unbearable in the close confines of the submarine. If only he didn’t look
so different, he thought, he might be almost tolerable. But the slanting,
almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, and ruddy brown-red color marked
Colonel Rogov as a descendant of the barbarian hordes that swept across so
much of the continent during earlier centuries. If the stories told about
the Cossacks were true, then the blood of merciless conquerors and masters
of torture ran through Rogov’s veins. He studied the massive man
descending the ladder below him, noting how much he looked like the
Spetsnaz. It was some quality of the way they moved, smoothly yet
gracelessly, power imbuing every motion. It was a clear, cold menace that
every man of European descent recognized–and feared.
He shook his head, dispelling the beginnings of a shudder. What
mattered was not the man’s bloodlines, but the mission he was on now.
While he had no need to know the details, the little he had learned made
his blood run cold.
As Rogov stepped onto the raft, the submarine captain saluted, then
cast off the last line holding the small craft moored to the submarine. He
looked up and stared back out at the island. Despite his misgivings about
Rogov, he would not willingly have sent any man out onto the bleak, barren
island so close to them. Especially not in this weather.
He watched the raft pull away, the steady thrum of its outboard motor
echoing eerily in the fog. Godspeed, he said silently, as he felt the
weight left off his shoulders. He turned back to his submarine, and
descended down into the command center. The sooner they were submerged and
back below the surface of the sea, the safer the submarine would be from
any prying eyes.
Tomcat 201
Bird Dog eased the Tomcat forward slowly, concentrating on the plastic
basket streaming aft of the KA-6 tanker. Landing on a carrier deck at
night was by far the most stressful part of carrier aviation, but refueling
ran a close second. He resisted a temptation to look down at the icy
water.
“Looking good, Bird Dog,” Gator said encouragingly. “A few more
inches, a few more inches there, you’ve got it.”
Bird Dog felt the Tomcat shudder as the retractable refueling probe
located on the right side of the fuselage near the front seat slid home.
“Good connection. How much ya want, Bird Dog?” the KA-6 pilot asked.
“Let’s get her topped off,” Bird Dog said. “Going to take a run out
west to check up on one of Gator’s ghosts.”
“Roger–commencing transfer now.”
The Tomcat and the KA-6 flew like a strangely mated pair of bumblebees
for six minutes, the KA-6 pouring fuel into the Tomcat. When both wing
tanks were topped up, Bird Dog said, “That’ll do it.”
“Roger. Have fun chasin’ ghosts.”
“Maybe it’s Santa Claus on his way home,” Bird Dog answered.
“Sounds good to me. You been a good Bird Dog all cruise?” the other
pilot asked.
“Good enough.”
“What are you gonna ask him for?”
“The only thing that comes to mind right now is a nice warm land-based
urinal, but I’ll give it some thought on the way out there.” Bird Dog
heard the other pilot chuckle in response.
Bird Dog eased back on the power slowly, carefully disengaging from
the KA-6. As soon as an adequate degree of separation had been achieved,
he rolled the Tomcat gracefully to starboard and headed out to the west.
Aflu Island
As the raft bumped up against the island’s southern shore, the
Spetsnaz in the forward part of the boat leaped out, skidded on the ice,
and then tugged on the mooring line. The bow of the small craft slipped up
out of the Water and onto the ice. The rest of the Spetsnaz piled out
quickly, moving easily even after twenty minutes of sitting on the cold,
hard boards that ringed the interior of the raft. Rogov followed more
Slowly, trying to conceal the stiffness already setting into his muscles.
He stepped out onto the ice, felt it shiver slightly under the weight
of the men on it. Two Spetsnaz were hauling the boat completely out of the