Hynes, Mitchell, and the others stared at him in consternation. “You’re shitting me,” someone muttered from the back of the little knot of soldiers.

“Nope,” Flynn assured him. He glanced at Takirak. “I’m dead serious, aren’t I, Sergeant?”

The noncom nodded stoically. “Yes, sir.” A dry smile darted across his weathered face and then disappeared. “Only fifty-nine miles in three days? With clear weather in the forecast?” He shook his head. “Heck, that’s practically a stroll in the park.”

“Yeah, but it’s a pretty fricking cold park, Sarge,” Mitchell pointed out.

“Which is why you’re wearing all of that fancy winter gear provided by Uncle Sam, courtesy of the generous taxpayers of these United States,” Takirak reminded him. He looked around the circle of dubious faces. “So quit your bitching and get organized, ladies. I want both pallets unloaded and all of this extra gear stowed on the sleds in ten minutes. Because whether you’re happy about it or not, we’re hiking north to Deadhorse. So there’s no sense in wasting more daylight.” He glanced at Flynn. “With your permission, sir?”

“Carry on, Sergeant,” Flynn agreed. He stepped back out of the way as the knot of soldiers and airmen broke up and went to work again. Thank God for an experienced NCO, he thought for what had to be the hundredth time over just the past week. Loner himself or not, the National Guard sergeant had the right touch when it came to handling what was still more a prickly bunch of individuals than a solid military unit.

In the end, it took closer to fifteen minutes to organize the march column to Takirak’s satisfaction, but at last they moved out north across the tundra—tromping steadily toward the low hills along the northern horizon. The noncom and another man were a few hundred yards out in front as scouts. Bringing up the rear, two more men drove the snow machines and towed sleds piled high with their extra supplies, puttering along at very low throttle to keep pace with the soldiers on foot ahead of them.

At the head of the central column, Flynn settled his rucksack across his back and started off. Mitchell came next, bowed slightly under the weight of his own gear and their radio. “Man, I thought I was joining the Air Force, not the fucking Foreign Legion,” he heard the communications specialist grumble under his breath. “All this ‘march or die’ shit is gonna get old real fast.”

Flynn looked back over his shoulder with a grin. “It’s not actually ‘march or die,’ Airman Mitchell.”

“No, sir?” the radioman asked.

“Nope,” Flynn continued. “Not enough sand, for a start.”

“Hell of a lot of snow, though, sir,” Mitchell pointed out.

Flynn nodded. His grin widened. “That’s why it’s more like ‘march or freeze your ass off.’”

Mitchell snorted. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re kinda mean, sir?”

“All the time, ever since I was a kid,” Flynn said, still smiling. “And that was just my mother.”