by Tom Clancy
Tugs were pushing the wounded carrier into Southampton’s Ocean Dock, a task made doubly hard because of the ship’s induced ten-degree list. Water cascaded from the carrier’s clifflike hull into the harbor while more entered the bilges below. Already a senior Royal Navy repair expert and the chief of the Vesper Ship Repair Yard were aboard, reviewing the damage below and cataloging the material needed to enable the ship to operate again. Captain Svenson watched the messenger lines being shot off to handlers who would secure the ship. He was an angry man, Toland noted. Five hundred of his men known dead, another three hundred wounded, and the count was nowhere near complete. The most grievous losses were in the flight deck crews, many of whose shelters had been immolated by the two Soviet missiles. They would also have to be replaced before Nimitz could sail and fight again.
“Toland, you’ll be heading to Scotland.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“The air wing is being split. The fighters and Hawkeyes are going north. Ivan’s been pounding on the Brits’ northern radar line, and their fighters have taken a beating trying to help the Norwegians out. The Tomcats are already on the way, and we’ll be loading their missiles onto the dock so the Brits can fly them north. I want you to operate with the fighter teams to evaluate what Ivan’s up to with his Badgers, and maybe help our guys to cull off some of the bastards. The attack birds are joining the NATO tactical air reserve for the present.”
“When do I leave?” Toland reflected that he had nothing to pack. The Kingfish had taken care of that, too. His first order of business was to cable his family that he was all right.
ICELAND
“Doghouse, this is Beagle, and what the hell just happened, over?”
“Beagle, I am authorized to tell you that an attack was just made against Keflavik.”
“No kidding, guy. A B-52 just crashed right on our Goddamned hill. Didn’t you tell anybody that I reported fighters?”
“Your information was evaluated as unconfirmed and was not passed on, Beagle. I did not concur in that. Continue your report.”
“I saw four, repeat four, Soviet single-seat aircraft with a twin-rudder configuration. I can’t be sure of the type, but they had double tails, you copy that?”
“Twin rudders, copy that. Confirm you saw four.”
“One-two-three-four, Doghouse. I can’t arrange them to parade overhead. But if you send bombers in here unescorted again, mister, don’t blame me.”
“Any survivors from the crash you saw?”
“Negative. No ’chutes, and no way anyone would have survived the crash. Saw one fireball on the horizon, but I’m not sure what that was. How did the Weasels do?”
“Can’t say, Beagle, but thanks for the word on the SAMs.”
“You have instructions for me?”
“Your status is being reevaluated now. We’ll be back on the hour.”
“Make it two, fella. We have to move some before the bad guys send a patrol this way. Out.” The Marines were around him, weapons ready, alert for the patrol or helicopter, or both, that had to be heading their way. Edwards tore off the headset and repacked the radio. “Great, just great,” he muttered. “Let’s move it, people.”
They had already jogged a full kilometer from their former home, heading due east into the uninhabited wasteland that formed this part of the island. Smith kept them on slopes, off the crests and hilltops that could silhouette them against the clearing sky. There was a lake off to their left, with many houses on its western side. They had to be careful here. There was no telling who might note their passing and inform someone of it. They passed under the main power transmission lines at a run, angling south to keep a crest line between them and most of the houses. An hour later, they were in the Holmshraun lava field, an incredible collection of rocks overlooking Highway 1, one of Iceland’s two major thoroughfares. There were vehicles on the road heading in both directions. Many of them carried soldiers.
“What are we figuring to do now, sir?” Smith asked pointedly.
“Well, Sarge, we got good concealment here. Hell, a guy fifty yards away would have trouble spotting us in this crap. I say we wait for it to get a little dark tonight and get north of the road. Once we get past that, the population thins out—at least that’s what the map says. It ought to be fairly safe once we get away from the population centers.”
“What will our friends on the other side of that radio say about that?”
“I guess we better find out.” Edwards checked his watch. He was nearly two hours overdue. Doghouse was annoyed with him.
“What kept you off the air?”
“We just moved about eight klicks. Maybe you’d prefer we waited around and counted the Russians picking over the wreckage. Listen up, we’re all alone here and that’s a little scary, you know?”
“Understood, Beagle. Okay, we got orders for you. You have a map of the area you’re in?”
“That’s affirm, a one-to-fifty-thousand one.”
“Okay, they want you to move to Grafarholt. There’s a hill there. You’re supposed to find a safe place near there and belly-up for further instructions.”
“Hey, Doghouse, before we get any farther, what if Ivan starts playing DF games and tries to track us down from our radio transmissions?”
“Okay, about time you asked that. The radio you got is encrypted UHF, single-sideband. That means it’s got thousands of channels, and having him lock into one is not real likely. Second, you have a directional antenna. When you transmit, make sure there’s a hill between you and them. UHF is line-of-sight only. So you ought to be safe on that score, too. Happy?”
“It helps.”
“How soon can you get to that hill for us?”
Edwards looked at the map. About seven kilometers. A comfortable two-hour walk in peacetime, maybe three or four not so comfortable hours, given the terrain here. They’d have to wait for darkness, detour around a few villages . . . and there was that one other little thing to be concerned about . . . “Twelve hours, minimum.”
“Roger, understood, Beagle. Copy twelve hours. That’s fine. We’ll be calling for you then. Anything else to report?”
“Some activity on the road below us. Several trucks, Army-type, painted green. A lot of personal vehicles, four-by-fours. No armored stuff, though.”
“Okay. Take your time and play it safe. Your mission is to avoid contact and report. We’ll be here if you need us. Out.”
At Doghouse in northern Scotland, the communications officer leaned back in his swivel chair.
“The lad sounds somewhat rattled,” an intelligence officer commented over his tea.
“Not quite SAS material, is he?” another asked.
“Let’s not be too hasty,” said a third. “He’s bright, something of an athlete, and he had the presence of mind to escape when events called for it. Seems a bit high-strung, but given his position that’s understandable, I think.”
The first pointed on the map. “Twelve hours to go this little distance?”
“Across hilly, open terrain, with a whole bloody division of paras running about in lorries and BMPs, and with a sun that never sets, what the hell do you expect of four men?” demanded the fourth, a man dressed in civilian clothes who had been gravely wounded while in the 22nd SAS Regiment. “If that lad had any sense, he’d have packed it in yesterday. Interesting psychological profile here. If he manages to get to this hill on time for us, I think he’ll do all right.”
USS PHARRIS
The convoy had scattered. Toland looked at the radar display, an expanding ring of ships, now beginning to turn back east to reassemble. One merchantman had been sunk, another badly damaged and limping west. Three frigates were trying to locate the submarine that had done the damage. Gallery had gotten a possible contact and fired a torpedo at it, without result. Four helicopters were dropping sonobuoys in hope of reacquiring it, and a half-dozen sonars were pinging away, but so far it looked as though the submarine had evaded the angry escorts.
“That was a beautiful approach,” the tactical action officer observed grudgingly. “His only goof was hitting the back end of the convoy.”
“His fire control wasn’t all that great,” Morris said. “They say they had sonar readings on five fish. Figure three targets. Two hits for a kill on one, and a scratch hit on another for damage. The other was a clean miss. Not a bad afternoon’s work. What’s he doing now, people?”
“How much you want to bet it’s an old nuc boat?” TAO asked. “Their fire-control systems aren’t up to current standards, and they can’t run very fast and still stay covert. He just barely made the intercept, and bit off two ships. When they scattered he didn’t have the speed to pursue without advertising his position, and he’s too smart for that.”
“Then what did he do?” ASW asked.
“He was in close when he launched. Ducked inside the convoy and went deep. Used the noise from the thundering herd to mask himself, then motored off clear . . .”
“North.” Morris bent over the display. “Most of the merchies went northeast when the scatter order went out. He probably went north to trail, and maybe hope to get another shot in later. What do you think we’re up against?”
“Intel says this area had three Foxtrots and a November, plus maybe another nuc. The one we killed was probably a Fox. Doesn’t have the speed to trail the convoy.” The ASW officer looked up. “But a November would. We’re not up against a new nuc. He’d still be shooting. Call it a November.”
“Okay, say he came north at six or seven knots, then turned east hoping to pick us up again tomorrow, say. Where would he be?”
“Right now . . . here, sir,” ASW said. He pointed to a spot fifteen miles aft of the frigate. “We can’t go back after him.”
“No, but we can listen for him if he tries to play catchup.” Morris thought hard. The convoy would be altering base course to one-two-zero on the hour to head farther south, away from the suddenly increased threat of Soviet long-range bombers. More time would be needed for them to re-form and establish proper stations. That would allow the submarine to cut the corner and close the target. With all the zigzagging the merchies were doing, their effective speed of advance was only about sixteen knots, and a November might try to catch up with that. “I want the operators to pay particular attention to this sector. Our friend just might be back.”
“Call in a P-3?” TAO wondered.
Morris shook his head. “They want to keep station forward. The main threat is still ahead of us. Us ’cans have to worry about the trailers, until we get a hot contact, anyway. I think this guy will trail, and he might try and get off a contact report.”
KIEV, THE UKRAINE
“Good news,” the naval officer said. “Our bombers report sinking three aviation ships, two cruisers, and two destroyers.”
Alekseyev and his boss exchanged a look: their colleagues in blue would be insufferable now.
“How firm is that evaluation?” CINC-Southwest asked.
“There were four carrier-type ships photographed before the attack. The next satellite pass eight hours after the attack showed only one. Two cruisers and two destroyers were also missing. Finally we have intelligence reports of numerous carrier-type aircraft landing at French naval air bases in Brittany. Our submarines were unable to make contact with the formation—it would seem that one was sunk, unfortunately, but our first naval air battle was a smashing success. We will close the Atlantic for you, Comrades,” the captain predicted.
“We may need it closed,” Alekseyev said after the captain left.
His boss grunted agreement. Things in Germany were not going well. The Soviet Air Force had been hurt even worse than they had feared, and as a result the land campaign was already far behind schedule. On the second day of the war, the first day’s objectives had been met in only one army’s zone, and that one was being heavily counterattacked twenty kilometers east of Hamburg. Tank losses had been 50 percent higher than predicted, and control of the air was in jeopardy, with many units reporting heavier-than-expected air attacks. Only half of the Elbe bridges had been replaced as yet, and the floating ribbon bridges could not carry all the load of the highway bridges they replaced. The NATO armies had not yet reached their peak strength. American reinforcements were still arriving by air, mating up with their pre-positioned equipment. The Soviet first echelon was being bled, and the second echelon was still largely trapped behind the Elbe.
ICELAND
“About as dark as it’s gonna get,” Edwards said. The light level was what meteorologists and sailors called nautical twilight. Visibility was down to five hundred yards with the sun just below the northwest horizon. The lieutenant put on his pack and rose. His Marines did the same, with as much enthusiasm as a child on his way to school.
They headed down the shallow slope toward the Sudura River, more a fair-sized creek, Edwards thought. The lava field provided good cover. The ground was littered with rocks, some as much as three feet high, a landscape that broke up shapes and disguised movement to the casual observer. He hoped there was nothing more than that out there. They had observed a number of Soviet patrols, mainly on military trucks that passed through the area at intervals of about thirty minutes. They saw no fixed positions. Certainly they had garrisoned the hydroelectric power station at Burfell, farther east on Route 1. No one had bombed that yet: the lights were still bright in some of the homes below them.
The rocks got smaller as the land changed to a grassy meadow. There had been sheep here recently—the smell was unmistakable and the grass was short. Instinctively the men walked in a crouch toward a gravel road. The houses and barns here were spread irregularly. They picked a spot where the space between buildings was about five hundred yards, hoping that the dim light and their camouflage uniforms would make them invisible to any observer. No one was about in the open. Edwards halted his group and looked carefully through his binoculars at the nearest houses. Lights burned in some, but no people were visible outside. Perhaps the Russians had imposed a curfew . . . meaning that anyone seen moving might be shot on sight. Happy thought.
The riverbanks sloped downward sharply about twenty feet to the water, and were covered with rocks smoothed by years of erosion at high-water time. Smith went down first as the others lay with weapons ready at the lip of the south bank. The sergeant moved slowly at first, checking the water depth before hurrying across, rifle held high in the air. Edwards was surprised how quickly he went through it, then up the far bank. The sergeant waved, and the rest of the men followed. Edwards soon found out why the sergeant had crossed the stream quickly. The waist-deep water was icy cold, like most of the streams on Iceland, fed by melting glaciers. He gasped and went across as fast as he could, his rifle and radio held above his head. A minute later he was atop the far bank.
Smith chuckled in the dark. “I guess that woke everybody up.”
“Like to froze my balls off, Sarge,” Rodgers groused.
“Looks clear ahead,” Edwards said. “Beyond this meadow is another creek, then the main road, a secondary road, then up a hill into a lava field. Let’s keep moving.”
“Right, Lieutenant.” Smith got to his feet and moved off. The others trailed behind him at five-yard intervals. The little bastard’s in a hurry, isn’t he?
The ground here was agreeably flat, the grass as high as their boot tops. They moved rapidly, keeping low, weapons held ready across their chests as they angled slightly east to avoid the village of Holmur. The next stream was shallower than the Sudura, though no less cold. They stopped on crossing it, now only two hundred yards from the highway. Again Smith moved off first, this time with his back bent double, moving in rushes followed by pauses while he knelt to examine the terrain repeatedly. The men behind him matched his movements exactly, and the team got together again in tall grass fifty feet from the road.
“Okay,” Smith said. “We cross one at a time, a minute apart. I go first. I’ll stop fifty feet on the other side by those roc
ks. When you cross, don’t screw around—run and keep low, and come to me. If you see something coming, get as far from the road as you can and drop. They can’t see you if you lay still, people. Take things real easy. Okay?” Everyone, Edwards included, nodded agreement.
The sergeant was as good as his word. After a final look to be sure that nothing was moving in their direction, he raced off across the road, his personal gear flopping and slapping against his body as he did so. They waited a minute, then Garcia followed. After another minute, Rodgers went. Edwards counted to sixty and darted forward. The lieutenant was amazed—and appalled—at how stressful this was. His heart pounded with terror as he reached the roadway, and he froze dead in the center. Automobile lights were approaching them from the north. Edwards just stood there, watching them come closer—
“Move your ass, Lieutenant!” the sergeant’s voice rasped at him.
The lieutenant shook his head clear and ran to the sound of the sergeant’s voice, one hand holding his helmet in place on his head.
“Lights coming down!” he gasped.
“No shit. Be cool, sir. People, let’s get spread out. Find some good cover and freeze. And make Goddamned sure those weapons are on safe! You stay with me, sir.”
The two privates moved left and right into tall weeds, disappearing from view as soon as they stopped moving. Edwards lay next to Sergeant Smith.
“You think they saw me?”
The darkness prevented him from seeing the angry expression accompanying Smith’s reply: “Prob’ly not. Don’t freeze in the road like that again, sir.”