Young Terekhov was one of the survivors. Now that the incompetent Glushko was dead, Khenkin thought, there was no better officer in the air wing to take his place than Terekhov, though he lacked the seniority for such a position. Terekhov’s ideas made up for his junior rank, though. If he had been in charge from the start, perhaps the Americans would never have found the opening they exploited.
Khenkin picked up an intercom handset. “Captain,” he began reluctantly. “Khenkin. Da. Order the fleet to steer north. All ships will rendezvous around North Cape. And inform me when you have repairs in hand.”
He set down the handset again and let out a sigh. It had been a costly defeat, and it might be costlier still for him once the Kremlin started seeking a scapegoat. But the war was not over yet, and if he remained in command he would not underestimate the Americans again.
0115 hours Zulu (0115 hours Zone)
CIC Air Ops module, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
In the Norwegian Sea
They were cheering in CIC again, this time in response to word passed from the Hawkeye that enemy ships had been detected turning north. The Soviets were in retreat … at least for the moment.
Commander Matthew Magruder sagged back in his chair, physically and emotionally drained. Now that the crisis was over, he wanted nothing more than a chance to seek out his quarters and sleep for a week or two.
But that wouldn’t be possible yet, of course. The strike forces were only now beginning to return to Jefferson. They would need to be debriefed, and their planes would have to be checked over by the technical people in the Air Department. Combat Air Patrols would have to be organized, and perhaps a Tomcat carrying a TARPS pod would have to be sent to confirm the initial estimates of the damage to the Soviet fleet. Until the Russians had withdrawn further it would be necessary to maintain a high state of readiness, just in case they were still able to lash out against the American battle group.
And there would be the butcher’s bill to deal with too. Some good men had died out there, including Bannon and the unfortunate Lieutenant Powers. Commander Henderson of the Fighting Hornets had been lost while keeping a pair of Sukhois from breaking through to the Intruders during their final attack run, and there were sure to be others Magruder hadn’t heard about yet. They would have to rebuild the CVW-20 with reinforcements from the States before they could put up a fight again.
Yes, there was a lot to be done before he could rest. In some ways victory was harder to deal with than defeat. So much to do, so many details.
“CAG?”
For a moment Tombstone didn’t realize that the question was directed at him. He turned slowly to face Lieutenant Commander Owens. “CAG, the Hopkins is reporting a sonar contact about fifty kilometers west of us. They’ve got one helo down for repairs, and they’re asking if we can loan them some support so they can prosecute the contact. What do you want me to tell them?”
As he straightened up to check the plotting board and see what assets he had available to support the frigate, Magruder allowed himself a smile. Once they had their planes on deck and the Maintenance boys had worked their arcane magic, maybe he could put together an Alpha Strike to help the Norwegians clean up the pocket around Brekke. Even with its reduced numbers, CVW-20 could still make a difference.
Tombstone was in the middle of giving Owens his orders when a sudden realization hit him, and he broke off and started to laugh. The Deputy CAG looked at Magruder like he was crazy, and Tombstone didn’t know if Owens would understand the joke.
The fact was, he was actually looking forward to settling in to his new job. Hard as these past days had been, he’d carried it off. Maybe someday, he thought with another smile, he would be a real CAG, not just a substitute. And perhaps somewhere, in the Valhalla where Tomcat pilots gathered after the last shoot-down, Stinger Stramaglia would look down at Tombstone Magruder and be proud.
1435 hours Zulu (1635 hours Zone)
The Kremlin
Moscow, RSFSR
General Vladimir Nikolaivich Vorobyev watched as the jackals gathered, and under a stony visage he had to fight hard to keep from smiling. They were so predictable, these politicians. Doctorov, the KGB plotter, was licking his figurative lips as he contemplated the chance of eliminating Vorobyev from the inner circle, while Comrade President Ubarov vacillated between relief over the military’s failure and fear for what the future might bring. So very predictable … and so foolish to think that the wounded lion could not hold off such a band of jackals.
“Obviously we must rethink our entire strategy,” Foreign Minister Boltin was saying. “The West may yet be inclined to let the whole question of war slide if we move quickly to evacuate Norway and Finland. They did not interfere in Iraqi affairs once they had achieved their stated goal of liberating Kuwait, and the peace movement is still strong. But delay would give them time to rally against us.”
“We must not be stampeded in this,” Doctorov countered. “Our esteemed colleague here has allowed his vaunted military to set back our plans, but with a redirection of leadership resources we may yet be able to salvage something from this debacle.” He favored Vorobyev with an oily smile. “Don’t you agree, Comrade General?”
Vorobyev matched his smile, enjoying the uncertainty that spread across his face as the KGB man realized that the crisis in Scandinavia hadn’t shaken Vorobyev’s composure. “Yes, Comrade Doctorov, new leadership may well be needed, and at the very highest levels. To retrieve our position and carry through Rurik’s Hammer successfully, all elements of the national leadership must be working smoothly together, and not wasting time pursuing shortsighted political goals.”
He looked toward the double doors where Korotich was standing, the patient aide. Vorobyev gave a curt nod. Then Korotich threw open the doors.
The soldiers who filed into the room were elite Guardsmen, handpicked by Vorobyev for this assignment long before the developments in Scandinavia had taken their unexpected turn. His men had been well-briefed, and took up their positions ringing the conference room with smooth efficiency.
“On the other hand,” Vorobyev continued calmly. “On the other hand, it may be no replacements at all need be made, once all are aware of the need for absolute military authority. I am sure all of you will be glad to cooperate in this effort?”
No one answered for long moments. Then Ubarov nodded. “Of course, Comrade General, of course. You are correct. We must have unity of purpose.”
“If the general has plans to redeem our situation in Norway, I am sure we are all eager to hear them,” Boltin added. The other politicians chimed in with their own platitudes.
All but Doctorov. He sat still, his eyes on Vorobyev. At last he nodded his head slowly, a gesture which was as much one of respect as it was of submission.
“Now we can get down to business, Comrades,” Vorobyev said, his smile growing broader. “Let us see what we may do to turn this setback to our advantage.”
EPILOGUE
Tuesday, 17 June, 1997
0930 hours Zulu (0930 hours Zone)
CAG office, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Off Bergen, Norway
Tombstone Magruder took down the picture of Stramaglia and his son and put it into the box he’d been using to clear out the dead man’s belongings. It was the first time since CAG’s death that he’d had any time at all to take care of personal effects, and now that Admiral Tarrant had confirmed that Magruder was staying on as CAG, it was time to bury the ghosts once and for all and put his own stamp on the Air Wing.
It didn’t promise to be an easy job, filling Stramaglia’s shoes permanently. The Soviet fleet had withdrawn with a damaged carrier, a pair of destroyers limping from lucky hits by attacking Hornets, and a few battered troopships that had survived their Harpoon strikes, but the damage actually inflicted on their force had been minor. Magruder’s plan had called for concentrating on the transports, but the corollary to that was the basic fact that the striking power of the Soviet fleet was un
diminished. It was doubtful that the Soviets would mount another flanking naval landing, but they could still dominate the Norwegian Sea anytime they wanted.
Their land-based and long-range air units were intact too, and that posed a second potent threat to Jefferson and her battle group. By creating multiple distractions, the Americans had managed to even out the inequities once, but they couldn’t count on doing it again. And the cost of the Americans’ success had been almost prohibitive. Galveston had eluded pursuit and reported in, but Bangor had been lost in the strike against Orland, and that was a Pyrrhic victory at best. And the RNAF planes lost in the demonstration against Oslo would be sorely missed when the stalled campaign lurched back into action.
That would come soon enough. The Norwegians were concentrating reserves to eliminate the airhead at Brekke, but the rest of the Soviet forces were in the same positions as before the Alpha Strike, still poised to drive on Bergen. It might not be a blitzkrieg, but eventually sheer weight of numbers would overpower Lindstrom’s army.
Indeed, the defeat of the flanking movement had spurred new efforts by the Soviet military. In the morning intelligence report, Commander Lee had pointed to several signs that fresh forces, land, sea, and air, were mustering in the Baltic, and there was more activity around Murmansk as well. Plainly one lost battle was not going to deter them from continuing their campaign of conquest, and as long as it went on the Thomas Jefferson was liable to be at the center of the action.
But the news wasn’t all discouraging. Good things had come of the Battle of Cape Bremanger too. Bare hours after the Soviet defeat, Britain’s Labour Party had lost a vote of No Confidence in Parliament and resigned. Until elections were held, the Conservatives had been asked to form a caretaker government that would take a harder line against the Soviets under an experienced and uncompromising Prime Minister who could be counted on to support America’s interests. Though it would take time to organize the new British government, military forces were already preparing to join in the effort to support Free Norway.
And there was an American Task Force on the way as well. Now that Lindstrom’s hold on Bergen had been shored up for a while longer, America had a focal point for arms, men, and other assistance to pour into the embattled country. Jefferson still faced the Russian threat by herself for now, but soon she would not be alone any more.
Yes, the cost had been high. Gridley and Bangor lost … Powers and Bannon and Trapper Martin and the other pilots who had died fighting in Jefferson’s private, remote little war. And Stramaglia. But they had all died making sure that the Russians would not turn Norway into another occupied Kuwait. Now all that remained was to turn the respite they had won into final victory.
He turned back toward the desk and noticed the mug with Stramaglia’s cigars there. Magruder picked it up, but stopped before putting it into the box. Stramaglia’s cigars had been the stuff of legend at Top Gun and afterward. Like the man himself, somehow bigger than life.
Back at Miramar Magruder had once made the mistake of protesting that the mock fights weren’t fair. Even though Top Gun used aggressor aircraft that matched their Soviet counterparts, the teachers didn’t fly using Russian tactics or doctrine. It had been bad enough questioning Top Gun policy, but on top of that Magruder had made the mistake of voicing his opinion in front of Stramaglia, who had promptly scheduled an extra exercise for the day in which the instructors did adhere to Soviet fighter tactics … and still beat the students handily. “Doctrine’s only as bad as the pilots who are following it,” Stramaglia had said afterward, stabbing at Tombstone’s chest with the inevitable unlit cigar. “If you get yourself beat playing by the rules, how do you expect to do when the enemy decides not to play fair?”
After the desperate fighting off of the Norwegian coast, Magruder thought he finally understood just what his old teacher had been driving at. Smiling, he put the mug and the cigars back on the desk. They could be a reminder to everyone who saw them to always expect the unexpected … and to never play by the rules.
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