Arctic Fire c-9

by Keith Douglass

  “And what would that be, Miss Drake?” Tombstone asked. The conviction in her voice gave rise to an uneasiness in his stomach. Whatever else she might have been, Pamela Drake was one hell of a reporter. If she was hot on the trail of another story, then there was probably something to it.

  “About thirty minutes ago,” Pamela said, reading from a slip of paper in her hand, “the Greenpeace vessel SS Serenity disappeared fifty miles north of here. Immediately prior to that, an F-14 Tomcat was observed circling overhead. Did the crew of that Tomcat see anything that might explain the disappearance of this peaceful research vessel? And what is the squadron here doing as far as SAR goes — sea-air rescue?”

  Tombstone rocked back slightly on his heels, stunned at her claim. He locked eyes with her for a moment and saw the determination burning in her eyes. “This brief will be postponed indefinitely,” he said abruptly. A protesting murmur arose from the crowd, quickly growing to a clamorous racket. “Miss Drake — please accompany my people immediately to my briefing room.”

  Tombstone turned and strode away from the podium, aware of Captain Craig and two master-at-arms approaching Pamela. Tombstone heard her high heels clattering on the worn linoleum behind him.

  Three minutes later, they were alone in the briefing room. “What is this about?” Tombstone demanded.

  “No time for hi, how are you?” she said sarcastically.

  “Not when lives may be at stake. Damn it, Pamela, what are you talking about?”

  She met his gaze levelly. “Fifteen minutes ago, a fishing boat just south of the Aleutian Islands reported seeing a large explosion. The fishing boat was departing the area. The Greenpeace ship had been interfering with their operations, and their captain had finally given up trying to fish those waters. The captain claims to have seen a large fireball, and then the Greenpeace ship disappeared off the radar scope. Now what does that sound like to you?”

  Tombstone swore silently, then turned to his operations officer. “Get everything we have airborne,” he ordered.

  The operations officer said, “Admiral, there’s not much chance-“

  “I know, I know,” Tombstone said. “With survival times in the North Pacific, there’s probably not much we can do. But I’ll be damned if I’ll sit here and hold a briefing while there’s a chance we can save someone. Go on, get moving!”

  The operations officer had just reached the door when Tombstone thought of something else. “Captain Craig,” he said. “That squadron — they’re supposed to fly out for CONUS tomorrow morning, right?”

  The chief of staff nodded. “The support staff will be here for another week, but the aircraft are leaving.”

  “Hold back two of those P-3s and enough maintenance personnel to keep them up and ready to fly. And get a full load of sonobuoys and torpedoes on them.”

  The operations officer turned back to him, and looked at him uncertainly. “You think that-“

  “That the boat might have suffered a massive engineering casualty,” Tombstone said. “But based on my experience, the most common explanation for a surface ship sinking unexpectedly is a submarine. And if there’s one out there …”

  He let the thought trail off. If the Soviets were deploying their submarines again — excuse me, the Russians, he thought bitterly — then it was the height of foolishness to pull this squadron back to CONUS. Now, more than ever, they might be needed at the westernmost point of America’s strategic envelope. He turned back to Pamela Drake. “Thank you for the information, Miss Drake,” he said. “We won’t be needing you here any longer.”

  “Oh, but I think you will, Stoney,” she said softly. “Unless you want me to break the story of how ACN is now briefing Navy commanders on their operational responsibilities, I suggest you let me stay. And I’ll want full access to the crews of those P-3s when they return. Otherwise, you’re not gonna like my report when I file it.”

  Tombstone groaned. In the span of ten minutes, Pamela Drake had gone from fond memory to nemesis.

  CHAPTER 4

  Monday, 26 December

  1530 Local

  Kilo 31

  Two hours later, moving west at an undetectable eight knots, the Kilo approached the area where the explosion had occurred. Except for the chirping clicks of snapping shrimp and the low, plaintive calls of a pod of whales, the ocean around them was silent. The lack of noise told him what he needed to know. Had the Oscar truly suffered an engineering casualty, she would not have been so quiet.

  “Colonel, sir!” The sonar technician swiveled around in his chair to face the center of the control room. “American surveillance aircraft in the area.” He pointed at a line on his waterfall display.

  Rogov darted across the control room, a surprisingly quick movement for one so solidly built. “Classification?”

  “A P-3 Orion — one of their ASW air-surface surveillance aircraft.”

  “I know what a P-3 is, you fool.” Rogov laid one hand on the man’s shoulder and pressed in gently, finding the sensitive nerve endings embedded in the trapezium. “Tell me something useful.”

  “Sir, it’s not very close,” the technician said rapidly. “Five miles, maybe more. So far I have detected no noise of sonobuoys entering the water.”

  “No indication of helicopters? Or active sonobuoys?”

  “No. All I can hear is the aircraft.”

  “Circling?”

  The technician pressed his hands over his ears, crushing the earphones down to eliminate every last vestige of noise inside the control center. He listened carefully, all too aware of how much his safety hung in balance. Finally, he shook his head. “No, Comra-Colonel, sir,” he said carefully. “They are maneuvering in the area, but they do not appear to be circling over a sonobuoy field or making MAD runs in the area.” That was all the technician knew, and he hoped it would be enough.

  Rogov released his grasp on the man’s shoulder, and patted gently the very spot he’d been probing with his fingers just moments earlier. “Very good,” he said soothingly. “See — you can learn how to operate as I wish. In the future, pattern your reports on the questions I just asked.”

  The sonar technician nodded nervously, wondering just how likely it was that he would survive the cruise after all.

  “Set quiet ship,” Rogov ordered to the conning officer. The word was passed in whispers throughout the submarine. Unnecessary machinery was turned off, and the few crew members still wearing shoes slipped out of them, treading silently on the steel decks in thin cotton socks. Aft, in engineering, the engineers reset all of the machinery to its optimum quieting configuration, relying on the extensive shock mounting and sound isolation systems built into the propulsion plant to prevent any noise from radiating out through the hull into the sea. In the galley, the cooks quickly secured every bit of gear within reach, padding the edges of the braces holding large pots and utensils to ensure that no sudden shift inside the boat would cause noise to come out of their compartment. Based on the rumors that they’d heard floating back from the control room, disobeying one of their new commander’s orders would bring swift and serious consequences.

  “The antiair missiles?” Rogov said, turning to the submarine’s executive officer. “When were they last tested?”

  “Six months ago, Colonel,” the man said quickly. “We’ve detected some minor operating deficiencies in their performance. Whether or not they would work now, after having been-“

  “Colonel! Colonel, sir,” the sonar technician said suddenly. “The antiair missiles and CODEYE radar were tested just three weeks ago, right before we deployed on this mission. The captain said,” the man paused and swallowed, then continued doggedly, “the captain said it performed within specifications.” The technician shuddered slightly, and leaned back against his chair, wondering whether or not he had just done a good job of following orders or had committed treason. The line seemed so very unclear anymore.

  “Very well,” Rogov said quietly. He turned back to the executive of
ficer. “You were perhaps not on board during that workup operation?”

  The executive officer stood silent. Rogov leaned forward, and in a motion so quick that the executive officer barely had time to flinch, reached out and slapped the man across the face. “I need an answer,” Rogov said, in the same quiet tones. “I must know now whether or not I shall need to be constantly watching my back, or whether you will perform your duties. Make your choice.”

  The executive officer took in the faces of the men standing behind Rogov, saw the pale, pleading eyes, the fearful yet supportive expressions. What he decided would make a difference in their lives — whether they lived, whether they died, and whether anyone with sufficient technical knowledge of the submarine remained on board to ensure their safe return home. The executive officer swallowed hard, then said, “My memory seems to have failed, Colonel. The technician is right. I had forgotten about that test.”

  Rogov slipped behind the executive officer and thrust one meaty forearm around the man’s throat from behind. Pulling the XO’s head back, Rogov extracted his pistol from its holster. He placed the snub nose of the 9mm against the executive officer’s temple and said quietly, “it may be that I will need to kill you very soon, but it will be your decision, not mine. As I said, make your choice now. Will you follow my orders? On your word as a naval officer.”

  The executive officer could barely breathe as the arm tightened down over his windpipe. He managed a hoarse gasp. “Yes.” The pressure ceased abruptly, and he felt the cold, hard barrel move away from his head.

  As his vision cleared, he saw that the aura of fear in the crew’s face had turned to sheer terror. If Rogov had fired the pistol inside the submarine, there was a good chance it would have penetrated the hull, sending a fire-hose-hard stream of water into the most sensitive electronic gear on the submarine. Even if they’d been able to patch it, too much of their war-fighting capability might have been permanently damaged. Moreover, the ricochet might have killed someone else in the control room on its way to penetrating the hull.

  “Get the system ready, then,” Rogov ordered. “We won’t use it unless they force us to.”

  “Colonel, if we use the system, we’ve just given away our biggest tactical advantage — our invisibility. Seconds after we fire, every aircraft in the area will be dumping torpedoes into the water. And they’ll have our exact location based on the trajectory of the missile.”

  Rogov turned to him and almost smiled. He raised one finger and waggled it at the executive officer in one of his sudden changes of mood that so unnerved the crew. “You’re making two assumptions, both of which are wrong. First, that there will be more than one aircraft in the area. As of now, we have indications of only one. And second, if there is only one aircraft, you’re assuming that the shot will miss.”

  “But with a new system, op-tested only once and still in prototype stage-” the executive officer began.

  Rogov cut him off with a sharp laugh. “Then do not miss.”

  Tuesday, 27 December

  0600 Local

  Aflu

  The Spetsnaz commander pushed the door open. Finally, the vicious storm had started to break. Wind speed had dropped to less than thirty knots, and visibility had increased to at least two kilometers. Not ideal weather, but certainly not the paralyzing arctic blast that it had been two hours ago.

  Even foul weather was better than having Rogov with them. He sighed, wondering if there was any way to convince the senior Cossack to stay on board the submarine. There was nothing in this part of the mission that he could help with, anyway.

  Behind him, his men crowded toward the door, eager to escape the confines of the dripping cave. The commander made a small hand motion. No words were necessary when dealing with these highly trained special warfare commandos. He heard a few small noises behind him, and knew without turning to look that they were readying their gear. Finally, sensing that they were ready, he shoved the door open the rest of the way. Though the ice cave had never been warm, the frigid air that poured in was markedly colder than the interior temperature. If nothing else, he thought, ice was a good insulator. Five hours’ worth of body heat had accumulated in the small cavern, although their breath still frosted on their full whiskers and the air still gnawed at exposed flesh.

  He stepped out into the open and surveyed the land around him. It was just as he’d been briefed. A low, flat plain rose gently toward the cliff that contained their cave, ice covering tundra. Except for the wind still screaming across the craggy ridge behind him, it was silent. There were no signs of habitation or wildlife, and certainly not of vegetation. Nothing could have survived for long on this island — nothing.

  He turned back and smiled at his companions. They moved out quietly, almost noiselessly, the fresh, windblown snow barely crunching under their arctic-wear boots. They fanned out in teams of two, their commander staying carefully out of the way by the ice cavern, watching. He was the safety observer for the operation, a role he took extremely seriously. He had to, given the nature of the explosives his men were handling.

  Each man had shouldered a pack onto his back, something slightly larger than a knapsack. Each bag contained four specifically designed explosive devices, for which the outlaw gang of Cossacks had paid a small fortune to the Japanese. Microsecond timers, all slaved to a common signal, were nestled in a special titanium compartment at the end of each long, cylindrical wand. Packed in the rest of the two-foot shaft was a special formula of highly toxic plastic explosive formulated for use in sub-zero environments. According to the Japanese, each stick would blast a hole five feet straight down into the frozen ice and tundra. The charge was shaped to blow a stream of ice and water out of the hole. The melted sides of each cylinder would immediately refreeze, creating a smooth, slick interior surface to each shaft. The bottom of each hole might be a bit ragged, he mused, but that would hardly matter.

  He watched the two teams measure carefully, setting the charges at the corners of a twenty-foot box. Each man then extracted an ice drill from the pack, and began the laborious process of creating a tamping hole for the charge.

  Thirty minutes later, after each hole was complete, they measured again. Exactly on point, as the commander had known they would be. Behind the wool scarf that covered his mouth, the smile broadened once again. The four holes would hold the support structure for a small but potent antiair defense system. With the help of German engineers, experienced in the manufacture of Stinger missiles and their own superb brand of weaponry, they had built a modular, transportable system that had no equal in the world. One-tenth the size of an American Patriot battery, yet capable of being operated in either a local or remote mode, the system could track and target twenty incoming aircraft simultaneously. It was also effective against missiles operating at less than Mach 5, a limitation that put most other nations’ armament well within its capabilities.

  Once in place, the system would be virtually automatic. requiring operator input only to disable it from incoming friendly flights.

  He watched as the men carefully set their charges into the holes, then returned to join him at his side. The commander reached into his own backpack and extracted the firing control box. After ensuring that everyone was safely out of harm’s way and had covered their ears and turned away from the holes, he clamped a large set of earphones over his ears and turned away. Holding the remote control at an angle away from his body, he punched the detonation switch.

  The reaction was immediate and impressive. The explosion shook the ground under their feet, setting off a series of groans and creaks, not only from the ice underneath them but from the sculptured cliffs around their cave. For a moment, he wondered whether the island, essentially ice covering an old volcanic flume, could withstand the shock. Even at a distance of fifty feet from the explosions, ice rained down on them.

  Thirty seconds later, the ominous rumbling and creaking under his feet subsided. He removed his earphones and checked his comrades, pleased
to note that not a one of them showed the slightest bit of concern. He motioned again, and the four men set out to check their holes.

  For the first time since he’d started the evolution, his thoughts wandered. He stared out at the icy, dark gray sea, wondering where the transport was. According to his information, a Ropuchka amphibious transport ship was en route to the area at that very moment, following carefully in the wake of a Russian icebreaker. In the Ropuchka were antiair batteries that would be erected over these holes, as well as a support crew of technicians, engineers, and guards.

  Not that there was anything to guard against. He glanced around the landscape, still uneasy for some reason he couldn’t exactly define. Not a single survey had ever turned up a trace of life on the island, and he saw no indications now that those estimates had been wrong. Still … Well, it never hurt to be too careful. After they’d finished inspecting the blast holes, he’d send two men out on a quick area survey, just to make absolutely sure that the island was completely uninhabited. He looked behind him, assessing the difficulty of climbing the jutting spires carved into the ice. What might be impossible for most men would simply be the first challenge his team had had all week.

  0642 Local

  USS Jefferson

  “What did your SAR find?” the familiar voice said. Batman smiled, despite the seriousness of the situation. Tombstone had been his wingman for too many years for his voice to be anything except immediately recognizable.

  “The same thing your P-3’s found — nothing,” Batman answered. “One of the S-3 pilots thought he saw an oil slick, but it’s hard to tell in this weather. The wave action would have dispersed anything floating on the surface by now.”

  “No debris?”

  Rear Admiral Edward Everett “Batman” Wayne shook his head glumly. “Admiral, I wish I had better news for you, but I just don’t. You know how hard it is to find wreckage from a boat in this weather.”