First Salvo

by Charles D. Taylor

  Ryng rose to his feet to watch the helo cartwheel through the air, leaving a trail of black smoke. For a second, he thought it might recover. Then it pitched onto one side, careening into the hillside just below the snow line.

  The second jet swooped low overhead, waggling its wings in recognition as Ryng waved back. Flying at a slow speed, it passed over the peak toward the sea and waggled its wings. Turning, it retraced its path, again passing over Ryng with a waggle, before flying over the mountaintop again. Then the two jets climbed with a roar to join the other three. Ryng was sure they were continuing on their way to pay a visit to the Russians at Longyearbyen. Of course there was no way word of the success of the SEAL team could have gotten back to the British. These Harriers were an independent last-ditch attempt to destroy the Russian base at Longyearbyen.

  The question, he noted to himself, is, Where the hell did they come from? There was no way they could show up like the cavalry unless there was a carrier offshore, and that second waggle must mean I have a chance if I go over the top and slide down the other side to the beach. Just like that! Nothing made sense, at least not since this whole mess started when he and Denny were hit in their rubber boat. From that time on, he had been able to miraculously escape, each time figuring that the next round would be the last. Time and again, the idea of survival had been pounded into his skull, the idea that people could survive against the most amazing odds, but they had to want to live or there was no reason to run, or to fight back. Just keep at it as long as you have the ability to spit in their eye, they said, and you may just get out of it.

  And he had. Or at least for the time being he had. But there was no time to waste. There must be other helos, and when this one didn’t return, they would send out another. And then his odds would plummet way down again. Forget it! He had no intention of taking any chances. Ryng, his stamina somehow regenerated, turned toward the peak and trotted off uphill into the snowfield on the path he’d selected before the helo had intercepted him. Though it was only half a mile to the top—if what he saw was indeed the top— it was a twisting path and could take half an hour, maybe an hour or more. He had no idea how hard or how deep the snow really was.

  What Ryng also didn’t know was that the instant Colonel Bulgan had seen the Harrier diving at them, he had known the end was not far off. In fact, he decided that the American, Ryng, probably had better odds from the beginning than Bulgan had right now. Bullets only went in the direction they were fired, hopeful that their target would get in the way. Missiles preferred to seek out their target.

  While his terrified pilot skewed the helo wildly about, perhaps afraid to realize how near the end was, Colonel Bulgan very carefully prepared as best he could for the inevitable. He plucked the grenades from his uniform, tossing them out the door to his right. No need to have one detonate under him if he survived the missile or the crash. Then he crammed the AK-74 under the seat, wrapping it tightly with his life jacket. Perhaps it might still function afterward. Then he cinched the safety straps even tighter around his chest until they seemed to stop his breathing. The last thing he remembered—about the same time the missile impacted—was grabbing the pilot’s life jacket and covering his head with it.

  More than anything else, the life jacket did the job. It not only saved his head from the metal that flew about the cabin, but it protected his face and lungs from the searing heat. Finally, as the helo hit the ground on the pilot’s side, it protected his head when the seat ripped away from the deck and he hit the instrument panel. The other saving grace was the pilot. The man’s body was under Bulgan and absorbed the impact.

  The crackling of flames so close, so very close, came to the Colonel’s ears. He opened his eyes. Half in and half out of the fractured helo, Bulgan moved tentatively. The flames hadn’t reached him yet.

  He moved his arms. They were free. His left wrist hurt like hell—it must be broken. The other was all right. He moved his legs one at a time. Both seemed to function. He heaved himself up on an elbow and a sharp pain bit into his side. Rib, he thought—maybe a couple. Check those out later. You can move. Go!

  With a superhuman effort, knowing his body was free, he threw himself out onto the ground, rolling as he did so to get away from the helo. Then he realized his mistake. The rifle was still in there. He had to take the chance and go back. Without it, the American was sure to get away. And Colonel Bulgan felt a deep personal desire to get Bernie Ryng for ruining his mission. He ran back to the burning craft, peering into the shattered front cockpit.

  There it was! It had been under him. As quickly as he had leaped from the helo, he grabbed the AK-74 and jumped back from the heat of the flames. As he did so, there was a popping sound as flames engulfed the entire machine.

  Bulgan patted his pockets, feeling for his ammunition. Would the weapon work? He went through each function, finally squeezing the trigger and listening to the satisfying click. Perfect! He slipped an ammo clip into the gun, cradling it against his body with the bad arm. He would have to fire with one arm and it would be awkward, but he was sure his quarry was not armed.

  Looking up, he saw Ryng working his way through the snow. Bulgan knew the man would never think to look back. He brought the gun up to his shoulder, attempting to bring Ryng into his sights. Instead, the barrel wavered back and forth across the rapidly moving figure. Realizing that the odds of hitting the man from this distance with an AK-74 were almost nil, Bulgan slung the weapon over his shoulder and headed up the grade at his best possible speed.

  It would have to be a close-up shot, one with the rifle on single fire, and probably one where he could lie in the snow for a decent aim. There would be no second chance. The pain in his side increased as his breathing deepened in the cool, thin air.

  ABOARD U.S.S. SARATOGA, FIFTY MILES EAST OF CRETE

  Admiral John Turner, Saratoga’s battle group commander, spoke quietly, dark circles under his eyes conveying sleepless nights. His voice was steady, almost emotionless, as he described a litany of events that presaged an imminent Soviet attack on NATO. “You were wise to get out of Istanbul when you did.” He slid a sheaf of messages across the metal desk to Cobb. “That attack on the city as you arrived apparently had everything to do with General Keradin. It was also another diversion while they moved a lot of their remaining heavier surface ships to the western end of the Black Sea, waiting until Istanbul fell. Then they moved ’em through. About twelve hours and the whole of their Black Sea Fleet steamed into the Aegean—less time than that until Turkey fell.”

  Cobb was unsurprised. The scenario, as he had learned back in Washington, prophesied exactly the moves the Russians had made so far: Turkish ports on the Black Sea immediately neutralized; fast motorized forces crossing the Bulgarian border to the north, one group driving southeast in a pincer movement in concert with Soviet marines landing to the east of Istanbul, the other advancing in tandem with tank divisions aimed at Gallipoli. NATO indicated that the Turks, weakened by their short tiff with the Greeks, would fall faster than initial computer projections.

  The second part of the Russian scenario called for destruction of the carrier battle groups in the Mediterranean. The closest, and thus the first, would be Saratoga’s group.

  Admiral Turner’s voice droned on. “I think my first responsibility is to get you and General Keradin off this ship, and I think your young lady deserves some land-based medical care.”

  “Could we grab a few hours’ sleep, Admiral? It’s been two days since we’ve really had any rest.” The passage from Istanbul had involved too many hours, including a refueling stop at the island of Samos. Much of the run through the Aegean had been in the dark. The winds had slackened enough to maintain speed, but it was still rough enough to prohibit sound sleep. They had come alongside Saratoga in the early morning hours, just as the sun was rising. Verra, seasick and in pain, had been sent to sick bay. Cobb was fed and then had reported to Admiral Turner’s quarters.

  “I’d like to give you some r
est, son, but I intend to come into the wind in about an hour. I’m going to launch relief for our Hawkeyes out on the perimeter, and I’m going to launch every fighter I’ve got except for my own CAP.”

  Cobb looked up, caught by surprise. He understood what that meant. “I take it that we’re pretty close?”

  “Too close. Satellite recon picked up a new launch yesterday from their Tyuratum Rocket Center. As far as we can determine, they put up antisatellite systems and something is flying around up there that has a nuclear instrument of some kind aboard. And,” he sighed, “we have a flight of their Backfire bombers approaching their initial launch point now. We know they won’t fire right away, not at that range, because they couldn’t get a hit on us. But…” His voice drifted off.

  The description was accurate, Cobb realized, as accurate as could be. Knock out our early-warning satellite system with ASATs, send in a flight of Backfires with anti-radiation missiles to knock out the Hawkeyes, then launch cruise missiles once their own satellites had a guidance solution for them. Those would be targeted for Saratoga’s battle group. But a nuclear weapon in space? That didn’t figure. The Russian scenario didn’t call for a first launch of anything nuclear unless the U.S. gave an indication they would.

  “Have we sent in—or has NATO sent in—any requests to use nuclear weapons?”

  “Nothing. That wouldn’t come anyway until we had an idea how long we could hold them on the ground in Germany.”

  “How much hardened gear do you carry?” Cobb was referring to electronic equipment designed to withstand a high-level atomic detonation. Such a burst could knock out all communications, radar, and launching systems.

  “I think you understand why I want you off to Kennedy.” Turner’s face was grim. “The Air Force has already launched F15s. They’re going to try to take out whatever it is up there. But who knows if they’ll be on time. We could end up being sitting ducks in a matter of hours.” Again his voice drifted off. Then he got to his feet. “So when I come into the wind, you folks are on your way. It may be the last chance I’ll have to get you off, and your Russian friend seems to be a key.”

  “He’s very important, Admiral.”

  “That’s what Pratt told me. So my first responsibility is to get you off of here in one piece. Be ready in half an hour. An escort will pick up you and the girl in sick bay. General Keradin will already be aboard the aircraft.”

  Cobb stood. “I wish you luck, sir.”

  “I sincerely hope that luck holds.” Turner grinned wryly. “If it doesn’t, it won’t take long for them to go after their next target.” They both knew that would be the second carrier battle group—Kennedy’s.

  The fireball was not brilliant, not what military people had been trained to expect. But even in the early morning sunlight, it caught the eye like the flash of a camera. Cobb was in the copilot’s seat at the time, talking with the pilot while they awaited clearance for takeoff. He noticed it immediately, but said nothing. It was, after all, a blast at 150 or more miles in the sky, and could easily be mistaken for any number of natural occurrences.

  The pilot looked at Cobb out of the corner of his eye. “Notice that?”

  Cobb nodded, saying nothing. He put on the extra set of headphones to listen to the air-control net. There was dead silence for a moment. Then he heard the voices, normal at first, then more anxious, calling on the net. First they asked for radio checks, then requested those who answered to call the long-range planes on other frequencies.

  But Cobb knew what the response would already be. Nothing. It was not a large burst as megatons went—probably no more than one or two, but at that height—two hundred kilometers, the computers projected—the damage would already be taking effect. The Air Force F-15s hadn’t gotten to it in time.

  There would be no burst effect, nothing that would bring the launching of ICBMs in retaliation. There would be no loss of equipment or lives, nor even wounded or radiation victims. Instead, the victims would be the heart of the American offensive and defensive machine—electronics. The atmospheric ionization caused by the detonation of an atomic weapon at that height, well above the atmosphere, would halt all medium- and long-range communications for ranges of possibly 1,500 miles for up to two hours. Line-of-sight radio communications would not be affected, but satellites were out of the question, as were all air-defense and airborne communications. The electromagnetic pulse (EMP) could also damage solid-state electronics. Virtually all susceptible computers and sensors would be inoperative and even radar and microwave transmissions might be mute for as long as an hour.

  It was long enough, Cobb knew, long enough to get in that first launch against Saratoga’s battle group. The computers could only assume so much, but to his knowledge, no programs had ever been developed coordinating EMP with the Soviet Backfires launching their cruise missiles. Would they launch just before or just after the blast? How might the missiles be affected. Was it all timed so that Soviet submarines would pop to the surface and take control of the missiles, guiding them the last short distance to target?

  Cobb didn’t know. Neither did Turner, nor Pratt. No one really did. And the computers were inoperative.

  “What happened?” the pilot asked Cobb.

  “Perhaps you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren that you saw the first atomic blast of the war—and survived it.”

  The man blanched.

  “Doesn’t affect you or me or anyone in the whole group. Not directly, anyway. But you can’t believe how screwed up the nervous system of this whole damn battle group is now.” He thought of what would follow. “Come on. Call up control and let’s get out of here. Pretty soon there will be something that’ll hurt you pretty bad.” It didn’t require a genius to do the simple mathematics necessary. Air-launched cruise missiles would be arriving in half an hour or so, give or take a few minutes. The Hawkeyes would do what they could, but they were a long distance from the carrier, they couldn’t communicate, and they couldn’t use the satellites in the way they were intended to, and the group’s own early-warning system was useless at this stage.

  The pilot requested permission to take off. It was Admiral Turner’s voice that granted it. And then he added, “We’ll do what we can to hold ’em off, Cobb. Give Pratt my regards.”

  Cobb learned much later how well they did.

  The effects of the atomic blast had not been as severe as expected. Saratoga’s Hawkeyes had done their job. They intercepted the Backfires before launching. An acceptable number of Soviet aircraft had gone down.

  But there were fighters joining up with the Russian bombers, and the Hawkeyes took a beating after that. The assumption the Soviet submarines might take over control of the cruise missiles on their final run was correct. When they surfaced to do so, Turner’s helos and antisubmarine ships went after them. That accounted for the accuracy of another batch of missiles. But a number continued toward their target.

  The ships undertook countermeasures, using everything they could to decoy the incoming missiles. That accounted for another batch. Sea Sparrow missiles accurately brought down more. But there were more than a dozen that survived all phases of the battle group’s defense.

  Saratoga was actually the first ship to be hit. A missile impacted aft of the island on the starboard side, just below the elevator. Fires ignited on the hangar deck. A second missile hit just below the angled flight deck on the port side. A large section of deck ruptured. More fires erupted. The third missile penetrated the hull plating, detonating in the after engine room. The watch there died almost instantly, either from the blast or from escaping high-pressure steam. Saratoga was now operating on three shafts.

  As the carrier was fighting her own battle, other ships in the group also came under fire. The frigate Gallery disappeared in a belch of flame as a missile exploded in her torpedo storage. A surviving captain of one of the nearby ships reported that within sixty seconds almost nothing remained of the little ship.

  The stern of Deyo disappe
ared to the waterline.

  The bridge of Macdonough was cleared by a direct hit. When her executive officer took command, he was told that the blast took out the bridge, the combat information center, and three decks below, and that the fires were out of control. Three minutes later the torpedoes in the ASROC launcher blew, and he watched the forward third of the ship drift away.

  According to the computers, the first Soviet launch had been more effective than projected—perhaps even by them. It had never been considered that they would take advantage of the effect of a high-altitude nuclear blast. The computers also said that an aircraft carrier should be able to survive at least four cruise missile hits. Saratoga was trying to survive three. Fires in her hangar threatened fuel and ammunition. The angled deck was useless, as was the elevator that had been hit. There was no chance of getting the after engine room back on line. She could likely float after more than three direct hits, but was it worthwhile?

  On the bridge, Admiral Turner explained to Saratoga’s commanding officer that Soviet doctrine called for a second, equally devastating launch.

  ABOARD U.S.S. YORKTOWN

  The initial assault on Saratoga and her battle group was taking place even as the commanding officers of Pratt’s battle group were meeting aboard Yorktown about four hundred miles to the west to make final plans for their defense. The radical nature of the attack—the creation of an electromagnetic pulse—had not been expected by most of those men. Only Carleton and Nelson were unsurprised; one of Pratt’s original projections had been based on the Soviet fleet attacking before ground forces moved into Germany. It was based on the persisting Russian concept that NATO forces in the North Atlantic and Mediterranean would have to be neutralized. If they were not, then NATO ground forces in Europe could be reinforced, control of the air could not be guaranteed, and a prolonged ground war would likely mean acceleration to the nuclear level.