Chapter 51
Langley
The CIA operations center sat in stunned silence as they watched the disaster play out via a multispectral NRO satellite hovering overhead.
They witnessed the two vessels collide and saw people scrambling across the ice.
They noted the bodies floating in the frigid sea in the aftermath.
More critically, and almost unnoticed on the periphery, they saw two lone forms trekking off into the Arctic wilderness.
For a full minute no one spoke—a virtual eternity in the fast-paced hub of the world’s preeminent intelligence agency. Finally, DDO Flynn pierced the quiet by announcing, “Ladies and gentlemen, our battle has shifted.”
The next twenty minutes were a barrage of amended requests, new information, and realigned priorities. There was no need to emphasize the urgency of the situation.
“What’s the status of our LC-130?” Flynn inquired.
“The Hercules is fueled and ready to go at Summit Station,” replied the duty officer.
“Flight time to the crash site is roughly four hours. But gas will be tight for the round-trip, and we can’t launch without choosing a landing zone.
Once we provide coordinates to the crew, they’ll need an hour to survey the ice conditions to determine if a landing is even feasible. ”
A minimum of five hours, Flynn thought. He cast a hard look at the operating area on the map. “What about the Cheyenne? Where is she now?”
The duty officer replied, “She’s almost to the crash site, but I don’t see how her surfacing in the middle of this goat rodeo does anything to advance our cause.
Chen and Sky Fire are already a healthy distance away.
We could tell them to turn back. There are no guarantees that the Cheyenne’s crew, even with the four Spec Ops personnel on board, could take control of the situation there. ”
The duty officer had a good point, Flynn thought, and he privately expanded on it.
The Chinese were hell-bent on regaining possession of Sky Fire.
Chen, however, fell into a slightly different category.
The MSS would very much want to take him back to Beijing, where they could mainline drugs, remove body parts, and administer electrical shocks until he gave up every scrap of information, both on his work and his planned defection.
More important, however, was that Sky Fire’s chief designer couldn’t be allowed to spill the contents of his brilliant mind to the Americans.
The simplest means of ensuring that was a bullet to his brain in the Arctic.
This cemented the start of Flynn’s new plan. The last place Chen and Kasey could go was back toward Snow Dragon 2.
He said speculatively, “On Orion and Falcon’s present course, is there anywhere the ice is thin enough for Cheyenne to break through and surface?”
All eyes shifted to the ISR specialist, who gestured to the map and said, “It’s hard to say without knowing exactly where they are. But I do show one thinner area roughly thirty-five miles northeast of her present position.”
“Thirty-five miles?” Flynn exclaimed.
The duty officer said, “It’s not as bad as it sounds. The Cheyenne could get there pretty quickly, assuming we can get in touch with them to give the order. If we can put her within a reasonable distance of the weather station, the SEALs can go out and pick them up.”
“Do they have transportation?”
“What, like snowmobiles?”
The DDO nodded.
“No, attack boats aren’t designed for loading and unloading heavy equipment.
They don’t have deck cranes, and the hatches are too small.
The SEALs would likely be on skis. But in our favor, that’s exactly what the team on board Cheyenne specializes in.
They’re cold-weather experts and can move over ice like nobody else on the planet. It would take some time, however.”
There was nothing but ice for hundreds of miles around Orion and Falcon’s estimated position. “I’m not sure how much time they have,” Flynn replied. “They’re completely exposed and probably already freezing their asses off.”
The ex–Navy man at the ISR desk interjected, “Sir, I might have a stopgap option. I’ve been looking over some NOAA charts and—”
“NOAA?” The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration had never been a go-to agency in the CIA operations center.
“Yes. They operate a small chain of Arctic weather stations. Each summer they deploy two or three on the drift ice. While teams of scientists come and go, the equipment is mostly automated and streams data all year long. These outposts generally don’t survive more than a season or two, but at the moment a handful of them are active.
“How many, specifically?”
“Six,” the man at the ISR desk responded. “One of which is fairly close to our area of operations.”
“How close?”
“Nine nautical miles. East–southeast.”
On the lone image they’d captured of Kasey and Chen leaving the crash site, they had appeared to be heading east. Flynn took this as half a win, which was better than no win at all.
“What do these stations consist of?” Flynn asked.
A new map appeared. NOAA’s logo was at the bottom, and it depicted the Arctic Ocean flecked by six blue X’s, including one that was reasonably close to the crash site.
“Not much,” the ISR man stated. “No personnel or provisions. But there is a small prefab building—more of a shed, really, assuming this storm hasn’t blown it away. It could provide protection from the elements until help arrives.”
The duty officer chimed in, “It would also give us a point of reference. When Orion and Falcon are within four hours of this place, we could launch the LC-130.”
Flynn was skeptical. “Can they walk nine miles in this storm? With Chen injured?”
“That’s going to be the least of our problems,” said the duty officer. “If this storm doesn’t let up, the Herc won’t be able to get in. The pilots have to be able to see the surface in order to attempt any landing.”
The DDO kept staring at the big map. Even if Orion and Falcon could reach this weather station, it would take half a day for them to get there. If they fell short, they’d be stranded out in the open. Nevertheless, a plan, albeit risky, was beginning to form in his mind.
As the circumstances changed, the team at the operations center was changing—adapting to what was available and narrowing the possible outcomes.
Which, in a more desperate sense, three thousand miles to the north, was exactly what Kasey and Chen were doing.
Only they were a lot colder.