by Tom Clancy
“Ghost Hawk, this is Siren, over.”
Come on, Jake. Be there…
FOURTEEN
After President Becerra finished speaking with that fighter pilot up in the Northwest Territories, he took a video call from the Canadian prime minister, Robert Emerson. He’d met Emerson on several occasions, an elder statesman who was about as low-key and conservative as they came.
Which was why Becerra was taken aback by Emerson’s immediate hostility. “Just what the hell is going on up there, Mr. President!”
“I don’t have all the details yet. What I do know is that thirty to forty Russian helos are moving south toward Yellowknife. They fired on two of our fighters training up there. In the meantime, they knocked out a couple of our satellites over the Arctic, and I’ve lost contact with one of my subs up there.”
“I warned you what would happen if this war came to Canada.”
“Prime Minister, it’s not a coincidence that they’re moving toward Alberta. I told you this day would come,” Becerra reminded him.
“And I told you they wouldn’t dare,” Emerson snapped.
“Four years ago, on the day the Saudis and Iranians exchanged nuclear weapons, Canada became the home of the world’s largest oil reserve.”
“Our bitumen is still more expensive to produce, and the Russians have exploited the European markets far better than we have.”
“But they know we’re not entirely dependent upon them anymore. And they know what will happen if we’re allowed to continue exploiting this reserve.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Prime Minister, how long did you think the Russians would let you control the supply? If this is the prelude to a major invasion, then you’ve got a very important decision to make. But I’ll say this: it is in the best interests of the United States to have you in charge of those reserves. If the Russians attempt to take that power from you, I’ll have no choice but to send in my troops. Join us,” Becerra urged.
“We can’t support this war. We don’t believe in it. Our economy cannot suffer that kind of blow.”
“Then watch from the sidelines, as you have been. But when the time comes, don’t stop us. Turning on each other is exactly what the Russians want us to do. It’s exactly what they tried to do between us and the Euros.”
“If I allow you on my soil, they’ll consider that aiding and abetting.”
“And if you don’t?”
Emerson sighed explosively. The Prime Minister raked fingers through his thinning white hair. “Mr. President, please keep me informed the minute you know more.”
“Of course. And if you want to mobilize your military for a training exercise, I’m sure no one would stop you.”
“One more thing, Mr. President. If the Russians are coming in by helicopter, they had to have used carriers or some other ships.”
“That’s why I’m trying to reestablish contact with my submarine. They might be able to confirm that.”
“Meaning your submarine was operating illegally in our waters.”
“Let’s not go there. The debate whether the Northwest Passage waters are international or Canadian is irrelevant right now. There are only four words that are important to us: the Russians are coming.”
“Mr. President,” called Chief of Staff Hellenberg from across the aisle. “Sorry to interrupt you, but General Kennedy is on the line.” Hellenberg’s expression said it all.
“Mr. Prime Minister, I have to go, but myself or a member of my staff will update you as soon as we know more.”
With that, Becerra, ended the call and switched to the other video line. “You don’t look happy, General.”
“No, sir. It seems we’re backed into a corner on this one. We’ve attempted several different scenarios, but at this point, the ANGELS satellite has attached itself to the ISS. No communication at all from the crew inside. We suspect that the Russians have already killed the Japanese and Brazilian crew members. The ISS will be within range of one of our kinetic energy platforms in approximately fifteen minutes. The Russians could destroy that platform,” she pointed out. Unnecessarily.
“Understood.”
“All I need is authorization from you.”
Becerra rubbed the corners of his eyes, took a deep breath. “You have it, General. Take out the station.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll connect you in to the platform’s cameras.”
Hellenberg came over and stood behind Becerra. “I’m sorry, Mr. President.”
“For what?”
“For this difficult decision you’ve had to make.”
“It’s cut-and-dried now, Mark.”
Voices of the ANGELS satellite controllers sounded in the background as an image of the ISS, floating over the blue globe of Earth, dominated the screen. They had a spectacular view of the station and listened as one controller, in a cool, even voice finished his sentence with the words, “… and detonate…”
A small flash came from the underside of the station, followed by a much larger, more orange explosion haloed in white-hot specks.
The station’s long, rectangular arrays, perhaps its most prominent and memorable feature, suddenly broke away and began tumbling end over end, as the rest of the laboratories and connecting modules began their own strangely graceful ballet, moving with underwater slowness in the vacuum of space.
General Kennedy returned to the screen. “Sir, the threat has been eliminated. Now I suggest we turn our attention to the next one.”
“Those helos up in Canada.”
“That’s right. But sir, we count more than sixty heavy Russian transport aircraft with fighter escorts lifting off from every air base along the east coast of the country. Could be one or more brigades, with accompanying vehicles. We believe they’ll put down just north of Alberta.”
“Let’s get some fighters up there to stop them.”
“There are far too many aircraft, and many of our units in Alaska have been deployed to Europe. The squadrons we do have are already in the air.”
Becerra held back a curse. “Kapalkin has been working on this one for a long time, carefully weakening us, spreading us out too far.”
“Well, as we like to say, Mr. President, the balloon is going up. At the very least, we’d like to get boys from the Tenth Mountain up there, along with some Marines from Pendleton. And we have a Stryker Brigade in Alaska we’ll bring down, along with another one we’ll bring up from Fort Lewis, so long as you can work out a deal with the prime minister.”
“What about air strikes?”
“They’ll have limited effect, because if we’re right, the Russians will be attempting to seize key infrastructure, pipelines, refineries, and so on, intact. We can’t risk damaging those facilities, so for the most part, we’ll be on the ground, with close air support at our shoulders. We’ll need to hold back on the bombers and kinetic energy weapons as our very last resorts.”
“I think the prime minster would agree.”
She smiled crookedly. “Mr. President, I also have to point out that the Russians could cut off their noses to spite their faces.”
“You mean if they can’t control the Alberta reserves—”
“They’ll destroy them. In fact, if those inbound Russian aircraft were bombers, we’d assume that’s the mission. Still could be.”
“General, can we do this? Can we fight this war on multiple fronts and put more people up in Canada?”
“We think so, sir. And remember, the Russians are further dividing their own forces to continue their push. But the key is the prime minister. If you can get him to commit his forces, we’ll be in a lot better shape.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen, not in any official capacity anyway. There will always be some Canadian units that’ll fight if attacked, no matter what the prime minister says.”
“So in that regard, the Russians might be doing us a favor.”
“Yes, sir. In the meantime, we’ll get what fighters we can in the a
ir to disrupt those incoming aircraft.”
“Good. You know, I just spoke to an F-35 pilot operating out of a little base north of Yellowknife. She took out more than half a dozen of those Russian helos. I want her up there.”
“I’ll make sure of that, sir.”
FIFTEEN
Major Stephanie Halverson spotted Boyd lying in the snow, not far from the ejection seat, half covered by the drogue chute. He’d unbuckled, crawled a few meters in the snow, and collapsed. He wasn’t moving.
Now she wouldn’t just fly over, trying to figure out if he was alive or dead. And she wouldn’t tell Igloo Base what she was doing. With the Russian helos still not far off, they would never authorize such an action. They had just ordered her back to refuel and rearm.
Of course she would comply (eventually), but she couldn’t live with herself if she abandoned Jake. She’d rather take the risk, which was, damn it, risking everything.
And God help her, she set down on the snow, landed the multimillion dollar bird, leaving her entirely vulnerable to air attack.
It took her another minute to detach herself from the cockpit, remove her helmet, and finally get down to the snow.
The icy wind stung her cheek, and it smelled as though a storm was coming.
“Jake!” She jogged toward him, the top layer of snow breaking into glistening puzzle pieces that rose to her ankles.
She reached him, slowly rolled him over, and worked on getting off his helmet. Finally, it gave. His nose had been bleeding and his left cheek was beginning to swell.
“Jake, can you hear me? It’s Steph.”
His eyes flickered open. “I want to puke.”
“It’s good to see you, too.”
He swallowed. “I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what happened. It was like a dream… they fired rockets!”
“I know, Jake.”
“Wait a minute. What the hell? You landed?” He suddenly sat up, looked to her plane, the engine still humming.
“Jesus, Major!”
The ejection seat had a built-in survival kit that was now connected to his chute. Ignoring him, she fetched it, brought it back over. “Can you move?”
“I’m just banged up. I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“Think you can fly?”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“I want you to take her back. Rescue helo is already on the way. I’ll catch it.”
“Steph, you’re not thinking right. You don’t put an injured pilot back in the cockpit.”
She looked at him, thought about how wired to panic she was, how full of rage, the tremors still working into her hands.
“Okay, yeah. You’ll be all right?”
“I’m okay.” He glanced over to the still-burning wreckage of his fighter. “My flying career just went up in flames, but I’m okay…”
“You’re not done yet. Not if I have anything to say about it. Just hang tight.” She pulled out her sidearm, handed it to him. “Now you got two.”
“If they come back, this won’t matter.”
She knew that, too, but pushed back his hand, forcing him to take the weapon. “Rescue will be here soon.” She started back toward her fighter.
And once she was strapped in and lifting off, the news that came in from Igloo Base took her breath away.
The USS Florida’s radio room, immediately aft, starboard side of the submarine’s command, control, communications, and intelligence (C3I) space, made it easy for the radioman on watch to stick his head into the passageway and announce, “ELF traffic,” even as Commander Jonathan Andreas watched the extremely low frequency (ELF) call light start to blink incessantly on his Q-70 display console, accompanied by a steady beeping. “The first character is in, and it matches our first call letter,” continued the radioman.
“Finally,” Andreas said through a deep sigh. He pressed the Acknowledge button, stopping both beep and flash, then stepped across to the port side of C3I and placed his hand on the sonar operator’s shoulder. “Give me a careful three-hundred-and-sixty-degree listening sweep.” Catching the officer of the deck’s eye, he continued, “If we’re all clear, take us up to periscope depth.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” responded the OOD.
Andreas had done as he and the XO had discussed. They had sprinted out of the immediate area, pinged the satellite’s transponder — and had received no response for their effort.
And that had left Andreas standing there in the control room wanting to pummel someone.
In the time it took for them to complete the acoustic sweep, rise to periscope depth, and extend their mast to visually confirm no surface contacts in the immediate vicinity, the second character of the ELF message had arrived on board. It matched the second of the Florida’s three assigned ELF call letters.
“Captain, there’s still no operational traffic from that satellite,” said the senior chief radioman. “GPS is coming through okay. The clincher for me, sir, is that ELF data rate. That’s about the speed of the old Michigan ELF transmitter. Their big bird in the sky is dead. I’ll stake a promotion to Master Chief on that, sir.”
“Roger that, Senior Chief. XO, round up all the Iridium satellite phones and make sure they’re fully charged. We’re going to execute my last plan, the one I didn’t tell you about.”
“Sir, are you serious? We’re going to call on the satellite phones?”
“Well, it ain’t pretty, but it’s all I got. It’s time to phone home.”
Andreas stepped aft to the Radio Room, poked his head inside and said, “Senior Chief, I’ll bet you a shiny new set of silver eagles for my collar that you’ll continue to get ELF transmissions until we figure out how to talk to COMPACFLT.”
Admiral Donald Stanton glanced up as his aide appeared in the little window on his computer screen. “Admiral Harrison for you, sir.”
Stanton accepted the call, and the window switched to Harrison in his office. “Chuck, what have you got?”
“Well, even though Michigan’s up, Andreas will be extremely cautious about breaking radio silence. It goes against everything he’s been taught. But when that silence becomes deafening, as it is now, he’ll run through his options.”
“We put the same four-line text message on every satellite phone on board.”
“And Andreas’s wife assures me he’ll understand the message.”
“All right. He just needs to receive it. Thanks, Chuck. We’ve run it up the flagpole, let’s see who wants to salute it. All we can do now is wait.”
Back on the Florida, Andreas reminded his XO that they needed just enough speed to maintain steerageway but no more. They didn’t want the sail to create a visible wake by agitating the bioluminescent organisms in the water.
Andreas then turned and regarded his communications officer. “Dan, you take two sat phones, and I’ll carry two. We turn all four on just before we open the hatch in the sail, then we head up to get a signal. We’re looking for a text message — that’s all. We aren’t ready to transmit anything. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Andreas looked intently at the young lieutenant. “Do you remember what else I told you?”
“Yes, sir. Whatever I see on the display, write it down.”
“Good man, let’s go.”
Nine minutes later, the Florida was completely submerged, banked to starboard, preparing to level off at five hundred and thirty-eight feet, and coming to course one-six-zero.
All four cell phone text messages read the same:
URGENT-CALL COMPACFLT/8085553956/3672
Any submarine crewmember home-ported in Pearl Harbor would recognize the 808 prefix as the Honolulu area code. The COMPACFLT acronym didn’t need any explanation.
“But sir, how do we verify?” asked the XO.
“Oh, the message is authentic,” replied Andreas. “See those last four digits? Only my wife and the Honolulu National Bank know that’s my PIN number. Good thing she picked that and not our anniversary
date.”
“I hear that, Skipper.”
Andreas’s expression and tone grew more serious. “Now, XO, let’s surface again and make the call.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
SIXTEEN
General Sergei Izotov sat in the back of his armored Mercedes, the driver returning him to GRU headquarters after an earlier evacuation due to a bomb threat.
Izotov was about to access the GRU tactical database for the latest report when Major Alexei Noskov called via satellite video phone. Izotov tapped a key on his notebook computer to take the call.
Noskov had been reassigned to their latest battle-front, his rosy cheeks and red nose showing clearly on the screen.
“The first transports are on the ground,” he began, raising his voice, his breath heavy in the frigid air.
“Excellent, Major.”
Behind him, in the darkness, Izotov could barely make out some BMP-3s, their 100 mm guns making them resemble tanks, rolling down the ramps of two AN-130s, the Motherland’s latest fleet of huge cargo aircraft capable of landing on unprepared airfields — like the frozen, snow-covered ground of the Northwest Territories. Dozens of soldiers scrambled to prepare each vehicle once it was on the ground under the steady hum and wash of the cargo plane’s colossal engines.
Noskov grinned. “I have more good news. Our helos have landed in Behchoko, and operations have begun there.”
Izotov tapped the screen and brought up the maps.
Behchoko was located on the northwest tip of Great Slave Lake, about seventy-six kilometers from the much larger town of Yellowknife. The road between them was Highway 3, which ran south from Behchoko, then became Highway 1 until it crossed the territorial line of Alberta, where it changed to Highway 35 and ran into the town of High Level.
Because of the winter weather conditions, Noskov’s ground forces were forced to use the main roads; thus, controlling them and the small towns between was imperative.