smile.

Ski looked a little confused.

“You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” he said.

The Russian chuckled at the other man’s discomfort.

“We have never met but word, as they say, travels fast,” the Russian said in way of explanation.

Ski shot a glance at Doyle who just shook her head.

“Come, we shall talk about this inside,” Breckhov said as he motioned the two American soldiers inside the hall of American History. “I have always liked your history of the American West,” Breckhov said as they walked past displays. “The Native American would have made excellent Cossacks.”

Breckhov’s bodyguard, introduced only as Arkady, followed them in silence, his eyes impassive as he watched everything. Further inside the hall, the other Russians in Breckhov's group were sitting on appropriated office chairs and other furniture removed from the administrative areas of the museum. Ski counted a total of ten Russians with most of them looking like heavy muscle.
Who was this Breckhov guy?
They were directed to a small corner in the back where a sofa, a couple of lounge chairs, rug and table had been placed. Breckhov motioned them to sit as he took a seat on one of the chairs. He made a gesture to his silent guard who stepped a few paces away and turned to face the gallery.

“I hear that you, Sergeant, have spent some time in this once great city seeing the sights as it were. I’d imagine that the lights on Broadway aren’t like they used to be. Given the current events, I’m sure your time outside wasn’t a pleasant one,” Breckhov said as he reached over and poured some tea into three cups before placing the cups on the table. “Sugar? Honey?” he offered before he added both to his cup.

“My team and I have spent a little time outside seeing the sights as they were,” Ski said, taking a sip of the steaming liquid. Breckhov watched over the top of his own cup as he sipped noisily.

“Don’t be so modest, Sergeant. I know that you and your Forward Recon Team are part of the 82 Airborne Division’s 3rd Brigade Combat Team. You were dropped into New York to contain what was then referred to as civil unrest. I also know you have spent quite a bit of time out there among the unfortunate. That speaks a lot of your skill.”

Ski hid the surprise that the Russian knew his team designation. Sure, it wasn’t a big secret when they were deployed but to have someone who wasn’t in the US military know chapter and verse about who he was attached to was a little disconcerting.

“We call them Zulus, sir,” Ski said, placing his cup on the table.

Breckhov nodded.

“Always with the political correctness. The bullshit you Americans come up with to make yourself feel better about the real world always amazes me,” he said, the tone of his voice changed from pleasant and friendly to more serious. Doyle and Ski sensed the change as well.

“Forgive me,” the Russian said. “I forget how great your country is and then I let my own personal views distract me from what we were talking about.”

They sat in silence for a few tense seconds before Breckhov leaned forward, placed his now empty cup on the table.

“You want to leave this place but there is someone holding you back. A man unfit for command,” he said. Doyle and Ski glanced at each other and leaned back on the couch.

“No, that’s not why we came to you,” Doyle finally said.

“Come now. We both are too long inside this place to play games,” Breckhov said. “You and I know that the man is a disgrace. He is no commander. He is a burden, a liability I believe it’s called. If he was in mother Russia, a man of his inabilities...” the Russian gave a knowing look, “well, he would have been removed and replaced. Or just... removed.”

“Sir, we didn’t come here to discuss anything about Colonel Wiener,” Doyle quickly said.

“I didn’t mention names, yet you admit that he is a problem,” the Russian said with a knowing look. There were several seconds of uncomfortable silence.

“Forgive me for being so blunt,” Breckhov said, then leaned further forward and said quietly. “We both know that he’s the only thing holding all these people here. If he were gone, we’d be able to leave this island of the dead. All of us would be able to leave. I have a family I would like to see again.”

Ski watched Doyle’s eyes grow wide then return to normal. It happened so fast that most people wouldn’t have noticed it. He was sure Breckhov had caught the change in her expression just as he had.

More tea was poured during the awkward silence. Breckhov studied the two American soldiers in front of him as they studied him. There were subtle signs of familiarity. It was obvious that they had known each other prior to this event. The clues were there for someone of his years and experience to see. He hid the grin that threatened to form on his face by sipping his tea.

Placing his cup back on the saucer with a clink of porcelain, Breckhov spoke.

“I have known many men like him. He knows he is inferior to a real soldier, what you Americans would call a hard core stud, a warfighter, I think the term is.” He watched the expressions on the American’s faces. The sergeant was a shrewd one, hard to read but the female engineer, not as difficult.

“Sir,” Doyle started to say.

“Call me Anatoli, we’re all friends here,” Breckhov interrupted.

“Anatoli,” Doyle began again. “As I said previously, we’re not here to discuss anything about Colonel Weiner. I’m only showing the sergeant around our little corner of the world.”

Breckhov nodded knowingly.

“Of course. We are just making conversation.”

“Exactly, conversation,” Doyle confirmed.

Breckhov grinned at Doyle’s discomfort.

“Chief Warrant Officer Doyle,” Breckhov said. “For the sake of conversation, are you happy to be cooped up in here? Inside a building of questionable integrity while outside, hundreds, possibly millions, of your fellow citizens have succumbed to an infection that makes them very eager to get inside?”

“Sir, Anatoli, its only Warrant Officer, not Chief,” Doyle said. Breckhov nodded. Had she been in Mother Russia, she would have been a real officer, he surmised.

“Of course, my mistake,” Breckhov said as he poured more tea. “I would love to see the sights again,” he added whimsically as he sat back and noisily sipped his tea again.

Luzetski and Doyle finished their tea and politely excused themselves.

“I’m having a hard time relating what just happened to reality,” Ski said after they had walked quite a distance. Doyle shot him a sideways glance.

“In what way?” she asked.

“Just a few short hours ago, I was outside the perimeter facing a very real risk,” Ski said. “Now, I’m inside this place and... shit. I don’t know. Maybe it was better to be outside.”

Doyle didn’t know how to respond to Ski’s statement.

“I’ll drop you off with the rest of your men,” Doyle finally said. “Tomorrow, maybe, you’ll have a better perspective.”

***