Arctic Fire c-9

by Keith Douglass

  2310 Local

  Admiral’s Cabin, USS Coronado

  “Thank you, Commander,” Tombstone said gravely. “I’d like for you to remain while I talk to them.”

  The lawyer nodded. He wondered how much the admiral had retained, since it felt like he’d dumped four years of law school and two years of postgraduate study into the man’s lap in the last ten minutes.

  “COS, send them in,” Tombstone said.

  The chief of staff walked over to the door to the conference room, opened it, and motioned to the four people seated around the large rectangular table. They filed into the admiral’s cabin, not speaking.

  Tombstone did not ask them to sit. Instead, he glared at them from a seated position behind his desk, assessing each one carefully.

  “Your licenses are gone,” he said finally, pointing at the pilot and the copilot of the helicopter. He turned his gaze on Pamela. “And if you had one, yours would be, too.”

  Pamela took one step forward. “The icing wasn’t their fault, Admiral,” she said quietly, her voice betraying no quaver of nervousness. “I admit, I pressed them hard to fly in this weather, even though they said they’d rather not.” She shrugged. “Not a smart move, in retrospect. But there was certainly no attempt to-“

  “Shut up,” Tombstone said levelly. He turned his back on her to face the JAG officer. “Read them their rights before we proceed.”

  The lawyer stood and recited the Miranda warnings to the four people. By then, the pilot and copilot were starting to turn pale. Yet nothing appeared to affect Pamela Drake, ace correspondent from ACN, Tombstone thought bitterly.

  “Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?” the lawyer concluded. All four nodded.

  “I can’t hear you,” Tombstone said neutrally, pointing at the recording equipment. One by one, the four people said yes.

  “And, having these rights in mind, do you desire to speak to an attorney,” the lawyer continued, “or do you wish to discuss this matter now?”

  “As I was saying, Admiral,” Pamela began.

  Tombstone cut her off again. “I didn’t ask for a narrative yet, Miss Drake,” he said coldly. “This is the way this matter will proceed — I will ask questions, you will answer them. At the conclusion, I will permit you a brief — and I mean very brief — period in which to add any amplifying material that you might wish to. And, for the record, I’m not interested in your conclusions at this point.”

  Tombstone turned his gaze to the pilot. “There was no malfunction on your helicopter,” he said bluntly. “That is true, is it not?”

  The pilot cleared his throat and glanced uneasily about the room as though trying to find the answer to the question. He looked at his copilot, who shrugged. Finally, the pilot settled for staring at the deck. “No, there wasn’t.”

  “Are you aware that it is a federal felony to falsely utilize the seven-seven-seven-seven emergency squawk?” Tombstone demanded.

  The pilot nodded.

  “I can’t hear you,” Tombstone said again.

  “Yes.”

  “The next question will require a yes or no answer only. Did you falsely report an emergency condition in order to land on my ship, knowing that had you asked permission through normal channels I would’ve said no?”

  “Yes, but I-“

  “Thank you. That answers the question. Finally, did you take this action at the instigation of Miss Pamela Drake from ACN?”

  The pilot, now thoroughly cowed, looked over at his former employer. Perhaps his last employer, he thought bitterly, trying to remember why in the world he’d ever been convinced this was a good idea. If he answered the admiral’s question, no news organization would ever hire him for a charter flight again. But if he didn’t, that would be the last time he was ever allowed landing rights or any other courtesy from any military installation. At this point, he wasn’t even sure that he would have a license. “Yes.” He continued staring at the deck, waiting for the explosion he was sure was coming.

  “Admiral, I-“

  “Miss Drake. One more outburst and I’ll have you gagged. If you do not understand the full extent of my power on board this ship, then I suggest you consult with an attorney before disobeying any more of my orders. Is that perfectly clear to you?” And why should it be now, my dear? he wondered bitterly. It never was before. In all our years together, you never understood how absolutely compelling my power is over every bit of this ship. If I wanted to have you locked up overnight and held incommunicado, I could do it. There’d be hell to pay eventually, but until someone outside of my world heard of it, you’d be in jail. He stared at her face and noted with grim satisfaction she was starting to understand.

  Tombstone directed his gaze to the copilot. “Do you agree with the answers your pilot has given?” he demanded.

  “Yes.” The copilot took less time to make up his mind.

  Finally, Tombstone turned his gaze to Pamela. “And did you ask these men to commit this deed, knowing full well that I expressly said I did not want you on board this ship?”

  “Me, in particular, or the news media in general?” Pamela snapped. “Honestly, Stoney, this has gone on long enough.”

  “My name,” Tombstone said quietly, “is Admiral Magruder. Please bear that in mind from now on, Miss Drake. Do you desire to answer the question, or is it your wish to remain silent?”

  “Of course, I hired them to fly me out here,” she stormed. “You can’t cut the news media off from an event like this. It’s not fair.”

  “Fairness has little or nothing to do with conflict, Miss Drake.” Tombstone studied her carefully, watched the color rise in her cheeks. Pamela had never been particularly good at accepting no for an answer. Now it appeared that her insatiable desire to get the story at any cost had finally landed her in serious trouble. How serious, she would find out shortly. “I’ve spoken with our JAG attorney on board, and he advises me that you three have committed several serious felonies. As I said in the beginning, the least of the penalties will be the loss of your pilot’s license.” He smiled, a trace of bitterness at the corners of his mouth. “Not that that matters to you, Miss Drake. Even if you’d thought about the consequences to these two men before you decided on this course of action, I doubt it would have stopped you.”

  “Damn Stoney — all right, Admiral Magruder, if you wish — you can’t do this,” she stormed. “I demand-“

  “Gag her,” Tombstone said simply. He watched horror and shock chase each other around Pamela’s face as two master-at-arms stepped up to her side.

  CHAPTER 10

  Thursday, 29 December

  1000 Local

  Aflu

  White Wolf pointed first to the north, then to the south, and eyed his grandson. The young army veteran nodded. He, too, had seen both armed patrols crisscrossing the island. Not very covert, given the fact that they were invading another country. But then again, they had no way of knowing any other ground forces were in the area.

  The veteran made a motion as though hoisting something onto his shoulder. White Wolf looked puzzled for a moment, then comprehension dawned. He scanned the skies overhead and was relieved to note that there were no aircraft there.

  The younger man moved closer. “Stingers,” he said, automatically turning the s’s into a th sound with the reflexive caution of a foot soldier who knows how far sibilants carry in still air. “Very deadly against helicopters, easy to use.”

  White Wolf shrugged. If they’d been arriving airborne, he might have been concerned. But the small assault force with him had come across the ocean in craft built in keeping with their native traditions. Slow, but silent and virtually undetectable by modern technology, the boats were lightweight and easily transportable. They were already tucked in among the spires on the eastern side of the island, invisible unless a patrol happened to stumble right on top of them. And given the patrol patterns he’d seen, that wasn’t likely. The two sets of guards remained on the
flat western side of the island.

  “They are ready?” White Wolf asked, gesturing to the men behind him.

  “Yes.” The veteran eyed him uncertainly. “As ready as we can be. You understand, I’m not certain what weapons they have here. There is a chance-“

  White Wolf cut him off with a sharp gesture. “It is decided. We will not second-guess ourselves.”

  Morning Eagle sighed. Moving back away from the escarpment, he talked briefly with the men following them. They were broken into two teams of eight men each, and carried pistols and shotguns. Their strength, mused White Wolf, regarding the groups, would have to be in their ability to move undetected across the land. No mainlander — and that included Russians — could match that. Weapons were fine, but it was getting close enough to use them that was the real problem.

  The young veteran returned to his side. “I still think you should stay here,” he said, continuing an argument from the night before. “it will be dangerous.”

  That was exactly the wrong argument to make. White Wolf drew himself tall, feeling the old vertebrae creak and complain with the effort. “I gave my word,” he said quietly. He held his hands out before him, spread them open. “Do you think I have a choice?”

  His grandson sighed. “I suppose not. But for God’s sake, don’t take any chances.”

  White Wolf glanced at the seven other men clustering around him. Most of them were at least twenty years his junior, a few even younger, one almost as old. All in all, good men, made strong by the forces of nature they contended with daily.

  He jerked to the north with his head, and set off across the rough terrain without waiting to see if they followed.

  1015 Local

  Tomcat 201

  “I’d say hell would freeze over before they decide what to do, but that would be a bad choice of words in this case,” Bird Dog said.

  Gator sighed. “You think every problem can be solved with five-hundred-pound bombs?”

  “No, of course not. Sometimes you want to use your two-thousand-pounder,” Bird Dog snapped. “But there’s not a damned air contact within five hundred miles of this place, according to E-2. And as close as Jefferson is to this island, we could be pulling Alert, sitting on the deck waiting for them to show up, instead of stuck in some miserable orbit overhead.”

  “What if the E-2 doesn’t hold it until it’s too late?”

  “Like that will happen,” Bird Dog snorted.

  “Okay, how about this?” Gator asked, tired of the argument. “We drop down to five thousand feet, take a quick visual on the island. Then we come back up and do what CAG wants for a change. That make you happy?”

  Bird Dog nodded, knowing his backseater could see the gesture. “I’d feel more like I knew what was going on if I could at least take a look at the island occasionally. But with our cloud layer, it’s gonna be more like three thousand feet instead of five thousand. You up for that?”

  “Just don’t run me into a cliff, Bird Dog. That’s all I ask this trip.”

  1020 Local

  Aflu

  Cover was scant as White Wolf led his men down to the base of the cliffs. Twenty feet from the main cliff base, it degenerated into little more than a series of rocky protuberances from the ice, boulders barely waist-high. He crept forward as far as he dared, then dropped to the ground and waited. Behind him, he heard his men moving into position.

  Hours of observation had revealed the fact that the northern patrol was a relatively predictable, if otherwise diligent, watch-stander. His approach to maintaining security consisted of walking east and west along the northern half of the island, occasionally glancing around, and making regular radio reports. It took him approximately thirty minutes to reach the end of the island, surveil the sea, and then commence the return trip. As his back was turned while he was heading west, White Wolf took advantage of his relatively infrequent observances to move the men into position.

  The veteran would have the harder time of it, he thought, feeling the cold start to creep into his belly. The southern intruder patrol had appeared to be far more unpredictable, varying the times at which he started his rounds, and occasionally stopping to carefully surveil all 360 degrees around him. Twice in the last five hours he hadn’t even continued on to the end of the island, but had instead unexpectedly doubled back on his path. For the veteran, that meant a shorter time period to get his men in position.

  There was one constant in both men’s routines, however. At some point during their circuit of their area, each one moved back to within assault range. With a little luck, White Wolf’s man and the southern patrol would be near the rocks at the same time, another consistency in their patrol patterns they had not yet puzzled out. The two group leaders had agreed that the veteran would determine the time for the attack, based on when his more predictable prey was within range. At the first sign of difficulties on the southern area, White Wolf would order his men to attack.

  He looked back over his shoulder and motioned the two men behind him to move forward. In addition to their shotguns, each one carried a bow and arrow, a relic of times long past. But despite modern technology, most of the men maintained at least some proficiency in the old way of the hunt, just in case. Who knew when the shipments of weaponry and ammunition from the mainland would suddenly cease, throwing the Inuit tribes back into their own way of life? Without the old knowledge, the ways of the hunt and the stalk, the secrets of silent killing, they could not have survived.

  Their quarry was now reaching the westernmost point in his patrol area, and would shortly begin the return trip to the rocks. White Wolf saw the men flex their arms, keeping the muscles loose and the blood flowing. They had already drawn three arrows each out of their quiver and placed them in the snow alongside. No point in moving while the man was close and risk alerting him.

  Just before the patrol turned back to the west, White Wolf risked a glance up over the rocks. He scanned the southern edge of the cliffs carefully, searching for any sign of the other group. He almost smiled. Wherever they were, it was beyond the ability of his old eyes to find them. How much more difficult for the Russians it would be.

  1045 Local

  Tomcat 201

  “Watch for icing,” Gator warned as the Tomcat passed through seven thousand feet. “When you hit that cloud bank, you’re going to pick up some moisture on the wings.”

  “Already thinking about it,” Bird Dog answered cheerfully. “Don’t worry, we’ll go through those clouds so fast you’ll never even know we were there.”

  “And that worries me almost as much,” Gator muttered darkly.

  The Tomcat’s nose dropped through fifty degrees, picking up airspeed as it did so. The dark night sky, speckled with stars and thin ribbons of the aurora borealis streaking across it, suddenly disappeared. As Bird Dog dove through the cloud layer, a dark nothingness surrounded the cockpit, pressing in on the two aviators. Gator fiddled nervously with the gain control on the radar, and could almost feel the icy crystals trying to creep through some small gap in the canopy and collect on the wings.

  Five seconds later, they broke out of it. In the utter darkness of arctic night, it was more of a feeling of being free of the clouds than an actual change in visibility. With their regular navigational lights off, the F-14 was virtually invisible.

  “Well, at least they can hear us,” Bird Dog said. “We’re at three thousand feet.”

  “The tallest of those cliffs is at two thousand,” Gator reminded him. “Screaming through on the radar. Come left ten degrees to avoid them.”

  “Roger.” Bird Dog made the course correction snappily, reveling in the quick response of the Tomcat. “Just testing the flight surfaces,” he said hastily. “That would be the first sign, some sluggishness in how she handles on the turns.”

  “Yeah, right.” Gator tried to remember if Bird Dog had ever avoided making a sharp turn when a gradual one would do. He bent over his radar, carefully watching the quickly approaching cliffs. It
never hurt to be too careful. Sure, the altimeter said they were at least three thousand feet, but altimeters had been known to malfunction, so he kept his eyes glued to the highest peaks.

  If it hadn’t been for his paranoia, he might have missed the first sign. As it was, the short, quick blip on the highly capable look-down radar sent a jolt of alarm screaming up his back. The message transmitted itself to his mind and mouth before he had time to consciously process it. “Break right! Altitude — now!” he snapped, tactical reflexes taking over for considered thought.

  Bird Dog obeyed instantly, wrenching the aircraft through a tight turn, slamming the throttles forward, and immediately climbing for altitude. “What-“

  “Missile inbound,” Gator said sharply, his eyes now locked on the small, glowing blip on his radar screen. “At least that’s what it looks like. We already know they have Stingers — I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Holy shit,” Bird Dog breathed. “You mean-“

  “Get us the fuck out of here, Bird Dog,” Gator snarled, his temper barely under control. “You want to discuss the finer points of Stinger weaponry, let’s do it at thirty thousand feet. Right now, I’m a little busy back here.” The RIO’s hands flew over the controls, ejecting flares and chaff into the wake behind them.

  “And if they had any doubts about where we were, we just fixed that,” Bird Dog said unhappily. “We just lit up that night sky like it was mid-June.”

  1150 Local

  Aflu

  White Wolf gasped as the night exploded into fiery brilliance. The sun — no, five suns — no, wait. He shut his eyes as the light bombarded his painfully dilated pupils. Not suns at all, not some relic from an old legend, but flares.

  The Americans. Pride and vindication coursed through his soul as his prediction of American aid proved to be true. It had to be them. The intruders would have shunned the light, and would not have left their patrols out wandering randomly had more forces been expected.