Johnston disappeared into the driving snow. Beaman knew that Cantrell and his SAW would soon be a hundred meters ahead of him, followed fifty meters later by Martinelli with the M-60 machine gun. Hall, the new guy, would be fifty meters behind with his satcom radio, followed by Broughton and Dumkowski at fifty-meter intervals. Johnston would be bringing up the rear, covering any trace of their passage.

They cautiously crossed the open ground. If anyone had discovered them sneaking across northern Russia, this would be the ideal place to attack. They would be exposed with no chance of finding cover on this barren stretch of ground. Beaman’s every sense was on knife-edge, ready at any minute for the heavy rumbling roar of an AK-47 to drown out the howling wind. There was nothing to do but move forward and pray no one was waiting in ambush.

After an excruciating hour of skiing across the open tundra, they arrived at the bank of the stream.

The team gathered in a small grove of scrub birch at the shore of the little creek and rested for a few minutes. Beaman smiled as a fleeting thought ran through his head. This would be an idyllic site for fly fishing in the summer. The creeks up here were world famous for their trophy-sized salmon. He imagined how it would be returning here some warm summer day to try to snag a big one.

Right now, though, this was one of the most desolate places he could imagine.

No time for idle daydreaming. They weren’t getting any closer to Polyarnyy by sitting here behind this poor cover, thinking of fly fishing.

Beaman lifted his tired body off the snow and signaled Cantrell to lead out across the ice. It was only a few meters to the other shore, which rose steeply through a heavier growth of fir trees that would provide them better cover but slow going.

The big SEAL grunted as he rose and slid out onto the ice. He was almost to the other side when there was a loud cracking noise. Cantrell dropped from view, but not before letting out a loud cry that echoed from the walls of the fjord. The ice, normally several feet thick, had somehow given way beneath the SEAL and he was now neck deep in the frigid water, his arms flailing as he tried to swim out of the hole he was in.

Beaman jumped up and peeled off all his equipment. He grabbed a rope from his pack and scooted out across the creek. Barely halfway across, he fell flat on the ice and sprawled out as much as he could to distribute his weight across the weakened surface. He slid forward on his chest until he could throw the line to the thrashing SEAL. He began to haul him back to safety.