Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  The British torpedo slammed into the U-32 just as her conning tower broke the surface. The Stingray’s shaped-charge warhead, intended to kill much larger vessels, hit aft and exploded, obliterating the sub’s engineering compartment. With her hull ripped open, U-32’s ballast tanks could not keep her afloat. Only five of her crew, all sailors stationed in the conning tower, managed to scramble out before she slid downward in a maelstrom of bubbling foam, oil, and wreckage — joining her victims at the bottom of the estuary.

  MINISTRY OF DEFENSE, LONDON

  In a reluctant concession to the war raging across the Channel, the soldiers stationed around London’s famous public buildings and government offices wore combat gear instead of their colorful, full dress uniforms. Bearskin caps and scarlet coats had given way to Kevlar helmets and camouflaged body armor.

  Admiral Jack Ward strode out into the Defense Ministry’s inner courtyard between sentries who snapped to attention. Lieutenant Harada, his flag secretary, followed right behind. Their ride out to Heathrow, a tiny British Army Air Corps Gazelle helicopter, sat on the pavement with its rotor already slowly turning. A U.S. Navy Grumman COD — carrier onboard delivery plane — was waiting on the tarmac at the airport, ready to take them back to sea.

  He bent low to clear the Gazelle’s rotor blades and hauled himself inside, taking a seat on a narrow folding bench behind its two crewmen. Harada squeezed in beside him and pulled the helicopter’s side door shut.

  The admiral leaned forward to speak to the warrant officer piloting the helo. “Anytime you’re ready, mister.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll just be half a tic.” The sandy-haired warrant officer grinned round at him. “We’re only waiting for our clearance from those Nervous Nellies in Air Defense Command. Right, Tony?”

  His copilot looked up from flicking switches and nodded. “The bloody Frogs and Jerries are at it again, Admiral. Over Southampton this time. It’s a right mess, they say.”

  Ward grimaced and sat back impatiently. He couldn’t afford to get stuck ashore under enemy air attack — not now. Events were moving too fast.

  The sudden surge in French and German attacks against British airfields and harbors had come as a very unpleasant, though not wholly unexpected, development. Stymied in every attempt to sink Ward’s juggernauts, his three carrier battle groups, the EurCon high command had apparently decided to concentrate their air and naval resources against the weakest link in the sea line of communications to Poland — the United Kingdom itself.

  Cost-cutting and the end of the cold war had slowed the U.K.’s efforts to rebuild its long-neglected air defenses. The RAF’s E-3 Sentries, a few, overworked squadrons of Tornado interceptors, and Patriot missile batteries could knock down some of the attacking aircraft, but they couldn’t stop every incoming raid — not when EurCon planes based in France were only minutes’ flying time from targets in southern England. There were too many potential targets and too few fighters and SAM batteries available to protect them.

  As a result, Ward knew, EurCon’s first attacks had been disturbingly effective. The Mirage raid on Brize Norton had killed nearly one hundred soldiers and airmen. Hundreds more were wounded, many seriously. Later raids on other bases had inflicted similar losses. The initial enemy air and submarine attacks had also destroyed a number of transport planes and cargo ships that were worth their weight in gold.

  EurCon’s leaders must be hoping that expanding the war to British soil would throw the United States and its allies off balance. Certainly the losses they’d inflicted would slow the movement of British troops to Poland. And they probably hoped the Combined Forces air commanders would strengthen the U.K.’s defenses by diverting some of the American F-15 and F-16 squadrons now bombing installations inside France and Germany.

  Of course, by demonstrating just how vulnerable the United Kingdom was to any enemy attack, the EurCon raids had helped spur Washington and London into approving drastic retaliatory and preemptive measures. The men in both Paris and Berlin were about to relearn the law of unintended consequences, Ward thought dourly.

  He had been summoned to London from midocean late the night before — forced to endure a bumpy, low-altitude COD flight to arrive in time for this morning’s meeting hosted by the Combined Chiefs of Staff. Although it had cost him a badly needed night’s sleep, a stiff neck, and a bruised backside, the show had proved well worth the price of admission.

  For all his three stars, the admiral had soon realized he was a small fry in a very select group. Aside from a number of very silent junior officers present as aides, the active participants had included Britain’s Prime Minister, the heads of the British Army, the Royal Air Force and Royal Navy, the U.S. Navy’s chief of naval operations, and the U.S. Air Force general who served as vice-chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

  The Prime Minister’s first words had ended any idle speculation that they were there for a simple update or get-acquainted meeting. “I’ve just come from a secure-line conference call with the President and the Norwegian Prime Minister, gentlemen. You now have a new mission — one you will accord an equal priority with our resupply and reinforcement operations for Poland. Beginning immediately, you will exert every effort to eliminate the French tactical and strategic nuclear arsenal.”

  Ward could still remember the sudden, startled murmur that had greeted the Prime Minister’s soft-spoken, matter-of-fact announcement. Going after French nukes was a serious upping of the ante. Despite the warning order he’d received from Washington indicating that such a move might be in the works, he’d never actually expected the politicians to show enough guts.

  “So far, thank God, there is no indication that our enemies intend to use nuclear weapons against the United Kingdom or Norway itself, but their willingness to use them at all is rather unsettling.”

  Ward shook his head, still bemused by the Prime Minister’s classic British understatement. Seeing that hideously beautiful fireball blossom near his ships had been daunting enough, The prospect of more nuclear weapons going off, this time over cities and towns, was too horrible to contemplate.

  “If we win this war, and we shall do our utmost to win, Paris could well find itself with its back against a wall,” the Prime Minister had continued. “We cannot predict the actions of desperate men. Accordingly, while we know this will take substantial resources, it is vital that our national territories be protected against a last-ditch nuclear strike.”

  Some of the steps the Prime Minister detailed were familiar to Ward. After all, he’d helped plan them. Other precautionary measures raised hairs on the back of his neck. Commanders aboard several of America’s Ohio-class SSBNs had been ordered to retarget their missiles — aiming them at France and, to a lesser extent, at Germany. French nuclear-capable forces were the primary targets, along with the command centers of both countries’ armed forces.

  The Royal Navy’s own SSBNs were engaged in the same doomsday process. More ominously still, the RAF’s tactical nuclear weapons were being dispersed from its heavily guarded stockpiles to operational bases — ready for immediate use if need be. Selected American subs and surface ships were being rearmed with nuclear land attack Tomahawk cruise missiles and deployed into firing positions off the French coastline.

  Although the Combined Forces would not initiate the use of nuclear weapons against populated areas, they were absolutely determined to make the French realize who would win and who would lose if the gloves came off.

  The Gazelle pilot’s voice broke in on his grim thoughts. “Understood, Lionheart. Safe corridor is direct to Heathrow. Two six two degrees at five hundred feet.” He twisted around in his seat. “Buckle up if you please, gents. We’re on our way.”

  “That was your okay?” Ward asked, complying with the tactfully disguised order.

  The pilot nodded. “ADC reports the Frogs are outbound from Southampton. Our assigned flight path is clear.”

  Lieutenant Harada snapped his own seat belt and shoulder harness in place. �
��What happens if we stray outside that corridor?”

  The sandy-haired warrant officer grinned abruptly. “Then we’re fair game for any trigger-happy bugger with a gun or missile.” He faced front again and pulled up on the collective while rotating the throttle to full power.

  The Gazelle lifted off in a shaking, teeth-rattling roar, sliding slowly toward the far end of the ministry’s courtyard as it climbed. Five hundred feet above the ground it spun left and dipped its nose slightly, transitioning to forward flight.

  Ward stared down out the side window, fascinated by this close-up view of London from low altitude. It had still been dark when they’d arrived early this morning. Now he could see the vast city stretching out on all sides — mile after mile of public buildings, residences, and office blocks, some elegant and some drab, tall church spires, and lush, green parks.

  They flew low over the landscaped splendor of St. James’s Park and past the imposing walls of Buckingham Palace. Heads on the streets below turned upward in alarm. Londoners had long-held memories of danger from the skies, and the steady stream of emergency BBC news bulletins since dawn had rekindled those memories.

  Sirens howled, off in the distance at first and then closer in — audible even over the Gazelle’s clattering roar.

  “Shit.” The pilot spun the helicopter right and dove, picking up speed. A broad expanse of trees, grass, and paths opened up before them. Sunlight glinted off a mile-long lake, Hyde Park’s Serpentine.

  Ward and Harada heard his shouted explanation over their intercom earphones. “ADC just set Warning Red! There’s another raid inbound — heading for London this time. I’ve been ordered to set down and set down fast. When I say go, both of you hop out and run like hell for the nearest cover!”

  The Gazelle swooped low over the park and flared out near a stand of trees. Its landing skids bounced lightly once and then settled firmly onto the ground. New-mown grass whirled above the cockpit, caught in the rotor wash.

  “Go! Go! Go!”

  Harada flipped open his seat belt and slammed the helicopter’s side door open. He dropped outside, followed a second later by Ward. Air currents whipped by the whirring rotor blades tugged and tore at their uniforms.

  Crouched low to clear the rotor, both Americans raced for the trees — a clump of tall, spreading oaks. This far away from the helicopter, they could hear the air raid sirens still wailing across the city.

  As he ran, Ward eyed the buildings visible to the north and south, weighing their chances of reaching a shelter in time. Then he shook his head. Hyde Park was nearly a thousand yards across at this point, and they’d come down almost smack-dab in the middle. They would have to ride out whatever was coming right here.

  Once they had the Gazelle’s engine shut down, the two British crewmen scrambled out of the cockpit themselves and sprinted across the open ground, heading for the same grove. The helicopter stood deserted behind them with its doors wide open.

  Ward slid to a stop beside one of the oaks and dropped prone, breathing hard. The others joined him just in time.

  Bright lights streaked into the sky, moving south and east at incredible speed — missiles rising on columns of white smoke and fire. Several British-manned Patriot batteries were deployed near key installations around London. Now they were firing at attackers who were still well beyond visual range.

  Seconds passed. Ward caught one blinding flash low on the southern horizon. Then nothing.

  Whummp. Whummp. Whummp.

  A series of muffled explosions rumbled across the park. More smoke, black this time, stained the sky to the east beyond the city center’s soaring modern office towers.

  The helicopter’s copilot shaded his eyes against the sun, studying the billowing cloud. “That’s oil burning. The bastards must be hitting the docks.”

  They nodded. The freighters and oil tankers tied up along the Thames were prime targets. They were also sitting ducks.

  Ward squinted, trying to estimate the damage inflicted by the lightning-fast French air raid. One hell of a lot of smoke, he thought. More than one ship must be on fire downriver. He tried to remember if there were petroleum storage tanks near the docks. Something moved on the edge of his vision, silhouetted against the rising pall — a tiny dot growing larger very fast.

  “There!” He pointed.

  An arrowhead shape screamed overhead, barely over the treetops but climbing steeply as it turned. The four men on the ground caught just a split-second glimpse of a delta-shaped wing, gray and light blue camouflage paint, and tricolor roundels on the fuselage. It was a Mirage exiting the battle area!

  Ward turned, following the French attack aircraft as it climbed. He suddenly realized this was the first time he’d actually seen one of his enemies with his own eyes. He’d watched every other battle in the sterile, artificially calm confines of a CIC, tracking different-shaped blips on radar screens and computer-generated displays. But this was real.

  “Admiral! Look!” Harada gestured back the way the French warplane had come. A new jet, larger and with swing wings, came into view — higher up but closing rapidly. A Tornado. But whose? German or British?

  The tan-colored “hemp” camouflage gave him his answer. It was an RAF interceptor!

  The Tornado flashed past, turning to match the Mirage. For several seconds, the two jets kept turning and climbing — visibly slowing as their maneuvers bled airspeed and energy. Then, for one brief instant, they came nose-to-nose. Both fired and veered away, each pursued by a heat-seeking missile.

  Ward tracked the Mirage as it twisted and turned, vainly trying to shake off the pursuing Sidewinder. Flares tumbled through the sky in its wake, each briefly brighter than the sun. None of them worked. The proximity-fused Sidewinder detonated only yards away, sending a hail of incendiary fragments slashing through the French jet’s fuel tanks.

  The Mirage exploded. It arced across the sky as a rolling, tumbling ball of flame. Burning pieces of wreckage cascaded down across the rooftops and city streets below.

  “Oh, Christ,” someone muttered behind him.

  Ward turned and saw a stricken look on the Gazelle pilot’s face. The sandy-haired Englishman had been watching the RAF Tornado. It had been hit, too.

  Trailing smoke, the British fighter turned south, wobbling from side to side. Orange and red flames licked under its fuselage. They were growing brighter as they fed on leaking fuel.

  “Get out. Get: out.” The warrant officer’s hands balled into fists. “Come on, mate. Eject!”

  But the Tornado crew stayed with their dying aircraft. They were nursing it toward the Thames, Ward realized, riding the burning plane down to make sure that it didn’t come down on top of houses full of women and children.

  Ward and the others watched in silence until the Tornado vanished beyond the buildings lining the southern edge of Hyde Park.

  USS BOSTON, OFF THE FRENCH ATLANTIC COAST

  Boston’s short, black-haired skipper was as Irish as his sub’s namesake city, and he had the temper to go with it. Right now Commander Pete Conroy fought to control his natural impatience, following orders that went against his instincts and years of training.

  Boston and two other Los Angeles-class subs were hunting a French ballistic missile submarine, and they were doing it exactly the wrong way.

  Boston was in the center of a line of three submarines, spaced three miles apart. He felt very vulnerable steering a straight course at five knots just below the thermocline, the sound-reflecting boundary between layers of warmer and colder water. These were French waters with French airspace overhead. Even though CINCCOMBFLT had promised fighter cover to drive off any enemy ASW aircraft on patrol, things could still go wrong. What if the Frogs escorted their Atlantiques with a strong fighter force of their own? The last thing Conroy wanted to hear was an air-dropped homing torpedo whining right up his sub’s ass.

  Worse still, he and his crew probably wouldn’t find a damn thing. Commander in Chief, Combined Fleet’s s
taff had reason to believe that these waters were an SSBN patrol area. That was an educated guess they’d pulled together from several different things: French ASW patrol plane patterns, the water depth and conditions, and a few intelligence sources they wouldn’t even describe. Based on those clues, they were betting that one of France’s few ballistic missile submarines was close by — creeping along in silence, waiting for an order to launch her sixteen MIRVed warhead missiles.

  The only problem was that SSBNs, “boomers,” don’t like to fight. Their whole mission depends on staying hidden. To accomplish that, they carry very sensitive sonars to let them detect a prowling enemy boat long before it can hear them. At the first whiff of an enemy ship or sub coming after them, SSBNs just quietly run away.

  Conroy frowned. Although his Los Angeles-class SSN didn’t make much noise at five knots, it made a little, and that would probably be enough to give the hunt away.

  Worse yet, there were three subs looking. In submarine warfare, there is no safety in numbers. Stealth and surprise are strength — not numerical superiority. Once he detected the first American sub, the Frenchman would probably spot the other two quickly. The SSN sweep probably covered one entire side of the enemy’s patrol zone, but that left the SSBN’s skipper plenty of room to run. If pushed hard enough, he’d even leave his patrol area.

  No, Conroy, thought, he and Boston received the wrong end of this deal. Even if they did detect another sub, they would have to positively identify it before firing. With so many friendlies operating so close to one another, throwing torpedoes out against an unidentified contact was a good way to commit fratricide. For the same reason, all three American SSNs had to follow a precisely laid-out path…

  “Conn, sonar. Contact bearing one three five, almost directly ahead of us.”

  Conroy almost sprinted to the sonar shack, but controlled the impulse enough to slow to a fast walk. It only took seconds, in any case. Poking his head into the crowded space, he asked softly, “What’s it look like?”