Ian Slater - World in Flames

“Dutch Harbor, sir.”

The captain nodded “okay,” but the personnel director knew the old man was still trying to figure out why the hell Washington, awash in top brass, would bother to recall one of the fleet’s top aces at a time when the damn Russians were at the back door in the Aleutians, clearly using Shemya and Adak as advance carriers to island-hop along the island chain, readying to hit America’s western and most vulnerable flank. For his part, the PD was concerned it might be a bureaucratic screwup. It had happened before — a liaison officer in San Diego ordered verbally by Washington to grab the first available flight to what was supposed to be Oakland, the guy ending up twenty-four hours later in Auckland, New Zealand.

“We have any other Shirers aboard?” asked the captain. As he waited for the answer from the PD, he never shifted his gaze from the flight deck, watching the crews working feverishly, the carrier launching a plane every forty-seven seconds. Meanwhile, other aircraft from the battle group’s constant combat patrols were coming in to land at over 150 miles an hour. One slip could take out two pilots, flight deck crew, and billion-dollar aircraft in milliseconds.

“Captain,” came the PD’s reply. “We’ve got four Shirers. One also a Frank. A purple jacket. But his number’s—”

“Never mind the number. Get a repeat from Washington, Phil. Son of a bitch, what’d I tell you? Another Pentagon snafu.”

The PD requested verification of Shirer’s service number. One wrong digit was all it would take.

The confirmation came back within the hour. It was Frank Shirer, the fighter ace at Dutch Harbor, whom Washington wanted. When he received the information, the captain sighed resignedly, telling his executive officer that neither Salt Lake City nor the Aleutian command could afford the loss of even one pilot, with more air-supported land battles shaping up in the Aleutians. “Very well,” he instructed the personnel director. “Send message to Dutch Harbor — immediate for Shirer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But, Phil—”

“Sir?”

“I want that F-14 back here. He can be ferried back to Pearl from here and then to Washington via San Diego. He might be their fair-haired boy, but the plane’s ours! Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Washington,” put in the executive officer, “is probably going to give him another medal.”

The skipper shrugged. “Even Washington’s not that stupid. He could receive it in the field. It’s got me beat, I’m tellin’ ya. It’s ridiculous.” The executive officer agreed.

So did Shirer.

Whether it had been McRae’s morbid description of how Maclain Macdonald and his clan had been cut down or whether it was the strange effect of the subdued light in the western Highlands that was responsible for his sense of unease, Robert Brentwood wasn’t sure, but the sight of the Glencoe Massacre was unexpectedly grim and unsettling. Looking over the jagged outcrops of the gloomy glen, he understood how it was the stuff not only of the inevitable ghost stories but of many a Highlander’s sense of separation from other men. More than one Scot, sober as the bitter cold, had sworn by everything holy that he’d seen the blood-streaked face of Alastair Maclain Macdonald.

“By God, this is a barren place,” he said to Rosemary as he stopped the car in one of the pull-outs, the sight of a red English phone booth standing by the road a hundred yards away distinctly anachronistic to the mournful, wind-riven nature of the place, the booth’s solitary presence only adding to Robert’s sense of anomie and to what Rosemary called the “spirit-filled” strangeness of the place.

Soon, out of the bruised sky above Ben Nevis ten miles to the north, more mist descended and at times completely obscured the long ribbon of narrow road behind them that had wound through the lonely valley to the desolate glen. Despite the mist, Robert was able to see a lone car.

“Second time,” said Robert.

“Second time for what?” asked Rosemary as they paused on their way back from the monument, walking toward what Rosemary called their car of “ill repute.”

“What? Oh—” Brentwood caught himself. “Nothing. Just noticed that car down there’s a yellow Honda Civic. Didn’t realize there were so many in Scotland.”

“Lord,” said Rosemary easily. “They’re common as colds in England. That other couple at the B and B had one as well — the Prices.”

“Did they?” Robert asked surprised.

“Yes. Rental companies love them.”

“Why?”

“Easy, silly. Less accidents in the fog. Best color, yellow— though I think it’s ghastly.” Then she surprised him again. “Besides, Robert, if they were following us, I should think they’d be a little more subtle than that. I mean, the only other car on the road.”

“Huh—” grunted Robert. Perhaps he was being a little paranoid. But as one of the elite skippers whose sub was one of the most powerful in the world as well as being his country’s last line of defense in the event the war went nuclear, he and everyone else on the Sea Wolf II knew their vigilance didn’t start and end with the sub. Even so, Rosie had a point. Why would the Prices, if it was them — or the other people, or anyone — be so obvious as to be seen? “Unless…”he began, but trailed off as more thick clouds born about the summit of Ben Nevis gathered and came rolling down, obliterating Glencoe’s stark beauty.

It wasn’t until they were halfway to the ferry that Rosemary, struck by Robert’s unusual bout of suspicion, felt her chest tightening in a rush of fear as she realized Russian agents would have no compunction in murdering a nuclear submarine’s captain. She turned to him wide-eyed in terror.

“It’s an occupational hazard,” he explained quietly. “Everybody knows about it when they join up.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?”

“Guess not. Sorry — I shouldn’t have…” He paused, smiling. “Hell, we could get hit by a bus. You can’t live in a box.”

“You can the in one,” she said. “My God, you mean you accept this as a normal part of your—”

“Right. Besides, honey, I do have my executive officer here.”

For a second, Rosemary was nonplussed.

“No,” Robert explained, shifting down, using the gears as a brake on the narrow, wet road. “I don’t mean Pete Zeldman,” he said.

“Well then, who do you…”

Robert pressed the glove box button. Nothing happened. He punched it and the compartment lid dropped, spilling out road maps as well as a Smith & Wesson.45.

Rosemary, gasping for breath, recoiled from it as if it were a snake.

“Don’t worry,” he said casually. “Safety’s on.”

Steering with his right hand, he slipped the.45 between them and stuffed the maps back into the glove box. “Don’t look so shocked, honey. It’s only a gun. There is a war going on.”

Rosemary started to say something but was still too astonished by the sight of the gun.

“Hey,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulder, “it was supposed to reassure you. That’s what it’s for.”

“Well, it doesn’t,” she answered emphatically, looking up at him as if in some way she were seeing him for the first time. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“They issue them for protection while we’re ashore — not to frighten brides.”

“It doesn’t frighten me,” she said, staring at the gun, its khaki-green camouflage pattern making it appear more ominous to her. “It terrifies me.”

“Hon,” he assured her, “I wasn’t going to show you, but you seemed so wound up about these—”