by Andy Farman
She was almost lying on her port side when she emerged out of the reverse side of the wave and it looked as if she would succumb for a moment until at last she began to roll upright once more. Her mast had been stripped from the superstructure and water poured from her upper decks as the bridge watch strained to un-dog the hatch and regain their posts. They could feel the ship starting to turn beam-on to the seas as they at last released it. A signalman had an arm crushed as the hatch slammed wide but he was too shocked to cry out as they were all washed off their feet by the torrent they released in so doing. The Exec gained his feet first and pulled himself past the injured signalman.
When the ocean had stove in the bridge screen the captain had been decapitated by a shard of toughened glass, his waterlogged body partially blocked the hatchway. The Exec stumbled as he stepped over the body, cutting his hand deeply on a spear of glass but ignoring it and grabbing the wheel, he put it over so they again met the waves bow first. Communications were out, so was radar and they had seven crewmen who would require hospitalisation, but they had survived. Had the radar mast not gone over the side, the Exec would have seen that USS Wilbur Hume, the Perry class frigate five miles to the north had also survived, however their sister ship USS Paragon, had entered the wave much as they themselves had done, but had not emerged out the other side.
Aboard the USS Gerald Ford, Admiral Mann ordered the radars up when the picture from their forward pickets disappeared. The Gerald Ford’s radar masts sat high above the top of the approaching wave and the admiral saw with relief that they could see two of the frigates on screen. The absence of the USS Paragon from the radar picture was not lost on him, but it meant that the fast approaching wave was not going to swamp the carrier.
Of all the ships in the convoy, the Knox class frigates were the smallest, but the merchantmen were all heavily laden and he had to hope they all rode the wave without foundering.
“Signal to all ships, here it comes.”
Ahead of the carrier the screen ships encountered the wave and it rolled unstoppably past, its top higher than the flight deck.
The bow of the 104,000-ton warship began to rise, and then staggered as the full weight of the wave crashed into it, causing it to break over the flight deck. A green mass, three feet deep washed over the flight deck and then the USS Gerald Ford was past
On her flight deck the two parked Tomcats were gone, swept overboard. Admiral Mann followed the progress of the wave, another of the small Knox frigates was gone from the warship screen and he watched as the wave continued to the west. Two merchants and a fleet replenishment ship were gone, two others had lost way and rescue operations began immediately as the admiral ordered ships to render assistance. It would take time to get the helicopters up from the hangar deck, but meanwhile those already aloft had ceased dipping or monitoring sonar buoys before the wave arrived, and they now switched on search lights and began looking for survivors.
Classified by Russia as an Atomnie Podvodnie Kreysery 1 Ranga, 1st Class Nuclear Powered Submarine Cruiser, the Oscar II class guided missile submarine Svedlursk had been the extreme northernmost vessel of the 9th Submarine Flotilla. Svedlursk also had the dubious honour of being the last Red Banner fleet submarine in the Atlantic capable of anything near offensive operations.
Oscar IIs have two nuclear reactors and twin screws to propel them along at a maximum speed of 32 knots. For armament they have 24 SS-N-19 Granit anti-shipping missiles, four 21 inch torpedo tubes and four 25.6 inch torpedo tubes, 16 acoustic torpedoes and 8 Stallion ASROCs. Svedlursk was no longer capable of 32 knots, her port propeller shaft had buckled and there were cracked bearings on the starboard shaft so she wasn’t going anywhere faster than 14 knots and only then for short sprints. Svedlursk was unable to dive deeper than three hundred feet without risk of springing a leak due to the hammer blow she had suffered by the nuclear depth mine's pressure wave that had caught her at 60’ as she collected downlinked updated targeting data. All she really had going for her was her full inventory of weapons and the stock of morphine that kept her injured crew members quiet. A mere eighteen of the crew had survived without skull, spinal or multiple limb fractures but another sixty-four were too injured to man stations whilst nineteen more had died. The on-board systems were a mess and the computerised fire control system had crashed, all firing was going to have to be performed manually.
The captain was a determined individual; he was going to launch an attack to spite the West for what it had done to his vessel.
Provided the USS Gerald Ford battle group and her convoy had kept to the last reported course and speed then he had thirty-two chances of paying them back. The twenty-four SS-N-19 Granit missiles carried 500Kt warheads, and six of his eight SS-N-16 Stallion ASROCs were tipped with 1Kt warheads.
Despite a dislocated left elbow and two broken fingers, he and the weapons officer, himself with a broken arm would manually program each Granit for an airburst. As far as communications and sensors went they were blind, the towed array had been torn off; as had the floating antennae and they could not raise any masts. What they needed was assurance that this not going to be a vain effort, unless of course, they surfaced to see if their radar array could be repaired.
9th Flotilla had numbered twelve at the start of the war, two Alphas, three Sierra II and three Victor III attack boats with one Oscar I and three Oscar II guided missile submarines, but only one other flotilla vessel had survived the American nuclear mines. A Victor III sat wallowing on the surface with her crew awaiting capture or a torpedo. One of Pidonirk’s bow doors had been unseated and just to prove that what can go wrong, will go wrong, it was the tube that was at that moment being loaded. The Victor had made the surface; only her forward torpedo room’s hatch had saved the vessel by its being dogged as a safety procedure during loading. The vessel was bow down in the midst of some of the stormiest seas many had ever seen. All of the Pidonirk’s officers with the exception of the political officer had been killed or incapacitated and he assumed command, posting a man in the sail with a SA-7a Strella 2, shoulder launched SAM. Self-defence was one thing, but when the political officer stated that his intention was to fly a white flag and then launch on the ship that came to claim them, the crew had other ideas. The political officer was in the sail peering into the distance through his binoculars when two pairs of hands gripped his legs firmly, hoisted him up and tossed him over the side. The Strella was locked in the armoury but the white flag remained.
Fifteen miles ahead of the Victor III, the damaged Oscar II Svedlursk broke the surface and immediately set about repairs to her radar and ESM masts. Like the Pidonirk, she also flew a flag of surrender but her intentions were quite the opposite. Strella’s sat in her sail ready for use.
Three hours later an E-2C Hawkeye picked up the surfaced Svedlursk and Pidonirk, shortly after which USS Gerald Ford launched a pair of F/A-18F Super Hornet’s armed with two Harpoon’s apiece to investigate.
The Hawkeye fed data to the strike fighters as they came in just above the stormy seas with their own radars on standby, passing either side of the big guided missile boat before pulling back into the clouds.
They reported that the vessel was flying a white flag but they appeared to be working on the radar and ESM, which were of no use to a vessel that had thrown the towel in.
Aboard the Svedlursk the first warning they had that they had been discovered was the aircraft tearing past. Her skipper was aware that the aircraft would have seen the repairs underway and cursed loudly, ordering the technicians to speed up. He kicked and punched the lookouts, ordered the Strella’s made ready along with preparations to dive.
Because of the white flag the Hornet’s returned to double check, one sat up in a cover position whilst the other repeated the low pass.
The Hornet was only 60’ above the waves when the Strella blew its tail section off and it immediately nosed into the ocean at 500mph, neither pilot nor RIO had a chance to eject.
“Sonofabitc
h!” swore the E-2C’s operator when the F/A-18F’s track disappeared from his screen two seconds after the covering Super Hornets’ pilot had shouted
“Missile launch!” over the air to his buddies.
Hampered by his dislocated elbow and broken fingers, the Svedlursk’s captain fell the last six feet down the ladder. Air was expelled from her ballast tanks in plumes as she began to dive. Her casing was below the surface when a Harpoon slammed into her forward of her sail, penetrating her outer hull before exploding.
A few minutes later to the east of where the missile boat died, the lookouts of the crippled Pidonirk were keeping a sharp watch for NATO ships, white sheets had been hung over the side of the sail so that there could be no mistaking their intention to surrender. They caught a brief glimpse of exhaust fumes before the surviving Super Hornet’s second Harpoon killed them too, without the aircraft getting a visual, not that it would have made a difference even if it had.
RAF Kinloss, Scotland: 2030hrs, same day.
A silent alarm had alerted Pc Stokes to the approach of others, and the small TV screen showed two men and women walking up the path to the front door of the rented house in Scotland.
Stokes knew both men but not the women; however Scott had telephoned earlier to inform them that they were bringing over the crew of the aircraft that would be involved in an operation with the Russians whom they were guarding.
He called out over his shoulder toward the kitchen before striding to the front door and opening it for the guests. Stokes and his partner Pc Pell both wore hand knitted Aran sweaters that Svetlana and Constantine had bought them during a shopping trip to Edinburgh to buy food for tonight’s meal and augment their tiny wardrobes.
Since landing in the forest clearing with Scott Tafler they had been assigned the job of CP, close protection on the couple.
Once the CIA had debriefed the couple at a safe house in Kent, they had written statements on the events before and after the suitcase bomb crisis that were intended for the prosecution of Britain’s former Prime Minister, the former head of SIS and several former cabinet ministers. With the legal and intelligence issues dealt with they were moved up to Scotland to a large house owned by the family of an engineer, currently residing in Dubai.
Due to the involvement of SIS in the plot to murder them, the British Secret Intelligence Service had been kept out of the loop, with the CIA and Metropolitan Police handling all matters relating to the two Russians.
When the SCO19 officers had been informed that they were stuck with the couple for the foreseeable future they were not broken hearted. Both had carried out CP for politicians, royalty and alleged VIPs, many of whom had been so stuffed with their own self-importance that they had treated the officers appallingly. Pc Stokes had been on the CP team for a minister at the time of the Gulf War. That individual had owned a farm and had lain off workers, ordering his protection team officers to carry out tasks about the property in the sacked workers’ stead. The minister was far from being poor either; he was just exceedingly arrogant and greedy. When it had been made crystal clear to the minister that the officers were there to protect him and not make him wealthier, they had to hire a portable toilet, and find their own tea and coffee in addition to going everywhere in pairs. The minister banned them from all facilities on his farm and fabricated stories intended to have individual officers sacked, so having another officer to refute his claims made doubling up a necessity. Never had Cabinet reshuffles been more dearly wished for.
In stark contrast to the minister, the Russians were charming, witty and good company. Plus Svetlana’s daily swims in the indoor pool, workouts and habit of walking around in as little as possible made their days enjoyable.
In the officers’ rooms were presents for their wives and children, all pressed on them by the Russians.
The past week had been one of preparing the Russians for their mission, although neither officer knew the details they had done their part in taking the couple on gruelling cross-country runs, circuit training in the grounds and skill-at-arms. Hand-to-hand combat, communications and other skills had been taught by MOD personnel but both officers were firearms instructors and ex-army, no-one objected to their doing their part so long as the Russians’ safety was not compromised. Surprisingly, it had been Svetlana who had been the more able of the two at handling weapons and when he had asked the Russian major what his preferred weapon of choice was, the pilot had replied.
“Anything that is fire and forget…can you help me out?”
“Certainly sir,” the officer had said and slapped a 9mm Beretta into the Russian's outstretched palm. “Once you’ve fired all the rounds in the magazine, don’t forget to reload.”
Dry handling had taken place at the house, using eastern European weaponry and live firing was carried out at the RAF station ten miles away.
To get them in the correct frame of mind the police officers took the pair into nearby woods and a derelict house with paintball guns. On average, the major had been the first one ‘killed’ far more often than Svetlana, and then on their final exercise she had dispatched both of the highly skilled firearms officers with her last two ‘rounds’. After thirty minutes of stalking, fire and manoeuvre and field craft wearing the protective visors and one piece camouflaged coveralls, Constantine was out of it and Svetlana had been pinned behind the trunk of an old oak tree. The officers were skirmishing forward, one always being in the aim and a finger on the trigger as the other man moved.
Suddenly the girl had stepped out into plain view with her weapon in the aiming position.
“Fuck sake, Stokesy…you were supposed to be covering me!” had been Pc Pell’s reaction to being hit squarely on the visor.
“How do you expect me to shoot that?” Pc Stokes replied, wiping away paint from a pellet that had hit him in the middle of his chest.
Pell removed the paint-covered visor and gawped.
“Oh my giddy aunt!” Beside the tree and armed with her now empty paintball gun, Svetlana was standing boldly and unabashed beside her discarded camouflage coveralls and boots, and wearing nothing but a smile.
“Use any and all tools to gain the advantage boys!” she had said whilst laughing at their expressions.
This night however the policeman wore an MP5 on a harness so it hung down his right side and he had his hand on the pistol grip as he stepped clear of the doorway, allowing the guests to enter.
Captain Patricia Dudley took a deep intake of breath, drawing in the aroma of roast venison. Rationing had not yet been implemented but the plans had no doubt been laid.
Scott led the way into the living room.
“Your cargo is busy doing chef type things, so allow me to do the honours.” Pouring generous measures of twenty-five year old single malt into crystal glasses and carrying the glasses across.
Caroline Nunro and Patricia had settled into the leather sofa whilst Max Reynolds sank with a sigh of pleasure into a deep leather armchair.
A few minutes later Constantine popped his head around the door and informed them that dinner would not be served for another fifteen minutes because the kitchen staff was revolting. He ushered Svetlana through into the living room with a slap on the rump before disappearing.
Both CIA men beamed at her appearance in the room, she had that effect on men. The two USAF officers had not met her before and appraising eyes sat atop their smiles.
“Wow…foxy!” thought Caroline whilst Patricia’s was a single mental syllable.
“Shit.”
It was bad enough being crewed with a pin-up, but this girl was built for sex and had the looks to match. Patricia wasn’t plain but it got to be a pain in the ass having guys salivating over someone else all the time.
With her long legs, midnight blue ruffled silk shirt and tartan skirt, Svetlana crossed the room with the elegance of a catwalk model and planted kisses on the cheeks of her guests in customary Russian fashion before sitting unselfconsciously, cross legged on the floor and
chatting away happily. She gave the American aircrew the majority of her attention but flirted outrageously with the men in good humour, so by the time Constantine returned the ice was thoroughly broken. Pretentiousness was not one of Svetlana’s vices.
During the meal Patricia probed Svetlana, seeking to see how deep the girl went intellectually. Patricia had an engineering masters in fibre optic avionics and specialised in fly by wire technology, she began talking about it and found the Russian girl was genuinely interested; ten minutes later they were into some fairly deep technical talk.
Caroline sat back and watched the scene around the table, the food had been excellent, the wine perfect, the company superb and the smoky flavour of the old cognac she was twirling around the bowl of her brandy snifter was delicious. She was taking another sip when she felt a foot slide up the inside of her calf and she looked down quickly but the foot disappeared. Max was sat opposite and she stared at him, quite taken aback but he was leaning across the table sharing an anecdote with Constantine, on her right at the head of her table. As the next possible culprit she looked hard at the Russian, but when he felt her gaze he looked over his shoulder at her and smiled before automatically including her in the story, he was guileless and she could not believe it was he who had attempted to play footsie with her. Scott was at the far end of the table and too far away so she shrugged to herself and dismissed it as an accident rather than a calculated act.
Svetlana espied Pc Pell going into the kitchen for his food and she left the table, dragging him into the dining room and making a space for him before bringing him a plate piled high with meat and roast vegetables. He reluctantly left to relieve his colleague roaming the grounds once he had cleared his plate.