To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

The Vice Admiral nodded and popped the latches on his briefcase, pulled two sealed envelopes from it and set them aside. He pulled a third sealed envelope out and slit the end open, extracting a number of pages. “Gentlemen, we are in serious trouble. Our entire encryption system Navy-wide is compromised. We have an SSBN currently trapped off the coast of Norway by three Soviet submarines and an Udaloy DDG. The sub popped a position today, and she is not in extremis, but she can’t get home without help.”

  He handed the two sealed envelopes across the table. “You folks are the help. You’re off the books so to speak, not tied to any squadron, and apparently pretty damn good at putting torps on submarines.”

  * * *

  P-3 #323, NAS Patuxent River, Maryland 0300Z

  The bus deposited a very sober group at the hangar after the brief. KJ and the others were all positively identified before being allowed in the hangar, and the first thing he noted was there were two identically painted P-3s sitting side by side. So, this is how they’re doing this…Shades of the old days.

  Pops Kanaka came out of the bomb bay and waved to him, motioning him over. KJ told Barney, “I’ll be there in a minute. Looks like I’ve got a checklist to run.” Barney nodded and headed up the ladder along with the rest of the crew.

  “Hey, Pops. Guess you got a surprise, didn’t you?”

  Pops handed him the checklist. “To put it mildly. These are war shots. And brand-new MK-50s. These aren’t even approved yet, but we’re carrying four of them?”

  “I’ll explain at planeside. Let’s run this checklist. Gotta admit, it’s the first time I’ve done one in a hangar.”

  “And I was told no final checker. We do everything in here, then close the bomb bay and go.”

  “Then let’s get to it. Item one—”

  * * *

  May 29, 1985

  Tactical Support Center, NAS Keflavik, Iceland 0000Z

  The debriefing officer looked across the table at KJ and Randy. “So, you guys have a mission brief you’re not allowed to share with me. And we’re laying on three other flights fifteen minutes apart to cover whatever the hell it is you’re doing? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  KJ looked levelly at him. “That’s right, Lieutenant. This was tasked by higher than you or I are cleared for. If you’ve got a problem…”

  The DBO threw up his arms. “Oh screw it. At this point none of us knows what is going on. We’re not getting shit over any secure circuit, and…oh never mind. You’re scheduled for a zero dark thirty go, take off at 0230 local. You are Mike Kilo 21. No tactical call sign since we aren’t doing shit. Go forth and do whatever it is you’re supposed to do. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. Don’t feel bad. You’re not the only one in the dark, trust me on this.” As they walked out, KJ asked, “You got our track points and times to give to 22? And remind him to change voices when reporting for us, right?”

  Randy rolled his eyes, “I may be a pilot, but I can accomplish something this simple KJ. Don’t sweat the petty stuff, and don’t pet the sweaty stuff.”

  KJ laughed. “Okay, see you at planeside.”

  * * *

  May 29, 1985

  USS Michigan, North Atlantic 0200Z

  Captain Thomas sat in the wardroom nursing a cup of coffee and wracking his brain for a way out of the box they were in. He’d even thought about using a couple of decoys to see if he could confuse people enough to slip away, but that would have given away his hidey hole. So far even the intermittent pings from either the subs or the Soviet destroyer had failed to spook him, but the crew was coming closer and closer to the breaking point. Four days of being constantly on pins and needles was impacting morale and the crew’s ability to get rest. Plus, they had to look at possible rationing for food and consumables, like toilet paper. No showers and no laundry for four days were beginning to become apparent, and the boat was starting to stink.

  LT Ryerson, the communications officer, came in with the tear sheet from the broadcast they had just copied. “Nothing new, Skipper. But somebody back in Norfolk fucked up the sports again.”

  “How, this time?”

  “Chief caught it; it’s item 6 and he circled it,” he said, laying the tear sheet in front of the captain.

  He quickly scanned the tear sheet, then read item six- “FOR THE TROOPS UP NORTH, THE SUSPENDED GAME BETWEEN THE YANKEES AND BEARS WILL RECOMMENCE AT 0800 WITH THE SCORE YANKEES 5-BEARS 2”. “Yeah, whoever did the sports obviously isn’t a fan. Yankees would never play the Bears. Two different sports.” He shook his head, “Put out the other stuff, but leave that one off.” The Supply Officer stepped into the wardroom, and the captain said, “I need some time with SUPO.”

  The communications officer got up quickly. “Yes, sir.” He threw a look of commiseration at the supply officer on his way out, thinking, Better him than me. I just get fucked up sports, not trying to figure out how to cut rations.

  * * *

  P-3 #323, 200NM Southeast of Iceland 0330Z

  KJ keyed the ICS, “Okay, we’re out of radar coverage. Time to go see if we get to start World War Three. Randy, make sure 22’s got our comms. I’m dropping a fly-to point for you.”

  He heard the VHF radio key, “22, this is 21.”

  “21, go.”

  “We’re chopping. You’ve got our comms.”

  “Good luck, whatever you’re doing. We got it.”

  KJ came over the PA, “Crew, TACCO, set EMCON, darken ship. We’re going down below 1000 feet, floatation gear required. We’ve got two hours till on station. Pops says breakfast will be?”

  He heard a pop and chuckle over the ICS from Pops. “Whatever the flight kitchen packed. No crew box on here, TACCO.”

  Various boos and hisses were heard, and Scoop keyed up, “I hope there are hard boiled eggs!”

  Randy keyed the PA. “Hairy, check the breakfasts, if there are any hard-boiled eggs, dump them immediately!” He pulled the power back, looked over at Scoop and Eddie and said, “Descent checklist, let’s take it down to the deck. I don’t want to depressurize unless we have to go to free fall on buoys.” He keyed the PA again, “We’re EMCON up here. IFF is off, DVARS is off, lights are off.”

  KJ noted the EMCON on his log, shook his head, unstrapped and stretched.

  No gahdamn eggs for Scoop! I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything that vile in my life, and I sure as hell don’t want to again. He looked over at Barney and mimed drinking a cup of coffee, and Barney nodded. Getting up, he headed for the galley and the coffee pot. At least we got a coffee pot.

  As he walked aft, he checked with each of the operators and got a thumbs up as they completed their systems checks. Dusty was leaning back in the aft observer’s seat, sound asleep as usual. KJ laughed to himself and checked the extra sensor station in front of Dusty. As always, there was a sticky with an up arrow on it. Some things never change. I wonder if anything actually bothers Dusty. Pops Kanaka was sorting through the boxes of food from the flight line kitchen with Hairy and smiled, “No hard-boiled eggs, TACCO. Looks like omelets and meat du jure in the oven.”

  Hairy nodded. “At least I can get some sleep before I go back in the seat.”

  Randy came back, dropped the rack down and climbed in. “I’m down until we go on station. Tim’s in the left seat, and Eddie’s in the right.” He stuck earplugs in and rolled over, away from the galley light, wiggling to try to get comfortable on the thin mat as the airplane bumped down through the light cloud cover.

  * * *

  The Battle Cab, the Pentagon 0600Z

  The captain and colonel on watch were on pins and needles as the Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the service chiefs followed him into the cab and took seats in the back. One of the Army colonels whispered to the current Air Force watch officer, “Any idea what is going on?”

  “Not a fucking clue,” said the watch officer.

  The chairman tapped the microphone at his seat. “This thing on? Focus on the GIUK
gap please. All air, surface, and subsurface assets, please.”

  As the picture zoomed in, the Chief of the Air Force asked, “Status on AWACS and tankers.”

  The Air Force watch officer used a laser pointer. “AWACS is proceeding to a northern Norwegian Sea patrol, and there is one Tanker, Ploy 87, on a Faroes Island refueling track, Sir. But I have no scheduled ops for that track.”

  The Chief nodded. “Status of 57th FIS?”

  “Four F-4s on Alert 30, four on Alert 60. Weather is projected to be good.”

  The Chief looked down at his notepad, “493rd?”

  The colonel flipped through his notebook, “Four F-111Fs on Alert 30, four on Alert 60, weather is marginal.”

  The Chairman leaned over, “Russ, can they go if they need to?”

  “Yeah, they are zero-zero capable. It’ll suck if something breaks. But they can launch.”

  * * *

  P-3 #323, 1000 Feet, 30NM off the Norwegian Coast 0630Z

  Randy keyed up the PA. “Crew, we’re inbound to the first fly to point. TACCO, we’re stable at 180 knots, 1000 feet, going to loiter number one. Aft observer, check in.”

  Chief Isaacson keyed his ICS. “Port aft, standing by.” KJ looked out his window as he felt the shudder of the prop feathering, and heard the chief, “Good feather, good X.”

  KJ looked at the scope and keyed the ICS. “Okay, we’re on station now. One minute to the first buoy drop. Mac, you got anything on ESM?”

  “Intermittent Top Plate. Some Soviet combatant. Might be an Udaloy or Krivak. Still points north, no cross bearing available.”

  “Charlie, Stretch, Dusty, standby for channels 1 and 12, then we’re going to run up the channels as we go. Wide spacing as we discussed.”

  They all felt the thump of the buoy firing externally and the second internally. KJ heard the rattle of the high-speed printer as Barney dumped the position and Pops opened the chute to pull the empty launch container out. “Two buoys away.”

  The inside of the P-3 filled with the odor of cordite, and Dusty crowed, “Ah, the smell, the smell! Let the hunt begin!”

  KJ smiled, remembering when he and Dusty were on the special missions’ crew and running all over the Atlantic and Mediterranean doing various operations. “Two minutes to next drop, channel 2.”

  A half hour later, the entire pattern was in the water, and both Charlie and Stretch were sending data on two different subs. “Which is which, Charlie?”

  “TACCO, the one to the south of 9 is the Alfa.” There was a minute of silence, and he continued, “The one to the west of 12, well between 5 and 12, is the Victor.”

  “Nothing else?”

  Dusty chimed in, “TACCO, low poss on an Oscar 030 off buoy 2. Sniff on our guy east of 15.”

  * * *

  The Hot Line, Washington, DC 0700Z

  “I have the Kremlin on the line, sir.”

  “Mr. President, I have a statement to read and will wait for it to be translated and your reply.”

  “Da.”

  “Mr. President, we know that you have compromised our secure communications cryptographic systems for now and that you have isolated and are attempting to either capture or board one of our ballistic missile submarines in international waters in the North Atlantic. You have one hour to contact your units and turn them north, removing the blockade on our unit. If you do not do so, I will authorize torpedoes to be used against your units in the area. This is not negotiable.”

  A simultaneous translation was heard, then a spate of Russian, and the translator said, “We categorically deny that we are attempting anything. We do not admit anything. We are operating in international waters and will continue to do so.”

  “Mr. President, you know that is a lie. You have one hour. This line will continue to be monitored until 0800 Zulu.” He turned to the others in the room, “Come get me if they decide to talk. Otherwise, I’ll be in my office,” the President said.

  * * *

  P-3 #323, 1000 Feet, 30NM off the Norwegian Coast 0705Z

  “TACCO, Jez. I wonder if the reason we’re not seeing the Oscar is they are using depth separation.”

  “Hold that thought. Flight, new fly-to, gimme a right 270 after this line. Pops, I’ll put this pattern out external. Going to put a containment around the Victor, then the Alfa, then we’ll go look for that Oscar.”

  “Flight, aye.”

  As the third buoy spit, Mac said, “Got another hit on that Top Plate in sector scan. Sending a cross fix. Looks to be about 30 miles north of us, but I think it’s coming south.”

  A fix popped in on KJ’s scope and he nodded, “Good call. 32 miles. Flight, let’s take it down to 500. I want to stay below his radar horizon, just in case.”

  Randy keyed the PA. “Crew, going below 1000, floatation required.” He dropped back to ICS and continued, “Looks like a sea state of 1 or 2. Winds are probably 290 at around 10. Swells look like they are from about 270.”

  Barney keyed up. “Got it, thanks. Nav is looking pretty good. Minimal split between the inertial systems.

  Chief Iverson came forward with two cups of coffee, handing one to Barney and the other to KJ, “Looking good in the back. I just hope Dusty’s shit doesn’t break. I don’t know jack about it.”

  KJ nodded his thanks. “Don’t worry about it, he’s an expert on those and actually is building them in his day job.” He took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. “Gah, Maxwell House, again?”

  “Sorry, we already drank all the Folgers I brought. And I never got to the commissary.” The airplane started bumping and bouncing as they leveled at 500 feet, and the chief sighed. “Once more into the bumps we go. Why can’t we ever get a smooth flight?”

  Barney laughed. “It’s a P3, whatta ya expect, Chief?”

  * * *

  The Battle Cab, the Pentagon 0715Z

  “Fighter launch, Murmansk. Estimate four MIG-25s. Possible launch IL-78 Midas,” came over the speakers in the cab.

  The Air Force chief spoke into the mic at his chair, “Bring 57th and 493rd to Alert 5 and Alert 15, please. Notify AWACS and Ploy 87 of the MIG launch. Launch the alert tanker from Lakenheath.”

  The Air Force watch officer spun around and quickly made the calls. Once they were done, the Army watch officer leaned over again, “I wish I knew what the fuck is going on! We’re never supposed to be out of the loop. Never!”

  The Air Force watch officer shrugged. “Well, we obviously are in this case. And if we are, I’m not real sure I really want to know.”

  The chiefs watched, and as soon as the MIGs turned west, the Chairman asked, “Should we launch our guys?”

  The Air Force chief spoke into his mic and asked, “Do we have a speed on the MIGs yet?”

  The colonel said, “Appears to be supersonic, sir.”

  “Shit. Scramble the 57th, point them at AWACS. Scramble the 493rd and point them north to intercept the MIGs. Launch the Alert 15s from both locations as soon as possible and point them at the Faroes Tanker.” He leaned over to the Chairman. “We…it’s going to be tight. Might have waited too long.”

  * * *

  Alert Barns, Keflavik and Lakenheath, 0728Z

  Klaxons blared in both locations as pilots and WSOs scrambled to man their aircraft, and PAs clicked on. “Immediate launch, immediate launch. Alert 5, Alert 15, immediate launch. Standby for coordinates on common after launch.” The message repeated twice more, and the klaxons sounded again but were quickly drowned out by the rising scream of jet carts, then the jets themselves.

  Six minutes later, the first pair of F-4s lifted off from Keflavik, cleared unrestricted climb to flight level 280 and speed restrictions lifted. Two minutes later, the first F-111s lifted off from Lakenheath and climbed into the low clouds, clawing for altitude in the rough air. In Reaper 01, the WSO was cursing as he tried to get his systems online in the turbulence and suddenly sat back. “Damn, Roscoe, whatever is going on, it looks like it’s for real.”

  Just as he sai
d that, the British controller came on the radio. “Reaper Flight you are cleared unrestricted to FL280, cleared direct the ADIZ heading 000. Speed restrictions are lifted. We are clearing a corridor for you.”

  Captain ‘Roscoe’ Booker keyed his radio, “Ah, Departure, Reaper Flight copies all. Passing flight level 180 for flight level 280, coming to 000 at this time.” They heard the other three aircraft roger the course change, and he said, “What are you talking about, Mongo?”

  “I’ve got Link 4 with an AWACS that’s up. Four MIG-25s coming around the horn of North Cape with their hair on fire, and we’ve got 1300 miles to intercept point. I don’t know if we’re going to beat them there. And not a fucking clue why the intercept point is over the water.”

  Roscoe looked over at him in amazement. “You got to be shitting me!”

  Mongo stared back at him and said carefully, “Roscoe, this is not a drill. I think the shit is about to hit the fan for real.” He glanced quickly down. “And you’re about to break our altitude.”

  They broke out of the clouds and he dumped the nose over, skirting the tops of the cloud deck, as the other three F-111s broke out. Keying his radio, he said, “London, Reaper Flight is level at flight level 280.” London acknowledged, and he keyed up on common, “Reapers, pin the wings back. We got a long way to go and not much time to get there. Confirm Link 4 is up and operating.”

  * * *

  The Hot Line, Washington, DC 0750Z

  “Have we heard anything back yet?”

  “No, Sir. Not a peep.”

  “Do we go back to them again?”

  “I wouldn’t, sir. You were pretty unequivocal in your statement. If you ask now, I believe you would be showing weakness.”

  “Probably. Dammit! Why do they have to be so damn stubborn when they are well and truly caught out?”

  “Bluster and bullshit, sir. It’s been that way since Khrushchev. If they back down, they potentially lose control.”