by Tom Clancy
The sudden shock caused her to loose her grip even more, and she slid much too fast down the tree, bark ripping her across the legs, which were beginning to warm behind the flight suit.
She wasn’t sure if she screamed or not as she suddenly hit the ground, lost her balance, and collapsed onto her rump, sending up clouds of snow.
For just a few seconds she sat there, gingerly testing her legs, making sure she hadn’t broken or sprained anything. Then the internal voice took over, the training: All right, all right, get the gear and get the hell out!
She had a couple of meals ready to eat (MREs), a couple liters of water, a.45 with two spare magazines, a survival guide for exciting reading in case she got bored fleeing from the Russians, a fixed-blade survival knife in nylon sheath, a radio beacon (which she checked to be sure was off), a pair of high-powered binoculars with integrated digital camera, and a small emergency blanket.
She tried her helmet’s radio. Dead. Damn, it’d been smashed up in the trees on the way down. She also had her wrist-mounted GPS and a satellite phone in her breast pocket, which she now fished out, switched on.
No signal.
“Are you kidding me? The entire network’s down?”
Well, wasn’t that a bitch? She’d have to find the ejection seat, which had recently been equipped with a secondary transmitter.
But breaking radio silence would mean giving up her location, the same way the survival kit’s satellite beacon could.
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
It wouldn’t hurt to at least track down the seat, and let them know in which direction she was headed, which was—
She spun around.
If the Russians were heading south, any direction but south might be good. Then again, the farther north, east, or west she traveled, the farther her rescuers would have to come — if they were planning to rescue her.
It would be all too easy to write off one pilot in an operation as massive as this would be. Did they even have the resources?
She vowed to stop feeling sorry for herself. She would find the ejection seat, send off the last transmission, then take it from there.
The sound of jet engines sent her gaze skyward, where the stars were beginning to fade, where she should be right now.
After slinging the survival kit over her shoulder, the two.45 magazines in her left hip pocket, the pistol in her gloved hand, she took one last look around to make sure she’d hadn’t left anything. Then, remembering she had been gliding northwest when she’d dumped the seat, she jogged off and headed southeast through the forest.
She got no more than a thousand yards from her landing site when she heard the sounds of multiple, somewhat high-pitched engines. The sounds left her puzzled. She crouched down, then dug through her kit, produced her binoculars.
In a clearing off to her left, a half dozen black snowmobiles had come to a halt. Climbing off them were heavily armed Spetsnaz troops.
Lowering the binoculars and placing them back into the kit, ever so gently, as though the tiniest sound might be heard by the enemy, Halverson glanced up, saw how the forest dipped down ahead, and figured there might be better cover there.
She rose, started off, wouldn’t look back, wouldn’t do a damned thing except focus on the next position.
One of the Spetsnaz cried out in Russian, loud enough for her to hear, and she understood the words: “I found the chute!”
And now they knew she was alive.
TWENTY-ONE
A weatherworn man in his early sixties whom the computer identified as Ivan Golova, commander of the helicopter assault ship Ulyanovsk, was standing on the main deck, midships, inspecting his vessel for debris damage.
Andreas’s men had just intercepted and decrypted communications between him and the skipper of the amphibious assault ship Ivan Rogov. Both men agreed that the destruction of the Varyag and Kalovsk was the worst refueling accident in the history of the Russian Navy.
And both men were unaware of the wolf at their door.
Andreas tensed as Golova looked up, a half second before the Harpoon struck his ship broadside.
The incredible amount of energy directed upward into the main deck instantly blasted the commander apart—
Just as the flooded engineering spaces exploded in a magnificent conflagration that, seconds later, split Ulyanovsk in half.
The helicopter assault ship’s stern section sank within a minute, but the bow section remained afloat, and crewmembers scrambled to get into lifeboats. The dozens in the water would die within minutes from hypothermia induced by the unforgiving arctic sea.
Those lucky men in the lifeboats, about twenty-five by Andreas’s count, paddled furiously for the Ivan Rogov as they watched the bow section finally join the Varyag and Kalovsk at the bottom of Gray’s Bay.
This time there was no cheering in Andreas’s control room. The odd thing was — and every man serving on his boat would attest to this — if there wasn’t a war going on, they and the Russians sailors would probably buy each other drinks. They were all proud Navy men and women. There was a kinship there that extended beyond politics and culture.
But, as always, when push came to shove, they would kill each other without hesitation, and often without remorse. So, yes, there was no cheering this time while the tortured faces appeared on the Florida’s screens.
For a few minutes more, everyone in the control room watched as the Ulyanovsk’s survivors struggled to reach a ship that was already doomed.
Andreas, unwilling to subject himself and his crew to any more, gave the order to fire.
The Florida’s third Harpoon struck the Ivan Rogov’s forward fuel tank. The enormous blast instantaneously consumed the first hundred feet of the ship, including the Ulyanovsk’s overloaded lifeboats.
As long columns of fire and smoke billowed from the vessel, wave action and shifting tides swung her 180 degrees on her stern anchor, causing her to dislodge the flukes. Dragging a useless anchor and powerless to stop, Ivan Rogov’s broken hulk foundered against the rocky shore.
The handful of survivors who began making their way to the rails would face the hostile Northwest Territories. Andreas doubted that they’d last more than a week.
Throughout the Harpoon attack, he had stood with his right hip pressed against the plotting table and suddenly realized his right leg had gone to sleep. The realization carried him back to his boyhood and Melville’s Captain Ahab. He shuddered free the memory and got back to work.
The task force’s icebreakers had left, leaving the ammunition ship, which had already lifted an anchor and was on the run.
Andreas spoke softly. “Let her pass. I want to see her plimsoll line and draught markings. I’d also like to get her name before we kill her — for the log.”
The ammo ship’s angle on the bow was currently port thirty, making it impossible to see her stern and name. However, she had been zigzagging and was just about due for another course change.
Andreas got his wish when she turned right seventy degrees. He let her pass then slowly fell in behind to read her transom:
MOЛHИЯ
“Anybody. Translate that for me,” he said.
“It means lightning, sir,” replied the SpecOps communications technician.
“How apropos.” He glanced sidelong at the XO. “Her draught markings indicate she’s drawing forty-two feet. Set up the Mark 48 accordingly and let her open out to ten thousand yards — we don’t want her coming down on us when she blows. Load up tube one. You have the honors.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
The Mk-48 ADCAP (advanced capability) was a wire-guided, active/passive homing torpedo, nineteen feet long and twenty-one inches in diameter. Thrust from its pumpjet propulsor was developed by an air turbine pump discharge (ATPD) system, and liquid fuel powered the swash-plate piston engine.
Once the XO confirmed that the torpedo was loaded, Andreas paused a moment more, thinking about all the men and women about to lose their lives. War was a t
errible thing.
After a barely discernable nod from Andreas, the XO gave the order.
As the torpedo shot through the launch tube, a thin wire spun out, electronically linking it with the submarine. This enabled the operator of the submarine’s sensitive sonar systems to guide the torpedo toward the target.
The ammo ship Lightning had deployed several decoys and jamming devices, but the operator would avoid those as the torpedo reached seventy-five knots.
A few seconds later, the wire cut free, and the torpedo’s high-powered active/passive sonar steered it during the final attack.
The Mk-48’s warhead contained the explosive power of about 1,200 pounds of TNT, and both Andreas and the XO knew that that power could be maximized when the warhead detonated below the keel of a target ship.
“Three seconds,” said the XO, monitoring his console’s timer. “Two, one.”
The warhead exploded exactly as planned. The resulting pressure wave of the blast lifted the Lightning, and while Andreas couldn’t see it, he felt certain that her keel had been broken in the process.
As she settled, the second detonation occurred, tearing her apart and igniting her huge cache of ammunition. Long plumes of water and fragments shot nearly two hundred meters skyward. Dozens more explosions joined the first in a rainbow of colors that lit waves pockmarked by splashing debris.
When the smoke cleared a bit, Andreas confirmed that they had broken the ship into several pieces. The larger bow and stern sections were taking on water fast, while still more ammunition began to cook off.
Again, more silence in the control room, until—
“Should we close and search for survivors, sir?” asked the XO.
Andreas thought a moment. “No.” He took a deep breath, then called, “Navigator? Give me a course to the mouth of the Dolphin and Union Strait. With the east end of the gulf iced in, that strait is a perfect choke point — and we get to say who comes through there.”
“Hello, Prime Minister,” said President Vsevolod Vsevolodovich Kapalkin. “I’m glad you could take my call. I know it’s early there.”
Prime Minister Robert Emerson of Canada had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. He had loosened his tie, and he barely opened his mouth when he said quite curtly, “Get out of my country.”
“I’m afraid, Prime Minister, that it is far too late for that. But what I have to tell you is quite urgent and will benefit you greatly, if you are willing to negotiate.”
“Kapalkin, you’re a creature of realpolitik, coercive and amoral. There are no negotiations here. Get out of my country.”
“Prime Minister, I understand how you feel, and I know how important it is for you and your people to remain neutral in this conflict. I can guarantee that Canada will not become involved, if we work together.”
“We are already involved. You’ve invaded the Northwest Territories and are heading for Alberta.”
“That’s not all. As we speak our Spetsnaz forces are heading toward Edmonton and Calgary. They will parachute into those cities and seize control of power and communications uplinks, as well as those early warning radar systems for the JSF’s missile defense shield. It is winter. Very cold. And we will shut down the power. But we don’t have to do that.”
“If we hand over control of Alberta?” Emerson guessed.
Kapalkin spread his hands in a gesture of bon homie. “What is politics, Prime Minister? It is simply the pursuit, possession, and application of power. Let us share that power.”
Prime Minister Emerson closed his eyes and massaged his temples, then suddenly blurted, “You know the Americans want to…‘share power’ with us as well.”
“And we know you’ve already failed to stop them from crossing your borders. But we’ll forgive that. All we need from you now is a promise not to interfere. And once we control Alberta, you will continue production — even increase it — with our assistance.”
“And of course, the Russian Federation will receive a substantial portion of our profits. Come on, you were a smuggler. And this sounds like a proposition put forth by the Russian mafia, not the Federation.”
That remark stung, and Kapalkin sharpened his tone. “Prime Minister, if you’ll recall, I was also co-owner and chairman of one of Russia’s largest oil and gas companies. I know this business. I know how together we can continue production and force the Americans and Euros to pay dearly for that oil. Let Canada become richer — with our help.”
“Mr. President, I must be frank with you. I don’t believe a goddamn word.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“Get out of my country.”
“It’s too late for that.” Kapalkin raised his index finger. “Let me add this: If your government decides to offer military assistance to the Americans, you will suffer the full military might of the Russian Federation.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“Mr. Prime Minister, at this point you are far better off doing nothing. Remain neutral. We will respect that. We will do everything we can to limit the number of casualties and preserve your infrastructure. Take some time to think it over. You will come to see that what I’m offering is far more attractive and will allow Canada to step out from the shadow of those American cowboys. You could take it to your people, but I understand a cabinet revolt would bring you down quickly, and that your parliament is quite anemic, with several members vying for your position. Sit on your hands for now, if that is your wish. But do not help the Americans or the Euros. I will call you again in a day or two. And we will see how you feel then.”
Emerson just stared blankly at him, a man still unwilling to admit defeat. He would. In time.
“Good-bye, Mr. Prime Minister.” Kapalkin suppressed his smile.
The large, touch-screen map table showing the Northwest Territories and Alberta flickered with “Blue” and “Red” force activity as Major Alice Dennison shifted past it on her way back to her desk to take a call.
When she sat down and saw the origination, she nearly fell out of her chair. She swallowed hard and smoothed back her hair, then adjusted the collar of her uniform to buy some time and calm herself a bit. After another deep breath, she reached out with a trembling finger and touched the screen.
President Becerra was seated aboard Air Force One. His brows raised. “Hello, Major Dennison.”
“Uh, hi. I mean, hello, Mr. President. This is, uh, I’m sorry,” she stammered.
“Relax, Major. I just need a little favor.”
The President of the United States was asking her for a favor?
“Actually two things.”
He could ask for ten. “Uh, yes, Mr. President?”
“It’s my understanding that you’ve been in direct contact with an F-35 pilot forced to eject up in the Northwest Territories, Major Stephanie Halverson, call sign Siren.”
“Yes, sir. We lost all those fighters. She was the last one to hang on. She put a hell of a dent in their operations.”
“I know. And it’s also my understanding that no one’s been assigned the TRAP mission to get her out of there.”
“No, sir, we tried. I was hoping we could split up one of the ODA teams we dropped into High Level, but their C-130 got hit before the whole company got out. We only have a couple dozen operators on the ground, with no air support yet, so I can’t spare them. And even if I could, I doubt I could get them up there in time. The first sorties carrying the brigade from the Tenth Mountain won’t reach Grand Prairie for a couple of hours now, and they’ll be even farther south.”
“I want that pilot recovered.”
“Of course, sir, but she’s way behind enemy lines.”
“Major, I talked to her myself. She was the tip of our spear, and I won’t write her off. Now before you even think it, this isn’t some PR stunt to create a ‘feel-good’ story. That pilot is a valuable asset. And she’s worth the risk.”
“Yes, sir. Getting a team up there could also provide us with some boots-on-th
e-ground intel of their staging area.”
“Exactly.”
“Sir, I’ll do everything I can.”
He nodded. “And the second thing. I know you’ve been trying to crack Doletskaya. Keep at it. The GRU rarely engages in straightforward ops like this.”
“I know, sir. We’ve got that number, that code name, then we just hit the wall.”
“Dig more into his past. Maybe the key is there. And also… consider the source of that information.”
“Sir?”
“The Euros tipped us off, handed over that intel. There’s nothing to say that the intel isn’t corrupt, or that the intel will point to the Euros being directly involved.”
“I’ll expand my search. Anything else, sir?”
“Oh, that’ll keep you busy. Thank you, Major.” Someone beckoned him. He smiled politely and ended the call.
Dennison sat there, just breathing. Then she bolted from her chair and cried, “Where are those Marines from Pendleton? Are they still in the air?”
TWENTY-TWO
Were it not for the arrival of those Spetsnaz troops in their snowmobiles, Major Stephanie Halverson would not have located her ejection seat.
She wouldn’t have looked up, considering that maybe her best hiding place would be in a tree, carefully hidden among those thick, snow-laden limbs. While she had been scanning the trees, her gaze had lighted upon an irregular shape, and as she approached for a better look, she realized the damned seat had lodged itself some twenty feet above, the chute tangled in the limbs. So much for calling Hammer again. At least for now.
With the troops still behind her, she forged on, darting between trees, leaving a terribly clear trail in the snow.
After ducking around the next trunk, she paused to catch her breath.
All right, think. Can’t keep running. Need a direction. Something.
A glance back revealed more forest to the southeast. Her GPS showed nothing but more of the same. However, if she went directly west, she’d run into a small road and an open field. Might even be a farm or two out there.