Night vision goggles. He groaned, now heedless of the noise. The men approaching would be half-deafened by the gunfire anyway, and there seemed no other way to let out the hard, cold feeling creeping through his body.
He heard sharp, guttural commands snapped, and the team of fifteen soldiers approached the cliffs warily, weapons at ready.
The sole survivor, crouched behind the rock, looked up at White Wolf. Their eyes locked, and something wordless passed between them.
The lead Spetsnaz raised his weapon, took careful aim, and fired. Instead of the sharp report of gunfire, White Wolf heard only a muffled whoosh. Grenade-launcher, he thought despairingly. He hunkered down behind his own rock, knowing that the man below him was doomed.
Thirty minutes later, as the Spetsnaz patrol caught up with him among the icy spires, he put himself in the same category.
USS Jefferson
“How the hell can they be under fire?” Batman growled. “They’re over American soil.”
“That’s what Bird Dog reported, Admiral,” the IAU said. He shook his head, puzzled. “Unless it’s Greenpeace — they’ve been known to get militant at times.”
“I refuse to believe that Greenpeace is taking on the United States Navy. Get me some other options.” Batman stomped out and headed for CVIC. Maybe Lab Rat had some other ideas.
The Spetsnaz, herded White Wolf roughly over to the far wall of the ice cave. They trussed his arms and legs, and shoved him over against Sikes.
The two prisoners regarded each other gravely. Old black eyes, shiny as obsidian, stared into pale blue ones. In that look, they each saw something they could respect in the other. Finally, Sikes nodded. “We wait for our chance,” he murmured, his lips barely moving.
As careful as he’d been, one of the Spetsnaz overheard the exchange. He turned on them, and waved his Kalishnikov menacingly. The interpreter hurried over. “No talk, no talk,” he said sternly.
Sikes shrugged and tried to look bored.
The Inuit moved closer to him, as though trying to pool his body warmth with Sikes’s to fight off the cold. He twisted his hands behind him and touched the SEAL’s arm. Tap-tap-tap. Sikes tried to maintain his bored expression as he considered the pattern of the taps. Was it — yes, indeed it was. Somehow, somewhere, this old native man had learned Morse code. And damned well; he had a feel for it. Now, if he could only recall his own training four years ago in BUDS.
The operations officer looked uneasy. “So what are we supposed to do with them?” he asked nervously. “One, maybe two people — sir, the submarine is small.”
Rogov stared at him. “And there could be others still outside. A poor job of planning, and one that I will remember.” The operations officer turned pale. Rogov reached out and slapped him across the face. “Remember that. Pray that is the worst you will receive.”
The senior Cossack turned and strode over to the far end of the ice cave, stopping two feet before the two prisoners. He stared down at them accusingly, as though it had been their own fault they had been caught. Finally, the beginnings of an idea demanded to be considered. He almost dismissed it, then reconsidered. The beginnings of a cruel smile started on his face. It might work — it just might work at that. Abruptly, he turned and walked over to his operations officer. “There will be a change in plans.”
“Sir?”
“I have something else in mind. Something more valuable than whatever petty bits of international politics we can glean from these two prisoners. Who is our expert on American aircraft carriers?”
The operations officer started to ask a question, then apparently thought better of it. He pointed toward the man who’d been serving as interpreter. “Ilya. He has been on board several, in addition to studying their structure and characteristics in our military command school.”
“Get him.” Rogov waited impatiently for the interpreter to reach him.
The interpreter was among the youngest of the team members, barely three years in Spetsnaz. His nervousness was apparent on his face. He saluted respectfully and waited for Rogov to speak.
“How secure is an aircraft carrier?” Rogov demanded.
The interpreter looked startled. “At sea, sir?” he stuttered. “Virtually impregnable. There’s no way to approach it-“
“Forget that part,” Rogov instructed. “Once we are on board, how difficult would it be to move about the ship?”
“I was on board one once at sea, as part of an exchange program,” the interpreter said. “Aside from the weapons storage areas and the engineering plant, most of the important spaces are located immediately below the flight deck. There are numerous passages down into that area, in addition to entries from the sponsons and walkways ringing the ship. But if I had to plan an operation, I would proceed directly from the flight deck down the ladder at the island. The combat direction center and the admiral’s quarters are within easy reach then.”
“Draw out a diagram. Have all the men study it. As complete as you can remember.” Rogov turned away, dismissing him.
The interpreter hurried back to join the rest of the team, relieved to be out of the presence of the stern hetman of the Cossacks. The aircraft carrier — he sucked in his breath, feeling his anxiety grow. Surely the hetman could not be planning to — no, he decided, it was out of the question. Not even a complete battalion of Spetsnaz would undertake an assault on an aircraft carrier.
Still, there was a reason that Rogov had been placed in charge of this operation. And if he wanted a map of an American aircraft carrier, that’s what he would give him. He reached back into his rucksack, drew out a pad of paper, and began sketching.
Sikes found that Morse code came back to him quickly, even though it had been years since he last practiced. White Wolf slowed down and sketched in the essential details of the Inuits’ attempted attack on the camp. Sikes carefully schooled his face to blankness, masking his surprise at the daring and ingenuity of the native islanders.
“Wait, listen,” he began tapping out, interrupting the account of the assault.
Sikes listened carefully, trying to follow the corrupted Cossack dialect that was so similar to Russian. He caught a few words here and there, and then one phrase made his blood run cold. American aircraft carrier. He watched the younger officer take his leave from the man in charge and begin drawing something on a piece of paper. While he was watching, he tried to tap out a hasty explanation to his fellow prisoner, not certain how accurate his code was but hoping that the essential details were getting through. “And who taught you Morse code?” he ended.
“Magruder.”
“Rear Admiral Magruder?” The SEAL considered this new fact carefully. How in the world — no, he decided, the explanation would undoubtedly be a long one. It could wait. Right now, they had more important priorities to discuss.
“We leave,” he tapped out slowly. “Wait-wait for chance. Americans come.”
The Inuit tapped out the short signal for affirmative, giving no sign on his dark, impassive face that anything was happening.
“How close is the nearest island?” Tombstone asked. He stared at the speaker as though he saw Batman’s face in it.
“About six miles away. There’s a native settlement there, a small airstrip. That’s where the radio signal came from.” Batman’s voice sounded tinny on the old speaker.
“And what are we doing about them? Batman, you’re going to have to get them out of there. Plan a NEONaval Evacuation Operation. It’s bad enough they’re on one uninhabited island, but we’ve got to keep the situation contained. Get back to me within three hours with your plan.”