ability to sense the movement of the earth around them.
White Wolf glanced at his grandson, Morning Eagle. While the younger man had less time treading the frozen tundra of their homeland, four years of service in the United States Army Special Forces had brought his earth skills up to par with his grandfather’s.
Their eyes met, and agreement passed between them. No, there was no immediate danger — at least not from this explosion. The earth around them would stay secure and stable, but neither was certain that the same could be said for the people crawling around Mother Earth’s surface. White Wolf made a small motion with his hand, barely a movement. The other man nodded. They moved out silently, wraiths against the barren arctic landscape. Forty paces down the path, a bare trail that no one except an Inuit could have spotted, White Wolf paused. Morning Eagle stopped five paces behind him, far enough away that they would not both be immediately caught up in any break in the thin crust of ice ahead. Then the younger man heard it, too.
They moved to the edge of the path, climbed two small shelves, and peered down at the campsite below them. The sharp glare of light was almost painful to their eyes, accustomed as they were to the gentle days and long nights of the arctic winter. Fire ringed a crater in the ice, the center of which was burning a hellish red-gold in the midst of the blackened, crusted circle.
White Wolf pointed at the men assembled below. Four of them — five counting the dead body they’d seen further down the trail.
After watching the intruders for ten minutes, the Inuits slipped silently away, back to the other side of their island and to their boat. The noise of the outboard motors couldn’t be avoided, but they decided that the safety distance from the island would bring was worth the risk. Even so, White Wolf surmised, the white men arguing on the ice on the other side of the small island would probably not even understand what had happened. But the Inuits did — oh, yes, they certainly understood this latest skirmish in the ongoing battle between two giant nations laying claim to the Inuit territory.
And, given half a chance, the Inuits would have a say in their own destiny. That they would.
CHAPTER 6
Tombstone Magruder held the radio receiver away from his ear. The voice screaming on the other end of the encrypted circuit was clearly audible to everyone in the room. He watched his chief of staff frown, his junior officers struggle to maintain their composure.
Finally, when the voice paused for breath, Tombstone put the receiver back to his mouth. “Yes, Admiral,” he said mildly. “I understand your position. But I’m not certain that there’s anything-” Tombstone stopped talking as the voice on the other end of the speaker resumed its tirade.
Finally, when he’d had enough, Tombstone interrupted. “I appreciate your call, Admiral Carmichael, but I’m a bit confused by your orders. The last time I studied our chain of command structure, ALASKCOM reported to commander, Pacific Fleet, not to Third Fleet. I called to discuss your tactical situation in my geographic area, not give you rudder order. Perhaps I didn’t make that clear.” This time, he kept the receiver at his ear, sacrificing the safety of his eardrums for a little privacy. He waved his hand dismissively at his staff as he listened to the tirade resume.
“Damn it, Admiral Magruder, you don’t have the faintest idea how delicate these matters are. The whole world is watching how we handle the Greenpeace matter, and your precious aircraft carrier can’t seem to find its ass with both hands. How the hell do you explain that?” Admiral Carmichael demanded. “That’s what comes of putting someone with no experience in D.C. in command of such a sensitive region. You have no idea, no concept-“
Tombstone’s temper finally ignited. “With all due respect, I’ve had just about enough. If you wish to discuss ALASKCOM with me, I would welcome your advice and thoughts. However, no one has seen fit to place me under your command, and I’ll be goddamned if I’ll take any more of your abuse. Is that clear? Sir?” Tombstone snapped.
Silence. Then, a faint chuckle. “I’ve heard you had a mind of your own, Magruder,” the voice said thoughtfully, all trace of his prior anger gone. “Now, prove it to me. Show me you’re something besides a hot-hot jet jock who will never get beyond the one-star rank.”
“if we had a few more operational commanders in charge of policy in D.C., Admiral Carmichael, we might end up with a more cohesive national strategy,” Tombstone said tartly. “You may see this as a sensitive political situation. I see something worse. I’ve got a missing civilian vessel, someone shooting at one of my P-3C aircraft, Bear-H’s in the area, and Admiral Wayne’s got indications of activity on a supposedly deserted island. Call me crazy, but I don’t think it’s all a coincidence. Now balance that against your precious island geek and tell me what you’d be worried about — some stupid bird or your air crews?” And that, Tombstone added silently, will go a long way toward telling me exactly who you are.
Static crackled over the circuit as Tombstone waited for the other man to answer. Relationships between admirals could be tricky at best, as those in the highest rarefied circles of naval command and control fought the battle for their own political survival. Tombstone had no desire to join that fray, and if it meant he would retire with one star instead of more, that was fine with him.
“Tombstone — can I call you that? — let’s put our cards on the table,” Admiral Carmichael said finally. “I understand about aviation, and how you folks have your own way of doing business. Believe me, sir, I’ve got no intention of asking your boys to go into harm’s way without adequate backup. But from here, it looks like a civilian vessel that’s got a history of doing sneak attacks on us has gone missing and some asshole Inuit lighting off fireworks. And maybe playing around with a walkie-talkie while your P-3C pilot is thinking Stingers instead of sparklers. I’m willing to be persuaded, though. So start talking.”
A rare smile cracked its way across Tombstone’s face. He’d heard that Admiral Carmichael was a screamer; a flag officer that pushed those junior to him as far as he could with his reputation for an abusive temper. Rumor control also had it that the admiral would back down if confronted, and that half of the purpose of his screaming fits was to test the temperament of those junior to him. “Admiral, I don’t believe in coincidence,” Tombstone said slowly. He considered bringing up the issue of chain of command, and then abandoned it. Admiral Carmichael certainly knew where he stood in the pecking order, as well as whom Tombstone reported to. There was no formal need for Tombstone to tell Admiral Carmichael anything other than what the minimum requirements of courtesy dictated, but something about the man’s reputation and in his voice intrigued the aviator. He would, he decided, make his own judgments about Admiral Carmichael.
“Coincidences are unlikely,” Admiral Carmichael agreed. “What else have you got?”
“You may not have seen the reports yet,” Tombstone said carefully, aware that Admiral Carmichael’s staff may have dropped the ball in getting the information to him, “but Jefferson detected some spurious radio transmissions from the island yesterday. I was willing to buy the vessel-off-course-and-firecrackers theory until I heard that. I called the battle group myself, and asked the staff to relay the pilot reports to me. Regardless of what you’ve been told, sir, there’s no way that was simply some firecrackers. First, the island is largely uninhabited, although Intelligence indicates it’s occasionally visited by Inuits from neighboring islands. Second, the TACCO on that P-3 was an experienced aviator, and he damn well knows what a Stinger aimed at him looks like. No,” Tombstone continued, shaking his head even though the admiral on the other end couldn’t see the gesture, “there’s something going on out around that island, Admiral. I don’t know what, but it falls within the scope of my duties to find out.”
“And within mine to make sure that Jefferson is safe,” Admiral Carmichael said gruffly. “Listen, Tombstone, I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I’m damn well not going to endanger one of my ships if I can help it. You and I are going to have to work together on this matter, and the sooner we get to know each other, the better. Care to come on board for a short skull session with my staff?”
“On board Coronado?” Tombstone asked. “Sir, I didn’t realize you were coming this far north.”
“I hadn’t planned on it, no. We’re doing operations off the coast of San Francisco right now in preparation for
