He focused on the man patrolling, now halfway between the western edge of the island and the cliff. He stood still, his head thrown back as he stared at the flares, his night vision completely destroyed. White Wolf debated with himself for just a moment, then concluded his southern counterpart would arrive at the same decision. “Shut your eyes,” he said sharply, quietly. His men obeyed instantly. A few of them ducked their faces down in the crook of their elbows, understanding what White Wolf was trying to accomplish.
The flares would last no longer than five minutes, not nearly enough time for the patrol to reach their location. In addition, any man that exited the ice cavern would immediately be blinded as well. The Inuits, on the other hand, by shielding their faces, were preserving their night vision. The moment the flares went out, they would be well prepared to attack immediately, and could take advantage of the element of surprise.
But for the plan to work, one man had to watch and see when the flares disappeared. He sighed, resigning himself to being left out of the fight. Younger bodies, faster feet would do the fighting this time. He watched the man, keeping the flares in sight in his peripheral vision. He waited.
Tomcat 201
“It fell off,” Gator reported, studying his radar screen. “if you know they’re coming, if you catch them in time, those suckers aren’t too bad to outrun. Nothing like a Sidewinder or Sparrow.”
“But just as bad if it gets us.” Bird Dog leveled off at eight thousand feet, just above the tops of the clouds. In the background, he could hear TAO on Jefferson demanding an explanation. Not only had Bird Dog left his assigned altitude, but the erratic movements and changes in altitude had caused alarm on board the carrier.
“You tell ‘em what happened,” Bird Dog said, his eyes still glued downward. “I have a feeling there’s something else I’m supposed to see, and I’m not getting it.”
Aflu
“Now,” White Wolf whispered urgently. The seven men around him sprang up as the last light from the flares faded. Opening their eyes, the landscape around them came into sharp focus.
To his left, White Wolf could see men pouring out of the ice cavern and fanning across the landscape. White Wolf’s second in command took charge, leading the attack with several silent, deadly arrows into the throats of the men nearest to him. They fell, unnoticed by their comrades ahead of them.
Moments later, the inevitable happened. The man in the lead glanced back, noticed two men lying in the snow, and sounded the alarm. As he did so, the Inuits rose up from concealment and charged down the slope, firing their more modern weapons.
Two Inuit warriors fell, and rolled in crumpled balls along the rough ice. Brief anguish tore at White Wolf, to be replaced almost instantly by a sinking feeling. Instead of being blinded by the light, the men seemed to be as capable of functioning immediately after the flares went out as his men were. Spread out in a long line, armed with shotguns that had seen better days, the Inuits were no match for the Russian Spetsnaz. Kalishnikovs barked, and three more men fell.
The remaining two Inuits cast an uncertain look back up at the cliffs, then decided that retreat was the better part of valor. They turned their backs on the Russians and scrambled for the rocks, moving as fast as possible in that landscape. White Wolf watched them approach, anguish and hope warring in his heart. Ten more feet and they could — another man fell, rolled in the snow, and fetched up against the boulder that had been his destination. The remaining lone figure streaked across the landscape, finally reaching the safety of the rocks. From forty feet away, White Wolf could see the man crouch behind a hefty outcropping, his heaving chest detectable even under the heavy garments.
Looking to the south, White Wolf could see the bright spatter of gunfire marking the darkness, evidence of the southern battle mirroring his own. In the sudden light of one spate of weapon fire, he finally got a close look at the face of the Spetsnaz commando. Instead of seeing broad, Slavic features so like his own, he saw an insect face, complete with protruding eyeballs and jet-black shiny carapace. For the briefest second, old legends about giant insects flashed through his mind. Then he realized what he was seeing.
Night vision goggles. He groaned, now heedless of the noise. The men approaching would be half-deafened by the gunfire anyway, and there seemed no other way to let out the hard, cold feeling creeping through his body.
He heard sharp, guttural commands snapped, and the team of fifteen soldiers approached the cliffs warily, weapons at ready.
The sole survivor, crouched behind the rock, looked up at White Wolf. Their eyes locked, and something wordless passed between them.
The lead Spetsnaz raised his weapon, took careful aim, and fired. Instead of the sharp report of gunfire, White Wolf heard only a muffled whoosh. Grenade-launcher, he thought despairingly. He hunkered down behind his own rock, knowing that the man below him was doomed.
Thirty minutes later, as the Spetsnaz patrol caught up with him among the icy spires, he put himself in the same category.
USS Jefferson
“How the hell can they be under fire?” Batman growled. “They’re over American soil.”
“That’s what Bird Dog reported, Admiral,” the IAU said. He shook his head, puzzled. “Unless it’s Greenpeace — they’ve been known to get militant at times.”
“I refuse to believe that Greenpeace is taking on the United States Navy. Get me some other options.” Batman stomped out and headed for CVIC. Maybe Lab Rat had some other ideas.
Aflu
The Spetsnaz, herded White Wolf roughly over to the far wall of the ice cave. They trussed his arms and legs, and shoved him over against Sikes.
The two prisoners regarded each other gravely. Old black eyes, shiny as obsidian, stared into pale blue ones. In that look, they each saw something they could respect in the other. Finally, Sikes nodded. “We wait for our chance,” he murmured, his lips barely moving.
As careful as he’d been, one of the Spetsnaz overheard the exchange. He turned on them, and waved his Kalishnikov menacingly. The interpreter hurried over. “No talk, no talk,” he said sternly.
Sikes shrugged and tried to look bored.
The Inuit moved closer to him, as though trying to pool his body warmth with Sikes’s to fight off the cold. He twisted his hands behind him and touched the SEAL’s arm. Tap-tap-tap. Sikes tried to maintain his bored expression as he considered the pattern of the taps. Was it — yes, indeed it was. Somehow, somewhere, this old native man had learned Morse code. And damned well; he had a feel for it. Now, if he could only recall his own training four years ago in BUDS.
The operations officer looked uneasy. “So what are we supposed to do with them?” he asked nervously. “One, maybe two people — sir, the submarine is small.”
Rogov stared at him. “And there could be others still outside. A poor job of planning, and one that I will remember.” The operations officer turned pale. Rogov reached out and slapped him across the face. “Remember that. Pray that is the worst you will receive.”
The senior Cossack turned and strode over to the far end of the ice cave, stopping two feet before the two prisoners. He stared down at them accusingly, as though it had been their own fault they had been caught. Finally, the beginnings of an idea demanded to be considered. He almost dismissed it, then reconsidered. The beginnings of a cruel smile started on his face. It might work — it just might work at that. Abruptly, he turned and walked over to his operations officer. “There will be a change in plans.”
“Sir?”
“I have something else in mind. Something more valuable than whatever petty bits of international politics we can glean from these two prisoners. Who is our expert on American aircraft carriers?”
The operations officer started to ask a question, then apparently thought better of it. He pointed toward the man who’d been serving as interpreter. “Ilya. He has been on board several, in addition to studying their structure and characteristics in our military command school.”
“Get
him.” Rogov waited impatiently for the interpreter to reach him.
The interpreter was among the youngest of the team members, barely three years in Spetsnaz. His nervousness was apparent on his face. He saluted respectfully and waited for Rogov to speak.
“How secure is an aircraft carrier?” Rogov demanded.
The interpreter looked startled. “At sea, sir?” he stuttered. “Virtually impregnable. There’s no way to approach it-“
“Forget that part,” Rogov instructed. “Once we are on board, how difficult would it be to move about the ship?”
“I was on board one once at sea, as part of an exchange program,” the interpreter said. “Aside from the weapons storage areas and the engineering plant, most of the important spaces are located immediately below the flight deck. There are numerous passages down into that area, in addition to entries from the sponsons and walkways ringing the ship. But if I had to plan an operation, I would proceed directly from the flight deck down the ladder at the island. The combat direction center and the admiral’s quarters are within easy reach then.”
“Draw out a diagram. Have all the men study it. As complete as you can remember.” Rogov turned away, dismissing him.
The interpreter hurried back to join the rest of the team, relieved to be out of the presence of the stern hetman of the Cossacks. The aircraft carrier — he sucked in his breath, feeling his anxiety grow. Surely the hetman could not be planning to — no, he decided, it was out of the question. Not even a complete battalion of Spetsnaz would undertake an assault on an aircraft carrier.
Still, there was a reason that Rogov had been placed in charge of this operation. And if he wanted a map of an American aircraft carrier, that’s what he would give him. He reached back into his rucksack, drew out a pad of paper, and began sketching.
Sikes found that Morse code came back to him quickly, even though it had been years since he last practiced. White Wolf slowed down and sketched in the essential details of the Inuits’ attempted attack on the camp. Sikes carefully schooled his face to blankness, masking his surprise at the daring and ingenuity of the native islanders.
“Wait, listen,” he began tapping out, interrupting the account of the assault.
Sikes listened carefully, trying to follow the corrupted Cossack dialect that was so similar to Russian. He caught a few words here and there, and then one phrase made his blood run cold. American aircraft carrier. He watched the younger officer take his leave from the man in charge and begin drawing something on a piece of paper. While he was watching, he tried to tap out a hasty explanation to his fellow prisoner, not certain how accurate his code was but hoping that the essential details were getting through. “And who taught you Morse code?” he ended.
“Magruder.”
“Rear Admiral Magruder?” The SEAL considered this new fact carefully. How in the world — no, he decided, the explanation would undoubtedly be a long one. It could wait. Right now, they had more important priorities to discuss.
“We leave,” he tapped out slowly. “Wait-wait for chance. Americans come.”
The Inuit tapped out the short signal for affirmative, giving no sign on his dark, impassive face that anything was happening.
1150 Local
USS Coronado
“How close is the nearest island?” Tombstone asked. He stared at the speaker as though he saw Batman’s face in it.
“About six miles away. There’s a native settlement there, a small airstrip. That’s where the radio signal came from.” Batman’s voice sounded tinny on the old speaker.
“And what are we doing about them? Batman, you’re going to have to get them out of there. Plan a NEONaval Evacuation Operation. It’s bad enough they’re on one uninhabited island, but we’ve got to keep the situation contained. Get back to me within three hours with your plan.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral,” Batman said formally. Tombstone heard a note of chagrin in his old friend’s voice. “I’m not sure I would have thought of it either, Batman,” Tombstone continued. “Don’t beat yourself up over it — just get it done.”
“Roger, copy. I’ll get the planners started on it as soon as we are done here.”
“Top priority,” Tombstone ordered. “The last thing I want during the first months of my tour is a hostage situation on American soil.”
1200 Local
Tomcat 201
“I say we go back and take another look,” Bird Dog argued. “It’ll be easy.”
“Nothing involving Stingers is easy,” his RIO responded.
“The way I wanna do it, it will be. Listen, we go out thirty miles and drop down on the deck. We come in at the island at five hundred feet, so low they can’t see us coming. We take a quick pass overland, on afterburners, and we’re out of there before they have a chance to line up the shot. I say it’ll work.”
“And I say we don’t do a damned thing until Mother gets back to us,” the RIO retorted. “Jesus, Bird Dog, this is a fighter aircraft, not a surveillance one. Besides, you’re too heavy with all that weaponry on the wings to get us the hell out of there if we need to move.”
“So we dump it. Like this.” Bird Dog reached out for the weapons jettison switch.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Gator shouted. “Do you know how much those missiles cost?”
“Yeah, I do. A hell of a lot less than the life of one SEAL on the ground and in trouble.”
Aflu
“It will be simplicity itself,” Rogov concluded, glancing at the faces of the men around him. “Every man does his part, and within fifteen minutes we have the ultimate prize — possession of the nerve center of an American carrier.”
He could tell they weren’t convinced, although no trace of dissent showed on their faces. It was, he had to admit, a daring plan. But what were the options? Returning his two prisoners to the submarine was indeed a possibility, but his hold over the operational forces there was already tenuous. Besides, interrogating them was not essential to achieving their purpose. To truly demonstrate the might of a Cossack nation, to make the rest of the world take them seriously, what could be more effective than doing what no other force had done before — boarding and capturing an American warship. And not some small spy vessel, but the most potent force in America’s arsenal. The aircraft carrier.
“You may ask questions,” he said condescendingly.
“Sir, how will we keep control of the entire ship? With only forty men?” It was as near to criticism as Rogov was likely to get from any of the troops.
“I will explain again. One team will proceed immediately to the Wardroom Mess, enter the admiral’s cabin through there, and from there go directly to TFCC. You understand, those doors that are locked when they’re in port are most probably left open while at sea, just as they are on our own ships. The second team will move quickly up to the bridge, taking control of the people there. With those two areas secured, we will have enough leverage to do whatever we wish. Do you think the American troops would risk their admiral? Especially when we do no serious harm to their vessel or their crew.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, not looking fully satisfied at the answer. “But as you said — getting on board an aircraft carrier is no easy matter. The flight deck stands thirty feet above the ocean, and even when they are lowered, the elevators are not much closer. How will we-?”
Rogov cut him off. “That is the simplest part of the entire matter. The Americans themselves will take us there.”
CHAPTER 11
Thursday, 29 December
1400 Local
USS Coronado
“And just how long am I supposed to stay here?” Pamela asked coldly. She made a short, curt motion to indicate the spartan stateroom. “It’s bad enough you’ve got me held in here under armed guard — what’s wrong, doesn’t this ship have a brig on it? Run out of handcuffs?”
Tombstone studied her gravely. Anger had forced high color into her face, and it was obvious she sat motionless on the narrow s
ingle bed only through sheer force of will. Miss Pamela Drake, ACN star correspondent, was used to having her own way. And that most definitely did not include being placed under armed Marine guard in a tiny stateroom, on board the ship while her colleagues covered a fast-breaking story.
What had he ever seen in her? he wondered, regret and nostalgia coloring his memories of her as strongly as the wild, passionate physical response they’d always had to each other. Back then, when he’d been a young lieutenant commander, she’d seemed the most glamorous, out-of-reach woman he’d ever seen in his life. During the years that followed, he learned that she possessed a drive and mind equal to his own. Somewhere along the line, he’d believed that would be enough to let them mold their two diverse lifestyles into one strong, satisfying life together.
But it hadn’t been. Last cruise, when they’d finally agreed to break their engagement, he’d thought he’d never get over her. Now, on opposite sides of the room — and with battle lines clearly drawn — he wondered how he’d thought he could ever trust her. Her drive to succeed, to beat every correspondent on the globe in breaking the most sensational story, had pitted them against each other. He wondered if she’d given their relationship a single thought as she planned this daring — and he had to admit it had been that — assault on his amphibious ship. Had she thought at all about what her antics would cause, how difficult it would be for him? No, he saw, studying her carefully. She’d known what price he would pay, and she’d gone ahead with it anyway.
“Yes,” he said finally, “there is a brig on the ship. Normally, however, an officer would be confined to his stateroom for something like this. I’m giving you the courtesy of treating you on the same terms, although I doubt you deserve it.”
She shook her head angrily. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“No,” he said with finality. “And neither do you.”
1420 Local
Seahawk
601 800 feet, Vicinity of Aflu
Arctic Fire c-9 Page 17
