Arctic Storm Rising by Dale Brown (android based ebook reader .TXT) 📕

unlike the rest of them, the sergeant was a genuine volunteer. He’d offered to go back on active service the moment he’d heard the scuttlebutt about an experimental unit forming for duty along the barren Arctic coast.

Flynn wasn’t quite sure if that made Takirak crazy, or incredibly dedicated . . . or a bit of both. But he was sure that he was going to have to rely heavily on the National Guard sergeant’s expertise and survival skills to help whipthe rest of this raw collection of individuals into a cohesive and efficient unit. He strongly suspected the Pentagon higher-upswho’d exiled him to Alaska expected him to fail in that task. He planned to prove them wrong—even if he privately thoughtthe whole concept of creating special security units like this was a waste of manpower and resources. Any serious Russianattack on the North Warning System’s radars would probably be carried out by bombers and long-range cruise missiles—not upclose and personal by Spetsnaz commandos or saboteurs.

“There’s the station, sir,” Takirak said quietly, pointing ahead through the bus’s salt-streaked windshield. Flynn leanedforward, studying the complex of buildings that was slated to be their duty post for at least the next six months.

The Barter Island Long Range Radar Site sat on a low coastal bluff, overlooking the cold, gray Beaufort Sea. A faint glimmerof dazzling white along the distant northern horizon hinted at the pack ice beginning to creep down from the Arctic Ocean.At the west end of the station, a raised platform held a white protective dome for the AN/FPS-117 active electronically scannedarray air search radar. From a distance, it looked oddly like two-thirds of a golf ball resting on a flat-topped tee. As theygot closer, its true size became more apparent. The top of that large dome rose nearly fifty feet above the flat, snow-coveredtundra. And from the briefing he’d been given, Flynn knew that powerful motors inside the dome could rotate the entire fifteen-tonradar array through a complete circle in as little as ten seconds.

A string of connected, prefabricated buildings ran east from the radar platform. Rust streaked their metal roofs and siding. When the station was first built in 1953 as part of the old Distant Early Warning Line, it had been much larger, with barracks housing more than 150 U.S. Air Force officers and enlisted men. Now, those barracks and other outbuildings were gone, torn down when the Barter Island site had been modernized to become part of the U.S. and Canada’s new, largely automated North Warning System. The structures that were left contained generators, equipment and vehicle storage, and working quarters that were still far too big for a handful of resident civilian contractors.

With a high-pitched squeal of brakes, the bus pulled up in front of the ramshackle building closest to the elevated radarplatform and stopped. A rusty white sign over a door identified it as the grand five-star beaufort sea vista inn.

“Jeezus,” one of the soldiers sitting behind him muttered. “Welcome to Barter Island LRR, boys. You will never find a more wretchedhive of scum and villainy.”

Flynn tamped down on a grin, recognizing the classic Star Wars quote.

“I prefer the outtakes version, myself,” another said with a sardonic edge to his voice. “The one where Alec Guinness justsays, ‘It’s a fucking shithole. A fucking shithole.’”

“Yeah, well, he must have been thinking about this goddamned place, all right,” a third soldier growled. “Christ, I need adrink.”

“Then you’re out of luck, pal,” the first man told him. “’Cause Kaktovik is a dry town. No alcohol allowed. Not even beer.”

That triggered a chorus of subdued groans, which ended abruptly when Sergeant Takirak casually turned around in his seat andgave them the “look” so beloved of veteran noncoms. When delivered by a skilled professional, the “look” was said to be capableof putting the fear of God, eternal damnation, and thirty days in the stockade into the heart of even the most hardened reprobate.From the sudden, absolute silence that descended across the bus, Flynn judged that Andy Takirak was just such a professional.

He studiously ignored the byplay. His ROTC instructors had spent a lot of time and energy drumming into their students’ heads the proposition that half the job of figuring out how to be an effective officer was in learning what not to hear and what not to see. Besides, griping about their quarters, meals, and pay was a time-honored privilege of enlisted personnel. He didn’tmind bitching, so long as it didn’t exceed the traditional bounds.

As soon as the driver opened the bus door, Flynn was the first one outside. His breath steamed in the ice-cold air and hisboots crunched across a layer of snow mixed with gravel. A light, freezing wind tugged at his scarlet beret. It carried themingled smells of salt, fuel oil, and rusting metal.

Three civilians in winter coats and boots emerged from the building and strolled over to join him. Two were men, one of themtall and heavyset, the other short and wiry. The last was an older woman with short-cropped gray hair and a round, friendlyface.

“Captain Flynn?” the tallest man said. “My name’s Johansson, Pete Johansson. I’m the maintenance supervisor here.” He noddedto the shorter man. “And this here is Smitty Walz. He’s my electronics whiz. But he doesn’t say much, do you, Smitty?”

“Nope,” the short man agreed.

“And I’m Marta McIntyre,” the gray-haired woman told him with a pleasant smile. “Mrs. Marta McIntyre. I’m the general goferaround the station—the cook, supply officer, and housekeeper all in one.” Her smile widened. “Plus, I keep Smitty and Petefrom killing each other on the rare occasions our satellite TV dish goes on the blink.”

Flynn grinned appreciatively at her. “How do you do that, Mrs. McIntyre? Tranquilizer gun? Martial arts expertise?”

She sniffed. “Not me. I just climb up on the roof and fix the darned thing.”

“Marta’s a piddler,” Johansson said. Then, seeing Flynn’s look of incomprehension, he explained. “That’s station lingo, Captain. A piddler is someone who sees stuff that needs doing and just goes right ahead and does it.” He shrugged.