Okada got up and took a trip to the vending machines, where she purchased a Pepsi. That’s when she had an epiphany. The Russians knew that the Americans knew about the Yantar! Therefore they wouldn’t use the spy ship for their survey. No, they would use some other vessel. One that had the necessary equipment but a lower profile.
Moments later Okada was back at her desk entering new search terms. And it didn’t take long to come up with a trawler called the Sea Harvest . There the ship was, two weeks into the war, cruising east to west along the path the bridge would have to take!
Could Okada prove that the Sea Harvest was mapping the sea floor? No. But if she managed to acquire a sufficient number of supporting data points, Okada would be able to pitch Blakely without embarrassing herself.
Locating the sea anchors used to secure the bridge should have been easy, since each would be marked with a buoy. The problem was that both American and Russian fishermen used hundreds, maybe thousands, of buoys each year. Most of them were recovered, but some broke free. That meant there were drifting, as well as stationary targets to track.
Still, even with those variables to deal with Okada was able to succeed by setting up a search based on the type and size of the buoys used for the 520 project in Washington State. They were larger than standard fishing floats, and made of metal .
Once the computer knew what to look for it could produce a map overlay. The buoys were like a string of beads that ran from Chukotka to a point just east of the Diomede Islands. And that was as far as the trawler could go without attracting the attention of the U.S. Coast Guard. I’m two for two , Okada thought, as she went to work on Conway’s third indicator, which was military preparations over and above the Red Ice exercise. She lost track of time.
Okada was walking on a beach. Waves rushed in to break around her ankles, gulls wheeled above, and she could feel the sun’s warmth on her face. It was a beautiful place, and she didn’t want to leave. But a voice was calling to her. “Good morning, Lori … It’s time to rise and shine.”
Okada opened her eyes to discover that she wasn’t on a beach in California. She was face down on a desk. Blakley’s desk. Okada sat up to discover that her boss was seated across from her. He smiled. “You look like hell.”
Lori ran fingers through her hair. “I feel like hell. But I’m first in line to see you.”
“Yes, you are. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about the bridge,” Okada told him. “The one I mentioned the other day. It’s real, and I can prove it.”
Blakely’s eyebrows rose. “Okay, lay it on me.”
Okada brought up the necessary visuals on his monitors and took him through the process. That included the secretive mapping, the sea anchors, and how Conway said they would be used. Then Okada brought up images of two rusty freighters. One was docked in Petropavlovsk, and the other was moored in Magadan. “They’re Q-ships,” Okada told him. “Like the special services ships that we used against the Germans and the Japanese during World War II. They look normal—but looks can be deceiving .
“According to the CIA both ships were overhauled and retrofitted with vertical missile launchers. The people in Langley didn’t know why of course … They assumed that the freighters would be sent south to attack allied shipping. But I believe their actual purpose is to defend the bridge against American planes.”
“There are a lot of assumptions in your case,” Blakely observed. “You assume the trawler was mapping the sea floor, you assume those buoys are connected to bridge anchors, and you assume those freighters will be used to defend the bridge.”
Okada felt her spirits plummet. Even with all of the additional evidence she’d fallen short. Blakely grinned. “Don’t look so glum. I’m sold. Those bastards plan to build a bridge across the Bering Strait, and invade North America! That’s a big deal … And the DNI (Director of National Intelligence) is going to go ape shit.”
Okada sat up straight. “Does that mean I can have a cube with a window?”
Blakely formed a steeple with his fingers. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it? But what about the fact that you ignored my instructions and ventured off on your own? Yes, you lucked out, but what about the next time? Enjoy your wall.”
Okada left. What she needed was a shower and some sleep. She was in the KIA, and about to pull out, when her phone chirped. “Hello?”
“This is Paul.”
“Paul, who?”
“Paul Thomas … You know, PaulT. I realize this is short notice, but would you have dinner with me?”
“That sounds like fun,” Okada replied. “Tell me something, Paul, if you don’t mind. Where have you been?”
“I’m a pilot. I was working for Federal Express, but the air force called me up. I’m flying tankers now. I just got back from, well, somewhere. What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a data manager,” Okada replied .
“Cool. Let’s meet at Jakes’ in Centreville. Is six okay? I sent a photo so you can pick me out of the crowd.”
Okada brought it up. PaulT was easy to look at. “Six is fine,” Okada told him. “I’ll see you there.” Then she drove home. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was something besides work to look forward to.
Chapter Five
Somewhere over Canada
F alco was seated with his back resting against the port side of the C-17 Globemaster, as the transport flew north to Eielson Air Force Base in Alaska. The plane was carrying forty-one passengers, plus thirteen pallets of cargo, one of which was strapped to the deck in front of him.
Falco closed his eyes and let the strains of Haydn’s Symphony No. 100 surge through his earbuds. The title of the piece was, ironically enough, “Military .”
But soothing though the music was, it couldn’t wash away the emotions associated with the decision rendered the previous day. “It is our finding that the missile fired by Lieutenant Ted Cavanaugh was already on its way, when the civilians appeared, and Major Falco attempted to abort the mission. However,” the report continued, “Major Falco’s decision to call in a strike on a spot where civilians could suddenly appear shows a lack of good judgement. Based on our findings we recommend that Falco review the rules of engagement, standard operating procedures, and SPINS (special instructions)—and adhere to them in the future. Major Falco is cleared for a return to duty.”
It could have been worse. Everyone said so. And Falco knew they were correct. In retrospect Falco realized that his desire for revenge for the so-called “Valentine’s Day Massacre” at Camp Hope had clouded his judgement. The finding was a stain on his record, and he wanted to erase it. But his new job, which was to take command of the JTAC training detachment at Eielson, wasn’t likely to provide that kind of opportunity.
Hours passed. Falco awoke to the sound of the pilot’s voice. “We’re ten minutes out from Eielson Air Force Base. Please stow your personal items and check your seatbelt. You can expect broken clouds and a surface temperature of 40 degrees. Have a nice day.”
Falco had done his homework. Eielson was located 26 miles southeast of Fairbanks and was host to the 354th Fighter Wing which had primary responsibility for the Red Flag-Alaska training exercise. And that was coming up in a week. So JTAC trainees would be arriving from all over the world. Some would speak English and some wouldn’t. Oh, goody , Falco thought. That’ll be fun. Falco felt little more than a gentle thump as the 585,000 pound transport touched down. That was the end of the trip—and the beginning of the check-in torture.
Thanks to Falco’s rank he was allowed to skip the generic “Welcome to Eielson” orientation lecture scheduled for the next day. But he was required to visit personnel, and fill out a dozen forms. Then it was off to finance, followed by a quick stop in the chaplain’s office, and a trudge to medical. That was where Falco discovered that his medical records had been lost. Would the air force find them? Yes, but only after Falco completed a three page form.
It was late afternoon by then, and time for Fal
co to collect his luggage and call a cab. The driver took him to the hotel most people stayed in while coming or going. His room was worn, but clean, and the staff was helpful.
A call was enough to schedule a meeting with Colonel Ricardo Austin for the following day. What kind of officer was Austin anyway? All Falco knew about his new commanding officer was that the pilot had a rep as “a tight ass. ”
Falco left his bags in his room and went to eat at Burger King. It was one of the few restaurants within walking distance. Transportation was something he would have to make arrangements for. There hadn’t been enough time to drive his car up from his parents’ place in Eugene. What he needed was a beater … A truck with four-wheel drive would be ideal.
Then it was back to the hotel for what he hoped would be a good night’s sleep. It wasn’t. Falco had suffered through various versions of the same dream for weeks by that time. There were slight differences but the basic components never changed. He was on a high point looking down. A man appeared. Then, as Falco gave the order, the man morphed into a woman. Or a child. That was when Falco warned them. Or tried to. Except he had no voice. The missile hit, the innocent died, and he awoke drenched in sweat.
“Shit happens.” That’s what other JTACs told him and Falco knew they were right. Anyone who chose his line of work had to accept the fact that there were too many variables to fully control. So the truth was that what Falco acknowledged to be his own poor judgement bothered him more than the civilian deaths. Would that look good in a newspaper? No. But it was true.
Falco still felt tired when the alarm sounded. But the appointment with Austin was set for 0830, so Falco had to roll out of the king sized bed, and get his butt in gear. He took a shower, got dressed, and walked to Burger King. There was a high overcast, and the temperature was barely over forty. Falco heard a sustained roar as an F-16 took off.
Once breakfast was over Falco set off on foot. After getting lost, and asking a civilian for directions, he spotted the correct building and went inside.
A senior airman sent Falco down a hall to a small waiting room located outside a door with Austin’s name on it. A captain and a chief were already there, and both of them were allowed to see Austin before Falco did. Was Austin running late? Were the other two men working on mission critical tasks? Or was Austin mind fucking him? There was no way to know.
Finally, after Falco had been waiting for thirty minutes, Austin came out to greet him. The colonel had “the look.” He was tall, slim, and handsome. But not too handsome.
Falco figured Austin was on the short list for a star. And, given the number of causalities the United States was taking, he wouldn’t have to wait long.
“Welcome to Eielson,” Austin said as they shook hands. “Please follow me.”
There were no pleasantries, just “please follow me.” Austin led Falco down a hall, and into a small conference room. It was decorated air force style with plaques, photos of planes, and government-issue furniture. “Take a load off,” Austin instructed. “Two members of your team are going to join us—but I’d like a word with you first.”
Here it comes , Falco thought, the shit bomb is about to fall.
“I’m familiar with what took place in the village of Em Bal , and the findings that came through yesterday,” Austin began. “The air force has processes, procedures, and protocols for a reason Major … And as the officer in charge of JTAC training it will be your responsibility to ensure that students understand the three Ps and follow them. A task made all the more important by the fact that some of your students will be from other countries.”
Austin paused as if to let Falco process the words. “What they learn, or don’t learn, could cost lives when the time comes to fight next to them,” Austin cautioned. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Falco replied.
“Good,” Austin said. “Enough of that. I’ll see if the others have arrived.”
Once Austin left the room Falco discovered that he had a death grip on his chair. He forced himself to let go. The lecture had been difficult to listen to. But it was understandable. For all Austin knew Falco was a careless piece of shit who might contaminate every student he came into contact with.
Falco’s thoughts were interrupted as a first lieutenant and a master sergeant entered the room. Falco stood as Austin followed them in. “This is Lieutenant Carrie Johnson,” Austin said, “and this is Master Sergeant Greg Oliver. Both of them have been through the Red Flag wringer before. I suggest that you follow their advice. Lieutenant … Sergeant … This is Major Falco. Please treat him gently.”
It was a joke. But Johnson nodded as if coddling majors was a sensible thing to do. She wore her hair pulled back into a bun. Her face was long, narrow, and serious.
Oliver on the other hand had a big grin on his face. He had black hair, broad shoulders, and dark skin. “No problem, sir,” Oliver said. “We’ll return Major Falco in good condition.”
“Excellent,” Austin replied, as he turned to Falco. “I have a meeting to attend. Johnson and Oliver will take you on the tour, and introduce the rest of the team. Red Flag is almost here and I’m depending on you. Let me know if you run into any problems.” And with that he was gone.
Johnson led the tour which took them to a building half a mile away where there was a small office with Falco’s name on the door, a maze of cubicles for use by JTACs who weren’t in the field, and a workroom where a tech was busy working on a radio.
Falco did his best to remember names and job titles as he was taken from place to place. The final stop was a conference room with a map mounted on one wall. Johnson was ready with a rather pedantic presentation. “Eielson is home to a large number of wings and squadrons,” she said. “Including the 354th Fighter Wing. Our mission is to prepare U.S. and allied aviation forces for combat in a variety of environments. An important part of that effort is hosting joint forces combat training events on the Joint Pacific-Alaska Range Complex .
“There are three tactical ranges including Blair Lakes, Yukon, and Oklahoma. Taken together they incorporate more than 68,000 square miles, 28 threat systems, and 225 targets for range and exercise operations. Do you have any questions?”
“Yes,” Falco said. “The colonel mentioned that we will be training foreign nationals as well as American personnel. What can you tell me about that?”
The answer was a lot. For the next half hour Falco listened as both Johnson and Oliver told war stories about Japanese JTACs who could barely speak English, Brits who drank too much, and a Mongolian who insisted on sleeping outside.
That was to say nothing of the complexities of dealing with pilots from Australia, Canada, France, Germany, India, Italy, Malaysia, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Poland, the Philippines, Singapore, South Korea, Spain, Sweden, Thailand, and Turkey. All of which served to emphasize what Austin had told him earlier: “What they learn, or don’t learn, could cost lives when it comes time to fight next to them.”
Even though Falco would have preferred to stay, and deal with the shitload of paperwork that was multiplying in his inbox, he had to find a place to live. And start looking for a vehicle. The answer to the first problem was a complex called Randolph Pointe. It was located on-post and close to his office. The perfect place for a bachelor.
After signing on the dotted line, and exiting the manager’s office, Falco ran into an old friend. News traveled quickly in the air force, and Falco could tell that Major Ron Randal knew about the Em Bal airstrike, and the resulting investigation. The pilot made no mention of the incident however, and was quick to extend an invitation. “I’m going into Fairbanks this evening … Would you like to come? We could have dinner and catch up.”
“That would be great,” Falco told him. “Where should I meet you? ”
“Right here,” Randal said. “We’re going to be neighbors. Would 1730 be okay?” It was.
Falco spent the rest of the afternoon checking out, hauling his gear to the apartment comp
lex in a taxi, and looking at trucks online. There were two possibilities on base. Falco made appointments to inspect both the next day. Then, at the agreed upon time, he went to meet Randal. Both wore civvies.
The pilot had a bus sized Lincoln Navigator which he had driven to Alaska from Fairchild Air Force base in Spokane. His wife was going to fly in later that week, so Randal was baching it until then. They drove up Richardson Highway with the turgid Tanana River flowing past on their left. As they entered Fairbanks Falco saw that the city was mostly flat. And thanks to the time of year, Alaska’s third largest city was free of snow.
After exiting the highway Randal drove to a bar called “The Prop Wash.” It was located next to Ladd Army Airfield, and a favorite among military and civilian pilots. A propeller was mounted over the front door. As Falco followed Randal into the converted warehouse he saw a plane dangling from the ceiling. “It’s a Cessna 165 Airmaster,” Randal said. “One of the prop jobs bush pilots used back in the thirties.”
“Kathy Parker and her pilots are at the bar,” Randal added. “They’re going to play the part of aggressors during the Red Flag exercise. So you’ll be working with them. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Falco noticed that one of the male pilots had a ponytail. “Are they air force?” he inquired.
“Most of them are in the reserves,” Randal explained, as they crossed the room. “Which means they will be called up. But for the moment they’re civilians working for a company called OpenAir. It’s been supplying rent-a-pilots to Nellis for some time. Now, what with the shortage of qualified aggressor pilots, OA is under contract to support Red Flag too. ”
As Falco got closer he couldn’t help but notice the way half a dozen men were clustered around Parker. The reason for that was obvious. Parker had strawberry blonde hair, a softly rounded face, and a figure that even a flight suit couldn’t conceal.
Red Ice Page 6