First Salvo

by Charles D. Taylor

  A major resurgence of terrorist activities, coupled with leftist antiwar-antinuclear demonstrations, began to occur as predicted. Rioting broke out toward the end of the workday on D minus 5 in Tokyo, creating massive transportation jams. One of the consequences was that Japanese industry was brought to a standstill on ensuing days. Leftist organizations limited or halted all international transportation to and from Japan. Assessments at that time indicated that successful confrontation by these leftist groups could have brought down the government within three days. CIA contacts in most countries indicated that terrorist schools in Havana, Moscow, Libya, Pajkow in East Germany, Ostrava in Czechoslovakia, and Simferopol in the Crimea had apparently exported their student bodies by D minus 6. Reports of these terrorists surfacing in various underground cells in West Germany, France, Belgium, Italy, the Netherlands, the Scandinavian countries, and Japan were confirmed by D minus 4. A concentration of females from these schools in critical capital cities indicated an effort to subvert high-government officials.

  Insertion of terrorists on a major scale was a tactic that had concerned European defense chiefs during a meeting in Brussels the previous year. It was projected that about five days before launching an attack against the West, the Soviet Union might utilize this method to create civilian dissension, weaken government authority to call up reserve military units, and instill anti-American feelings in both the NATO countries and Japan. Combined with KGB disinformation campaigns, the tactic was highly successful. To counter this, the following units were alerted: British SAS, West Germany’s GSG-9, Israel’s GIRU 269, France’s Gigene, Italy’s SAST, Spain’s GEO, and all of the Netherlands’ marine corps spec units.

  Six new satellites were also launched in the preceding forty-eight hours from remote bases in the Soviet Union. Four were identified as ASAT (antisatellite) units, each one settling in close proximity to U.S. reconnaissance satellite orbits.

  WITH THE SEAL TEAM

  “Wouldn’t be without him.” There was one man Bernie Ryng trusted over all others when he was sent out—Lieutenant Harry Winters. Harry was Ryng’s protégé, if such a thing could be said to exist in their murky world. He was a mustang, a former enlisted man who had finally accepted a commission, and the only reason Winters ever accepted it was so that he could stick with Bernie Ryng. Ashore, they went their own way, but on any kind of mission, they were inseparable. They worked perfectly as a twosome, and when a larger group was needed, Winters always took charge of the other half of the SEAL team. Ryng could have had any executive officer he wanted. The volunteers were waiting in line. But Harry Winters was always there to lead men and deliver when the going got rough. Bernie wouldn’t go without him.

  The initial leg of Ryng’s flight was to Gander, Newfoundland, to join up with Winters, who had brought the team there the day before with all the gear Ryng had requisitioned. Forty-five minutes later, they were airborne, this time for Reykjavik. After refueling, they headed up north, hugging the coast of Greenland.

  When Svalbard was a thousand miles off the starboard wing, they turned due east. Leveling off below radar-acquisition level, they tracked on a homing signal from a trawler fifty miles off the island’s west coast. It not only looked like a fishing boat, it was even experiencing a successful catch. Manned by the Norwegian navy, she was one of the small fleet maintained in that area for just such an emergency.

  Ryng could sleep anywhere. Lieutenant Winters woke him an hour before arrival. There was just enough time to pull on wet suits. Watertight equipment packs were pushed out the cargo door, parachutes opening automatically as each cleared the craft.

  With the deafening howl of engines and wind rushing by outside, there was never a reason for the eight men to communicate verbally. Anything important could be expressed by a tap on the shoulder, a soft jab in the ribs, a hand touching either side of the head—the silent language of men who trusted and depended on each other.

  The green light above the door flicked on. Now it was their turn! Harry Winters, always the first out, stepped to the hatch, flashed his customary V sign, and was gone. Tradition was vital on this team; many in special operations become superstitious the longer they survive and Winters had given the victory sign in that same manner since the first day they had jumped as a team.

  Martin Gable was next. He considered it his duty to give Winters, his underwater demolitions partner, a slap on the butt as the lead man jumped. Harry would always claim that Gable’s “love pat,” as he called it, reminded him to start breathing after his parachute opened. Gable flashed his usual smile at Mel Harper, his white teeth setting off his black face, and he was gone. Harper and Gable were demolitions experts whom Ryng had selected years before when he was instructing. Mel was short, Gable tall, and they became Mutt and Jeff to the team. Louie Chamas, radioman, corpsman, and language expert, followed after doing his version of the two-step, for luck, before he exited.

  The team chief, Denny Bush, waved his arms to catch Ryng’s attention. On the ground he was the team clown, able to imitate with precision every admiral they had ever come in contact with. Now, as Bernie Ryng watched with amusement, Denny pointed outside, then back to his chest, as if to inquire if he was next. Ryng had seen this before and nodded his head, pointing to the hatch. Denny looked out, shook his head, and backed away slightly; then he went through the same exercise again, this time with a smile, ending by pinching his nose as he went through the hatch like a kid jumping off a log into the water. His partner, Wally, followed without hesitation. Always the perfectionist, Wally did everything automatically. A former Marine, he’d transferred to the SEALs because he knew they were involved in covert operations and he couldn’t imagine a military career without action. When he asked Ryng if he could join the team, he explained that he was not the type who could wait for someone to declare war. During his entire career, he had never been wounded, not even cut or bruised during training. He was the iron man.

  Ryng’s technical specialist and small arms expert, Rick Carpenter, was second to last. Once again, tradition took over as he turned to Bernie Ryng and saluted with his left hand. Denny Bush had decided that the last man to see their leader alive before they rejoined on the ground should always proffer the left-handed salute, “to let Bernie know we care,” he had explained with a laugh.

  Bernie Ryng never looked about the fuselage for anything left behind. None of these men had ever made a mistake since the team was formed. He moved up to the position Rick had just vacated, grinning inwardly as he always did at the left-handed salute, and jumped after a silent, automatic count.

  The fishing boat they made contact with took them around the north tip of Prince Charles Island, a long, narrow strip of land just off the main island of Spitzbergen. The little island served as a good decoy. They ran south down the narrow channel toward the main harbor. There was little chance of running into any humans along that deserted coast, nor was there any radar.

  The two main settlements on Spitzbergen bordered the harbor that cut well into the mountains, which rose fjord-like on the southwest side of the island. Four months of the year, they were snow free because of the warm current that passed within a couple of hundred miles. The nearby current also thawed the tundra enough to make it almost impassably boggy.

  The Russians lived in the first community, Barentsburg, situated at the widest part of the harbor near the entrance. The supply ship that had left Murmansk the week before was anchored off the town. About twenty miles farther into the harbor was the Norwegian settlement of Longyearbyen, which included the airport used by both groups.

  The SEAL team landed across the harbor from Barentsburg. About a mile and a half up the coast, they were out of sight of the settlement. Less than five hundred yards inland from the shore, Ryng found a perfect spot to conceal their equipment. Then he split the team into two groups. His section would transit to Longyearbyen to investigate the Norwegian settlement. The second had to learn what was underneath the tarpaulins on the Soviet ship.<
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  It was late summer in Spitzbergen, six hundred miles north of Norway in the land of the midnight sun. There was no total darkness, not even in the first week of September. In what would normally be the middle of the night, the sky and land still had an eerie luminosity. The sun, a golden spectacle on the horizon, cast long shadows that contrasted with the crystal reflection on the mountain glaciers. Ryng had to pass the Soviet base and make his way to Longyearbyen without the security of total darkness that the team had been trained to exploit. Even more difficult would be the other mission, aboard the Soviet ship. That problem was left to Harry Winters—he was trained to be innovative, and Bernie never doubted for a moment that Harry could pull it off.

  The evening was a chilly thirty-five degrees when they separated. Dressed in dark trousers and turtlenecks, faces blackened, they blended with the long shadows and the darkness of the icy waters.

  An electric motor, attached to high-capacity batteries that would last them well into the next day, pushed their low rubber boat at about seven knots. Once past Barentsburg, Ryng was no longer concerned with detection. Nothing existed between the two settlements but cold, barren, snowcapped mountains. The only passage between them in the summer was by helicopter or boat. At night, even though they were the only floating object, they would never be seen darting through the shadows.

  It was one-thirty in the morning when they came opposite the Norwegian town. Ryng could see nothing moving. Lights glowed in some of the windows, mostly in two larger buildings. He swung his binoculars around to the airfield. There the lights, even with the sun hovering on the horizon, were brilliant. In the glare he saw two huge Aeroflot planes. Continuing to scan the area, something in his mind—a sixth sense—made him swing back. He steadied himself on the edge of the boat, the glasses centered on one of the aircraft.

  Lousy camouflage! There was no doubt about the exterior markings. Both military! He suspected that whatever was in the supply ship at Barentsburg was also connected with these two planes.

  “What have you got here, Bernie?”

  “Two Bear bombers, I think. Here, take a look.” He handed the glasses to Denny Bush, the technical specialist.

  “You’re right,” agreed Bush, handing them back. “But take a look at those pods under the wings. I never saw anything like that before.”

  Ryng shook his head unhappily. “Damn, I was hoping maybe you’d recognize them. I guess we’ll just have to find someone who does know.” Restarting the electric motor, he quietly maneuvered the boat across the half mile, slipping gently under a broken-down pier which was attached to an even more dilapidated fishing shack that had been left to the hazards of the frozen harbor for too many winters.

  After concealing the rubber boat underneath, Bush unwrapped a waterproof packet and distributed weapons. Each man received a Browning 9mm pistol with three clips of ammunition, thirty-nine rounds apiece. Ryng had selected this particular weapon for its close-in effect; he never allowed them to use a pistol at more than twenty yards. The team didn’t work that way. Each man also had two knives. Bush, as usual, was most comfortable with his garroting wire.

  Ryng gestured toward one of the lighted buildings. It was at the base of a rocky outcrop. “You and Wally go around that side,” he whispered to Bush. “Rick and I will try the other. Don’t bother with anybody yet.” They all disappeared into the shadows. Anyone looking in their direction might have thought the quick movements were simply his imagination. One man would dart across a patch of ground stealthily and swiftly. Then the other would move, always covered by the first.

  Ryng knew from the satellite photos he’d gone over the day before that this was the town recreation hall. All the local events were held here—chess tournaments with the Russians, dances, holiday feasts. This was the center of activity for Longyearbyen, its heart and pulse in the long, dark winters.

  He peeked through a window into a well-lighted room. It was jammed with men. Some were asleep on the floor, others rested with their backs against the wall. At one end, in the only chairs, sat two men, guns across their knees. Ryng recognized the weapons, brand new AK-74s, Russian made. He couldn’t tell who the guards were—they had no uniforms—but they knew how to handle those guns. He could tell just by the way they held them. And even at 2:30 a.m., they were wide awake and alert.

  He scurried back into the shadows. Rick was already there and Ryng nodded at him to speak. “Room full of women, all asleep, I think. Two men guarding them with AK-74s. One has tear gas grenades.” Ryng hadn’t noticed grenades in the room he had observed. “I wouldn’t try anything with them, Bernie, not right away. They look sharp.”

  “I agree,” Ryng said as they crouched in the dark waiting for Bush.

  Rick’s alert eyes caught Denny Bush darting through the shadows with Wally a second or two behind him. Then, so silent that only Ryng knew they were there, the two men settled bedside them. “Prisoners?” Bernie whispered.

  “One big room,” Denny replied. “Must be two hundred men in there, all young. A couple of them are tied up, probably troublemakers. There’re four men guarding them. One’s wearing a black beret.”

  So that was the reason! “That’s why they don’t need many guards,” Ryng remarked under his breath. Russian marines! Some of the Black Beret units were almost as good as their U.S. counterparts. “How many entrances?”

  Bush held up one finger.

  “None in the back.” Ryng hissed. “We only have to worry about one door then.” He pondered for a moment. “There are supposed to be about a thousand Norwegians here. They may have some of them up in the coal mines, but there must be another few hundred around here. We have to find someone who can tell us what’s going on.”

  “Wally and I can bring you a body—a live, warm one.” Ryng held his hand up to his lips. The transformer under his arm had vibrated twice. Winters, at the Russian town, needed to talk.

  Ryng extracted a small radio from under his shirt. “Go ahead, Harry,” he murmured.

  “We’re back ashore all in one piece, along with one Russian sailor. We had to borrow him when we borrowed his boat. No opportunity to avoid him, I’m afraid. We did keep him alive. When he wakes up, perhaps we can learn a bit more about that cargo.” There was a slight pause. “Very interesting, Bernie. Those things under that tarp look very much like torpedoes, but they sure as hell don’t do the same job. No warheads. They’re a hell of a lot bigger too, very long and thin. Harper says they’re all fuel and high-speed engine from the looks of them. He also said he could be wrong but they sure as hell could be some kind of decoy. There’s no way you can launch them out of torpedo tubes—too narrow.”

  “Okay, Harry. I think we may have something over here. Perhaps they’re air launched. Rick and I are going to check that out and call back. We’ve found the community of Longyearbyen and apparently the Norwegians are all prisoners. Looks like we have some Russian Black Berets up here. I don’t know how many. Send everything out on the SSB under the usual code. Stay loose for another hour. And, Harry, put together a little something special for that freighter. We still don’t want it going anywhere from here.”

  “No problem, boss. Do you want it at the bottom of the harbor?”

  “No. Put together something so it’ll be about an hour or so out to sea before it goes off.”

  “Right, Bernie. We’ll sit tight until we hear from you. Out.”

  With a motion of Ryng’s hand, Bush and Wally drifted off into the shadows in search of their one warm body while the other two headed for the airfield.

  Owing to the arctic climate, the island was barren. There were few buildings to provide cover. Darkness had always been a blessing in the team’s business, but this time it would not come for another few months. So Ryng worked his way to the airfield using shadows and rocks and as much luck as possible, with Rick covering each movement.

  Crouching at the shadowy edge of a maintenance building, they were treated to an unexpected display. Not more than two hundred
yards away, one of the giant bombers was being armed. Ryng had to assume the torpedo-like units that Bush had found on the freighter were the same objects being wheeled out under the wings. Forklifts hoisted them up to the pod-like couplings they’d noticed from the other side of the harbor.

  “What do you make of it?” Ryng queried.

  “Harry’s right. They sure as hell aren’t torpedoes—not bombs either.” Rick peered at the blackened face beside him. “I’m trying to remember any recent intelligence reports about something like that.” He shook his head. “No weapon that I know of was even being developed in that shape.”

  “Must run underwater, but I can’t figure out why.” Ryng paused, his head cocked to one side. Both became aware of a growing engine noise overhead. A third Bear bomber was gliding across the harbor toward them. After landing, it taxied over near the other two. As they watched in silence, the loading of the first one was completed. Minutes later, an air crew appeared, paused outside the plane for a few moments, then swung up inside. The new one moved into line as the first departed.

  “Come on,” whispered Ryng. “It’s getting brighter out. Time to hole up for the day.”

  Bush and Wally were patiently waiting in the deserted fishing shack where they had hidden the boat.

  “I’m sorry, Bernie. That was all we could find.” Bush pointed toward a body huddled in the corner. “That’s why they must have forgotten him.” Filthy clothes and beard and a lingering odor of alcohol suggested that the man had been on a prolonged drunk.