immediately if there was a problem, but there was nothing more reassuring than getting a visual on a clean, ice- free wing. “The meteorology boys really screwed this one up.”
“Not that we had a lot of choice about it,” Gator said. “You think we have problems, how do you think those helo pilots feel?”
Bird Dog repressed a shudder. “Not good. I wouldn’t trade places with them for anything. You got solid contact on Batman?”
“Yep. Five-hundred-feet separation, just like we briefed. You’re in solid. Okay, starting the approach,” Gator said briskly. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we’re out of here. Just follow Batman on in.”
“You got any indication of target designation?” Bird Dog asked.
“No, not yet. Still too far away. And look at the time — Batman’s running a few minutes early.”
“Well, we could grab some altitude and orbit for a while,” Bird Dog said, “but I don’t fancy charging through those clouds any more than I have to. And neither does he.”
Both men knew that the moisture-laden clouds seriously increased the danger of icing on the wings. While the deicing gear on the Tomcat was fairly decent, it had never been designed to cope with frigid temperatures like these, or with multiple passes through arctic clouds. As far as they were concerned, it was just another chance for things to go wrong.
“Best not,” Gator said finally. “Let’s settle in a pattern out here, far enough to be out of visual range. That’ll have to do for now. Besides, we haven’t detected any radar sweeps coming off the island. I’m willing to bet as long as we’re out of visual range, we’re safe.”
“You got it, partner,” Bird Dog responded. He ascended to fifteen thousand feet and began a right-hand orbit, carefully keeping an eye on the approaching clouds. “They get much closer, and we’ll have problems,” he remarked.
Gator grunted. “We should be inbound by then.”
They left unspoken the possibility of having to abort the mission. True, the admiral had made it plain that it was Batman’s call. Neither crew was to pointlessly risk the safety of the multimillion-dollar aircraft and its highly trained crew of two if there were no chance of accomplishing their objective. However, it would be a cold day in hell — Bird Dog smiled grimly at the appropriate metaphor — before either of the two would willingly break off.
“How’s she flying?” Gator said, more to break the silence than out of any real curiosity.
“Heavy as a pig,” Bird Dog answered. “I hate playing bomb cat.”
The versatile F-14 Tomcat had been designed as both a fighter and bomber aircraft. During the days when the A-6 and A-7 aircraft were in use in the fleet, practicing the arcane skills of bombing had been largely a matter of form. However, as the older attack aircraft were phased out, and the newer F/A-18 Hornet entered the fleet, the Tomcat community found itself under serious attack. After ironing out some minor avionics glitches, Tomcat squadrons aggressively attacked the problem of becoming as proficient in ground-to-air attacks as they were in aerial combat. Within a couple of years, they were matching every test of accuracy and reliability neck for neck with the Hornet. Indeed, carrier battle group commanders preferred Tomcats over the Hornet, since the latter aircraft’s payload and endurance was seriously limited. The Tomcat, while a much larger spotting problem on the deck, generally proved itself more than worth the extra space, based on its capacity for ordnance.
Of course, Bird Dog reflected, it was tough to tangle with a Hornet. The smaller aircraft had a maneuverability and weight-to-power factor that made it a tough target for any Tomcat. Still, they managed to hold their own as well there. If you could outlast a Hornet, sooner or later he’d have to leave to go gas up.
And when you’ve got an opponent like a MiG, with their higher fuel endurance, the Tomcat was the only choice. Like it had been in the Spratlys. While the Hornets had covered their asses from time to time there, in the end the Tomcat had proven victor of the skies.
“Okay, time,” Gator announced. “Batman’s starting his run in. He says it looks like it’s clearing up around the island. You vector on down and get on his ass just like we briefed, Bird Dog.”
“Hell, he’s the bird dog on this mission,” the pilot grumbled. “I’m just batting cleanup.”
“You mix any metaphors you want as long as you get me back to the boat,” his RIO answered.
“Commander, I think you’d better come here,” the senior Spetsnaz commander said.
“Problem?” Rogov paused from inventorying the stores, and walked over to the small group of worried commandos. “What?”
“Listen.” The commando thrust his hand-held radio toward Rogov. “Started five minutes ago.” He turned up the volume on the radio.
Rogov shook his head. “I don’t hear anything except static.”
“That is the problem, exactly. Someone is trying to jam our communications.”
“Jamming? But how-” Rogov whirled around and glared at the SEAL still held captive at the end of the cavern. “I see,” he said, his voice more calm.
“It appears to be a static source. It hasn’t changed in intensity, and it’s still strongest from a single direction.”
“So what can you do about it?”
The commando shrugged. “There are no choices. There are intruders on the island, and we’ve lost communications. My standing orders are for my patrols to take cover in the event that something such as this should happen. I suspect they even now have our entrance under surveillance, and are prepared to kill anyone that approaches that door.”
“You find this transponder,” Rogov said harshly. So close, so close to success, and now this. Unreasoning rage boiled in his stomach, making its way slowly to his head. “Find the men who brought this and kill them. Do you understand?”
The same unnerving smile Rogov had seen on the submarine returned. “It’s what we do best, Colonel,” he said, looking eager.
Huerta looked up at the sky. “An hour, you think?” As much as he’d like to believe that, it didn’t seem possible. Gusting williwaw winds were already pounding the thin shelters, screaming through every tiny crack between the two sections mated to form a fragile barrier against the environment. He’d risked one peek outside, for what it was worth. Now more than the horizon had disappeared — all he could see was blinding snow and ice pelting him in the face, banging against the two flaps tied together to form the door to the shelter. The other clamshell shelter, only four feet away, was invisible. There was no chance that they were moving anytime soon.
“Maybe not soon,” Morning Eagle said, unconsciously echoing the SEAL’s thoughts. “Sometimes these blow over quickly.”
“And other times?” the SEAL demanded.
Morning Eagle shrugged. The SEAL felt rising frustration, which he stifled.
Truly, there was no help for it. The storm would end when it ended — not a moment sooner. Giving the young Inuit an ass-chewing for underestimating its duration would do no good. After all, they would have gone ahead with the mission anyway, even if they’d had an accurate weather forecast. No way they were leaving the boss behind — no way.
The SEAL rummaged in one pocket of his parka, finally found what he was looking for. He extracted two high-calorie protein bars, and offered one to the Inuit. The other waxed covering was dull army green, and the bar itself tasted like it would match the protective wrapper. “Beats whale blubber,” the SEAL offered.
The Inuit unwrapped his bar, studied it, sniffed it, and then took a small, tentative bite. He chewed for a moment thoughtfully, and an odd expression, half apology, half disgust, rose in his eyes. “Not by much,” he said, then swallowed hard.
“The weather’s not holding,” Bird Dog said, in a singsong tone of voice. “Although why I expected anything different, I’ll never know. How much time do we have left?”
“Three minutes,” Gator answered. “That is, if you think we can make it.”
