by Joe Buff
Crewmen held on tight and sweated it out. They stared at their consoles or at the overhead, or scrunched their eyes tight closed. Challenger reared and bucked with each warhead's detonation — underwater detonations, as Jeffrey feared, where they did far more damage to a submarine. Echoes of the blasts hit from the surface and the bottom.
Aftershocks hit as each throbbing fireball rose to the surface and burst into the air.
Jeffrey kept giving helm orders, to try to dodge and outguess ter Horst's missile-targeting pattern..
Jeffrey's jaw was grimly set and his hands were balled into fists. There was no way he could fight back, there was nothing he could do but struggle to barely escape — and he hated it.
Some missiles hit very close. fluorescent lighr fixtures shattered. More crewmen suffered injuries, and above the noise of the warheads Jeffrey was anguished to hear his people grunt or curse or cry out in pain.
The merciless high-tech depth charging continued.
More pieces of equipment failed. Manifolds cracked and leaking compressed air roared, making the moisture in the control-room air condense as fog. Jeffrey had trouble seeing even as far as the back of Meltzer's head. Jeffrey waved his hands but the fog wouldn't dissipate. It made the air grow cold. He yelled more evasive helm orders, and Challenger twisted and turned.
Another warhead blew. Again freshwater pipes somewhere nearby began to spray.
Above the rumbling roars from outside Jeffrey heard the water rush along the deck. He looked down as it sloshed around his shoes. Chiefs snapped out firm orders, and once more the tired damage-control teams rushed to make repairs.
Challenger shook from a very near miss. The lights went out for a moment, then came back on, the ones that weren't broken. There was a terrible pressure in Jeffrey's inner ears from all the noise, and his entire body ached from the constant pounding. He was dimly aware of more casualty and damage reports, but he left that to Bell as he fixated on maneuvering his ship so they might survive. Where would the next warhead plunge?
Advance warning from sonar was useless — the missiles were forty times as fast as Challenger at flank speed. Jeffrey made another guess, knowing everyone's life was at stake, and ordered Meltzer to double back hard.
There were twelve detonations in all before it subsided.
Jeffrey and Bell looked at each other, surprised to still be alive. It was the most terrifying thing Jeffrey had ever experienced.
"That was Voortrekker's entire vertical launch array," Bell said.
Jeffrey nodded — he didn't trust himself to speak.
"He's the shrewdest bastard I know," Wilson said as he shook himself off from the pounding. "He's created another datum, but he knows Allied aircraft in his area have already exhausted their weapons. The nearest surface warships that could launch Tactical Tomahawks at him are way north of Chatham Island, near the Stennis, and totally out of range:'
Tomohawks are subsonic anyway, Jeffrey told himself, and Voortrekker would be long gone before they reached ter Horst's missile launch point.
Jeffrey had to clear his throat. "He's playing tag, making us come after him again and playing with our minds."
Jeffrey glanced at Wilson. The commodore's face was ashen, even more than it ought to have been from the depth charging.
"My office. Now:'
Jeffrey followed. They went inside and Wilson locked the door.
"I think the whole world's going insane:' Wilson said. "Sir?"
"CINCPACFLT heard from the Pentagon, and from Miss Reebeck's listening post on the ice shelf"
"And?"
"Ter Horst sank both the fast-attacks from the Reagan. The whole western hook of our pincers is gone:'
"Christ," Jeffrey said. "That's almost three hundred men killed, in those two crews."
"There's nothing left between Voortrekker and the ice shelf. This Shipwreck missile blitz at us was meant to prove the point."
Jeffrey nodded.
"There's a major bIlzzard brewing near the south pole,"
Wilson stated. "It's forecast to start coming north across the Ross Sea tomorrow."
"Perfect weather for Voortrekker to try to break back out through what's left of our cordon." Jeffrey suddenly blanched. "That's what he wants. This is what he wanted all along! He lures all our fast-attacks down toward the ice shelf, then busts back north and uses his superior speed to leave them way behind. The entire South Pacific gets denuded of Allied nuclear submarines, and he takes out the Stennis and goes on from there:'
"Yes. Precisely. Key people in the Pentagon, reviewing events of the whole past week, have concluded that aerial depth bombings will not sink Voortrekker, because ter Horst is too smart and his ship is much too stealthy. Those same key people, reviewing events of the most recent forty-eight hours, now question Challenger's ability to destroy Voortrekker one on one.".
"But—"
Wilson held up a hand. "If we do pursue him under the Ross Ice Shelf, there's still a big question of how we'll even find him there:'
Jeffrey hesitated. "I know. I've been thinking about that."
Wilson took a deep breath, and looked Jeffrey right in the eyes. "Here's the deal, Captain.
There are two Ohio-class strategic missile submarines on patrol in the Great Southern Ocean."
"Boomers?"
"The idea was they'd be safe from any interference there, being so far from the war zone.
Now it seems the war has come to them:'
Jeffrey waited. He could tell from Wilson's facial expression that he was leading up to something. Something very bad.
"The rules of engagement are revised again. They now are irrevocable. I am to borrow your minisub to depart from Challenger, and shift my overall command to the closest boomer. The boomers are equipped with new low-frequency active towed arrays. Combined with the Virginio-class ships now hopefully working through the Drake Passage, and the submarine escorts from the Stennis hurrying down, they will form another undersea battle group. With additional reinforcements on the way, we will guard the edge of the shelf, in case Voortrekker rries to break out."
Jeffrey nodded. "That all makes sense, except for what I said before." That the bunching of Allied subs near the shelf was exactly what ter Horst wanted.
Wilson disregarded Jeffrey's remark, and Jeffrey suspected he had a reason. "You, Captain, are to pursue Voortrekker under the ice shelf, alone. This way, any contact you make, you know for sure is hostile. From the time you go under the shelf, you have twenty-four hours. If by the end of that period you do not reemerge and indicate that you have positively destroyed Voortrekker, and Voortrekker has not been detected exiting from under the shelf by our other assets, both boomers will be ordered by the President to launch all their missiles against the top of the shelf."
Jeffrey was speechless. The air in Wilson's office suddenly felt suffocating. "Use thermonuclear weapons?"
"Yes. Our own hydrogen bombs, dropped on an uninhabited wasteland."
"Sir, this is madness!"
"I know. CINCPACFLT didn't make the decision. He just passed it on to me. All the old Cold War thinking, about using hydrogen bombs to destroy enemy submarines at sea, seems to have been pulled out of the files and dusted off and is rearing its ugly head again…. It's been thought through, and it does make twisted sense. The ice shelf is pure freshwater, so radioactive fallout will be minimal. The steam will condense in the cold, so it won't spread far. There's nothing on the Ross Ice Shelf to burn, so there'll be no nuclear winter. The ice shelf floats, so there'll be no change in sea level when it breaks up… The inertia of the seawater under the ice, and the normal dying-off of explosion sea-wave energy with distance, will prevent a catastrophic tsunami beyond the north edge of the shelf. We know that much from multi-megaton tests at Enewetak Atoll in the 1950s."
"But that's — that's four dozen ballistic missiles, between two Trident subs! With several independently targeted warheads in each missile!"
"Yes. The W-88 warhead. I don
't know exactly how many warheads per missile. There were treaties, but the real facts are highly classified. The variable yields of each W-88 will be set to three hundred kilotons. Their launch trajectories and detonation times will be determined by computer, then coordinated by atomic clock. The simultaneous detonation of some sixty or a hundred megatons, spread out over the thick, strong structure of the central ice shelf, will generate a dynamic pressure underneath strong enough to smash Voortrekker's hull:'
"And Challenger's, too, if we're still under there "Yes."
"But even if it works, it risks global escalation?"
"I know. Nobody asked me. The mood in Washington is that we have to be better listeners to the rest of the world for once, and the rest of the world right now wants and respects gestures of power and strength, of determination and will, and that alone. The Axis made their gesture, at Chatham Island. Now it's our country's turn to make a stronger gesture?'
"And this is it?"
"I'm sorry. We don't have to agree it's right. We do have to obey our orders:'
Jeffrey stared at the deck as it all sank in. Wilson was correct, of course. In a sick way, it did make sense. The U.S. had set off a hydrogen bomb in the armosphere in the 1950s that by itself had a yield of fifteen megatons. There was fallout near Bikini Atoll, and radiation sickness and cancer deaths, but life went on. The largest single bomb the Soviets tested in the atmosphere had a yield of over fifty megatons. Again, life went on.
Now the U.S. proposed to unleash something even bigger, also in the open air, if need be.
"Sir, I protest. This is a defamation, an — an act of utter lunacy. They can't possibly be serious:' Jeffrey thought hard, then brightened. "They're bluffing. Or, or it's disinformation, meant to be leaked to the Axis, to get them to back down, to get ter Horst to turn away from the shelf… Yes, that's right. It must be a disinformation bluff!"
Wilson shook his head sadly. "CINCPACFLT made it perfectly clear. Washington, the president, they're serious. This is absolutely secret, a last-ditch trap for ter Horst, and the Axis is not to know a thing. We're turning his use of the ice shelf on its head. Instead of a sanctuary for Voortrekker; it's to become the ultimate nutcracker… The handful of friendly or neutral scientists, at ice stations or at the pole, will be flown out as soon as possible. Fortunately the weather hasn't turned yet and full winter hasn't hit."
"What are they being told?"
"Just that there's danger of tactical nuclear fallout. We're blaming it on the Boers, which is more or less true…. The Germans down there are being left to fend for themselves?'
"But what about Lieutenant Reebeck and the SEALs?'
"Rendezvous coordinates will be prearranged in code, so as not to tip off ter Horst or the Germans. Lieutenant Reebeck and Clayton and Montgomery are to transfer back to Challenger, using your minisub after it returns from the boomer without me, when you go under the shelf."
Jeffrey at least was glad for that. "I can use Lieutenant Reebeck's help on our search strategy."
Wilson nodded. "So now you have your orders, Captain, and your ultimate motivation: Get in under there, fmd and track ter Horst any way you can. Destroy him, and come back out, all in twenty-four hours. It's that, or the Antarctic becomes an ecological catastrophe for centuries to come, and the world teeters on the brink of a final holocaust."
FORTY-TWO
Later that day, on the Aoss Ice Shelf
Ilse dimly sensed shaking. She moaned in protest, then rolled over to go back to sleep. The shaking continued. She flopped onto her back inside her sleeping bag. The air was so dry her eyes were scratchy and hard to pry open. Her mouth was parched, and her tongue felt swollen and cottony. She was so zonked by the strange Antarctic perpetual twilight, she had trouble remembering where she was.
She woke up enough to see Shajo Clayton's friendly, reassuring face, looking down at her as he poked her shoulder to rouse her.
"Your watch again," Clayton said. "It's almost that time," he added with keen anticipation. He handed Ilse a mug of steaming cocoa.
"Thanks." Ilse could see Clayton's breath, and her own, in the air of the ice-shelter bunker. She saw Montgomery manning the hydrophone console.
"Nothing yet," Montgomery said. "It ought to be soon, if ever."
Ilse nodded. Still in the sleeping bag, she drank the cocoa quickly, to clear her muckmouth and help her rehydrate. Then she realized how cold it had gotten the last few hours, and how damp and uncomfortable she was. The slightest sweat from her skin pores, and the moisture from her breath, condensed in the bag while she slept. Now, despite the wicking effect of the artificial fibers, she felt freezing water and even bits of ice against her body.
Clayton looked away while Ilse changed to her daytime clothing: fresh long underwear, her Special Warfare diving dry suit, socks and outer clothing, special boots, and her parka and mittens. Again she saw her breath, and the air was so dry it seared as it went down her throat. Dressing, she gave herself static electric shocks.
"I need a minute of exercise." Ilse put on her insulated face mask, woolen hat, and tinted goggles, and pulled thick gauntlets over her mittens. She raised her parka hood and, thoroughly bundled up, went outside.
It was exceedingly cold. In the Antarctic, in mid-February, it changed from summer to winter awfully fast. Out here, on this stark, open landscape, Ilse reminded herself that half the world was at war, and she was waiting now for more shooting to start. She felt terribly exposed and vulnerable.
She bent and stretched and ran in place and perked up. She looked around. The sun was to the east now, and the surface of the vast ice shelf was a mix of frosted silver and yellow and gold. Above her head she saw the moon, pale and almost full, higher in the sky than the sun ever got down here. The sky was clear except to the south, where heavy clouds were forming — the mirage of the distant mountains was gone, hidden now by a solid wall of gray that Ilse suspected was falling snow. The wind, as usual, came from the south — it was a lot stronger than when she'd first arrived. That snow must be the leading edge of the blizzard.
Ilse glanced toward the sun. It gave no warmth. But she saw a beautiful visual effect, a parhelion, like a rainbow or sun dog but more complex. The parhelion was caused by ice crysrals in the upper atmosphere. There were arcs and shafts of light, and false suns too, optical illusions, surrounding the real sun in the — center. ParheIlons were extremely rare outside Antarctica, and Ilse had never seen one before. The ice crystals were another sign the blizzard was on the way.
Ilse knew the wind put great stresses on the ice shelf, and made for odd acoustic effects; sound carried amazingly here. She heard occasional cracks like rifle shots, strange noises like a freight train rumbIlng through a railroad tunnel, and weird inhuman moans and cries. Out to sea, as before, seals and penguins and orcas hunted and played, and she could faintly hear their barking and braying, carried against the wind. She heard roaring, thunderous splashes too, against the base of the ice shelf cliff. The powerful tide was coming in, raising the surf.
The marine gunnery sergeant, making the rounds of his concealed positions, saw Ilse. He came over and said hello, and they went into the ice shelter.
Refreshed and more awake now, Ilse sat at her console and resumed her vigil for signs of Voortrekker. Clayton and Montgomery asked the sergeant what the local Germans were up to.
"Last report I got, they were fiddling with some of the ice-core-sampling boreboles, you know, left by the scientists that got flown out. A few of the bores go all the way through the shelf and into the water. Intelligence thinks the Germans are laying listening gear or something:'
On Voortrekker, approaching the Ross Ice Shelf
Van Gelder and ter Horst each read the same intelligence report on their screens. The information came from the German troops working on the Ross Ice Shelf. The data was kindly passed along by an aircraft from the Russian science station on the Hobbs Coast, east of the ice shelf. The aircraft had dropped a few transducers into the water
to relay the data to Voortrekker by covert acoustics. One of the transducers fell in range of Voortrekker, as intended.
Ter Horst fmished reading long before Van Gelder did.
Van Gelder wasn't surprised — Jan ter Horst was a fast and voracious reader, with a superb memory and almost total recall.
"Well," ter Horst said, "now we know exactly where Fuller's forward listening post is set up."
"I expect they put it near the middle of the ice-shelf edge, Captain, for the best all-around coverage against us:'
"We need to oblige them for all the trouble they've taken on our behalf. The easiest way to maintain contact with Challenger is to give them another datum on us, and let Fuller keep coming our way… If he loses us completely now, things could get rather messy.
We do need to destroy him under the shelf, before we turn back north?'
Van Gelder nodded. "Otherwise we'd have him in our rear again." Like when ter Horst had first wanted to stalk the carrier Stennis.
"An unattractive proposition, and an unacceptable risk, especially with all the other Allied forces gathering against us, and with half our torpedo tubes unusable. This report says the American air force is scrambling B-52s with atomic depth bombs, sustained by midair refueIlng, besides everything else."
The autoloader for the port-side tubes had been fixed, after a lot of exhausting effort supervised by Van Gelder, but the starboard tubes were hopeless without dry-dock work.
"As paranoid as I am, Gunther, I think those faulty welds were simple overhurried workmanship, not sabotage. You were right all along, my friend. We pushed our luck, rushing into battle straight from a shakedown cruise:"