Arctic Fire

CHAPTER 2

Rear Admiral Matthew Magruder forced himself to relax the tight grip he had on the seat’s armrest. The worn upholstery on the C-130 transport plane was testimony to the years that it had been in service in the United States Navy.

How many times had it made this trip? he wondered. Five hundred? Two thousand? He glanced around the cabin, trying to distract himself from the tricky approach onto the Adak Island airfield, wondering how many other admirals and other dignitaries had made this same flight during the last five decades. Not many in recent years, he would be willing to bet. And this would be one of the last ones, since he was en route to Adak to preside over the decommissioning of the last P-3C Orion squadron assigned there.

He looked down and saw his fingers had curled around the armrest again. The nubby, well-worn fabric was rough and slightly oily under his hands. He grimaced and shook his head. Like most naval aviators, Rear Admiral Magruder despised being a passenger. An F-14 Tomcat pilot himself, he found it particularly unsettling to be strapped into a seat thirty feet away from primary flight controls. He felt the plane shift slightly, and his left foot pressed down automatically, trying to compensate for the aircraft’s slight wobble.

“Please remain in your seats,” a terse voice said over the speaker. “We’re getting some strong crosswinds. Normal for this part of the Aleutian Islands, but it makes for a tricky landing.” A slight chuckle echoed in the speaker. “Don’t worry, folks, I’ve done this about eight hundred times myself.” The speaker went dead with a sharp pop.

Eight hundred times, Magruder thought, and tried to relax. I had that many traps on an aircraft carrier by the time I was a lieutenant commander. Now, with over three thousand arrested carrier landings, Magruder was one of the most experienced pilots in the Navy. He would have gladly foregone the promotions that went along with that.

Three months ago, he’d been commanding the carrier battle group on board USS Thomas Jefferson, responsible for the safety and well-being of over five thousand crew members and aviators, as well as close to one billion dollars in equipment. Jefferson had been on the pointy end of the spear, intervening in a conflict between China and the southeastern Asian nations over the oil-rich seafloor around the Spratly Islands.

And this is my reward. His uncle, Vice Admiral Thomas Magruder, had warned him at his change of command that he was up for an exciting new assignment. Tombstone had spent two months at the Naval War College for a quick refresher in intelligence and satellite capabilities, along with an update on Special Forces capabilities. It had been difficult to put the information in context, since his ultimate duty station was still classified top secret.

Alaska. When the word had finally come, learning that he was to be commander of Alaskan forces with sole operational responsibility for everything from Alaska across the Pacific Ocean, it had been a letdown.

They might as well have told me I ought to go ahead and retire. ALASKCOM might have been a big deal back during the days of the Cold War, when Russian submarines routinely plied the straights between the Aleutian Islands, but it was a backwater post these days. The Soviet forces lay rusting and decaying alongside their piers, with the exception of some long-range ballistic missile submarines that still deployed under the ice cap. The SOSUS station and most of the P-3 squadrons that had been stationed at Adak during the Cold War had either been decommissioned or pulled back to CONUS — the continental U.S. The Aleutian Islands, along with the frigid Bering Sea to the north of it, were a tactical wasteland.

Still, his uncle had promised him that it would be a good deal more exciting than he thought. He sighed, staring out the window at the thick white clouds now racing past the double-paned plastic. Surely his uncle had something in mind besides a touchy landing in strong crosswinds on a remote island.

Not only was this assignment operationally uninteresting, but it also put a crimp in his personal life. During his time on Jefferson, he’d finally broken off his long-term engagement to ACN reporter Pamela Drake. It had been partly due to the realization that neither one was willing to give and take enough with their career priorities to make it work. Additionally, Pamela had been increasingly uncomfortable with the more dangerous aspects of his chosen career. It was all right for her to go flitting off to the most dangerous combat areas of the world to report her stories, but the idea of Tombstone launching off the carrier to take on adversary air over the Spratly Islands was more than she could take. They’d ended it just as Tombstone was realizing his attraction to one of the hottest female aviators in the Navy.

He felt his mouth curl up in a smile, an expression that would have surprised most of the officers who’d worked with him in the last twenty years. Lieutenant Commander Joyce Flynn, “Tomboy” to the rest of the squadron. The name suited her, although it didn’t adequately describe the more delicious aspects of the petite, redheaded female naval flight officer. While they had both been assigned to the Jefferson, a relationship had been impossible. Tombstone had been in command of Carrier Battle Group 14, while Tomboy was a RIO (radar intercept officer) in VF-95, a Tomcat squadron on board. Faced with the possibility that his tactical decisions would put her in danger, and knowing the Navy’s strict policy against fraternization, they had finally come to an agreement to put everything on hold until they’d both transferred off the ship. The possibility of Washington, D.C., tours for both of them had been exciting. But now Tombstone took a deep breath. A lousy operational assignment and separation from Tomboy seemed to be in his future. Last month, Tomboy had received notification that she had been selected for the test pilot program in Patuxent, Maryland. Pax River — the big brass ring for every naval aviator, flying the latest in tactical and surveillance aircraft, getting to see the future of naval aviation up close and personal. As much as it hurt, he knew he couldn’t have asked Tomboy to pass up that opportunity. He wouldn’t have himself, had it been offered.

Knowing it was the right thing to do didn’t make it any easier, though. They’d carved out two weeks together, and spent them in Puerto Vallarta, on the Pacific coast of southern Mexico. He smirked, thinking about the comments his colleagues had made when he’d come back from vacation with hardly a sunburn. If they only knew how much of their lovemaking had been at Tomboy’s instigation!

The speaker crackled to life again. “If you look out the port window, you might be able to see that we’ve got company,” the pilot’s voice said, a determined casualness masking what must be mounting tension in the cockpit. “It doesn’t happen often anymore, but the Soviets — excuse me, the Russians — still decide to send their Bears out to play with us from time to time. One joined on us about twenty miles back. He’s edging in a little closer than I’d like under the circumstances, but there’s not a whole helluva lot we can do about it right now. I’ll keep you posted.”

Tombstone craned his neck and stared out into the thick cotton-candy cloud cover. Slightly behind the C-130, he could make out an occasional silvery flash of light, behind them and above them. The Bear, solidly in place behind the C-130 in a perfect killing position.

Why would a Russian Bear aircraft find tracking a C-130 transport down to an almost deserted naval base of such critical interest? Tombstone felt his gut tighten and the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his instinctive reaction to the possibility of airborne danger. Something wasn’t right. What, he couldn’t say just yet, but every tactical instinct in his body was screaming warnings.

Most variants of the long-range turboprop aircraft were reconnaissance aircraft, configured for antisubmarine warfare (ASW) or electronic surveillance, with their only offensive weaponry three pairs of 23mm NR-23 guns in remotely activated dorsal and ventral turrets. While the guns were generally thought to be primarily for defense, even those weapons could pose a deadly danger to the unarmed aircraft he was in. Additionally, and far more worrisome, both the Bear-H and — G versions carried long-range air-to-surface cruise missiles.

He unbuckled his seat belt, raised one hand at the flight engineer who stood up to order him back to his seat, and went forward. He identified himself through the closed door, and stepped into the small cockpit.

“What kind of Bear?” he asked immediately.

The pilot glanced at the copilot, who was staring back aft, searching for the contact. “He’s not certain, but he thinks he caught a glimpse of a large ventral pod. If he’s right, that makes it a Bear-J.”

The copilot looked away from his binoculars for a moment. “I’m pretty sure I saw it, Admiral.”

“A Bear-J. Now what the hell would it be doing out here?” Tombstone said, puzzled.

The Bear-J was the Russians’ version of the U.S. Navy’s EA-6A and EC-130Q TACAMO aircraft. It possessed VLF — very low frequency — communications gear that enabled it to stay in contact with national command authorities and missile submarines from almost anywhere in the world. The ventral pod housed the kilometers-long trailing wire communications antenna. The aircraft was slightly over 162 feet long, with a wingspan several feet larger than that. In addition to its guns, the Bear-J could also carry the largest air-launched missiles in the CIS inventory, and sported outsize, extremely fine resolution radars.

“Have you told anyone about this?” Tombstone asked.

“Your people already know. And Jefferson — she’s on station for the Greenpeace monitoring mission.” The pilot couldn’t entirely keep an offended note out of his voice. “Admiral, we’re five minutes out from Adak.” The pilot motioned toward the extra fold-down seat in the cockpit. “If you’d like to stay, we’d be pleased to have you in the cockpit for the landing.”

As long as I park my butt before you have to order me to and I quit second-guessing you, Tombstone thought, a sliver of wry humor cutting through his concern over the Bear. The only thing worse would be if you had to explain how I got smashed up when the landing got rough. He took the hint and strapped in, turning sideways and craning his head around to look forward. He might be three grades senior to the pilot, but as long as they were in the air the pilot had command of the aircraft and was responsible for the safety of the passengers. And that included keeping senior officers from getting themselves hurt.

The copilot reported that the Bear was now maintaining position two miles behind them. He then abandoned his binoculars and resumed the prelanding checklist that the Bear had interrupted.

Flying this close together in marginal weather was a foolishness Tombstone would have never permitted in his own air wing. Not unless the tactical situation were critical.

Maybe this tour would be as interesting as his uncle had promised, after all.

Ten minutes later, the fighter was orbiting above the radar contact’s position, barely two thousand yards above the ocean. Bird Dog could see the rough chop of the waves, the massive shape of a whale moving below them, the clear sky — and nothing else.

“Where the hell did it go?” Bird Dog asked.

“Damned if I know. But it was there before.”

Bird Dog heard the frustration in Gator’s voice. “Well, maybe it was a submarine,” he said skeptically. “I suppose it’s possible. But I’d bet on the fellow down there.” He watched the whale surface, flip a tail at the aircraft, then dive.

Gator snorted. “About time you started believing me on radar contacts, Bird Dog. A biologic doesn’t give that solid of a return, if you see it at all. After the Spratly Islands, I would think you’d be a little bit more cautious about sea ghosts.”

“Just because you were right that time doesn’t mean you’re right every time.”

During the Spratly Islands, the first clue that China was behind the aggressions had come from Gator’s sighting of two intermittent contacts on radar. At the time, Bird Dog had voiced his opinion loudly that Gator had been drinking too much coffee, and was making radar contacts out of sea clutter. When an island five thousand feet below them had disintegrated into a massive cloud of tank fragments, bodies, and bamboo building materials, Bird Dog had been forced to admit that his RIO was right.

“Let’s circle this area for a while, see if we pick anything else up,” Gator said, his voice holding no trace of animosity. “I know what you think about sea ghosts, but this wasn’t one of them.”

“Okay, let me call Mother and tell her what we’re up to. Damnit, Gator, we’re going to end up tanking again if we stay out here much longer.”

“You might want to consider doing it earlier than you need to,” Gator said, tension creeping into his voice.

“Why? You holding out on me?”

“No. It’s just that I don’t want to be running short on fuel if something unexpected comes up. You know the old saying — better safe than sorry?”

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to rub it in.”

Bird Dog made the call to the carrier and told the operations specialist on the other end what they’d seen. Or rather, what they’d not seen. The OS sounded dubious, and dropped off-line for a moment to confer with the tactical action officer (TAO).

While Bird Dog was waiting for an answer, Gator gave off a sharp yelp from the backseat. “Look! And you talk about sea clutter!”

Bird Dog put the Tomcat into a tight left-hand turn and studied the ocean below. A glossy black shape was lurking just below the surface, a huge man-made leviathan. “Holy shit,” he said softly. “Jesus, Gator, what is it with you and submarines? There are probably no more than two or three Russian submarines deployed in this whole ocean, and you get me marking on top of the only one within two thousand miles.”

He could hear the smugness in Gator’s voice as the RIO replied, “Guess I’m just good.”

“Or lucky.”

The tactical channel was now chattering with demands for information, directions to maintain contact, and anxious queries about their fuel status from the OS. Finally, a familiar voice cut through the chatter.

“Tomcat Two-oh-one, say identity and classification of submarine.” The slight Texas twang was all Bird Dog needed to hear.

“I don’t know, Admiral — wait, let me drop down a little.” Bird Dog shoved the control yoke forward, and started down toward the surface of the ocean. He arrested their descent at two thousand feet above the ocean, continuing to circle over the contact to get a better look at it.

“An Oscar,” Gator said softly. “That’s the only thing of that size that would be out here.”

“You sure? It could be a Typhoon at that size.”

“No.” Gator’s voice held a note of finality. “I can see enough of the sail structure from here to make the call. That’s an Oscar, no doubt about it.”

Bird Dog relayed the information back to Mother, and then felt a slight chill as the implications started to settle in.

The Oscar was the latest cruise missile ship in the Russian inventory. It had one, and only one, primary mission in life — killing American aircraft carriers. The building program had begun at Shipyard Number 402, located at Severodyinsk, in 1982, during the height of the Cold War. The Oscar I and the later Oscar II were the largest submarines to be built by any nation, except for the Soviet Typhoon ballistic missile boat and the U.S. Trident SSBN.

The Oscar carried the SS-N-19 Shipwreck antiship missile, with either a conventional or nuclear warhead. With a range of greater than three hundred nautical miles and a speed of Mach 2.5, the five-thousand-kilogram missile was a deadly threat to any surface ship. The Oscar could receive targeting information from most Soviet tactical aircraft, as well as satellite downlink positioning. Both of those assets permitted it to fire at surface ships well outside its own sensor range. In addition to the Shipwreck, the Oscar carried the SS-N-15 and S-16 torpedoes. Although hard data was scarce, her 533mm torpedoes were reputed to be capable of speeds up to forty-five knots, transporting a high-explosive or nuclear warhead of 1,250 pounds on a straight run, or in acoustic homing mode. Supposedly, one of those torpedoes exploding under the keel of a carrier would be sufficient to break the carrier’s back.

“How far away from the carrier is she?” Bird Dog asked. He winced, hearing the slight tremor in his voice.

Gator’s voice was dark and somber. “Four hundred miles, right now. But with her speeds, there’s nothing to say she couldn’t close that to within Shipwreck range within one day.”

“You’d better tell the Admiral. I think he’s going to be real interested in this.”

Rear Admiral Edward Everett Wayne, “Batman” to his fellow aviators, swore quietly as he listened to the RIO’s report. An Oscar. Great. Just when every asset in the United States Navy had been lulled into a peaceful sense of security because of the demise of the Soviet Union, an Oscar turns up. What the hell were the Intelligence people thinking? And why hadn’t he had any warning at all about this possibility?

He stared at the large blue video screen that dominated the forward bulkhead of Tactical Flag Command Center (TFCC). Judging from the relative geometry, the carrier battle group would be safe from the Oscar for at least another day, maybe more, depending on what course she followed.

“Get some Vikings in the air. Now,” he snapped. “It’s time we got some work out of them.”

“I imagine they’ll be happy about that,” his chief of staff, Captain Jim Craig, remarked. “Their CO was telling me he’s getting damned tired of ferrying mail back and forth for us. To have a real submarine problem, as nasty as it may be, that’s meat and potatoes for the S-3 Viking ASW aircraft.”

Batman nodded sharply. “It’s the kind of opportunity I don’t want to have on this cruise. I told Tombstone I’d keep his people safe.”

The TAO, seated at his console two feet in front of Batman, swiveled his chair around and looked at the admiral. “Sir, we need to get that Tomcat some more gas if she’s going to mark on top while we prep the S-3s. He’s got enough gas to stay on station for another hour and still make it back safely, but-“

Batman cut him off. “Good thinking. Better to have too much gas than too little. The first situation you can fix — the second you can’t. Make it happen.”

The TAO turned back to his console and talked with his counterpart located in the Combat Direction Center (CDC), fifty feet forward on the ship. After a hurried conversation, he toggled the circuit off and turned to the OS manning the plastic status board located on the right side of the TFCC. “Put down Seven-oh-one and Seven-oh-two for the next two events. Seven-oh-three and Seven-eleven will be in Alert Fifteen. And we’re launching another tanker now, now, now.” Without waiting to see if the OS had caught it all, he turned back to his console.

“An Oscar. What does that suggest to you?” Batman asked his COS.

Captain Craig looked thoughtful. With thirty years as surface ship officer in the Navy, four at-sea commands under his belt, and an advanced degree in ASW systems from the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, he had forgotten more about submarines than Batman had ever known. “Nothing good. She could make us real unhappy characters by just staying within weapons release range.”

“And that Bear-J up around Adak doesn’t make me breathe any easier. Based on that, I think we have to assume that the Oscar has detailed targeting information on the entire battle group.” Batman turned back to the screen. “And is in contact with Russia’s military command. The question is, why? Is this just another one of those political statements, or something worse?”

Captain Craig shook his head, a weary expression crossing his face. “And I thought we’d seen the last of these games. Figured I’d make one last deployment, then think about retiring. It’s starting to sound like I might want to put that off some.”

Batman clapped him on the shoulder. “Better now than ten years from now,” he said. “The Navy needs us Cold Warriors — after all we saw, we’re the only ones with the right suspiciously paranoid mind-set to detect the first signs of trouble.”

The COS shot him an amused look. “Do I detect a lack of confidence on the admiral’s part in our superb intelligence network?”

Batman snorted. “Hell, they couldn’t even tell us when the Wall in Germany was going to come down, and every last one of them missed the breakup of the Soviet Union. Given that, what do you think the odds are that they detect a reunited commonwealth on the move again?”

“I wish to God I didn’t agree with you, Admiral. But I do.” The chief of staff stared forward at the screen watching the arcane symbology that represented the battle group, her aircraft and escorts, steaming west just south of the Aleutian chain. “And I hope to hell both of us are wrong.”

“You think she knows we’re here?” Bird Dog asked.

“Probably,” Gator answered. “At this low of an altitude, we’re putting a helluva lot of noise into the ocean. I thought I saw an ESM antenna pop up there a little while ago. Either way, I think we can count on her knowing we’re here.”

“Well, there’s not much she can do about that, is there?”

“I don’t think so.” Bird Dog’s voice sounded doubtful. “But after the Spratlys, with those surface-to-air missiles on that submarine, I’m not feeling so safe and secure orbiting over a submarine anymore.”

Bird Dog swore quietly to himself, wishing he’d paid more attention to the last intelligence brief. Did the Oscar carry a surface-to-air missile? And if so, what was the range? “How about we move on up to four thousand feet?” he asked. “Just give us a little safety room.”

“No objection from back here. I think I’ll still be able to follow her — from that altitude. I’ll let you know.”

Bird Dog tapped the throttles forward slightly and put the Tomcat into a slow, graceful spiral upward. He glanced overhead and saw the heavy, thick bottoms of the clouds looming above him. “Three thousand, maybe,” he said, hazarding a guess. “I’ll throttle back so you can keep a visual on her.”

At 2,800 feet, just below the bottom of the clouds, Bird Dog leveled the Tomcat out. Gator informed him that he still had a clear, if slightly fuzzy, visual on the massive black hull sliding through the water.

“Who would’ve thought we would have been able to see her?” Bird Dog said. “That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, the whole purpose of a submarine is to remain hidden. Doesn’t she know that the water is so clear up here that we can see down thirty or forty feet?”

“That’s what worries me,” Gator said soberly. “The Oscar can fire her Shipwreck missiles while submerged, and there’s absolutely no reason for her to stay at shallow depths for any period of time, not unless she’s coming up for a communications break. And if this were a com break, she would have already stuck an antenna up, squirted out her traffic, and been back down at depth. There’s only one reason for her to stay shallow like this.”

“She wants us to see her? Why?”

“I’m flattered to think that you believe I can read the mind of a Russian submarine commander,” Gator said sarcastically. “But for what it’s worth, I can think of only one reason that she would stay this shallow. She wants us to see her.”

“Why?”

“That, my friend, is the real question.”

The C-130 shuddered to a halt, using up most of the runway as it gently braked. The Bear aircraft had broken off when they’d started their final approach to the small island airstrip, and now circled overhead at fifteen thousand feet.

Tombstone paused at the C-130 hatch and stared out at the cold, barren island before him. The hard arctic wind buffeted him, and the movable metal steps now rolling up to the aircraft swayed gently. He sucked in a deep breath and felt the frigid air sear the delicate tissues of his lungs.

In the distance, he could see a forlorn line of P-3 ASW aircraft parked on the tarmac. Just a few years ago, there would have been two complete squadrons of the Orion aircraft permanently stationed here, ready to pounce on the first sniff of any Soviet submarine that ventured into these waters. Now, due to downsizing, or right-sizing, as some called it, he thought bitterly, most of the United States Navy assets were being pulled back to the mainland. Only these five aircraft remained on this isolated base, the forward edge of the American continental security envelope. He looked over in the other direction and saw the squat gray concrete building that housed the SOSUS station, now silent and cold. Adak had been a challenging duty station for generations of ocean systems technicians, but the bean-counters in the Pentagon had decided this forward-deployed ASW capability was no longer needed.

The peace dividend. He snorted. What they never seemed to realize was that peace was a temporary state of affairs between conflicts. By stripping herself of so much fighting capability, America simply guaranteed that a long, economically painful, and manpower intensive buildup would be required the next time. And there would be a next time, he thought, surveying the westernmost base under his command. Regardless of how much the politicians claimed they’d achieved it, and how much the everyday citizen wanted it, he couldn’t convince himself that this peace would last. It was merely a matter of time before it crumbled.

The rickety steps finally reached the aircraft, and two technicians hurried to decouple the frail structure from the small yellow tractor towing it. By hand, they pushed it over against the aircraft. Its forward lip clanged against the scarred and battered surface of the C-130.

Tombstone wrapped his parka around himself more tightly, grateful that his supply clerk back in ALASKCOM headquarters had insisted he take it, along with the thick, fur-lined gloves now snuggled in his pockets. He reached for the metal railing, intending to make the short dash down the ladder and to the waiting van without the gloves.

A technician grabbed his hand as he reached for the railing. “Sorry, sir, but you’ll want to put those gloves on first. You touch that metal, we’ll have to bring the hot water out to unfreeze your hand from it.”

Tombstone nodded his thanks and pulled the gloves on before stepping out of the aircraft and onto the metal platform. He touched the metal railing and felt the bitter cold seeping through the thick leather and fur. The man who had grabbed him had been right. He walked down the steps, feeling the structure shudder and sway in the forty-knot gale. By the time he reached the van, only twenty feet away, the cold was already seeping through the parka and his face was numb.

As he climbed into the front seat of the van and looked across at the young female petty officer driver, a memory flashed into his mind. Brilliant sun, the gentle pounding of Mexican waves against a clean, white sandy beach. And Tomboy, nestled under his arm, pressing gentle curves into the hard, lean lines of his own body. He smiled, wondering what she would think if she could see him now, decked out like an Eskimo.

“Welcome to Adak, sir,” the driver said. “I understand this is your first trip here?”

“Sure is.” He glanced at the front of her uniform, wondering what her name was, but her stenciled nameplate was covered up by the bulky cold-weather gear. “And you are?”

“Petty Officer Monk,” she said, the hard edges of a New England accent clipping her words off. “I’ll be your driver while you’re here, Admiral,” she added, candidly assessing him.

“I don’t imagine we’ll need to go a lot of places,” Tombstone said. “After all, the base isn’t that big, is it?”

“No, Admiral, but you’ll want a driver even to get between most of the buildings. This cold,” she said, shaking her head, “I thought I’d be used to it, but this takes even me by surprise.”

“Maine?” Tombstone asked, hazarding a guess.

Her face brightened. “You’ve been there?”

“Several times. Did a lot of skiing up at Sugarloaf years ago.”

She nodded vigorously. “Only about forty miles from my hometown,” she said happily. “Gets cold up there, but nothing compared to Adak.”

Something about the young sailor reminded Tombstone of Tomboy. It wasn’t just the physical similarity, he was sure, although Petty Officer Monk was about the same size as his lover. No, it was something in the set of the eyes, the bright gleam of mischief that not even naval courtesy and custom could entirely dim.

“Oh, by the way, Admiral,” Petty Officer Monk said suddenly, breaking into his reverie. “A few members of the press arrived yesterday on the last C-130 for the decommissioning ceremony. There’re only three reporters, though,” she added hastily, seeing the expression of dismay cross his face. “Just one from a major network.”

As the last passenger climbed into the van, Petty Officer Monk started to pull away from the aircraft. She’d left the engine running while sitting there.

“And just who might that be?” Tombstone asked, already feeling a curious, pleasant fluttering in his stomach. If it were …”

“Miss Pamela Drake,” Monk said cheerfully. “She’s staying at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters — BOQ — but most of us have gotten a look at her. She’s from ACN.”

Pamela Drake. Why wasn’t he surprised? Tombstone shook his head. During the last ten years, Pamela had managed to turn up on every major press pool covering United States Navy operations, particularly those that involved a certain Matthew Magruder. At first he’ thought it was coincidence, but on his last cruise, Pamela had finally admitted that she never passed up an opportunity to cover anything involving Tombstone. When they’d finally broken their engagement, he thought those days would be over.

Evidently not. A new thought struck him, and he grimaced. Now just what would Tomboy have to say if she found out that Pamela Drake was on the same isolated island as her lover? He shook his head, quite sure that it wouldn’t be pleasant.

“Okay, we got it,” the voice said over Tactical. “Solid visual on the COI — contact of interest.”

“About time you guys showed up,” Bird Dog grumbled. “This is a fighter, not a babysitter.”

“We do our best, but our max speed is four hundred and forty knots,” the other pilot retorted. “You might be able to get here faster, but you can’t do a damned thing about her while she’s submerged. We can,” he concluded smugly.

Bird Dog stared out the windscreen at the squat, blunt-nosed S-3 Viking ASW aircraft. She was less than half the size of the Tomcat, he figured, but her long fuel endurance and highly efficient engines enabled her to remain on station far longer than the Tomcat could have dreamed of without tanking. Two Harpoon antiship missiles hung slung on either side of her fuselage, with two torpedoes on each wing occupying the outer weapons stations. Evidently, the carrier took this business seriously, sending out the S-3s fully armed.

While the Tomcat could carry a wide range of antiair missiles and bombs, there was damned little it had against a submarine. Rockeyes, ground-attack missiles that carried a payload of bomblets, could be effective against a submarine on the surface, but the Tomcat had no anti-surface or torpedo capability whatsoever. Indeed, on this flight, which was intended to be a simple quick look-see at the Greenpeace ship, Tomcat 201 carried only a minimal weapons load-out, more for training than for any other purpose. Sidewinders graced the outer weapons stations, with two Sparrows occupying the ones closer to the fuselage. They’d elected to forego the longer-range Phoenix missiles, whose massive weight significantly reduced the Tomcat’s onstation time.

“Okay, we’re out of here. You guys take this bitch out if she even so much as moves like she’s going to take out my stereo,” Bird Dog said.

“Don’t worry about it,” the S-3 pilot said dryly. “You might have noticed that you and I live in the same apartment building.”