Deadhorse Airport, Prudhoe Bay, Alaska

Three Days Later

Flynn concentrated on putting one snowshoed foot in front of the other. After three days and nearly sixty miles of marching north across this frozen landscape, the rhythm had become second nature to him. His breath puffed out in a little cloud of steam that drifted away on the icy breeze. He looked back at his men. Though their shoulders were bowed down under the weight of their rucksacks, they were all in position in the column and moving easily, almost gracefully, through the snow.

The first day’s march had been the roughest on all of them, except for Andy Takirak. Within the first few miles, every step had been painful and every breath an agony as they sucked in bone-dry air chilled to just above zero. By the time they made camp, his little band of soldiers and airmen were too tired even to bitch about the situation he’d dropped them in. Only the National Guard sergeant had seemed disgustingly cheerful when he prodded them awake the following morning, hours before sunrise. Everyone else had been wrapped in misery, all too aware of aching feet, calves, and shoulders.

That had changed sometime during the second day’s even longer hike. One moment, Flynn felt like all he could do was focus on taking the next painful step—slogging along in an endless procession of discomfort where sheer willpower was the only thing keeping him moving. Then, suddenly, he’d felt his head come up and his shoulders go back. His breathing had eased, too. Oh, his feet and back still hurt . . . but it no longer mattered. Or at least not as much. A quick check of the march column had showed that the rest of his team was experiencing something similar. Even their usual crappy jokes and banter had started to bounce back and forth again.

“They’re over the hump,” Takirak had said matter-of-factly during their next rest break.

Flynn had nodded, understanding what the older man meant. The “hump” was that almost indefinable psychological moment when you realized that what had seemed impossibly difficult was doable after all. There was a hump somewhere in every challenging situation, and if you managed to get past it you learned a lot about yourself . . . and the others who’d been there with you.

Like all good things, that brief moment of elation had faded again under the strain of marching so far and so fast. But it lingered inside every man as a source of confidence and renewed strength. They knew now that they were going to make it—that they’d reach Deadhorse on time if they just refused to give up.

A droning roar off to the east brought Flynn’s head up again. There, coming in low, on its final approach to the airport, was an Alaska Air National Guard C-130J turboprop. He glanced at his watch.

From behind him, Mitchell asked, “Is that our ride, sir?”

Flynn nodded, feeling a grin starting to spread on his face. “That it is, Airman. And right on time.” He moved off to the side of the column of marching men and raised his voice. “Well done, guys! You did it.”