“And that Bear-J up around Adak doesn’t make me breathe any easier. Based on that, I think we have to assume that the Oscar has detailed targeting information on the entire battle group.” Batman turned back to the screen. “And is in contact with Russia’s military command. The question is, why? Is this just another one of those political statements, or something worse?”
Captain Craig shook his head, a weary expression crossing his face. “And I thought we’d seen the last of these games. Figured I’d make one last deployment, then think about retiring. It’s starting to sound like I might want to put that off some.”
Batman clapped him on the shoulder. “Better now than ten years from now,” he said. “The Navy needs us Cold Warriors — after all we saw, we’re the only ones with the right suspiciously paranoid mind-set to detect the first signs of trouble.”
The COS shot him an amused look. “Do I detect a lack of confidence on the admiral’s part in our superb intelligence network?”
Batman snorted. “Hell, they couldn’t even tell us when the Wall in Germany was going to come down, and every last one of them missed the breakup of the Soviet Union. Given that, what do you think the odds are that they detect a reunited commonwealth on the move again?”
“I wish to God I didn’t agree with you, Admiral. But I do.” The chief of staff stared forward at the screen watching the arcane symbology that represented the battle group, her aircraft and escorts, steaming west just south of the Aleutian chain. “And I hope to hell both of us are wrong.”
“You think she knows we’re here?” Bird Dog asked.
“Probably,” Gator answered. “At this low of an altitude, we’re putting a helluva lot of noise into the ocean. I thought I saw an ESM antenna pop up there a little while ago. Either way, I think we can count on her knowing we’re here.”
“Well, there’s not much she can do about that, is there?”
“I don’t think so.” Bird Dog’s voice sounded doubtful. “But after the Spratlys, with those surface-to-air missiles on that submarine, I’m not feeling so safe and secure orbiting over a submarine anymore.”
Bird Dog swore quietly to himself, wishing he’d paid more attention to the last intelligence brief. Did the Oscar carry a surface-to-air missile? And if so, what was the range? “How about we move on up to four thousand feet?” he asked. “Just give us a little safety room.”
“No objection from back here. I think I’ll still be able to follow her — from that altitude. I’ll let you know.”
Bird Dog tapped the throttles forward slightly and put the Tomcat into a slow, graceful spiral upward. He glanced overhead and saw the heavy, thick bottoms of the clouds looming above him. “Three thousand, maybe,” he said, hazarding a guess. “I’ll throttle back so you can keep a visual on her.”
At 2,800 feet, just below the bottom of the clouds, Bird Dog leveled the Tomcat out. Gator informed him that he still had a clear, if slightly fuzzy, visual on the massive black hull sliding through the water.
“Who would’ve thought we would have been able to see her?” Bird Dog said. “That doesn’t make any sense. I mean, the whole purpose of a submarine is to remain hidden. Doesn’t she know that the water is so clear up here that we can see down thirty or forty feet?”
“That’s what worries me,” Gator said soberly. “The Oscar can fire her Shipwreck missiles while submerged, and there’s absolutely no reason for her to stay at shallow depths for any period of time, not unless she’s coming up for a communications break. And if this were a com break, she would have already stuck an antenna up, squirted out her traffic, and been back down at depth. There’s only one reason for her to stay shallow like this.”
“She wants us to see her? Why?”
“I’m flattered to think that you believe I can read the mind of a Russian submarine commander,” Gator said sarcastically. “But for what it’s worth, I can think of only one reason that she would stay this shallow. She wants us to see her.”
“Why?”
“That, my friend, is the real question.”
The C-130 shuddered to a halt, using up most of the runway as it gently braked. The Bear aircraft had broken off when they’d started their final approach to the small island airstrip, and now circled overhead at fifteen thousand feet.
Tombstone paused at the C-130 hatch and stared out at the cold, barren island before him. The hard arctic wind buffeted him, and the movable metal steps now rolling up to the aircraft swayed gently. He sucked in a deep breath and felt the frigid air sear the delicate tissues of his lungs.
In the distance, he could see a forlorn line of P-3 ASW aircraft parked on the tarmac. Just a few years ago, there would have been two complete squadrons of the Orion aircraft permanently stationed here, ready to pounce on the first sniff of any Soviet submarine that ventured into these waters. Now, due to downsizing, or right-sizing, as some called it, he thought bitterly, most of the United States Navy assets were being pulled back to the mainland. Only these five aircraft remained on this isolated base, the forward edge of the American continental security envelope. He looked over in the other direction and saw the squat gray concrete building that housed the SOSUS station, now silent and cold. Adak had been a challenging duty station for generations of ocean systems technicians, but the bean-counters in the Pentagon had decided this forward-deployed ASW capability was no longer needed.
The peace dividend. He snorted. What they never seemed to realize was that peace was a temporary state of affairs between conflicts. By stripping herself of so much fighting capability, America simply guaranteed that a long, economically painful, and manpower intensive buildup would be required the next time. And there would be a next time, he thought, surveying the westernmost base under his command. Regardless of how much the politicians claimed they’d achieved it, and how much the everyday citizen wanted it, he couldn’t convince himself that this peace would last. It was merely a matter of time before it crumbled.
The rickety steps finally reached the aircraft, and two technicians hurried to decouple the frail structure from the small yellow tractor towing it. By hand, they pushed it over against the aircraft. Its forward lip clanged against the scarred and battered surface of the C-130.
Tombstone wrapped his parka around himself more tightly, grateful that his supply clerk back in ALASKCOM headquarters had insisted he take it, along with the thick, fur-lined gloves now snuggled in his pockets. He reached for the metal railing, intending to make the short dash down the ladder and to the waiting van without the gloves.
A technician grabbed his hand as he reached for the railing. “Sorry, sir, but you’ll want to put those gloves on first. You touch that metal, we’ll have to bring the hot water out to unfreeze your hand from it.”
Tombstone nodded his thanks and pulled the gloves on before stepping out of the aircraft and onto the metal platform. He touched the metal railing and felt the bitter cold seeping through the thick leather and fur. The man who had grabbed him had been right. He walked down the steps, feeling the structure shudder and sway in the forty-knot gale. By the time he reached the van, only twenty feet away, the cold was already seeping through the parka and his face was numb.
As he climbed into the front seat of the van and looked across at the young female petty officer driver, a memory flashed into his mind. Brilliant sun, the gentle pounding of Mexican waves against a clean, white sandy beach. And Tomboy, nestled under his arm, pressing gentle curves into the hard, lean lines of his own body. He smiled, wondering what she would think if she could see him now, decked out like an Eskimo.