Flame Out c-4

by Keith Douglass

  The younger officer shifted his gaze to Glushko’s face. “I do not intend to let you destroy me or the reputation of my men, Comrade Captain. If this is some attempt to keep me from defending myself …”

  Glushko laughed. “You have a suspicious mind, Sergei Sergeivich. I am proposing that we stop working at cross-purposes. The Americans are our enemies, and to defeat them we should learn to work together, no?”

  “If you say so, Comrade Captain,” Terekhov responded reluctantly. “But just what do you have in mind, beyond not making any accusations in our reports on the action?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Glushko smiled broadly. He hadn’t been sure if Terekhov would be willing to sacrifice his self-righteous ideals for the benefits of practical politics, but it had certainly been worth trying. And it seemed the man wasn’t quite the idealist he appeared on the surface after all.

  “We can be an effective team, Terekhov, if we try. Hard though it is to admit it, I recognize that you have a talent that the Rodina needs. A talent that I frankly lack. My skill is in … effective human interaction. But I have influence. Several of the political officers in the fleet are well disposed toward me, and that gives me a measure of power that your talent cannot alter. Work with me, Sergei Sergeivich, and together the two of us will go far. Soyuz and his air wing hold the keys to the success of this campaign, and with those keys we will unlock the door to power in the new Union.”

  He smiled again, hoping Terekhov would accept it as a sincere expression of warmth. The younger officer would be a useful asset once he was put in harness, and Glushko intended to exploit that asset for all he was worth. They would defeat the Americans and finish the Norwegian campaign, and Glushko would attract the notice of the Kremlin.

  As for Terekhov … well, ambitious young fighter pilots were always at risk. If Terekhov didn’t survive the campaign, there would be many solemn mourners at his funeral. But Captain First Rank Glushko would not be one of them.

  1715 hours Zulu (1915 hours Zone)

  The Kremlin

  Moscow, RSFSR

  Vladimir Nikolaivich Vorobyev studied the summary of Admiral Khenkin’s report with a smile of cold satisfaction. Thanks to the initiative of Soviet Naval Aviation, it seemed that the American carrier’s air wing had suffered a major defeat while entering the Norwegian Sea. Coupled with the success at Keflavik, that opened a window of opportunity in Norway. For the next few days Western intervention would be next to impossible. Now was the time to act.

  Korotich!” he said, pressing a key on the intercom box on his crowded desk. “My office. Now.”

  Colonel Boris Ilyavich Korotich was Vorobyev’s senior aide, an unimaginative but loyal officer who excelled at carrying out his master’s wishes. He appeared at the door promptly, wearing the characteristic frown that suggested he was afraid he had forgotten some crucial detail but at the same time refused to accept any suggestion that he had failed. Korotich set far harder standards for himself than any of his superiors. It was one reason he made such an efficient aide.

  “Yes, Comrade General?”

  “Korotich, what is the current situation in Norway? The Bergen offensive specifically.” Vorobyev knew it well enough, but he wanted to hear the words aloud. It helped him focus on the strategic problem to hear someone else present the data.

  The aide’s frown deepened as he summoned the information from his excellent, orderly memory. “Very little progress so far, sir. The 45th is stalled in the mountains. A comparatively small force of partisans can delay the advance significantly.”

  “And there has been no further progress in suppressing their SAM defenses?”

  “The diversion of aerial resources to North Star has slowed the operation, sir. However, the most recent report indicates that the air base at Orland has been cleared and can be put back into operation. This will allow the deployment of additional tactical air support, which in turn should speed up the hunt for the enemy SAM emplacements.”

  The Norwegians had been clever in their use of surface-to-air missiles. A nearly impenetrable curtain of SAM fire had derailed the air strikes that should have opened the way for the occupation of Bergen. Finding the SAM batteries was a job on the same order as the American “Scud hunts” during their war with Iraq. But with the Rodina’s full aerial resources brought to bear those defenses would soon be neutralized.

  “I want the efforts redoubled, Korotich. Continual strikes into that area, until those SAMs are out of action. Even if you have to burn up half the planes in the theater doing it.”

  “Yes, Comrade General.”

  “I want the path cleared for an airborne landing near the coast in two days, Korotich. By this time Saturday I want a full regiment on the ground within the Norwegian defensive perimeter.” His finger stabbed at the map spread out on his desk, indicating the region where Soyuz aircraft had previously reported success in reducing Norwegian defenses. “Here … at Brekke.”

  Korotich examined the map and nodded solemnly. “Da … Brekke. That will distract the RNA forces defending the line between the Sognefjorden and the road junction at Gol. A sound plan, Comrade General.”

  “They will do more than distract, Boris Ilyavich. At the same time you relay those orders, you will also order all amphibious forces and naval infantry to assemble. Within twenty-four hours after Brekke is secured from the air, we will pour every man we can transport by sea into that position. They will be less than a hundred kilometers from Bergen, and squarely across the line of retreat for the Norwegians around the Sognefjord. That will produce the breakthrough we need.”

  Korotich nodded again. “It will be difficult to assemble some of the forces, Comrade General, but I think the bulk of them can be en route in time.”

  Vorobyev gave him a cold smile. “Tell any officer who does not think he can have his men moving in time that he will answer to me. In person … and in full.”

  Now was the time to strike. Now, while the Americans were reeling from their defeat, the new Soviet Union would reclaim its proper place in the world. Norway would break, and the rest of Scandinavia after it. Then Europe would face the full weight of Russia’s military securely placed in a flanking position that rendered useless its traditional defensive lines in Germany.

  All it would take was one final push, and the humiliations of a decade would vanish forever.

  CHAPTER 20

  Friday, 13 June, 1997

  1145 hours Zulu (1145 hours Zone)

  Air Wing Intelligence office, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  In the Southern Norwegian Sea

  “So what you’re telling me is that we can predict what they’re going to do, but we can’t do a hell of a lot about it.” Tombstone Magruder massaged his forehead with both hands. He had been awake most of the night going over every aspect of the military situation, but all he had to show for his work was a pile of file folders on his desk and a headache ten times worse than any he’d ever suffered from G-forces in a fighter cockpit.

  “I can’t speak for what we can do, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Arthur Lee replied. “But yes, we’ll see what they’re up to. Satellite recon will be able to monitor the bastards, and I’m confident we can sort out any decoy operations.”

  Since the fighting the day before, Jefferson had continued on course into the Norwegian Sea, but cautiously, carefully. ASW forces had flushed six more subs in that time, with two more confirmed kills and the others either knocked out or driven off. Magruder’s involvement in the submarine-hunting had been peripheral at best, but each reported contact had brought back thoughts of Gridley’s destruction. No number of successes could erase that first disastrous failure.

  Through the night hours Commander Lee had been working with Aiken’s OZ division to analyze every scrap of available intelligence data. Satellite recon images had been tracking some major Russian activity overnight, and now Lee was prepared to make solid preparations concerning enemy activity in Scandinavia.

  The most noticeable devel
opment was the increased naval activity along the coast. Photographs taken by an orbiting KEYHOLE spy satellite had tracked nearly fifty ships gathering near Trondheim. Some were clearly warships, centered around the powerful helicopter cruiser Kiev. But the majority had been identified as troop carriers, ranging from two Ivan Rogov-class LSDs to a mixed bag of smaller LSTs and several freighters plainly pressed from civilian into military service. Lee had cited numerous technical points to support his contention that they were fully loaded, and that suggested that they were beginning a new campaign now that they had neutralized Keflavik and given the Jefferson battle group a bloody nose.

  The possibility gained credence when taken in conjunction with activity reported around Murmansk, where elite Soviet paratroopers had been kept in reserve practically since the start of the conflict. Now they seemed to be getting ready to move out. Lee couldn’t predict where they would strike, but it was his opinion that the Soviets at this point had few options left.

  “The Norwegians are dug in tight and ready for damn near anything that comes in on the ground,” Lee had said at one point. “They’re fighting the kind of war they were always supposed to fight, holding a few key passes against Russian columns that can’t push them back without unacceptable casualties. If they keep following the same basic strategy they’ve been using the Russians’ll try an end run starting near the coast. Drop a major desantniki force near a usable port, then funnel in all the amphibious troops they can manage. All of a sudden the RNA’s got a whole corps inside their lines and driving on Bergen, and that’s all she wrote.”

  “If it’s that predictable, will they really try it this time?” Magruder had asked, still not entirely comfortable with the ins and outs of ground strategy and tactics.

  “No guarantees, of course,” Lee had replied. “They could make maybe two other moves. One would be a major drop right behind the lines somewhere near the center of the Bergen defensive perimeter, with the idea of creating a large hole in the line that the armor could exploit. Problem with that is that Norway’s still an easy place for a defender. They run the risk of achieving nothing more than a short advance before getting bogged down all over again.”

  “And the other option?” Magruder had pressed.

  “Use the naval force as a decoy, then drop the paratroops behind the end of the line opposite Oslo. They’ve built up a pretty fair contingent around the capital, and a determined drive on that side supported by desant troops could lead to a nice little penetration.”

  “But you don’t think that’s what they’ll try?”

  “Not really. First off, that’s the longest overland route to Bergen they’ve got, and again they’re up against the defensive advantage. Number two, all their logistical support down there would have to come in by air. They’ve got air superiority now and they could have air supremacy in a few more days, but a determined offensive by the RNAF or even a spell of nasty weather could cut those troops off with virtually no supplies. They’re already at risk keeping Oslo fully supplied. I really don’t think they’d want to risk the whole offensive on something like that.” He had grinned. “Don’t forget, the Soviets’ve had experience seeing what kind of havoc a determined partisan with a hand-held Stinger can play with a well-planned op. Afghanistan’s going to haunt them the way Vietnam did our boys until the Gulf War came along.”

  It all made good sense, and Magruder was willing to rely on Lee’s expert opinion. In addition to his Intelligence experience, the man had a genuine flair for strategy. He seemed able to pick out the advantages and disadvantages of just about anything the Russians chose to do. But in the end, Tombstone didn’t see that any of it would be much help.

  He stopped rubbing his throbbing forehead and looked at the map again. “All right, we can spot their airdrops as they happen. The satellite coverage gives us that much. If they do what you expect, then this amphibious force will start moving in to support the parachute troops within a few hours. Assuming we can sort through whatever diversions they mount, we’ll be able to predict where they’re heading and probably their ETA. Right?”

  Lee nodded. “Almost certainly. They’ll stay bunched up so the escorts can cover them from subs and missile attacks. Don’t forget, the Norwegians still have some of their navy left. But they wouldn’t be much good in a head-on fight with the Soviets.”

  “Okay. That’s the good news then. The bad news is their air power. They already have a damned strong contingent of fighters and bombers from Frontal Aviation out there, and you say they’re about to reactivate Orland with more squadrons of MiGs and Sukhois.”

  “It’s already in service on a limited scale, Commander,” Lee corrected. “By tomorrow they’ll be flying six or eight squadrons out of there.”

  Magruder rubbed his chin. “And, of course, we’ve got their naval air to contend with. Not just as extra cover for their operations ashore, but as a direct threat to us as well. I don’t like these odds, Art.”

  Lee shrugged. “I can’t do much about that, sir. I deal in facts. This is what we’ve got to work with.”

  “How reliable is our coordination with the Norwegians? Can we get any help from them at all?”

  “They’re pretty hard-pressed, Commander,” Lee said slowly. “You know they’ll be doing everything they can, but I expect their resources will be stretched to the limit by what they’re already up against.” He paused, studying the map with a thoughtful expression. “One thing we might do is encourage them to mount a strong raid toward Oslo, though.”

  “How would that help?”

  “Well, it would probably take every extra plane they’ve got, and it might not cause a whole lot of damage, but as sensitive as the air supply pipeline has to be right now, I’d say we’d draw a lot of their Frontal Aviation units away from the navy. That would also probably block them if they’d planned on an end run out of Oslo.”

  “Hmph.” Magruder was still frowning. “Narrows the odds some, but not enough. I’ve got one and a half interceptor squadrons, two Hornet squadrons I can use as fighters or bombers but not both at the same time, and one squadron of Intruders that are bombers only. With that we have to make a dent in their attack force and still cover the Jeff.” Suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue, he looked away. “Hell, I don’t know the answer. I don’t think CAG could’ve covered all these bases.”

  The damnable thing was that it was almost possible. If he was willing to take some risks, he could probably put together an attack that would have a shot at crippling the enemy amphib forces, but if he made one wrong step the results would make the loss of the Gridley look like a minor lapse in judgment. There were just too many variables … and Magruder wasn’t sure he could face the tough decisions that would have to be made.

  If he attacked and failed, a lot of good pilots could follow Stramaglia and the others … and the Jeff herself could come under attack again. Thousands of American lives were potentially at risk.

  And if he did nothing, it would be thousands of Norwegians who might die, and at the end of that road lay the ultimate victory of the Russian war in Scandinavia, with all the potential for future trouble that carried with it.

  As a squadron commander, back in North Korea, Magruder had first been forced to face up to his responsibility for the life-and-death decisions that went with command. He could still remember the torment of losing Coyote when his plane went down in that first dogfight off of Wonsan. It was a lesson every leader of men learned sooner or later.

  But time and rank didn’t make that lesson any less painful. As a squadron commander he’d been directly responsible for twenty or thirty lives at best, though often his own personal actions had reached far beyond that immediate circle. Now he was responsible for hundreds of lives directly, and the fate of many more could also be affected by his decisions.

  “Look, Art,” he said at last. “We can’t do anything else for now. Why don’t you pack it in and get some sleep. We’ll get together and go over whatever OZ gets in later on. Okay?”<
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  Lee looked at him with a worried expression. “You going to be all right, Commander?” he asked. “Seems like all this is hitting you pretty hard.”

  “I know what I’m supposed to do, Art,” Magruder said slowly. “I just have to find out if I’ve still got the guts to do it or not. And it’s something I can only work out on my own.”

  As Lee left, Magruder’s thoughts went back to North Korea. Back then issues of right and wrong, action or inaction, had all seemed so clear-cut. Now they didn’t seem so easy to resolve.

  Yet that was exactly what he had to do.

  1308 hours Zulu (1308 hours Zone)

  Sick Bay, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson

  In the southern Norwegian Sea

  Fatigue and numbing cold … gray skies and an angry gray sea … those were Coyote’s world. A part of him thought he was trapped in a dream, in the old familiar nightmare, but another part insisted that it was all too real.

  The water had been icy, sucking the warmth right out of him as he struggled into the life raft and fought to control his panic. He needed a cool head to stay alive, a cool head and his survival training.

  Coyote remembered cradling his RIO to him, seeing the striped helmet hanging at an impossible angle, knowing that the man was dead yet unwilling to accept it. But no … John-Boy had helped him into the raft out there in the rolling waters of the Atlantic, had helped him later when he couldn’t get his hands to work to attach the harness so that the SAR copter could hoist him aboard.

  Two dreams, then … that was it. His RIO had died in the waters off North Korea, but John-Boy had lived through it to help him when he needed it. Through the fog of a half-dream other memories played against one another. The harness cutting into him as the SAR copter lifted him aboard … the mustard-colored uniforms of the Oriental soldiers dragging him onto the deck of the North Korean patrol craft … One dream blended with another until Coyote no longer knew which was which.