by Stephen Makk
“Yeah, could be.”
Whitt pulled his hood down against the biting wind. “I think it’s time for a bit of quiet attrition; even the number up a bit.”
“Sounds ok with me,” said Ford. He could hear the smile behind the operator’s face mask.
“Give me your handset.”
Ford handed over his hand-held communications device.
“Marjan.”
She looked up from digging the snow hole.
“Here’s a comms device; it’s set to the channel we’ll be on. To talk, just press…”
“I know how to use it; we had similar in the IDF.”
Whitt raised his eyebrows. “You were in the IDF?”
“Yes, for two years, and then you go part time for longer.”
“Me and Ford are going out for a walk. We’ll need this to find you when we get back.”
“Nice night for a walk. Do you want me to come along?” She knew roughly what they were up to.
“No, you stay and look after Nils. Our call sign will be Rubber Duck. If you need to use a torch, be brief.”
“Ok, I’ll be Momma Duck. Good luck, sir.”
“Thanks.” Whitt took out his own comms device, accessed the GPS section and typed in Momma and saved it. That was all he needed, in theory, but he’d seen such things fail so he’d assume it wouldn’t work.
He turned and skiied over to Ford.
“I don’t know where they are, but I’ve a feeling from last contact they’re probably southeast of here.”
“Ok, good enough. Let’s go.” Whitt took a mental note of the bearing that they’d need to get back to their two charges afterwards.
The two of them skiied off into the dark whiteout, and soon they were alone pushing on through the blown snow.
“Ok, Ford,” said Whitt, pulling up, “we must be a couple of miles from those two back in camp. Let’s do it here.”
Ford took out a parachute flare from his backpack, pointed it upwards and pulled the firing cord. The flare rushed up high into the air and slowly descended, its burning light illuminated the canopy and trailed smoke.
“That should tempt Ivan. He’ll be coming for his prize. Keep an eye on the east north west arc and I’ll do the south side.”
Both men took out binoculars with thermal sensors. Their eyes were adjusted to the semi darkness, but the wind blew with a cold biting chill. The two SEALs scanned the horizon, to and fro across the icy landscape.
The dark sky loomed above like the black owl of death, poised above pale grey-white desolation. After 30 minutes, Ford spotted movement on the horizon. He watched for long seconds, wanting to be sure.
“Look, movement northwest, men skiing, about eight or ten coming this way.”
Whitt looked too. “That’s them. Let’s go east and get out of the way, find some shelter.”
They skiied off, and 300 yards later found an ice ridge. They took cover and watched. The Russians skiied south and were now level with them, taking loping strides with AK12s slung over their backs.
“Ok, Ford. This is it, forward.”
The two stood and skiied off to a position that would take them just behind the VDV troops. The Russians pulled up.
“Get down.” The two of them laid down and watched.
One of the Russians was looking through binoculars, searching for the Dane and his escort. They moved on to search further south, their skis pushed and swished left, right, left right.
Whitt and Ford got up and skiied off to a position to the rear of the Russians, then moved up towards the rearmost Russian troops.
Whitt got closer, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Ford doing the same. He could hear the Russian panting now and see his breath. This was it.
Whitt pushed on harder and then, right behind the Russian, he pulled out his Ontario Mk3 knife, pulled the man’s head backwards closed his thumb over his mouth and slit his throat. The man struggled for a few moments and then went down at the knees.
He left the man on the ice, blood spreading across the snow and looked to Ford; he’d dropped a man too. Whitt nodded forward to the skiing troops and set off after another. Then it was hear his panting, see his breath, roughly pull his head back and slit the throat, his man went down.
Ford stood over his victim, a few yards to Whitt’s left. The VDV troops skiied on, unaware. Whitt and Ford pushed off again, another two would go down tonight. The lead VDV man pulled up, raised his hand. The whole troop, now eight men, stopped.
Whitt dived for the ground and pulled his M4 from his back and held it at the ready. Ford did the same. The leader scanned the horizon, he could hear him speaking in Russian to a man. The leader turned to scan his rear left quarter.
Shit, thought Whitt. If he notices some of his men missing, then we could find ourselves in a firefight with eight of them. Whitt tried to pull as much snow over himself as possible, tried all he could to disappear into the icy ground. Ford had done the same.
The Russian leader scanned slowly in an arc from his left rear quarter to his right rear quarter. Surely, he must notice some men were missing. Whitt’s grip on the M4 tightened, and he started to plan who he’d take out first.
The Russian let his binoculars down and called to a man to his rear, and the man skiied up to him. They consulted an instrument. He held it aloft and did a 360 with it. What was it? A sound amplifier detector?
Come on, Whitt thought, move on.
The man returned to face forward and pushed off. Whitt breathed again, then looked over to Ford who mimicked wiping sweat from his brow. The Russians were moving on, thank goodness.
“I think we evened up the numbers a bit; let’s see what we can borrow from them.”
The two SEALs made their way back to the second two of their victims. Whitt looked at their weapons. He picked up the assault rifle.
“Shit, it’s an AK15. No ammo for us, they’re 7.62.”
“Odd choice for up here. Maybe they’re shit scared of polar bears.”
Whitt knew their M4’s 5.56 would stop a Polar Bear, might take more of them, but the Bear would go down all the same.
He rummaged through the belt kit. There were personal items, pictures of girlfriends and the like. He opened a pouch with a medical kit; it was similar to theirs. Both men took the kits – you never know. There were grenades, RGD-5 with a smooth body, spherical ends and an actuating cylinder. They both took several of them.
“Right, let’s get some more shit from the first two. The blowing snow will cover these bodies. Ford, I don’t like it. I guess you noticed that they’re VDV Airborne troops, standard deployment. Means there’ll be another section of them out here, we’re still grossly outnumbered.”
Ford nodded.
The two men set off for the camp, skis pushing on through the blowing Arctic snow. They’d get some sleep and then move on.
Whitt didn’t settle, he knew they were still deep in it up here. Reinforcements wouldn’t be along; they’d a big task keeping their charges safe in this desolate, dark, icy wasteland.
USS Stonewall Jackson.
The boat hung in darkness, under the Arctic ice, at the floor of its upside-down valley.
“Sir, he’s still there. The Yasen is waiting below us. I can detect a few faint pump sounds but he’s in quiet state. I’ve heard nothing out of the ordinary since he flooded a tube.”
Nathan knew it was a ‘hide and be quiet’ contest. Could he hear them, or was he unaware of their presence? He was a threat, that was certain; a Yasen with a Type 53 in a flooded tube just below them. If that didn’t make you nervous, then you’d no business crewing a USN submarine.
“Ok, keep me informed. If a Russian A ganger sneaks off for a sly tug of his wire, I want to know.”
“Sir.” Benson smiled.
His XO Nikki Kaminski walked, no slinked in that way she had, over to him. She had her tablet with her and a frown on her face.
“It’s the Carbon Dioxide level, sir. The O2 generator and CO scrub
bers are working, but will cause a problem in a few hours. The main problem is the L-ion batteries, they’re at 17% and we need to think about charging them.”
“Right, Nikki.”
Nathan knew that was just what they didn’t need down here under the ice. They did need to raise the snorkel from time to time, run the diesels and charge the batteries. That was life for a diesel-electric boat, and had been since before World War 2. They had increased endurance, but it wasn’t unlimited. Down here under the ice, it meant finding an ice lead, a clear gap or thin ice that the sail could break through.
He knew that you normally used nuclear boats under the icecap, but they’d been called on because they had long duration lithium-ion or L-ion batteries.
Also, it wasn’t said aloud, but to Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Kamov and others, they were the dirty tricks boat. When you had an underhand job that needed doing, you called on a secretive, dirty boat. If shit happened or was about to, you called on Old Stonewall. Aggressive when needed, but quiet and patient. Their job was to stalk out the prey, wait, and then strike suddenly. She would then disappear into the inky depths, unseen, unheard.
Her crew used her for what she was: USS Stonewall Jackson was a death shark. They were the submarine service’s SEAL team six.
“Ok Nikki, how far to the ice lead? I know we can make it; you’d have told me before now if we couldn’t. But what margin do we have, how long can we stay here like a frozen prawn?”
Nikki tapped on her tablet several times. “We’re just under 10 miles; at a speed of 6 knots, that’s about 1.4 hours, 85 minutes sir. Leaving a margin for possible action manoeuvring, we can hang around here for one and a half hours.”
Nathan looked at his wrist and the Seamaster. He squeezed his lips. Not that long. Would Ivan stay where he was? Possible. They may need a distraction.
“Weaps, load Scooby tube six.”
The Weapons Officer looked at the boat’s war load. “Sir, we have a Harpoon in six. Tube five’s free.”
“Ok, tube five.”
Weaps called the torpedo room and waited. “We have the Pointer in five, sir. Scooby’s ready.”
Nathan looked over to the hot blonde at her station, Nikki’s ponytail bobbing as she worked.
“XO, let’s do the boat’s rounds.”
“Sir.” The two of them left the control room and headed aft. They started in engineering.
“How’s it looking, Chief?”
“Ok, sir. Some battery interface issues, but no big problem, we have the necessary spares.”
Nathan looked out of the corner of his eye; the XO was talking with the senior A ganger. Nikki was popular with the A gangers; no big surprise there. He’d use that, it’d help keeping them happy. Last call was the galley.
“Hot in here, Chief,” said Nikki.
“It’s tough, but you’re all greedy, sir.”
“Well, you have the engineers and the torpedo room to feed, what do you expect?”
“The worst are the female crew.”
Nikki raised her eyebrow.
“You’re all fussy, sir. Pains in the a…”
“Keeping you on your toes, that’s all.”
“We’ll have two coffees,” said Nathan, “with double milk for the XO.”
The two walked forward. Nathan stopped Nikki in the companionway.
“How long will he stay: Ivan?”
She frowned. “Hard to say, sir. He has the advantage: he’s a nuke so he can stay indefinitely; we can’t. But then again, if he knows or suspects he’s got company, he’ll assume that we’re a nuke too. He won’t think he can just wait for us to make a move.”
He nodded. He couldn’t outstay the Yasen; it was wait until the last moment in the hope that the Russian would go first or take the initiative. He’d no choice in truth.
“Nikki, we’re here to get our men up there where they can do their job and kick Ivan’s ass doing it. Stonewall Jackson said, “Armies are not called out to dig trenches, to throw up breastworks, and live in camps. But to find the enemy and strike him.” That’s just what we’ll do.”
Nikki smiled; this was the Nathan she knew. They both walked into the control room. Nathan stood by his Weapons Officer.
“Weaps, flood tube five. We’ll let Scooby off his leash.”
“Flooding tube five, aye sir.”
The Weapons Officer watched his display for a minute, then turned and nodded.
“Open outer doors, launch Scooby. Keep him quiet, Weaps; there’s no rush, let’s get him out of here. Send him north at a depth of 300 feet.”
A few minutes passed by. Benson looked over.
“Sir, I’ve integrated Scooby’s passive sonar with ours. No picture change; Tango one is still under us. He’s listening, waiting.”
Nathan gave Benson a thumbs up.
Scooby slowly moved through the icy depths below the ice. He was a blunt-nosed, torpedo-like vessel making his way through the gloom, under pale green ice ridges hanging from the ice ceiling above. Below was the black void.
Behind him trailed a cable leading back to his mother, USS Stonewall Jackson. He had a brain of sorts, bequeathed to him by Lockheed Martin and L-3 Chesapeake Sciences Corp. His passive sonar built up a picture of his icy ridged ceiling world and the two submarines to his south. The information was passed back to his mother, and some was passed to his AI computer control system for navigation through his icy world.
He’d avoid any obstacle he encountered on his way north. His job was to head slowly away from USS Stonewall Jackson and report. His time for action had not yet arrived. If it did, Scooby would be ready.
Or would he? His brain’s software had been created with a clear surface in mind; efforts had been made to cope with an enclosed ceiling and he had been tested under the ice. If Scooby could hope, he hoped that his design and testing had been sufficient.
The Virginia Visionary looked up from his sonar console. “Sir, Scooby is eight miles away now and he’s picking up a trace to his north. It’s faint and indistinct, but it’s there.”
Benson ran his fingers over the touchpad on his sonar control. “The contact classification computers can’t agree, sir; they’re giving a mixed probability. They just don’t have the level of information that they need yet.”
Nathan rolled his eyes. They needed to know and needed to act. Computers could sit there with their thumb stuck up their ass. He couldn’t. They were there to advise, but he had to act, enough information or not.
“Give me your best guess, Benson.”
There was a pause.
“Best guess is that there’s another Yasen out there, sir.”
Nathan wasn’t surprised. He had a gut feeling that that’s what was out there. So, it was two to one; all the more reason to get out of this icy tomb.
8
“Sir,” Nikki smiled, “why not let Scooby send the Russians a message? We can send him a recording of the compressed air feed breakage we had. Scooby can transmit it. The Russian skipper will think we’ve got the same problem again.”
Nathan nodded and grinned at Nikki. “Yeah, that might work. You’re a devious bitch, Kaminski.”
She headed out of the control room. “I’m off to see the Chief Engineer, sir.”
Nikki returned fifteen minutes later and took her tablet over to Benson. “Load this, ready for Scooby’s message feed.”
In a few minutes, he was done. “It’s ready, sir.”
“Commander Blake, we’re ready.” Nikki waited for him.
“Ok, Benson, get him ready to transmit it, and send the lat and long of the ice lead so he can return to us. Cut his wire on signal acknowledgement.”
“Ready, sir.”
“Transmit.”
The message ran to Scooby along the cable. The Pointer transmitted the acoustic signal of deception and cut the wire. Scooby was now free, swimming and reliant on his AI system.
The crew of the USS Stonewall Jackson now depended on him for air and power. Wo
uld The Krasnoyarsk swallow the bait?
On the ice field.
“Momma Duck, this is Rubber Duck, over.” There was just the blowing cold wind.
“Momma Duck, this is Rubber Duck, over.” Whitt paused.
“Momma Duck, this…”
A crackling signal broke through.
“Rubber Duck, Momma Duck, over.” A woman’s voice came through. Contact.
Whitt smiled. “Momma, we are returning. Switch on your beacon for 20 seconds.” He picked up her signal and took a bearing. “Momma Duck, we have you. Remain where you are, over.”
“Copy, Rubber.”
The two SEALS pushed off towards the beacon’s position, skis swishing in the snow. For the third time, Ford waved his torch above his head in the bearing’s direction.
A light returned, waving left and right. Soon they saw the two subjects and skiied up to them.
“Hi. Alright, Marjan?”
“Yes, we’ve been lying up waiting for you. Did you get them?”
“We got some. They’re VDV, so there’ll be more of them.”
The Danish scientist stood and walked over to Whitt. “We’ve no chance, have we?” Nils sounded desperate.
“Nils, we do. We need to head west, keep away from them. If they’re following us, we’ll get back there and take some more out. It’s called attrition; we wear them down.”
Nils raised his palms. “How will they know where we are?”
“You transmitted on the handheld. Their satellites are very sensitive and may pick it up.”
Nils threw his hands up. “Then why did we do it?”
Whitt put his hand on the Dane’s shoulder; the man was losing it.
“It’s important we remain together. That’s how we’ll get through this: together. We’ll get out of this, trust me.” He passed Marjan three Russian grenades. “Can you use these?”
“Yes, RGD-5, Soviet. Hezbollah used them.” She put them in her backpack side pockets.
The four of them pushed off, skiing toward the west. The biting cold wind blew hard from the north, draining away their energy. Whitt knew the odds weren’t good, but they had to try. At least it would give Nils hope.