Ninety Degrees North

by Stephen Makk

  “I’m going to use this location as datum. We should be there in around 50 minutes.”

  “Pointers, sir?”

  “Scooby’s in tube six; Ren is ready to go too. They’ll wait.”

  Nikki shook her head. “You know, I once had an offer of a teaching job at a college in Macon. But like a fool, I joined the Navy.” She grinned at him. “I wouldn’t miss this for all the world’s chocolate.”

  “Yeah, tell you what? Let’s grab a coffee in the galley and get what’s-her-name Kelly to come along too. We’ll be back here 06.30.”

  “Right, sir.” Nikki walked of aft to get her friend.

  They sat and had coffees, laughing at stories and joking. It took his mind off the coming battle. All was ready; it was just waiting time, and this filled it very well.

  Soon it was over, and it was back to the control room.

  He checked the time: 06.40. “Planesman, come to 40 degrees, speed 15 knots.”

  “Forty at 15, aye sir.”

  USS Stonewall Jackson was heading right for the enemy’s center of mass. She was alone; one boat against a Fleet.

  Above the Arctic icecap.

  The view from the aircraft’s windows was a stark dark whiteness. Bob Jones’s night vision goggles gave a true colour image of the landscape, unlike the earlier ones he’d worn that gave a green tone and were a light and dark version of reality. These were almost as good as full daylight. The B52 was now at 200 feet altitude. Below, ice sped by.

  “Coming up to release one, sir,” said Ricky Garcia, Weapons Officer.

  “Priming racks one and two. Birds waking, L1, L2, L3, L4, L5, L6, all report diagnostics clean, giros spinning up. Rack two, birds one to four report clean and mean. Sir, we’ve two miles to run. Nothing on the VLA. Trickster warming up. Opening bomb bay doors.”

  “Green on the comm panel,” said Jones. “Looks like Gen Cooper wants this done.”

  Bob Jones pulled the stick back and climbed to 400 feet.

  “Point two miles, sir. Ready, ready. Bombs away, launch.”

  Six LRASM and four JASSM missiles fell from the bomb bay, the motors lit, and they sped off to their targets at sea.

  “Dropping trickster…”

  An air vehicle fell out and spread its wings, looking like a large missile with stubby wings. Trickster lit its motor and followed the weapons. The trickster would dispense decoy missiles as the main offensive force reached the Russian fleet; these short-range dispensable missiles would jink and turn as though hunting their target down. Enemy CIWS, ie short range Gatling guns and point defence missiles, wouldn’t know the difference and would waste rounds and missiles on the decoys.

  “Chicken Owl one, the birds have flown.”

  From the rest of the strike wing, reports came in.

  “Chicken Owl two, birds away.”

  “Chicken Owl three, birds away.” It went on.

  “Chicken Owl eight, our birds are flying.”

  “Chicken Owl one, well done, flight. We’ve done the dirty deed. Time to bug out.”

  Jones turned the stick to the left and applied left rudder. In typical BUFF fashion, it took several seconds, then it happened. The huge aircraft pulled to the left, and he applied some power to compensate for the lift falling off. The B52 wasn’t easy to fly; everything took its own sweet time, but shit. It would do what you wanted every time, all the time. It was a rock in the sky – in the nicest possible way, of course.

  South of their position, Betty Boop’s boys’ F15 Strike Eagles were running in low and mean.

  “Betty lead, come up 200. Closing on release datum. Two miles run. Ok, boys, wake those mothers up. It’s time for the missiles to get their asses out of bed.”

  “Copy, lead.”

  They all responded. Lead counted down, watching the release computer screen. He activated auto arm; the screen flashed amber.

  A woman’s electronic voice came into his ears. “You have selected weapons release. Confirm please.” This was the master weapons computer nicknamed Betty.

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have release authority?”

  “Release the fucking bird, Betty.”

  “Repeat, please.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “I don’t register the weapon fuck me. Repeat, please.”

  He suppressed giving Betty a mouthful. “You have release authority.”

  “Authority granted. Weapon release go.”

  Did Betty sound self-satisfied? The missile fell away, lit its motor and rushed off to meet the Northern Fleet.

  “Anything else you want me to do for you?”

  Under his visor, Betty one smiled. “Betty, can you suck my…? Forget it. No, we’re done.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll shut my sorry ass down now.”

  He laughed. The ground techs had been up to no good. He turned the big fighter to the right and back to Keflavik.

  A call came over.

  “Flight from Betty four. A certain hot fighter controller has promised me a flyby of Keflavik tower and a date. On my way, lady.”

  USS Stonewall Jackson.

  The boat made her way toward the Northern Fleet formation. The boat was quiet but not undetectable. Slowly, she stalked her prey.

  “Anything odd, Benson?”

  “No, sir. Lucy’s helping big style. I do have sounds consistent with a dipping sonar entering the sea several miles to the south. It must be a Ka-27 Helix hovering, probably standard ASW activity. He’s too far away to hear us.”

  Nathan looked at his wristwatch: 06.53. It was time. He’d named the action Operation Truncate.

  “Weaps, ready the VPM tubes, ready all birds for launch. Planesman, up bubble ten, vent fore and aft, come to periscope depth.”

  “Aye, sir.” The boat slid quietly towards the surface. “Periscope depth, sir.”

  There were three VPM tubes vertically arranged aft of the sail. In each were seven dispensers; each of these could be ejected to the surface. Once there, the cap would blow off and a Tomahawk BGN-109 cruise missile would be launched. The nuclear warheads had been removed. The warhead they carried was a 1,600 pound HE-FRAG round, or 166 BLU 97/B bomblets. Tomahawks have a range in excess of 1,500 miles. USS Stonewall Jackson could rain down 21 terrain-following missiles on an opponent. In this case, they’d be raining down on the Northern Fleet much closer.

  Weaps was hard at work on his station setting up the strike. All checks were carried out; it was time.

  Nathan unhooked his microphone. “All hands. Battle stations, battle stations. Commencing Operation Truncate. Battle stations, battle stations. Weaps, your H hour is 06.58.”

  “Plan of ops loaded. Activating all birds, sir.”

  The Weapons Officer was a little eccentric and had named the missiles after NFL teams. He’d used NHL teams before; even worse, he’d used porn actresses. Nathan had told him that was a bit beyond and not to do it again.

  Nathan and Nikki had chosen two routes to the targets. From the north and the south, routes A and B, hit them from both sides.

  “VPM tube one. Patriots returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T1.

  “Cowboys, returns Gyro up, green board, route B, target T2.

  “49ers, returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T3.

  “Bengals, returns Gyro up, green board, route B, target T4.

  “Seahawks, returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T5.

  “Falcons, returns Gyro up, green board, route B, target T6.

  “Colts, returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T7.

  “VPM tube two. Giants, returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T8…”

  The Tomahawks reported their status one by one.

  “All birds up and ready. One faulty in tube two, sir.”

  “Open outer doors, VPM one to three.”

  “Outer doors open, sir.”

  Nathan checked his wristwatch again. He counted the seconds down.

  “Weaps, execute Truncate on my
command.”

  Fifty seven, fifty eight, fifty nine.

  “Go, go, go!”

  There was a faint whooshing sound from back aft.

  “On the surface, Patriots reports launch, good burn. Motor in, wings deployed, gaining altitude. Truncate is go, we have a bird.”

  “Planesman, down bubble 20,” ordered Nathan. “Vent fore and aft, make your depth 300 feet. Maintain speed and heading.”

  There were still a few miles to go yet.

  One by one, the Tomahawks reached the surface, ignited their motors and soared into the night. The shit storm of 20 cruise missiles flew into the dawn sky on their way towards the ships of the Russian Northern Fleet. The Barents Sea had never seen the like before.

  “Sir,” said Benson with some alarm in his voice. “I detect a dipping sonar 1.6 miles south. It must be that Helix again. At that range, there’s a danger he’ll hear us.”

  “Planesman, speed 7 knots,” barked Nathan. He reduced speed and noise.

  “Sir, we do have Vulture’s Stare,” said Nikki.

  She was reminding him that the boat was equipped with a mast-mounted 150Kw laser. It was designed to be used at fairly short ranges, seven miles, against airborne threats like the Helix Helicopter.

  “He may not have detected us yet. Let’s try to hide for now.”

  Benson put his head in between his hands as he did when concentrating. “I’m getting good returns on the vessels. A bit too much noise in fact, sir. I’m localising.”

  He knew better than to interrupt when Benson was doing his thing. He was one of the best.

  “Oh, new contacts. One, two, three, four. He’s laying a sonobuoy line to the northwest, leading behind us but only .75 miles away, sir. I’m not happy.”

  “Has he withdrawn the dipping sonar?”

  He knew sometimes you could hear this; especially if the helicopter was starting to fly forward too early.

  “No, sir. We now have eight sonobuoys in a line behind us, but we do have clear space to the northwest.”

  The USAF and USN missile strike must be anytime now. What would that do to the Helix? Would he panic? Run for it, or just get on with the job?

  Nathan knew that trying to get in an enemy’s head wasn’t easy. You had to try though; you couldn’t command without that skill. He’d always found that Russian helo crews were usually quite cool. The Chinese, not being as experienced, were a bit more impulsive. But you never knew.

  “Shit,” said Benson. “We have a drop, six miles behind us. It sounds like… Yes, prop noise. Computer says 70% chance it’s an APR. Wait one… wait. Yes, that’s it, I can tell. It’s an APR-2 Yastreb torpedo. It’s running in on us.”

  “Emergency deep, emergency deep.”

  The boat flooded the bows, and she sank nose down. The prop ran up driving her down into the depths.

  “Load countermeasures to starboard.”

  “He’s to our starboard, sir,” said Benson.

  “Ok, Benson.”

  “Eight hundred feet,” said Nikki.

  The boat sank at an alarming rate.

  “Twelve hundred feet.”

  “Fish still with us,” called out Benson.

  “Sixteen hundred feet,” said Nikki.

  “Fish closing 400 yards.” Panic was growing in Benson’s voice.

  “Two thousand feet.”

  “Fish on terminal approach, 150 yards.”

  “Ready countermeasures.” A chill ran through Nathan. He knew that countermeasures may not be enough.

  There was one chance left. He waited, counting down the seconds.

  This was it. This was the moment.

  19

  Fire and Brimstone.

  A sailor stood on the foredeck of the Frigate Admiral Golovko, knocking ice from the forward rails. Large stalactites of ice hung down from rails and wires. His hammer knocked ice daggers off; some fell into the sea and some onto the deck, where he’d have to clear them later. His crewmate did the same across on the port side.

  It was cold out there in the icy wind. He pulled up his hood and paused for a rest, looking out over the dawn ice field. What the…?

  “Alex, look there.” He pointed to the low sky out forward of the ship. It was a dot, but trailing a kind of smoke.

  “Oh, God no,” shouted Alex. “It’s a missile.”

  His last memory was of a pointed tube flying in unreasonably fast.

  The JAASM slammed into the ship’s foredeck and above the forward turret. The superstructure around the bridge area disintegrated as the warhead exploded. The turret lifted from its seating, deep within the ship, and shells still in the magazine exploded.

  The forward end of the Frigate was ripped open. Many sailors died from the blast, men further away were caught by the glare of the blast, and any not wearing white anti-flash hoods were scorched by the heat, causing severe burns.

  Then came the fight: it was damage control crews against the fires and flooding below decks, and the battle to save the Admiral Golovko was on.

  More JASSM raced in. The Fleet, now alerted, engaged them with point defence systems. Some were engaged by Kortik CIWS, radar-controlled Gatling guns, spitting shells at 2,000 per minute. Several missiles blew apart or, damaged, flew into the sea.

  LASSRM arrived, adding to the melee. AK-630 CIWS blazed away, pouring 30mm rounds into the missile’s path at 4,000 rounds per minute. Short range 9M96 missiles along with SA-N-9 Gauntlet point defence SAMs flew roaring into the sky. Missiles were hit and destroyed instantly, but many ships were hit too. Some were lightly damaged, some heavily, and two were listing badly and would almost certainly sink.

  On board the Burevestnik class Frigate Ryanyy, fires burned below the aft decks. She’d been turning when the missiles hit. A LASSRM, trailing dark smoke after a hit by a CIWS, had hit the sea close to her stern.

  Large sections of the aft of the ship were blasted away and the engineers fought to restore the main engine. The auxiliary diesel was running well. Crews fought the stern fires with extinguishers. The Chief of the Ship could see more was needed. If the fire spread any further forward, it would threaten the rear magazine.

  “Get two hoses in the sea and hook the pumps up to the auxiliary power. Get on it now. Chertovski,” he cursed.

  The hoses were brought out, lowered into the sea, and powerful streams of seawater gushed into the flaming dark spaces. Minutes later, three diesel supply tanks at the forward and of the compartment blew jets of flame as the escaping fuel ignited.

  The Chief knew the battle was being lost. “Butnezik, fill compartment eleven.” He had to stop the fire reaching the magazine.

  “But there’s injured men in there, Chief.”

  “Do it, or we’ll all be more than Chertovski injured. Do it, Butnezik, or I’ll shove it up your ass and throw you in.”

  Two hoses were quickly laid into the space and water quickly filled the compartment. The Chief tried to ignore the screams, but couldn’t quite do it. War was hell on Earth.

  The compartment filled with water. But the ship was now listing and her hull, already under stress, ripped open. The tear ran down the ship like a ripping scream; compartment eleven took a large tear and water drained out. The flames entered and the magazine bulkhead grew hot; straw coloured, dull red, then cherry red. The Chief looked on; he had nothing left apart from buckets.

  “You two, get in there. You lot, get a line of seawater buckets started.”

  Buckets were passed up and thrown onto the hot bulkhead. It was inevitable; anti-submarine mortars blew off, which kicked off two depth charges.

  The massive explosion killed many, including the Chief and the damage control party. The ship, its back partly broken, was going down. Finally, the Ryanyy rolled over and sank by the stern.

  The Northern Fleet took heavy losses, but not devastating losses. Point defence SAMs and CIWS took out many missiles before they could hit the ships. The damage was high though, and the Northern Fleet was highly impacted. Three ships s
unk and another three were out of the fight.

  Peter the Great was fitted with numerous defensive systems, as her size and importance dictated, so was able to defend herself well. She suffered damage to her radar though, as a JASSM, hit by a missile that was damaged by fire from an AK-630 CIWS, caught the Fregat MR Top Steer radar on her mainmast as it flew into the cold grey sea.

  Ninety miles to the west.

  No Bone and Rusty, with an F/A 18 strapped to their backs, rushed towards the Fleet, low over the ice.

  “The bastards should be 87 miles away, according to INS,” said Rusty.

  “Copy, Rusty. Let me know when you want me off the deck.”

  “Hey, I’ll have you on the deck when we get back.”

  “In your dreams.”

  Their LASRM had already flown. Rusty set master arm on and selected Harpoon. The screen changed to show the missile status. The self-diagnostic was still running. Rusty set the missile’s target approach up for a bunt upwards and a dive downwards. Aim point amidships, you’d more chance of hitting or damaging the control room or a magazine.

  “You going for target select or blind luck?” she asked.

  “I’m going blind, sister. There’s a bunch of trade out there and Mr Harpoon ain’t fussy.”

  He set up the sea-skimming missile’s arming status, selected target optimal search and self-select electronic countermeasures. The Harpoon was set.

  The aircraft sped on over the ice field. The sky was pale with the dawn light. This was the Arctic, so the light was a faint pre-dawn wash with a slight orange glow from the distant sun.

  “No Bone, it’s time to take the elevator to the first floor.”

  She pulled the stick back and climbed to 200 feet, then levelled out the nose.

  “Ok, here we are, No Bone, first floor. Ladies underwear, intimate apparel, vibrators to left, batteries to the right.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Rusty ran his eyes over the display and pickled the stick. The Harpoon fell away, lit its motor, and flew off towards the east.