interior communications switch. “Nice to know they have such confidence in
my ability to get back on board,” he said to Gator.
“Don’t take it personal,” the RIO replied. “The last thing we want to
happen is to get low on gas out here. Not much place to bingo.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got plenty of fuel for two passes at the boat. What,
they don’t think my track record’s so hot?”
He heard his RIO sigh. “They’ve launched a tanker for every returning
flight in the last two days, asshole. If you think you’re such hot shit,
maybe I’d better find me another pilot. Nothing kills air crews faster
than over-confidence.”
“Well, when was the last time I did anything except get on board first
time and catch the three-wire?” Bird Dog argued. “I’m just saying, it’s a
normal-”
“Wait, what’s that?” Gator said.
“What?”
“Radar contact–way down to the south, maybe a hundred miles. It
wasn’t there before,” Gator said, a note of excitement coloring his usual
professional monotone.
“Probably another fishing boat. What’s the big deal?”
“I’m telling you, it wasn’t there before. Now it’s solid. You know
what that means.”
“A submarine? You’re calling a pop-up contact a submarine up here?
Jesus, Gator, you sure as hell must be bored. What the hell would a
submarine be doing surfaced out here?”
“That’s the whole point, Bird Dog. It shouldn’t be. Snorkeling,
maybe, if it’s a diesel recharging its batteries, but no submariner in his
right mind would surface out here. For what? To get a good look at an
iceberg?”
Just then the voice of the operations specialist on the Jefferson came
over the circuit. “Tomcat Two-oh-one, we’re holding your contact
approximately two hundred to the east of us, one hundred miles from your
position. Request you vector back to Jefferson, take on fuel, and
investigate.”
Bird Dog sighed. No point in complaining that it was Christmas Day,
that he really would prefer to be asleep in his rack instead of chasing sea
ghosts, or that he was now desperately wishing he hadn’t had those two cups
of coffee before they launched. He toggled the tactical switch. “Okay,
okay, we’re on our way in.”
“Better than buzzing Greenpeace, isn’t it?” Gator asked.
“Would be if I didn’t have to pee so bad. But as cold as it is out
there, I’m afraid I’m gonna get stuck in a real embarrassing, personal sort
of way if I use the relief tube.”
Gator laughed. “Come on, Bird Dog, those are just old sea stories.
It’s not like touching your tongue to an ice cube tray.”
“Yeah, well, you try it with yours first,” Bird Dog snapped. He gazed
down at the relief tube, conveniently mounted and accessible to the pilot.
While most of the time he appreciated the convenience, since he despised
the piddle-packs the Hornet drivers had to use, he was damned uncomfortable
at the thought now. Holding the Tomcat in level flight with one hand, he
stripped off a glove and touched the relief tube. It was icy cold, just as
he’d feared.
“Not much better than a Coke bottle,” he grumbled.
“I told you to go before we left home,” Gator said solemnly, in a tone
he normally reserved for his three-year-old daughter. He gave a short bark
of laughter. “That’s what I always say when we drive up to the gas station
in the car.”
“Funny guy.” Bird Dog touched the relief tube again, and wondered if
he could manage to wait.
Kilo 31
Rogov waited until the last Spetsnaz commando entered the raft before
reaching out for the ladder himself.
“Comrade Colonel, do you really think it’s such a good idea?” the
submarine captain began.
Rogov cut him off. “You don’t need to think. I’m going ashore with
the detachment to survey the site,” the Cossack snapped. “Your orders,
Captain, are to deliver me here, and to maintain radio contact should I
need assistance. I will return to this ship in six hours, and you are to
be here waiting for me. Are we clear on that?”
The submarine captain nodded, relieved that the colonel would be
leaving. The Mongolian Cossack’s cold, menacing presence had become almost