Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  He tapped Sokolov on the shoulder and spoke into the intercom over the noise of the engines, “How are you directing the artillery for your assault on the airfield?” Romanov could see flashes and smoke rising near the runway, ten kilometers beyond the border.

  Sokolov nodded and answered in a loud voice, “Spetsnaz seized the airfield ten minutes ago. They are directing the deep fires. For the closer ones, the KGB border troops have kept good records on where the Norges’ positions are.” Romanov nodded. The Soviet special mission soldiers would be playing a similar role in his own regiment’s assault tomorrow.

  As Ilya was looking out of his window, trying to discern the pattern of the artillery strikes, several fast-moving objects flashed by a thousand meters beneath him. He made out the twin-tailed profiles of four Mig-29 fighters flying west. He then discerned a second westbound flight of four more fighters further south, and another flight of three jets, these ones single-tailed Mig-23s, returning in the opposite direction. The sky seemed suddenly full of military aircraft either flying towards or returning from Norway.

  CHAPTER 57

  1330 CET, Sunday 13 February 1994

  1230 Zulu

  Banak Airbase, Lakselv, Troms, Norway

  RITTMESTER JOHANSEN STOOD back from the small crowd of milling civilians standing around the chief of the Banak Coast Guard station as the man belted out instructions. His message was punctuated by another sonic boom overhead and what was certainly an explosion not too far away. Low murmurs filled the air among the group of worried people waiting for evacuation in this small passenger terminal, confusion was mounting. The people had been called out from their homes by the local Politi, assisted by a squad of Johansen’s dragons, after the belated evacuation order had come from Oslo.

  “Again,” the Coast Guard officer was saying loudly, “we have room for children under ten years of age, their mothers, and the elderly aboard the evacuation flights. We have only two aircraft and—”

  “Is the government sending more?” shouted someone in the crowd.

  The officer shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m sure they will. For now, though, this is the priority: children, mothers, and elderly. We have space aboard the two aircraft for one-hundred and twenty-four passengers. Now we’ll line up here, and as you pass by please give me your name,” the man continued talking. If he stops, the news would likely sink in and chaos would erupt, Johansen thought. He knew that the town of Lakselv, just south of the airfield, contained more than two thousand residents, and that less than a tenth of these would fit on the two Fokker 50 commuter turboprop aircraft warming up on the tarmac outside for the flight south. A couple of hundred others were now leaving aboard the Coast Guard frigate Nordcapp up the fjӧrd from the town. He could see and hear women and children begin to cry as they nonetheless followed instructions from the officer to form a queue. Families were being ripped apart before his eyes, nursing mothers, babies, and toddlers forced to leave behind fathers and older siblings. Some women began to say that they would not go but were quickly calmed by husbands, sons, and friends.

  An elderly couple caught the rittmester’s attention among the pandemonium of staff trying to gain control and direct the civilians, and tearful goodbyes. An old man was supporting a woman who Johansen supposed was his wife, speaking softly to her in the chaos. As they approached the airman with the clipboard the old man bent down, kissed the woman on the cheek in a very un-Norwegian display of open affection, and began walking towards the exit at the back of the small terminal.

  Johansen started forward, intercepting the old man before he exited the building. “Where are you going, Bestefar?” he called, using the generic Norwegian term for grandfather.

  The man turned. There were tears in his eyes.

  “You should get on the plane,” it was more of a question than a statement, Johansen realized.

  The man was, like nearly all Norwegians, clearly athletic. Bundled against the cold in well-worn layers, he faced Johansen, drawing himself up to his full height, and said, “I was here the last time invaders came to our country, my boy. I am going—” his voice broke, and the rittmester could see that the old man was looking beyond himself, back towards the queue where the old woman was ambling towards the commuter plane, helped on the arm of a young Coast Guard air crewman. The man swallowed, composing himself, then continued, “I am going to do what I did in the last war. I am going home to get my rifle and fight the Russians, just like the Germans. This time my wife will be safe.” The old man put his hand on Johansen’s shoulder and looked into the rittmester’s eyes, asking, “Can you promise me she will be safe in the south, Kaptein? I will fight with you here.”

  Now it was Johansen’s turn to swallow his emotion. He paused for a long moment, the old fighter’s hand on his shoulder. Then he nodded and said, “We will do all that we can, Bestefar, I promise you that.”

  The old man nodded, and his hand dropped to his side. Then he was gone, out the door in a swirl of icy wind and blowing snow, to once more face his nation’s enemies.

  Looking over his shoulder, Johansen could see that the loading of the aircraft was continuing. They were fortunate that the two SAS Fokker commuter planes had been at Banak in the first place, though many people would still remain in the town. Nothing more here required his attention, so Johansen turned and walked towards his makeshift headquarters in the Coast Guard hangar.

  Arriving in the small office, he turned to the man trying to contact battalion on the high frequency radio with a curt, “Situation report?” The phone line had gone dead hours ago.

  “Sir,” the man said, “we’re getting a lot of interference. Hard to hear anything, but a broken transmission from Major Laub a few minutes ago said that the entire battalion was getting on the road, en route to Banak.”

  Johansen nodded. The electronic jamming of the radio communications was to be expected but, Twelve hours! he thought. It will take 2nd Battalion twelve hours to get here. That’s how long we have to hold Banak on our own. Can the Russians even get here by then?

  Johansen’s remembered the old man in the passenger terminal as his eyes caught sight of a framed piece of paper on the wall. The document was so familiar that he’d not even noticed it when they first arrived, but now, with his country under attack and his countrymen taking up arms of their own accord to defend each other, the famous “poster on the wall” took on new and vital meaning for Johansen. He began to re-read the lines of the ubiquitous document.

  The “Directives for Military Officers and Ministry Officials upon an Attack of Norway” was colloquially known as the “poster on the wall” because of the unwritten tradition that it be displayed in every Norwegian military office. The document’s origin was in World War II, when confusion in the Defense Ministry during the Nazi invasion of 1940, along with the traitorous radio broadcasts of the hated Vidkun Quisling, had so hampered the Norwegian military’s mobilization that the country had succumbed to occupation in just two months. The Directive was a measure to ensure that history did not repeat itself.

  Johansen’s eyes scanned down the large piece of paper, lingering on the phrases that had become immortal to Norway’s defenders since Royal Decree had published the regulation in 1949. Commit all available forces to the defense as soon as possible, he read. Continue to resist even if the situation is hopeless…even if the King and government are captured or incapacitated…even if the enemy threatens reprisals against civilians…even if alone and isolated.

  Alone and isolated. The words stuck in Erik’s mind. That is what we are now. His thoughts returned to the old man in the terminal. According to the Norwegian constitution, every citizen of the country bore the responsibility to defend it from aggression. Even so, he was humbled by the old partisan’s commitment to this principle, his willingness to take up arms now in what would probably be called the third world war. I will not fail him, Johansen determined. Then, thin
king of all the other civilians not fortunate enough to gain a seat on the evacuation flight he thought, I will not fail any of them.

  Johansen stood suddenly and said to his radio operator, “Nils, come. We’re going out to inspect the squadron’s positions.” He would make sure that his dragons had taken every measure possible to secure their country, this town, and its airbase from attack.

  As the two men strode from the stuffy warmth of the office out into the cold of the February day, Johansen could hear the two Fokker 50 evacuation aircraft revving their engines as the first one taxied towards the runway. Overhead, the rumble of jets intruded on his consciousness like the nagging of a squeaky wheel.

  CHAPTER 58

  1334 CET, Sunday 13 February 1994

  1234 Zulu

  Over Vadsø, Finnmark, Norway

  “PILOT,” ILYA HEARD Sokolov speak curtly into the aircraft’s intercom, “my assault into Vadsø is scheduled to land soon. When will we arrive over the town?”

  “Three minutes, tovarich Colonel,” responded the pilot.

  Ilya heard the drone of the Il-22’s engines as they continued north. Their track took them across the Varangerfjӧrd, where the first air battles of the war had occurred less than an hour before. The small town of Vadsø sat forty kilometers from Kirkenes. The aircraft settled into a lazy orbit three thousand meters above the small fishing community just as the transports and gunships of Sokolov’s assault company arrived from the east.

  Ilya watched with professional dispassion as the assault went in. Two groups of Mi-8 helicopters delivered the assault company to snowy landing zones around the sleepy fishing town. Splitting off, a group of four transports circled around the town while the other four landed a platoon on the flat eastern end of Vadsøya Island. There, a clearing around the archaic airship mast from which the famed arctic explorer Roald Amudnsen had launched his airship Norge to overfly the North Pole in 1926 provided a convenient landing zone. A larger group of nine aircraft, including a huge Mi-26 carrying two small BMD armored vehicles, settled down around the thousand-meter-long runway of the small Vadsø airport, three kilometers east of the town. Romanov could also see four gunships, the big helicopters’ stubby, down-turned wings laden with rockets and missiles, their pilots and co-pilot-gunners waiting inside their bulbous canopies to swoop in on any enemy who dared show himself.

  They didn’t have long to wait. The platoon on Vadsøya moved rapidly to seize the short causeway connecting the island to the rest of the town. Once across, they encountered the first resistance.

  Romanov guessed that the Norwegian reservists had been deployed to defend the town’s small harbor from a seaborne attack. The rapid advance from Vadsøya caught them repositioning to meet the new threat. A Soviet forward air controller, or FAC, was soon radioing directions and the lead gunship dove.

  Romanov observed approvingly as the pilots executed a classic “form a circle” attack, which he’d often seen in Afghanistan. In this maneuver, the gunships dove one at a time, firing their rockets and chin-mounted cannon in a high-speed run at the target. Then the pilot increased power and pulled out of the dive, banking the helicopter sharply in one direction or the other. The evasive maneuver cleared the airspace for the next gunship to attack, while the first helicopter wagon-wheeled back around to rejoin the queue. The key advantage of this tactic was that it minimized the amount of time each helicopter was vulnerable to ground fire and that, if they received any, the following gunship could rapidly adjust to engage its source.

  No ground fire rose to meet them today. Cannon shells spit out from the helicopter’s chin gun while rockets rippled out of pods beneath stubby wings and streaked downward, exploding in sparks and gray smoke among the scrambling figures of the Home Guardsmen who had been foolish enough to be caught in the open in the confines of the snowy street. The first helicopter surged upwards and to the right while the second Mi-24, was just nosing over to begin its run above Vadsø’s harbor-front.

  Over the next several minutes the gunships methodically worked over the buildings and streets around the harbor area. Rockets and anti-tank missiles crashed into the warehouses and offices along the waterfront. Cannon shells riddled roofs and walls before exploding inside, terrorizing reservists and civilians alike. Despite himself, Romanov regretted the wanton destruction being dealt to the small fishing town. The effect was decisive however, as the gunships’ fire provided cover for the desantniki to dash across the causeway and into the town.

  Once the first soldiers were ensconced in a warehouse on the mainland side, they laid down a base of fire for the rest to advance deeper into the town, clearing buildings with grenades and bursts of rifle fire as they went. The Norwegians, still stunned by the speed and violence of the attack, either died or fell back to make a desperate stand north of the harbor area.

  Firing from windows in the town hall, or Rådhus, a group of defenders caught an advancing Soviet squad in the open. Romanov saw three desantniki drop in quick succession in the open ground outside the house. Moments later he heard the platoon’s forward air controller direct the circling Hinds to engage the structure. In seconds, rockets and missiles smashed into the Rådhus’ heavy masonry walls.

  The helicopters’ gun runs suppressed the defenders sufficiently to allow a squad of desantniki to stream across the road into the fortified building. Circling overhead, Romanov could see the paratroopers disappear into the front entrance. He’d been in this sort of fight before, clearing from room to room, throwing grenades wherever they encountered resistance and finishing the defenders off with bursts from their AK-74s. The fighting would be close, violent, bloody, and quick.

  After several minutes the radio crackled, “Yastreb One-Zero-Zero, this is Two-One-One. We have secured the harbor area and are encountering no more resistance north of our positions. I have casualties. The local clinic has been occupied to treat them. There is a Norwegian doctor here who has agreed to help. I will wait here for the rest of the company to arrive from the airfield. End.”

  Romanov nodded, satisfied with the way the action had played out. The platoon had done about as much as they could do against resistance in a built-up area, and the commander was wise to pause after overcoming the enemy around the harbor. The rest of the company was racing from the airfield, three kilometers east of town, advancing on foot but supported by the two tracked BMDs, with several commandeered civilian vehicles in tow.

  Sokolov responded, “Acknowledged, Two-One-One. Treat your wounded, then be prepared to push on to your second objective. Have your company commander report to me when you have achieved linkup. End.”

  Romanov stood up and stepped across the Il-22’s cabin to examine a situation map that showed the brigade’s objectives. Grease pencil marks on plexiglass showed anticipated Norwegian positions in blue and planned Soviet assaults in red. Ilya saw that the company now taking control of Vadsø would leave a platoon to secure the town and airfield while the remainder of the assault company raced sixty kilometers west along undefended roads to seize the bridge over the Tana River. This was the next major choke point along the route from Kirkenes to the interior of Norway.

  His eyes wandered to symbols indicating a seaborne assault on the ports of Baksefjӧrd. These ports, and more importantly their adjacent airfields, would enable Soviet forces to control the Northern Norway shoreline, allowing them to leapfrog seaward around Norwegian defensive positions. Romanov saw that the force going ashore at Ifjӧrd consisted of two full companies of naval infantry, aimed at controlling the twenty-five kilometers of the E6 that traced the jagged head of the Laksefjӧrd, the last major obstacle on the road to Banak.

  Banak: the ultimate objective of this first day’s offensive in the north. Ilya’s pulse quickened as he took in what Sokolov had planned there.

  Roman Sokolov tapped Ilya on the shoulder. He hadn’t heard the other man come over to the map, being momentarily absorbed in cont
emplating the Red Army’s strategy for the far north. In typical Soviet fashion, Ilya had only been privy to the plans for his own division’s employment. Seeing the full picture gave him a sense of both the magnitude and the difficulties of his country’s offensive here.

  Sokolov indicated Vardø with his finger. “That’s where we’re going next,” he said into the intercom. “We’ll see what those naval infantry boys can do!”

  CHAPTER 59

  1338 CET, Sunday 13 February 1994

  1238 Zulu

  Viper Two-One, over Alta, Finnmark, Norway

  “VIPER TWO-ONE, BACKSTOP,” the ground radar controller called. Olsen and Bjorn circled in their F-16s over Alta, seventy kilometers west of Banak.

  “Go ahead, Backstop,” Jan answered.

  After ambushing the Flankers in the opening seconds of the war, he and Bjorn had been kept in reserve as other flights of F-16s surged forward to parry Soviet raids all over Northern Norway. Ten minutes earlier, Backstop had ordered another pair from Olsen’s Eagle Squadron eastward to escort an evacuation flight out of Vardø, a coastal village in the far northeast. Jan clenched his jaw in anticipation, they would be called on next as their comrades either ran out of fuel, missiles, or were shot down or damaged in combat. I’m ready, he told himself

  “Two-One, we have two evacuation aircraft lifting off from Banak,” Backstop said. “Vector zero-nine-zero and fly top cover for them until they’re clear. Right now we show nothing inbound to that location, but plenty of action to the south. The Soviets are violating Finnish airspace and moving across Lapland, over.”