Flynn put down the boxes of MREs he’d carried over to one of the sleds and turned his head to meet the red-haired airman’s mildly worried gaze. Mitchell had earned his jump wings during a stab at the Air Force’s pararescue course. He’d been bounced for what his personnel file dryly called “attitude adjustment issues.” Based on Flynn’s personal observation over the past several days, that probably meant the airman had pulled one prank too many on his instructors. After a succession of other scrapes in various units, he’d been “volunteered” to serve as the new Joint Force team’s communications specialist. In the field, that meant carting around the team’s AN/PRC-162 manpack radio and sticking close to his new commander’s side at all times.

Mitchell’s curiosity and concern were natural. The training and readiness exercise they’d piggybacked onto involved four other C-130s carrying more than three hundred paratroopers belonging to the Army’s Fourth Brigade Combat Team (Airborne). By rights, this snow-covered plain should be filled with other soldiers assembling into platoons and sorting out their own gear.

“We’re on the right drop zone,” Flynn assured the airman, raising his voice slightly so that everyone could hear him. “The rest of the troops are jumping onto a DZ closer to Deadhorse. Their COs have their own training exercise plans for their units. But I’ve got something different in mind for us.”

Another soldier, Private First Class Cole Hynes, pushed forward. Short and square shouldered, Hynes had a temper that had cost him his sergeant’s stripes a few months back. Apart from his pugnacity, his soldier skills were first-rate. On the team’s improvised firing range at Kaktovik, he’d proved able to rapidly put rounds on target at six hundred yards with their M249 Para light machine gun. “Just how far from Deadhorse are we, sir?” he asked with a frown, eyeing the miles and miles of untouched snow in all directions.

It was time to pull the pin on his unwelcome surprise, Flynn realized. Except for Takirak, he’d kept the details of this planned field exercise close to his chest. He’d done so precisely because he didn’t want any of his troops to duck out before climbing aboard the C-130 by “accidentally on purpose” twisting an ankle or coming down with some mystery illness. The Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés had motivated his men to conquer or die by burning the ships that had carried them to Mexico. His task today was considerably simpler, which was probably just as well because it would be damned hard to set anything ablaze on this frozen, treeless plain. Instead of defeating a hostile empire whose fighting forces outnumbered his by a hundred to one, all he wanted to accomplish was toughen up his men physically and teach them to make the best use of their winter gear, snowshoes, and skis before the harsh Arctic winter fully set in and made this type of training too hazardous.

“We’re roughly fifty-nine miles from the airport at Deadhorse,” he announced calmly. “That’s as the crow flies.” He paused to make sure they were all focused on him. “Or, in our case, as the man marches.” He checked his watch. “In approximately seventy-two hours, a plane will land there to ferry us back to Kaktovik. It will take off again sixty minutes later, whether we’re on board or not. So that’s how long we’ve got to finish this little jaunt.”