Then, as the Tomahawk cleared the surface, the first stage would ignite, lifting the bird to three thousand feet.
At its apex, the first-stage would jettison and the missile would plummet into free fall, spinning the missile’s jet engine on the way down. The increasing flight speed would turn the compressor and build up pressure and heat in the combustion chamber. Fuel would be injected, and the missile’s engine would then be up and running.
Andreas could see it all in his head.
Now it was time to make it happen. He gave the firing order, and the entire submarine rumbled.
Once the first missile left the sub, Andreas lifted his voice and said, “Watch your trim, Officer of the Deck. Keep your eye on the bubble.”
The Florida had to adjust her buoyancy and trim to compensate for the sudden loss of weight after each missile left the sub.
The remaining five Tomahawks, spaced three minutes apart, would follow the first down a bearing of one-seven-eight degrees while cruising at subsonic speed roughly fifty feet above the surface.
The one-hour, forty-nine-minute, thousand-mile flight included a pre-programmed midpoint correction as each Tomahawk passed over Wild Buffalo National Park.
Packed into each missile’s computer memory were final destination landmarks: pictures of the Alberta Legislative Assembly building, the exact interchange point where 97th Avenue NW, 109th Street NW, and 110th Street NW converged and provided sole access to High Level Bridge.
Onboard TV cameras would accurately identify the final orienting landmarks as each missile plummeted toward the Saskatchewan River and the High Level Bridge below.
After the last missile blasted away, Andreas congratulated the crew, then he gave the order to head back to the Dolphin and Union Strait to continue their patrol, even as they monitored the missiles’ progress.
Just one hour into that journey, the sternplanesman cried, “Jam dive, sternplanes!”
The sternplanes were horizontal rudders, or diving planes, extending from each side of the submarine near the stern. They had lost hydraulic pressure and had slammed into the dive position, where they would remain locked until hydraulic pressure could be restored and control reasserted.
With miles and miles of steam, electrical, and hydraulic lines running up, down, and through bulkheads, it was just a question of time before something broke, got damaged, wore out, or operator error occurred.
Now the Florida was headed straight toward crush depth.
“All back full!” yelled the OOD and Andreas in unison.
The bow planesman jerked his joystick to full rise, trying to counteract the effects of the sternplanes.
“Passing one thousand feet, thirty-one degrees down bubble,” reported the chief of the watch, his hands hovering over the controls to blow the forward main ballast tanks.
The sternplanesman immediately switched to auxiliary hydraulics and pulled back on the sternplanes. Nothing.
“Passing twelve hundred feet, forty degrees down bubble, sir,” cried the chief of the watch.
The sternplanesman switched to emergency hydraulics, pulled up, when suddenly the sonar operator lifted his voice:
“Torpedo in the water, incoming torpedo bearing three-two-zero! WLY-1 classification—a Shkval—range thirty thousand yards, speed two hundred knots!”
Sergeant Nathan Vatz and his men had shifted farther back into the town to their secondary positions along the rooftops of some local businesses on 97th Street, parallel to the highway.
For the past hour the Russians had been pounding the hell out of the obstacle, and Vatz figured they’d destroy the remaining mines within thirty minutes, maybe less.
Once that happened, Berserker and Zodiac teams could make a last stand or withdraw and live to fight another day.
Because if they didn’t withdraw, they would eventually exhaust all ammo and be overrun. Vatz felt sure those Spetsnaz forces would not take them prisoner.
In fact, Russian political officers might order the public execution of the captured ODA teams to keep High Level’s civilian survivors fully intimidated and in line.
Moreover, if watching a group of military men forced to their knees and shot in the head wasn’t enough, they’d shoot a few civilians, as well as threaten the use of biological and chemical weapons.
“Black Bear, this is Bali, over.”
“Go ahead, Bali.”
He gave the assistant detachment commander a SITREP regarding the obstacle, then added, “What’s the status of the Tenth, over?”
But before Vatz could get a reply, the channel went dead. Damn it. The Russians were jamming again.
“Hey, look!” cried Beethoven, pointing up at the northern sky. A dozen or more Ka-29s were inbound, flying in an arrowhead formation.
The lead chopper, along with one other, pulled ahead, swooped down, and began unloading rockets on the remaining cars in the obstacle, blasting a clear lane through the burning wall.
Even as the choppers peeled off, one on either side, the first few BMPs broke through.
The weapons sergeant on Vatz’s team, who was now posted atop a machine shop two buildings down, cut loose with the team’s last Javelin.
With a powerful whoosh, the missile streaked skyward, came down, homing in on the lead BMP, then struck it perfectly, blasting apart the vehicle and sending pieces slamming into the BMP behind it, killing the vehicle commander who’d been standing in his hatch.
Vatz rose, jogged to the edge of the roof, and gave the signal to fall back. The signal was passed on to the other four men as Vatz and Beethoven got moving.
Once on the ground, they piled into their pickup truck, with Vatz at the wheel, Beethoven riding shotgun.
“Are we headed to a third fallback position?” asked the medic.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“We’re low on ammo. We can’t stay.”
“Black Bear figured the Tenth would be here by now. We’ll have to wait right here till those choppers fly by, then I’ll get us to the south side of town, find some cover there. And after that, well—”
“This is it. We won’t make it out of here. Not with them dropping troops on the ground now.”
Vatz didn’t respond.
Part of him was getting awfully depressed, whispering like the Reaper in his ear, It’s about time you died. You’re long overdue.
He shoved his head out the open window, lifted his binoculars, and watched the helos streak overhead, descending hard and fast.
Before darkness fully settled, High Level would belong to the Russians.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Back inside Calgary Tower, Sergeant Marc Rakken sent two of his men forward, told them to use their rifles’ attached grenade launchers.
He’d been ordered to cause minimal damage to the tower. Well, tell that to the troops up there, four on the top landing now, dishing out a steady stream of rifle fire punctuated with the occasional smoke and fragmentation grenade. The Russians had already destroyed several landings that the team had strung ropes across.
Another explosion rocked the stairwell, and suddenly three of Rakken’s men tumbled by, having been blown off the stairs. Two had probably been killed by the explosion, but a third had keyed his mike as he fell, screaming at the top of his lungs as he plummeted to his death.
“Sergeant, we can’t go on,” cried one of his grenadiers.
Rakken, his face covered in sweat now, the MOPP gear practically suffocating him even as it protected him, could stand no more. “Sparta Team!” he barked loudly. “Follow me. We’re going in!”
With the civilian geeks huddling behind their shields to the rear, Rakken pushed past the others and pounded up the stairs, firing steadily until he neared the final landing.
All four Spetsnaz troops were positioned there; reacting instinctively, Rakken pumped off a grenade from his rifle’s launcher.
Three, two . . .
He hit the deck as the burst rumbled hard through the concrete and steel above
.
Before the smoke cleared, he was back to his feet, thundering up to find two of the troops blown apart, a third missing his legs, the fourth lying on his back, half his torso gone. He groaned and reached out to Rakken for help.
Rakken answered his request with a bullet.
“Sparta Team, clear up here, come on up.” He checked the door leading into the observation deck and souvenir shop: locked, of course.
He called up his engineer to blow the door. As the charges were being set, he returned to the civilians, told the guy known as Nimrod One that they would need to clear the observation deck first before he could allow them to enter. The guy understood but urged Rakken to hurry.
After issuing another SITREP to Captain Welch, Rakken checked in with the engineer: good to go.
“Fire in the hole,” warned Rakken.
With an appreciable bang, the C-4 blew the door from its hinges, and as the gray smoke rose, Rakken and his men charged onto the deck, a huge, circular-shaped room with panoramic windows offering a wide view of the city lights. The souvenir shop was in the middle, obscuring some view.
Two Spetsnaz troops burst from the shop, firing at Rakken and his men as they fanned out.
Rakken returned fire as he dropped to his gut and propped himself up on his elbows.
One of his men shrieked in agony. Then another. Yet there were no sounds of gunfire.
Rakken reached down to the belt at his waist, withdrew his Blackhawk Gladius, activated the thumb switch. The brilliant light pushed back into the shadows to find an unmasked Spetsnaz troop brandishing a large combat knife.
He was slipping up behind one of Rakken’s men.
Rakken screamed out—
But the knife came down into the back of the man’s neck. His man shrieked and fell, either dead or incapacitated.
Rakken bolted to his feet, one hand detaching his own mask as he charged along the windows, firing and dropping the guy. Then he whirled at the sound of more gunfire on the other side of the deck.
He made a mad dash along the windows, spotted three more Russians firing ahead at his men.
Dropping once more onto his belly, he used the laser designator in his helmet to target the exposed necks of each man and delivered one, two, three shots.
Blood and brain matter flew, and two men collapsed, but he’d missed the third. That troop turned back.
Just as Rakken was about to fire again, a metallic clang caught his ears.
He glanced to his right.
A grenade hit the floor and rolled toward him.
Just beyond it, the second team was moving in, along with the civilians, who were running toward him.
“Get back!”
He threw himself on the grenade.
Just as it went off.
Sergeant Nathan Vatz and his men raced in the truck down 97th Street, unaware that one of the Ka-29s had wheeled around until a pair of rockets tore into the asphalt behind them and exploded.
The two operators seated back there leapt over the side, just as a wall of flames filled the pickup truck’s rear window.
Then, as the truck reached the next corner, Vatz hung a sharp left turn—
Just as another rocket hit, blasting them up onto two wheels.
Beethoven shouted something but Vatz’s ears were still ringing from the explosion.
They hung there for a million-year second until the truck slammed hard onto the passenger’s side, safety glass shattering. They slid up onto the sidewalk, caromed off a building, then sideswiped a light pole before coming to a screeching halt, engine still running, glass still tumbling, flames crackling from somewhere outside.
As smoke began to fill the cabin, Vatz coughed and unbuckled. He called out to Beethoven, whose head was bleeding but who was conscious.
The two operators in the back of the crew cabin were already hauling themselves outside, where they took near-instant machine gun fire from the helo as it swooped down again.
Vatz figured that on the next pass the pilot would launch rockets again. He and Beethoven had only seconds to get out of there.
Holding his breath, he forced open the door and climbed out onto the crew cabin door. He gave Beethoven a hand, hoisting the medic up and out. They jumped down to the sidewalk—
Just as the chopper finished its turn and began to descend directly toward them.
Vatz glanced over at Beethoven.
They both knew there was no time to run. The helo would launch rockets, and their lives would be over in a heartbeat.
Yet in that second, in that shared look, they knew what they had to do. If they were going to die, it wouldn’t be running; it would be defying the enemy until the end.
So, without a word, they crouched down and began firing at the chopper, as did the rest of his team—if only to rage against the enemy.
And as his clip was about to empty, Vatz closed his eyes, thought of Zack back in that alley. Get ready to buy me a beer, my friend. I’m coming home.
Commander Jonathan Andreas drew in a long breath as tension mounted in the Florida’s control room.
The VA-111 Shkval racing toward them was a solid rocket torpedo that generated a gas cavity, which gave it great speed but precluded a guidance system. Its eight-mile short range classified it as a last-ditch weapon and earned it the title of revenge weapon. The torpedo was most often fired as a “snap shot” back down the bearing of an incoming enemy’s torpedo.
At the moment, Andreas assumed that the commander who had ordered its launch was as surprised to discover him as he was to discover the Shkval.
“Sonar, go active, single ping on bearing three-two-zero!” he ordered.
“Torpedo has rapid right-bearing drift, headed across our bow,” reported the sonar operator.
“Passing fifteen hundred feet, Captain,” said the chief of the watch, making direct eye contact with Andreas.
The sonar operator chimed in again. “Sonar contact, bearing three-two-four, range thirty-five thousand yards, designate contact Sierra One, sir.”
“Emergency blow main ballast—” cried the officer of the deck.
“Belay that!” barked Andreas. “Check the bubble. The bow’s coming up. The planesman has control. Ahead two thirds. Keep water moving across the control surfaces, make your depth eighteen hundred feet.”
“All ahead two thirds, make my depth eighteen hundred feet, aye, sir,” repeated the OOD. “What about that torpedo, sir?”
“He launched an out-of-range snap shot when he heard our emergency backdown. We were sinking like a rock with virtually no forward motion. A two-hundred-knot Shkval can’t be guided. If he cranked in any lead angle, he aimed where we aren’t.”
“Let’s hope his aim continues to be that poor, sir.”
“I think it will.” Andreas regarded the sonar operator. “Talk to me. Anything from Sierra One?”
“Nothing on broadband or narrowband, sir,” replied the operator.
“Engineering, get somebody on that hydraulic glitch. I want a healthy sub when we attack this guy.” Andreas silently scanned the control room, gauging the tension level once more as the hull groaned under the pressure. “All right, consider this a moment to regroup—and remember, if God didn’t want us down here at eighteen hundred feet she wouldn’t have given us HY-100 steel.”
He got one or two chuckles and observed some easing of posture among the men manning the various stations.
After a few more breaths, he added, “Now gentlemen, we might’ve found that missing Borei, the Romanov , and I have every intention of taking her out.” Andreas checked his display. “Flood tubes one and four, equalize the pressure, power up both units, and open muzzle doors.”
The Florida could still operate at virtually any depth with two Mark 48 ADCAP torpedoes powered up and two muzzle doors open.
“Come left to three-two-zero,” he ordered. “We’ll close on datum and see what sonar can sniff out.”
He had ordered them to the target’s last known locatio
n. Now they were on the hunt.
Vatz snapped open his eyes at the sound of a terrific boom, followed by a dozen other pops and cracks and groaning sounds, all rising above a tremendous rush of air that knocked him flat onto his back.
As the sky panned overhead and a wave of dizziness crashed over him like a twelve-foot breaker, he rolled onto his side, blinked hard, and looked up again.
The Ka-29 had burst apart and crashed into the street, long draperies of fire and smoke rising high.
Beyond it, engines booming, soared an A-10 Thunderbolt II, better known as a Warthog or just Hog, a twin-engine jet designed to provide close air support for ground troops.
A second A-10 followed closely on the first one’s wing, and then, off to Vatz’s left, he spotted a half dozen Apache attack helicopters, along with several Chinooks, V-22 Ospreys, and the redesigned RAH-66 Comanche recon/attack helicopters.
Beethoven started hollering and cursing, unable to contain his emotions. “Ladies and gentlemen! The Tenth Mountain Division has arrived!”
A flicker of movement from the buildings on his left caught Vatz’s eye. Down at the next intersection, a squad of Spetsnaz troops had just rounded the corner and crouched to fire.
“Troops right there!” cried Vatz.
Shots rang out; blood sprayed over the pavement as Beethoven fell, multiple wounds in his face and neck. He died quickly.
Vatz returned fire, darting behind the burning pickup truck; the rounds tracked him, thumping hard into rubber and steel. “Black Bear, this is Bali, over!”
He swore. Comm was still jammed. He slipped around the back of the truck, where he spotted three of his men holed up in another doorway. He waved them on, and they charged down the street away from the fiery wreck, the Russians moving up behind them.
Rakken flickered open his eyes. They were talking about him. He recognized the voices: medics from his platoon. He was lying on his back, staring up at the observation deck’s ceiling. Flashlights panned everywhere. There was no more gunfire, only the sounds of his men.
EndWar Page 24
