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.”
CHAPTER 7
Twenty knots was considered calm on Adak Island. Given that, and with unlimited visibility and a relatively stable air mass to the north, Tombstone’s takeoff from Adak Island was uneventful.
As it had on their inbound flight, a Russian Bear-J aircraft joined on them shortly after takeoff, once they were clear of U.S. airspace and over international waters. The electrical problems that had plagued the aircraft had been fixed, and the flight to Seattle was uneventful.
As the C-130 taxied in, a contingent of U.S. Marines rushed out to meet the aircraft. The pilot quickly brought her to a halt and waited for the metal boarding stairs. Tombstone was the first one off the plane.
“Come on, sir,” a Marine major said loudly, struggling to be heard over the still turning engines. “Your aircraft is ready for you.”
“Flight gear?” Tombstone shouted.
“Waiting for you in the Operations Center.” The Marine Corps major paused, waiting for Tombstone to do exactly what he’d asked.
Tombstone shrugged and followed the sharply dressed major across the tarmac. The noise level dropped appreciably. “Where is she?” Tombstone asked.
“Over there.” The Marine pointed toward the far end of the airstrip. A Harrier was making its gently eerie approach, coasting through the air at a speed too low to believe. If it had not been for the turbofans on her undercarriage angled downward, she would have crashed — her forward speed was insufficient to maintain stable flight.
Tombstone paused and watched the aircraft settle gently on the ground. He could see from the movement of the grass surrounding the tarmac the force of the downdraft. It had to be, to keep that much metal airborne, he thought, but somehow, reading about downdraft in manuals never compared to seeing the actual thing. Anyone underneath the fighter would have been seriously injured or killed by the hurricane-force winds it generated downward.
“She’s a real beauty, isn’t she, sir?” the Major asked appreciatively. “Just look at her. The finest fighting aircraft ever built for a Marine.” He glanced at Tombstone’s insignia. “Not that the Navy doesn’t have some real fine aircraft itself,” he continued generously. However, it was obvious from the expression on his face that the Tomcat or Hornet ran a distant second to his treasured Harrier.
“I thought you said this bird was ready,” Tombstone commented. “Doesn’t look too ready to me, since it’s not even on the ground.”
“Oh, that’s not the one we’re flying. Ours is parked next to Flight Ops.” The Marine grinned broadly.
“Ours?” Tombstone asked.
“Yes, Admiral.” The Marine saluted sharply again. “Major Joe Killington, at your service, Admiral. Always glad to help out a fellow aviator when we can. Especially in getting onto a boat your aircraft can’t reach.”
Tombstone groaned. Surely, he thought, there must be some right granted to an admiral by Congress not to be harassed by the Marine Corps. The prospect of spending hours airborne fielding such comments by the major irked him.
A trace of his thoughts evidently showed in his face. The Marine major snapped to attention. “Whenever the Admiral is ready, sir,” he said politely. “And we are happy to be of service, Admiral. All one fighting force — that’s the way we see it.”
Tombstone nodded abruptly. “Get me to my gear, Major,” he said. “I imagine we’ll have plenty of time to discuss the relative merits of your service and the Navy.” He looked pointedly at the insignia on the Marine major’s collar. “Not that it will be much of a contest.”
The Marine major braced, eyes pointed directly forward and locked on the horizon. “I’m certain the admiral can enlighten me if my views are out of order.”
Finally, Tombstone relented. After all, this was one argument the major could never win. And it had nothing to do with Tomcats, Hornets, or Harriers — it had to do with the quick collar count that had just occurred. Stars won out over gold oak leaves, no matter what the service.