“Copy that, Elmendorf,” Ingalls said, pulling up Barter Island on his navigation display. “Tell that security detachment we’re heading their way. We should be overhead in about thirty minutes. Whatever they can do to clear the runway by then will be much appreciated, but we’re going to try to set this crate down fast . . . before the storm closes in again.”

“Understood, Totem,” the controller replied. “And good luck.”

Ingalls glanced across the cockpit. “Okay, Skater, let’s come to zero-four-five. But take it real easy on your turn, okay? Keep your angle of bank well under twenty-five degrees and watch your airspeed and power settings.”

“Copy that,” Van Horn said tightly. They needed to bank left, which meant turning into their dead Number Two engine. With the aircraft’s three other engines still operational, that was doable. Still, extreme caution was necessary to avoid any risk of losing control due to asymmetric thrust. Slowly, she turned her steering yoke. Her eyes darted across her displays and gauges to make sure there were no other developing problems.

Gingerly, the Super Hercules rolled gently left—gradually coming around to the northeast as it headed directly toward Barter Island through a storm-cloud-covered night sky.

Barter Island Airport

A Short Time Later

Through his night vision goggles, Captain Nick Flynn could just about make out the far end of the snow-covered runway. Beyond that, a glittering haze of blowing snow and ice crystals obscured everything. Since he was roughly two-thirds of the way down the strip, he estimated that put current visibility at a little more than half a mile. The wind must be starting to strengthen again, he thought grimly. Not exactly great timing, since that crippled HC-130J couldn’t be more than a few minutes out.

Pairs of glowing yellow lights stretched away in both directions. They marked the edges of the hundred-foot-wide runway. Silhouetted against those lights, the soldiers and airmen of his Joint Force team were frantically clearing away pieces of windblown debris that littered the snow. The fierce blizzard that had been pounding Kaktovik and the radar station for more than two days had torn shingles, pieces of metal siding, canvas tarps, and even satellite dishes loose, along with bags of trash, broken-down cardboard boxes, empty barrels, and other abandoned objects—sending them all skittering across the open tundra. This mix of FOD, foreign object debris, was now a serious threat to the big turboprop headed here for an emergency landing. Metal shards or other solid trash sucked into the Super Hercules’s propellers or engine intakes during landing could easily cause catastrophic damage.

Painfully aware that they were running very low on time to get this job done, Flynn got back to work. He leaned over, grabbed a bent section of siding half buried in the surface, and yanked hard. Nothing. The damn thing didn’t move an inch. Grunting, he tightened his grip and yanked even harder. This time it broke free from the ice and came loose in his gloved hands. Like a discus thrower, he spun around in a single motion and hurled the piece of crumpled siding away from the runway as hard as he could. A powerful gust caught the warped metal panel and sent it spinning end over end through the air.