Red Ice

by William Dietz

  Soto felt the Dawn lurch slightly as the five-inch gun fired, and heard a muffled BOOM. A waterspout appeared off the Narwhal’s starboard bow. “Up!” Soto said, even though the gunners were getting their orders from the crow’s nest, and couldn’t hear him.

  Then there was a loud bang and the world seemed to explode. Soto was thrown to the deck as a razor sharp piece of shrapnel took the helmsman’s head off, and someone began to scream. “I have the con,” Penny said, as she stepped over the body, and took hold of the bloody wheel.

  Soto struggled to his feet and looked down at his body. Was he wounded? No, there wasn’t any blood. The five fired again. “A hit!” one of the watch keepers said, and that was good. But the Russian guns were firing even more quickly now, and Soto felt the Dawn shudder, as shells hammered her hull.

  “Look!” Penny exclaimed. “Above the Narwhal. ”

  Soto looked. And there, tracking the enemy ship’s progress, was the Dolphin! “Bird-Dog-Two to Bird-Cage,” Olson said. “Chief Wright is about to drop a M3A1 shaped charge on the Narwhal … Standby. Over. ”

  Soto was astounded. Chief Wright was on the helo? Shaped charge? What shaped charge?

  The question went unanswered as the Russians fired small arms at the Dolphin and a speck fell away from it. The charge? Yes. Then the helo was gone as it swooped out and away. Soto saw a yellow-orange flash of light, followed by a thunderous BOOM, as the upper part of the Narwhal’s red superstructure exploded into flame. Pieces of fiery debris were thrown high into the air, and came twirling down to splash into the frigid sea.

  The Russian icebreaker turned to port at that point, suggesting that no one was at the helm, or that the helm didn’t exist anymore. The Narwhal’s bow gun fell silent as her klaxon began to bleat. It was a plaintive sound like that of a dying beast. The Dawn’s windscreen had been destroyed, and Soto heard a loud bang, as the five-inch fired again. He saw the shell hit the enemy icebreaker’s stern and explode.

  A seaman had relieved Penny on the wheel. “Order the gun crew to cease firing,” Soto said. “And contact the Narwhal if you can. Tell them to abandon ship. We’ll rescue survivors if they do. But we’re going to sink their ship either way.”

  Penny nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Suddenly Soto felt cold. Was that because of the air pouring in from outside? Or an emotional reaction? He continued to shiver until someone threw a parka over his shoulders. “Always Ready.” His crew had been ready, and Soto was proud.

  The Russians decided to surrender, lowered their boats, and had no choice but to follow orders as the Dawn’s helicopter hovered above them. Once the 67 survivors had been searched, and brought aboard, they were placed under guard in the aircraft hangar.

  The Dolphin was low on fuel by the time it put down on the helipad, and Soto sent for the crew. Olson was tall, lanky, and a bit cocky. Drake wore a perpetual grin, and Wright looked the way he always looked, which was wound tight. His assistant stood at the back of the group.

  Soto came forward to shake hands with each person. “I’m going to put all of you in for medals,” he told them. “That said, I’d like a word with you Chief … What were you doing on that helicopter?”

  Wright came to attention. “I was the best qualified person for the job, sir.”

  “And the shaped charge?” Soto wanted to know. “Where did that come from?”

  “From the magazine, sir. We brought six of them on board. They’re on the inventory, sir.”

  Soto had been required to sign for Wright’s arsenal, but hadn’t studied it, and could hardly complain. “I see. Turning the charge into a bomb was very clever. Six , you say … Could you and your assistant use some of them to scuttle the Narwhal?”

  Wright stood a little bit straighter. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” Soto turned to Olson. “After the Dolphin has been refueled I want you to take the Chief, and his assistant over to the Narwhal. Then, once the charges are in place, you will fly to Prudhoe. Dinner will be on me.”

  “What about the Dawn? ” Olson inquired.

  “We’re going to Prudhoe as well,” Soto told her, “assuming the Russians don’t send any planes to hunt us down. I asked PACOM to provide air cover, but they said, ‘no.’ Some sort of battle is taking place in the Bering Strait, and their assets are committed there.”

  Later, as the Dawn forced her way through an ice floe, Soto was able to watch live as Chief Wright pressed a button and the Narwhal seemed to shudder. There wasn’t any audio. But Soto could imagine a series of dull thumps as the charges went off and broke the ship in half. A raging fire was revealed. The Narwhal was consumed by a huge cloud of steam as the wreckage slipped below the surface. “Send a message to PACOM,” Soto ordered. “Tell them that the Russian icebreaker Narwhal has been sunk.”

  It was dark by the time the Dawn docked in Prudhoe Bay. A team of MPs had been flown in to receive the Russian POWs, and a civilian shipyard stood ready to make temporary repairs to the Dawn’s badly battered superstructure. They did their best, but the process still consumed a day and a half, which meant the icebreaker would be late for its rendezvous with the Nevada.

  It took ten hours of steady steaming to reach the spot where the ballistic missile submarine was supposed to meet them. And, thanks to the long artic days, the sun was still up when Soto ordered Penny to cut power. A low frequency signal was sent.

  Time passed but there was nothing to see. Had something gone wrong? Could something go wrong? Hell yes, it could. The Dawn was a sitting duck for any Russian plane that came along. Such were Soto’s thoughts as a report came down from the crow’s nest. “A submarine is surfacing off the starboard bow.”

  Soto brought his glasses around just in time to see the submarine’s “sail,” or conning tower, rise through a hole in the ice. The rest of the boat followed and soon sat gleaming in the bright sunlight. “I have the Nevada’s skipper on the horn, sir,” an electronics tech announced. “He wants to know what took so long.”

  Soto thought about that. Should he tell the other officer about the way that Lieutenant Riker and his copilot had been killed? About the battle that ensued? No, Soto decided. It wasn’t relevant. “Tell him we’re sorry … Tell him that since the Nevada has been at sea for more than 45 days, the crew is entitled to a beer day, and the cold stuff is on us.”

  “I can hear cheering,” the radioman said.

  “Good,” Soto replied. “Tell him that we’re going to come alongside.”

  “We made it,” Penny said, as she appeared at his side.

  “Yes,” Soto replied soberly. “This time.”

  Chapter Nine

  Big Diomede Island, the Bering Strait, Russia

  W hen the Russians came, they came hard. The day began when a noncom entered the underground bunker where the JTACs were sleeping. “Everybody up! Grab your weapons … The Russians are coming our way.”

  The announcement set off a confused frenzy of activity as soldiers hurried to pull their boots on, and make what might be critical decisions. Was it best to pack up? And take all of their gear along? Or did it make more sense to leave excess stuff in the bunker, so as to be more mobile?

  The JTACs by contrast, were packed, and ready to go. That was SOP. Falco led them to the surface. The sun was up, the sky was clear, and the outside air felt cold compared to the fuggy warmth of the bunker.

  In order to escape the cold breeze blowing in from the north, the team took shelter behind a cairn of frost covered rocks. Once the radios were running Staff Sergeant Lee used his Jetboil to heat water, and it was only a matter of minutes before JTACs were enjoying mugs of coffee. “Wow,” Falco said gratefully. “That’s good.”

  “It’s Starbucks,” Lee explained. “That’s how I roll. Here, have a trail bar. ”

  “Okay,” Oliver said, as he removed one ear bud. “Here’s what I have so far. The Russians are about fifteen minutes out—and coming in fast.”

  “Coming in what?”

  “That’s
the thing,” Oliver answered. “The bastards are smart, or the general in charge of them is … Because the first wave is going to arrive in roughly 100 nine-man RIB (Rigid-Hulled Inflatable Boats) boats. And the second wave will consist of three Aist -Class hovercraft carrying four tanks each and more troops.”

  Falco did the math. Based on Oliver’s report 900 enemy soldiers were about to arrive on Big Diomede. But more importantly, from a tactical perspective, was the way the enemy soldiers were going to come ashore. The RIB boats would allow them to land all along the coast, rather than in concentrated groups that the defenders could go after. And the zigzagging targets would be difficult for the American pilots to hit.

  Once the boats arrived the attackers would have to climb cliffs to reach the plateau. That would force Colonel Waya to divide his forces into at least a hundred small detachments in order to stop the Russians before they could regroup.

  Then, while Waya’s combat team was spread out, the Russian tanks would arrive. And, with no American armor to oppose them, the machines would climb up onto the plateau and wreak havoc. The thought was punctuated by the scream of jet engines as a MiG fighter passed overhead and released a pair of gravity bombs. The explosions shook the ground, and threw gouts of dirty ice up into the air, but did very little damage.

  That wasn’t the point however … No, the purpose of the attack was to create confusion which it certainly did. Soldiers ran every which way. Shit, shit, shit , Falco thought. The person who conceived this plan is a fucking genius .

  There was no place to go, so the JTACs remained where they were. “Where’s Waya?” Falco demanded. “That’s where we should be.” And that was true, because in order to be effective, the team needed to take orders from someone who could see the big picture—and provide guidance.

  “Other people are asking the same question,” Oliver replied. “And all of them get the same answer. Wolf-Six is on Big Diomede island.”

  Falco could understand that. Was the army’s radio network 100% secure? Hell, no. Nothing was. So, in order to keep the colonel safe, his staff was being coy.

  But the lack of a coherent command structure made it damned near impossible for Falco and his team to function. So what to do? One thing for sure … Standing around sipping coffee wasn’t the answer. “Okay, pack up. We’ll find the colonel later. In the meantime let’s make ourselves useful. We’ll head for the water and give the doggies a hand.”

  As the men jogged towards the water they fell in with a platoon led by a youthful 2nd lieutenant. Ice crunched under their boots and the bright artic sun threw long shadows toward the west as they crossed a field of white. The JTACs stopped short of the bluff rather than silhouette themselves against the sky. As they looked out over the water they could see two dozen RIB boats bouncing over the waves as they paralleled the coast. Were others beached below?

  The lieutenant went forward to peer over the bluff. Falco yelled, “Hey! Don’t …” But it was too late. A shot rang out and the officer pitched forward. “Grenades!” a sergeant yelled. “Roll them off.”

  After a series of explosions were heard, the noncom crawled forward to take a peek. There were no additional gunshots. “We got ’em,” the sergeant said, as he stood. “But more of the bastards are on the way. ”

  Falco saw that the statement was true. Three RIB boats had turned toward shore, and were headed for that section of the coast. Why so many? Falco went forward. “I’m sorry about the lieutenant, Sergeant. Why is this spot so popular?”

  “There’s a small beach down there, sir. And the slope is climbable.”

  “I think we should trap them on the beach,” Falco said. “What’s your opinion?”

  Falco never got to hear the noncom’s reply as columns of ice shot up all around them and a Russian Sukhoi Su-25 roared overhead. It all happened so quickly that there wasn’t time to do anything other than flinch. Where the hell were the good guys anyway? Did the Russians own the sky?

  Someone shouted for a medic, and Falco turned to see that two soldiers were down. Falco took a quick look around. There was no cover. So the same thing could happen again. He turned back to the sergeant. “I was wrong. I suggest that you place your snipers up here, with orders to fire on the boats. The rest of us will go down to the beach. The Russian pilots won’t be able to hit us without greasing their people too.”

  Falco wasn’t army. But because he was a major, and spoke with an air of authority, the sergeant obeyed. “Yes, sir … I’ll give the snipers their orders.”

  The noncom began to place his sharpshooters while Falco led the rest of the platoon down the 75-foot slope. It was slow going. If someone fell they would land on the jagged rocks below.

  The Russians were firing bow-mounted light machine guns. Bullets snapped, pinged, and slapped the hillside as the Americans slid, skidded, and in some cases fell. A woman uttered a cry of pain when a bullet smashed her left knee. She fell onto a pile of boulders.

  “Take cover!” Falco shouted, as he jumped down onto the beach. “Kill those bastards! ”

  A tangle of sun bleached logs offered places to hide. Falco saw one of the Russian machine gunners slump sideways. Had he been hit by a sniper?

  Falco thought so, as he dashed from one hiding place to another. The MP7 was practically worthless at that range. So rather than fire it Falco went soldier-to-soldier offering words of encouragement. “Pick your shots, private … That’s it. Make ’em pay.”

  “Make your ammo last, son …”

  “Target their heavy weapons. Nice! Keep it up.”

  And the soldiers did their best to comply. But it seemed that there weren’t very many good beaches, because more RIB boats were arriving on the scene, and there was an increasing chance that the defenders would be overwhelmed.

  Falco keyed his mike. “Attention on the net … This is Wombat with the 2nd platoon of Bravo company. We’re in heavy contact on the south side of Big D, and about to be overrun. Need immediate close air support on twenty RIBs. Over.”

  Falco was trying to keep his voice level, but suspected he was failing, and knew those on the net would be able to hear the small arms fire. A now familiar voice came over the radio. “Geez, Wombat, are you in trouble again?”

  “Stripper, this is Wombat. I have you Lima Charlie (loud and clear). Go with check in.”

  “This is Stripper and Slowboy, two F-15Es with full loads of guns and bombs ready for the target.”

  Falco ducked as an RPG exploded and sent shrapnel flying in every direction. “We are at the foot of the cliff on the south side of Big D, with massed infantry closing on our position. Your target is the RIBs just offshore. You are approved to attack the entire flotilla. Ordinance is up to you. Cleared to engage.”

  “Stripper and Slowboy in from the north. Put your head down, Wombat … Commencing engagement. ”

  The F-15s made repeated runs with both guns and bombs. And it wasn’t long before every boat was destroyed. “Stripper to Wombat, engagement complete, targets neutralized.”

  As the fighters raced away they left a sea of drifting wrecks, floating bodies, and bobbing debris behind them. “Wombat to Stripper … I owe you a beer. Over.”

  “More like a steak. Out.” Then she was gone.

  Lee appeared next to him. “We have orders, sir … We’re supposed to report to Major Lawson on the west side of the island ASAP.”

  Falco thought he understood. After getting the situation under control, Colonel Waya was sending reserves over to meet the Russian hovercraft and the tanks they were carrying. The best time to destroy the armor was before it came ashore. And that was where Falco and his team could help. Falco nodded. “Come on … We have a cliff to climb.”

  It took fifteen minutes for the men to pick their way up the rocky slope and reach the plateau above. “We’ll head north,” Falco said, “find the road, and follow it west.” He began to jog and the others followed. Speed was of the essence. How soon would the tanks arrive? And would the JTACs reach the harbo
r first?

  Falco had his doubts about that. Any general smart enough to conceive the Russian plan of attack wouldn’t be shy when it came to sending the hovercraft in. So Falco ran, and it wasn’t easy, since the top layer of ice was starting to melt. His boots broke through the crusty surface with each step, and it took extra effort to pull them out.

  The rattle of gunfire could be heard in the distance, punctuated by the occasional crack of a grenade. That was to be expected. But in this case the sounds were coming from all around! So even though enemy soldiers hadn’t been able to come ashore on Falco’s beach, they’d been successful elsewhere, and dozens of firefights were under way .

  The road appeared and Falco saw that troops were streaming west. Some were riding in Russian trucks, or on Russian ATVs, but most were on foot. The scene was reminiscent of WWII footage in which American soldiers trudged along snowy roads on their way to the Battle of The Bulge.

  After turning onto the muddy road the JTACs went west. The JTACs were monitoring a number of frequencies and heard the news right away. The Russians had been holding most of their fighters in reserve, waiting for the right moment to strike. And now, as the hovercraft neared the coast, the Russian planes were coming in to provide air cover. Falco stopped running. “Get those people off the road!”

  The team began to wave soldiers off the road. But some of them, including an army major, chose to ignore the warnings. He ordered his troops to keep going. And it was only a matter of minutes before two Sukhoi Su-25s appeared out of the west.

  They came in low. Each plane was carrying more than four tons of rockets, missiles, and gravity bombs. But it seemed that the pilots were saving those weapons for later, because they chose to employ their dual 30mm cannons instead. The big shells plowed bloody furrows through the troops on the road—and turned their vehicles into flaming funeral pyres.