by Bart Gauvin
The Russian captain was stunned. He knew in that moment that his ship would not survive this attack. Even his nimble craft could not realistically hope to evade what almost certainly were homing torpedoes fired at point blank range. Despite this, he decided to do what he could in the two minutes or less that his command had left.
“Hard turn to starboard!” he ordered. “Weapons officer, I want a missile targeted at each of those contacts now!”
“But captain!” the weapons officer responded, “Contacts are still very weak, and our firing solutions are too poor!”
“We have no time,” the captain responded as he felt the deck pitch beneath his feet, his ship heeling to starboard, “we must counterattack now while we’re afloat!”
Seconds later the Priboy and its consorts had reversed their courses and were churning south as three missiles exploded out of the large tube launchers mounted to either side and beneath each corvette’s bridge. Twelve fiery tails of gray smoke as they streaked south towards the oncoming Norwegian missile boats.
Aboard Terne, Møller judged that the enemy was finally within range of his Penguin II missiles and ordered their launch. The four weapons rippled out of the box launcher on the fantail of his ship. As his boat turned hard to port to make for the safety of the cliffs and inlets to the south, he ordered his radar turned on. Møller puffed out his sunken cheeks in a sigh, feeling craven breaking contact while Rapp and Storm continued on. At least he could help by reestablishing radar contact so that the other two boats could launch at their maximum range. Just as Terne settled into her southward course, Møller heard one of his lookouts shout, “Vampire!”
The missile warning would not have done Terne any good had the Soviet weapons been better aimed, but as it was the captain only caught sight of the gray-painted projectile as it shot past his ship, its active radar seeker homing in on the return it was receiving from the cliffs beyond. A second later he saw the corkscrewing gray smoke trail of a Mistral surface-to-air missile leave its pedestal mount aboard Rapp, still surging northward through the choppy seas. He tracked the defensive weapon as it feathered north, its smoke trail disappearing as the rocket motor burned out. Then there was a small puff in the distance followed by a bigger flash as the Mistral found the incoming Soviet weapon, exploding it half a mile away.
The captain pumped his fist in triumph, but his celebration was cut short a moment later when Storm disappeared, enveloped within a thunderous flash. The watery explosion morphed into a dirty gray cloud that obscured his view of the boat. When the cloud cleared, all that remained of the Storm and her nineteen crewmen were pieces of jagged debris bobbing in the swell.
“Captain, missile warning south!” the commander aboard Priboy heard his radar officer call. The threat would have concerned him more if he were not so certain that his command was already doomed by the homing torpedoes closing on his ship’s stern. Now he only hoped that his ship could attract enough missiles to give the others in his flotilla a chance at survival.
“Defensive weapons released. Fire at will,” he ordered in a soft, dreamlike voice.
Forward of the bridge, the Priboy’s AK-630 close-in weapons system rotated slightly as the six-barreled rotary cannon in the small turret cued towards the radar returns from an incoming Penguin missile. The computerized brain of the system assessed the target’s course and speed for a moment, then the gun let loose a strobing tongue of fire with an ear-splitting BRRRRP that sent a string of thirty-millimeter projectiles arcing forward. One of the large bullets connected, smashing the Penguin into pieces that careened violently into the water just a few meters away.
The other three Nanuchkas’ defensive fire joined that of Priboy’s, sending streams of automatic fire southward to knock down three of the four incoming Norwegian missiles. The fourth evaded the Russian fire by performing an evasive bob and weave maneuver just before it dove through the plate glass of the Priboy’s bridge windows and detonated its warhead, killing the Soviet captain and his entire bridge crew. Seconds later the torpedo fired by the Ulstein completed the corvette’s destruction, along with one of her sister ships, in two massive watery explosions.
Minutes later, four more Penguin missiles, these ones fired by Rapp, swept in among the two surviving Russian ships. Two fell to gunfire, but two more dove into the rearmost Nanuchka and exploded. This ship’s crew had just managed to evade their pursuing torpedoes, but now the small craft was left on fire and listing heavily.
Two Russian corvettes had been sunk and another crippled. Tallied against this was the loss of the Norwegian missile-torpedo boat, Storm, which in a stroke of luck or bad radar conditions was the only victim of the twelve missiles the Russians had launched, leaving Møller wondering how long he would last in this violent, confused high-tech form of war.
CHAPTER 61
1342 CET, Sunday 13 February 1994
1242 Zulu
Northwest of Vardø, Finnmark, Norway
WHILE THE IL-22 Command aircraft flew the sixty kilometers northwest from Vadsø to Vardø, a second engagement between Norwegian and Soviet warships unfolded north of the town of Batsfjӧrd. Ilya listened over the radio to catch snippets of the engagement. A pair of Norwegian missile boats sallied out from the jagged coast northwest of Vardø and engaged a line of Soviet Osa-class missile craft that were sweeping westward, sinking two before missiles from a lurking group of Soviet Tarantul-class corvettes annihilated the Norwegians.
Ilya Romanov let out a breath as the naval combat resolved. When the engagement began, he and Sokolov had looked out their windows to the north, straining their eyes to try to observe the action. The flashes on the horizon announced the sinking of the small warships, both NATO and Soviet. Death, thought Ilya, those are just some of the many deaths taking place today. A deep resignation, sadness even, was settling over his features as violence claimed lives all around him. The same sadness had gripped him during all of his combat duty in Afghanistan. From that experience, Ilya knew the feeling would soon metamorphize into a grim determination to end the conflict as quickly as possible, through swift victory.
Now Sokolov was explaining the engagement: “—was an ambush. The coastal naval forces commander used his own missile craft as bait to draw out the Norges where his larger ships further out could smash them. It seems to have worked. Their purpose was to clear the way for our landing at Ifjӧrd.”
Romanov nodded. Still, two missile boats and their crews seem an expensive bait, he thought, picturing the young men on both sides who had just perished in fire amid the icy waters. Even so, he had to admit that the ambush seemed to have achieved its purpose of destroying the Norwegian naval defense.
Next to Ilya, Sokolov grabbed a radio operator by the sleeve and ordered, “Get the navy on the line. I want to know what other losses they’ve taken and if they can still guarantee the safety of our assault convoy going to Ifjӧrd. Go!”
The soldier nodded and made the call. A moment later, the radioman said, “Tovarich Colonel, the naval officer would like to speak to you directly.”
Sokolov grabbed the hand mic away and spoke into it, “This is Yatreb Lead.”
Romanov only caught one-sided snippets of the heated conversation which followed. “Can you secure those transports?” Pause. “Yes, we are all taking losses, what did you expect?” Then Sokolov snorted, “No. We do not have time for you to form another sweep. Can you not move forward with what you have left?”
Sokolov was growing visibly frustrated with the conversation. Finally, he threw the hand-mic down and walked back to the map. Ilya followed him and watched as his friend contemplated his options.
After a moment, Sokolov beckoned a radioman over and directed, “Contact those transports bound for Ifjӧrd.” The vessels carrying the landing force consisted of two huge Zubr-class assault hovercraft, which could skim across the wavetops at better than fifty knots and carried a full company of armore
d vehicles in their expansive holds. They relied upon their speed to evade attacks, but in the narrow confines of the fjӧrd they would be vulnerable. Moreover, given their capabilities, the Zubr-class ships were not an asset that could be risked against unsure odds this early in the war.
“Tell them,” Sokolov said through gritted teeth, “the navy cannot promise their safety from those blasted missile boats all the way to the objective. Order them to put in at their alternate landing site,” he stopped to study the map again for a moment, “at Mehamn.”
Romanov looked at the chart. Mehamn was one of the northernmost settlements in Norway, situated at the northern end of the Nordkinn Peninsula. It was tenuously connected to Ifjӧrd in the south by the ribbon of pavement known as County Road 888. Ilya shivered as he imagined the conditions the naval infantry would encounter on their advance south from the town along a narrow, snow-swept road through the tundra.
“Won’t those marines struggle to get to their objectives from Mehamn?” asked Ilya.
Sokolov looked over at him. “Those naval infantry think they’re so elite, perhaps they should prove it! What do they have all those armored vehicles for, if not a situation like this?” He dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand.
Ilya wasn’t so sure. He doubted those roads would be kept clear of snow through the long, dark winter. On the other hand, the eight-wheeled BTRs would be good vehicles to make the trip, and Romanov was impressed with his colleague’s flexibility in ordering the change of objective. This flexibility also spoke well of the planning his staff had done to prepare this operation, the same kind of planning Ilya’s staff was now conducting back at Olenya.
Pushing the thought from his mind, Ilya returned to his seat and directed his attention downward, looking at Vardø’s harbor area. Below, a flotilla of small, antiquated landing craft carrying a company of Soviet naval infantry was passing unopposed through the harbor’s breakwater, white wakes becoming visible as they entered the calmer waters. The vessels had departed the small Soviet Naval base at Linhammar north of Pechenga several hours earlier. Ilya continued to watch as the five-landing craft rumbled up to the snowy shoreline and dropped their ramps.
Eight-wheeled BTR-70 armored troop transport vehicles drove down the ramps and into the lapping surf, then up and onto the icy beach with white-clad marines trotting behind them. Romanov watched the infantry advance across the beach and the mere hundred meters south before reaching the Vardø tunnel, which connected the mainland and the town two and a half kilometers away on Vardøya Island. Another hundred meters, and the BTRs were rolling across the thousand-meter-long runway of the airport. From the island the town’s Norwegian defenders, reservists all, could do nothing but watch as the Soviet troops took control of the harbor and runway.
Ilya looked on, contemplating the one-two punches of the airborne and marine descent across Northern Norway. These assaults would clear the way for the motor rifle troops in the Kola to sprint deep into Norway with their tanks and artillery, despite the restrictive terrain up here in the Arctic. I can only pray for such smooth execution in my own operations, thought Romanov.
Sokolov leaned across to Ilya and slapped him on the back, saying into the intercom, “We’re heading from here down to Kirkenes to watch the assault there. After that, we fly west to Banak. My pathfinders are scheduled to go into the drop zones there in an hour.”
Romanov nodded his understanding. Then, looking out the window, he could see their Il-22 had picked up an escort of twin-tailed MiG-29s, bringing the import of Sokolov’s statement home to Ilya. They were heading back south, into contested airspace for the first time today. He hoped the VVS was doing as well clearing the skies over Norway as the marines and Sokolov’s airborne troops were at seizing the ground.
CHAPTER 62
1644 MSK, Sunday 13 February 1994
1244 Zulu
USS Connecticut (SSN 22), mouth of the Kola Inlet, Barents Sea
COMMANDER ETHAN ROGERS clenched and unclenched his balled left fist in frustration as he sat, waiting, in Connecticut’s control room. An old high school injury to his right hand had cut short a promising career as a quarterback, and his left hand always became more active when he felt stressed. He sported a five o’clock shadow, having not torn himself away from the control room long enough to walk the few meters to his cabin to splash water on his face and shave. His boat was out of immediate danger after its close brush with the Kuznetsov battle group half an hour before, but still very close to the enemy’s sensors. After the formation passed overhead, the captain ordered his submarine off the bottom and proceeded towards the eastern side of the Kola Inlet’s mouth. That’s where they were waiting now, barely maintaining steerage-way in the shallow waters.
Satisfied that the worst was over, Rogers was about to order the boat to periscope depth to extend their electronic surveillance mast, checking for any lingering snoopers. There was also the need to receive the urgent message from Norfolk and send the burst contact report that Lieutenant Santamaria was keeping queued up in the communication room. That, after all, was the whole point of this patrol: to report on the activities of the Red Banner Northern Fleet.
“Con, Sonar.” The call cut off the captain’s thoughts, “More noise from the inlet sir. It sounds like we have another formation coming out. Multiple contacts. No classification yet, sir,” the sonar chief concluded apologetically. The whole crew had picked up on the skipper’s foul mood.
Rogers’ fist clenched more tightly. The longer he delayed transmitting, the greater the opportunity for the Soviets to hide their carrier in the dark vastness of the Arctic Ocean.
“Very well,” the skipper said tightly. “Let me know when you have something.”
Minutes passed as this new group of Soviet ships emerged from the channel into the more open waters of the Barents Sea. When the chief in charge of the sonar room called again, his voice was far more unsure than it had sounded before. “Captain, I need you to take a look at this again.”
Rogers was out of his seat and inside the sonar room in a heartbeat. The chief’s face was inches away from the green “waterfall” display, studying the slowly descending lines of one of the new contacts.
“What is it, Chief?” the captain asked, impatience plain in his voice.
The sonarman seemed to ignore him for a moment. Rogers was about to repeat his question more sharply when the man leaned back into his seat, touched a finger towards the lines he had been studying, and said in confusion, “It’s another carrier, sir.”
Rogers was non-plussed for a moment. He knew that the Red Banner Northern Fleet’s two helicopter carriers, Baku and Kiev, were both at sea already, and they had just listened to Kuznetsov, the Soviets’ only full-sized carrier, depart the inlet half an hour before.
“What do you mean, ‘another carrier,’ Chief?” Rogers asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “We have all their carriers accounted for already.”
The chief looked back at his captain and said in a level, steady voice, “I mean sir, that this new contact sounds…it sounds almost exactly like the Kuznetsov, sir. It’s.” The man paused for a moment to think, “It doesn’t have that same rattle Kuznetsov gives off from her outermost port screw, but besides that this contact sounds exactly the same, screw noises, propulsion plant, the works.”
Now the captain was puzzled. Another carrier? It couldn’t be, could it? How would the Soviets’ have pulled that off without us knowing about it?
“Chief, you’re sure it’s not the second Kirov that we haven’t detected yet?” he asked. Was it possible they were mistaking one of the Soviet fleet’s large battlecruisers for a second aircraft carrier?
“Negative, sir,” responded the chief quickly, looking a bit miffed at his captain’s doubt. “The Kirovs only have two screws. If you look here,” he indicated the waterfall display with a finger, “you can clearly see this contact has four. The onl
y ship in Red Fleet with four shafts is the Kuznetsov, and we already ID’d her half an hour ago.”
Rogers nodded. Need more coffee, he thought. This day isn’t getting any shorter. If this really is a second Kuznetsov-class boat, then, well then damn the whole day to hell. The captain decided to give voice to his conclusion. “The Soviets must have finished work on the Varyag without us realizing,” he said quietly.
The lingering doubt he had felt about whether or not the world was at war vanished. There could only be one explanation for why the Soviets would rush their second big-deck carrier into operation and send it to sea right behind their first.
The TAKR Varyag, sister-ship of the Admiral Kuznetsov, had been under construction in the Ukraine when the USSR entered its turbulent times in the early ‘90s. For a while, it looked like it might be cancelled entirely due to lack of funds. By the time of Medvedev’s ascension to power, the ship was rusting away down in the Black Sea. The military revitalization program had changed that. Ukrainian shipyards completed construction of the hull and propulsion systems, but then construction stalled again. The Soviet Navy moved the ship to its main base in the Kola last year, where the hulk had continued to sit in apparent neglect. Now, it seemed, that neglect had been more apparent than real. Rogers was seriously beginning to question his own decision not to attack the Kuznetsov earlier. If the Soviets have two big-deck carriers to deploy into the Arctic seas then—
“That seriously changes the balance of power up here,” Rogers muttered.
The chief nodded in agreement. He’d been thinking the same thing.
“Okay,” Rogers said. “Let’s assume that it’s the Varyag. What’s her escort look like?”
The chief turned back to his console and grabbed his yellow notepad. Looking down he reported, “Escort looks to be like the Kuznetsov group, sir. So far we’ve got good tracks on two Udaloy class ships, and two of the Sovremenny—”