World War III

Caffey nodded. “Right. We’re going to find out who did this and what kind of force they’re moving. I want flank patrols and a two-man point. And I want it now, Captain.” Cordobes nodded. He looked stunned.

“And one other thing,” Caffey said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Until further notice, this company is the forward element of a combat reconnaissance patrol.”

“This company?”

“Welcome to the 171st Brigade,” Caffey said grimly.

SHUBLIK RIDGE 1205 HRS

They moved west, parallel to the ridge, under a gray, brooding sky. The wind had abated some, but it was still snowing. They’d established radio contact with Fire Base Bravo, which surprised everyone but Caffey. There wasn’t anything wrong with the communications around here. The squad hadn’t answered because there wasn’t a squad. Jones was dead, too, if you believed Avalik’s dying message, and Caffey did. Which is why he kept radio traffic routine and to a minimum. He didn’t know who else was listening, and the fewer people who knew where he was, the better he felt. There might still be some other explanation for all this and Caffey clung to that hope, but he wasn’t encouraged. He didn’t believe in coincidences, and there was still a NORAD radar station suddenly dropping off the line to explain.

The men were spread out in staggered sweep formation with a scout at the top of the ridge. They were a pathetic little group, Caffey thought, fourteen National Guardsmen with no combat experience and an unarmored vehicle that couldn’t stop a round from five hundred yards. They were boys, this little vanguard, dressed up like soldiers.

And against what? That was the sixty-four-dollar question. What were they up against? What kind of force was out here in this desert of snow?

Caffey stared out from the snowcat, scanning the rolling terrain for any sign of an enemy. He hadn’t used that word with Cordobes or any of the men because it connoted a whole range of frightening possibilities, none of which he was prepared to deal with. Occasionally he’d notice his reflection in the glass — a man in white camouflage, snow goggles and a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck like some ridiculous caricature of Erwin Rommel.

“Colonel!” Lieutenant Speck lunged forward from his place behind Caffey in the snowcat, pointing ahead. A soldier was waving, motioning toward the ridge.

“I see him, Lieutenant.” Caffey opened the door and climbed down from the cab. “Park this thing under a tree, Parsons, and turn off the engine. Then come with me.” He jogged toward the ridge where Cordobes was sliding down in the snow.

“What’ve you got, Captain?”

Lieutenant Speck and Sergeant Parsons arrived a moment later.

Cordobes lowered his goggles. He glanced at Speck, then Caffey. “You’d better have a look at this, Colonel.”

“What is it?”

“I think you’d better have a look.”

Caffey squinted up the ridge. “All right.” He turned to Speck. “Get the men about twenty yards up this rise and spread them. Lock and load. No talking. No smoking. I don’t want to see or hear anything when I look down here. Right?” Speck saluted. “Yes, sir.”

Caffey sighed. Now wasn’t the time to explain that you don’t salute in fire zones, or, at least, in unsecured areas. He turned back to Cordobes. “Let’s go, Captain. You, too, Sergeant.” It was a struggle, getting up the ridge through the powdery, boot-deep snow. Near the crest the three men knelt into a crouch, then wound up on their bellies and inched along to the top. A brief swirl of wind kicked up snow in front of them. As it dissipated, Caffey had an unobstructed though fuzzy view of the valley below. It was a winding column of troops and vehicles, moving at an angle slightly away from Caffey’s position.

“Holy shit!” Parsons whispered.

“I’m praying, Colonel,” Cordobes said quietly, “that we are all having the same bad dream.” Caffey studied the distant column through his binoculars. “It’s a nightmare, but it’s no dream.” He dug his elbows into the snow for better support of the binoculars. “I figure eight hundred cold-weather troops, battalion strength. About a dozen snowmobiles protecting the flanks. Four armored vehicles, tracked. Heavy machine guns, antipersonnel rocket-launchers, mortars… Christ!” He lowered the binoculars. “The sonofabitches are loaded for bear.”

“Russians?” Cordobes asked, staring down the ridge.

“They’re Soviet shock troops,” Caffey said. “Pathfinders.” He handed the captain the binoculars. “That lead vehicle is flying a brigade commander’s whip flag, Ninth Soviet Army.”

“That doesn’t sound good, Colonel,” Parsons said.

“Those are arctic airborne troops down there. Probably the best-trained in the entire Soviet Army.”

“What the hell are they doing here?” Cordobes wanted to know.

Caffey stared after the column. “I don’t know, Captain, but I don’t think they’re lost.” He glanced at the Eskimo sergeant. “What would a strike force be doing in this barren part of the world, Parsons? What’s up here that has any strategic value?”