CARRIER 9: ARCTIC FIRE By: Keith Douglass

go higher up than that–doesn’t sound like something they’d have access to

immediately.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t really say, sir, but there’s a system for assigning these

code names–or at least there was, years ago. These two I think I

recognize. But it’s been years,” he said, almost to himself. “They can’t

still be in place, not after that many years.”

“What are you talking about?” Busby said sharply. “If it has to do

with CVIC, I’m cleared for it.”

The intelligence specialist glanced at the other technicians in the

room, and then made a small movement with his head. Lab Rat took the hint.

“Everyone else out for a few minutes, okay? We’ll get you back in here as

soon as we can.”

The other technicians dispersed reluctantly, intrigued as they were by

the voice coming over the ancient equipment that hadn’t operated in years.

Sure, they’d done periodic maintenance checks on it, and even maintained it

in readiness as part of their watch, but none of them had ever seen it

used.

When the last of them filed out, the intelligence specialist checked

the door behind them. Satisfied that it was shut, he turned back to

Commander Busby. “CIA. Many years ago, during the Cold War. I’ve seen

those two names a couple of times on intelligence reports, back when I was

with DIS–Defense Intelligence Service. But that was ten, maybe fifteen

years ago.”

“The CIA? You’re sure?” Busby asked.

The technician nodded. “As sure as I can be after all these years,

Commander,” he said. “You remember how it was back then. The Soviets had

nuclear ballistic submarines deployed north of the Aleutians in the Bering

Sea. As part of our surveillance program–paranoia, we’d call it now–the

CIA had a number of agents in place, scattered around the islands. Their

orders were simply to observe and report back. You may remember, there was

a time when the CIA was afraid Russia was going to invade via the Aleutian

Islands. At the very least, having tactical control of the passages

between the islands put them in a better position if they ever had to

sortie their submarines for an attack on the continental U.S. So we had

people there.” The technician shrugged. “I’m sure it seemed like a

reasonable precaution at the time.”

“But they’re still in place?” Busby asked. “After all these years?”

The technician nodded. “Evidently so. Or at least, someone who’s

pretending to be them. There’s no way I can authenticate these

transmissions, since these stations were supposedly deactivated years ago.”

“What are they transmitting on?”

The technician reeled off a series of numbers and nomenclature, none

of which answered the real question pounding in Busby’s head. “Okay, so

maybe some of them kept an HF radio after the CIA withdrew support. Gear

like that would be useful. Hell, they could always tell the Company it was

lost.”

“I think you’d better talk to them, sir,” the technician said quietly.

He handed Lab Rat the microphone. “Because if what they’re saying is true,

we’ve got a real problem here.”

CHAPTER 7

Thursday, 29 December

0800 Local

Adak

Twenty knots was considered calm on Adak Island. Given that, and with

unlimited visibility and a relatively stable air mass to the north,

Tombstone’s takeoff from Adak Island was uneventful.

As it had on their inbound flight, a Russian Bear-J aircraft joined on

them shortly after takeoff, once they were clear of U.S. airspace and over

international waters. The electrical problems that had plagued the

aircraft had been fixed, and the flight to Seattle was uneventful.

As the C-130 taxied in, a contingent of U.S. Marines rushed out to

meet the aircraft. The pilot quickly brought her to a halt and waited for

the metal boarding stairs. Tombstone was the first one off the plane.

“Come on, sir,” a Marine major said loudly, struggling to be heard

over the still turning engines. “Your aircraft is ready for you.”

“Flight gear?” Tombstone shouted.

“Waiting for you in the Operations Center.” The Marine Corps major

paused, waiting for Tombstone to do exactly what he’d asked.

Tombstone shrugged and followed the sharply dressed major across the

tarmac. The noise level dropped appreciably. “Where is she?” Tombstone

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