Arctic Fire c-9

by Keith Douglass

  Both aviators shook their heads in the negative.

  “Didn’t think so,” the chief said. He handed the folder to the senior pilot. “You’ll want to have a look at this, sir.”

  The pilot read rapidly, the copilot crowding in next to him to read over his shoulder. “Cold War trainees,” he said finally. He closed the folder with a sharp snap. “And still in place. Who would’ve thought?”

  “Nobody. And that’s the point. If the U.S. Navy forgot about ‘em, you can damn well bet the Russians did.”

  “But they barely have a radio,” the pilot said. “What? You’re gonna assault that island with shotguns?”

  The chief shook his head. “No, we’re not. Fortunately, we brought along a little extra armament.” A grim smile cracked his face. “Plus a few fancy toys they’ve probably never seen before. Hell, we didn’t get ‘em till last year. But I’m betting those men will catch on pretty damned fast how they work.”

  The pilot shook his head doubtfully. “Aren’t you depending an awful lot on an untrained mob?”

  “Remember, they’re only there as a diversion,” the chief argued. “Here’s what’ll happen.”

  The chief spent the next ten minutes laying out the plan, covering all aspects of the diversion, the tactical pickup, and the successful exit from the area. When he’d finished, he said, “I don’t care what the admiral told you, sir. Special Forces missions are always strictly a volunteer evolution. If you’ve got any doubts about this plan, we’ll look for somebody else to fly it. We can’t afford any weak links in this chain.” He stared searchingly at the two aviators.

  The pilot leaned back on his chair. A slow smile crept across his face. “I think if anybody can pull this off, you can. And as for your flight crew,” he glanced at his copilot, who nodded, “I think you’ve already found your crew.”

  “You’re sure this will work?” Batman asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Huerta said gravely. “We’ve torn this plan apart every way we can think of, and it’s our best bet for getting Sikes out. But part of it depends on that fancy new aircraft of yours.”

  Batman leaned back in his chair and sighed. “The JAST bird. I notice it plays a heavy role in this.”

  The chief nodded. “You bet. We need that high resolution look-down, shoot-down capability. The regular Tomcat’s a pretty impressive bird, but it’s not enough for this mission.”

  Batman leaned forward and steepled his hands in front of him. “You probably don’t know it, but we’ve got a serious problem here. The JAST pilot who flew the bird out was medevaced early this morning. Appendicitis.” He paused, and surveyed the dismayed expressions on the three men’s faces. “Any RIO can run the backseat on the JAST aircraft. The avionics are enough alike that it just takes a few hours of briefing. But the power plant, the flight controls, and the whole performance envelope are so different that it takes hours to get certified on it. Other than the man who drew it out, there’s only one person on this boat qualified to fly it.”

  “Well, whoever it is, we need him,” the chief said sharply.

  Batman started to smile. “I think I can convince him to go along with this. You see, it’s been a while since he’s gotten to fly much, and he’s pretty eager for a couple of extra hops.”

  “Just who the hell is this non-flying aviator?” the pilot said. “Everybody flies on this boat, everybody.”

  Batman’s smile broadened slightly. “Me.”

  1700 Local

  USS Coronado

  “Come on, Tombstone, you know it’s the right thing to do.” Batman’s voice held a pleading note. “That man on the ground deserves it.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Tombstone said slowly. “One of the hardest lessons that I had to learn when I was in your shoes was that my flying days were quickly coming to an end. I hated it, but I finally admitted that I was of more use in TFCC than in the cockpit.”

  “This situation’s a little bit different, don’t you think?” Batman argued. “If it were a matter of just sending a Tomcat — hell, I’ve got plenty of men who’d volunteer. And women, too,” he added hastily. “But the JAST bird is something else.”

  Tombstone sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, his old wingman was right. “And we can’t get another pilot out from Pax River?” he asked one last time.

  “No, Admiral.” Batman’s voice took on a formal note. “Too long of a time lag. Things are moving too fast — by the time we got someone else out here, that SEAL could be dead. The mission has to go ASAP.”

  Tombstone sighed. “All right,” he finally capitulated. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I could use your help, sir,” Batman continued, the same grave tone still in his voice. “As you point out, the battle group needs an admiral in command of it. I respectfully request that the admiral shift his flag to the USS Jefferson, and relieve me of command. At least for the duration of this mission,” he concluded.

  Tombstone sat bolt upright in his chair. “You want to be relieved?”

  “Well, I’d just as soon it weren’t permanent,” Batman said wryly. “But things go wrong. In the event that something happens, I don’t want Jefferson left alone. And since you’ve been admiral on board her before, you’re just the man to relieve me.”

  It made sense. Damn, but it made sense. “Okay, Batman,” he said, surprised at how eager he suddenly was to feel the steel decks of Jefferson under his feet again. “You realize there’s going to be hell to pay for this later?”

  “There always is, isn’t there, Stoney?” Batman chuckled slightly. “But we bring that SEAL home and all screw-ups are forgiven. You know that.”

  Tombstone nodded, all too aware that what Batman said was true. “Expect my COD flight in two hours, then,” he said, and broke the connection.

  He stood up from his desk and started pacing the room. The amphibious ship was a fine vessel, but it was nothing compared to being on an aircraft carrier. To be in command of one one more time, just one last time — he sighed, thinking about how many lasts he was coming to in his career these days. “One last time,” he said aloud. He smiled briefly. “A hell of a way to end a career.”

  Six hours and one Harrier flight later, Rear Admiral Matthew Magruder took command of the aircraft carrier USS Jefferson, relieving Rear Admiral Edward Wayne in a short, hastily arranged ceremony. And, even though he knew it was only for a short period of time, it felt damned good to be back.

  1745 Local

  Aflu

  Sikes regained consciousness slowly, driven out of the inky blackness by the sharp red flashes reverberating in his head. He groaned as the flashes turned into sharp pain. He moved feebly, trying to paw off the hand on his shoulder that was causing it.

  “Go away,” he mumbled. Damn, what was the matter — couldn’t they let him sleep? Suddenly, he recalled where he was and what had happened. He forced his eyes open, almost blinded by the sparks that flew across his vision.

  Slowly, the dark blur above him sharpened into the concerned face of White Wolf. How could I ever have thought him expressionless? Sikes wondered briefly, then was distracted by the pounding pain in his head. He groaned again, unable to suppress it.

  “At least you’re alive,” White Wolf said softly. He glanced around at something in the distance. “They smashed you on the back of the head. I wasn’t sure whether-“

  Sikes tried to shake his head and winced at the effort. “Talking,” he croaked, barely able to force the words past his throat.

  “They don’t seem to mind it right now, for some reason. Here they come.”

  Sikes heard the soft crunch of boots on ice, and two arctic pieces of footwear loomed into view. “Sit him up,” a voice ordered harshly.

  “I’m okay,” Sikes protested weakly. He felt hands under his shoulders, grabbing his parka, pulling him into a sitting position.

  “Drink,” the voice continued. A hand thrust a mug in front of his face. Sikes reached for it, all too aware of the trembling in his hands. />
  To his surprise, he found that the outside of the mug was hot. A tantalizing aroma reached his nostrils. Coffee, he noted. Suddenly, that sounded like a very good idea.

  “Well, we’re still alive. For what that’s worth,” he said finally.

  CHAPTER 12

  Friday, 30 December

  0900 Local

  USS Jefferson

  “You’re sure about this?” Tombstone shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony on the flight deck.

  Batman grinned. “As sure as I’ve ever been about anything, Stoney. This mission ain’t got a chance in hell unless I fly lead on it. You know that. Besides, I’ve got that hotheaded Bird Dog up there to watch out for. He and Gator have more time circling this piece of ice than any other crew on the boat. I’ll get them in, they’ll dump some ordnance, and we’ll all be back on board in time for midrats. Hell, I’d go it alone if my bird could carry enough two-thousand-pounders alone.” He shook his head ruefully. “But in this weather, with a Bear-J in the vicinity, you gotta have some self-protection.”

  Outside the handler’s compartment, the JAST bird and Tomcat 201 were waiting. Both aircraft carried two two-thousand-pound bombs, along with Sidewinders and Sparrows for air combat. According to the SEALs’ mission plan, four bombs were necessary to ensure the desired kill factor on the mission.

  “Well.” Tombstone paused at the hatch leading out onto the flight deck from the handler’s compartment and stuck out his hand. “Luck. You’ll need it, an old shit like you pulling this kind of stunt.”

  Batman grabbed his old wingman’s hand in a strong, two-handed grip. “Luck always helps, but I’ll settle for some damned fine avionics instead. That I know I’ve got. And the best damned RIO in the Navy.” He jerked his chin toward the short naval flight officer behind him.

  “Yes.” Tombstone gazed down at Tomboy, once again aware of how petite she was. If he hadn’t had firsthand experience with her ability as a RIO — and, he admitted, an even closer look at the strength in her body — he might have tried to talk Batman into taking another RIO along for this one. If, he added, he’d somehow found the courage to face the enraged Tomboy.

  “Good hunting to you, too, Lieutenant Commander Flynn,” he said formally. He let his eyes show the warmth he purposely kept out of his voice. “You kick ass up there, okay?”

  “That and more, Admiral,” she answered, her voice steady and her chin up. “I’ll get Admiral Wayne back in one piece, I promise.”

  “See that you do. D.C. is going to be shitting bricks if they have to give me another at-sea command.” Tombstone held out his hand, letting his fingers slide over hers as she did the same. He tugged gently, and she swayed almost imperceptibly toward him. “And hurry back,” he said softly, pitching his voice so that only she could hear it.

  She nodded briskly. “I intend to.” She turned and followed Batman out to their aircraft.

  And let the Handler try to make something out of that, Tombstone thought, watching the two of them walk away. As fast as rumor control worked on the ship, the story would have worked its way into a passionate orgy in the handler’s office before the JAST bird returned from its mission, if he’d given it the slightest reason to.

  0950 Local

  East End, Aflu

  White Wolf’s grandson studied the sky. The gods were cooperating, it appeared. Low, scudding clouds rolled in from the north, ominously low to the wind-lashed sea. At the horizon, the clouds and the sea were the same color, a dull, white-gray, featureless wall. Soon, he knew, the storm would blow in, driving visibility to barely two feet. They had to be off the cliffs by then, or the entire plan would have to be scuttled.

  Or worse, he thought grimly. The small group had no way of communicating with the aircraft inbound from the American ship. If the fighter-bomber pilot thought he could complete the mission, he would, assuming that all of the ground forces had cleared the area in accordance with the plan. He’d never really see the small band of Inuits and SEALs trapped on the cliffs in the whiteout.

  All the more reason to get to it, and get to it quickly. He turned and motioned Senior Chief Huerta up to the front of the line.

  “Here,” he said, pointing at a deep rift in the jagged ice. “A fracture line.”

  The SEAL studied the narrow chasm thoughtfully. “Might could do it with explosives,” he suggested.

  The Inuit shook his head. “We’d get a surface shear. Sure, a lot of debris would rain down, but that’s not nearly what we’re aiming for. Is it?” It was his turn to study the other man carefully.

  The two of them were about the same age, which should have given them a good deal in common. And it did, the Alaskan native decided, although he didn’t know if the other man would understand that. Family, phases of life, the way they coped with their harsh environment — while the SEAL may have seen more of the world than the island-bound native, the harsh realities of the sea and ice were the same for both. No amount of training, experience, or philosophy could change that.

  “No, we need more force,” he continued. He pointed down at the slope in front of him. “See that? I want the forward thirty feet of this cliff to shear off.”

  “Okay, You’re the expert around here.” Huerta trudged back to his knapsack, motioning his men around him. Together, they carefully unpacked the array of sophisticated targeting laser devices they were carrying.

  They fanned out around the area, each one carrying one of the precious target designators. Ten minutes later, all four devices were pointed in different locations, each one throwing a red spot on the edge of the rift.

  The SEALs rejoined the natives, and both took a moment to proudly survey their handiwork. “They’ll be dropping dumb bombs, but these laser pointers will give them a damned clear landmark.” He gestured at the spires and jagged outcroppings of rock around them. “Without this, all this terrain looks too much alike. Hell, the target point isn’t even visible until you break out over that last ridge.”

  Finally, Morning Eagle glanced up at the sky again. “We leave now,” he said forcefully. “We have maybe thirty minutes.”

  “I expect you’re right. And I don’t wanna take the chance that you aren’t.”

  Morning Eagle took point, and carefully began retracing his path to the east, over the harshest surfaces of the icy environment.

  Even for the Inuits, accustomed to this terrain, it was tough going. Twenty minutes later, all the men were soaked with sweat inside their protective gear. To stop now would be suicide. Only their body heat kept the sweat from freezing into an icy, killing sheen of ice. They trudged on, their breathing becoming more labored, heavy droplets of moisture fogging the air as they panted.

  Finally, they reached the edge of the ice floe and started their way downward. Ten minutes later, they were gathered around the small boats the Inuits had provided.

  The SEAL senior chief glanced up at the sky again. “Do we start back to your island now?”

  Morning Eagle shook his head. “Too late.” He pointed at one massive billow now ten degrees off their vertical. “Whiteout before we’re halfway there. We might make do with the compass, but I wouldn’t want to take the chance. Not unless we really have to.”

  “Well, as long as our playmates don’t know we’re here, we won’t have to take that chance. I haven’t seen them make a patrol on this side of the island once.”

  “Then we settle in to wait. An hour, maybe two, when the weather breaks-” He let the sentence trail off. Whiteouts had been known to last for days, holding every man, woman, and child trapped inside the camp. While some of the tribe possessed an uncanny sense of direction, and could find their way back to camp no matter what the weather conditions, Morning Eagle was not one of those. He respected the power of the weather, and chose to live with it rather than against it.

  “We wait,” Huerta echoed. The two teams of men, so alike and so different, quickly combined their gear and began building a small camp that would keep them alive.
/>
  Until the weather clears, Morning Eagle thought.

  “How certain are you that they’ll come to investigate the cliff, anyway?” he asked the SEAL.

  The chief shrugged, then grinned. “Not certain. But it’s what I’d do.”

  “Why?”

  “While the fellows were busy setting up the designators, I took a little stroll over to the edge of the cliff. If you’d been watching, you would have seen me leave a little present there for our friends.”

  “A present?” Morning Eagle was momentarily confused. “What kind of present?”

  “Nothing complicated. Just an all-frequency static transmitter. Remote controlled, it is.” He fished into his parka jacket and pulled out a small set of controls. “All I have to do is toggle this switch, and that little bitch starts sending a jamming signal on every frequency these guys are likely to be using. The first thing they’ll notice it on is their hand-held radios. And if I were maintaining a garrison here, I’d damned sure want to find out what was jamming my communications. Especially since it was supposed to be an uninhabited island.”

  Morning Eagle regarded him appraisingly. “Nice trick.”

  “We get some nice toys now and then. This is an old standby, but it still works just fine.”

  0950 Local

  Tomcat 201

  “I don’t like this one damned bit,” Bird Dog grumbled. He cast an anxious glance back at the wings, trying to see if there was any ice forming. A visual inspection was not necessary — his instruments would have told him immediately if there was a problem, but there was nothing more reassuring than getting a visual on a clean, ice-free wing. “The meteorology boys really screwed this one up.”

  “Not that we had a lot of choice about it,” Gator said. “You think we have problems, how do you think those helo pilots feel?”

  Bird Dog repressed a shudder. “Not good. I wouldn’t trade places with them for anything. You got solid contact on Batman?”