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.
“Welcome to Adak, sir,” the driver said. “I understand this is your first trip here?”
“Sure is.” He glanced at the front of her uniform, wondering what her name was, but her stenciled nameplate was covered up by the bulky cold-weather gear. “And you are?”
“Petty Officer Monk,” she said, the hard edges of a New England accent clipping her words off. “I’ll be your driver while you’re here, Admiral,” she added, candidly assessing him.
“I don’t imagine we’ll need to go a lot of places,” Tombstone said. “After all, the base isn’t that big, is it?”
“No, Admiral, but you’ll want a driver even to get between most of the buildings. This cold,” she said, shaking her head, “I thought I’d be used to it, but this takes even me by surprise.”
“Maine?” Tombstone asked, hazarding a guess.
Her face brightened. “You’ve been there?”
“Several times. Did a lot of skiing up at Sugarloaf years ago.”
She nodded vigorously. “Only about forty miles from my hometown,” she said happily. “Gets cold up there, but nothing compared to Adak.”
Something about the young sailor reminded Tombstone of Tomboy. It wasn’t just the physical similarity, he was sure, although Petty Officer Monk was about the same size as his lover. No, it was something in the set of the eyes, the bright gleam of mischief that not even naval courtesy and custom could entirely dim.
“Oh, by the way, Admiral,” Petty Officer Monk said suddenly, breaking into his reverie. “A few members of the press arrived yesterday on the last C-130 for the decommissioning ceremony. There’re only three reporters, though,” she added hastily, seeing the expression of dismay cross his face. “Just one from a major network.”
As the last passenger climbed into the van, Petty Officer Monk started to pull away from the aircraft. She’d left the engine running while sitting there.
“And just who might that be?” Tombstone asked, already feeling a curious, pleasant fluttering in his stomach. If it were …”
“Miss Pamela Drake,” Monk said cheerfully. “She’s staying at the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters — BOQ — but most of us have gotten a look at her. She’s from ACN.”
Pamela Drake. Why wasn’t he surprised? Tombstone shook his head. During the last ten years, Pamela had managed to turn up on every major press pool covering United States Navy operations, particularly those that involved a certain Matthew Magruder. At first he’ thought it was coincidence, but on his last cruise, Pamela had finally admitted that she never passed up an opportunity to cover anything involving Tombstone. When they’d finally broken their engagement, he thought those days would be over.
Evidently not. A new thought struck him, and he grimaced. Now just what would Tomboy have to say if she found out that Pamela Drake was on the same isolated island as her lover? He shook his head, quite sure that it wouldn’t be pleasant.
“Okay, we got it,” the voice said over Tactical. “Solid visual on the COI — contact of interest.”
“About time you guys showed up,” Bird Dog grumbled. “This is a fighter, not a babysitter.”
“We do our best, but our max speed is four hundred and forty knots,” the other pilot retorted. “You might be able to get here faster, but you can’t do a damned thing about her while she’s submerged. We can,” he concluded smugly.
Bird Dog stared out the windscreen at the squat, blunt-nosed S-3 Viking ASW aircraft. She was less than half the size of the Tomcat, he figured, but her long fuel endurance and highly efficient engines enabled her to remain on station far longer than the Tomcat could have dreamed of without tanking. Two Harpoon antiship missiles hung slung on either side of her fuselage, with two torpedoes on each wing occupying the outer weapons stations. Evidently, the carrier took this business seriously, sending out the S-3s fully armed.
While the Tomcat could carry a wide range of antiair missiles and bombs, there was damned little it had
