by Stephen Makk
“Sir, you flew F16s and you can’t make coffee?”
She’d made herself at home.
“Poppy, get me General Brassneck in here, and that new Colonel, what’s he called?”
“The guy with Vietnamese parents? You mean Colonel Wok Jock, sir?”
“That’s him. Send ’em in when they’re here.” Cooper walked into his inner office and pulled out a document.
A few minutes later, there was a knock and the door opened.
“Hi, Brassneck and Wok Jock I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
The two of them sat.
“I’ve been in a meeting with the other Chiefs of Staff. I got us an op.”
“Where, sir?” asked General Bruce ‘Brassneck’ Necklin.
“The Arctic.”
Brassneck rolled his eyes.
“Ok, ok, we did overreach ourselves there. I suppose in hindsight it was always going to take more than one strike. Ivan was ready too. Intel people dropped the ball there. This one is more focused and specific.” General Cooper gave them the plan objectives. “So, gentlemen, what’s your view?”
“Wok Jock?” said Brassneck.
“Looking at that, sir, we’ll need JASSM, LRASM and maybe Harpoon. We’ll need to boost the tanker deployment again.”
“Harpoon,” said Brassneck. “Lower range, isn’t it?”
Wok Jock shrugged. “It is about 160 miles, but we could use F/A 18 Super Hornets to come in low for release.”
Brassneck grunted. “The Navy getting in on it: political crap there. Can you get them on board, sir?”
Cooper nodded.
“For a USAF mission, I mean, we have operational control?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it,” said Cooper. He wasn’t, but he reckoned he’d a damn good chance of getting Kamov to agree. Just grease his balls enough and he should give way.
“In theatre, sir,” said Wok Jock. “We’ll need F15 Strike Eagles out of Keflavik. I’d say B1-Bs out of Thule, Greenland. Might be a job for the BUFFs, sir.”
It was the old workhorse, the B52’s nickname BUFF. Big Ugly Fat Fucker. The aircraft had been updated over the years and was a formidable missile platform.
“Ok,” said Cooper, “you’ll get the 5th Bomb Wing out of Minot AFB North Dakota. You’ll need them at Thule, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cooper pressed a key on his phone.
Poppy replied. “Yes, sir?” She sighed. “I guess you boys want coffee and doughnuts?”
Cooper smiled. “Another time, Poppy. Call Minot AFB and tell them we need…” He stopped, looked at Wok Jock and raised his eyebrows.
“Eight, sir.”
“Tell them we need eight B52s deployed to Thule, Greenland; long-range strike with anti-shipping war load.”
“Will do, sir.”
Cooper smirked. “Thule’s going to be like LAX for traffic soon. Colonel, you’ll need to coordinate with one of Admiral Kamov’s people for the details of the mission. Ok, gentlemen, if that’s it, meeting over.”
“I’ll go and see CNO Kamov now, sir,” said Wok Jock.
The two of them left the office.
215 miles above the Barents Sea.
A silent track through space at 18,000mph. No sound, little sense of movement. Like a swooping night owl, the KH-11 Keyhole reconnaissance satellite Buzzard 65 looked down on the world below.
At 3 billion dollars, the National Reconnaissance Office paid half the cost of an aircraft carrier for Buzzard 65. Similar to the Hubble Space telescope, it was the size of a bus. It looked down on the shimmering Arctic Sea, zoomed in with its 2.9-meter mirror and took images of ships, lots of ships. These images were kept in its gigabytes of storage.
Buzzard 65 passed on and away from the scene and sped on silently over Siberia. More tasks were executed, and Buzzard 65 collected more images. Airfields in the Russian central military region, a large factory complex east of the city of Yekaterinburg, the Naval bases of Vladivostok and Petropavlovsk.
Minutes later it passed above and near to the Pacific Island of Guam. The data was passed down to the relay station and from there across to CONUS, then to the NRO Center in Virginia.
USS Stonewall Jackson. The Arctic Sea. North of Zemlya Georga Islands.
The ice flows had been left behind, and stretched out ahead was a mostly grey seascape. There were several breaks in the cold cover and wavelets sparkled and shimmered.
Masts protruded above the waves, leaving a wake trailing off to the northwest. An albatross ducked and circled the masts, but quickly grew bored and sailed on into the grey.
The control room was a mass of displays with crew sat looking into them; many wore headsets. One man sat at an odd painted screen; he wore quality black Sennheiser headphones.
“Chief Engineer reports 85% charge. No sign of enemy air, sir,” said Benson.
XO Kaminski addressed Nathan. “Good. Not long now, keep to this heading.”
Nathan looked at Nikki Kaminski. “It’ll be many hours until we approach the Northern Fleet’s task force. Get your head down, rest”
“I’m ok, sir.”
“Nikki, get into your bunk, now.”
“Ok.”
The boat sailed on to the south. Four hours later, Nikki walked back into the control room.
“I got a good sleep, sir. Here.” She handed him a coffee from the galley.
Lemineux called out, “Sir, we have a communication from COMSUBPAC.”
“Send it to my station, thanks. XO.” He pointed to his monitor at the conn.
The communication was a series of satellite images of warships, followed by a chart of the Barents Sea with the position of the ships.
“The devil himself,” said Nikki. “There’s Peter the Great and his horde.”
Nathan grunted. “Yeah, and it’s a pretty big horde. Let see what we’ll be meeting.”
Nikki leaned over and touched a couple of buttons. “Types are listed as one Sovremennyy class Destroyer, an Udaloy class Destroyer and two Admiral Gorshkov class Frigates. They look to be his principal screen, but we have another Udaloy and an Admiral Gorshkov out front as picket ships. Needless to say, we have ASW weapons, SS-N-16 Stallion missiles, RBU-12000 mortars, Paket-NK torpedoes. All of the ships fly the Ka-27 Helix ASW helicopter and that bastard packs APR-2 Yastreb torpedoes.”
“All this isn’t unexpected. But you know what is?”
She shook her head.
He fixed her with a stare. “We are. They’re expecting a bunch of SSNs under the ice fighting their boats, but this sneaky bastard after ’em? No.”
She smiled and checked the coordinates. “Koss, Tango one’s position is… 77.702 north, 36.121 east. Give me a course.”
“Sir, 187 degrees.” She looked to Nathan, he nodded. “Planesman, come to 189.”
“One eight nine, aye sir.”
Nathan looked around his control room and felt a pride in this crew. Many had been with him since the initial shakedown cruise. Their first foray up into the Arctic and all that time in the Pacific. North Korea, the Spratlys, the Taiwan Strait, the Persian Gulf. Now, it had all come down to this. His orders were: “Sink that ship.” Nathan knew it was time to step up to the plate and sink the mother.
“Nik, it’s time. It’s time we did what we’re here for. I have her at 150 feet, 15 knots. That’s about four and a half hours until we’re in position.”
Nikki looked at the layout of the enemy task force and weighed up the options. “I think I’d be looking to land a right hook on him. Come in from the west.”
Nathan nodded. “We better let the Puzzle Palace know. Planesman, slow to four knots, up bubble 15, come to periscope depth.”
“Periscope depth, aye sir.” The deck tilted to aft, then after 40 seconds she came level.
“Periscope depth, sir.”
Nathan composed his transmission.
PRIORITY RED
R 271467Z DEC 86 ZY12
STONEWALL JACKSON
/> PACFLT// ID S072RQ81//
TO COMSUBPAC PEARL HARBOR HAWAII//N1//
NAVAL OPS/02
MSGID/STONEWALL JACKSON 479/ ACTUAL//
MSG BEGINS://
TODAY IS D DAY, H HOUR IS 06.30. REQUEST BIRDS AT 07.00
GENERAL THOMAS J ‘STONEWALL’ JACKSON INTENDS TO CLOSE RANKS AND SEEK OUT THE ENEMY.
MSG END//
Nathan raised the comms mast. “Lemineux, transmit that.”
“Sir, transmission sent and acknowledged.”
“Planesman, down 10, make your depth 150 feet, 15 knots.”
They cruised on for over an hour.
“Sir,” Benson looked up, “I’m picking up surface screw sounds, multiple warships ahead and to the left of our track, 30 miles away.”
“Thanks, keep listening.” Nathan turned back. “Can you zero in on Peter the Great?”
“I’ll try, sir.” Benson played with his screen and dials for a few minutes. “Yes, sir, I got him.”
“Put him on my intercom line when I say. Lemineux, help him.”
The two worked together and a couple of minutes later Lemineux nodded.
He picked up his address intercom. “All hands, all hands. This is your Captain speaking.”
Throughout the boat, men and women stopped and looked up.
“This day, we face the enemy. He’s up here to claim what he doesn’t own. These seas and passageways belong to all of us. Our task is easy to say and hard to do. Ivan’s sat in his bathtub with his diapers on, playing with his battleships and his favourite is Peter the Great. He doesn’t know it yet, but there’s something in there with him. Something malevolent, something evil, something us. Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here to carry out our task. We’ve been given our orders: Peter the Great, sink the motherfucker. Here’s what he sounds like, this is live.”
A thrashing, rhythmic, thrumming sound, the Cruiser’s props pushing the great ship forward, was broadcast throughout the boat.
“That’s him: the Devil incarnate. You’re here to give Peter the bayonet. Give it to him good. Captain out.”
Nathan replaced the handset, and a cheer went through the boat. Nikki looked up, alarmed at the noise.
He held his hand up. “Let them, Nik. Let them.”
18
Thule AFB. Northern Greenland.
Eight Pratt and Whitney PW-815 engines forced out 120,000lbs of thrust and started the big BUFF bomber rolling down the runway. She gathered speed and, at the right airspeed, Major Bob Jones pulled back on the stick.
At first nothing happened, then the B52 eased off the runway and took flight. Gear up 900 feet and now in the foggy clag, Jones rolled her to the east, watching the artificial horizon in front of him. Outside of the window was floor to ceiling grey cloud.
“Thule, Chicken Owl one heading east, Chicken Owl flight, birds two to eight close up, transit at 28,000 before we get down to the ice for the run-in.”
The aircraft formed a very loose V formation and flew off over the icecap towards Russia and the Barents Sea. Sixty-four Turbofan engines roared their way over the icecap and far away. Far away to destiny.
Keflavik. Iceland.
Yet another F15 Strike Eagle taxied to the end of the runway, turned, and lit the afterburner.
“Betty Boop’s boys, four rolling.”
“Copy, four give ’em hell.”
“Four requesting permission for a flyby.”
“Negative, four,” said the female fighter controller.
The F15 pulled skywards roaring thunder in its wake.
“Aw, go on, Miss.”
“On your return, four, you can flyby and then take me out.”
“Lady, you got yourself a deal.”
The next aircraft, Betty Boop’s boys five, took its place at the end of the runway and then thundered off, trailing two sheets of flame.
Like its colleagues, it carried the AGM-158 JASSM, a standoff cruise missile with a range of 240 miles. Basic guidance was by GPS with course updates; on terminal approach the missile would employ infra-red and ATR, Auto Target Recognition. On impact, JASSM would slam a 1,000lb high explosive warhead into an enemy.
Betty Boop’s boys flew over Iceland’s volcanoes and her stark but beautiful landscape towards the Arctic seas.
USS Gerald R Ford. Five miles south of Jan Mayen Island.
She ran her eyes over the instruments, punching through the different screens on the glass cockpit screen. The F/A 18 Super Hornet looked green for go. She pulled the mask and air hose over her chin and clipped it on. The steel hull passed vertically down as the aircraft rose on the elevator to the flight deck.
Ruby Frances ‘No Bone’ Mann loved flying the Bug and the CAG, Commander Air Group, had told her she’d been slotted in as the new squadron leader after this cruise. Squadron leader of The Jokers. Wow, me?
The towering superstructure became visible to the right, then aircraft, men and women scurried around the flight deck, their jackets flapping in the wind. The ship had turned into the wind to increase windspeed across the deck.
Snap. The elevator was fully raised. A man in a helmet and day glo, a yellow shirt, waved her towards the CAT.
“This is us, No Bone. Another time we get thrown off the deck into shit.”
“You love it, Rusty. Don’t give me that horseshit.” Her backseater, Weapons Officer Bo ‘Rusty’ O’Flyn was always moaning. She didn’t often take him on.
“Yeah, well, look at that steam rising from the CAT.”
EMALS was down: they were on backup steam catapult. A thud clack from bellow the nose meant they were attached to the cable.
“You know what they say about horseshit, No Bone? You know, lady, they say steam be rising off a horseshit. That’s us in a pile of it now.”
It was a final check out. She gave all a look around; clear.
“How do your numbers look, Rusty? Are we mission go?”
“Yeah, just got some bad shit about this one.”
She looked over to the yellow jacket deck officer and twirled her hand. Are we go?
He looked the bird over and checked underneath, gave her the thumbs up, then signalled the ‘take tension’ signal. The yellow shirt looked both ways before doing his two-hand signals at once. One hand was raised with a palm open to indicate ‘off the brakes’ and the other hand was outstretched straight forward to indicate take tension.
The Hornet then squatted into position, now at the end of a loaded CAT. The yellow jacket shooter waved his hand in the air furiously for the ‘run-up’ signal.
Ruby set military power, raised the launch bar, ran the controls, and did a final check of the instruments. Finally, he gave her the ‘select afterburner’ signal, looking like raising the roof. She pushed the throttle through the gate, and flame roared out of the aft. She could feel the bird was straining to go.
Ruby Frances turned to the shooter and saluted. The shooter returned the salute, pointed to each of his final check items, and then he touched the deck and pointed forward, signalling the launch.
With unreasonable force, her head was slammed back into her seat, and she kept her hand on the stick as the F/A 18 rushed forward. Suddenly the deck disappeared. Then came that uncanny feeling where they dropped below the flight deck. The bird, a screaming epitome of power, climbed out and away.
“Yo, go, baby. Ride me,” shouted Rusty. “Ride me, No Bone. I’s a coming.” They climbed, gear up, now, 3,000 feet.
They carried LRASM to the fight. The missile was hungry; the loadmasters had seen to that. They’d painted on its side a statement: “Ivan, lock up your daughters.”
“Ok, Rusty, where’s that Russian asshole with the ships?”
“He be that a’way ma’am, 032 degrees.”
She pulled the aircraft to the right from windward to the heading. Slung under each Plastic Bug Hornet were LRASM – Long Range Anti Shipping Missiles – with a range of 350 miles. Approach guidance was by passive infra-red, and it was highly jamming resistant
to decoys. They also carried the AGM-84 Harpoon with a range of 120 miles. Rusty slapped the instrument panel top as he went into the squadron rap.
“Yeah, uuhh. Yeah, uuhh. Believe this shit, ya better believe this shit. Yeah, uuhh. Believe this, uuhh, motherfuckers, uuhh, yeah. Ya better beware, watch out: the Jokers are coming, we ain’t smoking. We calls ourselves the Jokers cause we ain’t joking. Yeah, uuhh. Better beware; shit’s happenin’, and it happenin’ to you, happenin’ to you. We ain’t smoking, mothers; the Jokers are on their way.”
The flight held a loose formation at medium altitude. It wasn’t far away when they’d have to hit the deck to get low and undetectable. At the right point, a shit storm of LRASM would precede them, followed by Harpoon.
USS Stonewall Jackson. North Barents Sea.
She made her way through cold seas, ever southward towards the enemy.
Nathan figured it was time to let Lucy out. The more information the better, and the tail could act as a decoy too.
“Benson, stream Lucy. She’ll keep you company.”
The sonar wizard grinned. “Aye, sir.”
The tail was streamed out a half a mile behind the boat. Lucy listened to the surrounding seas and fed her take into a Cray supercomputer on board, where it was processed and fed to the crew in a manageable form.
“Lucy’s feed is integrated into the boat's sonar. Nothing new, but more beautiful detail. Lucy loves the sea, sir.”
“You and her both. Range to the enemy?”
Benson changed a marker on his scope. “We have the picket ships off to port 10 miles. The bulk is centred around Tango one; Peter stands out, sir. He’s around 16 miles due south, southeast of us.”
Nathan pulled his sleeve back and looked at his Omega Seamaster. Its black face read 05.18 hours. “Planesman, new heading 160 degrees, speed 12 knots.”
“160 at 12, aye sir.”
The boat rolled to the left and then slowly came level. He beckoned Nikki over to the chart display. Red ships with text markers attached indicated the position of the enemy.