“Aye, aye, Admiral,” Batman said formally. Tombstone heard a note of chagrin in his old friend’s voice. “I’m not sure I would have thought of it either, Batman,” Tombstone continued. “Don’t beat yourself up over it — just get it done.”
“Roger, copy. I’ll get the planners started on it as soon as we are done here.”
“Top priority,” Tombstone ordered. “The last thing I want during the first months of my tour is a hostage situation on American soil.”
“I say we go back and take another look,” Bird Dog argued. “It’ll be easy.”
“Nothing involving Stingers is easy,” his RIO responded.
“The way I wanna do it, it will be. Listen, we go out thirty miles and drop down on the deck. We come in at the island at five hundred feet, so low they can’t see us coming. We take a quick pass overland, on afterburners, and we’re out of there before they have a chance to line up the shot. I say it’ll work.”
“And I say we don’t do a damned thing until Mother gets back to us,” the RIO retorted. “Jesus, Bird Dog, this is a fighter aircraft, not a surveillance one. Besides, you’re too heavy with all that weaponry on the wings to get us the hell out of there if we need to move.”
“So we dump it. Like this.” Bird Dog reached out for the weapons jettison switch.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Gator shouted. “Do you know how much those missiles cost?”
“Yeah, I do. A hell of a lot less than the life of one SEAL on the ground and in trouble.”
“It will be simplicity itself,” Rogov concluded, glancing at the faces of the men around him. “Every man does his part, and within fifteen minutes we have the ultimate prize — possession of the nerve center of an American carrier.”
He could tell they weren’t convinced, although no trace of dissent showed on their faces. It was, he had to admit, a daring plan. But what were the options? Returning his two prisoners to the submarine was indeed a possibility, but his hold over the operational forces there was already tenuous. Besides, interrogating them was not essential to achieving their purpose. To truly demonstrate the might of a Cossack nation, to make the rest of the world take them seriously, what could be more effective than doing what no other force had done before — boarding and capturing an American warship. And not some small spy vessel, but the most potent force in America’s arsenal. The aircraft carrier.
“You may ask questions,” he said condescendingly.
“Sir, how will we keep control of the entire ship? With only forty men?” It was as near to criticism as Rogov was likely to get from any of the troops.
“I will explain again. One team will proceed immediately to the Wardroom Mess, enter the admiral’s cabin through there, and from there go directly to TFCC. You understand, those doors that are locked when they’re in port are most probably left open while at sea, just as they are on our own ships. The second team will move quickly up to the bridge, taking control of the people there. With those two areas secured, we will have enough leverage to do whatever we wish. Do you think the American troops would risk their admiral? Especially when we do no serious harm to their vessel or their crew.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, not looking fully satisfied at the answer. “But as you said — getting on board an aircraft carrier is no easy matter. The flight deck stands thirty feet above the ocean, and even when they are lowered, the elevators are not much closer. How will we-?”
Rogov cut him off. “That is the simplest part of the entire matter. The Americans themselves will take us there.”
CHAPTER 11
“And just how long am I supposed to stay here?” Pamela asked coldly. She made a short, curt motion to indicate the spartan stateroom. “It’s bad enough you’ve got me held in here under armed guard — what’s wrong, doesn’t this ship have a brig on it? Run out of handcuffs?”
Tombstone studied her gravely. Anger had forced high color into her face, and it was obvious she sat motionless on the narrow single bed only through sheer force of will. Miss Pamela Drake, ACN star correspondent, was used to having her own way. And that most definitely did not include being placed under armed Marine guard in a tiny stateroom, on board the ship while her colleagues covered a fast-breaking story.
What had he ever seen in her? he wondered, regret and nostalgia coloring his memories of her as strongly as the wild, passionate physical response they’d always had to each other. Back then, when he’d been a young lieutenant commander, she’d seemed the most glamorous, out-of-reach woman he’d ever seen in his life. During the years that followed, he learned that she possessed a drive and mind equal to his own. Somewhere along the line, he’d believed that would be enough to let them mold their two diverse lifestyles into one strong, satisfying life together.
But it hadn’t been. Last cruise, when they’d finally agreed to break their engagement, he’d thought he’d never get over her. Now, on opposite sides of the room — and with battle lines clearly drawn — he wondered how he’d thought he could ever trust her. Her drive to succeed, to beat every correspondent on the globe in breaking the most sensational story, had pitted them against each other. He wondered if she’d given their relationship a single thought as she planned this daring — and he had to admit it had been that — assault on his amphibious ship. Had she thought at all about what her antics would cause, how difficult it would be for him? No, he saw, studying her carefully. She’d known what price he would pay, and she’d gone ahead with it anyway.
“Yes,” he said finally, “there is a brig on the ship. Normally, however, an officer would be confined to his stateroom for something like this. I’m giving you the courtesy of treating you on the same terms, although I doubt you deserve it.”
She shook her head angrily. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“No,” he said with finality. “And neither do you.”
The SH-60F helicopter approached the island slowly. Five miles out, the pilot executed a turn to the west and began a slow circuit around it. The weather had cleared sufficiently to enable the pilot, ATO — Airborne Tactical Officer — and SO — Sensor Operator — to see the bare outlines of the island, but not much more.
“How are we supposed to see anything from here?” the copilot grumbled. “The whole landscape is one white blur. They could have a battalion of troops there in winter gear and we’d never know it.”
“You fancy going in a little closer?” the pilot asked. “Weren’t you paying attention at the brief? They’ve got Stingers on that damned island.” He stopped talking and concentrated on maintaining level flight. Airflow over the land mass, probably from the rocky outcropping to the east, rocked the helicopter gently in the air. No cause for alarm, but after spending the last thirty minutes staring at the water below while it lapped at the frigid coast, he had no desire to let the normal develop into the unusual. Survival times were nil in the water, and land was too far away to reach if they had a problem.
“Well, let’s sneak in another two thousand yards,” the copilot suggested. “What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway?”
The pilot considered the request for a moment, then nodded. The range of a Stinger missile was no greater than two miles. Staying five miles away from the island provided an exceptional margin of safety, one that was tactically unnecessary. While he appreciated CAG’s concern, there was no point in burning fuel if they couldn’t bring back data.