Inside his cabin, Emelyanov waited impatiently at his desk until the sub’s political officer arrived. Mikhail Aleksandrovich Dobrotin was a small, sharp-featured man who never failed to remind Emelyanov of the mongooses he had encountered while serving as a naval attache in India before the Indo-Pakistani war. Dobrotin took his duties as zampolit with the deadly seriousness of a zealot. He was not popular in the submarine’s wardroom, but his power was unquestionably respected and feared.
The political officer knocked on the cabin door and entered immediately, without given Emelyanov a chance to invite him inside. “You asked for me, Comrade Captain?”
“I did,” Emelyanov replied. “Sit down. There is a message in special code which must be dealt with.” That was standard practice. The political officer was required to verify all such messages. It was a safeguard against irresponsible captains who might ignore or exceed Moscow’s instructions.
It took only a few minutes to translate the orders into clear copy. When he had finished Emelyanov stared down at the paper on his desk, stunned. Across from him Dobrotin was wearing a smile on his ferret features. “So it happens at last. The chance to engage the Americans.” There was nothing but triumph in the zampolit’s tone.
Emelyanov looked at the man. He had been chosen for his political reliability rather than any technical knowledge, but surely Dobrotin knew how difficult these orders would be to carry out. Or did he? The Americans were second to none when it came to ASW operations … but with the true faith of a fanatic whose religion was the State, the political officer probably did not or would not believe that anyone could defeat a Soviet vessel in time of war. War … It had finally come to war then.
Stiff-featured, Emelyanov reached across to switch on the intercom on his desk. “Bridge. Captain.”
“Bridge here,” the duty officer’s voice responded with commendable promptness.
The captain scanned the transcript once again, noting the latest intelligence information on the carrier battle group which was their new target. It was a daunting prospect, but he would carry out his orders … or die in the attempt.
“Take us below the thermal layer we charted this morning. And come about to course one-seven-five, ahead two thirds.”
“Yes, Captain.”
He swallowed and continued, aware of the narrowed eyes regarding him across the desk. “And send the crew to battle stations. This will not be a drill, Comrade Lieutenant.”
“Yes, Captain,” the officer repeated.
Emelyanov cut off the intercom and met Dobrotin’s eyes. He hoped the zampolit’s faith in their invincibility was not misplaced.
0852 hours Zulu (0852 hours Zone)
E-2C Hawkeye Tango 65
Over the Southern Norwegian Sea
“So what’d ya think, Brownie?” Lieutenant Kevin Wheeler glanced up from his radar station to look at the Hawkeye’s Air Control Officer. “Do you think we’re gonna fight the Russkies?”
Lieutenant Brown shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me, man,” he said. “For ten years they keep telling us the Commies are really our buddies now … then wham! All of a sudden they’re making good old Saddam Hussein look tame.”
The Hawkeye was on station slightly ahead of the Jefferson battle group, circling slowly at an altitude of thirty thousand feet above the Norwegian Sea. From that height the AN/APS-139 radar system could detect and identify airborne threats to a range of up to three hundred miles. From its current position Tango 65 could track aircraft as far away as the coasts of Norway and Iceland. The passive electronic-surveillance system could pick up enemy emissions twice as far away.
At least one Hawkeye had been kept in the air at all times since the beginning of the crisis in Scandinavia. The range and versatility of the Airborne Warning and Control System concept had been demonstrated time and again in recent years, and was absolutely essential to all other aspects of carrier ops. Wheeler had taken plenty of ribbing from the “real aviators” who flew the Tomcats, Hornets, and Intruders in combat, but they all knew as well as he did that without the Hawkeyes they would never carry out their jobs.
“You see that profile on the tube last night?” Wheeler asked, yawning. They were near the end of their patrol period, and he was ready for a few hours’ sack time.
Brown laughed. “You mean that ACN thing? There’s a joke for you.” Jefferson’s five thousand-man community was served by two on-board television stations that showed a mix of canned programs and movies together with shows picked up off satellite feeds. The documentary from the American Cable Network covering the crisis in Norway had been one of the featured programs on Channel Eight the night before.
“‘Nine Soviet aircraft carriers ready to challenge America’s control of the seas,’” Wheeler quoted with a grin. “What the hell are those people playing at anyway? You’d think they’d learn the background before they went on the air with that shit, y’know? At least enough to tell a helicopter cruiser from a carrier!”
It had been greeted with laughs aboard the carrier, but Wheeler couldn’t help but be indignant at the thought of the message the documentary had delivered back in the World. He could imagine his mother and father seeing that broadcast and worrying unnecessarily at the media’s claim that the Soviets had nearly as many aircraft carriers as the United States, and most of them much newer and more modern than the American boats.
Apparently ACN didn’t realize — or hadn’t bothered to report — the truth. Most of the so-called “carriers” in the Soviet Navy were ships of the Kiev and Moskva classes, strange hybrids between cruiser and carrier designs that carried helicopters or V/STOL fighters and served primarily in an ASW role. Of the three true carriers in Soviet service, only one was nuclear powered, and it was still undergoing sea trials in the Black Sea. Unless the Russians were really desperate it was unlikely that she would leave friendly waters. Only the two conventional carriers, Soyuz and Kreml, were anything like the Jefferson. At that they were smaller and much less capable than any of the Nimitz-class ships.
And the Soviets had been using carriers for less than a decade. They still had a long way to go before they would evolve the expertise and experience of their American counterparts. The Russians could be dangerous foes, but it was foolish to believe that they could seriously challenge the United States Navy in a stand-up carrier-to-carrier engagement.
Brown laughed again. “Maybe we should surrender now so we don’t disappoint the newsmen, huh?”
“All right, you guys, let’s can the chatter and concentrate on the job.” That was Lieutenant Commander Jake Braxton, the CIC officer. Despite his words he sounded amused. “Let’s save the battle of the airwaves for when we’re back on the Jeff and stick with watching for Russkies while we’re up here, okay?”
“Aye, aye, oh, lord and master,” Brown responded. As with most aircraft crews the men on Tango 65 were easy about rank, at least in the privacy imposed at thirty thousand feet. Wheeler noted a threat light and checked his instruments.
“The ALR’s picking up electronic emissions. Bearing zero-five-zero, range four hundred.”
“Any idea what?” Braxton asked.
Pursing his lips, Wheeler studied his readouts. “Down Beat,” he said at last, giving the NATO code name for the Russian radar system.
“That’s either a Blinder or a Backfire,” Brown said. “Bombers.”
“You getting anything on radar yet, Wheeler?” Braxton asked.
Wheeler shook his head. “Still out of range.” He paused and looked down at his radar screen. It was beginning to show an irregular pattern of streaks and clutter. “Getting some jamming now. Probably an EW bird out there with them.”
“Great,” Braxton said sarcastically. He turned back to his own station and checked the Link-II data-transmission system that was supposed to relay information back to Jefferson and the rest of the battle group. The CIC officer picked up a radio mike. “Camelot, Camelot, this is Tango Six-fiver. Come in, Camelot. Over.”
; Wheeler watched the radar screen and tapped his fingers on the console nervously. It was possible they were picking up a Russian raid against the Norwegian forces around Bergen … but a twisting in his guts told him that this was something else, something bigger.
And Jefferson was likely to be right in the middle of whatever the Soviets were pulling.
CHAPTER 13
Thursday, 12 June, 1997
0855 hours Zulu (0855 hours Zone)
Dirty Shirt Wardroom, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Southeast of the Faeroe Islands
They called it the “Dirty Shirt Wardroom” because it was the officers’ mess hall set aside for informal meals, where an officer could eat without changing from his work clothes into the regular uniform of the day. Lieutenant Roger Bannon felt conspicuous in his neatly pressed khakis as he hunted for a place to sit with his breakfast tray. His neat uniform was an unhappy reminder of his new duties, and he felt as if every eye was on him and every tongue was wagging with the story of the crash and his decision to give up flying.
An aviator who lost it, who couldn’t go back up again, became a pariah among his peers, and the center of gossip for half the carrier. Bannon suppressed a shudder as he found a chair. It was hard to face the crowded corridors aboard Jefferson with the specter of failure forever before him.
Probably the crash was forgotten, and outside of his own squadron no one had even noted Bannon’s decision. The half-dozen officers from the Air Department at the next table, still wearing their motley array of colored jerseys that identified their individual duties and roles on the flight deck, were no doubt entirely preoccupied with the increased tempo of operations that had kept them busy ever since CAG had ordered the higher state of readiness for Jefferson’s extra fighter contingent. They looked too tired from duty to be interested in Roger Bannon’s sins.
But that thought wasn’t even comforting. It only intensified his feelings of guilt. When he had taken Commander Magruder’s advice and asked for some time off flight status, CAG had posted him to duty as an aide in the Air Wing office, a job that consisted of little more than running errands and pouring coffee for the regular staff officers. So now, while the rest of the carrier was bracing for the confrontation everyone knew was coming with the Soviets, it was as if he was taking a vacation from his duty.
Yet the thought of climbing back into the cockpit of his Intruder still gave him the shakes. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to fly again without reliving the horrors of the crash and the guilt of losing Commander Greene.
He took a sip of coffee and tried to consider his future objectively. If he turned in his wings and walked away he would have to live with the knowledge of failure for the rest of his life. They probably wouldn’t even let him stay on board Jefferson longer than they absolutely had to. It was never considered wise to keep a failed aviator on his old ship. Short of resigning his commission and looking for a civilian pilot’s job, he might never fly again.
And yet flying was all he had ever wanted to do. As a boy he’d hoped to earn his wings and then look for a shot at astronaut training, but once he’d been in the cockpit it was enough just to be in the air, in control, free of the restrictions of an earthbound existence. Until he’d run up against the Deputy CAG and lost his confidence, Bannon had been in love with flying, and even Jolly Green’s criticism hadn’t been enough to dampen his enthusiasm for his chosen life.
That had only come after the criticism had stopped forever. After Greene’s death.
He shook his head slowly and stared down at his cup. He would have to face his fears again if he was ever going to be whole … but he didn’t know if he had that kind of courage inside him.
Then the blare of the klaxon jerked him out of his reverie. “Now hear this! Now hear this! Battle stations! Battle stations! All hands to battle stations. That is, battle stations! This is not a drill!”
His battle station was in the Air Ops module of CIC, with CAG. Bannon pushed back his chair and stood, gulping the rest of his coffee. Then he was caught in the swirling mob of men rushing from the wardroom.
Thoughts of the future would have to wait.
0857 hours Zulu (0857 hours Zone)
CIC ASW module, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Southeast of the Faeroe Islands
“We just got an update in from SOSUS Control, sir. Feeding in the new info now.” The AW/2 looked too young to be in the Navy, but he knew his job. Lieutenant Eric Nelson leaned forward to study the electronic display map as new contacts appeared.
“I don’t like the looks of these,” he said softly. “Rodriguez, what’ve you got on this contact?” He used his keyboard to highlight one of the symbols.
AW/2 Carlos Rodriguez checked his own terminal before replying. “Victor III,” he said. “The SOSUS trace reported it was probably diving and increasing speed as it was picked up.” He paused. “The triangulation isn’t real accurate, sir. That could mean more than one contact, or it could just be bad conditions.”
“Could be …” Nelson shook his head. “‘Could be’ could get us killed. This guy’s not that far away. How’d the sub-hunters miss him?”
The Hispanic sailor shrugged. “He’s probably been laying low, sir. Running on minimal power and waiting.”
“Well, he’s not waiting now.” Nelson picked up a handset. “Get me the Air Ops module.” He masked the phone with one hand. “Rodriguez, make sure this gets passed on to the rest of the battle group pronto. Especially Gridley. She’s closest.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
0859 hours Zulu (0859 hours Zone)
CIC Air Ops module, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Southeast of the Faeroe Islands
“Air Ops,” Stramaglia growled into the batphone. “CAG speaking.”
“This is Nelson in ASW. I’ve got at least one SOSUS sub contact two hundred thirty miles north-northwest. Possibly multiple contacts. I think you’d better check it out.”
“All right. I’ll get on it as soon as I can. We’ve got some other problems to get to first.” He slammed down the handset and turned to study the map. “Any change, Howard?”
Radarman Second Class David Howard shook his head. “No, sir. Still reading twenty aircraft. Same course and speed as before.”
That was the other problem, and right now it loomed higher on Stramaglia’s list of concerns than the sub contact Nelson had reported. They had appeared on Tango Six-five’s radar screens a few minutes earlier, flying at low altitude and on a course that could only have brought them from one of the Soviet air bases in the Kola Peninsula. Launching during a window when there were no U.S. spy satellites overhead, they had very nearly taken the battle group by surprise.
But their course, so far, wasn’t bringing them directly toward the carrier. They had been curving west and south, parallel to the Norwegian coast. That could mean they were going after a target in Norway.
Or it might be that the Russians weren’t sure of the exact location of the Jefferson. Stramaglia couldn’t be sure but he wasn’t planning on taking any chances.
At that moment the screen came alive with new symbols, three-letter ID codes next to each of the dots representing an enemy plane. BKF … that meant Tu-22Ms, Backfires in NATO’s B-for-bomber code. They were a powerful threat to the Jefferson.
Stramaglia drummed his fingers on the console, frowning as he stared at the moving symbols on the screen. Viper Squadron was on Alert Fifteen this morning, and he’d ordered them to start launching as soon as the bombers had first appeared. The Tomcats were ideal for this situation. Their Phoenix missiles were designed to knock out Soviet cruise missiles as well as the bombers themselves, and if those Badgers really were searching for the Jefferson Viper Squadron might just turn the tide.
He found himself wishing the other Tomcat squadron, the War Eagles of VF-97, had drawn this watch. Stramaglia wasn’t sure how much he trusted some of those hotheads in Grant’s outfit.
Probably the War Eagles were no better. T
hey needed a tight rein to keep them in check, though, and with Magruder already out on a Viking sub hunt, that left Stramaglia with very few options. It went against the grain to leave CIC at a time like this, but he might just be able to show the youngsters what a real Tomcat pilot could do.
“What’s the word on the flight deck?” he asked Bannon, who was hovering nearby.
The Intruder pilot looked up, holding a hand over the batphone to answer him. “Three planes are up, CAG, and already starting to refuel. The Boss says he’ll have four more up in the next five minutes if he has to go out there and throw them off the deck himself!”
That brought laughs to the men in the Air Ops module, but Stramaglia didn’t even smile. This was the kind of situation every carrier officer dreaded, with the battle group sitting exposed to a massive strike by Russian bombers armed with stand-off weapons.
On the screen the lines showing the Backfire flight paths were altering. The bombers were changing course, driving west now away from the Norwegian coast. They were still well to the north of the carrier battle group, but if they turned again they would be in range in no time.
“Tell the Boss to ready the double-nuts bird too,” he ordered. “And find me an RIO. I’m going up with them!” He stood up, looking across at Bannon. “Call Owens to relieve me here, Mr. Bannon. And pass on the SOSUS info to Magruder in 704. Let’s get moving, people!”
He looked down at the screen again and prayed they wouldn’t be too late.
0905 hours Zulu (0805 hours Zone)
Air Operations Center
Keflavik, Iceland
“Snowman, Snowman, this is Watchdog. Snowman, this is Watchdog. Respond, please. Over.” The radio voice was heavily spiked with static, but even through the distortion Major Peter Kelso could hear a note of desperation.
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