“Trumpet, Jericho,” the ASW officer aboard Gridley replied. “We’ve got them on our screens. Thanks for the warning.”
“Good luck and Godspeed,” Jennings said. “Trumpet clear. All right, gentlemen, let’s find us a submarine!”
0953 hours Zulu (0953 hours Zone)
U.S.S. Gridley
East of the Faeroe Islands
Gridley’s SPS-49 5 C/D band air-search radar tracked the flight of Soviet missiles from the moment they broke the surface, and the Tactical Officer on duty in CIC promptly sounded the battle stations warning. Crewmen swarmed through corridors and across the deck in response to the blaring siren.
The Mark 13 launcher on the forward deck could handle thirty-six Standard SM-1 medium-range surface-to-air missiles, the frigate’s main line of defense against aerial attack. Ten SAMs streaked skyward in response to orders from CIC, knocking out five of the eight cruise missiles while they were still several miles out. But the SS-N-19s were coming in fast, too fast for a second SAM launch.
As they closed the range, the Phalanx CIWS system took over. A 20-mm Vulcan Gatling gun mounted near the stern of the frigate, CIWS — standing for Close-In Weapon System and pronounced Sea-Whiz in the technical jargon of the Navy — would fire fifty depleted-uranium shells every second, tracking and locking on to its targets automatically using Pulse-Doppler radar. But the angle of the incoming missiles wasn’t ideal for the Phalanx to intercept the three remaining targets. Two of them, both targeted on the Jefferson, passed overhead and into the firing arc, and the Phalanx hummed like an angry buzzsaw.
The last missile, though, struck Gridley just above the waterline only a few feet forward of the Mark 13 launcher, the explosion ripping through the hull and setting off secondary blasts in the SAMs remaining in their launch tubes.
Within seconds, U.S.S. Gridley was ablaze from midships to bow.
0953 hours Zulu (0953 hours Zone)
Tomcat 201
Northwest of the Faeroe Islands
“The Russkies are running! Hot damn, Coyote, they’re actually running away! We beat the bastards!”
Coyote Grant couldn’t believe Batman’s excited shout any more than he could believe the symbols crawling across his radar screen. Yet both told the same story. The Russian MiGs were withdrawing.
The fresh blips on the radar, the Hornets from the first wave of reinforcements, were the real reason for the enemy retreat, of course, but Coyote could understand how Batman felt. Despite the odds, Viper Squadron had stood up to a savage attack and escaped with their lives … some of them, at least. Eight men wouldn’t be going home, including Stramaglia.
“Lancelot, Lancelot, this is Galahad. Stand down, boys, and let some real birds take over from those turkeys of yours.” The voice belonged to Commander Bobby Lee “Tex” Benton, CO of VFA-161, the Javelins. Benton, his broad Texas accent even more pronounced than usual, sounded eager for a fight.
Letting out a long, shuddering sigh, Coyote cut back on his throttle and turned southeast. “Galahad, Lancelot. Good to see you, Tex, even if you guys are flying Tinkertoys.” Even after everything they’d been through, he couldn’t resist the chance to needle his counterpart. There was a long-standing rivalry between the Tomcat and Hornet squadrons aboard Jefferson, focused on the relative merits of the heavy but sturdy F-14 versus the versatile, light weight F/A-18.
“Ninety-nine aircraft, ninety-nine aircraft.” The voice of Lieutenant Commander Owens interrupted him with the general signal directed at all aircraft. “RTB. That’s Return to Base. All aircraft return to base.”
“Ah, shit,” Benton said. “Guess we don’t get to party with the Russkies after all!”
“Suits me fine,” Coyote responded. “Vipers, you heard the man. Let’s go home.”
“You think you can make it, Coyote?” Batman asked.
“I’ll sure as hell try!” he said. Coyote didn’t relish bailing out this far from the carrier and waiting for a SAR chopper.
“I’ll stick with you, man,” Wayne said. “Just to keep an eye on you.”
He started to thank him, then had another thought. “Thanks anyway, Batman, but that’s not your job. My wingman’s supposed to be looking out for me.” Powers had screwed up at the beginning of the fight, but it must have taken guts to get back into the battle the way he did. “Tyrone, you copy?”
When Powers answered, his voice was choked with emotions. “Copy, Two-oh-one. I’m with YOU.”
The joystick was mushy, the Tomcat sluggish, but Coyote barely noticed. He was still getting used to the idea that he had lived after all.
CHAPTER 19
Thursday, 12 June, 1997
0953 hours Zulu (0953 hours Zone)
Soviet Guided Missile Submarine Krasniy Ritsary
Northeast of the Faeroe Islands
The hull echoed with the deep, bell-like tolling of sonar pings, so loud that the source had to be close by. Naumkin looked up from the plotting board as the sonar operator reported, unnecessarily, what the captain already knew. “Comrade Captain! Active sonar, bearing one-one-two!”
Naumkin swung around. “Identify!”
“Sonobuoy. American SSQ-53 DIFAR type!” The sonar operator’s voice was tense. The man knew what that meant as well as Naumkin did. The DIFAR (Directional Finding and Ranging) sonobuoy was employed by ASW hunters to get an exact fix on a target prior to making an attack.
Krasniy Ritsary had been discovered after all.
“Evasive action!” Naumkin snapped. “Full right rudder, maximum revolutions! Ten degrees down angle on bow planes, and prepare to release decoys!”
“Torpedo in the water,” the sonar operator announced. “Two torpedoes!”
The hull rang as the two American torpedoes added their own sonar pings to the cacophony in the water. They rose in pitch and frequency as the torps closed, guided unerringly by reflected sound waves that plainly marked their intended target.
“They will hit us!” the Exec shouted.
“Brace yourselves!” Naumkin added.
The first Mark 46 torpedo struck near the blunt, rounded bow of the submarine. Seconds later the other impacted as well, striking just below the sail and blasting a hole that breached both the outer hydrodynamic hull and the inner pressure hull. Water poured into the control room, flooding it in moments.
Krasniy Ritsary plunged toward the sea floor, never to surface again.
1107 hours Zulu (1107 hours Zone)
Flight deck, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
South of the Faeroe Islands
Magruder climbed down from the cockpit of the Viking, trying to avoid the looks Harrison and Meade were giving him. The S-3B had been off her station less than five minutes when the missile attack began, and Harrison’s “I-told-you-so” looks had been making Tombstone feel like a fool ever since.
Gridley had never stood a chance. The frigate was still afloat — barely — but the fire was raging out of control. Rescue helos from Jefferson and the rest of the battle group had managed to rescue 120 crewmen, just over half the ship’s complement, from the decks and the cold waters around the sinking vessel before the effort had finally been abandoned.
Had the Viking remained on station, keeping up the hunt, the Russian sub would never have dared to fire. Magruder might as well have launched those missiles himself.
And in the end, Harrison had been right to argue that Magruder wouldn’t do any good by heading back to the carrier immediately. The air battle had ended with the arrival of the Hornets and the retreat of the Russian squadron. The Viking had been kept in the Marshall stack while the remnants of Viper Squadron landed. Coyote hadn’t made it all the way back, but an SAR copter had fished Grant and his RIO out of the Atlantic after he ditched less than a mile from the Jeff. So Magruder’s efforts hadn’t even helped his friends.
The one positive contribution he’d made so far was the order dispatching one of the KA-6D tankers to rendezvous with the Air Force planes off the Icelandic coast. Luckily
Navy and Air Force tanker fittings were compatible, and the fuel he’d sent would keep the survivors flying until they could pick up another tanker and escort on their way to Greenland. But he’d accomplished that much by radio, passing the orders to Owens on the flight back.
It was a poor start as CAG. A frigate destroyed, Jefferson put in danger, all because he’d let his impatience with sub-hunting convince him that he was the indispensable man aboard the carrier now.
Matthew Magruder didn’t feel indispensable any longer.
A fresh-faced junior grade lieutenant from the admiral’s staff met Magruder before he could take three steps across the flight deck. “Sir,” the young officer shouted over the roar of a helicopter’s rotors — probably one of the SAR choppers returning from the search for Gridley survivors. “Sir, the admiral’s compliments and would you please come to the Flag Bridge right away?”
Magruder nodded dully. If Admiral Tarrant wanted to see him for the reason Magruder expected, his tenure as CAG was likely to be the shortest one on record.
1115 hours Zulu (1115 hours Zone)
Flag Bridge, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
South of the Faeroe Islands
Admiral Douglas Tarrant looked into his half-empty mug, staring at the coffee inside without really seeing it. The past few hours had been shattering, but he fought to keep his features impassive. Things were bad enough now without letting the crew see that their top brass had come close to breaking.
He’d never expected the Russians to launch such a blatant attack on American forces. His Soviet counterpart, or his bosses in the Kremlin, had raised the stakes a long way over the limit. Tarrant had spent too long learning the rules of the game in the Cold War. This new post-Cold War era wasn’t anything like that. Now the Russians were playing for keeps, and none of the conventional wisdom of past confrontations seemed to apply.
In hindsight it was easy to see. Over a decade the new Russian leadership had seen first-hand that hesitation and half-measures were worse than useless. Hesitation had lost them Eastern Europe, had left the abortive coup of ‘91 in tatters before it ever got off the ground, and had condemned the federal government in Yugoslavia to a long, bitter civil war nobody could win. By contrast, a swift, decisive, ruthless strike had driven Iraq out of Kuwait, and the Russians watching that war from the sidelines had taken the lesson to heart. The fall of Yeltsin’s Commonwealth to the reactionaries of the new Union had been the result of the same kind of decisiveness. They had exploited the weaknesses of a disorganized government and a broken economy and brought back Communism where their clumsier Cold Warrior predecessors had failed before.
This had been the same kind of operation. The ambush set for the Tomcat squadron had been bad enough, but on top of that the Russians had dealt very effectively with Keflavik. Following up their initial missile strike, Soviet bombers had made a close-in bombing attack on the American base. Even though most of them had fallen prey to defending Eagles, SAMs, and Phoenix missiles, a few had made it all the way in. And those few had dropped enough five-hundred-pound BETAB retarded antirunway bombs, the Russian equivalent of America’s Durandal, to make the airstrips there totally useless for the foreseeable future.
The destruction of Keflavik and the loss of half of Viper Squadron together put Jefferson’s battle group in serious danger. The carrier and her consorts were sailing into hazardous waters, with each mile putting them closer to Russian land-based air forces that could overwhelm Jefferson’s defenses easily. The Americans would be hard-pressed to survive, much less do anything substantial in support of the embattled defenders. Under those circumstances, was it worth the risk to go on?
But the alternative was turning back, and if they did that the President might as well concede defeat. As long as Europe was staying neutral, Keflavik had been the only possible staging area for American forces flying into Norway. Without it, all support would have to be by sea, and by the time any of the ships preparing off the East Coast could make it to Bergen the fight for Norway would be over. A modern amphibious operation needed a close base of operations for any hope of success, and that was precisely what the United States would face if Bergen fell. Unless Bergen could hold out a few more weeks, the Soviets would soon be sitting pretty in a secure bastion.
Tarrant looked up as a pair of officers entered. One was young Lieutenant Craig, from his own staff. The other man he knew mostly from news reports and magazine stories, though he’d seen him among the CAG staff on the day of the briefing. Commander Magruder had a haunted look. He seemed older than Tarrant had thought, and didn’t look much like the reckless hero aviator depicted in the media.
“Magruder. Good.” Tarrant gestured for him to join him at the chart table. “Sorry to fetch you up here so soon after you touched down, but this is important.”
“I understand, sir,” Magruder replied slowly. Close up, the haunted look was even more noticeable. Tarrant couldn’t help but wonder if he was as capable as his reputation claimed.
“You know about Captain Stramaglia’s death by now, of course,” Tarrant went on, studying him carefully. “Losing him was a blow we couldn’t afford. He was a good man, and one of the best tacticians I’ve ever seen in action.”
“Yes, sir.” There was no spark of energy in his words or his eyes. It was as if he had died, not Stramaglia.
“You’re the next in line in the Air Wing, and you’ve got the experience to make a good CAG. I don’t envy you the job, though. It’s a killer under ordinary conditions, and what we’ve got is a situation that’s anything but ordinary.”
“Sir?”
That seemed to get a rise out of him. For a moment Tarrant couldn’t help but think that Magruder hadn’t expected the advancement. That was silly, of course. As Stramaglia’s deputy Magruder was the automatic replacement.
He put the thought out of his mind. Probably young Magruder was still a little bit dazed by everything that had happened. Viper Squadron … Gridley … Stramaglia. It was a lot to take in all at once.
“Your immediate concern is the defense of this ship,” Tarrant told him. “Viper Squadron’s at half strength, and that’s going to put a crimp in our CAP umbrella. Do what you have to, but make sure we’re covered. Next time the bombers could be headed our way.”
Magruder nodded slowly. “Yes, Admiral.”
“I also want ASW tightened. I don’t want another Gridley.” Magruder seemed about to say something, and Tarrant paused, but the new CAG didn’t speak after all. “The real problem, though, is bigger,” he went on after a moment. “After what’s happened this morning we need to husband our resources. I don’t know how we’re going to defend the carrier and still project any kind of substantial offensive power, but if we don’t come up with something pretty damned quick we might as well call off this whole cruise and go home. So we need some ideas, Magruder. Some way to hit those Russian bastards where it hurts and slow down the offensive against Bergen.”
“That’s a tall order, sir,” Magruder replied, still thoughtful but less distracted than before. “I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.”
“That’s not what I want to hear, mister,” Tarrant snapped. “Stramaglia would have come up with something. I expect you to do the same. Because if you don’t, Commander, this war is over.”
The new CAG stepped back, looking stricken. “I’ll … do what I can, Admiral,” he said.
Tarrant nodded. “That’s what I want. Get on it, Commander. Dismissed.”
1132 hours Zulu (1132 hours Zone)
Wing commander’s office, Soviet Aircraft Carrier Soyuz
The Norwegian Sea
Captain First Rank Glushko regarded his subordinate with distaste. “Well, Terekhov, it seems your victory was less than complete.”
Terekhov stared at a point on the bulkhead somewhere behind Glushko’s head. “My men did all they could, sir,” he said stiffly. “Had the Sukhois remained in the battle we could have destroyed the rest of their F-14 squadron and faced t
he reinforcements as well. But without the Sukhois …”
“You intend to put the blame on my decision to defend Soyuz then? Is that how your report will read?” He tried to keep from betraying his emotion, though he knew that Terekhov already understood how Glushko felt about him.
Terekhov didn’t answer.
“Listen to me, Captain,” Glushko went on, dropping his voice. “You think you can ruin me with an accusation like that. I, on the other hand, am in a position to ruin you as well. The operation was based on your plans, and the weakness of the defenses devoted to Soyuz was certainly a cause for legitimate concern. Even though the Americans did not attack, it was a possibility that had to be thought of, and your ambush, bold as it was, took no account of the possibility. So I may be censured for my part in this, but I can assure you that I will not crash alone. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Terekhov replied. His tone was wary.
Glushko smiled. “On the other hand … our casualties were not light, but we inflicted much damage on the American fighters. And the bombers carried out their strike on the base in Iceland successfully. This morning’s events can be presented as a substantial victory … perhaps even a decisive one. But it would not look good for one of us to … spoil the image of success through recriminations. It is easy enough to look back on an event and speak of those things which might have been, Terekhov, but it is not always the wisest course.”
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