“Yeah.” Magruder frowned. It was probably the weakest part of Ragnarok, but with his resources already stretched to the limit he didn’t see any way to deal with the Russian An-74 that was sure to be monitoring the battlefield from a secure location far from the front lines. “Yeah, that about sums it up. If anybody has any ideas, toss them in.”
Coyote looked up, his eyes meeting Magruder’s across the long room. “There’s something we could do. But it means thinning down the carrier defenses a little bit.”
That made Magruder frown again. Then he shrugged. “Like I said, let’s hear it.” He didn’t like any suggestion of leaving Jefferson exposed to the enemy … but on the other hand, in a gambler’s last throw like this one, it might just be worth the risk if they could increase the chances of the rest of the plan falling into place.
2108 hours Zulu (2108 hours Zone)
Control room, U.S.S. Galveston
Fifty miles Northwest of Trondheim, Norway
Commander Mark Colby stretched his long legs under the chart table and listened to the low voices of the men manning Galveston’s control room stations. He was tall for a submariner, and was developing a perpetual stoop from the cramped conditions he had to endure as part of the Silent Service.
Sometimes Colby thought he had been born into the wrong era. He would have felt at home commanding one of the old-time frigates in the age of Jones or Preble, pacing the quarterdeck and feeling the wind on his cheek as his command maneuvered under full sail to close the range with her quarry and unleash the fury of her broadside.
But there wasn’t room to pace the confines of an attack sub’s control room, so Colby had to be content with sitting still and listening to terse reports and his Exec’s crisp, precise orders.
Still, Galveston had one thing in common with the frigates of Colby’s idle daydreams. When she had closed to the appropriate range, she could let loose a devastating broadside of her own.
In this case, the broadside would take the form of six Tomahawk TLAM missiles, each carrying a warhead with more sheer destructive power than a whole fleet of vessels from the days of wooden ships and iron men. The Tomahawk cruise missile had proven itself in the Gulf War, forming a powerful part of the initial bombardment that had opened the air war against Iraq. While tonight’s attack would be nothing near the scope of that assault, flights of the deadly missiles from Galveston and her sister ship Bangor would surely disrupt their target and cause plenty of damage to keep the Russians occupied while Admiral Tarrant launched the main attack of Operation Ragnarok.
When the orders had first come in from the admiral, tight-beamed and bounced off a passing satellite to reduce the chance the subs would be detected, Colby had been disappointed that Galveston’s role was essentially diversionary. She carried cruise missiles for antiship attacks as well as the TLAMs, after all. But on careful consideration he had finally decided the admiral was right. The Soviets possessed both ASW and anti-air abilities that would have sharply curtailed a sub-launched attack. Galveston wouldn’t have been able to get in close enough to launch a short-range sneak attack, but a missile launch from longer range would have run into the antimissile defenses of the Soviet ships escorting the critical troop transports. Galveston just didn’t have enough missiles to saturate those defenses … the whole carrier battle group probably couldn’t have done that, even with the missile capacity of the Aegis cruiser.
In a situation like this, even the smart weapons of modern high-tech warfare couldn’t match the smartest weapon of them all — the pilot in the cockpit of an attack airplane. That was the weapon best suited for penetrating the enemy defenses in this conflict.
Lieutenant Commander Richard Damien looked across the chart table at him. “Time, Skipper,” he said. “All tubes loaded and ready.”
“What about our friends?” Colby asked.
Damien frowned. “Still at the edge of detection range. I think we can outrun them if we have to.”
For several hours they’d been dodging a Russian squadron working up and down the Norwegian coast, apparently searching close in to shore for submarine activity. No doubt the Norwegian navy had been giving the Soviets headaches by slipping some of their small conventionally powered coastal subs in behind the Russian fleet to play havoc with supply ships. If Colby had been free to choose the time for the launch, he would have waited to see if the Soviets moved further off, but the admiral’s timetable was tight. “Fire all,” he said softly.
“Fire all! Fire all!” Damien called, and the bridge talker took up the chant and relayed the message to the weapons officer. Seconds later the submarine shuddered as the Tomahawk missiles left her torpedo tubes in quick succession.
“Come to course two-one-five,” Colby went on. “Make her depth two hundred feet, and go to maximum revs.”
As Galveston started her turn, the missiles broke the surface above her, and leapt skyward with their rocket motors lighting up the long, dim twilight of the north. On-board guidance systems kicked in, unfolding electronic maps of their targets and aligning the hurtling missiles toward their destinations. The missiles skimmed in low over the water.
At the air base at Orland, klaxons sounded the alarm as radar picked up the incoming missiles, and Soviet troops poured from their barracks buildings to take up their defense stations. One SAM battery managed to get off a pair of missiles despite the surprise, and these accounted for one of the six incoming Tomahawks. But the remaining five came on, arcing gracefully toward the base. Their impact turned the quiet Norwegian landscape into a scene from Hell.
The first to hit tore into a tank farm on the edge of the base, raising a pillar of flame that outshone the sun. The explosion broke windows for miles around and echoed off the mountains like summer thunder, reverberating over the embattled installation. Another missile hit close by the base control tower, while the other three fell on a hangar and a pair of runways. The Russians running for their stations scattered under the rain of destruction.
A few seconds later the six missiles launched from Bangor slammed into Orland, completing the devastation. Orland burned.
2120 hours Zulu (2120 hours Zone)
Control room, U.S.S. Bangor
Northwest of Trondheim, Norway
“Conn, sonar. Reading a target, bearing one-seven-nine degrees, closing.” Commander Jason Wolfe rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked across the plotting table at his Executive Officer. “Looks like they’re on to us, Tom,” he said. “Let’s hope all they’ve got is second-line crap.”
“Better not count on it, Skipper,” Lieutenant Commander Tom Guzman replied. His shrug was eloquent. “Nobody ever won a war on wishes.”
The Exec made good sense, of course, but his bland comment still irritated Wolfe. The Russian ships had doubled back unexpectedly just as Bangor had launched her flight of Tomahawks. Now they knew the American sub was nearby, and the hunt was on. “Helm!” he snapped. “Make your heading three-five-four. Ahead slow. Diving Officer, fifteen degrees down angle on the planes. Make your depth two-zero-zero.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” men responded crisply from around the control room. “Conn, sonar.” Lieutenant Wells, the Sonar Officer, sounded worried even over the tannoy. Wolfe picked up the handset. “What’ve you got, Lieutenant?”
“Captain, we’ve got IDs on their lead ships. They’ve got at least two Krivak 11 ASW frigates up there, and a Kresta II backing them up. We’ve definitely spotted the Kronstadt, but we’re not sure about the others yet. Not exactly the best reception committee, sir.”
“Yeah.” Wolfe licked lips gone suddenly dry. “Keep me informed as you get more-“
Before he could say anything further the hull seemed to shake with multiple sonar pings, a noise like a jangling of mismatched church bells.
“Christ, Skipper!” Wells swore. “They’ve gone active!”
Wolfe slammed down the handset without answering. “Give us flank speed!” he shouted.
The pings continued in an almost s
teady stream. The Soviets were hammering at the depths with everything they had. At this range, they were surely picking up Bangor clearly.
“More active sonars ahead, sir!” This shout came from the Sonarman Second Class manning the control room’s sonar repeater. “Looks like they’re dropping sonobuoys ahead of us!” There was a pause. “Fish in the water! Torp! Torp! Torp!”
“Ready countermeasures,” Wolfe snapped. He snatched up the handset again. “Sonar, conn. Talk to me, Wells!”
“Torpedo bearing zero-three-two, range three thousand, speed four-eight knots, closing. It’s pinging us!”
“Helm, come to zero-three-two,” Wolfe ordered. That was the risky way to deal with torps, turn into them and pray you could dodge your way past.
“Range twenty-five hundred, closing,” Wells reported. Then, all too soon, “Range two thousand, closing.”
“Decoy! Fire a decoy!” There wasn’t much else they could do.
“Range fifteen hundred … fourteen hundred … thirteen hundred …” The chant was a litany of doom.
Wolfe licked his lips again. He’d never really believed he’d face a situation like this, a real combat scenario. But it was happening. In the next few seconds Bangor and her crew of 134 officers and enlisted men would live or die according to the decisions he made.
“One thousand … nine hundred … eight hundred.”
“Take her down, Mr. Kyle,” Wolfe ordered. “Helm, come to three-five-five. Engine room, crank up the revs as far as they’ll go. Let off some more countermeasures as she turns. Go!”
It was as if he could feel Bangor twisting and turning in the water trying to escape the deadly torpedo. Wolfe grabbed a stanchion as the sub angled down and tilted sharply to port. He thought he heard Guzman saying a prayer under his breath, and wanted to add one of his own.
The sound of the torpedo’s screw as it raced past the Bangor was loud, louder even than the continued sonar pinging from the Soviet ships above. “Yes!” someone shouted as the torp passed them by, the propeller noise fading away.
“Change in aspect,” Wells reported over the tannoy. “It’s turning … turning … I think it’s locking onto the noisemakers …”
The sub was leveling now, and Wolfe thought about breathing a sigh of relief. But it was too soon for that.
Shock waves slammed into the stern of the boat, shocking Bangor. Wolfe gripped the stanchion for balance, but Guzman wasn’t so lucky. The Exec staggered sideways and barely stayed upright. “One torp down,” he said, looking pale. Before he could go on he was interrupted.
“Torp in the water! Torp! Bearing zero-one-three!” the control room sonarman said breathlessly. There was a pause. “Two … three … Three torps, same bearing! Goddamn! These bastards mean business!”
Jason Wolfe closed his eyes. This time he did pray.
“Twenty meters,” the diving officer announced. “And eighteen … fifteen …”
“More torps! More torps! Bearing two-one-six! Closing!”
This time the torpedoes did not miss.
The first one smashed squarely into the submarine’s bow, shattering the radar and sonar housings and flooding the forward torpedo room. Emergency klaxons blared warning, sailors scrambled for safety behind watertight doors, and the sub’s Diving Officer struggled to maintain trim.
In the midst of the desperate fight for survival the second torpedo struck home amidships, just below the sail. Water flooded the control room, sweeping Lieutenant Commander Tomas Guzman against a bulkhead with enough force to cave in his skull. Somehow Wolfe managed to stay on his feet through the torrent, but in the end it didn’t matter.
By the time the third torp hit, Bangor was already on her way to the bottom. Her shattered hulk settled in the cold, shallow waters.
2338 hours Zulu (2338 hours Zone)
Tomcat 204, Odin Flight
Five miles south of U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Batman Wayne checked his instruments anxiously for what must have been the tenth time since his Tomcat had topped off its tanks from an orbiting Texaco. This was the part of an Alpha Strike that always frayed most at his nerves. It wasn’t the battle, or even the approach to battle, that got to him, but the long wait for the diverse elements of the attacking forces to get aloft and assemble.
He was eager to get on with it, but at that same time he recognized that this time out they were facing a top-of-the-line opponent. Viper Squadron had been mauled by the Russians last time, and any desire to even the score was counterbalanced by the knowledge that none of them might be as lucky the second time around as they’d been the day CAG bought it.
“Two-oh-four, Two-oh-three,” Coyote’s voice said over the radio. Grant was flying Tomcat 203, since his regular plane was now at the bottom of the Atlantic. “Double-check your Phoenixes, Batman.”
“Roger,” he acknowledged. Coyote was obviously worried. The Phoenix missiles would be critical to Viper Squadron’s mission, but it wouldn’t help to check them again now. They weren’t in a position to ask a red shirt to take care of a problem.
Then he chuckled. Grant’s request wasn’t that much different from Batman’s constant double-checking of his own instruments.
He hadn’t really expected Coyote to fly this one. He should have stayed in Sick Bay. But Batman was glad he’d decided to fly. Thanks to Coyote the Vipers weren’t going to be relegated to BARCAP after all. Instead they had a key role to play in the attack. And anyway, Wayne told himself, it was bad enough to face the biggest Alpha Strike of his career without being saddled with a squadron CO’s extra duties as well.
At least they were both better off than Tombstone. Magruder had put in long hours ever since CAG’s death, and he was still stuck on board the carrier coordinating the operation from CIC. Knowing Tombstone, Batman knew he’d be fretting, wishing he was in a Tomcat flying alongside the Vipers. This would be a tough mission, and Batman would have been happier himself if Tombstone had come along.
“What do you think, Mal?” Batman asked over the ICS. “Think we can pull this one off?”
“If we can’t, nobody can, compadre,” Malibu answered, sounding cheerful enough.
“Odin Flight, Odin Flight,” Magruder’s voice broke in. “This is Asgard. Operation Ragnarok, go for Phase One. Repeat, go for Phase One.”
“That’s us!” Batman said. His hand closed around the throttles and advanced them into zone-one afterburner. Banking sharply, he steered the Tomcat north.
Behind him, twenty-four more planes followed, the first wave of the attack that would determine if Bergen stood or fell.
2345 hours Zulu (2345 hours Zone)
Flag Plot, Soviet Aircraft Carrier Soyuz
In the Norwegian Sea
“Yes, Admiral, I am certain. The AEW aircraft has counted a minimum of twenty-five enemy planes heading directly for Soyuz. There can be no doubt this time.”
Admiral Khenkin listened to Glushko’s anxious voice and studied the tracking data being relayed from the An-74 to his own plotting board. This time Glushko didn’t seem to be exaggerating. “Very well, Glushko. Get as many planes off the deck as possible to assist in the defense.”
“You know that the MiG squadron on deck has been arming for ground-support operations, Admiral,” Glushko pointed out. “They will not be useful for dogfighting.”
“Get them off the deck anyway,” Khenkin snapped. He had studied the disastrous mistakes of the Japanese carriers in the Great Patriotic War, caught all too often with planes on deck loaded with ordnance when American air strikes hit. He wouldn’t allow that to happen today.
“Yes, Admiral,” Glushko said. “But that still leaves us weakened against the enemy attack. I request permission to recall Escort Mission Osa.” That was Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov’s MiG squadron, currently sharing escort duties over the invasion fleet hugging the Norwegian coast, about three hundred kilometers to the east.
Khenkin bit his lip, thinking. Glushko had foolishly allowed an imaginary threat to t
he carrier to distract an entire squadron during the last fight with the Americans, and though neither Glushko nor Terekhov had raised the point, Khenkin knew the victory had been less than complete as a result. But this time was different. This time the American target was clear. And they could guard against additional American attacks easily enough. Soyuz was closer to the invasion fleet than the Americans, and her jets could make it back to the fleet any time a threat materialized.
It was odd, he thought idly, that the Americans had chosen to launch their strike on the carrier rather than trying to interfere with the transports. Had they been taken in by the maskirovka then? It certainly appeared that the Norwegians believed the token paratroop landings southeast of Bergen were the real threat. Perhaps the Americans agreed, and discounted the risk of a landing.
Or maybe they saw an attack on the Soviet carrier as somehow symbolic. They could do little enough damage in any event except by the greatest possible good fortune. Striking out at Red Banner Northern Fleet’s flagship might be perceived as a dramatic gesture demonstrating American courage or determination in the wake of the defeats they had already suffered.
“All right, Glusko,” he said at last. “Recall Escort Mission Osa, but wait until the Americans are thoroughly committed. Understood?”
“Yes, Admiral,” Glushko responded.
Khenkin looked at the plotting board again and smiled. As long as the Americans were ignoring the transports, they were only compounding their earlier mistakes.
CHAPTER 23
Monday, 16 June, 1997
0004 hours Zulu (0004 hours Zone)
Fulcrum Leader, Escort Mission
Osa Off Bremenger Island, Norway
Sergei Sergeivich Terekhov scanned the waters below, his heart swelling with pride at the sight of the ships of the invasion force keeping tight formation as they rounded Cape Bremenger on the last leg of the journey south. Soon the landings would be accomplished, and the drive on Bergen would begin. Then this war would be over, and the new Soviet Union could take its place again as a superpower, able to dictate terms to a weak-willed world and restore her broken economy and political structure once and for all.
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