Vucovich pushed his goggles up onto his forehead. “Want us to scout the town for the sarge and M-Squared, Captain?” he asked. “It ain’t that big.”

Flynn thought about that and then shook his head. As it was, it would take more time than they could easily afford to secure the two snow machines and their sleds aboard the HC-130J’s single available equipment pallet. And the aircraft’s loadmaster, Staff Sergeant Tim Wahl, was already waiting for them with growing impatience. “Takirak knows we’re headed to the airport,” he said, more confidently than he felt. “Once he’s got Airman Mitchell in hand, he’ll meet us there. In the meantime, you guys go report to Wahl and help him load your vehicles.”

Vucovich nodded. He pulled his goggles back down and thumped Kim in the shoulder. “Let’s hit it, Pete. Last man to the airport has to do all the grunt work.” Grinning widely, they opened their throttles and sped away across the tundra, trailing plumes of ice and snow from under their ski runners.

Flynn watched them go with a bemused grin. He’d completely misread his team’s likely reaction to their new orders. Far from plunging them into gloom, the prospect of action—even incredibly hazardous action, like making a parachute jump at night over mountains—had them all pumped up. He guessed that was a combination of the same craving for adventure that had caused most of them to enlist in the first place—plus the natural, wild-eyed optimism of youth, and a desperate willingness to do anything that would get them out of the dull, grinding routine of sentry duty on this isolated island.

He turned back to find Sanchez looming over him. The big New Mexican was the only one who looked even a little disgruntled. But that was because Flynn was making him leave his beloved Carl Gustaf 84mm recoilless rifle behind. On a search-and-rescue mission, they would need extra supplies and medical equipment more than a heavy weapon designed to blow open bunkers and kill armored vehicles.

“Everything’s loaded on the bus, sir,” Sanchez reported. “The sergeant and M-Squared’s stuff, too.”

Flynn nodded. He looked down the track toward Kaktovik one more time and then shrugged. They couldn’t wait here any longer. “Then let’s mount up, Specialist,” he said. “But pass the word for everyone to keep their eyes peeled on the way through town. Our two missing guys can’t have gone far.”

Barter Island Airport

Some Time Later

Flynn felt a hand on his upper arm. He turned to find Laura Van Horn looking up at him with a concerned expression. She also looked half-frozen to death. Her flight jacket was fine inside a cockpit, but it wasn’t made to stand up to subzero temperatures.

“Rip says if we’re going to go at all, we should go soon,” she shouted over the steadily rising roar from the HC-130’s three working Rolls-Royce turboprops. Ingalls was busy running a slew of checks, closely monitoring his gauges and displays for the slightest sign of any more engine trouble. “We can’t tell how long this break in the storm’s really going to last.” She waved a hand at the runway, where little swirls of snow crystals were dancing across the surface. “If the wind picks up even another ten knots, there’s no way we could drop you safely. We’d have to abort the mission.”