Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  “Thank you, father,” responded Sergei. “I know I would not have achieved this without your help. Rest assured, I will command him in a way that makes you proud.”

  Pavel was surprised at his son’s acknowledgement of the subtle hints the president had used with his military staff to goad them into this action. Usually such things went unsaid in their family. Though Pavel knew his son to be a hard-working and competent officer, a good choice for this post, he also knew that the Soviet Navy would not have entrusted one of its newest and most advanced warships to just any newly promoted junior captain. Whereas Misha went to great lengths to distance himself from his father’s influence, Sergei had always used his family name to get anything from better cuts of meat at the Universam food stores to dates with girls who would never have looked his way otherwise and, now, the command of a prized ship in the rapidly expanding Soviet fleet. This command is truly important to him, an end finally, not just a means, Pavel realized, turning and looking at his oldest with a new measure of respect.

  “I am already proud of you, my boy,” the president said as another icy gust swept down the pier. “I always have been.” Those westerners think our system of patronage is corrupt, reasoned Pavel. They are blind to the flaws of their own supposedly pure meritocracy. They cannot see that our culture allows one who has already been successful to elevate others in whom he sees the same talent. Those in the west fail to understand that only idiots do favors to elevate other idiots.

  “When is your assumption of command ceremony?” Pavel asked.

  “Next week,” responded Sergei. “On Friday. The shipyard workers are aboard right now, finishing their work on our sensor and command systems. You should see them, father! With this ship I will finally be able to track those quiet, slinking submarines that the Americans and British send up here. Much of the crew is already aboard, helping with the work. I want them to know their sensors and weapons better than any crew in the fleet.”

  “Can we go aboard and see them right now?” Pavel asked.

  Sergei looked down, slightly uncomfortable. “I would love to give you a tour, father, but,” he paused, “if we go aboard now, the workers will stop as soon as they see you. I need them working every minute if I am to take my ship to sea after the ceremony. Kuznetsov,” he spoke of the Russian fleet’s first real, big-deck aircraft carrier, which Admiral Chabanenko was assigned to defend, “and the rest of my squadron are already out there, training,” he tilted his head north. “I need to train my crew to operate with the flagship. Nothing can be allowed to delay our sailing. You understand?”

  “Of course, of course,” responded Pavel. In truth, the ship itself was of little interest to him, and visiting his son and his son’s new command was only a portion of the tour. Rosla had arranged for the president to inspect not only this vital port on the USSR’s Arctic coast, but a cross section of the Red Banner Northern Fleet’s combat power, including surface ships here at Severomorsk, submarines based farther up the rugged fjӧrd at Polyarny, and bomber regiments at air bases scattered around the dirty, isolated naval city of Murmansk.

  “Perhaps we could come back at eighteen hours, after the workers have left?” suggested Sergei.

  “Unfortunately, no. I have a schedule to keep myself, you know,” answered Pavel, looking back to where the pier met the access road, seeing Captain Ivanenko and the other aides who had accompanied him stomping their feet to ward off the cold. Pavel was growing chilled as well, but he desired some information from his son before departing. He wanted some assurance that the encouraging reports coming to him from the Ministry of Defense were actually true.

  “Tell me, Sergei,” he began, “how are things here, in the fleet? How is the spirit of the sailors and officers? Is the fleet ready for any emergency?” Pavel had not told his son about the Politburo’s decision to resolve their differences with NATO by force of arms and he had no intention of doing so.

  Sergei looked his father full in the face. “Father, two years ago, before you took over the government, our navy was disintegrating. Ships were lying idle at their berths because we had no fuel to sail, no crews to train, no weapons to fire. Our ships were literally rusting away before our eyes because of the old regime’s neglect. All that has changed now. Ships that we were going to write off as too expensive to maintain have been modernized. We are fielding powerful new weapons and launching wonderful new ships like mine here.” He waved at the Admiral Chabanenko, “That says nothing of the morale! The higher pay certainly has something to do with it, but so does the fact that we are actually training now, improving every day. In my years in the fleet I have never seen such a high level of proficiency and happiness.”

  Pavel nodded. His son’s opinion agreed with the reports Rosla had been forwarding to him about the overall improvements in the Soviet military establishment since he had made its reform a priority. Medvedev trusted Rosla, but he was gratified nonetheless to see the marshal’s optimism confirmed.

  The president decided to ask his son one more question, prompted by the discussion that Ivanenko had been bold enough to start with him during their flight. “What are officers in the fleet saying about the order to remove atomic weapons from our surface ships and hunter submarines?”

  The young captain paused to consider for a moment, then responded, “There is certainly some discomfort. Many believe that atomic weapons give us our best chance to destroy the American fleet if it threatens the Rodina. There is another, more aggressive group who says that removing these weapons, which we cannot use without permission anyway, will allow more freedom. It’ll allow us to throw heavier salvos of missiles, allow our submarines to remain at sea longer and sink more ships. If we are not going to use the weapons, then they are merely ballast, in truth.”

  “Who do you agree with?” Medvedev asked his son.

  Sergei smiled. “Father, give me the standard weapons. I do not wish to have to call back to Moscow and have a chat with you just to fire one of my missiles or torpedoes!”

  Pavel smiled and nodded. He had not been anywhere close to reconsidering his order to divest the fleet of many of its atomic weapons, but Ivanenko’s passion for the issue had at least given him pause. Medvedev could not agree with the man’s position, but he knew the naval officer’s motivation was for the defense of the Rodina. Ivanenko was chafing in his position at the ministry, and Rosla intended to duly reward his services with a command in the very near future. The Soviet president looked back at the Admiral Chabanenko, feeling concern creep into his mind as another icy blast blew off the water. In just a few weeks his boy would be taking this ship into battle. He never allowed himself to imagine what the worst outcome of that fact might be, what the outcome had been for his own father in 1945. Pavel chose to focus on the pride, and not the fear. His sons were serving their country and they were both competent and happy in that duty.

  “He is a handsome ship,” Pavel repeated, “I am sure you and your crew will serve your country well in him.” He turned and began walking back towards the knot of aides at the end of the pier, Sergei followed.

  As they walked, his son asked a question of his own. “Tell me father, all this training we are doing, all this emphasis on having the whole fleet ready by next month…are we building to something?”

  Pavel stopped and looked at his son, “Why do you ask?”

  “Officers are talking, father. Having the whole fleet ready like this is, well, exciting to say the least, but,” his son paused, “there is speculation as to what it all means. We will have to stand many of our ships down for maintenance after the new year. Many think that we will confront NATO or the Americans before then, when our strength is at its greatest.”

  He wanted desperately to tell his son the truth, to allow him to prepare himself for the trial ahead, for the war of his generation. Honesty to himself kept him from divulging the truth to his son. Sergei’s character has flaws. The boy might be te
mpted to use the information as power, to advance his career further or for his gain, whatever it may be. Pavel knew of other moral flaws in his son as well, that his marriage was less than happy, due no doubt to his enjoyment of entertaining any attractive woman who happened to look his way. What if the NATO intelligence services have spies up here that we don’t know about? What would I do to one of my ministers if I discovered that he had told one of his sons? No, I cannot tell him.

  Pavel chose evasion, not wanting to lie outright. “Sergei, we will not be confronting NATO this December.” It will be later than that, Medvedev finished to himself. “We simply wish them to see that we are powerful once again, that they cannot push us around anymore as they’ve been trying to do. Then you and your comrades will return to port to refit.” Pavel did not note that the enemy’s ships would also be recouping.

  Sergei looked only partially convinced, but he nodded all the same. The two men turned and resumed their walk back down the pier, past the other, smaller warship tied up alongside. Another frigid gust enveloped them, ruffling Pavel’s heavy coat and penetrating to his skin as if he wore only summer clothes. Snow began to fall as they rejoined the presidential entourage. The leader of the USSR took leave of his son and climbed into his limousine for the drive back to the airport where a helicopter was waiting to fly them up to Polyarny.

  As his driver pulled away, Pavel looked over his shoulder to see his oldest son striding back up the pier. Had he been religious, he would have said a prayer for Sergei’s safety. Instead he lost himself in mental checklists, trying to ensure that every action he could take to bring about a quick victory over his country’s enemies had been taken. Outside the vehicle, thick white snowflakes fell, sticking to the windows. The winter up here in the far north was promising to be a cold one indeed.

  CHAPTER 17

  1645 AZOT, Tuesday 21 December 1993

  1745 Zulu

  USS Mount Whitney, north of Corvo Island, Atlantic Ocean

  LIEUTENANT ABBY SAVAGE eased down on the collective control of her SH-3G Sea King, decreasing power to the aircraft’s two turboshaft engines. Peering down over her left knee through the plexiglass of her blunt-nosed cockpit, she shifted the stick and began lowering the helicopter towards the slowly pitching deck on the fantail of the ungainly gray ship below.

  “Thirty feet,” announced the thick Texas twang of her co-pilot, Buck Hennessy.

  Abby’s gentle touch on the collective kept the helicopter descending slowly, just a few feet per second. She could see the white lines of the flight deck’s markings growing larger. They also oscillated like a seesaw as the flagship rocked with the motion of the waves.

  “Twenty feet,” Buck said.

  Sloshing water from the pooled rain sprayed outward from the flight deck of the Mount Whitney under the pounding of the Sea King’s downdraft. Abby concentrated on maintaining the forward and downward motion of her aircraft through a stiff wind blowing out of the northeast.

  “Ten feet.”

  Abby felt slight pressure against her hand through her joystick-like cyclic control as the wind shifted. A strong gust blew from starboard, but someone watching the helicopter would never have known, as she subtly adjusted to the new conditions. With five feet beneath the helicopter’s boat-like underside, Abby shoved the collective lever down to the floor, nearly idling the engines. The Sea King’s landing gear settled onto the deck as gently as a sleeping baby laid to rest by its mother, at the exact geometric center of the landing pad.

  “And we’re down,” said Buck. “Another good landing, Abbs, not that you need me to tell you that, I reckon.”

  “Securing the engines,” Abby replied as she cut the power plant back to idle. Then, keying her radio, she called the ship, “November Oscar, this is Angel Lead, we’re secure and ready for a hot refuel, over.”

  “Roger, Angel Lead, we’ll run the hose,” came the response.

  “Thanks, November Oscar. Angel out,” Abby said. Then she keyed the intercom and said to her crew chief in the back of the aircraft, “Okay, let our passenger know it’s safe to get out.”

  Abby heard the Sea King’s side door slide open with a bang. A second later the Marine Corps colonel who’d been their sole passenger appeared out the side of her cockpit window, scuttling over beneath the spinning rotor blades towards the edge of the flight deck.

  “Who d’you s’pose that feller was?” asked Hennessy through the intercom, even though the two pilots were side-by-side in the cockpit.

  “I don’t know, Buck,” said Abby, “but he’s getting some awfully special treatment, even for a colonel.”

  Abby and Buck, pilots in the US Navy’s air rescue helicopter squadron HC-2, the “Fleet Angels,” were used to playing chauffeur for Navy bigwigs up and down the US east coast when they weren’t performing their primary role, but Abby had hoped this cruise would offer something a bit more exciting. She and Buck, along with their crew chief and the crew of a second Fleet Angels Sea King, had deployed aboard the carrier Carl Vinson as part of Admiral Falkner’s efforts to “get everything that floats and everything that flies out into the Atlantic to show the Reds we mean business,” as her squadron commander had reported, third-hand, the 2nd Fleet commander’s words.

  “I mean,” Buck was saying, “I can’t figure what’s so important about this feller that we had to fly all the way from Vinson to that there Corvo Island to pick him up and then bring him all the way back here, and in bad weather, no less.”

  “I can’t figure it out either,” Abby said. Buck always talked too much. The six-foot five-inch Texan couldn’t seem to help himself. Sometimes Abby, whose petite five-foot-four frame looked almost comical next to her lanky copilot, found his volume and his drawl a bit much, but right now he was giving voice to her own frustrations. Is playing glorified bus driver all the Navy thinks I’m good for? she thought. I’m out here with the fleet, flying from an aircraft carrier, finally, and still all they can find for a woman pilot to do is ferry around mid-level officers like I’m some New York cab service?

  “Anyway,” Abby said, refocusing on their mission, as demeaning as it might feel right now, “let’s get fueled up and back to Vinson. Maybe they need us to pick up a loaf of bread and some coffee creamer along the way.”

  Hennessy snorted at the quip as they began their pre-flight checklist once more. The Mount Whitney deck crew were snaking a fuel line out to the Sea King, and Abby put her bitterness aside as she caught sight of the Marine colonel disappearing into the ship’s superstructure. If they want me to be a bus driver, then I’m going to be the best goddamn bus driver they ever saw, she promised herself for the thousandth time.

  Colonel Rob Buckner passed from the damp wind and noise of the flight deck into the relatively quiet passageways of Mount Whitney’s interior. Having just completed the last leg of another whirlwind tour, he was decidedly tired but alert. This time he’d been in the Mediterranean, liaising with Falkner’s counterpart in the US 6th Fleet. If it ever came to war with the Soviets, the two fleet commands would be passing ships between each other through the Straits of Gibraltar as the situation dictated, and Falkner wanted to ensure a good working relationship with the other HQ.

  The deck pitched beneath Rob’s feet as he made his way towards the conference room. Rob was no stranger to helicopter flights, and he’d been impressed by the smooth flight from Corvo Island, as they’d been flying through the remnants of a storm that’d been lashing the fleet for the past several days. He caught a faint whiff of vomit, evidence that some of the command ship’s sailors were still suffering the effects of the passing storm. After a while even the Dramamine, which Buckner knew the ship’s corpsmen dispensed like candy in rough weather, wasn’t enough to keep down the contents of some stomachs.

  Rear Admiral Forest, the chief of staff, kept 2nd Fleet’s staff on a disciplined schedule, and Buckner knew that he was in time to pop into the
daily commander’s update brief, or CUB. Navigating to the conference room within the bowels of the ship, he arrived at an open door, where he could see the daily briefing about to start. He slipped in, looking around at the attendees as he did so.

  The conference room was emptier than usual, only principal members of Vice Admiral Falkner’s staff occupied the seats around the conference table. Rob Buckner took his seat behind his nominal boss, Rear Admiral Johnson, who he greeted with a quick nod. Rob wasn’t feeling seasick himself, but neither were the smells of dinner being prepared in the ship’s galley particularly appealing to him with the current motion of the ship. The Marine officer was ready to be done with his tour, done with this exercise, and to be off this ship, a sentiment he shared with the rest of the staff. Especially if we aren’t going to have a war, he thought.

  Admiral Falkner, seated at the head of the table, the 2nd Fleet’s crest affixed to the bulkhead behind him, nodded, indicating that the briefing should commence.

  The short, wiry chief of staff stood and steadied himself against a roll of the deck. He began, nodding to his commander and the other officers present, “Sir, gentlemen, as mentioned this morning, we’re replacing the standard CUB with a decision brief to the commander,” he nodded again to Falkner, “as to whether recent changes in the Soviet force posture permit us to return the fleet to port in time to allow many of our crews to celebrate the Christmas holiday with their families. As you know sir, if we wish our ships to arrive home by Christmas Eve, we must make the call in the next few hours. Principal and other key staff members are assembled here, and the commanders of the Carl Vinson and Eisenhower carrier battle groups are joining us via conference call, as is Rear Admiral Reeves aboard Invincible. Gentlemen,” Forest addressed the speakerphone in the center of the table, “can you confirm that you are receiving?”

  Metallic, static-distorted responses emanated from the speaker.