The sprawling Polyarnyy Submarine Base was only two kilometers to the north of where they now hid, but it might as well have been on the moon. The giant covered submarine dock hid the piers from view. Several layers of menacing defenses stretched between here and there. The perimeter road was heavily patrolled. In the hour Beaman had spent watching, at least eight BTR-80 armored personnel carriers had slowly driven down the road. There seemed to always be at least one of them visible.

The BTR-80’s gunner had a clear field of fire for two hundred meters away from the road. He could chop anything short of a main battle tank to pieces with his 14.5mm KPTV machine cannon or mow down any person silly enough to get in his sights with his coaxial 7.62mm machine gun. The BTR-80 could carry seven additional fully equipped ground troops protected inside its armored sides. Odds were these were manned with troops ready to charge out and mop up any bits and pieces that might be left lying around after the fireworks stopped.

The ground between Beaman’s position and the perimeter fence was clear down to the snow, with not even a bush or a rock for cover. A jackrabbit would have trouble sneaking past. Even if they were able to crawl low enough to try to get across the barren ground, there were probably buried motion detectors and video cameras, too.

Beaman squinted but he still couldn’t see any way across the open space. Even if there were a way, it would not help much. The other side of the perimeter road butted up against a four-meter-tall chain-link fence topped with some very wicked concertina wire. Another ten meters inside and there was another matching fence. The space between was mined, according to the briefing documents Beaman had seen. The guard towers at every corner had a clear shot down at anyone caught between the fences.

Chief Johnston slid up to the ridgeline alongside Beaman. He had been scouting farther to the east.

“Shit, Skipper,” he grunted. “That place is guarded better than Fort Knox. Any ideas how we’re going to get through all that crap?”

“I was thinking of calling the Starship Enterprise and having Scotty beam us over there,” the SEAL commander said with a humorless smirk.

Johnston didn’t show any amusement, either. He rarely cracked a smile.

“Or maybe we can sprout wings and fly on over there,” was all he said. At least the chief’s sardonic sense of humor had survived the rough transit in.

“Chief, if it was an easy mission, they would’ve just sent the Marines to do it. We’ll find a way inside that mother. And some way back out again. Let’s wait and see what Martinelli and Hall found over to the west. They should be back in an hour or so.”