Scarecrow Read Free

Mustang 3,’ he said. ‘Sitrep?’
    A voice came over his earpiece. It was the voice of an Air Force radio operator stationed at McColl Air Force Base in Alaska, the communications centre for this mission.
    â€˜ Mustang 3, this is Base. Mustang 1 and Mustang 2 have engaged the enemy. Report that they have seized the missile silos and inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy. Mustang 1 is holding the silos and awaiting reinforcements. Mustang 2 reports that there are still at least twelve enemy agents putting up a fight in the main maintenance building .’
    â€˜All right,’ Schofield said, ‘what about our follow-up?’
    â€˜ An entire company of Army Rangers from Fort Lewis is en route, Scarecrow. One hundred men, approximately one hour behind you .’
    â€˜Good.’
    Book II spoke from inside the armoured Scout vehicle. ‘What’s the story, Scarecrow?’
    Schofield turned. ‘We’re go for drop.’
    Five minutes later, the box-shaped cargo-container dropped out of the belly of the Stealth Bomber and plummeted like a stone toward the Earth.
    Inside the container—in the car resting inside it—sat Schofield and his seven Marines, shuddering and jolting with the vibrations of the terminal-velocity fall.
    Schofield watched the numbers on a digital wall-mounted altimeter whizzing downwards:
    50,000 feet . . .
    45,000 feet . . .
    40,000 . . . 30,000 . . . 20,000 . . . 10,000 . . .
    â€˜Preparing to engage chutes at five thousand feet . . .’ Corporal Max ‘Clark’ Kent, the loadmaster, said in a neutral voice. ‘GPS guidance system has us right on target for landing. External cameras verify that the LZ is clear.’
    Schofield eyed the fast-ticking altimeter.
    8,000 feet.
    7,000 feet . . .
    6,000 feet . . .
    If everything went to plan, they would land about fifteen miles due east of Krask-8, just over the horizon from the installation, out of sight of the facility.
    â€˜Engaging primary chutes . . .  now ,’ Clark announced.
    The jolt that the falling container received was shocking in its force. The whole falling box lurched sharply and Schofield and his Marines all shuddered in their seats, held in by their six-point seat belts and rollbars.
    And suddenly they were floating, care of the container’s three directional parachutes.
    â€˜How’re we doing, Clark?’ Schofield asked.
    Clark was guiding them with the aid of a joystick and the container’s external cameras.
    â€˜Ten seconds. I’m aiming for a dirt track in the middle of the valley. Brace yourselves for landing in three . . . two . . . one . . .’
    Whump!
    The container hit solid ground, and suddenly its entire front wall just fell open and daylight flooded in through the wide aperture and the four-wheel-drive Commando Scout Light Attack Vehicle skidded off the mark and raced out of the container’s belly into the grey Siberian day.

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    The Scout whipped along a muddy earthen track, bounded on both sides by snow-covered hills. Deathly grey tree skeletons lined the slopes. Black rocks stabbed upward through the carpet of snow.
    Stark. Brutal. And cold as hell.
    Welcome to Siberia.
    As he sat in the back of the Light Attack Vehicle, Schofield spoke into his throat-mike: ‘Mustang 1, this is Mustang 3. Do you copy?’
    No reply.
    â€˜I say again: Mustang 1, this is Mustang 3. Do you copy?’
    Nothing.
    He did the same for the second Delta team, Mustang 2. Again, no reply.
    Schofield keyed the satellite frequency, spoke to Alaska: ‘Base, this is 3. I can’t raise either Mustang 1 or Mustang 2. Do you have contact?’
    â€˜ Ah, affirmative on that, Scarecrow ,’ the voice from Alaska said. ‘ I was just talking to them a moment ago —’
    The signal exploded to