Arctic Fire

CHAPTER 10

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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.

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.”

“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.

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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”