Arctic Fire

CHAPTER 13

Rogov crept through the massive jumble of ice blocks, barely daring to breathe. The explosion had shaken him, much more than he anticipated. While it had seemed reasonable that the Americans might attempt something like this, the sheer magnitude of the avalanche and the deafening noise had shaken him.

He heard voices, maybe thirty yards off. He ran his hands over himself one more time, checking to see that he was intact and that his identification had been removed. He took a deep breath, then another. While the loss of the twenty-eight Spetsnaz commandos clustered at the base of the cliff meant nothing to him personally, it presented some tactical problems. He’d counted on being able to pass more of them off as injured Inuits, at least enough to simultaneously take the bridge and Combat and the admiral’s quarters. He shook his head. The only predictable thing about unconventional warfare was that it was unpredictable. On a mission such as this, it was expected that he would adapt, overcome, and adjust to any changes in circumstances.

He looked behind him, counting heads. Eight Spetsnaz were up and moving, a few of them shaking off minor injuries. He checked their faces, noting the look of cold resolve in each man’s eyes. He nodded. Commanding men such as these, he could do nothing less than his best.

He gave the signal, and the Spetsnaz commandos dispersed, creeping ever closer to the small, abandoned group. When they were ten feet away, more or less, they arranged themselves on the ground. Rogov heard low moans start to issue, more inviting evidence of injured allies for the Americans. He rearranged his face in an expression of pain, found a convenient ice spire to drape himself over, and moaned. In truth, there was not much pain he had to simulate, since the aerial bombardment had shaken him up badly, giving him a few additional bruises. He grimaced. All the better for realism. Injuries, but nothing so serious as to slow them down.

He looked down at the old Inuit lying at his feet. Better to let him live for now, use him to support the deception. If he could keep the helo’s crew focused on the injured old man and his obviously Inuit features, they might miss any clues to the real identity of the rest of the supposed natives.

But the SEAL? Where was he? Rogov scanned the landscape around him quickly, looking for his other prisoner, then made a rapid time-distance calculation. There wasn’t time to look for him, not and make the airlift quickly. Furthermore, the American SEAL would surely have given them away at the very first opportunity. A loose end, and one that he would have eliminated quickly if the man had been in sight.

No time. Rogov shrugged. The hostile land would kill the man as quickly as a bullet, although he would have preferred the reassurance of the latter to the former.

If they had the chance, the Americans would kill him for this, he knew. There would be no trial, no investigation, no complicated legal maneuverings. A quick death sentence, one that the SEAL’s teammates would impose the moment they knew what had happened.

But then again, they wouldn’t be given that opportunity. Rogov had other plans immediately following his arrival on board USS Jefferson.

“Tomcat Two-oh-one, say state,” the operations specialist on board Jefferson inquired anxiously.

Bird Dog glanced down at the fuel indicator and swore quietly. Between the exhilaration of the attack and checking for icing on the wings, he’d forgotten the most basic safety in flight protocols. His fuel was now creeping dangerously low, his reserves sapped by the extended time at afterburners necessary to escape the target site.

“Three point two,” he answered calmly. “Might be nice to get a drink before we try to get back on board.”

“Roger,” the OS said, and gave the vector to the KA-6 tanker.

“Got plenty of gas for one pass,” Gator said. “But I agree — no point in taking any chances.”

Bird Dog laughed. “That’s not what you said five minutes ago,” he said, an injured tone in his voice.

“Intercept with the tanker in two mikes,” the TAO reported to TFCC. “And the SAR helicopter is airborne now, en route to the island. Medical is standing by.”

Tombstone settled into the elevated brown leatherette chair in TFCC and studied the screen carefully. Injuries — it was to be expected. But according to the SEAL team reports, there were enough uninjured men to attempt penetration of the intruder fortress. The avalanche had decimated the forces sufficiently to allow them to proceed, and they were on track to evacuate the wounded immediately, absolutely imperative in this climate. He shook his head, wondering why he had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Aside from the dare-devil maneuvers of the young Tomcat pilot — he almost smiled, remembering the stunts Bird Dog had pulled on their last cruise when Tombstone had been in command of the carrier group — things had gone pretty much as planned. Why, then, couldn’t he relax?

“Too long out of the saddle,” he said out loud, to no one in particular.

“Sir?” the TFCC TAO said, turning to look back at him.

Tombstone flushed. “Nothing,” he muttered, swearing silently. What the hell was this, voicing the random concerns and thoughts that flitted through every commander’s mind? Had he been away from real operations for too long?

“How long until the SAR helicopter arrives?” He asked to cover his embarrassment.

“One minute, Admiral,” the TAO said crisply. “They should be back on board in five minutes.” The TAO glanced back at him curiously.

“Very well.” Tombstone willed himself to sit still and concentrate on the screen. Whatever niggling concerns were in the back of his mind, no one else seemed to share them.

“Got a visual,” Bird Dog said. He pulled back on the throttle, slowing the Tomcat to rendezvous speed. “A quick plug, a fast drink, and we’re out of here,” he said over tactical.

“Gee, Bird Dog, you’re a cheap date,” the female copilot of the tanker quipped. “Might want to do something about that. I hear they’ve got all sorts of solutions for that sort of male problem these days.”

Gator laughed, while Bird Dog fumbled for a smart-ass reply.

The helicopter hovered overhead, kicking up snow and ice in the downdraft of its powerful rotors. Huerta swore and motioned it up. The pilot complied, and the draft, only slightly less gusting than the whiteout storm, abated slightly. “You the guys who called for a ride home?” his radio crackled. “Where do you want the pickup, here or down on level ground?”

Huerta glanced up at the helicopter, thinking it through. Of the ten men around him, all but Morning Eagle were moving around well enough to get down the slope, even with the clutter of debris that now covered it.

“On the flat,” he decided. He motioned to the men and trotted over. “Let’s get him down there,” he said, pointing to Morning Eagle. The two men grunted something unintelligible and started fashioning a rough structure out of tent fragments and ski poles.

Huerta spared a few moments to appraise their gear. Good solid stuff, he thought, one part of his mind coldly evaluating its tactical usefulness. Moments later, Morning Eagle was slung over the stretcher, strapped down by more torn fragments of tent. “Let’s go,” he ordered. He took point, leading the small band through a relatively flat part of the debris.

Had he not been so shaken by the avalanche, focused on the mission ahead, and still suffering a few minor scrapes and bruises by the bombardment himself, Huerta might have stopped to wonder about the equipment he’d just seen. And if he had, he might have remembered that the Inuits who had made the journey over the seas with him had been carrying outdated Navy equipment, not modern combat gear. And that would have struck him as strange.

“Easy, easy,” Gator cautioned.

“I’m okay,” Bird Dog snapped. And he would be, in just a few minutes, if he could get his goddamned hands to quit shaking, his gut to stop twisting into a knot.

Intellectually, he knew it was just the aftereffects of the adrenaline bleeding out of his system, but the feeling frightened him nonetheless. And made him angry — how he’d managed to navigate the aircraft through the near-impossible bombardment mission, only to fall apart during level flight.

Not that tanking was that easy a task. Aside from a night landing on a carrier, it was one of the most dangerous and difficult evolutions a carrier pilot underwent. Approaching another aircraft from behind, slowly adjusting the airspeed until the two were perfectly matched, and then plugging the refueling probe of a Tomcat into the small, three-foot basket trailing out the end of a KA-6 tanker called for steady hands and a cool head. He couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now, not this close to another aircraft. Too many collisions took place just at this point.

“Hold it!” Gator said sharply. “Bird Dog, back off and take a look again. You’re all over the sky, man.”

Bird Dog swore softly. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he insisted.

“You’re not.” Gator’s voice was firm. “Just ease off — let’s try this again.” Gator’s calm, professional tones couldn’t mask the real note of concern in his voice. “You’re a little heavy — all that ice hasn’t melted yet, and it’s affecting your flight characteristics, but it’s real doable — just take it slow, let me kick the heaters up another notch.”

Bird Dog concentrated on the dancing basket in front of him. It was, he realized, not the basket that was moving but his dancing Tomcat. He tried to quiet the tremor in his hands, the jerk in his right foot.

“Think of something calm,” Gator’s voice soothed. “Man, you just blew the hell out of a lot of bad guys back there. Think about that.”

Bird Dog concentrated, focusing on the moments immediately after he’d dropped the weapons. It had been a clear, cool feeling, one buoyed up with exhilaration and joy far beyond anything he’d experienced in the air before. Even shooting down his first MiG hadn’t come close to knowing he’d just done a hell of a job under impossible circumstances. He focused, letting the feeling come back, letting the raw sensation of power replace the tentativeness in his hands and legs.

After a few moments, he took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, his voice now calm and strong. “I’ve got it.”

After what he’d been through, plugging this little basket would be a piece of cake. He grinned, relishing the challenge, and slid the Tomcat smoothly forward. The refueling probe rammed home, jarring the aircraft slightly.

“Good job,” Gator said softly. Not for the first time, he marveled at his pilot’s ability to focus, to compartmentalize and stay right in the moment. Whether Bird Dog knew it or not, Gator decided, he was one hell of a pilot.

Not that Gator was going to tell him that. The RIO glanced down at his gauges and saw a solid lock and fuel flowing into the aircraft. “How much you going to take on?” he asked Bird Dog.

“Six thousand pounds,” the pilot said, his hands and feet moving quickly to make the minor adjustments in airspeed and altitude to keep the aircraft firmly mated. “That gives us enough fuel for a couple of passes. If we need them.”

And they would not, Gator decided, relaxing. The mood that Bird Dog was in, he might not even need the arresting wire to get on board.

“How about a lift?” the helicopter pilot shouted over the noise. Rogov smiled, held out his hand, and tried to look as friendly and undangerous as he could.

“Thank you,” he said, hoping the slight accent in his voice would be interpreted as native islander. Evidently it was, since the pilot returned his smile and gestured to one of the canvas-strapped seats lining the interior of the helicopter. “We’ve got a corpsman and doctor on board,” the pilot added.

“One is badly hurt,” Huerta said, pointing at Morning Eagle, pale and motionless on the stretcher. “The rest are just banged up and bruised.”

“Eskimos, huh?” The pilot studied his new passengers, then shrugged and turned back to the controls. “We’ll be there in five mikes.”

Huerta sat poised in the hatch to the aircraft, watching the others file aboard. Oddly enough, Morning Eagle was among the last in line, still carried by the same two Inuit. He saw Morning Eagle start to move, then one of the stretcher-bearers shifted, blocking his line of sight. When he next got a good look at him, Morning Eagle was no longer moving.

“Come on, come on,” Huerta shouted, gesturing at the men. “We’ve got most of them, but who knows how many else there are?”

The men started to move more rapidly and quickly took seats along the sides. Moving fast, Huerta noted, for men that had looked so stunned half an hour earlier. He shrugged. The human body was more resilient than anyone gave it credit for, particularly when the mind knew what the body didn’t. He’d seen the men drive themselves long past the point of exhaustion, held upright and moving only by the sheer force of will. Any man could do it — SEAL training taught them how.

“That’s the last of them,” Huerta shouted to the pilot. He moved toward the last seat in the aircraft. As he was midway down the fuselage, the waiting men suddenly moved. Three men stood up, grabbed him, and threw him to the deck, pinning him down. He started to struggle, then something hard hit him on the right side of his head. He lay motionless, unconscious, on the deck.

Two more of the supposed native forces moved forward, gently easing their pistols up against the necks of the pilot and copilot. Rogov approached them and stood midway between the two seats. “Now, the carrier,” he ordered, in a voice that left no doubt as to what the consequence of disobedience would be. “Do not touch that,” he said sharply as the copilot’s hand reached out for the IFF transponder. “I know you have special codes that will tell the ship that you are under force. Do not attempt to use them. If necessary, my men can fly this craft themselves.”

The pilot and copilot exchanged an angry, helpless look, then the pilot nodded. “Do what the man says, Brian,” he said levelly. The copilot nodded and returned to reading the preflight checklist in a slightly shaky voice.

Too bad there’s no checklist for hijacking, the pilot thought grimly, as he made the routine responses to the checklist items. And there was no way to let Jefferson know what was happening, not without risking the lives of the remaining friendlies on board. If there were any others, he added to himself, wondering if he and the copilot were the only Americans still left on board the helicopter.

“Helo inbound,” the TFCC TAO reported.

Tombstone acknowledged the report with a curt nod. He studied the friendly aircraft symbol that had just popped up on the display. “Ask them how many souls on board,” he said. “And ask CDC if they’re going to get that Tomcat on board before the helo makes its approach. I don’t want a cluster fuck over this, people.”

“Tomcat Two-oh-one on final now,” the TAO responded instantly. “The tanker is going to wait until after the helo is on board, then we’ll clear the decks for her. I think there’re some casualties on the helo, so we’ll want to get them in as soon as we can, but there’s a good window of time for Bird Dog to take one pass.”

“That’s all it usually takes him,” Tombstone said.

“Tomcat Two-oh-one.”

“Roger, ball, Tomcat Two-oh-one, five point four, two souls,” Bird Dog radioed to the landing signals officer, or LSO. Tomcat 201 was one mile behind the carrier, coming up fast on the broad, blunt stern. His call indicated he’d seen the meatball, the giant Fresnel lens mounted on the port side. The intricate combination of lens and lights gave the pilot a quick visual reference as to whether or not he was on glide path. When he was making a proper approach, at a safe altitude, the light would glow green. Too high or too low, and the pilot could see only the red lights. With the LSO having the final word, and acting as a final safety check and flight coach, all under the watchful eyes of the air boss, final approach on a carrier was one of the most carefully monitored flight patterns in the world.

Not that accidents didn’t happen, Bird Dog thought grimly. Calm down now, boy, don’t get too excited. Just hit the three-wire, nice and sweet, like you’ve done a hundred times before.

Of course, experience was no guarantee that nothing would go wrong. Just two weeks ago, an F/A-18 Hornet pilot hadn’t been paying close enough attention to the air mass that always churned and bubbled in the wake of the aircraft carrier. He’d lost concentration, and a sudden downdraft had caught him unprepared. Still at 140 knots airspeed, he’d smacked his Hornet straight into the stern of the carrier, crumpling airframe and man into a twisted mass now resting somewhere on the ocean floor.

Bird Dog shuddered, forcing the picture out of his mind. It happened to other people, not to him. He felt his concentration quiver, then steady and become absolute. His world narrowed down to the Fresnel lens, the aft end of the carrier, and the quiet, soothing voice of the LSO in his ear.

“A little more altitude, altitude, coming on in, you’ve got it,” the LSO said, chanting his familiar refrain of orders and encouragement.

Even without the LSO’s comments, Bird Dog knew he had it nailed. He felt the Tomcat grab for the deck, heard the squeal of rubber meeting nonskid, and had just a moment to wonder at how gentle first contact had been when the tailhook caught the arresting wire.

“Three-wire,” Gator crowed from the backseat. “Knew you could do it!”

Bird Dog slammed the throttle forward to full military power, a normal precaution against the tailhook bouncing free from the wire. Only after the arresting wire had brought him to full stop, and he received a signal from the plane captain, did he throttle back, carefully backing out of the arresting wire, raising his tailhook, and taxiing forward. He followed the directions of the Yellow Shirt and brought the jet to a stop near the waist catapult.

“Stay in your aircraft, Two-oh-one,” he heard the air boss order.

He swiveled around to look back at Gator. “What the hell?”

“We’re bringing in a helo, casualties on board,” the air boss continued, ignoring the comment Bird Dog had inadvertently transmitted over the flight deck circuit. “You did a good job up there — sit tight for a few minutes and let us get the injured out of the way, then you can exit the aircraft.”

Bird Dog twisted further away and saw a helicopter on final approach to the carrier. It was heading for spot three, midway down the long deck in the spot closest to the island. He sighed, turned back to face forward, and slumped in his seat. The events of the last several hours were finally catching up with him. He shut his eyes and relived it for a moment, seeing again the landscape disappearing in a white, furious cloud, feeling again the uncanny sense of certainty and direction he’d gotten just off of the IP. It was magic when it all worked out, no doubt about it, though how he’d ever pulled it off, he’d never know.

“Bird Dog, I-” Gator cleared his throat. “What I said earlier, about trading you in for another pilot. I didn’t mean it, you know.”

Bird Dog hid his grin. Let Gator be the one twisting on the spit for once. No point in making it easy for him. “I don’t know, Gator,” he said doubtfully. “it sounded to me like you meant it. Maybe I ought to think about finding a new RIO, one who’s got some confidence in my airmanship.”

“Anybody who can make the attack you made today, well, I’ll fly with you anytime, Bird Dog. I mean it.”

Bird Dog turned around in his seat again and eyed his RIO straight on. Gator had already unsnapped his mask and shoved his helmet back on his head. A few curls of dark brown hair escaped from the front of it. His face was shiny with sweat and probably felt as grimy as Bird Dog’s did.

Bird Dog performed a contortion, managing to reach a hand into the backseat. “We’re a team, Gator. And you ever try to bail on me again, I’m going to punch you out by yourself over hostile territory.”

“I won’t do it.” The pilot stared straight ahead, hands and feet moving reflexively to keep the helicopter in level flight. “I’m not gonna be the first pilot in naval aviation history to land terrorists on board a carrier.”

Rogov took his own weapon and placed the muzzle against the pilot’s temple. “Are you that eager to die?” he demanded.

The pilot was pale and sweating, and the helicopter started to bob erratically.

“Easy, Jim,” the copilot said, putting his hands and feet on the controls and taking over. “Just do what the man says.”

The pilot shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “I won’t. And you shouldn’t, either.” The muzzle at the right side of his head prevented him from looking at the copilot.

Crack! The single shot from the 9mm was clearly audible over the interior noise of the helicopter. The pilot slumped forward, then sideways, banging against the controls. The man standing behind him reached over, unfastened the harness, and yanked the body out. Blood streamed from the head wound, splashing on the commandos as they dragged him away from the controls.

Rogov turned to the copilot. No words were necessary.

The copilot fought for control of the helicopter, trying to correct, then over-correcting, the motion induced by the pilot’s last clutch at the instruments. Twenty seconds later, with the helicopter once again in level flight, he’d arrived at his decision. “Okay,” he said quietly, his words inaudible but his meaning somehow reaching Rogov. “I’ll take you in.”

The helicopter heeled around and headed for the carrier. The radio squawked as the operations specialist anxiously queried the helo. The air boss had noted its erratic motion in the skies and demanded an explanation.

“Tell them it’s nothing; the pilot had a moment of vertigo,” Rogov suggested. He made it an order by motioning with the pistol. The copilot complied, trying to compensate for the PIO — pilot-induced oscillation — resulting from his trembling hands. He felt sweat bead up on his forehead, then trickle down his face.

Two minutes later, the helo hovered neatly over spot three. At the signal from the LSO, it settled gently to the deck.

The moment it touched down, Spetsnaz poured out of the open hatchway, catching the flight deck crew and medical team by surprise. They brushed past their rescuers, heading for the nearest hatch into the island. By the time the air boss could scream an angry question, and the flight deck crew could react, the first commando had already descended two ladders. The others were fast on his heels.

The terrorists descended two ladders and took a sharp right, a left, and another right. The lead commando paused, getting his bearings. Yes, this was the Flag Passageway, the dark blue tile gleaming as he remembered it from his tours. “That way,” he snapped in his native tongue, pointing to the right. Twenty paces down the corridor was the door to the Flag Mess, which opened into a rabbit warren of compartments including the admiral’s cabin, the admiral’s conference room, and the TFCC beyond. If this ship was anything like the ones he’d visited before, none of the connecting doors would be locked.

The commandos pounded down the corridor, cut through the Wardroom, startling two lieutenant commanders who’d stopped in for a cup of coffee. A replay of a Padres baseball game was playing on the VCR, and one officer dozed quietly in a corner.

After a quick look at their collars, the commando determined that none of them was the quarry he sought. He burst into the admiral’s cabin, checked the private bedroom, then immediately headed for TFCC. By this time, alarms were beginning to sound, putting the ship on general quarters. Intruder alert, intruder alert, the 1-MC blared.

The first alarm caught Tombstone by surprise. His head snapped up, and he whirled toward the entrance of TFCC. Two operations specialists were already moving toward it; one recently abandoning his post at the JOTS terminal to secure the area.

They were fast, but not fast enough. Just as they were shoving the heavy, five-inch-thick steel door shut, the first commando hit it hard with his shoulder. Simultaneously, he wedged his gun into the space between the door and the doorjamb, preventing it from closing. The two enlisted men, unprepared for the full weight of four highly trained terrorists against the door, fell back. Rogov, followed by six commandos, burst into TFCC.

“Excellent,” he said, staring at Tombstone. “You have just made my job much easier, Admiral, by being where you are supposed to be.”

Tombstone stood slowly, imposing iron will over his face. “Who are you, and what are you doing on my ship?” he demanded.

The Spetsnaz commando took a deep breath, as though regrouping. “Who we are is not important, Admiral. What is important is that we have you — and your watch-standers.” He motioned at the aide people scattered around the room. While he was talking, six other commandos streamed into the base. “The emergency exit — back behind the screen,” the commando said, pointing toward the rear of the room. The second team leader nodded and took his men over to it. The dogging mechanism on the door moved easily, and seconds later they were walking into the carrier CDC. From what he could hear, the Spetsnaz surmised that they experienced as little physical resistance to the invasion as the flag spaces had.

“They’ll kill you for this,” Tombstone said levelly. His eyes searched the commando’s face, looking for any break in the passivity he saw there. “What’s more, there’s nothing you can do with this ship. I will give no orders on your behalf, and none of my staff members will obey you. What will you accomplish by this?”

Rogov stepped into the compartment from behind the commandos, and Tombstone immediately recognized that he was the man in command. The Cossack stared at Tombstone for a moment, as though assessing him. Finally, he spoke.

“For your purposes, Admiral, what we want is not nearly as important as what we have. That is to say,” he said, making a gesture that included the entire room, “your people and your ship.”

“What the hell’s taking them so long to clear us?” Bird Dog grumbled. All he wanted now was about six hours’ uninterrupted rack time, followed by a couple of sliders, the carrier version of a hamburger. And some autodog, he decided. Yes, that sounded good — a whole ice cream cone full of the soft brown ice cream that had earned the disgusting slang name. He sighed, settling in to do what all Navy officers learned to do early in their career — hurry up and wait.

“Wonder what the hell’s going on back there?” Gator said curiously. Bird Dog glanced in the mirror an saw his RIO had turned around in his seat and was staring at the helicopter landing spot. “Awful lot of people around there. Hell, we’re at General Quarters.”

He turned around and settled back in his seat. “You hearing anything?” he asked, putting his own helmet with its speakers back on.

“Oh, shit,” Bird Dog said softly. “Gator, they’re gonna launch us again.”

“Launch us? But we just got here. What the hell-” Gator fell silent as he listened to the instructions coming over his own headset. “Armed terrorists on the ship?” Gator said disbelievingly. “I don’t believe — Bird Dog, at least get them to put some weapons on the rack before we launch again,” he finished, resigning himself to the inevitable. “Although what good it’s gonna do with terrorists in the ship, I’ll be damned if I know.”

“Start the checklist,” Bird Dog ordered, all traces of his earlier fatigue now vanishing in a fresh wave of adrenaline. “I don’t know either, but if the air boss wants it, we’re out of here.”

Gator complied, and began reading the prelaunch checklist from his kneeboard. Before he was finished, Bird Dog started taxiing for the catapult. Ordnance technicians scurried about the aircraft, short-cutting most of their standard safety precautions to slap Sidewinders and Sparrows onto the wings.

“No Phoenix?” Gator asked.

“No. And just as well, if you ask me.” Shooting the long-range Phoenix missile was okay for making long-range aircraft go on the defensive, but for what he had in mind he preferred a knife-fighting close-in load out.

“That tanker’s still in the air, at least.” He glanced down at the gauge. “We’ve got enough for a launch, with some time overhead, but I’m going to want to be going back for a fill-up real fast.”

“Air boss says they’re in TFCC and CDC,” Gator reported. “We’ll have to get the air boss to coordinate it.”

“He mentioned that earlier — said the tanker’s in the starboard marshal pattern already, waiting for us. They’re gonna shoot us off, and then get as many of the ready aircraft launched as they can. Although where we’re supposed to go if they don’t get our airport sanitized, I’ll be damned if I know.”

Four minutes later, only partially through the checklist, Tomcat 201 hurled down the flight deck on the waist catapult and shot into the air.

“Where to now?” Gator said.

Bird Dog shrugged. “First we go get a drink, amigo,” he said. “Then we see if Jefferson is getting her shit together, then we worry about where we go. A CAP station, maybe, in case there’s adversary air inbound.”

“It’s a plan. Not sure I can come up with anything better at this point,” Gator agreed. “I’ll help you spot in on the tanker.”

Rogov leveled his weapon at Tombstone. He took a deep breath, and when he started speaking, his voice was firm and forceful. “You will turn this aircraft carrier toward the west,” he ordered. “Due west. Heading for Petropavlovsk.”

“Petro?” Tombstone said, stunned. “Surely you don’t think you can force us to attack Petro.”

“It’s been in your war plans for twenty years, now, hasn’t it?” Rogov countered. “That was one premise of the entire Cold War scenario — that the Pacific Fleet would attack and capture the Soviet Union’s easternmost stronghold, containing the submarines there and destroying the amphibious forces and air-power. After so many years, I would hope you knew how to do that.” He stopped and considered Tombstone’s shocked look. “I will know how, at least. And with an operational American carrier under their control, no Cossack will ever have to curry favor with a foul Russian bastard.”

“You’d turn the Jefferson into a Cossack carrier?” Tombstone asked, dumbfounded at the idea.

“And why not? A cohort of Roman soldiers, a platoon of mounted Cossack — men of war have always had their methods of taking the war to their opponents. Today, the modern equivalent is the aircraft carrier. Who better to understand how to use this vessel? We’re not putting your own war plans to a real test. Instead, you will approach to thirty miles off the coast of Petro, and wait for further instructions.” He fixed Tombstone with a steely glare. “Do not test me on this, Admiral. If necessary, I can have two hundred more Spetsnaz on board within eight hours, more than enough to assist me in controlling your crew. Additionally, if you force me to such measures, we will begin executing one of your crew every five minutes until you agree to comply. We will begin with the women,” he ended, gesturing toward a woman dressed in a flight suit standing in the corner of TFCC. “With her, I think.”

Tombstone felt the blood drain from his face. He resisted the impulse to turn and look at that bright red hair on the diminutive form one last time. Tomboy had returned to the ship.

“I see I have your attention,” Rogov observed. He glanced from Tombstone to Tomboy, and then back at Tombstone. A careful, considering look crossed the Cossack’s face. “So it is like that, is it?” he murmured. “Guard him.” He pointed at two Spetsnaz.

The designated men swiveled around and trained their weapons on Tombstone. Rogov crossed the room quickly, grabbed Tomboy by her hair, and yanked her head back. He pulled her to a standing position and twisted his hands to turn her to face him. “So this is an American pilot,” he noted, touching the gold wings over her left breast.

“I’m not a pilot,” she said sharply. “I’m a naval flight officer — a radar intercept operator, if you must know.”

Rogov’s hand flashed out, and he smacked her across the face. “Then you have learned some bad habits, riding always in the backseat. While I am here, you will speak when spoken to, and at no other time. Is that clear?”

Tomboy stood mute, her face pale except for the red mark on her face where Rogov’s hand had landed. He jerked her up sharply by the hair, causing her to wince.

“Is that clear?” he repeated slowly.

“Yes,” Tomboy spat.

“Good.” Rogov shoved her back in her chair. “In my tribe, a woman is not permitted to wed until she has killed. A pity you have no such customs here.” He turned back to Tombstone. “And that you have so little control over your face and emotions, Admiral,” the Cossack sneered. “it is always dangerous to expose one’s weaknesses to an enemy, is it not?” Rogov turned back to his squad. “If the admiral does not order the ship to turn west in the next thirty seconds, you are to shoot her. Take her into the conference room, since I do not want a ricochet to damage the equipment.”

He turned back to Tombstone. “And I will ensure that you accompany them. I would not want you to miss the lesson especially arranged for you.”

Tombstone prayed that the fear and anger pounding through his body weren’t showing on his face. In his most impassive voice, he said, “She’s a naval officer, nothing more. You can’t force me to do anything by harming her.”

He felt Rogov’s gaze prying at the facade he carefully held in place. “Perhaps so,” the Cossack said finally. “Perhaps. Let me increase the stakes. Tell me, Admiral, have you been notified of a missing civilian vessel in the area? A large fishing vessel?”

Cold coursed through his body. “No, I haven’t,” he lied.

“I think you have. That fishing vessel was merely a demonstration of what one submarine can do to a ship. I believe you call the boat an Oscar.”

“I fail to see what that has to do with me,” Tombstone answered.

“That same submarine is now fifty miles astern of you. If you fail to comply with my orders, I will send every man and woman on your ship to the bottom of the ocean.”