A lone figure huddled against a steel mast on the wildly heaving deck of a hundred-foot fishing vessel bobbing in the rough North Pacific seas.
The man, wearing layers of fur-lined jackets under his oilskins, braced himself and tried to chop ice from a large winch bolted onto the mast.
His mitten-clad hands were covered with freezing rain and ice; only the thick leather thong on the handle kept the rubber mallet he was using from spinning off into the icy sea.
A wall of water crashed against the gunwale and showered the deck.
Bits of instantly frozen water penetrated the face mask he wore and cut into his cheeks. He no longer worried about slipping on the pitching deck, unless his boots somehow came off-he was anchored by a quarter-inch of ice to the steel deck.
A deep howl penetrated the roar of the wind and waves around him. He took a better grip on the winch with his mittened right hand and reluctantly turned his eyes seaward.
The sting of the wind shot a rod of pain deep into his eyeballs.
He squinted against the icy gusts and searched the horizon, trying to follow the howl, which was rising in intensity.
There it was. It descended out of the racing clouds and horizontal sheets of frozen rain like a giant bird of prey. It leveled off, seemingly only a few scant feet above the icy foaming waters, and flew directly at the fishing vessel.
The man let the mallet drop on its thong, reached into a pocket of the oilskin, and withdrew a small walkie- talkie. He turned his face away from the wind and the oncoming predator, bent down a bit, lifted his ski mask and keyed the microphone.
'Bridge, Marceaux. Here comes that Bear, full on the port beam. 'The man heard a feeble voice come over the radio, but couldn't understand it. No matter. They heard him. He couldn't stand another few seconds with his face uncovered anyway. He dropped the radio back into his pocket, made sure the pocket cover Velcroed closed, and turned to watch the plane.
It was a Russian 'Bear' bomber, one of several that had been dogging the fishing vessel in the past few days. This one had the guts-or the poor judgment-to drop below the scuzzy cloud cover and risk direct visual identification of the vessel.
It was truly an imposing sight, especially the turboprop engines. Two massive, ungainly engines hung underneath each huge wing. Each engine had two large four-bladed propellers, an unusual sight on so large an aircraft. The propellers made the aircraft unusually quiet-its low whine did not get louder as it approached. Even in the poor visibility, the large red stars under the wings could easily be seen.
This Bear had two radomes on the underside of its fuselage, marking it as a highly odified Bear-F maritime reconnaissance aircraft. Its other notable modification was the addition of two pylons, one on each wing and each loaded with six AS-12 air-to-sea antiship missiles, direct copies of the U.S. Navy's Harpoon antiship missiles.
The bomber didn't need that many, the seaman named Marceaux thought.
Just one could send this old tub to the bottom.
The Bear flew right over the U.S.S. Lawrence's bow-a violation of international maritime law and a direct warning to the ship. Its size made it look much closer, but Marceaux estimated the bomber was at one thousand feet above the ship, the internationally legislated minimum.
Despite the relatively quiet turboprops, the roar of the bomber passing overhead cut through the howl of the storm. It seemed to drive the storm before it, adding to its fury.
' Cochon, ' Marceaux said, but the curse was lost in the roar of the Bear's engine. A moment later the bomber lumbered skyward and disappeared again into the scuz. Marceaux waited until he was sure the Bear was gone for good, then slowly and carefully made his way along the icy deck toward the midships hatch and the welcoming warmth below.
of Sheets ice dropped off Marceaux's oilskin as he unbuttoned the jacket and stowed it in a locker in the crew's bunkroom. As he peeled off the fur jackets, the ship's chief petty officer passed by and tapped him on the shoulder.
'Intel,' he asked. 'Before anything else.'
— Zut!I'm freezin', Chief,' Marceaux asked. 'I've been up there for 'Intel, ' the CPO said behind him. 'On the goddamned double.'
Marceaux reluctantly bypassed the galley and the scent of hot coffee and made his way to the ship's hold.
The Intelligence section of the disguised fishing vessel Lawrence was formerly the fish processing hold. Indeed, the front one-fifth of the area still held some fish-slicing and freezing equipment-all inoperable, in place for disguise purposes only. The Intel section was now a mass of electronic sensors, radios, maps, computers, and humorless men.
The chief of the Intel section, Commander Markham, passed Marceaux in the doorway. He carried a steaming cup of coffee.
'Well, Marceaux?' it was obvious to Markham that Marceaux's attention was elsewhere. He passed the cold seaman the cup of coffee.
Marceaux drained half of it in one gulp, his breath exhaling as long wisps of steam.
'Now. Fill me in, then fill out a hostile contact log.'
'Merci, Commander,' Marceaux asked. 'Bear-F, maritime antiship configuration, no numbers that I could make out. Two radomes, one forward, one aft. Observation blisters in the middle and aft, but I couldn't tell if they were manned. K-7 camera door open on the belly.
Refueling probe, iced over badly. Useless, I'd say. Twelve total AS-12 missiles, six on each wing, maybe stations for two more on each pylon. Bomb bay closed but not sealed. Ice all over the wings. The pilot had tres grands bouettes, I'd say.
'Altitude?Speed?'
'One thousand feet right on the dot, although he flew right over the bow. Speed two hundred knots but no flaps hanging.
Low and slow.'
'He radioed a warning,' Markham asked. 'Said we were too close to Karanginsky Island. 'Marceaux shrugged. 'It is a warning he could back up.
Definiment.
'Those AS-12s will drop into the sea if he tries to launch them, Markham said, heading back to the Intel section's small alley for more coffee. 'He might send some naval buddies 9 out after us, but I doubt it. This is the ugliest weather I've seen A out here.
'Is he still out there, sir?' Marceaux asked.
'No. He headed home in a hurry. Probably getting iced over pretty bad.
Like you said, he had to have king-sized balls to fly p around in freezing rain like that.'
'Think he made us?'
'They made us as an intel ship days ago,' Markham said, Iling a mug.
'But they're nervous about something. Risking Bear like that something's going on a As Marceaux refilled his mug from the pot, Markham wandered over to one of his signal operator's consoles. He Studied several oscilloscope-like displays on the console.
His attention focused on a pair of ten-inch signal display scopes, manned by a gray-haired Navy signalman. Markham looked over his shoulder, sipping his coffee. The two signals on the man's scopes, although much different from each other, were perfectly synchronized-when one wave on the scope became active, the other did also. When one stopped, the other stopped.
'Any change, Garrity?' Markham asked the sensor operator. Garrity shook his head.
'They're linked, that's for sure, sir,' Garrity replied. He handed Markham a computer printout, then pointed to the left of his two main displays. 'That's complete computer verification-frequencies, timing, the works-coded and ready to transmit. Kavaznya is getting stronger.
This one'-he pointed to the right oscilloscope-' is still weak but in perfect sync.'
'Identification?'
