“And just who the hell are they, do you think?” Gator snapped. “What insignia did you see on that aircraft they jumped out of?”
“You know who they are.”
“When are you going to understand that your gut-level instinct isn’t enough, not in today’s world, Bird Dog. You’ve got no proof that that was a Russian aircraft — nothing at all. No transponder, no aircraft insignia, no Russian being spoken on International Air Distress — IAD. Just how do you think we’re going to look?”
“They shot at our aircraft. What more do you want?” Bird Dog exploded. “Am I the only one in this battle group that’s getting tired of every terrorist in the world taking a shot at American troops?”
Gator’s voice turned colder than Bird Dog had ever heard it before. “If you can’t get it through your thick skull that we follow orders first, then you’d best find some other way to make a living. This isn’t about barrel rolls and Immelmanns, you asshole. This is about a very nasty situation and a world the rest of the country thinks is at peace. Hold it-” he said suddenly. “Mother’s talking.”
Bird Dog leaned forward against his ejection harness, feeling the straps cut into his shoulders. The pain gave him the feeling that he was doing something, which he desperately needed right now. The sight of invaders tromping across American soil — American soil, even if it was ice and frost and rime — touched some fundamental core of his being. It was one thing to watch the Chinese invade the Spratlys, the Russians take on the Norwegians, or any one of a number of nations attack a neighbor, but this was different. Different for him, at least. Along with the cool iciness and pounding adrenaline he had come to expect in battle, he felt an outrage so strong as to border on rage. Invaders, tromping across American soil — the battle group had to do something.
“Get a trail on that transport,” Gator said finally. “High and behind, in position for a shot. But weapons tight right now — unless it’s in self-defense, you don’t even think about touching the weapons switch. You got that?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Bird Dog snapped. He jerked the Tomcat back, standing her on her tail and screaming up to altitude. Over the ICS, he heard Gator gasp, and then the harsh grunt of the M1 maneuver. Bird Dog’s face twisted. Served his RIO right if he felt a little uncomfortable. Who the hell was he, anyway, taking an amphibious landing so casually? What did he think this was, the Spratlys?
“Cut this shit out,” Gator finally grunted.
“Cut what out, shipmate?” Bird Dog snapped. “You told me to gain altitude — I gained altitude. And if you and the rest of the pussies on that carrier had any balls, you’d let me do something about this.”
Batman stared at the tactical symbol on the large screen display, watching the hostile contact turn north and head away from the Aleutian chain. “That fighter jock is sure about this?” he asked. “Who’s in Two-oh-one, anyway?”
“Yes, Admiral, they sounded certain. It’s Gator and Bird Dog from VF95,” the TAO answered. He turned and gave the admiral a questioning look as he heard a sharp snort behind him.
“Bird Dog,” Batman muttered. “I should’ve known. Anytime something starts happening, that youngster’s in the middle of it. Damnedest luck.”
He looked up and saw Captain Craig’s face twitch. “You got something on your mind, COS?” Batman demanded.
“No, Admiral,” the chief of staff said quietly. “You’re right, that young pilot does seem to be in the middle of every tactical situation he’s been near since he’s been in the Navy.” COS stopped and carefully assessed the man standing before him. “I was just thinking about someone else, that’s all.”
Batman stared at him. “Why, you old fart. Are you saying-?”
The chief of staff nodded.
Batman stared at the COS for a second, then turned back to the screen. “Maybe I won’t court-martial his ass after all. TAO,” he said, raising his voice, “get those Alert-Five Tomcats in the air. And move four Hornets and four more Tomcats to Alert Five. I want asses and cockpits on the deck and metal in the air. Now.”
The TAO nodded, and picked up the white phone to call the CDC TAO. His counterpart twenty frames down the passageway would automatically add tankers and SAR support to his revised flight schedule.
Moments later, the full-throated growl of a Tomcat engine ramping up shook TFCC, which was located directly under the flight deck. Batman stared up at the overhead. “Damn, those bastards are getting faster every day.”
“How many of you are with me?” the old Inuit demanded. He gazed around at the circle of faces arrayed before him. To an outsider, the men would have seemed impassive, but he could read the subtle emotions as easily as he could distinguish between new-fallen snow and ice. He frowned. “There is a problem?”
One of the older men stirred. “This mission — we are not young men anymore,” he began. He glanced around the circle, saw heads nodding in support.
“Not all of us are old,” the elder argued.
“This is your war,” a younger man piped up. “What have these men ever done for us? Let them kill themselves out there on the ice, for all I care.”
“You forget your place,” the older man said softly. “You are here at our tolerance only — you have no say in these matters.”
“The old ways.” The young man looked disgusted. “What have they gotten us?”
“You forget who you are at a price,” the old man responded sharply. “If you have no honor, then you are nothing — do you understand, nothing. You would no longer exist to me.”
“All this talk about honor is a fine thing, but what have the mainlanders done to our people?”
“And you would rather live under the heels of these others? Have you not listened? Those men are Cossacks. Cossacks, I say.” He saw a stir of uncertainty ripple across the faces. “Don’t the stories mean anything to you?” he pressed.
An uneasy silence fell over the group. Men avoided each other’s eyes. The women, standing in the back of the room, murmured quietly among themselves. Finally, the eldest woman spoke up. “Stories are kept safe for a reason,” she said quietly. “The things I know — the things my mother taught me, and her mother before her, and on and on, are true. Above all, we must not let these invaders stay on our soil.” Around her, the women moved closer in support.
The elder whirled on the circle of men. “Even the women remember,” he said, disgusted. “And who would know better than they? Murder, rape, killing as the whim seizes them — this is what the Cossacks would bring to us.” He made a motion as if to spit on the floor. “And you complain about the mainlanders? Pah! You know nothing.”
Finally, one elder spoke into the silence. “Better mainlanders than Cossacks,” he said, his conviction growing as he spoke. “Though it last happened centuries ago, that people has not changed. I would rather live with sickness and disease than under the Cossack hand. We should go.”
The mood shifted in the room, as one by one the men nodded assent. The women looked even graver than they, knowing that many of them would be widowed or would lose a son in the weeks to come.
“It is done, then.” He turned to a younger man. “Your army experience — it will come in handy now. Begin assembling all the weapons that we have here, including all of the portable communications systems. Hand-held radios, GPS — all here as soon as you can.”
The younger man looked grim. “Be all that you can be,” he said finally. A tight smile crossed his face.
“How many men?” Admiral Wayne asked again.
The young SEAL petty officer looked haggard and drawn. “At least thirty, maybe more. Maybe forty, I don’t know for sure,” he said. His fatigue was evident in his voice.
“Could you see whether your teammates were shot?” Lab Rat asked. He stared at the man before him, wondering at the combination of strength, training, and sheer courage that had brought the SEALs back alive.
“I don’t know. We were too far away. I heard gunfire — a Kalishnikov, I’m certain of it. One burst from an M16, that’s all. I thought I saw a SEAL on the ground, but I couldn’t be sure.”
Batman turned to Lab Rat. “I suggest you start talking to the other SEALS, Commander,” he said. “We’re
