by Tom Clancy
“What’s the matter, Navy, can’t take it?” He was a merchant seaman standing alone at the bar. It was the wrong thing to say.
It was hard to tell from the baggy flight suit that O’Malley was a man of considerable strength. His left arm was wrapped around Morris. His right hand grabbed the other man by the throat and dragged him away from the bar.
“You got anything else to say about my friend, Dickweed?” O’Malley tightened his grip.
The reply came in a whisper. “All I meant was he has trouble with his liquor.”
The pilot released him. “Good night.”
Maneuvering the captain back to the ship was difficult, partly because O’Malley was also drunk but mainly because Morris was on the point of passing out. That had been part of the plan, too, but the Hammer had cut his timing a little close. The brow looked awfully steep from the pier.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Good evening, Master Chief.”
“Good evening, Commander. You got the captain with you?”
“Sure could use a hand, too.”
“You’re not kidding.” The chief came down the gangway. Together they got the captain aboard. The really hard part was the ladder up to his stateroom. For this another sailor was summoned.
“Damn,” the youngster observed. “The old man really knows how to tie one on!”
“Takes a real sailorman to know how to get blasted,” the master chief agreed. The three of them got him up the ladder. O’Malley took it from there and landed Morris on his bunk. The captain was sleeping soundly, and the flyer hoped the nightmare wouldn’t come back. His still did.
NORTHWOOD, ENGLAND
“Well, Commander?”
“Yes, sir. I think it’ll work. I see most of the assets are nearly in place.”
“The original plan had a lesser chance of success. I’m sure it would have got their attention, of course, but this way we just might be able to damage the force severely.”
Toland looked up at the map. “The timing is still tricky, but not very different from that attack we made on the tankers. I like it, sir. Sure would solve a few problems. What’s the convoy situation?”
“There are eighty ships assembled in New York harbor. They sail in twenty-four hours. Heavy escort, carriers in support, even a new Aegis cruiser with the merchants. And the next step after that, of course—” Beattie went on.
“Yes, sir. And Doolittle is the key.”
“Exactly. I want you back at Stornoway. I’ll also be sending one of my air operations types to work with your chaps. We’ll keep you informed of all developments. Remember that distribution for this is to be strictly limited to the personnel involved.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Off with you, then.”
34
Feelers
USS REUBEN JAMES
0700 hours came rather early for Jerry O’Malley. He had the lower bunk in a two-man stateroom—his copilot had the upper—and his first considered move was to take three aspirins and sit back down. It was almost funny, he thought. “The Hammer.” He felt it inside his head. No, he corrected himself, he had his dipping sonar in there, on automatic ping. Still and all, he had performed something remembered from his youth as a corporal work of mercy, and that helped give purpose to his suffering. He gave the aspirins ten minutes to get into his bloodstream, then went forward to the shower. First cold, then hot water cleared his head.
The wardroom was full but quiet, the officers assembled according to age into little knots of whispered conversation. These young officers hadn’t faced combat before, and the bravado they might have felt on leaving San Diego some weeks before had been replaced with the sober reality of the task at hand. Ships had been sunk. Men they knew were dead. For these kids, fear was a more terrible unknown than the technical aspects of combat for which they had been trained. He could see the question in their faces; only time would answer it. They would learn to endure it, or they would not. Combat held no mysteries for O’Malley. He knew that he would be afraid, and that he would put the fear aside as best he could. There was no sense dwelling on it. It would come soon enough.
“Good morning, XO!”
“Morning, Jerry. I was just going to call the skipper.”
“He needs his sleep, Frank.” The pilot had disconnected Morris’s alarm clock before leaving the stateroom. Ernst read O’Malley’s face.
“Well, nothing we really need him for till eleven.”
“I knew you were a good XO, Frank.” O’Malley debated between bug juice and coffee. The fruit drink this morning was the orange kind—the flavors didn’t relate to any particular fruit. O’Malley liked the red kind, but not the orange. He poured some coffee.
“I supervised the torpedo loading last night. We cut a minute off our best time—in the dark.”
“Sounds good to me. When’s the pre-sail brief?”
“Fourteen hundred, in a theater two blocks from here. COs, XOs, and selected others. I expect you’ll want to come, too?”
“Yeah.”
Ernst’s voice dropped. “You sure the skipper’s all right?” There are no secrets aboard a ship.
“He’s been on straight combat ops since Day One of this fracas. He needed to get a little unwrapped, an ancient and honored naval tradition”—he raised his voice—“damned shame that all these little boys are too young to partake in it! Didn’t anybody think to get a newspaper? NFL summer camps are opened all over the country, and there ain’t no paper! What the hell kind of wardroom is this!”
“I’ve never met a dinosaur before,” a junior engineering officer observed sotto voce.
“You get used to him,” Ensign Ralston explained.
ICELAND
Two days’ rest was just what the doctor ordered for everyone. Sergeant Nichols could almost walk normally on his ankle, and the Americans, who were beginning to regard fish with distinct distaste, filled up on the extra rations the Royal Marines had packed in.
Edwards’s eyes traced around the horizon again. The human eye automatically locks onto movement, and she was moving. It was hard not to look. It was almost impossible. In fact, Edwards told himself, it was impossible to stand guard and not look around. The hell of it was, she thought it was funny. Their rescuers—Edwards knew better, but why upset her?—had also brought soap. A tiny lake half a mile from their hilltop perch was the designated bathing area. In hostile country no one went that far alone, and the lieutenant had naturally been detailed to look after her—and she after him. Guarding her as she bathed with a loaded rifle seemed absurd, even with Russians around. Her bruises were nearly healed, he noted as she dressed.
“Finished, Michael.” They didn’t have towels, but that was a small price to pay for smelling human. She came up to him with her hair still wet and an impish expression on her face. “I embarrass you. Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” It was also impossible to be angry with her.
“The baby makes me fat,” she said. Mike could scarcely tell, but then it wasn’t his figure being changed.
“You look fine. I’m sorry if I looked when I shouldn’t have.”
“What is wrong?”
Edwards found himself struggling with his words again. “Well, after—after what happened to you, I mean, you probably don’t need a bunch of strange men standing around looking at you when you’re, well, naked.”
“Michael, you are not like that one. I know you would never hurt me. Even after what he do to me, you say I am pretty—when I grow fat.”
“Vigdis, baby or no baby, you are the prettiest girl I have ever known. You’re strong, and you’re brave.” And I think I love you, but I’m afraid to say so. “We just picked a bad time to meet, that’s all.”
“For me was a very good time, Michael.” She took his hand. She smiled a lot now. She had a gentle, friendly smile.
“As long as you know me, every time you think about me, you’ll remember that—Russian.”
“Yes, Michael, I will remember that. I remember that you save my life. I ask Sergeant Smith. He say you have orders not to come near Russians because it so dangerous for you. He say you come because of me. You do not even know me then, but you come.”
“I did the right thing.” He held both of her hands now. What do I say now? Darling, if we ever get out of this alive . . . that sounds like a bad movie. Edwards hadn’t been sixteen in a long time, but now all the awkwardness that had poisoned his adolescence came back to him. Mike hadn’t exactly been the makeout king of Eastpoint High School. “Vigdis, I’m not any good at this. It was different with Sandy. She understood me. I don’t know how to talk to girls—hell, I’m not that good talking to people. I do weather maps, and play with computers, but I usually have to have a few beers in me before I get the nerve to say—”
“I know you love me, Michael.” Her eyes sparkled when she revealed the secret.
“Well, yes.”
She handed him the soap. “Your time to wash. I will not look too much.”
FOLZIEHAUSEN, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
Major Sergetov handed over his notes. The Leine had been forced at a second place—Gronau, fifteen kilometers north of Alfeld—and now six divisions were involved in the drive on Hameln and others were attempting to widen the breach. Still they were handicapped. There were relatively few roads in this part of Germany, and those routes they controlled were still suffering from air and artillery attacks that bled reinforcement columns long before they could be committed to battle.
What had begun with three motor-rifle divisions attempting to forge an opening for one tank division had now become the focus of two complete Soviet armies. Where they had attacked into a pair of depleted German brigades, now they faced a hodgepodge of units from nearly all NATO members. Alekseyev anguished over lost chances. What if divisional artillery hadn’t dropped multiple rocket fire on the bridges? Could he have reached the Weser in a day as he had thought? That is in the past, Pasha told himself. He looked over the information on fuel availability.
“One month?”
“At current operational tempos, yes,” Sergetov said grimly. “And to do this we have crippled the whole national economy. My father asks if we can reduce expenditures at the front—”
“Certainly,” the General exploded. “We can lose the war! That ought to save his precious fuel!”
“Comrade General, you requested that I provide you with accurate information. I have done this. My father was also able to give me this.” The younger man took a document from his coat pocket. Ten pages thick, it was a KGB intelligence assessment marked POLITBURO EYES ONLY. “It makes very interesting reading. My father asks me to point out the risk he has taken in giving you this document.”
The General was a fast reader and ordinarily not a man given to displays of emotion. The West German government had established direct contact with the Soviets through the embassies both maintained in India. The preliminary discussion had been an inquiry into the possibility of a negotiated settlement. The KGB’s assessment was that the inquiry reflected the fragmentation of NATO politically, and possibly a grave supply situation on the other side of the battle line. There followed two pages of graphs and claims of damage to NATO shipping, plus analysis of NATO’s munitions expenditures to date. The KGB calculated that NATO supplies were down to the two-week mark now, despite all the shipping that had arrived to date. Neither side had produced enough consumable ordnance and fuel to sustain its forces.
“My father feels that this data on the Germans is particularly significant.”
“Potentially so,” Alekseyev said cautiously. “They will not slacken their fighting while their political leadership works to achieve an acceptable settlement, but if we can make them an acceptable offer and remove the Germans from NATO, then our objective is achieved, and we can seize the Persian Gulf at leisure. What offer are we making to the Germans?”
“That has not yet been decided. They have asked for our withdrawal to pre-war lines, with final terms to be negotiated on a more formal basis under international supervision. Their withdrawal from NATO is to be contingent upon the terms of the final treaty.”
“Not acceptable. It gives us nothing. Why are they negotiating at all, I wonder?”
“Evidently there has been considerable turmoil in their government over the dislocation of civilians, and destruction of economic assets.”
“Ah.” The economic damage to Germany was not something in which Alekseyev had the slightest interest, but the German government was watching the work of two generations being dismantled by Soviet explosives. “But why haven’t they told us this?”
“The Politburo feels that news of a possible negotiated settlement would discourage further pressure on the Germans.”
“Idiots. This sort of thing tells us what to attack!”
“That is what my father said. He wants your opinion on all this.”
“Tell the Minister that I see no indication at all of weakening NATO resolve on the battle line. German morale in particular is still high. They resist everywhere.”
“Their government could be doing this without the knowledge of their own army. If they are deceiving their NATO allies, why not their high command also?” Sergetov suggested. After all, it worked that way in his country . . .
“A possibility, Ivan Mikhailovich. There is another one, as well.” Alekseyev turned back to the papers. “That this is all a sham.”
NEW YORK
The briefing was conducted by a captain. As he spoke, the escort commanders and their senior officers leafed through the briefing documents like high school students at a Shakespeare play.
“Outlying sonar pickets will be positioned along the threat axis here.” The captain moved his pointer across the viewgraph. The frigates Reuben James and Battleaxe were to be almost thirty miles from the rest of the formation. That put them outside SAM coverage from the other ships. They had their own surface-to-air missiles, but they would be completely on their own. “We will have SURTASS support for most of the trip. The ships are repositioning themselves now. We can expect Soviet submarine and air attacks.
“To deal with the air threat, the carriers Independence and America will be supporting the convoy. The new Aegis cruiser Bunker Hill, as you may have noticed, will be traveling in the convoy. Also, the Air Force will be taking out the Russian radar-ocean-reconnaissance satellite on its next pass, about twelve hundred hours zulu tomorrow.”
“All right!” a destroyer captain observed.
“Gentlemen, we are delivering a total load of over two million tons of equipment, plus a complete armored division made up of reserve and National Guard formations. Not counting the materiel reinforcements, this is enough supplies to keep NATO in action for three weeks. This one goes through.
“Any questions? No? Then, good luck.”
The theater emptied, the officers filing past the armed guards onto the sunny street.
“Jerry?” Morris said quietly.
“Yes, Captain?” The pilot donned his aviator’s sunglasses.
“About last night—”
“Captain, last night we both had too much to drink, and to tell you the truth, I don’t remember all that much. Maybe six months from now we can decide what happened. You sleep well?”
“Almost twelve hours. My alarm clock didn’t go off.”
“Maybe you should get a new one.” They walked past the bar both had visited the night before. The captain and the pilot gave it a look, then laughed.
“Once more into the breach, dear friends!” Doug Perrin joined them.
“Just don’t give us any of this laying your ship alongside the enemy crap,” O’Malley suggested. “That ‘away boarders’ shit is dangerous.”
“Your job to keep the bastards away from us, Jerr-O. Up to it?”
“He’d better be,” Morris observed lightly. “I’d hate to think he’s all talk!”
“We got a real nice bunch here,” the pilot observed
angrily. “Jeez, I fly up all on my own, find a damned submarine, give it to Doug here, and do I get any respect?”
“That’s the problem with aviators. You don’t tell them how great they are every five minutes, they go and get depressed on you,” Morris said with a smile. He was a different person from the one who had mumbled through dinner last night. “Anything you need that we might have, Doug?”
“Perhaps we might exchange some foodstuffs?”
“No problem. Send your supply officer over. I’m sure we can negotiate something.” Morris checked his watch. “We don’t sail for another three hours. Let’s have a sandwich and talk over a few things. I got an idea for spoofing those Backfires that I want to try out on you . . .”
Three hours later, a pair of Moran harbor tugs eased the frigates away from the pier. Reuben James moved slowly, her turbine engines pushing her through the polluted water at a gentle six knots. O’Malley watched from the right seat of his helicopter, on alert for a possible Russian sub near the entrance to the harbor, though four Orion patrol aircraft were vigorously sanitizing the area. Probably the Victor they had killed two days before had been detailed to trail and report on the convoy, first to direct a Backfire raid, then to close and launch her own attack. The trailer was dead, but that did not mean that the sailing was a secret. New York was a city of eight million, and surely one of them was standing at his window with a pair of binoculars, cataloging the ship types and numbers. He or she would make an innocent telephone call, and the data would be in Moscow in a few hours. Other submarines would close on their expected track. As soon as they were outside of shore-based air cover, Soviet search aircraft would come looking, with missile-armed Backfires behind them.
So many ships, O’Malley thought. They passed a series of Ro/Ros, roll-on/roll-off container ships loaded with tanks, fighting vehicles, and the men of a whole armored division. Others were piled high with containers that could be loaded right onto trucks for dispatch to the front, their contents recorded on computer for rapid delivery to the proper destination. He thought about the news reports, the taped scenes of land combat in Germany. That was what this was all about. The Navy’s mission: keep the sea-lanes open to deliver the tools those men in Germany needed. Get the ships across.