Arctic Fire c-9

by Keith Douglass

  “Well, unless you want to insist on trying to take out one with a Sparrow, I suggest we stay at ten thousand feet. And you keep your old Mark I MOD 0 eyeballs peeled up there. The first sniff we’re gonna have will probably be visual — if we get that much warning.”

  Bird Dog shivered, then settled down into a tactical mind set. If there were Stingers in the area, then the last thing he needed to do was be surprised. It would only happen once.

  1700 Local

  Kiska, Aleutian Islands

  White Wolf pulled the boat up close to Kiska, wincing as he felt the keel scrape along the bottom. The island was just as inhospitable as its western brother. Kiska jutted out of the sea, and its coastline, for the most part, consisted of a sheer plunge down into the black, freezing water. Only a few feet of hard, barren rock survived under water, but it was enough to hold the old boat off from the island.

  He motioned to Morning Eagle, who nodded, then leaped from the bow of the ship onto the land, the mooring line trailing behind him. He tossed the circle at the end of the line over a wooden pole, then raised his hands to show White Wolf the task was done.

  White Wolf locked the cabin behind him and disembarked, making the leap from boat to shore easily. Should have used the pier, he thought, then dismissed the idea. The only functional pier was almost three miles away, located on the other side of the island. Between the time it would take to moore, fire up his ancient cold-weather Jeep, and motor back over to his home, too much time would have passed. What they’d seen on the island was important — so important that a few minutes might make a difference.

  White Wolf tugged on the line once, making sure it was still solid and secure, then settled into a brisk walk toward the structure fifty feet away. At one time, it might have been a simple Quonset hut, but years and the necessity of surviving in the frigid climate had worked modification on it. Now, packed over with ice and snow, the best insulator available, it looked more like an igloo than a conventional structure. The two smaller buildings, housing a generator and some spare parts, were similarly encrusted with snow and ice.

  He walked up to the front door, tugged it open, and pulled it shut behind him immediately. Morning Eagle walked off in the direction of the small outbuilding that housed their generator. A few moments later, White Eagle heard the steady rumble of the generator kick in. He flipped a light switch, and the overheads came on. He waited a few minutes, to make sure the power was stable.

  Finally, when it appeared that there were going to be none of the unexpected current fluctuations that wreaked havoc on electronic circuitry, he walked over to the far side of the small hut and flipped on a master power switch. Two gray metal cases crackled to life. He patted one of them thoughtfully and smiled. Army equipment, built to last and survive in even these spaces. He ran his finger lightly over the metal equipment property tag riveted to one side. It had been years since he’d last fired this equipment up, too many years.

  Or maybe not enough, depending on how you looked at it. He wasn’t even sure if the old frequencies, call signs — and circuit designations that he’d memorized so long ago would still work.

  As he waited for the circuits to warm up, he heard the front door open, then slam shut, and felt the brief blast of frigid air circulate in the small space. Morning Eagle walked over to the gear and stood beside him.

  “I didn’t think we’d need this again,” Morning Eagle said finally. “But under the circumstances-“

  “There are not many choices,” White Eagle said mildly. “We both know they would want to know. Whether or not they’ve had the foresight to continue to monitor this net is up to them. We can only do our part.” He stared at the row of green idiot lights, all brightly assuring him that the gear was still operational. “We won’t know until we try.”

  Morning Eagle nodded. “That’s all we can ever do.”

  1705 Local

  CVIC, USS Jefferson

  “Sir!” The enlisted technician looked up. “I think you might want to come back here.”

  “Can it wait?” Commander Busby asked. He glanced over at the aircrew he was debriefing and shrugged apologetically. He already knew that it couldn’t from the tone in the technician’s voice.

  “No, sir,” the enlisted man said grimly. “I think this has probably waited too long,” he added cryptically.

  “Which circuit?” Commander Busby asked.

  “I think you’d better see for yourself, sir. I’m not sure I believe it myself.”

  Lab Rat made his excuses, and moved quickly back toward the top-secret EW surveillance vault. The technician waited at the heavy steel door, holding it open for him.

  Lab Rat stepped inside the space, noting the small cluster of EW technicians located near one particular piece of gear. He snapped his head back to stare at the senior enlisted man who’d called to him. “You must be joking.”

  The technician shook his head. “Wish I were, sir. But it’s for real. They’re broadcasting in the clear. They tried coming up on the last code they had, but it was so old we can’t even break it. Then they just went into the clear, without even asking permission.”

  “Damned civilians,” Lab Rat muttered. He walked over to the circuit and picked up the microphone. “What have they told you so far?” he asked before depressing the transmit key.

  The intelligence specialist looked up. “They’ve given us two code names, which I’m having verified by Third Fleet. I think they may have to go higher up than that — doesn’t sound like something they’d have access to immediately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t really say, sir, but there’s a system for assigning these code names — or at least there was, years ago. These two I think I recognize. But it’s been years,” he said, almost to himself. “They can’t still be in place, not after that many years.”

  “What are you talking about?” Busby said sharply. “If it has to do with CVIC, I’m cleared for it.”

  The intelligence specialist glanced at the other technicians in the room, and then made a small movement with his head. Lab Rat took the hint. “Everyone else out for a few minutes, okay? We’ll get you back in here as soon as we can.”

  The other technicians dispersed reluctantly, intrigued as they were by the voice coming over the ancient equipment that hadn’t operated in years. Sure, they’d done periodic maintenance checks on it, and even maintained it in readiness as part of their watch, but none of them had ever seen it used.

  When the last of them filed out, the intelligence specialist checked the door behind them. Satisfied that it was shut, he turned back to Commander Busby. “CIA. Many years ago, during the Cold War. I’ve seen those two names a couple of times on intelligence reports, back when I was with DIS — Defense Intelligence Service. But that was ten, maybe fifteen years ago.”

  “The CIA? You’re sure?” Busby asked.

  The technician nodded. “As sure as I can be after all these years, Commander,” he said. “You remember how it was back then. The Soviets had nuclear ballistic submarines deployed north of the Aleutians in the Bering Sea. As part of our surveillance program — paranoia, we’d call it now — the CIA had a number of agents in place, scattered around the islands. Their orders were simply to observe and report back. You may remember, there was a time when the CIA was afraid Russia was going to invade via the Aleutian Islands. At the very least, having tactical control of the passages between the islands put them in a better position if they ever had to sortie their submarines for an attack on the continental U.S. So we had people there.” The technician shrugged. “I’m sure it seemed like a reasonable precaution at the time.”

  “But they’re still in place?” Busby asked. “After all these years?”

  The technician nodded. “Evidently so. Or at least, someone who’s pretending to be them. There’s no way I can authenticate these transmissions, since these stations were supposedly deactivated years ago.”

  “What are they transmitting on?”
>
  The technician reeled off a series of numbers and nomenclature, none of which answered the real question pounding in Busby’s head. “Okay, so maybe some of them kept an HF radio after the CIA withdrew support. Gear like that would be useful. Hell, they could always tell the Company it was lost.”

  “I think you’d better talk to them, sir,” the technician said quietly. He handed Lab Rat the microphone. “Because if what they’re saying is true, we’ve got a real problem here.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Thursday, 29 December

  0800 Local

  Adak

  Twenty knots was considered calm on Adak Island. Given that, and with unlimited visibility and a relatively stable air mass to the north, Tombstone’s takeoff from Adak Island was uneventful.

  As it had on their inbound flight, a Russian Bear-J aircraft joined on them shortly after takeoff, once they were clear of U.S. airspace and over international waters. The electrical problems that had plagued the aircraft had been fixed, and the flight to Seattle was uneventful.

  As the C-130 taxied in, a contingent of U.S. Marines rushed out to meet the aircraft. The pilot quickly brought her to a halt and waited for the metal boarding stairs. Tombstone was the first one off the plane.

  “Come on, sir,” a Marine major said loudly, struggling to be heard over the still turning engines. “Your aircraft is ready for you.”

  “Flight gear?” Tombstone shouted.

  “Waiting for you in the Operations Center.” The Marine Corps major paused, waiting for Tombstone to do exactly what he’d asked.

  Tombstone shrugged and followed the sharply dressed major across the tarmac. The noise level dropped appreciably. “Where is she?” Tombstone asked.

  “Over there.” The Marine pointed toward the far end of the airstrip. A Harrier was making its gently eerie approach, coasting through the air at a speed too low to believe. If it had not been for the turbofans on her undercarriage angled downward, she would have crashed — her forward speed was insufficient to maintain stable flight.

  Tombstone paused and watched the aircraft settle gently on the ground. He could see from the movement of the grass surrounding the tarmac the force of the downdraft. It had to be, to keep that much metal airborne, he thought, but somehow, reading about downdraft in manuals never compared to seeing the actual thing. Anyone underneath the fighter would have been seriously injured or killed by the hurricane-force winds it generated downward.

  “She’s a real beauty, isn’t she, sir?” the Major asked appreciatively. “Just look at her. The finest fighting aircraft ever built for a Marine.” He glanced at Tombstone’s insignia. “Not that the Navy doesn’t have some real fine aircraft itself,” he continued generously. However, it was obvious from the expression on his face that the Tomcat or Hornet ran a distant second to his treasured Harrier.

  “I thought you said this bird was ready,” Tombstone commented. “Doesn’t look too ready to me, since it’s not even on the ground.”

  “Oh, that’s not the one we’re flying. Ours is parked next to Flight Ops.” The Marine grinned broadly.

  “Ours?” Tombstone asked.

  “Yes, Admiral.” The Marine saluted sharply again. “Major Joe Killington, at your service, Admiral. Always glad to help out a fellow aviator when we can. Especially in getting onto a boat your aircraft can’t reach.”

  Tombstone groaned. Surely, he thought, there must be some right granted to an admiral by Congress not to be harassed by the Marine Corps. The prospect of spending hours airborne fielding such comments by the major irked him.

  A trace of his thoughts evidently showed in his face. The Marine major snapped to attention. “Whenever the Admiral is ready, sir,” he said politely. “And we are happy to be of service, Admiral. All one fighting force — that’s the way we see it.”

  Tombstone nodded abruptly. “Get me to my gear, Major,” he said. “I imagine we’ll have plenty of time to discuss the relative merits of your service and the Navy.” He looked pointedly at the insignia on the Marine major’s collar. “Not that it will be much of a contest.”

  The Marine major braced, eyes pointed directly forward and locked on the horizon. “I’m certain the admiral can enlighten me if my views are out of order.”

  Finally, Tombstone relented. After all, this was one argument the major could never win. And it had nothing to do with Tomcats, Hornets, or Harriers — it had to do with the quick collar count that had just occurred. Stars won out over gold oak leaves, no matter what the service.

  Tombstone turned toward Flight Operations and slapped the Marine Corps major on the shoulder. “Come on, son,” he said mildly. “I think you’ve got some flying to do. I’ve never been up in one of your birds — it’ll be a pleasure to get a look at it.”

  “Yes, sir.” The major took off at a trot toward his aircraft.

  “How far can this thing go?” Pamela Drake asked. She pointed to the battered commercial helicopter sitting out on the tarmac.

  The pilot shrugged. “Far enough, if I put on the additional fuel tanks. We could get you to Juneau, no problem, ma’am.”

  “Juneau, huh?” She looked him over carefully. “Were you in the Navy?”

  A look of disgust crossed the pilot’s face. “No, ma’am, not hardly. The Marines.” He pointed at the battered helicopter. “Taught me my trade, they did, flying helicopters off of amphibious assault ships. After a couple of tours, I got out, joined the Reserves, and bought this puppy with the money I’d saved up. Slap a couple of missiles on her and she’d be just as good as anything they’re flying in the Corps today.”

  “Amphibious assault ships, huh?” Pamela looked thoughtful. “You’re not in the Reserves or anything right now, are you?”

  “No, ma’am.” The pilot grinned. “Not many Reserve units drilling out this far. I do mostly scouting for commercial fishing vessels, some medical emergencies — that sort of thing.”

  “Well, sir, I believe we might just have a job for you.” Pamela grinned broadly. “Just how much do you remember about shipboard landings?”

  1325 Local

  USS Coronado

  “Welcome aboard, Admiral.” Ben Carmichael held out his hand to the officer standing in front of him. They’d met several times socially, but their professional paths had never crossed. Not that it mattered, he supposed. He’d heard enough about Tombstone Magruder to think he knew what he was dealing with.

  Admiral Carmichael studied the younger admiral carefully. The same dark hair, clipped close to his head now, and dark, almost black eyes. No, he decided on reflection, they were brown, but only by a hair. He repressed a smile, remembering how Tombstone had gotten his nickname. Not for the famous shoot-out in Tombstone at the OK Corral, but for the invariably solemn expression on his face. He’d heard rumors that someone on Admiral Magruder’s staff had once seen him smile, but Carmichael wouldn’t be betting on it. Especially not under the circumstances.

  “Thank you for having us, Admiral,” Magruder said politely. “And I appreciate the opportunity for a fly in one of your Harriers.”

  “Don’t be saying that too loudly, now,” Carmichael said, finally chuckling. “That they’re my aircraft, I mean. Marines take that mighty personal, they do.”

  “As rightfully they should.” Tombstone shot a pointed look at Major Killington, no trace of amusement in his face. “Major Killington has gone to some length to point that out to me on the flight out.”

  Admiral Carmichael turned to survey the young Marine Corps major. “He has, has he?”

  “Major Killington was quite informative.”

  Admiral Carmichael looked sharply at Tombstone, then smiled. The stories about the man’s impassive face might be true, but nothing else could account for the slight twitch of the wrinkles around Tombstone Magruder’s legendary basilisk eyes. Obviously, he’d enjoyed the flight out — as well as maybe a little harassment of the young Marine Corps officer.

  “Thank you, Major,” Tombstone said. “Perhaps we�
��ll have another chance to fly that Harrier of yours. I wouldn’t mind taking the controls myself sometime.”

  The Marine Corps officer stiffened, turned slightly pale. “My pleasure, Admiral,” he answered, neatly sidestepping the issue of Tombstone flying his aircraft. The major executed a smart about-face and exited the Ready Room. After he’d left, Admiral Carmichael turned back to Tombstone.

  “I take it the young man has a sense of pride in his service?”

  Tombstone nodded. “Always encouraging to see in a young officer.” His tone was noncommittal.

  “Well, I think you may know the rest of the people here. Hold on, I’ll have the chief of staff hunt them down.” Admiral Carmichael picked up the telephone, dialed a number from memory, and spoke briefly into the receiver. As he put it back down, he turned to Tombstone and said, “The rest of the team is just getting on board.”

  “The rest?” Tombstone asked.

  “How about some coffee, Admiral?” Carmichael offered him a guest mug, and motioned toward the coffee mess. “Make yourself at home. You want something to eat, just ask the mess cook. I’ll be right back.” With that, he strode toward the hatch, jerked it open, and disappeared into the immaculate passageway beyond.

  Tombstone filled the coffee mug and set it down on the table. He stretched his hands up over him, feeling the muscles and bones in his back complain. The Harrier had managed to come up with a lumbar support system even more uncomfortable than that in the Tomcat, a feat he had not thought possible. Still, he had to admit the flight over to USS Coronado had been worthwhile — educational in many ways, not the least of which had been the opportunity to talk tactics with a Marine officer. Despite the initial impression he’d made on Tombstone, Major Killington had proved to be an exceptionally knowledgeable aviator, one as skilled in the tenets of ground warfare as he was in the air. Tombstone had found himself liking the young major, despite the irritating undercurrent of Marine Corps pride that underlay almost every comment.