Arctic Fire

CHAPTER 6

Tombstone Magruder held the radio receiver away from his ear. The voice screaming on the other end of the encrypted circuit was clearly audible to everyone in the room. He watched his chief of staff frown, his junior officers struggle to maintain their composure.

Finally, when the voice paused for breath, Tombstone put the receiver back to his mouth. “Yes, Admiral,” he said mildly. “I understand your position. But I’m not certain that there’s anything-” Tombstone stopped talking as the voice on the other end of the speaker resumed its tirade.

Finally, when he’d had enough, Tombstone interrupted. “I appreciate your call, Admiral Carmichael, but I’m a bit confused by your orders. The last time I studied our chain of command structure, ALASKCOM reported to commander, Pacific Fleet, not to Third Fleet. I called to discuss your tactical situation in my geographic area, not give you rudder order. Perhaps I didn’t make that clear.” This time, he kept the receiver at his ear, sacrificing the safety of his eardrums for a little privacy. He waved his hand dismissively at his staff as he listened to the tirade resume.

“Damn it, Admiral Magruder, you don’t have the faintest idea how delicate these matters are. The whole world is watching how we handle the Greenpeace matter, and your precious aircraft carrier can’t seem to find its ass with both hands. How the hell do you explain that?” Admiral Carmichael demanded. “That’s what comes of putting someone with no experience in D.C. in command of such a sensitive region. You have no idea, no concept-“

Tombstone’s temper finally ignited. “With all due respect, I’ve had just about enough. If you wish to discuss ALASKCOM with me, I would welcome your advice and thoughts. However, no one has seen fit to place me under your command, and I’ll be goddamned if I’ll take any more of your abuse. Is that clear? Sir?” Tombstone snapped.

Silence. Then, a faint chuckle. “I’ve heard you had a mind of your own, Magruder,” the voice said thoughtfully, all trace of his prior anger gone. “Now, prove it to me. Show me you’re something besides a hot-hot jet jock who will never get beyond the one-star rank.”

“if we had a few more operational commanders in charge of policy in D.C., Admiral Carmichael, we might end up with a more cohesive national strategy,” Tombstone said tartly. “You may see this as a sensitive political situation. I see something worse. I’ve got a missing civilian vessel, someone shooting at one of my P-3C aircraft, Bear-H’s in the area, and Admiral Wayne’s got indications of activity on a supposedly deserted island. Call me crazy, but I don’t think it’s all a coincidence. Now balance that against your precious island geek and tell me what you’d be worried about — some stupid bird or your air crews?” And that, Tombstone added silently, will go a long way toward telling me exactly who you are.

Static crackled over the circuit as Tombstone waited for the other man to answer. Relationships between admirals could be tricky at best, as those in the highest rarefied circles of naval command and control fought the battle for their own political survival. Tombstone had no desire to join that fray, and if it meant he would retire with one star instead of more, that was fine with him.

“Tombstone — can I call you that? — let’s put our cards on the table,” Admiral Carmichael said finally. “I understand about aviation, and how you folks have your own way of doing business. Believe me, sir, I’ve got no intention of asking your boys to go into harm’s way without adequate backup. But from here, it looks like a civilian vessel that’s got a history of doing sneak attacks on us has gone missing and some asshole Inuit lighting off fireworks. And maybe playing around with a walkie-talkie while your P-3C pilot is thinking Stingers instead of sparklers. I’m willing to be persuaded, though. So start talking.”

A rare smile cracked its way across Tombstone’s face. He’d heard that Admiral Carmichael was a screamer; a flag officer that pushed those junior to him as far as he could with his reputation for an abusive temper. Rumor control also had it that the admiral would back down if confronted, and that half of the purpose of his screaming fits was to test the temperament of those junior to him. “Admiral, I don’t believe in coincidence,” Tombstone said slowly. He considered bringing up the issue of chain of command, and then abandoned it. Admiral Carmichael certainly knew where he stood in the pecking order, as well as whom Tombstone reported to. There was no formal need for Tombstone to tell Admiral Carmichael anything other than what the minimum requirements of courtesy dictated, but something about the man’s reputation and in his voice intrigued the aviator. He would, he decided, make his own judgments about Admiral Carmichael.

“Coincidences are unlikely,” Admiral Carmichael agreed. “What else have you got?”

“You may not have seen the reports yet,” Tombstone said carefully, aware that Admiral Carmichael’s staff may have dropped the ball in getting the information to him, “but Jefferson detected some spurious radio transmissions from the island yesterday. I was willing to buy the vessel-off-course-and-firecrackers theory until I heard that. I called the battle group myself, and asked the staff to relay the pilot reports to me. Regardless of what you’ve been told, sir, there’s no way that was simply some firecrackers. First, the island is largely uninhabited, although Intelligence indicates it’s occasionally visited by Inuits from neighboring islands. Second, the TACCO on that P-3 was an experienced aviator, and he damn well knows what a Stinger aimed at him looks like. No,” Tombstone continued, shaking his head even though the admiral on the other end couldn’t see the gesture, “there’s something going on out around that island, Admiral. I don’t know what, but it falls within the scope of my duties to find out.”

“And within mine to make sure that Jefferson is safe,” Admiral Carmichael said gruffly. “Listen, Tombstone, I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I’m damn well not going to endanger one of my ships if I can help it. You and I are going to have to work together on this matter, and the sooner we get to know each other, the better. Care to come on board for a short skull session with my staff?”

“On board Coronado?” Tombstone asked. “Sir, I didn’t realize you were coming this far north.”

“I hadn’t planned on it, no. We’re doing operations off the coast of San Francisco right now in preparation for Lincoln’s deployment. However, despite what you may think, I’m more than a little concerned about the situation out there. I’ll ask the captain to steam north, commencing immediately, and we should be within COD range by tomorrow. What do you think?”

“COD?” Involuntarily, Tombstone shuddered. As bad as flying on the C-130 out to Adak had been, he hated the workhorse personnel transports more. Suddenly, what should have occurred to him earlier dawned. “Wait. You can’t land a COD on the Coronado.”

“Ah. I see you haven’t gotten the word on something,” Admiral Carmichael said pleasantly. “On the Coronado, a two-seater training Harrier jump jet is considered a COD. The Marines own twenty-eight of the training version, and they’re damned generous about loaning me one. I can arrange for tanking support out of the Air Force in California, and have that Harrier in Juneau in a matter of hours. What do you think?”

“Yes, sir!” An odd tingle of excitement ran down his back. Despite his years of aviation, Tombstone had managed to miss the opportunity to take a check ride in the Marine Corps’ vertical takeoff and landing jet, the AV-8B Harrier. One of the mainstays of an amphibious assault ship air wing, along with the tactical helicopters the Marines used, the Harrier was built in close partnership by McDonnell-Douglas and British Aerospace.

Since its introduction into both nations’ fleets in 1986, it had seen action in Desert Storm, flying missions both from airfields and from U.S. amphibious ships. In one mission alone, four of the AV-8B’s were credited with destroying twenty-five Iraqi tanks. All totaled, the Harriers had dropped over three thousand tons of ordnance during the short conflict.

What made the Harrier seem so alluring to most aviators was its ability to both hover like a helicopter and fly like a jet, with its single Rolls-Royce Pegasus turbofan jet engine providing both lift and thrust. Two large air intakes on either side of the fuselage fed into the upgraded engine, and the swiveling exhaust nozzle replaced conventional systems. Outboard weapons stations could carry a wide range of bombs, air-to-air and air-to-surface missiles, as well as rockets or fuel pods.

“Okay, I’ll have my guys pick you up tomorrow. Our operations people will talk later today to determine the exact flight schedule,” Admiral Carmichael said.

“Aye, aye, Admiral.” A small smile tugged at the corners of Tombstone’s lips for the second time in the last ten minutes. “I’ll be there, sir.”

“Oh, and Tombstone,” Admiral Carmichael said before breaking the connection, “since we’re going to be working together, why don’t you drop the ‘sir’ and ‘Admiral’ business when we’re in private? My friends call me Ben. Big Ben, if you want the whole nickname,” he added unnecessarily.

“Thank you, sir — Ben,” Tombstone said carefully. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Two clicks on his circuit were his only reply. Tombstone turned away from the patch panel in the communications center, all traces of amusement gone from his face as he carefully resettled his public facade. He turned toward the doorway and saw Pamela Drake standing there, an amused smile on her face.

“Can’t ever miss the chance to go flying, can you?” she asked, a trace of bitterness in her voice. “It’s still the boys and their toys, isn’t it?”

“I don’t deserve that, Miss Drake,” Tombstone said formally. “And just what the hell are you doing in communications, anyway?”

She held out a single sheet of typed paper. “Your memo granting us access to certain areas to transmit our releases. Or did you forget?”

“It damned well doesn’t include eavesdropping on my private conversations,” he snapped. “As of this moment, you’re barred from any further access here.”

She walked over to him slowly, an insolent sway in her hips. “Oh, really?” she asked archly. “You seem to forget that we’re still on U.S. soil, Admiral, and I have an absolute right to return to the mainland anytime I wish. And isn’t it going to be a fascinating story that I file from Juneau that ALASKCOM and Third Fleet are pulling a blanket of secrecy over problems in the Aleutian Islands. That they’re holding secret meetings on a ship to decide what to do, and that nobody is bothering to tell the American public what is going on in their own territory. And that civilian ships in the vicinity of USS Jefferson seem to keep disappearing suddenly, with no explanation in sight. Now what kind of lead story do you think that will make?” She smiled.

“Damn it, Pamela, you can’t do this.” His face took on a look of icy rage. “Push me too far, and I’ll have you jailed for espionage,” he said, regretting the words the moment they left his mouth.

“Oh, really?” Her smile broadened. “And the rest of my fellow journalists as well? Or don’t you think they’d notice if I disappeared suddenly, and was held incommunicado.”

Tombstone sighed. Whatever lingering fantasies he’d had about Pamela were fast disappearing. “Okay, tell me,” he said finally. “What will it take to keep you quiet?”

Pamela strolled around the small room, carefully observing the equipment. She glanced up at the overhead, then wrapped her arms around herself. “Claustrophobic, isn’t it?” she said, apropos of nothing in particular. “Being on land too long always makes me feel that way. Not like being on an aircraft carrier, or an amphibious ship.” She looked at him meaningfully.

“You can’t be serious. It’s not even my ship, Pamela. Not that I’d take you on board if it were, but USS Coronado is under Admiral Carmichael’s command, not mine. I have no say in who goes on board, and how. What you’re asking is impossible, never mind that it’s entirely unreasonable.”

She walked forward, stopping only one pace in front of him. She was so close he could smell the unique mixture of sharp, spicy perfume and female that had always driven him insane with desire. Involuntarily, one hand wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder, caress the taut line of her jaw, trace its way down her neck to-Stop it, he told himself sharply. Whatever Pamela had been to him before, it was evident that more had changed than he’d thought with their broken engagement.

“I suggest you see what you can do, then, Admiral,” she said harshly, something ugly in her voice. “Because whatever you’re up to, you and Admiral Carmichael, I damn well don’t intend to be left out of it.”

“Bird Dog, you stupid idiot, do you have the slightest notion of what the concept ‘airspace’ implies?” Gator asked. “Because if you don’t, now would be a very good time to listen to your RIO.”

“Airspace? You want airspace? Then how about this.” Bird Dog slammed the throttles forward and hauled back on the control yolk, wrenching the Tomcat into a steep climb. “Just exactly how much airspace do you want, my friend?” he asked sarcastically, straining to force the words out against the G-forces. “Just tell me when there’s enough.”

“Asshole,” Gator said. “I suppose you thought one hundred feet off the deck was good enough for government work?”

“Skipper said to get a good look at the island, didn’t he? And I wouldn’t want to miss that precious little Greenpeace boat, would I?” Bird Dog shot back angrily. “How the hell am I supposed to see anything if we don’t get up close and personal with the ground and the water?”

“Skipper knows damned well that you don’t have terrain-following radar in this bird,” Gator said, his voice tart. “At one hundred feet, you have absolutely no room for error. If we hit a flameout, a bad drink of fuel, you’ve got no room to recover.”

“Then you ought to be real happy about now,” Bird Dog said. He let the aircraft continue on through 38,000 feet, finally pulling out of the steep climb as the Tomcat started to complain about the attack angle. The aircraft shivered slightly as she fought against gravity, shedding airspeed and approaching the edge of her stall envelope. As the very first tremors that indicated approaching stall speed shook the aircraft, Bird Dog dropped his rate of climb and slowly resumed level flight.

“Hell, can’t you ever compromise?” Gator asked bitterly. “You forget who’s on your side, Bird Dog. Me. The guy who stuck with you through the Spratlys, the guy who climbs into the backseat of this goddamned Tomcat every day with you, and the one who has to keep answering questions from CAG and the admiral about why I can’t keep you under control. You want a new RIO? Fine, you got it. As soon as we get back to the boat, I’ll ask for a crew swap.”

Bird Dog considered his RIO’s words. Gator sure sounded pissed off. True, he played smart ass with the balls to the wall climb, and he had to admit, one hundred feet was a little outside the envelope. Still, he’d been flying safe, hadn’t he? They were both still alive, weren’t they? And just what exactly was the point of being a fighter pilot if you couldn’t have a little fun?

“Gator?” Bird Dog said hesitantly. “Listen, okay — you’re right. Don’t put in for a crew swap, okay?”

There was no answer.

“Aw, come on,” Bird Dog wheedled. “I promise I’ll cut it out, okay? Don’t make me take another RIO.”

Gator sighed, “Damn it, Bird Dog, when are you going to buy off on the concept that there are two of us in this aircraft? You treat me like I’m some sort of idiot backseat scope dope, somebody who doesn’t matter a damned bit until you’ve got a MiG on your ass. Then you start screaming for vectors and angles, all at once wanting to know where the bad guys are. How do you think that is for me?”

It was Bird Dog’s turn to fall silent. Even after eighteen months of flying with Gator, he’d never really stopped to consider how his actions affected the RIO. Gator was just — Gator, he guessed. His RIO, his backseater, the man he depended on for information that kept his ass out of the sling. When there was combat, that is. Other times, he had to admit, he didn’t stop to think about what his RIO was doing in the backseat.

What a lousy way to make a living, he thought, considering the plight of the RIO. Strapping into a Tomcat, but not getting to do any of the fun parts. Jamming your face up on the radar hood around the scope, twiddling with knobs and buttons instead of experiencing what was probably the closest thing to heaven on earth — flying the all-powerful, awesome, MiG-beating Tomcat.

“You’re right, Gator,” he admitted finally. “You’ve kept me from getting killed a couple of times so far, and I still haven’t treated you right. Sir,” he added belatedly, suddenly remembering just how senior Gator was. The latest results from the Commanders’ Selection Board had just come out, and Gator had been advised that he’d been selected for promotion to commander, as well as for an executive officer tour in a Tomcat squadron. Bird Dog, still two years away from even a deep look at the lieutenant commander’s board, was just a barely ripened nugget compared to the man in his backseat.

“Don’t start with the ‘sir’ shit,” Gator said wearily. “I won’t put it on for another year. But truthfully, Bird Dog, I’m getting tired of this crap. Every other week, you’ve got me standing tall in front of CAG. Enough’s enough.”

Bird Dog nosed the Tomcat over and began an orderly descent back to a reasonable altitude. He leveled off at six thousand feet and put the Tomcat into a gentle orbit over the island. He recognized the tone in Gator’s voice too well. Words were not likely to convince him not to request a crew swap at this point. Only some good, orderly flying, something that demonstrated the teamwork that was supposed to exist between a pilot and a RIO.

“Hold it, I — Bird Dog, take us back around the other direction,” Gator ordered suddenly.

Without questioning his backseater’s directions, Bird Dog snapped the Tomcat sharply around. He waited.

“Those radio transmissions Intel briefed — I thought I caught a sniff of them. Can we get down and take a closer look?”

Bird Dog resisted the temptation to note that only minutes earlier Gator had been complaining about low-altitude flights. Instead, he began executing a search pattern over the small chunk of ice and rock below.

“There it is again,” Gator said. He flipped his microphone over to Tactical and began an earnest conversation with the operations specialist on board Jefferson. Finally, after a few moments, he asked Bird Dog to move back into a higher orbit.

After they leveled off at ten thousand feet, Bird Dog said, “Could you tell me what that was about?”

Gator smiled at the unusually meek tone of voice. “I told you, I got a sniff of that radio frequency they’ve been talking about. And if you will recall, my dear fellow, just yesterday there was a P-3 screaming bloody murder about seeing someone launch a Stinger from this very island. You do remember Stingers, I hope?”

Bird Dog snorted. “How could I not?”

“Well, unless you want to insist on trying to take out one with a Sparrow, I suggest we stay at ten thousand feet. And you keep your old Mark I MOD 0 eyeballs peeled up there. The first sniff we’re gonna have will probably be visual — if we get that much warning.”

Bird Dog shivered, then settled down into a tactical mind set. If there were Stingers in the area, then the last thing he needed to do was be surprised. It would only happen once.

White Wolf pulled the boat up close to Kiska, wincing as he felt the keel scrape along the bottom. The island was just as inhospitable as its western brother. Kiska jutted out of the sea, and its coastline, for the most part, consisted of a sheer plunge down into the black, freezing water. Only a few feet of hard, barren rock survived under water, but it was enough to hold the old boat off from the island.

He motioned to Morning Eagle, who nodded, then leaped from the bow of the ship onto the land, the mooring line trailing behind him. He tossed the circle at the end of the line over a wooden pole, then raised his hands to show White Wolf the task was done.

White Wolf locked the cabin behind him and disembarked, making the leap from boat to shore easily. Should have used the pier, he thought, then dismissed the idea. The only functional pier was almost three miles away, located on the other side of the island. Between the time it would take to moore, fire up his ancient cold-weather Jeep, and motor back over to his home, too much time would have passed. What they’d seen on the island was important — so important that a few minutes might make a difference.

White Wolf tugged on the line once, making sure it was still solid and secure, then settled into a brisk walk toward the structure fifty feet away. At one time, it might have been a simple Quonset hut, but years and the necessity of surviving in the frigid climate had worked modification on it. Now, packed over with ice and snow, the best insulator available, it looked more like an igloo than a conventional structure. The two smaller buildings, housing a generator and some spare parts, were similarly encrusted with snow and ice.

He walked up to the front door, tugged it open, and pulled it shut behind him immediately. Morning Eagle walked off in the direction of the small outbuilding that housed their generator. A few moments later, White Eagle heard the steady rumble of the generator kick in. He flipped a light switch, and the overheads came on. He waited a few minutes, to make sure the power was stable.

Finally, when it appeared that there were going to be none of the unexpected current fluctuations that wreaked havoc on electronic circuitry, he walked over to the far side of the small hut and flipped on a master power switch. Two gray metal cases crackled to life. He patted one of them thoughtfully and smiled. Army equipment, built to last and survive in even these spaces. He ran his finger lightly over the metal equipment property tag riveted to one side. It had been years since he’d last fired this equipment up, too many years.

Or maybe not enough, depending on how you looked at it. He wasn’t even sure if the old frequencies, call signs — and circuit designations that he’d memorized so long ago would still work.

As he waited for the circuits to warm up, he heard the front door open, then slam shut, and felt the brief blast of frigid air circulate in the small space. Morning Eagle walked over to the gear and stood beside him.

“I didn’t think we’d need this again,” Morning Eagle said finally. “But under the circumstances-“

“There are not many choices,” White Eagle said mildly. “We both know they would want to know. Whether or not they’ve had the foresight to continue to monitor this net is up to them. We can only do our part.” He stared at the row of green idiot lights, all brightly assuring him that the gear was still operational. “We won’t know until we try.”

Morning Eagle nodded. “That’s all we can ever do.”

“Sir!” The enlisted technician looked up. “I think you might want to come back here.”

“Can it wait?” Commander Busby asked. He glanced over at the aircrew he was debriefing and shrugged apologetically. He already knew that it couldn’t from the tone in the technician’s voice.

“No, sir,” the enlisted man said grimly. “I think this has probably waited too long,” he added cryptically.

“Which circuit?” Commander Busby asked.

“I think you’d better see for yourself, sir. I’m not sure I believe it myself.”

Lab Rat made his excuses, and moved quickly back toward the top-secret EW surveillance vault. The technician waited at the heavy steel door, holding it open for him.

Lab Rat stepped inside the space, noting the small cluster of EW technicians located near one particular piece of gear. He snapped his head back to stare at the senior enlisted man who’d called to him. “You must be joking.”

The technician shook his head. “Wish I were, sir. But it’s for real. They’re broadcasting in the clear. They tried coming up on the last code they had, but it was so old we can’t even break it. Then they just went into the clear, without even asking permission.”

“Damned civilians,” Lab Rat muttered. He walked over to the circuit and picked up the microphone. “What have they told you so far?” he asked before depressing the transmit key.

The intelligence specialist looked up. “They’ve given us two code names, which I’m having verified by Third Fleet. I think they may have to go higher up than that — doesn’t sound like something they’d have access to immediately.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t really say, sir, but there’s a system for assigning these code names — or at least there was, years ago. These two I think I recognize. But it’s been years,” he said, almost to himself. “They can’t still be in place, not after that many years.”

“What are you talking about?” Busby said sharply. “If it has to do with CVIC, I’m cleared for it.”

The intelligence specialist glanced at the other technicians in the room, and then made a small movement with his head. Lab Rat took the hint. “Everyone else out for a few minutes, okay? We’ll get you back in here as soon as we can.”

The other technicians dispersed reluctantly, intrigued as they were by the voice coming over the ancient equipment that hadn’t operated in years. Sure, they’d done periodic maintenance checks on it, and even maintained it in readiness as part of their watch, but none of them had ever seen it used.

When the last of them filed out, the intelligence specialist checked the door behind them. Satisfied that it was shut, he turned back to Commander Busby. “CIA. Many years ago, during the Cold War. I’ve seen those two names a couple of times on intelligence reports, back when I was with DIS — Defense Intelligence Service. But that was ten, maybe fifteen years ago.”

“The CIA? You’re sure?” Busby asked.

The technician nodded. “As sure as I can be after all these years, Commander,” he said. “You remember how it was back then. The Soviets had nuclear ballistic submarines deployed north of the Aleutians in the Bering Sea. As part of our surveillance program — paranoia, we’d call it now — the CIA had a number of agents in place, scattered around the islands. Their orders were simply to observe and report back. You may remember, there was a time when the CIA was afraid Russia was going to invade via the Aleutian Islands. At the very least, having tactical control of the passages between the islands put them in a better position if they ever had to sortie their submarines for an attack on the continental U.S. So we had people there.” The technician shrugged. “I’m sure it seemed like a reasonable precaution at the time.”

“But they’re still in place?” Busby asked. “After all these years?”

The technician nodded. “Evidently so. Or at least, someone who’s pretending to be them. There’s no way I can authenticate these transmissions, since these stations were supposedly deactivated years ago.”

“What are they transmitting on?”

The technician reeled off a series of numbers and nomenclature, none of which answered the real question pounding in Busby’s head. “Okay, so maybe some of them kept an HF radio after the CIA withdrew support. Gear like that would be useful. Hell, they could always tell the Company it was lost.”

“I think you’d better talk to them, sir,” the technician said quietly. He handed Lab Rat the microphone. “Because if what they’re saying is true, we’ve got a real problem here.”