Phoenix

25. Alive?

The transition from the roar of Mach-3 engines to the absolute, crushing silence of the Arctic was a sensory assault that few men could handle with grace. For Douglas Bullock-known to those who feared him and the few who didn't as "Bulldog"-the journey had been a four-hour descent into a personal, kinetic hell.

​The U.S. Air Force F-14 Tomcat didn't so much land as it did collide with the Montego Ice Shelf. After several predatory circles around the jagged white island, the pilot received the final coordinates via a static-heavy radio transmission and began the steep, aggressive descent.

Below them, the old DC-3 that had arrived earlier that morning sat like a frozen relic on the main runway, its return to the mainland denied by executive order.
To its left, a makeshift runway-literally a leveled stretch of permafrost and packed snow-had been cleared a mere hundred yards away.

​The F-14 hit the strip with a bone-jarring thud, its tires screaming against the ice before the pilot engaged the thrusters to settle the beast at the far end of the runway. As the engine's whine died down to a low whistle, the fiberglass canopy hissed open. Instantly, the cockpit was flooded with the razor-sharp Arctic air, a sub-zero vacuum that seemed to suck the breath right out of the lungs.

​The pilot turned in his seat, his gaze cautious. "Are you all right, sir?"

​Douglas Bullock didn't answer immediately. He wasn't a man of the air; he was a creature of the dirt and the shadows. Sitting in a fighter jet through high-G maneuvers had pushed his physical limits to the breaking point. Motion sickness was clawing at his throat, a tidal wave of nausea that he fought back with a grim, jaw-clenching resolve.
He waited, letting the world stop spinning, before he unbuckled and climbed down from the cockpit.

​His boots hit the ice, and for a moment, his legs were like jelly. The equilibrium of his inner ear was still trapped back in the stratosphere. He stumbled, a clumsy lurch that would have sent him face-first into the snow if a waiting airman hadn't reached out to steady him.

​Bulldog shoved the hand away with a snarl. "Alright! I don't need your help!" his voice was a gravelly rasp.

Even as he stood, his teeth began to chatter-a rhythmic, uncontrollable clicking that infuriated him. He had to scrunch his face into a mask of pure aggression just to keep his jaw steady enough to speak.

​The airman recoiled, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and confusion, but he still held out a heavy woolen jacket and a pair of insulated tactical pants. "Put them on, sir. The wind chill is lethal today."

​Bulldog grabbed the gear without a word of thanks. Across the ice, two heavy-duty tractors were lumbering toward the jet. They screeched to a halt, and six men disembarked, their faces obscured by goggles and parkas. A senior officer, distinguished by the confident set of his shoulders, stepped forward.

​"Good afternoon, Mr. Bullock. Welcome to Montego," the man said, his voice surprisingly warm despite the surroundings.

​Bulldog didn't bother with the jacket's sleeves yet, draping it over his shoulders like a cape. "Who are you?"

​"Commander Eugene Decker-Commanding Officer of the Coast Guard Ship Newburgh."

​Bulldog squinted, his eyes scanning the horizon where the white shelf met the dark, churning sea. "Where is your ship?"

​"Anchored right next to the shelf, about a mile out. The draft is too deep for a closer approach."

​"What are you waiting for, Decker?" Bulldog spat, the nausea finally fading into a sharp, focused anger. "Are those bastards from Brighton still adamant about not handing over that old fool Donnen?"