CARRIER 9: ARCTIC FIRE By: Keith Douglass

considerations that would arise once the report went out.

The heavy door swung open, and a slight puff of air caressed his face,

the result of the positive pressure gradient between the sensitive crypto

spaces and the rest of CVIC. Jackson stepped over the shin-high

knee-knocker and shoved the door closed behind him, waiting to make sure he

heard the ominous click announcing the door was secure.

Well, it would be up to the admiral to decide what they did now.

1015 Local

Admiral’s Cabin, USS Jefferson

“You think this is really something?” Batman asked Commander Busby.

“Define ‘something,'” Busby said. “if you mean, do I think it’s a

valid detection, the answer is yes. But what it means–that I don’t know,

Admiral.”

Batman sighed. “And you can’t tell me what was said on the circuit,

just that somebody was transmitting?”

“That’s about it. It was all encrypted. With enough time, enough

resources, NSA might be able to make something of it, but we can’t here.

And I’m not even sure that NSA could break it that fast–there are too many

good commercial encrypters on the market these days.” Busby shook his

head. “I know the U.S. has tried to keep control of digital encryption

technology, but other nations aren’t quite so vigorous.”

“So for all we know, this could be that Greenpeace boat communicating

with their people back in the States?”

Busby shook his head. “Not at that frequency. You’d see a high

frequency–HF–for that. One thing we’re relatively sure of, this was a

short-range signal.”

“Satellite?”

“Not enough power. No, Admiral, I was hoping that would be the case,

but this signal has no other reasonable explanation. None that I can come

up with, anyway.”

“Damn it. And we can’t ignore it.” Batman handed the commander the

printout sheet and stood up. “Well, I’ll have our people check it out.

You’ll want to debrief them as soon as they return, I imagine.”

“The SEALS?” Busby asked.

Batman smiled grimly. “They’ve spent the last three months running

laps in the hangar bays, taking up hours on the Stairmaster machines, and

generally chafing at the bit. I imagine their commander is going to be

more than eager to jump on this one. And what better way to check out a

spurious radio signal from an island than to send in the SEALS?”

1532 Local

Kilo 31

The ocean was peculiarly calm, cloaked in an uneasy, expectant hush

Rogov had come to associate with the quiet before a williwaw. The covered

lifeboat, pressed once again into service as a shuttle between the

submarine and the shore, bobbed gently against the hull.

Rogov set one foot on the first rung of the ladder, paused, and turned

back to the executive officer, now in command of the boat. “You understand

your orders?”

The executive officer nodded. “We remain surfaced until you signal

that you are ashore, then maintain the original communications schedule for

the next two weeks. If you fail to make four consecutive scheduled

contacts, I am to return to base immediately and report the lack of contact

to the man you have designated.”

“And?”

“And to no one else,” he added quickly. “My word as an officer, it

will be done.”

Rogov studied him for a moment, then let a grim smile of approval

cross his face. “Very well. On your word. That will mean as much to you

as it does to us.”

“You may depend on it.”

Rogov put his other foot on the first rung and started descending the

ladder to the boat. Halfway down, the expression that had lulled the

executive officer so easily melted into something that would not have

calmed the most junior sailor on board that boat.

Rogov fingered the transmitter in his pocket. Cossacks never left

enemies at their back. In this situation, four pounds of high-explosive

plastic compound cemented to the wall of their dead skipper’s stateroom

would ensure it.

Two thousand meters later, he pressed the button. The Kilo shivered,

then the ocean around her fountained up in a gout of metal, machinery, and

men.

1540 Local

Pathfinder 731

17,000 Feet Above Aflu

“Goddamned carrier jocks,” Lieutenant Commander Bill “Ramrod”

McAllister grumbled. “Be nice if they could learn to tell the difference

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