“Wait, what’s that?” Gator said.
“What?”
“Radar contact — way down to the south, maybe a hundred miles. It wasn’t there before,” Gator said, a note of excitement coloring his usual professional monotone.
“Probably another fishing boat. What’s the big deal?”
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t there before. Now it’s solid. You know what that means.”
“A submarine? You’re calling a pop-up contact a submarine up here? Jesus, Gator, you sure as hell must be bored. What the hell would a submarine be doing surfaced out here?”
“That’s the whole point, Bird Dog. It shouldn’t be. Snorkeling, maybe, if it’s a diesel recharging its batteries, but no submariner in his right mind would surface out here. For what? To get a good look at an iceberg?”
Just then the voice of the operations specialist on the Jefferson came over the circuit. “Tomcat Two-oh-one, we’re holding your contact approximately two hundred to the east of us, one hundred miles from your position. Request you vector back to Jefferson, take on fuel, and investigate.”
Bird Dog sighed. No point in complaining that it was Christmas Day, that he really would prefer to be asleep in his rack instead of chasing sea ghosts, or that he was now desperately wishing he hadn’t had those two cups of coffee before they launched. He toggled the tactical switch. “Okay, okay, we’re on our way in.”
“Better than buzzing Greenpeace, isn’t it?” Gator asked.
“Would be if I didn’t have to pee so bad. But as cold as it is out there, I’m afraid I’m gonna get stuck in a real embarrassing, personal sort of way if I use the relief tube.”
Gator laughed. “Come on, Bird Dog, those are just old sea stories. It’s not like touching your tongue to an ice cube tray.”
“Yeah, well, you try it with yours first,” Bird Dog snapped. He gazed down at the relief tube, conveniently mounted and accessible to the pilot. While most of the time he appreciated the convenience, since he despised the piddle-packs the Hornet drivers had to use, he was damned uncomfortable at the thought now. Holding the Tomcat in level flight with one hand, he stripped off a glove and touched the relief tube. It was icy cold, just as he’d feared.
“Not much better than a Coke bottle,” he grumbled.
“I told you to go before we left home,” Gator said solemnly, in a tone he normally reserved for his three-year-old daughter. He gave a short bark of laughter. “That’s what I always say when we drive up to the gas station in the car.”
“Funny guy.” Bird Dog touched the relief tube again, and wondered if he could manage to wait.
Rogov waited until the last Spetsnaz commando entered the raft before reaching out for the ladder himself.
“Comrade Colonel, do you really think it’s such a good idea?” the submarine captain began.
Rogov cut him off. “You don’t need to think. I’m going ashore with the detachment to survey the site,” the Cossack snapped. “Your orders, Captain, are to deliver me here, and to maintain radio contact should I need assistance. I will return to this ship in six hours, and you are to be here waiting for me. Are we clear on that?”
The submarine captain nodded, relieved that the colonel would be leaving. The Mongolian Cossack’s cold, menacing presence had become almost unbearable in the close confines of the submarine. If only he didn’t look so different, he thought, he might be almost tolerable. But the slanting, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and ruddy brown-red color marked Colonel Rogov as a descendant of the barbarian hordes that swept across so much of the continent during earlier centuries. If the stories told about the Cossacks were true, then the blood of merciless conquerors and masters of torture ran through Rogov’s veins. He studied the massive man descending the ladder below him, noting how much he looked like the Spetsnaz. It was some quality of the way they moved, smoothly yet gracelessly, power imbuing every motion. It was a clear, cold menace that every man of European descent recognized — and feared.
He shook his head, dispelling the beginnings of a shudder. What mattered was not the man’s bloodlines, but the mission he was on now. While he had no need to know the details, the little he had learned made his blood run cold.
As Rogov stepped onto the raft, the submarine captain saluted, then cast off the last line holding the small craft moored to the submarine. He looked up and stared back out at the island. Despite his misgivings about Rogov, he would not willingly have sent any man out onto the bleak, barren island so close to them. Especially not in this weather.
He watched the raft pull away, the steady thrum of its outboard motor echoing eerily in the fog. Godspeed, he said silently, as he felt the weight left off his shoulders. He turned back to his submarine, and descended down into the command center. The sooner they were submerged and back below the surface of the sea, the safer the submarine would be from any prying eyes.
Bird Dog eased the Tomcat forward slowly, concentrating on the plastic basket streaming aft of the KA-6 tanker. Landing on a carrier deck at night was by far the most stressful part of carrier aviation, but refueling ran a close second. He resisted a temptation to look down at the icy water.
“Looking good, Bird Dog,” Gator said encouragingly. “A few more inches, a few more inches there, you’ve got it.”
Bird Dog felt the Tomcat shudder as the retractable refueling probe located on the right side of the fuselage near the front seat slid home.
“Good connection. How much ya want, Bird Dog?” the KA-6 pilot asked.
“Let’s get her topped off,” Bird Dog said. “Going to take a run out west to check up on one of Gator’s ghosts.”
“Roger — commencing transfer now.”
The Tomcat and the KA-6 flew like a strangely mated pair of bumblebees for six minutes, the KA-6 pouring fuel into the Tomcat. When both wing tanks were topped up, Bird Dog said, “That’ll do it.”
“Roger. Have fun chasin’ ghosts.”
“Maybe it’s Santa Claus on his way home,” Bird Dog answered.
“Sounds good to me. You been a good Bird Dog all cruise?” the other pilot asked.
“Good enough.”
“What are you gonna ask him for?”
“The only thing that comes to mind right now is a nice warm land-based urinal, but I’ll give it some thought on the way out there.” Bird Dog heard the other pilot chuckle in response.
Bird Dog eased back on the power slowly, carefully disengaging from the KA-6. As soon as an adequate degree of separation had been achieved, he rolled the Tomcat gracefully to starboard and headed out to the west.
Aflu Island
As the raft bumped up against the island’s southern shore, the Spetsnaz in the forward part of the boat leaped out, skidded on the ice, and then tugged on the mooring line. The bow of the small craft slipped up out of the Water and onto the ice. The rest of the Spetsnaz piled out quickly, moving easily even after twenty minutes of sitting on the cold, hard boards that ringed the interior of the raft. Rogov followed more Slowly, trying to conceal the stiffness already setting into his muscles.
He stepped out onto the ice, felt it shiver slightly under the weight of the men on it. Two Spetsnaz were hauling the boat completely out of the water. Rogov walked cautiously to the edge and peered down.
No gradual sloping of land into sea as there would be on a continent, he thought. Just a sheer, dark plunge into the depths. He could see the ice go straight down for perhaps six feet, and then it was lost in the inky blackness of the Pacific Ocean. He stepped away from the edge, suddenly conscious of how very tenuously a layer of solidified water overlay the volcanic base of the island, separating them from its more liquid counterpart. A few degrees warmer, and half of the island would melt back into its original state.