The beach was deserted, and Randall moved up out of the surf, still keeping a careful eye out for any unwelcome presence on the beach. Though the tracks sighted by the sailor had been created two days ago — the tide gave them a good indication of exactly when — it was possible the intruders had come back more recently… possible, in fact, that the intruders were still there.
"Ground looks pretty churned up above the high-tide line," Nelson pointed out.
"Yeah. Let's check it out."
"Whatcha think. Crawler Subski?"
"I'd bet money on it. We don't have anything like this."
There'd been stories for years, now, ever since the early eighties, of sightings of track marks exactly like these on sandy beaches along the Alaskan coast. Similar sightings had been made on the beaches of Finland and Sweden as well. Though no official statement had ever been released by the Navy, it was almost certain that the Russians possessed some sort of unusual submarine or amphibious crawler, one that traveled underwater, but did so by crawling along the sea floor on tracks like a sealed and pressurized tractor or tank. No one had ever actually seen one of the beasts, but there was little doubt about its existence.
And it had to be the Russians. Siberia, after all, was only about seven hundred miles northwest of Adak.
Most likely, though, the vehicles, which some in the SEAL community had dubbed Crawler Subski, were brought in as passengers on a Russian cargo or special operations submarine. The mother boat would drop the intruder off a few miles offshore, and wait to pick it up upon its return.
But… return for what? That was the biggest question Naval Intelligence still faced in regard to the mysterious beach visitors. It wasn't as though Adak was a high-priority target….
Adak had been born as a result of the Japanese occupation of two Aleutian Islands — Attu and Kiska — some hundreds of miles to the west during 1942. With the advent of the Cold War, any base positioned strategically relative to the Soviet Empire had been of value. If the Cold War ever turned hot, Adak might serve as an advance airbase for operations against Kamchatka or northeastern Siberia.
But what could the Soviet tracked intruders have possibly been looking for?
"Hey! Lieutenant Randall! Something here."
Randall moved farther up the beach, passing the high-tide line and joining Nelson where the sand and ash grew soft, just before the inland dunes.
"Whatcha got?"
"Looks like they came in and had a fucking picnic!" A black plastic trash bag lay half-buried in the ash. Spilling from the open mouth were napkins, dirty paper plates, some paper cups, and assorted ripe garbage, including fish bones. A couple of empty bottles — vodka bottles— lay nearby.
"This is too weird for school," Randall said. "They pack up their crawler aboard a special ops submarine in Petro, say, and come all the way up here, deploy their vehicle, come ashore on American territory… to have a picnic? It makes no sense!"
"They might have been eavesdropping on Adak Naval Station," Nelson suggested. "Might even have climbed Split Top over there for a straight line of sight to the base communications center."
"Still doesn't explain them leaving their lunch here on the beach. Unless… "
"Unless what?"
"Well, there've been rumors, scuttlebutt about American submarines sneaking into Russian coastal waters, right?"
"Sure."
"Suppose they left this here deliberately?"
"Why?"
"To say, 'Hey! We can play these games, too!'"
"Seems pretty far-fetched."
"Yeah? You come up with a better answer."
"Dunno. They might've done it on a lark. Or as a bet or a dare. Maybe they never figured we'd spot their tracks and come looking."
"If they didn't want to be found, they would have taken their garbage with them," Randall said evenly. "That's the way it's done."
"Well, it's the way we do it. Maybe they're just pissing on the fire hydrant."
"Doing what?"
"You know. Marking territory, like dogs."
"Interesting image. Well, we'll let the Intelligence boys sort through this."
"Are we going to take it back?"
"Negative. We'll mark it with a beacon, and let the higher powers come and play in the garbage." Kneeling, he pulled a transponder from a waterproof pouch and planted it in the sand next to the spilled trash. "My guess is that they'll turn this whole beach into an archeological site, and go over it with penknives and toothbrushes, looking for clues… cigarette butts, bottle caps, girlie magazines, that sort of thing."
Nelson looked out at the gray sea to the south. "Yeah. And some Russian sub driver'll be out there watching through his periscope, laughing himself sick." He pitched his voice in a broad, mock-Russian accent. "Gullible Amerikanski!"
"Well, we won't be here," Randall said. "We'll be in
Siberia, saying 'gullible Russki' to them! C'mon. Let's go."
Together, the two SEALs trudged back down the beach toward the water.
12
Commander Frank Gordon, captain of the USS Pittsburgh, looked over the forward deck, watching as the line handlers stood at their posts. Damn it, what was holding up the show? He'd intended to be under way by 0630 hours.
Fog blanketed the strait and Mare Island; astern and to the north, Vallejo was almost lost in the gray soup, though Gordon could make out the wet shapes of the nearer buildings, and see a few car headlights moving up and down Sonoma Boulevard.
A sea lion barked mournfully in the water to starboard, as though nursing hurt feelings. Gordon had sent the sailor on deck watch forward an hour ago to shoo a pod of the big animals off of Pittsburgh's bow, and they'd lumbered off into the water in ill-tempered slow motion. Sorry, fellow, Gordon thought with a wry grin. We've all got to get up and get moving early today.
Damn it, where were they?
The past week had been a fury of activity. Torpedoes had been reloaded back aboard, and then the tedious process of bringing food and other stores aboard the boat had begun. No one could say how long Pittsburgh would be gone on this mission, so stores for two months had been piled high on the pier, then fed a can or a cardboard box or a jug at a time down through the forward weapons loading hatch to be stowed somewhere aboard. The 'Burghs pantry spaces were filled first, and after that, stores began stacking up in every corner and stretch of unused space, including some of the heads and low-traffic passageways. Submarines taking supplies aboard for a six-month voyage looked anything but military when they first set out. Their crews had literally to eat their way through some of the supplies to get to deck metal and bare linoleum.
He looked at his watch. Was this the way the Agency ran things on ops in the field? Did they have so many electronic gadgets they couldn't look at their wristwatches from time to time?
He saw two sets of headlights flare on the dock and heard the multiple slam of car doors. A moment later, a small group of men hurried down the pier.
Four had the look that Gordon long ago had come to recognize as that of men well trained and practiced in the military arts. They wore black combat utilities, vests, and gear, and carried black-nylon satchels. Two of the men were bearded, which suggested that these were not SEALs or other U.S. Special Forces commandos, but something else.