CARRIER 9: ARCTIC FIRE By: Keith Douglass

add speed to your preparations.”

The Spetsnaz commander barked orders to his compatriots, his air of

braggadocio considerably diminished at the thought of being stranded in the

camp with no rations. Rogov smiled to himself, pleased. How long they

would be here would depend on the Americans. And it was Rogov’s job to

ensure that the United States found very little to interest them on this

westernmost Aleutian island.

At least, not right away.

CHAPTER 2

Sunday, 25 December

1615 Local

Aleutian Islands

Rear Admiral Matthew Magruder forced himself to relax the tight grip

he had on the seat’s armrest. The worn upholstery on the C-130 transport

plane was testimony to the years that it had been in service in the United

States Navy.

How many times had it made this trip? he wondered. Five hundred? Two

thousand? He glanced around the cabin, trying to distract himself from the

tricky approach onto the Adak Island airfield, wondering how many other

admirals and other dignitaries had made this same flight during the last

five decades. Not many in recent years, he would be willing to bet. And

this would be one of the last ones, since he was en route to Adak to

preside over the decommissioning of the last P-3C Orion squadron assigned

there.

He looked down and saw his fingers had curled around the armrest

again. The nubby, well-worn fabric was rough and slightly oily under his

hands. He grimaced and shook his head. Like most naval aviators, Rear

Admiral Magruder despised being a passenger. An F-14 Tomcat pilot himself,

he found it particularly unsettling to be strapped into a seat thirty feet

away from primary flight controls. He felt the plane shift slightly, and

his left foot pressed down automatically, trying to compensate for the

aircraft’s slight wobble.

“Please remain in your seats,” a terse voice said over the speaker.

“We’re getting some strong crosswinds. Normal for this part of the

Aleutian Islands, but it makes for a tricky landing.” A slight chuckle

echoed in the speaker. “Don’t worry, folks, I’ve done this about eight

hundred times myself.” The speaker went dead with a sharp pop.

Eight hundred times, Magruder thought, and tried to relax. I had that

many traps on an aircraft carrier by the time I was a lieutenant commander.

Now, with over three thousand arrested carrier landings, Magruder was one

of the most experienced pilots in the Navy. He would have gladly foregone

the promotions that went along with that.

Three months ago, he’d been commanding the carrier battle group on

board USS Thomas Jefferson, responsible for the safety and well-being of

over five thousand crew members and aviators, as well as close to one

billion dollars in equipment. Jefferson had been on the pointy end of the

spear, intervening in a conflict between China and the southeastern Asian

nations over the oil-rich seafloor around the Spratly Islands.

And this is my reward. His uncle, Vice Admiral Thomas Magruder, had

warned him at his change of command that he was up for an exciting new

assignment. Tombstone had spent two months at the Naval War College for a

quick refresher in intelligence and satellite capabilities, along with an

update on Special Forces capabilities. It had been difficult to put the

information in context, since his ultimate duty station was still

classified top secret.

Alaska. When the word had finally come, learning that he was to be

commander of Alaskan forces with sole operational responsibility for

everything from Alaska across the Pacific Ocean, it had been a letdown.

They might as well have told me I ought to go ahead and retire.

ALASKCOM might have been a big deal back during the days of the Cold War,

when Russian submarines routinely plied the straights between the Aleutian

Islands, but it was a backwater post these days. The Soviet forces lay

rusting and decaying alongside their piers, with the exception of some

long-range ballistic missile submarines that still deployed under the ice

cap. The SOSUS station and most of the P-3 squadrons that had been

stationed at Adak during the Cold War had either been decommissioned or

pulled back to CONUS–the continental U.S. The Aleutian Islands, along

with the frigid Bering Sea to the north of it, were a tactical wasteland.