“Another twenty miles. Less than that, if he doesn’t have the latest ESM warning modifications on him.”
“Well, let’s just go see, shall we?” Bird Dog said softly. He shoved the throttle forward, increasing airspeed to just over five hundred knots. “I’m staying at altitude for now — might need the gas later. You let Mother know what’s going on, and I’ll get us over there.”
Bird Dog heard Gator switch over to tactical and begin briefing the watch team in CDC on board Jefferson. Although the TAO there would already have their contact information, since it was transmitted automatically via LINK I I to the ship’s central target processing unit, Gator was making sure that no one else was holding any contacts in the area. The other Tomcats were holding nothing but blue sky, Jefferson reported, a note of excitement already creeping into the TAO’s voice. He heard the TAO say, “Roger, Tomcat Two-oh-one, come right to course zero-one-zero and investigate — oh.” The voice trailed off as the TAO evidently noticed from the speed leader on his large screen display that Bird Dog was already doing exactly that.
Aflu
“The pilot reports he will be overhead in twenty minutes,” the senior Spetsnaz reported. He glanced over at Rogov, whose face was an impassive, unreadable mask.
“Very well.” Rogov ignored the man. Whether or not he believed the story that it was merely a surveillance aircraft checking up on the detachment made little difference now. Twenty minutes from now — nineteen, he thought, glancing at his watch — forty Special Forces paratroopers would be spilling out the back end of the transport aircraft and parachuting down to the island. Unlike the Spetsnaz team with him now, these men were carefully selected. Each one of them was a Cossack, born and bred in the harsh outer reaches of the former Soviet Union, owing allegiance primarily to their tribe rather than any political subdivision. Rogov smiled. As skilled and deadly as the Spetsnaz on the initial team, each one of the paratroopers had sworn undying loyalty to his hetman, holder of the traditional Cossack mace. If the Spetsnaz could have seen him during their last ceremony, clad in his ancient Cossack regalia, they would not have doubted his prowess at the beginning of this mission and they would have known what he knew now: The Cossacks were coming.
CHAPTER 8
Thursday, 29 December
1700 Local
South of Aflu
The fast craft skimmed over the top of the waves, acting almost like a hovercraft as it shot over the surface of the water. Sea state 2 consisted of mild swells without white tops, and Carter had the throttle slammed full forward. But even small swells act like a roller coaster at eighty knots.
“No sign of activity,” Sikes shouted, struggling to be heard over the noise of the sea and the wind in the boat. “May be a false alarm.”
The chief shook his head. “Doubtful. I don’t know, sir, but there usually aren’t too many of those. Not if they’re sending us in.”
Sikes nodded and gave up. It was all he could do to hold on to his lunch in the boat, and a lengthy political discussion was out of the question.
Ahead, the island jutted out of the sea like a fortress. The West end was relatively flat, climbing sharply into jagged peaks and spires. He studied the landscape, wondering if they’d brought enough pitons and line. Climbing up that icy moonscape would challenge every bit of their physical reserves. And the danger; he considered it grimly. Intruders — if indeed there were any on the island — could be hiding behind any spire, waiting silently for the SEALs to make their approach. The tactical advantage would be theirs. The only way to achieve any degree of tactical surprise would be to airlift in with a helicopter, and even that would be problematic. First, the noise of the helicopter would alert their prey, and second, even the most reliable aircraft developed odd quirks and problems in the frigid environment. No, he decided, on balance it was better that they go in by boat, even with the problems that patrolling the jagged cliffs presented.
Fifty feet off the coast, now blindingly reflective under the afternoon sun, Carter slowed the boat to twenty knots. He turned broadside to the island, carefully making his way toward the westernmost tip. The plan was to begin their sweep there, working slowly toward the cliffs, postponing the decision to climb until they were closer in. If nothing else, it would give them time to adjust to the realities of arctic patrolling.
Five minutes later, the fast boat edged up to the ice, the SEAL stationed in the bow carefully surveying the water beneath her hull for obstructions. When the bow bumped gently against the shore, he jumped out, pulling the bowline behind him. Two other SEALs followed. As the first order of business, they drove a piton into the hard-packed ice to provide a mooring point for the boat. One of them would stay behind and stand guard while the other four executed the patrol in pairs of two.
Sikes was the last one out of the boat. After the gale-force winds that traveling at eighty knots generated, the almost calm air felt warmer. An illusion, he knew. Unprotected, skin and tissue would freeze within a matter of seconds. He checked the lookout SEAL carefully, making sure his gear was in order, then pirouetted 360 degrees while the other man returned the favor. Satisfied that they were as well equipped against the environment as they could be, Sikes made a sharp hand motion. Without a word, one SEAL joined on him, while the fifth SEAL and Huerta stepped away together. With one last sharp nod to the lookout, Sikes pointed northeast. They took off at a steady, energy-conserving walk.
The ice under his feet was rough, the surface edged in tiny nooks and crannies from the ever-constant wind. A light dusting of snow blew along the surface, swirling around their ankles and obscuring the uneven surface. Still, he reflected, it was better than winter ice in the States, where intermittent warming and refreezing turned the surface slick as glass. Here, at least there was enough traction to walk. Just as well, since he couldn’t see the ice beneath his feet for the blowing snow. His partner moved forward and took point. Sikes followed five yards behind, carefully surveying the landscape. After a few moments, it became apparent there was not much to see. The land was featureless, except for the jagged peaks ahead of them, and any traces of human habitation had been swept away by the wind. He glanced to the north, where he could barely make out the figures of the other two SEALS.
The wind picked up slightly, and he noticed the difference. It crept around the edges of his face mask, trying to find some purchase in the lining or some overlooked gap in his clothing. He could feel the heat rising off his skin as he walked, felt the air sucking at it.
The point man stopped suddenly. He pointed and made a motion to Sikes. Sikes moved forward until he was standing by the man. “What was it?”
“Don’t know for sure — something dark green, blowing in the wind. In this wind, it was gone before I could get a good look at it. Man-made, though — definitely.”
Sikes lifted the radio to his mouth and quickly briefed the other group and the lookout on the sighting. Even after a few moments of standing still, he could feel his muscles start to tighten as the cold seeped in.
Every sense heightened, adrenaline pounding through his veins and further exacerbating the heat loss, he motioned for the other man to begin again. There was no more chance that this was a false alarm. Whatever the man had seen — and he had no doubt that the man had seen something — this patrol was now tactical instead of practice.
1710 Local
USS Jefferson
“Sikes just radioed in that they’ve seen something,” Batman said into the receiver. “Whoever’s taken up residence there and decided to start shooting at our aircraft isn’t so hot of a housekeeper. Still, the island’s supposed to be deserted. If they hadn’t taken a shot at our aircraft, we probably never would have known they were there.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Admiral Magruder’s voice responded. “There’s that radio report from the Inuits.”
“And who would have suspected it?” Batman mused. “Some Aleutian Islander with a radio sees something strange and decides to call in the Navy.”
/> “Not so strange as you might think,” Tombstone responded. His voice took on a reflective note. “I wonder if it’s the same — no, couldn’t be. He’d have to be pushing seventy years old by now.”
“Who?” Batman asked, confused by Tombstone’s apparent change of subjects.
“Probably nothing,” Tombstone answered. “But years ago, when my uncle was still involved in Special Forces projects, he spent some time out on those islands. We were in the middle of the Cold War, and maintaining the integrity of our homeland was a lot bigger issue than it is today.”
“Vice Admiral Magruder on a field trip to the Aleutians?” Batman snorted. “I’d like to see that.”
“He wasn’t always a vice admiral,” Tombstone answered dryly. “At the time, I believe he was a lieutenant commander. He told me the story a couple of times, how he went out to the islands, met some of the native tribes, studied their survival techniques. At the time, we were still in our infancy on cold weather tactics. Some bright mind in the Pentagon decided that the best way to shorten the learning curve was to study people that have centuries of experience at it. My uncle’s always been an avid skier and camper, so somebody figured he was perfect for the job.”
“How long did he spend there?”
“Three months. He visited five major islands, including one of the largest ones near the end of the chain. And that’s the odd thing — he met an old fellow there, an Inuit who was considered the leader of the tribe. At first, they weren’t too interested in talking, but my uncle managed to make friends with him somehow. It had something to do with killing a polar bear, though I never got all the details. Anyway, this old fellow decided my uncle was okay. They came to some sort of understanding about the Russians, although I gather the Inuit wasn’t nearly as concerned as my uncle was. He said he left the man some high-tech radio gear — high-tech for that era, anyway — along with a list of standard tactical frequencies. From what my uncle says, they’ve had a couple of reports from them over the years, although I doubt that there’s been anything for the last decade or so.”
“And this fella is still alive, you think? And the radio’s still working?” Batman asked incredulously.
“You got the report, didn’t you?” Tombstone pointed out. “Besides, this fellow might have handed on the responsibility to his son as well. Who knows? At this point, I’m just grateful we’ve got an asset in place.”
Batman shook his head, wondering. With the very latest ESM equipment, radars, and other highly classified sensor systems on board the carrier, in the end, the first detection had been made the way it had been for centuries: by a man on the ground.
Tombstone hung up the receiver thoughtfully. Was it possible, he wondered, that the same man would still be in place after all these years? He shook his head, deciding that it didn’t matter. Barring the outside chance that this was a deception operation in some way, he was inclined to trust the radio report. Though Batman had been doubtful, he’d agreed to send the SEAL team in to investigate. And now it looked like that had been the right move.
“Admiral,” Captain Craig said, poking his head around the corner into Tombstone’s cabin. “Problem, sir.”
“How did you hear-?” Tombstone broke off suddenly. The chief of staff hadn’t been present while Tombstone was talking to Batman. He couldn’t know about the debris the SEALs had found blowing in the wind. It must be something else. “What is it?” he asked, motioning the man to come into the room. “Dinner reservations screwed up again?”
“I wish it were that simple,” the chief of staff said. “No, Admiral, it’s an air distress signal. We’re getting seven-seven-seven-seven blasting all over the place on IFF. Evidently it’s a civilian helicopter experiencing mechanical problems about two miles from us.”
“How serious?”
“Serious enough that they don’t think that they can make it back to land. And there’s no question of them ditching in these waters, of course. They’re requesting permission to land on the ship.”
“A civilian?” Tombstone frowned. What in hell’s name would a civilian helicopter be doing in this area?
The chief of staff shook his head. “According to the transponder, it’s a commercial craft. The pilot said they were out trying to do some spotting for a fishing boat when they started having problems. They’re headed this way out of Juneau, they said.” Captain Craig shot him a doubtful look. “The radar track doesn’t jive with that, though. The only way it makes sense is if they’re coming out of Adak.”
“Adak? What the-” Tombstone cut the thought off abruptly. As soon as the chief of staff had announced the discrepancy in the flight’s track, the conviction that Pamela Drake was behind this had hit him. It had to be — there was no other explanation.
Over the years, he’d watched Pamela’s determination to get in the middle of every fast-breaking story, marveling sometimes at the lengths to which she would go to ferret out the smallest bit of information. As a more junior officer, he’d rarely been on the receiving end of her drive to be the best reporter on any network, bar none. However, since he’d added stars to his collar, the issue of their relationship and Pamela’s profession had become increasingly problematic. Where does one draw the line? he wondered. While he might not be entirely certain of the answer himself, there was one thing he was sure of — with an ACN helicopter inbound, it was somewhere different than from where Pamela did.
“Admiral?” the chief of staff said, snapping him back to reality.
“I take it the pilot’s declared an emergency, then?” Tombstone asked.
“Yes, sir — about five minutes ago.” The chief of staff sucked in his breath as he saw the cold fire settle over Tombstone’s face. He’d expected some reaction from his boss, but not this one.
“Let them land,” Tombstone said coldly. “As soon as they’re on deck, I want to see them all in my cabin. Immediately.”
The chief of staff turned to execute the orders, feeling a fleeting pity for the civilians in the helicopter. They had no idea of what they were in for. “And COS? One other thing.” The chief of staff turned back to his boss. “Sir?”
“Get the senior JAG officer on board up here ASAP. Let those civilian idiots cool their heels in the conference room while I talk to him. And tell him to bring up his Dictaphone and any other recording equipment he might need. If this is what I think it is, I’m going to want criminal charges filed against every person on that helicopter.”
As the chief of staff left the compartment, someone tapped softly on the door between his conference room and his cabin. “Come in,” he said roughly, struggling to get his temper back under control.
The door opened quickly, and Tomboy’s red-topped head peeked around the corner. “Good afternoon, Admiral,” she said formally. “I was in TFCC, and I heard about the helo.” She let the unspoken question hang in the air.
Inwardly, Tombstone groaned. The last thing he needed on top of the tactical situation and Pamela Drake’s surreptitious arrival on his ship was Tomboy’s questioning.
“You have a problem with that, Commander Flynn?” he asked coldly, immediately regretting the words. He saw Tomboy’s face settle into an icy mask, not unlike the one he saw every morning in the mirror when shaving.
She drew herself up, seeming to add a few inches to her height. “None at all, Admiral,” she responded in the same tone. “I just wanted to make sure you were properly briefed. With your permission-” she finished, drawing back as though ready to leave.
“Tomboy! Get in here,” Tombstone said roughly. She stopped in mid-stride. “Yes, Admiral?” she said.
“We have communications with this helicopter, right? Did you hear what they said?”
She regarded him gravely, a bland, professional look in her eyes. “Yes, Admiral, I did in fact hear the entire transmission. Would the admiral care for me to repeat it to him?”
Something in the back of Tombstone’s mind started insisting that this was a very, very, very bad idea. �
��Yes,” Tombstone said, ignoring it. “What is the nature of their problem?”
“Icing, Admiral. And there are specific requests for your assistance,” she added thoughtfully, staring at a spot somewhere behind his head. “In fact, the actual request was, ‘Ask Stoney if I can put this bird down on his precious boat,’” Tomboy said, her voice level. “The speaker identified herself as Miss Pamela Drake.”
1714 Local
Aflu
“Aircraft,” Sikes snapped into the radio. “Everybody freeze.” The phrase struck him as oddly absurd in this environment, but it was a fact that movement would draw the aircraft’s attention faster than anything else. As long as they stood still, clad in their white arctic gear against a solid white background, there was a good chance they wouldn’t be observed.
The lookout and the other patrol team rogered up, and Sikes watched the man in front of him hunker down on the ice. Sikes elected to remain standing, one hand reflexively going to the trigger of his weapon.
The deep-throated growl of a large aircraft was now clearly audible. Sikes schooled himself to keep his face down, not daring to risk exposing his tanned face to any observer overhead. He heard a change in the doppler effect, indicating the aircraft was turning, and waited. If the aircraft decided to orbit overhead, he was going to have to think of something fast. Under these conditions, remaining still could be deadly.
Three minutes later, he heard the sound of the engine shift downward, indicating that the aircraft had turned away from them. He let out a gasp of air, unaware that he’d been holding his breath. He gave it thirty seconds, then risked an upward glance.
The ass end of the Soviet transport aircraft disappeared over the line of the mountains. But far more worrisome was what it left in its wake. A cluster of parachutes was already visible in the overcast, and more were streaming out of the aircraft. He made the mental calculations swiftly. The nearest one would be only fifty yards away from them. Remaining where they were had become completely unacceptable. He raised the radio to his lips. “Move out.”
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