Pamela caught the change. “It’s still there, isn’t it?” she said softly. “Me, too, Stoney.”
He sighed. “And the more senior each of us gets, the less likely we’ll do anything about it. For now, let me see if I can bore us both for a few minutes.”
She regarded him speculatively. “Maybe that’s better for now.”
“You know about NGOs — nongovernmental organizations,” he began. “They’re always a factor in policy decisions, regardless of whether the government wants to admit it or not. These groups have more power than many of the strongest lobbies in the United States. Things like the American Red Cross, the Ralph Nader groups, the nonprofit corporations-“
“And Greenpeace,” she finished. “I understand that part, but why is it important now?”
Tombstone pointed to a large map on the wall behind him. “The Aleutian Islands, that’s why. They stretch from the tip of Alaska in a long, south-curving arc over to Russia. At the closest point, the last Aleutian Island is only eleven miles from Russian soil. For centuries, the people who lived there wandered back and forth between the two countries, ignoring all the political boundaries that we set up from five thousand miles away. But during the Cold War, that changed.”
“Because they’re so close to Russia?”
He nodded. “During the days when we were concerned about Russian submarines, the Aleutian Islands contained some of the most advanced listening posts and tracking stations in the world. In addition to that, here on Adak, four P-3C Orion squadrons were stationed in case we ever escalated into full-out war. Up to the north of the Aleutian Islands, in the Bering Sea, the Soviets used to conduct regular ballistic missile patrols. With the long-range missiles on the Delta-IV and the Typhoon ballistic missile submarines, those boats damn near don’t have to leave port to strike any place in the continental United States. But they deployed them to the North Sea, under the ice, to make them harder to find.” He shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe what a tactical nightmare it is, trying to track a submarine under the ice. Sonar echoes off the ice overhead as well as off the ocean bottom. The water is so cold that there’s virtually no temperature gradient. Sound energy travels straight to the bottom and, if you’re lucky, might reflect back up to be detected. Add to that the noise caused by ice floes, icebergs calving, and hordes of snapping shrimp, and you’ve got a virtually sonar-proof environment.”
“So that’s the reason for the Aleutian Island stations. But how does that fit in with Greenpeace?”
“Downsizing. We can’t afford to maintain all these stations, so it’s essential that we convince the American people that they’re not really needed anymore.”
“And you’re saying that’s not true?” She reached almost reflectively for her tape recorder, and then forced herself to stillness.
“I’m not saying anything. We’re off the record, remember? And as to how Greenpeace fits into this — well, they’re a very powerful organization. In the last fifteen years, they’ve developed an array of international contacts and supporters. Most of the time, we’ve been at loggerheads with them. If we do anything except make a full-out push on the search for survivors, the Greenpeace advocates who haunt the halls of Congress will claim that the United States military left them out to die. No one will ever question why they were up there in the first place in a boat not well suited for those waters, or whether some fault on their part led to this tragedy. Instead, it will become all our fault. The military is the favorite punching bag for every problem in the world these days. Someday soon, I expect to see the Navy blamed for crime in the streets and welfare problems.”
“That’s not fair,” Pamela said sharply. “Many of the things I’ve reported on were the United States Navy’s fault. The problems with women on ships, the death of that aviator — don’t tell me that some of these weren’t caused by the Navy pushing through unqualified people.”
“We’ve had our problems, true,” Tombstone acknowledged. “But no more than any large organization. You’re talking about somewhere around half a million people — the United States Navy is a huge organization, Pamela. You’re going to get some bad apples in it. There’s no way to screen them all out.”
“So you’re saying this search for survivors is primarily politically motivated?” She shook her head. “The Tombstone I knew ten years ago wouldn’t have seen it that way.”
“And the Pamela I knew ten years ago wouldn’t have blind-sided me in a press conference like you did yesterday,” he shot back angrily.
She stood. “I guess this concludes this off-the-record interview, doesn’t it? And it’s still the same old thing. You and the Navy, that’s all you ever think about.”
He gazed at her, feeling the sense of familiarity and longing wash out of him. “I guess it is, Miss Drake,” he said softly. “But just remember — you’re the one who said it first.”
The Spetsnaz stuffed the four holes bored into the ice with plastic to keep out the blowing ice and snow. That accomplished, the commander ordered them out into a surveillance patrol. The men split up into their two-man teams and began a careful survey of their temporary home.
The island itself was twenty miles long and five miles wide, and was one of the smaller outcroppings of the Aleutian chain. Two men headed west, examining the first plain that led down to the water. The other two headed east, climbing gear in hand, and set out to explore the ragged crust of ice that formed the upper boundary of the island.
The first half mile was relatively easy going, and they needed no more equipment than their hands to ascend the steadily increasing slope. After that, however, their progress was broken up by the need to set pitons in the jagged surface and relay up the slopes one after the other. While climbing it freestyle without the aid of ropes and climbing gear was well within their capabilities, their commander had cautioned them that they were to take no chances. With only five men on the island until reinforcements arrived, casualties were completely unacceptable.
After a brief discussion, the two Spetsnaz commandos headed for the highest peak they could find, a promontory that jutted nine hundred feet above sea level. They spent the better part of an hour climbing it, checking along each stage of the way to make sure their tie-off points and ropes were set securely in the ice. Another time of year, any slight warming might have rendered the surface prone to crumbling, but in December the surface was as hard as rock.
“You see anything?” the lead climber asked his companion.
The second man shook his head. “No. Not a damned thing could survive out here, not without the kind of gear we carry.”
The other man nodded agreement. “Always better to check, though,” he remarked.
“Well, we’ve done that.” He shivered slightly as the wind picked up, gusting and keening between the sharp crags. “Let’s get back down and report.”
Suddenly, the other man shook his head and pointed out at the ocean. Since the wind had died down, the swells and breakers pounding against the island had dropped down to four to five feet each. Marching across the ocean in sets of seven, each breaker was flecked with white and capped with a thin froth of foam, the twenty-knot wind still kicking up whitecaps. “Look over there.”
The second man raised his binoculars and trained them in the direction his companion pointed. He swore quietly. “If I hadn’t seen it-“
The first man grunted. “Commander isn’t going to like this.” He trained his own binoculars in that direction.