by Tom Clancy
PENGUIN 8
“Looks like the fire’s under control,” the copilot commented sourly.
“Yeah, how do you think they managed that? Shit, that boat should’ve gone up like—but it didn’t.” As they watched, a second load of troops was dispatched on the four hovercraft. The pilot hadn’t thought of having the two available Eagle fighters—now heading for England—shoot them up instead of this huge black ship. Some fucking officer you are, he told himself. Penguin 8 carried eighty sonobuoys, four Mk-46 ASW torpedoes, and some other high-technology weapons—none of which were of the least use against a simple large target like this merchie. Unless he wanted to play kamikaze . . . the pilot shook his head.
“If you want to head for Scotland, we got another thirty minutes of fuel,” the flight engineer advised.
“Okay, let’s take a last look at Keflavik. I’m going up to six thousand. Oughta keep us out of SAM range.”
They were over the coast in two minutes. A Lebed was approaching the SOSUS and SIGINT station opposite Hafnir. They could just make out some movement on the ground, and a wisp of smoke coming from the building. The pilot didn’t know much about the SIGINT activities, but SOSUS, the oceanic Sonar Surveillance System, was the principal means of detecting targets for the P-3C Orion crews to pounce on. This station covered the gaps from Greenland to Iceland, and from Iceland to the Faroe Islands. The main picketline needed to keep Russian subs out of the trade routes was about to go permanently off the air. Great.
They were over Keflavik a minute after that. Seven or eight aircraft had not gotten off the ground. All were burning. The pilot examined the runways through binoculars and was horrified to see that it was uncratered.
“Tacco, you got a Sentry on the line?”
“You can talk to one right now, Flight. Go right ahead, you got Sentry Two.”
“Sentry Two, this is Penguin 8, do you read, over?”
“Roger, Penguin 8, this is the senior controller. We show you over Keflavik. What’s it look like?”
“I count eight birds on the ground, all broke and burning. The missiles did not, repeat not, crater the airfield.”
“You sure about that, Eight?”
“Affirmative. A whole lot of blast damage, but I don’t see any holes in the ground. The in-close fuel tanks appear undamaged, and nothing at all seems to have hit the tank farm at Hakotstangar. We left our friends a whole shitload of jet fuel and an airfield. The base—let’s see. Tower’s still standing. Lots of smoke and fire around Air/Ops . . . base looks pretty badly beat-up, but those runways are sure as hell usable. Over.”
“How about the ship you shot at?”
“One solid hit, I eyeballed the missile in, and two of your ’15s strafed his ass, but it ain’t enough. She’ll probably make port. I’d guess she’ll try to come into Reykjavik, maybe Hafnarfjördur, to unload. She’s gotta be carrying a lot of stuff. It’s a forty-thousand-ton ship. She can make port in two or three hours unless we can whistle up something to take her out.”
“Don’t count on it. What’s your fuel state?”
“We gotta head for Stornoway right now. My camera guys have shot pictures of the area, and that ship. About all we can do.”
“Okay, Penguin 8. Go find yourself a place to land. We’re leaving in a few minutes, too. ’Luck. Out.”
HAFNARFJÖRDUR, ICELAND
Edwards parked the car in the shopping center. There had been some people outside along the drive in, mainly looking west toward Keflavik. Awakened by the noise a few miles away and wondering what was happening. Just like us, Edwards thought. Fortunately, there seemed to be no one about right here yet. He locked the car and pocketed the keys without thinking about it.
“Where to, Lieutenant?” Sergeant Smith asked.
“Sergeant, let’s straighten a few things out. You’re the ground-pounder. You got any ideas, I want to know about ’em, okay?”
“Well, sir, I’d say we oughta head straight east for a while, to get away from the roads, like, and find you a place to play with that radio. An’ do it quick.”
Edwards looked around. There was no one on the streets here yet, but they’d want to get into the back country before being noticed by anybody who might tell someone about it afterward. He nodded, and the sergeant directed a private to lead off. They took off their helmets and slung their rifles to appear as harmless as possible, each sure that a hundred pairs of eyes were locked on them from behind the curtained windows. What a way to start a war, he thought.
MV JULIUS FUCIK
“The fires are out, by God!” General Andreyev proclaimed. “There is much damage to our equipment, mainly from water, but the fires are out!” His expression changed when he saw Kherov.
The captain was ghostly pale. An Army medic had bandaged his wound, but there had to be internal bleeding. He struggled to hold himself erect over the chart table.
“Come right to zero-zero-three.”
A junior officer was on the wheel. “Right to zero-zero-three, Comrade Captain.”
“You must lie down, my captain,” Andreyev said softly.
“I must get my ship to safe harbor first!”
The Fucik ran almost due north, the westerly wind and sea on her beam, and water was lapping at the missile wound. His earlier optimism was fading. Some seams in the lower hull had sprung from the missile impact, and water was entering the lower cargo deck, though so far the pumps were keeping up with it. There was twenty thousand tons of cargo to deliver.
“Captain, you must have medical attention,” Andreyev persisted.
“After we round the point. When we have the damaged port side alee, then I shall be tended to. Tell your men to stay alert. One more successful attack could finish us. And tell them they have done well. I would be happy to sail with them again.”
USS PHARRIS
“Sonar contact, possible submarine bearing three-five-three,” the sonarman announced.
And so it begins, Morris said to himself. Pharris was at general quarters for the first leg of the trip away from the U.S. coast. The frigate’s tactical towed-array sonar was trailed out in her wake. They were twenty miles north of the convoy, a hundred ten miles east of the coast, just crossing the continental shelf line into truly deep water at the Lindenkohl Canyon. A perfect place for a submarine to hide.
“Show me what you have,” the ASW officer ordered. Morris kept his peace and just watched his men at work.
The sonarman pointed to the waterfall display. It showed as a series of small digital blocks, numerous shades of green on a black background. Six blocks in a row were different from the random background pattern. Then a seventh. The fact that they were in a vertical row meant that the noise was being generated at a constant bearing from the ship, just west of north. Up to now, all they had was a direction to a possible noise source. They had no way of knowing the distance nor any of determining if it were really a submarine, a fishing boat with an overly loud motor, or simply a disturbance in the water. The signal source did not repeat for a minute, then came back. Then it disappeared again.
Morris and his ASW officer looked at the bathythermograph reading. Every two hours they dropped an instrument that measured water temperature as it fell through the water, reporting back by wire until it was cut loose to fall free to the bottom. The trace showed an uneven line. The water temperature decreased with depth, but not in a uniform way.
“Could be anything,” the ASW officer said quietly.
“Sure could,” the captain agreed. He went back to the sonar scope. It was still there. The trace had remained fairly constant for nine minutes now.
But what was the range to it? Water was a fine medium for carrying sound energy, far more efficient at it than air, but it had its own rules. One hundred feet below the Pharris was “the layer,” a fairly abrupt change in water temperature. Like an angled pane of glass, it allowed some sound to pass through, but reflected most of it. Some of the energy would be ducted between layers, retaining its intensi
ty for an enormous distance. The signal source they were listening to could be as close as five miles or as distant as fifty. As they watched, the scope trace started leaning a bit to the left, which meant that they were pulling east of it . . . or it was pulling west of them, as a submarine might slide aft of her target as part of her own hunting maneuver. Morris went forward to the plotting table.
“If it’s a target, it’s pretty far off, I think,” the quartermaster said quietly. It was surprising how quiet people were during antisubmarine warfare exercises, Morris thought, as though a submarine might hear their voices.
“Sir,” the ASW officer said after a moment. “With no perceptible change in bearing, the contact has to be a good fifteen miles off. That means it has to be a fairly noisy source, probably too far to be an immediate threat. If it’s a nuclear sub, we can get a cross-bearing after a short sprint.”
Morris looked to the CIC’s after bulkhead. His frigate was steaming at four knots. He lifted a “growler” phone.
“Bridge, Combat.”
“Bridge aye. XO speaking.”
“Joe, let’s bend on twenty knots for five minutes. See if we can get a cross-bearing on the target we’re working.”
“Aye, skipper.”
A minute later, Morris could feel the change in his ship’s motion as her steam plant drove the frigate hard through the six-foot seas. He waited thoughtfully, wishing his ship had one of the more sensitive 2X arrays being fitted to the Perry-class fast-frigates. It was a predictably long five minutes, but ASW was a game that demanded patience.
Power was reduced, and as the ship slowed, the pattern on the sonar screen changed from random flow noise to random ambient noise, something more easily perceived than described. The captain, his ASW officer, and the sonar operator watched the screen intently for ten minutes. The anomalous sound tracing did not reappear. In a peacetime exercise they would have decided that it was a pure anomaly, water-generated noise that had stopped as unpredictably as it had started, perhaps a minor eddy that subsided on the surface. But now everything they detected had a potential red star and a periscope attached.
My first dilemma, Morris thought. If he investigated by sending his own helicopter or one of the Orion patrol aircraft, he might be sending them after nothing at all, and away from a path that could end with a real contact. If he did nothing, he might not be prosecuting a real contact. Morris sometimes wondered if captains should be issued coins with YES and NO stamped on either side, perhaps called a “digital decision generator” in keeping with the Navy’s love for electronic-sounding titles.
“Any reason to think it’s real?” he asked the ASW officer.
“No, sir.” The officer wondered by this time if he had been right to call it to his captain’s attention. “Not now.”
“Fair enough. It won’t be the last one.”
19
Journeys End/Journeys Begin
HAFNARFJÖRDUR, ICELAND
Sergeant James Smith was a company clerk, which meant that he carried his commander’s maps, Edwards was grateful to learn. He would have been less happy to learn what Smith thought about what they were doing, and who was leading this party. A company clerk was also supposed to pack an ax with him, but since Iceland was almost entirely devoid of trees, his was still in the company headquarters, probably burned down to a charred axhead by now. They walked east in silence, their eyes punished by the low sun, past two kilometers of lava field that gave mute testimony to Iceland’s volcanic birth.
They moved fast, without pausing for rest. The sea was at their back, and as long as they could see it, men on the coast might see them. Each puff of dust raised by their boots made them feel increasingly vulnerable, and Private Garcia, who brought up the rear of their small unit, periodically turned and walked backward for a few yards to be sure that no one was following them. The others looked ahead, to the sides, and up. They were sure that Ivan had thought to bring a helicopter or two along. Few things can make a man feel as naked as an aircraft filled with eyes.
The ground was almost totally barren. Here and there a few sprigs of grass fought their way through the rocks to sunlight, but for the most part the terrain was as barren as the surface of the moon—the Apollo astronauts had trained somewhere in Iceland for that very reason, Edwards remembered. The mild surface winds scoured up the slopes they were climbing, raising small quantities of dust that made the lieutenant sneeze periodically. He was already wondering what they would do when their rations ran out. This was no place to try living off the land. He’d been in Iceland only for a few months, and hadn’t had a single chance to tour the countryside. Cross one bridge at a time, Edwards told himself. People grow their own food everywhere. There have to be farms around, and you’ll be able to find them on the maps.
“Chopper!” Garcia called out.
The private had a great set of eyes, Edwards noted. They couldn’t hear it yet, but there it was on the horizon, coming in from the sea.
“Everybody down. Let me see those glasses, Sergeant.” Edwards held out his hand as he sat. Smith came down next to him, the binoculars already at his eyes.
“It’s a Hip, sir. Troop carrier.” He handed the glasses over.
“I’ll take your word for it,” Edwards replied. He could see the ungainly shape, perhaps three miles away, heading southeast toward Hafnarfjördur. “Looks like it’s heading for the piers. Oh. They came in on a ship. They want to dock it, and they’ll want to secure the waterfront first.”
“Makes sense,” Sergeant Smith agreed.
Edwards followed the helicopter until it dropped behind some buildings. Less than a minute later, it was up again, heading back northwest. He gave the horizon a close look.
“Looks like a ship out there.”
MV JULIUS FUCIK
Kherov moved slowly back to the chart table with an Army medic at his side. His pumps were almost keeping up with the inflow of water. The Fucik was down half a meter at the bow. Portable fire pumps were being set near the bilges to draw more seawater out and eject it over the side—through the hole the American missile had made. He smiled wanly to himself. An Army medic followed him around. The General had practically pulled a gun on the captain, forcing him to allow the medic to give him a bottle of blood plasma and some morphine. He was grateful for the latter—his pain was still there, but not nearly so bad as it had been. The plasma container was a damned nuisance, with the medic holding it aloft as he moved around the pilothouse. But he knew he needed it. Kherov wanted to stay alive a few hours longer—and who knows, he thought, if the regimental surgeon has skill, I might even live . . .
There were more important things at hand. He had studied the charts of this port, but he had never been here before. He had no pilot. There would be no harbor tugs, and the tiny barge-tugs carried in his ship’s split stem would be useless for docking.
The helicopter circled his ship after making its first trip. A miracle that it flew at all, the captain thought, after having the one next to it shattered by that strafing run. The mechanics had managed to extinguish that fire rapidly and place a curtain of water fog around the other aircraft. Some minor repairs had been needed, there were an even dozen holes in the sheet metal, but there it was, hovering just aft of the superstructure, landing slowly and awkwardly in the roiled air.
“How are you feeling, my captain?” the General inquired.
“How do I look?” A brave smile that failed to draw one in return. The General knew that he should physically carry the man to his surgeon’s emergency medical post, but who then would dock the ship? Captain Kherov was dying before his eyes. The medic had made that clear enough. There was internal bleeding. The plasma and bandages couldn’t hope to keep up with it. “Have your men secured their objectives?”
“They report some fighting still at the air base, but it will soon be under control. The first team at the main quay reports no one there. That will be secure, my captain. You should rest a bit.”
Kherov shook his
head like a drunken man. “That will come soon enough. Fifteen more kilometers. We race in too fast as it is. The Americans may yet have some aircraft heading for us. We must get to the dock and unload your equipment before noon. I have lost too many of my crewmen to fail.”
HAFNARFJÖRDUR, ICELAND
“We gotta report this,” Edwards said quietly. He shrugged out of his pack and opened it. He’d watched a man test the radio before, and saw that instructions were printed on the side of the radio set. The six pieces of the antenna fitted easily into the pistol grip. Next he plugged in his headset and switched the radio on.
He was supposed to point the flowerlike antenna at a satellite on the 30° meridian, but he didn’t have a compass to tell him where that was. Smith unfolded a map and selected a landmark in that general direction. Edwards pointed the antenna at it and waved it slowly across the sky until he heard the warbling carrier wave of the communications bird.
“Okay.” Edwards turned the frequency knob to a preselected channel and toggled the Transmit switch.
“Anyone on this net, this is Mike Edwards, first lieutenant, United States Air Force, transmitting from Iceland. Please acknowledge, over.” Nothing happened. Edwards reread the instructions to make sure he was doing the right thing, and rebroadcast the same message three more times.
“Sender on this net, please identify. Over.” A voice finally answered.
“Edwards, Michael D., first lieutenant, U.S. Air Force, serial number 328-61-4030. I’m the meteorological officer attached to the 57th Fighter Interceptor Squadron at Keflavik. Who is this? Over.”