CARRIER 9: ARCTIC FIRE By: Keith Douglass

out instead? That way she can look for that Oscar at the same time.”

Commander Frank Richey fixed him with a pointed glare. “Lieutenants

aren’t asked to decide what’s important, mister,” he snapped. “If the

United States wants to make sure her citizens can count beluga whales in

the North Pacific in peace and quiet, then we’re gonna make sure that

happens. You got it?”

Bird Dog heard Gator, seated next to him, sigh and move away

imperceptibly. Bird Dog nodded, acknowledging the rebuke with bare

courtesy. When he was the commanding officer of a squadron–if that day

ever came, which was looking more and more unlikely these days–he would

remember what it was like to be a frustrated junior pilot, blooded on one

cruise but still not considered an important enough member of the team to

be fully briefed on the mission.

Fully briefed. He snorted. The skipper thought it was enough that he

understood his flight profile, knew what his weapons load-out was, and was

able to make the F-14 Tomcat dance around the sky like a ballerina. But no

one ever bothered to talk about the bigger issues–why the United States

was here in the first place, and just what the hell babysitting a group of

peaceniks and long-hairs on a Greenpeace boat had to do with national

security.

Although, he had to admit, the powers that be had proved right about

the Spratly Islands. There, their routine surveillance of the rocky

outpost in the South China Sea had been the first step in building stronger

ties with the small nations that rimmed that body of water.

Still, would it have cost the skipper anything to give him a better

explanation? He sighed. Maybe he’d wander down to the spook spaces later

today, see if any of the Professional paranoids that lived in the Carrier

Intelligence Center, or CVIC were willing to discuss the mission with him.

Somehow, he had the feeling that if he just knew more, he might be a whole

hell of a lot more interested in the mission than he was at this point. If

it hadn’t involved flying, it would have been a complete waste.

“So, I take it you’ve got the big picture now?” his skipper said,

distracting him from his thoughts.

“Yes, sir, Skipper,” Bird Dog replied. “We’ll fly a routine

surveillance mission over this area,” he said, tracing out a large square

on the chart in front of him. “I’m to report the location of the

Greenpeace ship, drop down to one thousand feet for a quick pass over her

for rigging, then we’re to take a quick look at all the islands. Make sure

none of them have moved.” Bird Dog winced as he heard the sarcasm in his

voice. Damn it, when was he going to learn to keep his mouth under

control?

“There’s islands bear close watching sometimes, Gator said softly.

“Remember?”

“Hell, yes,” Bird Dog said in the same tones. “But that was Asia.

The Aleutian Islands are part of Alaska–American property! Do you really

think that they’re going to be blowing up like the Spratly rocks were?”

Gator shook his head sadly. “That’s what they pay us for,

shipmate–to make sure that they don’t.”

1200 Local

SS Seriony

Tim Holden, first mate on board the third and largest ship in the

Greenpeace inventory, kept his hands firmly wrapped around the overhead

stabilizer bar. The steel rod ran from port to starboard near the ceiling

of the bridge on board the ship. In rough seas like today’s, crew members

virtually hung from it, suspended like bats in order to keep their balance.

The former fishing boat had a deep draft, its keel extending some

thirty feet below the thrashing waves around it. Even with that, though,

the ship bobbed and twisted in the waves, her powerful diesel engines

straining to keep her bow pointed into the long line of heavy swells that

extended out to the horizon. Holden watched the helmsman make minor

adjustments to their course. The man had good sense, far more than most of

his counterparts, and could be trusted to take immediate action without

Holden giving rudder orders for every small course change. It relieved the

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