Red Storm Rising Part 49

"Right. What we intend you chaps to do is head north-northwest toward the edge of the Greenland Icepack, then east along the edge of the pack to the Svyatana Anna Trough. Five days from today three of our submarines will raise pure b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l on the barrier, supported by our own ASW aircraft and some fighters if that can be arranged. That ought to get Ivan's attention and draw his mobile forces west. You should then be able to proceed south to your objective. It's a roundabout route, of course, but it enables you to use your towed sonars for the maximum period of time, and you should be able to run at relatively high speed at the edge of the icepack without being detected."

McCafferty thought that one over. The edge of the icepack was a noisy place, with billions of tons of ice in constant movement.

"The route has been scouted, by HMS Sceptre and Superb. They encountered minor patrolling only. Two Tangos were found in that area. Our chaps had orders not to engage." That told the Americans how important this mission was. "They will be waiting for you, so do be careful about engaging something in your path."

"How do we get out?" Todd Simms wondered.

"As quickly as you can. By that time we should have at least one more submarine to a.s.sist you. They'll stay roughly twelve hours ahead of your estimate speed of advance, eliminating any opposition they find. Once you reach the icepack, you're on your own. Our chaps will be there only as long as it takes to reach the pack. After that they have other duties to perform. We expect that Ivan's ASW groups will come after you-no surprise there, is it? We'll try to maintain pressure south of Bear Island to tie down as many as we can, but speed will be your best defense in this case."

The skipper of USS Boston nodded. He could run faster than the Russians could hunt.

"Further questions?" asked Commander, Submarines, Eastern Atlantic. "Good luck, then. We'll give you all the support we can."

McCafferty leafed through his briefing papers to check for the firing orders, then tucked the ops orders into his back pocket. Operation Doolittle. He and Simms left together. Their submarines were at the same quay. It was a short, quiet drive. They arrived to see Tomahawk missiles being loaded, in Chicago's case into the twelve vertical tubes installed forward of the pressure hull in the submarine's bow. Boston was an older boat and had had to offload some of her torpedoes to make room for them. No submarine captain is ever happy offloading torpedoes.

"Don't worry, I'll back you up," McCafferty said.

"You do that. Looks like they're almost finished. Be nice to have one more beer, wouldn't it?" Simms chuckled.

"See you when we get back." Simms and McCafferty shook hands. A minute later both were below, seeing to the final arrangements for going back to sea.

USS PHARRIS.

The Sikorsky Sea King helicopter was a tight fit on the frigate's helo deck, but for casualties the rules were always bent. The ten worst cases, all scald/burns and broken limbs, were loaded aboard after the helo was refueled, and Morris watched it lift off for the beach. The captain of what was left of USS Pharris put his cap back on and lit another cigarette. He still didn't know what had gone wrong with that Victor-cla.s.s. Somehow the Russian skipper had teleported himself from one place to another.

"We killed three o' the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, sir." Chief Clarke appeared at Morris's side. "Maybe this one just got lucky."

"Reading minds, Chief?"

"Beg pardon, sir. You wanted me to report on some things. The pumps have just about dried things out. I'd say we're leaking ten gallons an hour at the crack on the lower starboard corner, hardly worth talking about. The bulkhead's holding, and we got people keeping an eye on it. Same story with the tow cable. Those tugboat guys know their stuff. The engineer reports both boilers are fully repaired, number two still on line. The Prairie Masker is operating. The Sea Sparrow is working again in case we need that, but the radars're still down."

Morris nodded. "Thank you, Chief. How are the men?"

"Busy. Kinda quiet. Mad."

That's one advantage they have over me, Morris thought. They're busy.

"If you'll pardon me saying so, skipper, you look awful tired," Clarke said. The bosun was worried about his captain, but had already said more than he was supposed to.

"We'll all get a good rest soon enough."

SUNNYVALE, CALIFORNIA.

"We show one bird lifting off," the watch officer told North American Aeros.p.a.ce Defense Command. "Coming out of Baikonur Kosmodrome on a heading of one-five-five, indicating a probable orbital inclination of sixty-five degrees. Signature characteristics say it's either an SS-11 ICBM or an F-1-type s.p.a.ce booster."

"Only one?"

"Correct, one bird only."

A lot of U.S. Air Force officers had suddenly become very tense. The missile was on a heading that would take it directly over the central United States in forty to fifty minutes. The rocket in question could be many things. The Russian SS-9 missile, like many American counterparts, was obsolete and had been adapted as a satellite booster rocket. Unlike its American counterparts, it had been originally designed as a fractional-orbital-bombardment system: FOBS, a missile that could put a 25-megaton nuclear warhead into a flight path mimicking that of a harmless satellite.

"Booster-engine cutoff-okay, we show separation and second-stage ignition," the colonel said on the phone. The Russians would freak if they knew how good our cameras are, he thought. "Flight path continues as before."

Already NORAD had flashed a warning to Was.h.i.+ngton. If this was a nuclear strike, National Command Authority was ready to react. So many current scenarios began with a large warhead exploded at orbital height over the target country, causing ma.s.sive electromagnetic damage to communications systems. The SS-9 FOBS system was tailor-made for that sort of thing.

"Second-stage cutoff . . . and there's third-stage ignition. Do you copy our position fix, NORAD?"

"That's a roger," acknowledged the general under Cheyenne Mountain. The signal from the early-warning satellite was linked into NORAD headquarters, and a watch crew of thirty was holding its breath, watching the image of the s.p.a.ce booster move across the map projection. Dear G.o.d, don't let it be a nuke . . .

Ground-based radar in Australia now tracked the vehicle, showing the climbing third stage and the spent second stage falling into the Indian Ocean. Their information also was linked by satellite to Sunnyvale and Cheyenne Mountain.

"That looks like shroud release," the man in Sunnyvale said. The radar picture showed four new objects fluttering away from the third stage. Probably the protective aluminum shroud needed for atmospheric flight, but unnecessary weight for a s.p.a.ce vehicle. People began to breathe more regularly. A reentry vehicle needed such a shroud, but a satellite did not. After five tense minutes, this was the first piece of good news. The FOBS didn't do that.

An Air Force RC-135 aircraft was already lifting off the ground at Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma, its engines fire-walled as the flight crew raced the converted 707 airliner to alt.i.tude. The roof of what otherwise would be a pa.s.senger compartment held a large telescope/camera a.s.sembly used to inspect Soviet s.p.a.ce vehicles. In the back, technicians activated the sophisticated tracking systems used to lock the camera in on its distant target.

"Burnout," they announced at Sunnyvale. "The vehicle has achieved orbital velocity. Initial numbers look like an apogee of one hundred fifty-six miles and a perigee of one hundred forty-eight." They'd have to refine those numbers, but NORAD and Was.h.i.+ngton needed something right now.

"Your evaluation?" NORAD asked Sunnyvale.

"Everything is consistent with a radar-ocean-reconnaissance-satellite launch. The only change is the orbital insertion path was southerly instead of northerly." Which made perfectly good sense, as everyone knew. Any kind of rocket launched over the pole entailed dangers that no one wanted to contemplate.

Thirty minutes later they were sure. The crewmen on the RC-135 got good pictures of the new Soviet satellite. Before it had completed its first revolution, it was cla.s.sified as a RORSAT. The new radar-ocean-surveillance satellite would be a problem for the Navy, but not something to end the world. The people in Sunnyvale and Cheyenne Mountain maintained their vigil.

ICELAND.

They followed a footpath around the mountain. Vigdis told them it was a favorite place for tourists to visit. A small glacier on the northern side of the mountain fed a half-dozen streams, which led in turn to a sizable valley full of small farms. They had a fine vantage point. Almost everything in sight was below them, including several roads that were kept under constant scrutiny. Edwards debated the advantages of cutting straight across the valley toward their objective or staying on the rough ground to the east.

"I wonder what kinda radio station that is," Smith said. There was a tower of some sort eight miles west of them.

Mike looked at Vigdis and got a shrug. She didn't listen to the radio.

"Not easy to tell from this far," Edwards observed. "But probably they have some Russians." He unfolded his big map. This part of the island showed lots of roads, but the information had to be taken with a grain of salt. Only two of the roads had decent surfaces. The rest were called "seasonal" on the map-meaning exactly what? Edwards wondered. Of these, some were well maintained, others were not. The map didn't say which was which. All of the Soviet troops they'd seen on the ground were driving jeep-type vehicles, not the tracked infantry-carriers they'd observed on the invasion day. A good driver in a four-by-four could go almost anywhere, however. How good were the Soviets at driving jeeps over broken ground . . . so many things to worry about, Edwards thought.

Edwards tracked his field gla.s.ses over the area to his west. He saw a twin-prop airliner lift off from a small airfield. You forgot about that, didn't you? The Russians are using those puddle-jumpers to ferry troops around . . .

"Sarge, what do you think?" Might as well get a professional decision.

Smith grimaced. The choice was between physical danger and physical exhaustion. Some choice, he thought. That's supposed to be why we have officers.

"I'd at least have some patrols down there, Lieutenant. Lots of roads, figure some checkpoints so they can-keep an eye on the local folks. Let's say that radio's a navigation beacon. It'll be guarded. Regular radio station'll be guarded, too. All these farms-what kinda farms, Miss Vigdis?"

"Sheep, some milk cows, potatoes," she answered.

"So when the Russkies are off duty, there'll be some wandering around to get some fresh food instead of their canned c.r.a.p. We would, too. I don't much like it, Lieutenant."

Edwards nodded agreement. "Okay, we head east. Just about out of food."

"There's always fish."

FASLANE, SCOTLAND.

Chicago led the procession. A Royal Navy fleet tug had helped her away from the quay, and the American sub was heading out the channel at six knots. They were taking advantage of a "window" in Soviet satellite coverage. It would be at least six hours before another Russian reconnaissance satellite came overhead. Behind McCafferty came Boston, Pittsburgh, Providence, Key West, and Groton, at two-mile intervals.

"What's the sounding?" McCafferty asked over the intercom.

"Five hundred seventy feet."

Time. McCafferty ordered the lookouts below. The only s.h.i.+ps in sight were aft. Boston was clearly visible, her black sail and twin diving planes gliding over the water like the angel of death. That was apt enough, he thought. The captain of USS Chicago made a final check of the control station atop the sail, then dropped down the ladder, pulling the hatch closed behind him. Another twenty-five feet and he was in the attack center, where he closed another hatch, turning the locking wheel as far as it would go.

"Straight board shut," the executive officer reported, going through the official litany that signified that the submarine was rigged for dive. Submariners evolved check lists long before aviators discovered them. McCafferty checked the status boards himself-and so, furtively, did several others of the attack center crew. Everything was as it should be.

"Dive. Make your depth two hundred feet," McCafferty ordered.

The submarine filled with the sound of rus.h.i.+ng air and water, and the sleek black hull began her descent.

McCafferty reviewed the chart in his head. Seventy-four hours to the icepack, and turn east. Forty-three hours to Svyatana and turn south. Then came the really hard part.

STENDAL, GERMAN DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC.

The Battle of Alfeld was turning into a living thing that ate men and tanks like a wolf eats rabbits. Alekseyev chafed at being two hundred kilometers distant from the tank division he now regarded as his own. He could not complain about his relief-which only made things worse. The new commander had staged a successful forced river crossing, putting another two regiments of mechanized infantry on the far bank, and now three ribbon bridges were being built across the Leine-or at least a spirited attempt was under way to build them, despite murderous artillery fire from NATO units.

"We have created a 'meeting engagement,' Pasha," CINC-WEST said, staring down at the map.

Alekseyev nodded agreement. What had begun as a limited attack was fast becoming the focal point of the whole fighting front. Two more Soviet tank divisions were now near the battle area, racing to the Leine. Three NATO brigades were known to be heading the same way, along with artillery. Both sides were pulling tactical fighters from other sectors, one to smash the bridgehead, the other to support it. The terrain at the front didn't give the SAM crews enough time to discriminate friend from foe. The Russians had many more surface-to-air missiles, and so a free-fire zone had been established at Alfeld. Anything that flew was automatically a target for the Russian missiles, while Soviet aircraft kept clear, working instead to locate and kill NATO artillery and reinforcements. That ran contrary to pre-war doctrine-another gamble, but a favorable one, Alekseyev judged, given his experiences at the front. That was an important lesson not stressed enough in pre-war training: senior commanders had to see what was happening with their own eyes. How did we ever forget that? Pasha wondered.

He fingered the bandage on his forehead. Alekseyev was suffering from a murderous headache, and a doctor had used twelve st.i.tches to close the wound. Crude st.i.tches, the doctor had told him-they would leave a scar. His father had had several such scars, all worn with pride. He'd accept the decoration for this one.

"We have the ridge north of the town!" 20th Tanks' commander called in. "We've pushed the Americans off."

Alekseyev took the phone. "How soon on the bridges?"

"We ought to have one ready in another half hour. Their artillery support is slackening off. They blew one bridging unit to h.e.l.l, but this one will be completed. I have a battalion of tanks lined up already. The SAMs are doing well. I can see the wreckage of five aircraft from where I'm standing. I see-" The General was interrupted by man-made thunder.

Alekseyev could do nothing but stare at the telephone receiver. His fist tightened in anger around the handset.

"Excuse me. That was close. The final section of bridge is rolling out now. Those engineers have taken terrible losses, Comrade General. They deserve particular attention. The major in command of the unit has been exposed for three hours now. I want the gold star for him."

"Then he'll get it."

"Good, good-the bridge section is off the truck and in the water. If they give us ten minutes to anchor the far end, I'll get those d.a.m.ned tanks across for you. How long on my reinforcements?"

"The lead elements will arrive just after sunset."

"Excellent! I must leave now. I'll be back when we start rolling tanks."

Alekseyev handed the phone back to a junior officer. It was like listening to a hockey game on the radio!

"The next objective, Pasha?"

"Northwest to Hameln and beyond. We might be able to cut off NATO's northern army groups. If they start to disengage their forces around Hamburg, we go to a general attack and chase them all the way to the English Channel! I think we have the situation we've been hoping for."

BRUSSELS, BELGIUM.