Chapter Thirty-One

They flew out over the Atlantic for the next half hour. The full moon rising on the horizon guided their way.

It was a gloomy flight, but Hunter went ahead and filled everyone in on what had happened over the past two days—the firebombing of Manhattan and the recent assault on Convoy 56.

But even with these two fairly successful actions, they—the Allies—still had a huge problem on their hands: the sixty-five thousand Russian troops occupying New York City, plus the nine thousand horrific NKVD policemen.

“That’s who cut up our boys back there,” Hunter told them. “And the rocket barrage, too. Their way of telling us they’re in reprisal mode.”

They finally spotted their destination, the once quaint island of Nantucket, just south of Cape Cod. Though largely abandoned since the Big War, it hadn’t changed much in appearance. It was still picturesque, with weathered shingle-style houses and high-steepled churches. All lit up, from above, it was like a photo in a New England travel brochure.

Except now, an enormous, listing, smoldering aircraft carrier was anchored in its harbor—and taking up every last inch of it.

“Holy crap,” JT gasped on seeing the gargantuan ship. “You really did capture Moby Dick.”

“Yes, we did,” Hunter said. “We captured the hell out of it. If anyone has any ideas on where to hide the thing, now’s the time to speak up.”

Everyone involved was hoping the Russians would eventually come to believe their mighty Isakov had sunk during the sea battle, just like their two battle cruisers and the Chekski troop carrier.

But an eleven-hundred-foot ship would be hard to keep under wraps for very long. Someone would spot it eventually, and the jig would be up. Then there was the added problem of the five Russian destroyers still out there. As far as anyone on the American side could tell, all five had survived, despite their shooting at one another during Hunter’s Exocet attack.

These destroyers were armed with Styx missiles, massive antiship weapons that were easily adapted to strike land targets. One ship’s barrage would destroy Nantucket Harbor and kill everyone in it. A full barrage from all five ships would most likely sink the Isakov for good, condemning it to foul the historic seaport for the next few hundred years.

“You could always put a camouflaged roof over it,” St. Louis said wryly. “Better be a big one, though.”

They flew over the seaport village next to the harbor. It was buzzing with activity. Members of the 7CAVwere hurrying everywhere. Weapons and munitions were being moved about. Things were being welded, both onshore and aboard the carrier. The combined arc lights bathed the harborside in a cool blue glow.

Hunter explained that they were doing everything possible to get the mammoth, heavily damaged Isakov back to some kind of operational status as quickly as possible. And he meant hours, not days.

“And what about your XL?” Ben Wa asked him, spotting the wreckage of Hunter’s superplane still smoldering on the carrier’s debris-strewn deck. “Can you put it back together?”

Hunter unexpectedly choked up. “Not this time,” he replied quietly.

They touched down at a small field just outside the seaport. The group of allies climbed out of the Mi-8 Hip and stretched. A row of Russian-built Mi-28 Kamov attack helicopters was nearby. The Cobra Brothers went to them like moths to a flame.

Mi-28s were absolutely fierce aerial weapons. Loaded with wire-guided missiles, a nose cannon, and twin rocket launchers, they were also fast, highly maneuverable, and so ugly they were almost pretty. And, as these were naval variants, they were equipped to carry torpedoes.

Hunter explained to the Cobras the gunships had come from the Isakov.

Phil smiled. “I hope this is why you told us not to bring our own rigs.”

Hunter nodded. “We just flew out here in a Russian tank. Now—can you guys fly a couple of Russian Ferraris?”

A quarter mile away, across the beach and near the harbor jetty, stood an old lighthouse.

It was sixty feet high, and on clear nights, its powerful hundred-­year-old revolving beacon could be seen as far north as Boston and as far south as New York City.

Atop the lighthouse now, though, something was spinning that was not anywhere as old: a Zhanya-616 kolectrya satellite dish. Taken from a NKVD storage bin on the Isakov, its name said it all. This dish could collect virtually any kind of radio signal from around the world and record it clearly and static free. It was the ultimate eavesdropping device.

Finding the 616 aboard the carrier was a dream come true for Dozer. He was at the top of the lighthouse now with two of his 7CAV troopers. Once they had realized they’d won the naval battle and actually captured the gigantic carrier, he’d gotten the 616 loaded on the first chopper off their new prize and had it brought here.

They’d been up here ever since getting it to work. Even when the Isakov limped into the harbor, Dozer hardly noticed. He was concentrating on his newfound toys.

He was surrounded by gear at the top of the lighthouse. To his left, his old but reliable shortwave radio set. To his right, no less than a ton of other NKVD communications equipment taken from the Isakov. Not just radio transmitters, but also override modules, signal-intercept generators, even a remote-controlled radiophone-tapping option. Typical Russian spy equipment. But Dozer had been a communications officer in the marines long before the 7CAV ever existed, and he had a few novel ideas on what to do with it.

When, on a hunch, he jump-crossed circuits between the Zhanya-616’s enormous computer hard drive—it alone weighed three hundred pounds—and the Isakov’s frequency modulators, he discovered he could get into the same weighty hard drives that the NKVD used to control their radiophone traffic—and do so without them knowing it.

“We can hack into their computers—and they have no idea we’re in there,” Dozer told his men once he’d proved what he’d done. “We can hear and read everything they’re doing and saying, and they don’t have a clue.”

“Breaking into someone’s computer?” one of his men said. “That’s freaking amazing. Imagine if something like that catches on.”

Among other things, the new unexpected power allowed Dozer to create false signals—radio messages and telex—and put them out as originating from the NKVD. They’d already done it once. They’d broken into the Red Radio station’s computer earlier and forced their own recorded piece onto the air. The three of them couldn’t stop laughing as they heard the anti-NKVD conspiracy message broadcast and then watched the secret police network light up like a Christmas tree with NKVD bigwigs wanting to know what the hell was going on. It was called disinformation—and Dozer loved throwing it back at the Reds.

They finished installing the last of the Russian equipment, backup generators to keep everything going should the primary power source fail, and suddenly Dozer had one of the most advanced spy stations ever created.

From his little, battered radio set in the old shaky Pine Barrens tower to all this in under a week?

Sometimes crazy does work, he thought, truly in his glory.

Then Hunter walked in.