Arctic Fire

CHAPTER 5

Commander Busby frowned and stared at the technician standing in front of him. “You’re sure about this?”

The technician nodded. “No doubt in my military mind, sir.” The younger man pointed at a series of lines stretching across the printout. “Look at those frequencies. Those aren’t from military communications. Not ours, anyway.”

“What are they from, then?” Busby asked. The three lines on the paper that the technician pointed to were cryptic strings of numbers, indicating frequencies and times of detection. To anyone else, it could just as well have been a report from a Supply logistics computer. He smiled for a second, wondering how many top-secret reports looked just as mundane.

“What’s your best classification?” he asked finally, tapping his pencil on one column of numbers. “These frequencies — this isn’t a long-range system.”

“You’re right about that. I’d call it some sort of short-range tactical system — maybe even hand-held. Look how the signal strengths vary so widely. Could be caused by geography — somebody walks behind a rock and the antenna’s not fully extended, you get that sort of dip.”

“Did you check with our SEALS? Maybe they were playing with some of their toys.”

The technician smirked. “Thought you might ask about that. And no, it’s not our SEALS. The frequencies don’t match up at all.”

Commander Busby sighed and tossed the paper on his desk. The last thing he needed right now was evidence of unknown short-range tactical communications in their vicinity. He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing a chart of the area. Nowhere those signals could have come from but the islands to the north. He opened his eyes and saw that the technician had come to the same conclusion.

“This is impossible, you know. Just how am I supposed to explain to the Admiral that we’re detecting radio signals from the godforsaken rocks called the Aleutians? Nobody lives there, and we’re certainly not ashore. If we’re wrong about this, we’re going to stir up a hell of a lot of trouble for nothing. Every intelligence group on board and back home is going to get their shorts twisted in a knot over this.”

The technician nodded. “Yeah, but if everybody were where they were supposed to be all the time, they wouldn’t need us, would they?”

Busby motioned to a chair sitting next to his desk. He reached for his coffee cup, curling his fingers gratefully around the warm, rough ceramic mug. The temperatures in CVIC–Carrier Intelligence Center — consistently hovered around the sixty-degree mark. Maintaining a stable, cool temperature inside the most sensitive spaces on board the carrier was one of his continual headaches, and no one had ever been able to come up with a compromise between the needs of the sophisticated equipment jammed into these small spaces and the human beings who operated it. As usual, operational requirements won out over human comfort.

“Okay, we need a game plan,” Busby said finally. “Make me look smart here, Jackson.”

The technician scooted his chair over next to Busby’s and picked up the printout. “You can read it yourself, Commander; I know you can. Maybe some of those fellows believe you don’t know everything that goes on back there, but not me.”

“Pretend I’m dumb for a minute. Chances are, you’ll explain something I would have forgotten to ask about.”

The technician shot him a sardonic look. “Okay. See, here’s the first detection,” he said, pointing his pencil at the fifth line from the top. “Short duration — only two minutes. High frequency — you see, right here in this column?”

“Yeah, I’ve got that. But tell me how we know it’s tactical communications.”

“The signal breaks up. If this were a large transmitter, one drawing a hell of a lot of power, it would blast right around some of the obstructions. Instead, we get these changes in signal strength that indicate somebody’s moving around. Or maybe walking around a rock, or something like that. Not something you see, except on mobile field communications.”

“You ever seen these frequencies before?”

The technician shook his head, paused, and a thoughtful look crossed his face. “Something like it, but not this one exactly. Way back in A School, when we were studying the old Russian Bear. You remember, back when we had an enemy? Hearing about the Bear-J that’s been in the area reminded me of it.”

“So what does it look like?”

“I’m not certain, sir, but I remember one day they played back for us some short-range Spetsnaz communications. Looked a little bit like this.” The technician shrugged. “Course, no telling who’s using all that gear these days. They could’ve farmed half of it out to the border guards. And, like I was saying, there’s nothing really unique about this, except for the frequency. In the range of short-range tactical communications, and not one of ours. That’s about all I can tell you for certain.”

Busby thought for a minute, then hauled himself out of his chair. “Guess I’m about as smart as I’m going to get, then. Thanks for the briefing, Jackson. I’ll let the admiral know what’s happening.”

The technician took the hint, and rose to walk out of the office. He turned right at the doorway, heading back to the even chillier operating spaces within CVIC. At the heavy steel cipher lock that shut his spaces off from the rest of the intelligence center, he paused, then turned back to watch Commander Busby’s figure disappear around the far corner.

Lab Rat. The technician chuckled a moment, wondering who had first hung that moniker on the diminutive Commander Busby. Good call, whoever had done it, although he thought the commander might have wished for a more impressive nickname. But with his pale, almost colorless hair, bright blue eyes magnified behind thick Coke-bottle glasses, and generally frail, nervous appearance, Commander Busby hadn’t had a chance in the world of avoiding that one.

Wish all officers were more like him, the technician mused, punching in the numbers that would open the cipher lock to his outer door. Professionally demanding, tough to work for, but he took good care of his troops. And no pussyfooting around when it came to threat signals. The commander had said he’d take this straight to the admiral, and he would, carefully shielding his technicians from the myriad political considerations that would arise once the report went out.

The heavy door swung open, and a slight puff of air caressed his face, the result of the positive pressure gradient between the sensitive crypto spaces and the rest of CVIC. Jackson stepped over the shin-high knee-knocker and shoved the door closed behind him, waiting to make sure he heard the ominous click announcing the door was secure.

Well, it would be up to the admiral to decide what they did now.

“You think this is really something?” Batman asked Commander Busby.

“Define ‘something,’” Busby said. “if you mean, do I think it’s a valid detection, the answer is yes. But what it means — that I don’t know, Admiral.”

Batman sighed. “And you can’t tell me what was said on the circuit, just that somebody was transmitting?”

“That’s about it. It was all encrypted. With enough time, enough resources, NSA might be able to make something of it, but we can’t here. And I’m not even sure that NSA could break it that fast — there are too many good commercial encrypters on the market these days.” Busby shook his head. “I know the U.S. has tried to keep control of digital encryption technology, but other nations aren’t quite so vigorous.”

“So for all we know, this could be that Greenpeace boat communicating with their people back in the States?”

Busby shook his head. “Not at that frequency. You’d see a high frequency — HF — for that. One thing we’re relatively sure of, this was a short-range signal.”

“Satellite?”

“Not enough power. No, Admiral, I was hoping that would be the case, but this signal has no other reasonable explanation. None that I can come up with, anyway.”

“Damn it. And we can’t ignore it.” Batman handed the commander the printout sheet and stood up. “Well, I’ll have our people check it out. You’ll want to debrief them as soon as they return, I imagine.”

“The SEALS?” Busby asked.

Batman smiled grimly. “They’ve spent the last three months running laps in the hangar bays, taking up hours on the Stairmaster machines, and generally chafing at the bit. I imagine their commander is going to be more than eager to jump on this one. And what better way to check out a spurious radio signal from an island than to send in the SEALS?”

The ocean was peculiarly calm, cloaked in an uneasy, expectant hush Rogov had come to associate with the quiet before a williwaw. The covered lifeboat, pressed once again into service as a shuttle between the submarine and the shore, bobbed gently against the hull.

Rogov set one foot on the first rung of the ladder, paused, and turned back to the executive officer, now in command of the boat. “You understand your orders?”

The executive officer nodded. “We remain surfaced until you signal that you are ashore, then maintain the original communications schedule for the next two weeks. If you fail to make four consecutive scheduled contacts, I am to return to base immediately and report the lack of contact to the man you have designated.”

“And?”

“And to no one else,” he added quickly. “My word as an officer, it will be done.”

Rogov studied him for a moment, then let a grim smile of approval cross his face. “Very well. On your word. That will mean as much to you as it does to us.”

“You may depend on it.”

Rogov put his other foot on the first rung and started descending the ladder to the boat. Halfway down, the expression that had lulled the executive officer so easily melted into something that would not have calmed the most junior sailor on board that boat.

Rogov fingered the transmitter in his pocket. Cossacks never left enemies at their back. In this situation, four pounds of high-explosive plastic compound cemented to the wall of their dead skipper’s stateroom would ensure it.

Two thousand meters later, he pressed the button. The Kilo shivered, then the ocean around her fountained up in a gout of metal, machinery, and men.

“Goddamned carrier jocks,” Lieutenant Commander Bill “Ramrod” McAllister grumbled. “Be nice if they could learn to tell the difference between a civilian craft and a tanker.” He put the P-3 into a gentle, left-hand bank, circling the large commercial vessel located below. “Even at this altitude, I can tell what it is.”

“We going in for a closer look?” Lieutenant Commander Frank “Eel” Burns asked.

“Not unless you really think it’s necessary. I can tell what it is from here,” the pilot replied.

“Yeah, well, if we drop down and rig it out, it might be good practice. Not damned much else to play with out here,” Eel replied.

“All right, all right,” the pilot snapped. “If it’ll keep you guys in the backseat from playing with yourselves, we’ll go take a look.” He nosed the P-3 Lockheed Orion over and headed toward the ocean below them.

Eel glanced uneasily at the antisubmarine warfare technician sitting next to him. AW1 Kiley Maroney, an experienced technician with five cruises under his belt, shrugged. He made a small movement with his hand, signifying a continuation of a discussion they’d dropped before boarding the aircraft. Pilots had their moods, and all a decent backseater could do was put up with it. When it came down to tactical command, they both knew that the man sitting in front of them would do what they needed.

“How ‘bout we take a look at the island at the same time?” Eel suggested. “Jefferson claimed she got some strange signals coming off that island last night. Wouldn’t hurt us to take a look.”

“I tell ya, it comes from too many arrested carrier landings,” the pilot said, continuing the diatribe he’d started earlier that day. “Scrambles their brains, it does. Just look at that,” he finished, standing the P-3 on one wing to circle around the massive foreign-flagged tanker below them. “That’s exactly where they reported that Greenpeace ship at. Does that look like a converted fishing vessel to you?”

“No, it certainly doesn’t,” Eel said slowly. “And I don’t think even an F-14 jock could get the two confused.”

“Well, if that’s not what they reported, where the hell is the Greenpeace ship?” the pilot demanded. “I tell you, slamming into the deck that many times a day just rattles their brains. Ain’t a damned one of them that’s got a bit of sense.”

“Let’s go back to your first question,” Eel suggested. “Where the hell is the Greenpeace ship? We know she’s out here — too many people besides that Tomcat jock have seen it.”

“Oh, it’s out here, all right; I don’t doubt that,” the pilot answered. “But we try to work these things out so the carrier turns over some decent locating data to us. Some hotshot just made a bad report, and now we’re going to have to research the whole area. And it’s not like they’ll get tasked to do that themselves — nothin on the carrier’s got long enough legs to pull the shifts that we pull.”

“The S-3 might-” the technician started.

The pilot cut him off with a sharp laugh. “Yeah, like we can get them to agree to do surface surveillance,” he said angrily. “If it doesn’t involve dropping sonobuoys, they try to snivel out of the mission. People, we’re gettin’ screwed on this one.”

Ten minutes later, after completing a detailed report on the superstructure of the tanker as well as a close scrutiny of the flag flying from her stern, the P-3 climbed back up to altitude.

“The island?” Eel suggested again.

“Give me a fly-to point,” the pilot replied.

Eel busied himself on his console, laying in course and speed vectors to take them directly over the last island in the desolate Aleutian chain. Finally satisfied with his plan, he punched the button that would pop it up on the pilot’s fly-to display.

“Got it,” the pilot announced. The P-3 immediately leaned into a sharp right-hand turn. “Looks like about twenty minutes from here.”

Eel flipped the communications switch over to the circuit occupied only by himself and the enlisted technician. “What you thinking?” he said quietly. “Me, I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Me neither, sir,” the technician said uneasily. “Too many ghosts. That same F-14 jock reported a disappearing radar contact right before his Greenpeace locating data. Me, I’d want to check that out a lot more carefully.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you. Especially with these EW — electronic warfare — signals that keep cropping up. Too many unexplained oddities in this tactical world.”

“I’m staying heads up on the ESM gear, sir,” the technician replied. “And the frequency they reported is well within our capabilities. If somebody’s talking down there, we’ll know it.”

“They landed, cleaned the fish they’d caught, ate, then left,” the commando reported.

“And your men weren’t seen?” Rogov demanded.

The Spetsnaz officer shook his head. “There was no sign of it. The men were well hidden in the cliffs, and the natives left immediately after they’d eaten.”

“Then why did they come ashore at all?”

The commando shrugged. “Who knows why these people do anything? Maybe their gods told them to; maybe one of them had to take a crap. All I can tell you is that they came, they left. I’ve left two men on watch there, but we won’t be able to keep that up forever. The hike across the cliffs takes too long.”

“Keep me advised.”

Rogov stared up at the clear sky, which was already starting to darken as the short day ended. At this latitude, there were no more than a few hours of daylight out of every twenty-four. Dismal living conditions, especially when the frequent winter storms obscured even those few hours of sunlight. He shook his head, marveling at the strength of his ancestors who survived the long march across this land bridge to enter the North American continent.

He snugged the cold weather parka more closely around his face and readjusted the wool scarf covering his mouth and nose. After only a few hours ashore, his goggles were already slightly pitted from the blowing ice crystals. A thin tracery of ice had taken hold around the edge of one lens. He considered taking the goggles off long enough to clean them, but the memory of the sharp cold that had bitten into his face last time he tried that dissuaded him.

The Spetsnaz commander had been absolutely insistent on the importance of maintaining an outside watch, and rightly so. Rogov was tempted to remove himself from the watch rotation, but in the end decided that he would take his turn in order to assert his equal standing among the small band of trained killers he commanded. He shook his head as he turned around, scanning the horizon and air above him. Two days ago, he hadn’t known he’d be worried about that.

Living under Aflu conditions was already proving more harshly draining than he ever dreamed possible. Subsisting on field rations, trying to catch a few shivering hours of sleep in the dank cave, and pushing the men to complete the foundations for the weapons systems had taken more out of him than he thought possible. Was it possible, he wondered, that he’d been a fool to insist on supervising this mission personally? At forty-eight years of age, he was a good fifteen years older than the most senior Spetsnaz here. How significant that was hadn’t shown up until he’d come ashore.

Somehow, the Spetsnaz seemed to thrive under the hostile, alien conditions. The danger, cold, and deprivation just seemed to bring a gleefully unholy look to their eyes. Nothing bothered them, not even the small section of ice cave crumbling in on them last night, almost landing on Rogov. He’d cried out, he remembered, when the first slabs of ice had hit his sleeping bag. The disdain in the other men’s eyes had been evident.

Off on the horizon, the thin traces of color were already deepening, evidence of the approaching dark. A flicker of movement caught his eye. He squinted. Had he seen something or was it just — no, there it was again, barely visible against the gloom.

He raised the radio to his lips, then paused. If it were a military aircraft, he ran the risk of its detecting the radio transmission. Better to be safe, he decided, and tucked the radio back into the oversize pocket on his parka. He turned and moved quickly toward the entrance to the ice cave.

The Spetsnaz were assembled and standing together as he entered the cavern. That was another spooky thing about them — their instantaneous reaction to any change in their surroundings. Between the time the first icy draft from outside had penetrated the cave and the time that Rogov had stepped across the threshold, they’d all piled out of their sleeping bags and grabbed their weapons. Now, looking at them, he could not tell that seconds earlier they had all been asleep.

“An aircraft,” he said. “The radio — it occurs to me that maintaining tactical communications with it is a dangerous idea.”

The Spetsnaz commander nodded. “As we discussed. However, I recall you were not quite so ready to listen to that suggestion earlier.”

“Assemble your team,” Rogov ordered unnecessarily, ignoring the intended rebuke. “I do not like the thought that the aircraft is headed directly for us.”

The Spetsnaz commander spread his hands out, palms up, as if to say, what preparations? Clearly, the men around him were already ready for action.

“Then take your posts,” Rogov snapped, annoyed — and, he admitted to himself, the tiniest bit afraid — that they’d readied themselves so quickly. But then, that was to be expected, wasn’t it? These were, after all, the finest unconventional warfare experts in the world.

The men slipped out of the ice cave quietly, each one heading directly for a previously scouted position. They would be, Rogov knew, even now snuggling down into the concealment they had either discovered or created. The odds of their being detected by the overflying aircraft were zero.

Almost zero, he corrected himself. He glanced over at the Spetsnaz commander, who was waiting.

“You will take the Stinger,” Rogov ordered. The Spetsnaz commander’s smile deepened.

“You see anything?” the pilot asked.

The copilot shook his head in the negative. “Not a damned thing except ice and water. Too damned much of both.”

Toggling on the ICS switch, the pilot said, “You happy now?”

Eel glanced over at the technician, who shook his head wordlessly. “We’re not detecting anything,” Eel admitted reluctantly. “One more circuit, just to make sure. Then we’ll head home.”

“That’s all it will be, then,” the pilot said. “Flying this low — I’m not doing anything that gets me below a real healthy reserve on fuel. Not over this water.”

“Understood. If someone’s down there, they ain’t talking now.”

As the aircraft started its final circuit over the island, cruising at barely three thousand feet above the land and water, Eel stared out the small side window at the rugged, desolate terrain, wondering what it was that made him so uneasy.

From his concealed position in the scree located at the base of the cliff, Rogov watched the black speck grow larger. Within minutes, he could distinguish the stubby-nosed profile of a P-3 Orion.

He nudged the Spetsnaz commander at his side, who looked over at him, annoyed. “You see?” Rogov pointed out. “Had we used the radios, they could have undoubtedly triangulated on our position.”

The Spetsnaz commander shrugged. “That will not make any difference in a few moments.” He shrugged himself up off the ground and raised the Stinger missile tube to his shoulder.

“Look! Over to the right!”

Eel moved over to a starboard window, trying to see what had excited the two pilots.

“I saw movement — I know I did,” the copilot’s excited voice said. “Just near the base of that cliff. In the rubble.”

Eel brought the binoculars up to his eyes and trained them on the area. Nothing, nothing, nothing — wait. He tweaked the binoculars into sharper focus. Against the shades of white and gray that made up the arctic landscape, an odd shadow protruded at an awkward angle. He looked at the ice above it, trying to decide what escarpment would cast such a — damn it!

He snatched up the nearest microphone and shouted, “Get us the hell out of here! There’s someone with a Stinger missile down there.”

“How can you be so sure?” the copilot’s surly voice came over the circuit.

Eel felt the P-3 jerk sharply upward as the pilot ignored his fellow aviator’s question. The pilot had been around long enough to know that if the TACCO wanted the aircraft out of the area, it was better to just do it and ask questions later. Explanations took time, and sometimes a few seconds made the difference between life and death.

“Altitude, now!” Eel insisted. “Just shut the fuck up and-“

The black cylinder nestled among the chunks of ice moved, shortening in length as the deadly firing end pointed directly at them. He stared at it with horrified fascination. The heat-seeking warhead carried enough explosive power to knock the wing off a P-3, or to seriously damage an engine. Even if the aircraft managed to stay airborne, what might be a minor mechanical problem or minor battle damage in these climates could soon turn deadly. He stared at the missile launcher, trying not to think of the barely liquid water beneath them. If they went in — no, he couldn’t think about that. They were as good as dead if they had to ditch the aircraft. In these waters, they wouldn’t even stay conscious long enough to escape the sinking airplane. They would be unconscious and drowning before they could reach the hatch.

“Flares!” he shouted. “Flares, chaff, and altitude — now,” he ordered.

The angle on the deck steepened as the P-3 fought for altitude. The range on the Stinger missile was only three miles. Three miles, and Pathfinder 731 was well within those parameters.

“He’s seen us!” The Spetsnaz commander stood, hefting the missile easily on his shoulder. “No other choice, now.”

“Stop it!” Rogov struggled to his feet, wondering when the ability to move so quickly had left him. “Didn’t you see the tail markings? That’s an American aircraft.” He put one hand on the rugged missile barrel.

“So?” The Spetsnaz commander bore-sighted the aircraft, trapping its tail end easily in the cross-hairs of the simple scope. “If she gets a report back to her base, our mission is blown.”

“No! If you shoot down that aircraft, there’s no chance. Do you think the Americans would let that go unavenged?”

The Spetsnaz commander shrugged, barely moving the missile off its target. “It is already compromised beyond recovery if they’ve seen us. You failed to follow my advice in this matter.”

“You agreed with posting the sentries. You insisted on it,” Rogov shouted.

“Yes, but I also said that they should return to the cave if contact were gained. You ignored that. No, this is all your fault.”

Rogov saw the man’s finger curl around the firing trigger as he braced himself for the recoil. “No!” he shouted. As the Spetsnaz’s finger tightened, Rogov slammed his fist down on the top of the tube.

The Spetsnaz commander was quick, but not as quick as the missile. As the tube started its downward arc, the missile left out, quickly gaining speed. Before it could recover from its initial firing vector, and begin seeking out the heat source that had called to it so sweetly just moments before, it impacted the barren ice and snow below. The fireball explosion blasted both men.

“You fool!” The Spetsnaz commander tossed the empty tube away, murder in his eyes. “The rest of the missiles are in the cavern. There is no time-” His voice broke off suddenly as he saw the pistol in Rogov’s hand.

“There are many chances, Comrade,” Rogov said sarcastically. “You had yours — now, I’m afraid, we’ll have to do things my way.”

The Spetsnaz commander moved swiftly, almost blurring in Rogov’s vision. But he’d been prepared for that. At the first movement, he fired, aiming not for the head but taking the more certain gut shot.

The Spetsnaz commander howled as the 9mm bullet gouged out a bloody path through skin, muscle, and vital organs. The impact spun him around, and he finally fell to the ice, on his back, leaving a trail of spattered blood behind him.

His guts steamed, and blood pooled quickly over the parka, freezing almost immediately. Rogov watched the color drain from the man’s face. He was tough, he would give him that. The Spetsnaz commander, even with half of his midsection in shredded tatters, was trying to climb to his feet, reaching for his weapon, still fighting despite the soon-to-be-fatal shot.

Rogov watched him, unwilling to get too near the man while even a trace of life remained in the body. He saw the man fumble in his pocket for his pistol, and ventured close enough to him to kick his hand away.

Rogov crouched down in the snow, still well out of reach of the Spetsnaz, and aimed the pistol at the man’s temple. “You don’t understand everything — not at all,” he said softly, pitching his voice low. He glanced around him briefly, wondering if the other men had heard the shot. Probably not with the silencer still affixed, although there was no telling how long it would be effective in this climate. Even now, he suspected, the cold had frozen the extended cylinder permanently to the barrel.

“They will kill you for this,” the Spetsnaz managed to gasp. “Kill you.”

Rogov smiled. “Did you really believe that was our mission?” he asked. Rogov shook his head. “And I was worried about you,” he admitted.

He could see the Spetsnaz commander’s face turning pale as blood flowed away from the brain, struggling to replace the frozen, pulsing mass in the man’s midsection. “Since you’re dead, I’ll tell you,” Rogov said. “In memory of your bravery, however foolhardy. There are no missiles on the way, Comrade Spetsnaz. None at all. There never have been, there never will be. Do you really think that we would be so foolish as to provoke an international incident by planting our own guns and missiles on American soil?” He shook his head again, wondering about the inflexible military mentality that made such lies plausible to men like this. “No, it is a much deeper plan than that,” he finished.

The Spetsnaz commander gave one final gasp, and then grew still. Within moments, Rogov could see ice starting to rim the delicate tissues exposed to the elements.

Now what? he wondered. This possibility had been discussed, that he would have to eliminate one or more of the Spetsnaz commandos. It had seemed a far easier — and safer — plan back in Russia, but now the difficulties seemed to have increased logarithmically. If it had been anyone except the commander, he thought, and shook his head again. No, this is the way it would have to be. Tension between the men had already been running too high. With the commander eliminated, there was at least a fifty-fifty chance the rest of the men would obey him unquestioningly, yielding with that peculiarly Slavic resignation to authority. And perhaps this would increase his stature within the group.

He debated for a moment trying to hide the body, and then decided against it. The Spetsnaz would, he was certain, send out patrols to try to locate the missing commando. Better that they know where it was now, and that Rogov admitted responsibility.

He stood and watched the speck that was the P-3 Orion dwindle in the distance. Now it was time for the next phase of the plan to unfold. He trudged down the slope to the cavern to await his new subordinates.

“Jesus, did you see that?” Eel yelped.

“You betcha.” The pilot’s voice was grim, “And I don’t care what Intelligence says, there damn well is somebody down there. Radio emissions, ghost contacts — hell, it’s entirely different when somebody starts shooting missiles at YOU.”

“Better lucky than good,” Eel said automatically. He stared back aft at the frozen landscape fading in the distance behind them.

Had they been lucky? one part of his mind wondered. They had to be — what else could explain the missile impacting with the ground instead of clawing up the ass of the Orion? A misfire, perhaps? Or something wrong with the guidance system on the Stinger? He shook his head, wondering at the possibilities. The Stinger was among the most simple weapons to operate, a feature that made it popular with every insurgent nation around the world. Simple, easily transportable, and almost unbearably deadly. It had been the advent of Stinger missiles on the ground in Afghanistan that had driven back the potent Soviet air force, and forced the Russians to a virtual defeat there.

As the adrenaline started to fade away, he felt his hands quiver. One Stinger missile versus one P-3 Orion aircraft — no contest, he decided. A Stinger would do fatal damage to the aircraft too quickly, and the lumbering Orion had too few tricks up its sleeves to evade it. The flares might have worked, but at that point, Eel was unwilling to bet his life on it. And glad he hadn’t been required to.

“You mind giving me a fly-to point for home?” the pilot said harshly. “I think there are some folks on the ground who are going to be mighty interested in talking to us.”

Eel returned to his console, automatically running the configuration of speeds and distance vectors necessary to take them back to their home base in Adak. That done, he punched in the communications circuit of their home base and began trying to raise the operations officer. After a few seconds, he broke off, and called up the USS Thomas Jefferson, asking them to come up on the same circuit. He had a feeling that the carrier battle group to the south would be at least as interested, if not more so, in what he had to tell his boss.

White Wolf crouched behind the ice and rock, hugging up close to it. He felt the vibrations from the explosion radiate through his bearskin parka, felt the intricate crystalline structure of ice and rock tremble beneath his sensitive fingers. Some small part of him reached out to the surrounding cliffs and rocks, searching for any sign of instability. Long experience with avalanches and earthquakes had bred into the native Inuit population an uncanny ability to sense the movement of the earth around them.

White Wolf glanced at his grandson, Morning Eagle. While the younger man had less time treading the frozen tundra of their homeland, four years of service in the United States Army Special Forces had brought his earth skills up to par with his grandfather’s.

Their eyes met, and agreement passed between them. No, there was no immediate danger — at least not from this explosion. The earth around them would stay secure and stable, but neither was certain that the same could be said for the people crawling around Mother Earth’s surface. White Wolf made a small motion with his hand, barely a movement. The other man nodded. They moved out silently, wraiths against the barren arctic landscape. Forty paces down the path, a bare trail that no one except an Inuit could have spotted, White Wolf paused. Morning Eagle stopped five paces behind him, far enough away that they would not both be immediately caught up in any break in the thin crust of ice ahead. Then the younger man heard it, too.

They moved to the edge of the path, climbed two small shelves, and peered down at the campsite below them. The sharp glare of light was almost painful to their eyes, accustomed as they were to the gentle days and long nights of the arctic winter. Fire ringed a crater in the ice, the center of which was burning a hellish red-gold in the midst of the blackened, crusted circle.

White Wolf pointed at the men assembled below. Four of them — five counting the dead body they’d seen further down the trail.

After watching the intruders for ten minutes, the Inuits slipped silently away, back to the other side of their island and to their boat. The noise of the outboard motors couldn’t be avoided, but they decided that the safety distance from the island would bring was worth the risk. Even so, White Wolf surmised, the white men arguing on the ice on the other side of the small island would probably not even understand what had happened. But the Inuits did — oh, yes, they certainly understood this latest skirmish in the ongoing battle between two giant nations laying claim to the Inuit territory.

And, given half a chance, the Inuits would have a say in their own destiny. That they would.