by Tom Clancy
rest were scattered up and down the East Coast, including the two pilots who were qualified for the ASAT antisatellite missiles. As soon as she’d heard that, she had made a phone call and informed Space Command that she was the Eagle driver who had worked out the ASAT flight profile, and why take a combat pilot off the line when she could handle the mission very well, thank you.
She checked to make sure the ugly missile was properly attached to the airframe. It had been taken out of secure storage and reexamined by a team of experts. Buns shook her head. There had only been one real test of the system before a moratorium had been slapped on the project. A successful test, to be sure, but only one. She hoped it would work. The Navy really needed help from the Air Force pukes. Besides, that A-6 driver was cute.
The major finished her walkaround, taking her time—her target wasn’t over the Indian Ocean yet—then strapped herself into her Eagle, ran her eyes and hands over the gauges and handles, adjusted the seat, and finally input the numbers painted on the wall of the aircraft shelter into the aircraft’s inertial navigation system so that the fighter would know where it was. Finished, she began to fire up her engines. Her flight helmet protected her from the shriek of the two Pratt and Whitney engines. The needles on her engine gauges rotated into proper position. Below her, the crew chief gave the aircraft a careful examination, then waved to her to taxi the aircraft into the open. Six people were out there, standing behind the red warning line to protect their ears from the noise. Always nice to have an audience, she thought, ignoring them.
“Eagle One-Zero-Four ready to taxi,” she told the tower.
“One-Zero-Four, roger. You are cleared to taxi,” the tower controller replied. “Wind is two-five-three at twelve knots.”
“Roger that, One-Zero-Four is rolling.”
Buns brought her canopy down. The crew chief snapped to attention and gave the major a perfect salute. Nakamura answered it with panache, advanced her throttles slightly, and the Eagle fighter moved off to the runway like a crippled stork. A minute later, she was in the air, a silky smooth feeling of pure power enveloping her as she pointed her Eagle at the sky.
Kosmos 1801 was just completing its southbound leg, bending around the Straits of Magellan to head north over the Atlantic. The orbital pass would take it two hundred miles off the American coast. At the ground-control station, technicians prepared to switch on the powerful sea-surveillance radar. They were sure an American carrier battle group was at sea, but had been unable to locate it. Three regiments of Backfires were waiting for information that would allow them to repeat the feat accomplished on the second day of the war.
Nakamura eased her fighter under the tanker’s tail, and the boom operator expertly shoved the refueling probe into the back of her fighter. Ten thousand pounds of fuel transferred into her tanks in only a few minutes, and as she disengaged, a small cloud of kerosene vapor escaped into the sky.
“Gulliver, this is One-Zero-Four, over,” she called over the radio.
“One-Zero-Four, this is Gulliver,” replied a colonel in the passenger compartment of a LearJet cruising at forty thousand feet.
“All tanked and ready to go. All on-board systems show green. Orbiting at Point Sierra. Ready to initiate intercept climb. Standing by.”
“Roger that, One-Zero-Four.”
Major Nakamura kept her Eagle in a small turning circle. She didn’t want to waste a drop of fuel when she started her climb. She shifted ever so slightly in her seat, which for her was a violent show of emotion when flying, and concentrated on her aircraft. As her eyes traced over her cockpit instruments, she told herself to control her breathing.
Space Command’s radars picked up the Soviet satellite as it passed the bulge of South America. Computers compared its course and speed with known data, matched them with the position of Nakamura’s fighter, and a computer spat out its commands, which were relayed to the LearJet.
“One-Zero-Four, come to heading two-four-five.”
“Turning now.” The major brought her fighter into a tight turn. “Holding on two-four-five.”
“Stand by . . . stand by—initiate!”
“Roger.” Buns pushed her throttles to the stops and punched up the afterburners. The Eagle leaped forward like a spurred horse, accelerating through Mach 1 in seconds. Next she eased back on the stick, bringing her Eagle into a forty-five-degree climb, still accelerating into a darkening sky. She didn’t look out. Her eyes were locked on her cockpit gauges: the fighter had to maintain a specific flight profile for the next two minutes. As the Eagle rocketed into the sky, the altimeter needle whirled around its clockface. Fifty thousand feet, sixty thousand feet, seventy, eighty, ninety thousand feet. Stars were visible now in the nearly black sky, but Nakamura didn’t notice.
“Come on, baby, find the son of a bitch . . .” she thought aloud.
Beneath the aircraft the ASAT missile’s tracking head came on, searching the sky for the infrared heat signature of the Soviet satellite. A light blinked on Buns’s instrument panel.
“My weapon is tracking! Repeat, my weapon is tracking. Auto launch sequence equipment is activated. Altitude ninety-four thousand feet seven hundred—breakaway, breakaway!” She felt her aircraft lurch as the heavy missile dropped free and immediately brought her throttles back to low power and brought the stick back to loop the fighter. She checked her fuel state. The afterburning climb had nearly emptied her tanks, but she had enough to make Langley without tanking again. She had already turned for home when she realized that she hadn’t seen the missile. It didn’t matter anyway. Nakamura turned west, letting the Eagle settle into a shallow dive that would terminate on the Virginia Coast.
Aboard the LearJet, a tracker camera followed the missile upward. The solid-fuel rocket motor burned for thirty seconds, then the warhead separated. The Miniature Homing Vehicle, an infrared heat sensor embedded in its flat face, had long since acquired its target. The Soviet satellite’s on-board nuclear reactor radiated waste heat out into space, and the resulting infrared signature rivaled the sun. As its microchip brain computed the intercept course, the MHV made a tiny course alteration and the distance between warhead and satellite dropped at a precipitous rate. The satellite was northbound at eighteen thousand miles per hour, the MHV southbound at over ten thousand, yet another hitech kamikaze. Then—
“Jesus!” said the senior officer on the LearJet as he blinked his eyes and turned away from the TV screen. Several hundred pounds of steel and ceramic had just turned to vapor. “That’s a kill, say again that’s a kill!”
The TV picture was downlinked to Space Command, where a radar picture backed it up. The massive satellite was now an expanding cloud of orbiting rubble. “Target is negated,” said a calmer voice.
LENINSK, KAZAKH S.S.R.
The loss of signal from the Kosmos 1801 satellite was recorded scant seconds after it was obliterated from the sky. It was no surprise to the Russian space experts, since 1801 had used up its maneuvering thrusters several days before, and had been an easy target. Another F-1M rocket booster was sitting on a launch pad of the Baikonur Kosmodrome Complex. An abbreviated launch sequence countdown would be under way inside of two hours—but from now on the ability of the Soviet Navy to locate convoys and fighting fleets would be in jeopardy.
LANGLEY AIR FORCE BASE, VIRGINIA
“Well?” Buns asked as she jumped down from her fighter.
“Kill. We have it on tape,” another major said. “It worked.”
“How soon do you think they’ll launch a replacement?” One more kill and I’ll be an ace!
“We think they have one on the pad now. Twelve to twenty-four hours. No telling how many spares they have ready.”
Nakamura nodded. The Air Force had a total of six remaining ASAT rockets. Maybe enough, maybe not—one successful mission did not make it a reliable weapon. She walked over to the squadron headquarters for coffee and donuts.
STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC
“Godda
mmit, Pasha!” CINC-West swore. “I don’t have a four-star deputy so that he can run around playing divisional commander. Look at you! You might have got your head cut off!”
“We needed a breakthrough. The tank commander was killed and his deputy was too young. I have given us the breakthrough.”
“Where is Captain Sergetov?”
“Major Sergetov,” Alekseyev corrected. “He performed well as my aide. His hand got carved up and he’s having it attended to. So. What reinforcements do we have moving to the 8th Guards Army?”
Both generals moved over to a large map. “These two tank divisions are already en route—ten to twelve hours. How firm is your bridgehead?”
“Could be better,” Alekseyev admitted. “There were three bridges there, but some madman started dropping rockets into the town and wrecked two of them. That left one. We managed to get a mechanized battalion across, along with some tanks, before the Germans were able to destroy it. They have plenty of artillery support, and when I left, we had boats and bridging equipment coming in. The man who relieved me will be trying to reinforce as soon as he can arrange a crossing in force.”
“Opposition?”
“Thin, but the terrain is on their side. I’d estimate one regiment or so, the remains of other NATO units. Some tanks, but mainly mechanized infantry. They also have plenty of artillery support. When I left it was a very even match. We have more firepower, but most of it’s trapped on our side of the Leine. It’s a race to see who can reinforce quickest.”
“After you left, NATO threw aircraft in. Our people are trying to hold them back, but NATO seems to be ahead in the air.”
“We can’t wait for night. Those bastards own the night sky.”
“Go now?”
Alekseyev nodded, thinking of what casualties he was bringing down on “his” division. “As soon as we can assemble the boats. Expand the bridgehead to two kilometers, then get the bridges across. What’s NATO bringing in?”
“Radio intercepts have identified two brigades en route. One British and one Belgian.”
“They’ll send more than that. They must know what we can do if we exploit this. We have 1st Guards Tank Army in reserve . . .”
“Commit half of our reserves here?”
“I can’t think of a better place.” Alekseyev gestured at the map. The drive toward Hannover had been stopped within sight of the city. The northern army groups had gotten into the outskirts of Hamburg, at the cost of gutting 3rd Shock Army’s tank formations. “With luck, we can break all of the 1st into the enemy rear. That will get us to the Weser at least—maybe the Rhein.”
“A large gamble, Pasha,” CINC-West breathed. But the odds here were better than anything else on the map. If the NATO forces were stretched as thinly as his intelligence staff said, they had to crumble someplace. Perhaps this was it? “Very well. Start posting the orders.”
FASLANE, SCOTLAND
“What about their ASW forces?” asked the captain of USS Pittsburgh.
“Considerable. We estimate that Ivan has two major antisubmarine-warfare groups, one centered on Kiev, the other on a Kresta cruiser. There are also four smaller groups, each composed of a Krivak-class frigate and four to six patrol frigates of the Grisha and Mirka type. Add to that a large collection of ASW aircraft and finally twenty or so submarines, half nuclear, half conventional,” answered the briefing officer.
“Why don’t we let them keep the Barents Sea?” muttered Todd Simms of USS Boston.
There’s an idea, Dan McCafferty agreed silently.
“Seven days to get there?” Pittsburgh asked.
“Yes, that gives us a good deal of freedom on how to enter the area. Captain Little?”
The captain of HMS Torbay took the podium. McCafferty wondered if the Brits had any need for NFL-style noseguards in their team sports. Under six feet, but very broad across the shoulders, his head topped by a shock of sandy, unruly hair, James Little certainly looked like one. When he spoke, it was with toughly won assurance.
“We’ve been running a campaign we call Keypunch. The objective of Keypunch is to evaluate what ASW defenses Ivan has operating in the Barents Sea—and also, of course, to lop off the odd Sov who gets in our way.” He smiled. Torbay had four kills. “Ivan’s set a barrier from Bear Island to the coast of Norway. The immediate area around Bear Island is a solid minefield. Ivan’s been laying the things since he took the island by parachute assault two weeks ago. South of this area, so far as we can determine, the barrier is composed of some small minefields and Tango-class diesel subs as a front line, backed by the mobile ASW groups and Victor-III-class nuclear submarines. Their aim appears to be not so much prosecute-to-kill as prosecute-to-drive-off. Every time one of our submarines has made an attack on this barrier line, there has been a vigorous response.
“Inside the Barents, things are pretty much the same. These small hunter-killer groups can be bloody dangerous. I personally had an encounter with a Krivak and four Grishas. Inshore, they have helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft in direct support, and it was a most unpleasant experience. We also found several new minefields. The Soviets appear to be sowing them almost at random in water as deep as one hundred fathoms. Finally they seem to have set a number of traps. One of them cost us Trafalgar. They set a small minefield and placed a noisemaker within it that sounds exactly like a Tango snorkeling her diesels. As near as we can make out, Trafalgar moved in to collect the Tango and ran right into a mine. Something to keep in mind, gentlemen.” Little paused to let that bit of hard-won intelligence sink in.
“Right. What we intend you chaps to do is head north-northwest toward the edge of the Greenland Icepack, then east along the edge of the pack to the Svyatana Anna Trough. Five days from today three of our submarines will raise pure bloody hell on the barrier, supported by our own ASW aircraft and some fighters if that can be arranged. That ought to get Ivan’s attention and draw his mobile forces west. You should then be able to proceed south to your objective. It’s a roundabout route, of course, but it enables you to use your towed sonars for the maximum period of time, and you should be able to run at relatively high speed at the edge of the icepack without being detected.”
McCafferty thought that one over. The edge of the icepack was a noisy place, with billions of tons of ice in constant movement.
“The route has been scouted, by HMS Sceptre and Superb. They encountered minor patrolling only. Two Tangos were found in that area. Our chaps had orders not to engage.” That told the Americans how important this mission was. “They will be waiting for you, so do be careful about engaging something in your path.”
“How do we get out?” Todd Simms wondered.
“As quickly as you can. By that time we should have at least one more submarine to assist you. They’ll stay roughly twelve hours ahead of your estimate speed of advance, eliminating any opposition they find. Once you reach the icepack, you’re on your own. Our chaps will be there only as long as it takes to reach the pack. After that they have other duties to perform. We expect that Ivan’s ASW groups will come after you—no surprise there, is it? We’ll try to maintain pressure south of Bear Island to tie down as many as we can, but speed will be your best defense in this case.”
The skipper of USS Boston nodded. He could run faster than the Russians could hunt.
“Further questions?” asked Commander, Submarines, Eastern Atlantic. “Good luck, then. We’ll give you all the support we can.”
McCafferty leafed through his briefing papers to check for the firing orders, then tucked the ops orders into his back pocket. Operation Doolittle. He and Simms left together. Their submarines were at the same quay. It was a short, quiet drive. They arrived to see Tomahawk missiles being loaded, in Chicago’s case into the twelve vertical tubes installed forward of the pressure hull in the submarine’s bow. Boston was an older boat and had had to offload some of her torpedoes to make room for them. No submarine captain is ever happy offloading torpedoes.
“Don�
��t worry, I’ll back you up,” McCafferty said.
“You do that. Looks like they’re almost finished. Be nice to have one more beer, wouldn’t it?” Simms chuckled.
“See you when we get back.” Simms and McCafferty shook hands. A minute later both were below, seeing to the final arrangements for going back to sea.
USS PHARRIS
The Sikorsky Sea King helicopter was a tight fit on the frigate’s helo deck, but for casualties the rules were always bent. The ten worst cases, all scald/burns and broken limbs, were loaded aboard after the helo was refueled, and Morris watched it lift off for the beach. The captain of what was left of USS Pharris put his cap back on and lit another cigarette. He still didn’t know what had gone wrong with that Victor-class. Somehow the Russian skipper had teleported himself from one place to another.
“We killed three o’ the bastards, sir.” Chief Clarke appeared at Morris’s side. “Maybe this one just got lucky.”
“Reading minds, Chief?”
“Beg pardon, sir. You wanted me to report on some things. The pumps have just about dried things out. I’d say we’re leaking ten gallons an hour at the crack on the lower starboard corner, hardly worth talking about. The bulkhead’s holding, and we got people keeping an eye on it. Same story with the tow cable. Those tugboat guys know their stuff. The engineer reports both boilers are fully repaired, number two still on line. The Prairie Masker is operating. The Sea Sparrow is working again in case we need that, but the radars’re still down.”
Morris nodded. “Thank you, Chief. How are the men?”
“Busy. Kinda quiet. Mad.”
That’s one advantage they have over me, Morris thought. They’re busy.
“If you’ll pardon me saying so, skipper, you look awful tired,” Clarke said. The bosun was worried about his captain, but had already said more than he was supposed to.