Most of the men couldn't hear the question. The ones who could strained to listen to the reply. "Some kind of problem with some pipeline workers," Major Race H. Fordell replied over the scratchy headset. Their commanding officer was staring down at the pipeline.

"Couldn't the Guard check it out?"

The Major shook his head. "We were closest."

"Lucky us," another man mumbled.

Since his microphone was broken, the words were swallowed up by the howl of the rotor blades.

The First Civil Support Battalion had been conducting training exercises near the Chandalar River 150 miles north of Fairbanks when the call came. They were scrambled and soaring east in ten minutes.

The pilot was ordered to give it all he had. The vibrations were so great some feared the Huey might start rattling apart around their heads.

The men in the helicopter weren't true soldiers. Some in the Alaska State Defense Force had some service training, but many did not. Even though the ASDF was considered a military force-to be deployed during state emergencies-the civil servants of the ASDF really existed as backup to the Alaska National Guard.

In the back of the chopper, shaking hands wiped sweat from nervous brows.

A matching patch on each man's sleeve depicted a swimming wolf. Above was the legend 1st Bn, and below were the letters ASDF.

The Seawolves were based in Juneau. Only sheer dumb luck had plunked them down in the middle of nowhere this day. At the moment none of the men was feeling terribly lucky. A few of them jumped when the pilot's urgent voice crackled over the headphones.

"I think you'll want to see this, Major."

Major Fordell hopped from his seat and swept to the cockpit.

"What have we got?" Fordell asked tightly. He was already scanning the forward terrain.

"Down there, sir," the pilot said, pointing. "Dead ahead."