Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  0610 Zulu

  Over the Bay of Fundy, between Maine and Nova Scotia

  STARS BLINKED IN a black night sky as Sergeant David Strong stared out the window of the chartered airliner, flying east above a thick layer of clouds towards the port of Halifax. The sky felt large and strange, so different from any other time the Canadian commando had flown. David hadn’t been able to put his finger on why he felt so uneasy until well after they’d departed Ottawa. Then it hit him; theirs was the only plane in the sky, so far as he could tell. He could see no evidence of other aircraft carrying on the commerce of North America, no red and green blinking anti-collision lights, no bright landing lights, not even the soft glow of cabin lights through rows of airplane windows. When David’s jet had rotated off the runway he’d seen the tarmac at Ottawa packed wingtip to wingtip and nose to tail with passenger jets that suddenly had nowhere to go, the terminals full of stranded travelers.

  The previous day had been tense for the Canadian elite warriors of JTF 2, sitting around on high alert since the early morning. Then the news of bombs, missiles, and small arms attacks in New York City and elsewhere in North America shocked everyone. For several hours David half expected to be ordered south towards the St. Lawrence Seaway or even west to the Rockies to hunt Spetsnaz. Instead, the teams spent an awkward afternoon unsure about what to prepare for. The prime minister almost immediately issued a statement that Canada would honor her commitments to her NATO allies, being one of the first governments to do so. The question wasn’t if David and his comrades would fight the Russians, but where, and when.

  Finally, orders came for David’s entire troop to deploy to their planned war station in Halifax in preparation for missions in the North Atlantic. The news broke some of the tension, at least for Strong and his team, who’d spent the last year training to conduct special reconnaissance missions from there. At least that was going as expected. Busses arrived at the secretive Dwyer Hill base, and the men of JTF 2 loaded their packs, equipment, and weapons before grabbing seats for the drive to Ottawa, escorted by a phalanx of armed Mounties in marked vehicles.

  A chartered airliner waited for them, and after they boarded, most of the seats were still empty. In the next row, the hulking Felix “Mouse” Roy stretched his big frame out across three parallel seats and snored peacefully. Felix was always encouraging his sergeant to rest whenever he could, and the team medic usually followed his own advice, seemingly able to sleep anywhere, any time. David suspected that Felix actually saw their deployments as chances to catch up on the sleep that his pack of rambunctious children usually denied him.

  Tonight David found that he couldn’t follow his friend’s advice. He was too amped up for the chance to prove himself on the greatest stage any warrior of his generation could hope for: World War Three. He didn’t particularly care where they were going, other than for curiosity’s sake, or what they would be asked to do, or even who exactly they would be asked to fight. If he was honest with himself, David was actually excited that he had a war to fight, that he would not grow old wondering if he had what it took to fight and win. He was excited for the chance to prove that he was ready.

  Two rows back, the other members of Strong’s team, Corporals Brown and Tenny, were engaged in a quiet game of cards to pass the time and distract each other from their own anxiety. David envied them the diversion, the comradery that he had always struggled to find in his position of leadership. He was in charge, and he had never been able to delegate his responsibility easily. Not that he actually wanted to. So he turned back towards his window, his eyes watching the dark, empty skies while his mind worked overtime, questioning every deficiency in training and equipment in his team, questioning his own abilities, hoping to play a vital role in the coming drama. Whatever lay ahead for Strong and his team, it would start once they touched down in Halifax, on the cold, western shore of the North Atlantic.

  CHAPTER 96

  0920 MSK, Monday 14 Feb 1994

  0620 Zulu

  Olenya Airbase, Murmansk Oblast, Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic

  GUARDS COLONEL ILYA Romanov’s right hand ached from the cold as he stood in the predawn darkness, watching his white-clad, leather jump-helmeted desantniki file past, bent under the weight of their weapons, packs, and parachutes. He refused to pull his glove back on against the icy wind blowing off the airfield’s tarmac. The responsibility he was now fulfilling was too important to allow a little discomfort to interfere.

  As each man trudged out of the relative warmth of the hangar, in which they had assembled and rigged their parachutes, and into the biting cold of the pre-dawn darkness, Romanov grasped his hand in his own and gave each a single, firm, Russian shake, accompanied by the words “Bozhestvennaya skorost.” Godspeed.

  The normal breed of political officers would have been appalled at the spoken blessing and the accompanying inward prayer, but Major Ivan Sviashenik, didn’t object in the least. The political officer stood beside Ilya and offered each man a simple “Udachi.” Good luck.

  This was Romanov’s normal pre-jump ritual, one he had practiced before every jump he had ever commanded. He found that rituals like this calmed the men’s nerves, and his own. More importantly, it told the younger soldiers and officers that their commander valued them, acknowledged the risk they were taking for their country in jumping out of airplanes with nothing to save them from certain death except good planning and a dome of silk. Ilya wanted to look them in the eye one last time before they went. The ritual was even more important now. Today these desantniki would be making their first combat jump, and Romanov was keenly aware of the danger that accompanied this particular assault.

  After returning from observing the 36th Air Landing Brigade’s assault into Norway, Romanov spent ensuing hours debriefing his subordinate battalion commanders on what he had learned. These lessons were important. The drop zones for today’s assault were far more dangerous than the ones Romanov had seen yesterday, and that was before one factored in the possibility of armed resistance.

  Ilya had already shaken nearly three hundred hands, two thirds of the departing formation, the 1st Battalion of Romanov’s 234th Guards Airborne Regiment. The third and final company was now filing past, troopers humping their loads in snaking lines towards the Antonov An-12 and huge An-22 transports that would convey them to their desolate objective. The twenty aircraft required to carry the assault battalion and its vehicles positively crowded both sides of the Olenya Airbase’s apron.

  Finally, the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Filipov, and his political officer exited the hangar. Filipov took Ilya’s proffered hand, but this time Romanov did not let go. The battalion commander looked up into his chief’s eyes, and Romanov said with feeling, “Take care of your men, Colonel. I send you because you’re my best. Have you spoken to the pilots?”

  “Da, Ilya Georgiyevich,” answered Filipov. “I gathered them together an hour ago and reminded them how small our drop zone is, and how important it is that they stick exactly to the flight plan.” He then paused before saying wryly, “I told them that if they drop me in the drink, they could expect me to hunt them down, either in this life or the next. The younger ones I think bought it,” he concluded with a barked laugh.

  Romanov smiled appreciatively and released his subordinate’s hand. He appreciated Filipov’s gallows humor. Such jokes were common among paratroopers of any army, but particularly here in the Soviet Union where cynicism was something of a national pastime. Both officers understood that if Filipov were to haunt any of the transport pilots, it would be from beyond the grave. None of the assembled paratroopers could expect to survive being dropped into the icy waters of the Arctic Ocean. Romanov prayed that none of them would find need to discover this fact.

  As Filipov moved on, following his men to their planes, one last officer emerged from the hangar.

  “Ah, Major Medvedev,” Romanov gras
ped his young staff officer’s hand, “I thought I might have missed you.”

  “Nyet, tovarich Colonel, I’m the last one out,” said Medvedev.

  Romanov smiled and released the younger man’s hand, finally returning his own achingly cold hand to the warmth of its glove.

  “The good Colonel Filipov has no objections to you accompanying him?” Romanov asked. Filipov was a good officer, but he could be touchy about people looking over his shoulder. Of course, looking over Filipov’s shoulder was not the reason Romanov was sending one of his staff along on this jump. Rather, he wanted at least one officer in his headquarters to see the conditions at the vital preliminary objective that Filipov’s battalion was to seize today, to really understand the vital supply line to their ultimate objective: Iceland.

  “To be honest, I believe he’s thinking too much about the water to even notice me, my Colonel,” answered Medvedev with a half-smile. “He really does fear being dropped in the drink, and he doesn’t care who knows it.”

  “Yes,” Romanov said, “as he should. You take care of yourself, Major. I do not wish to have to explain to your father how I managed to get you killed on the second day of the war.”

  “No, he can be a difficult man to explain such things to,” smiled Medvedev. He knew that Colonel Romanov was one of the few people to whom his big name did not mean a whit. Romanov consistently showed the same individual concern for all of his men.

  Medvedev moved off, hobbling to catch up to Filipov and his file as quickly as his heavy load would allow. Romanov and Sviashenik turned to watch them go. The turboprop engines of the transports on the airfield were starting to cough, filling the air with the drone of propellers and smell of aviation fuel.

  Romanov hated that he was not accompanying his men on this dangerous mission, hated that they would be going into harm’s way while he was still safe here in Russia. He knew that it had to be this way. Filipov’s mission was only a preliminary one. The big show for Romanov’s regiment would not occur until a day from now, and Ilya was experienced enough, and professional enough to know that his place would be with the other two-thirds of his command.

  Watching the last few desantniki file up the ramps onto their planes, Romanov said to Sviashenik, “They are good men, Ivan Avramovich. I only hope that the cause we are sending them to fight for is worthy of them.”

  “It’s not,” the political officer said with his usual irreverence. “It never is.”

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS

  Northern Fury: H-Hour is the first in a series of books that tell the story of the northern front of World War III. To hear about upcoming releases and progress in this series, as well as the book series that will cover other theaters of the war, you can sign up to our mailing list here: http://eepurl.com/gkyzaX.

  If you have an interest in more detailed subjects linked to the Northern Fury series, you can go to our companion website here: www.northernfury.us and find a treasure trove of information on units, equipment capabilities and tactics.

  Are you a wargamer? Interested in how we created some of the action scenes? Curious about how modern technologies are employed? You may want to try out the game: Command: Modern Air/Naval Operations from WarfareSims.com available from Matrix Games or on Steam.

  Finally, if you enjoyed the book and would like to share your thoughts with others, you could rate the book and leave a review on Amazon. We would very much appreciate your feedback

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Bart Gauvin is a veteran of more than thirty-years of service as an artillery officer in the Canadian Army. In his free time, he builds exciting scenarios set in the Northern Fury universe for the war game Command: Modern Air/Naval Operations. He resides with his wife, Tammy, and two distracting pugs in Ontario, Canada.

  Joel Radunzel is a veteran of more than ten years’ service in the US Army. As a kid, he occasionally provided cover for his missionary parents to smuggle Bibles through the Iron Curtain into Eastern Europe. He resides wherever the US Army sends him, along with his wife Jill and growing passel of kids.