by Bart Gauvin
“Banak?” Johansen asked as he unzipped his parka. “I’m headed up there with my squadron tonight.”
“Then we’ll be there together,” responded Olsen. The two men had grown up together in Trondheim but had lost touch over the years. “I just got the orders a few minutes ago. They pulled me out of bed to let me know. I’m taking six jets up there in a couple of hours.”
“What’s this all about, anyway?” Erik asked, lowering his voice as he set his parka and helmet aside. As boys Jan and Erik had shared many secrets, from where their grandfathers kept the aquavit, to which girls in their small class were fancying them at the moment. “Are the Russians up to something? We don’t usually get air support on our exercises.”
“Damned if I know. I think that’s what this briefing is about.”
The young officers heard a throat clearing and looked over to see Major Laub’s disapproving glare. A few others in the room had noticed the pair’s noisy reunion as well, but Laub had a reputation for being short with company grade officers. Just then Brigade Nord’s commander, a full colonel, walked into the room. The Brigade’s sergeant major called the assembled officers to attention, silencing the murmuring conversations that had been providing background noise. A wave of the colonel’s hand sent them all converging on the table at the center of the briefing room. Laub jerked his head towards the table, directing Johansen to move closer. In seconds, everyone had found a seat.
Brigade Nord’s G2, or chief of intelligence, stood up, removed his glasses, and looked around at the assembled group. Johansen could read the worried look on the uncharacteristically short Nordic man’s face as he straightened the papers on the table in front of him. “Gentlemen,” he began, “as many of you know, our government made the unprecedented decision just a couple of hours ago to cancel the Olympic Winter Games. What they haven’t told the media, at least not yet, is the reason for this decision, though I think the cause is apparent.” The major paused to ensure he had the attention of everyone in the room. “This evening, officials in Lillehammer discovered that most of the Soviet, Bulgarian, and Romanian Olympic teams have disappeared from the Olympic Village. As you know, many of their athletes are drawn from their militaries, as are ours. We have no record of them departing Norway, so we must assume that they are at large within our borders.”
The intelligence officer paused to allow the murmuring in the room to die down. Then he continued, “Approximately two hours ago, we began detecting a large number of small ships departing the Soviets’ Kola ports, along with increased activity at the major Soviet air bases there.” The tall, thin officer took a breath and then continued, “NATO has reported similar activity from Soviet forces in Czechoslovakia, but this can be more reasonably explained by their ongoing intervention in Poland. AF South has also reported activity in the Black Sea and the Mediterranean. Given all this, the minister of defense has decided to move to a higher level of alert and to begin forward deployment of some units to forestall any further Soviet adventurism.”
At this point the brigade chief of staff stood and walked over to a map of Northern Norway and the Kola Peninsula hanging on the wall. He turned and looked directly at Johansen and Olsen, two of the more junior officers in the room.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you are the units being pushed forward, along with a few Home Guard platoons we are activating at,” he indicated on the map, “Kirkenes, Vardø, Vasdo, Mehamn, and Batsfjӧrd, essentially everywhere east of Banak, near the Soviet frontier. The prime minister is not yet ready to approve a full mobilization for fear it will antagonize the Russians. If the situation continues to develop however, I believe we can expect this sometime tomorrow or the next day.” The chief of staff surveyed the map for a moment, letting the room do the same before the G2 took over the briefing once again.
“While a ground invasion by the Soviets would be very difficult this time of year,” the bespectacled short man began meaningfully, “they have significant assets to mount air and seaborne assaults against us. In the event of an invasion, we can expect to face the Russians’ 26th Corps comprised of their 69th Motorized Rifle and 77th Guards Motorized Rifle Divisions. These will almost certainly be joined by the 76th Guards Airborne Division from Pskov, the 36th Independent Landing-Assault Brigade from Leningrad, and the 61st and possibly the 175th Naval Infantry Brigades. In short, as you already know, they have a lot of combat power to throw at us. Nearly five divisions, and that’s before they mobilize reserves. About the only piece of good news is that, given how suddenly this has all developed, the Soviets should require several days to get themselves organized before commencing major offensive operations.”
Erik thought the man seemed rather unconvinced by this logic. It may be sudden to us, though Johansen, but the Russians have probably been plotting for a while.
“Despite the season, the weather is supposed to be calm, cold, and relatively clear for the next several days,” the G2 continued, “so if they want a war, this would be a good time from their perspective to start one. I will be followed by the G3.”
Brigade Nord’s operations officer, a stocky major named Pettersen, rose and looked around the room. “Gentlemen,” he began, “this is not a proper orders brief. We are not at this point executing our full mobilization and deployment plan, but we are operating under the assumption that all the 2nd Mechanized Battalion will deploy forward tomorrow, and we’ll be flying elements of the Telemark Battalion to key points in the hinterland. As such, the battalion’s cavalry squadron, under Rittmester Johansen,” he nodded towards Erik, “will move to Banak tonight to screen the deployment and secure the airfield. A flight of six F-16s, led by Kaptein Olsen,” this time he nodded at Jan, “will also deploy to Banak to conduct defensive counter-air patrols in case the Russians try to test our airspace. The G4 is out coordinating the fuel for your movements right now. We are short on facts at the moment, but we have rehearsed this before. What are your questions?”
Johansen looked around, making quick eye contact with Jan and wondering at how, despite the very different paths they had taken since childhood, they were now together again when their country was in danger. He asked, “Sir, with Kaptein Olsen’s detachment at Banak, can I assume we will have fighter ground attack from the F-16s on call while we are there?”
“No,” Pettersen responded, “the Air Force is there solely to shield our airspace from enemy incursions. They do not have an air-to-ground mission.”
“Sir,” Erik pressed, “my squadron is configured for reconnaissance. We don’t have much firepower ourselves. With no air support, we will be very exposed until the rest of the battalion moves up.”
“We all know the capabilities of your squadron, Rittmester,” noted Major Laub testily.
“Yes, sir,” responded Erik, standing his ground, “but normally the whole battalion would be deploying together and I could call on our artillery for support. In this case we are going to be far forward of any artillery.”
Laub was opening his mouth to respond when Major Pettersen said, “Rittmester, you raise a valid point.” Turning to the brigade’s artillery operations officer, another kaptein seated across the table, and asked, “have we any response on our request to Porsangermoen?”
The artilleryman stirred, then nodded, saying, “Sir, yes. We’re moving a battery of 105-millimeter howitzers up to Banak from the training area at Porsangermoen. They should be there before your vehicles arrive.”
This wasn’t as good as the heavy self-propelled guns from Brigade Nord that Erik was used to calling on, but the addition made him feel somewhat more comfortable.
The artillery kaptein continued, “We are also sending along two forward observers from the Brigade artillery battalion. I believe you have trained with them before? They’ll link up with you after the briefing. The air force is sending along some RBS-70 teams as well.”
This last addition pleased Johansen. The RBS-70 was an effectiv
e, man-portable air defense missile, especially when it was used against low-flying targets like helicopters. He still felt uncomfortable being sent so far ahead of his battalion with such limited support. Is anything really likely to happen anyway? All this is going to just end up being another exercise.
The briefing moved on to some logistical considerations and after a few minutes the chief of staff dismissed Olsen and Johansen to see to their units while the staff continued to prepare the deployment order for the Brigade. Erik grabbed his parka and helmet and walked out of the room with Olsen. They exited the headquarters building into the frigid night air, then across a small parking lot and into an expansive hangar where ground crew were preparing a C-130 Hercules transport for flight. When they stopped, Olsen touched his army friend’s elbow.
“Erik,” the pilot said, “it’s really good to see you. Don’t worry about the air support business. If things go hot, we’ll make sure to keep the Sovs off your back. You should see the things we can do in our Falcons! Wonderfully nimble jets. We can take on anything the Russians send at us. Don’t worry yourself.”
Johansen smiled weakly at his friend’s assurances. “Thanks Jan. Maybe when this all turns out to be a false alarm we can catch up with each other at Banak before coming home. I want to hear about what you’ve been doing with your life. How did things work out between you and Eva anyway?”
“Eva,” Olsen laughed, “that was ages ago! We’ve certainly got some catching up to do. Maybe we’ll get a game of cards going during my ‘crew rest.’”
The two men shook hands. Then the fighter pilot’s face turned serious as he looked his friend full in the face. “I mean it Erik,” he said, “if things get serious, we’ll keep the Russians off your back. I won’t let you down. You can count on me and my pilots.”
Johansen nodded. Olsen released his hand and walked towards the door as the two promised forward observers approached. These soldiers were experts at coordinating artillery support and had accompanied the rittmester’s squadron before on training deployments. Erik respected their abilities and was glad to have them. Johansen shook the men’s hands before moving deeper into the hangar.
At the back of the hangar Erik could see the air force RBS-70 teams with their launchers and missile reloads, some sitting on their packs, others sprawled out on the concrete, using their rucksacks as pillows to catch a few minutes of sleep. He was just thinking of doing the same when he heard the hissing and squealing of air brakes. The busses carrying his command had arrived outside. Erik smiled as he heard the familiar sounds of his sergeants barking at the sleeping soldiers, herding them off the busses. The men filed into the warm hangar, fell into troop formation, then on command dropped their packs.
Johansen’s squadron stab-sergeant approached with his commander’s pack and weapon. Erik accepted them and asked, “How was the drive, sergeant?”
“Easy, sir. The roads were clear, no ice. Probably too cold for that. Most of the men got some rest the whole way from Skjӧld.”
Johansen drew a deep breath and said, “They’re going to need it.”
CHAPTER 34
0540 MSK, Sunday 13 Feb 1994
0240 Zulu
USS Connecticut (SSN 22), X-Ray Station, northeast of Murmansk, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic
COMMANDER ROGERS AWOKE to the duty officer gently shaking his shoulder.
“Skipper?” the young man was saying softly. “Skipper?”
Rogers sat up in his bunk. The captain tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes with both palms as he croaked, “What is it?”
“Skipper, you’re needed on the bridge. The XO has the con and an ELF message just came in,” the man reported.
The captain nodded wearily and grunted, “Alright, give me a minute.”
The officer withdrew as Rogers moved to his small sink to splash water on his face and run his hand across the stubble he had neglected to shave before lying down. Glancing at the ship’s clock above the small mirror he saw: 02:41. The submarine operated on Zulu, or Greenwich Mean Time, while on patrol. So much for a good night’s sleep.
The skipper slipped on his shoes and walked the few paces from his cabin, barking, “Coffee!” as he entered the control room.
The executive officer, anticipating his commander’s foul mood, wordlessly and rapidly relinquished the captain’s chair to its rightful occupant.
Settling into the seat, Rogers asked his second-in-command gruffly, “What’s up, XO?” as a seaman appeared at his elbow handing him a steaming mug of dark brew. Rogers took a tentative sip and allowed the taste of the bitter coffee that came out of Connecticut’s galley to bring him fully awake.
“Sir, ELF just came in,” the XO, reported, “DEFCON Four. We’ve got a lot of surface activity in the channel to our east, but we need to go shallow within the next hour to receive a message from COMSUBLANT. Doesn’t seem to be much wiggle room in the order either, Skipper,” he finished, handing over the message printout.
Rogers snapped the message out of the XO’s hand and read it. He looked up at the tactical display, noting that the number of surface contacts on the screen had indeed multiplied since he’d turned in less than three hours before. This is going to be fun, he thought, his mood darkening further. Then shaking his head, he ordered, “General quarters!”
The crew of the Connecticut went through the well-practiced drill of bringing their boat up to communications depth. During the ascent, the sonar room continued to report on the contacts to their east, “Lots of pinging at something, Skipper. Multiple active sonar sources between bearings zero-five-five and zero-seven-zero.”
That’s odd, thought Rogers, there shouldn’t be any other boats nearby except us. No chance of finding us if we can hear them from twenty miles away. He took a long draught from the steaming mug, but he was already wide awake. It’s almost as if the Sovs want to be absolutely sure that there’s no one else in the channel.
The drill of retrieving the burst satellite message lasted only thirty-eight seconds this time, since their antennae received only one short message and sent none. Even so, the captain was wincing by the time the communications crew reeled the buoy back down.
“Sir,” the ECM petty officer was reporting, “lots more activity up there than last time. It’s going to take me a while to sort it all out and classify. I can’t guarantee they didn’t get a radar hit on us.”
Rogers swore under his breath. That would mean he would need to maneuver the boat to a completely new spot to preclude any nosy frigates finding him, and the shallow waters here at the mouth of the Kola Inlet didn’t offer an abundance of good hiding places for a deep-water nuke-boat like his. This is going to take hours, Rogers thought. That message better be worth it.
“Sparks,” the nervous communications officer, Lieutenant Santamaria, approached with the print out and handed it over, then backed away in anticipation of the outburst he expected from his skipper. Rogers looked down, seeing that the message was just three measly lines, and read:
FROM: COMSUBLANT
TO: CMDR, USS CONNECTICUT SSN22
ADOPT DEFCON 4 RPT ADOPT DEFCON 4. ADOPT INCREASED INTELLIGENCE GATHERING POSTURE AND STRENGTHEN SECURITY MEASURES. EXPECT INCREASED REDFLT ACTIVITY IN NEXT 72 HRS. END.
“Goddammit!” he raged, throwing the message on the deck in frustration and slopping hot coffee over his hand.
After a moment, the XO ventured, “What is it, Skipper?”
Rogers calmed himself down and shook his hand so that splatters of coffee flew all around the control room. He leaned over and picked up the message and handed it over to the XO. The second-in-command scanned it, muttering, “…increased intel gathering and security…”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Rogers said, venting his frustration, “that’s what DEFCON Four means! They didn’t need to call us to comms depth to tell us that, and we already know the R
ussians are getting ready to sortie. We can hear it for ourselves.” He gestured vaguely to the east. “Probably some pansy-assed staff puke trying to be a little too helpful, putting us all at risk so he can look busy.”
His outburst done, the captain took another slug of the coffee and settled deeper into his chair. There wasn’t time to spare on tantrums. Let’s get this done. “Alright,” he said wearily, starting again, “let’s start the evasion drill. Con, make your depth…”
CHAPTER 35
0400 CET, Sunday 13 Feb 1994
0300 Zulu
Søfjӧrd, Troms, Norway
LØYTNANT SIGRUD BERG, Executive Officer of 2nd Mechanized Battalion’s cavalry squadron, stood at the front of a long line of military vehicles, staring in frustration at the scene in front of him. He and his motley collection of M113s, G-Wagens, and trucks pulling 40mm Bofors guns had been on the road for nearly five hours, creeping through the night along Norway’s rugged Arctic coast at between twenty-five and forty kilometers-per-hour. In the darkness to his left was the black expanse of the open-water Kvænangen fjӧrd. Behind him rose snowy-white, glacier-carved mountains. The E6, the only major highway leading into Norway’s far north, was just a narrow two-lane road at this point. In short, he could take in at a glance all of the terrain factors that made military operations in Northern Norway so difficult, especially in winter.
Occupying his thoughts at this particular moment was not the physical landscape but rather the jumbled wreck of an overturned flatbed truck, its cargo of large pipes strewn all over the two-hundred-fifty-meter-long Sørstraumen Bru. The bridge was the only way across the Kvænangen fjӧrd, and right now it was impassable.
Berg could see rotating blue lights on the other side of the wreckage, about halfway across the span. The local Politi must have just gotten here too, he thought. Ahead in the darkness he could see an officer in a fluorescent yellow vest picking his way through the pipes towards the military convoy. The løytnant walked forward and met the man.