by James Rosone
Sitting at the briefing table was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Meyers, the service chiefs of each branch of service, the Secretary of Defense, the National Security Advisor, several of the intelligence directors and the President. They had just concluded a teleconference with the newly sworn in British Prime Minister, Rosie Hoyle, who’d just informed them that the United Kingdom would be resuming their participation in the war against Russia. She’d promised that her government was going to do everything they could to reinstate the military buildup and the prior deployments of the military to the continent. This was obviously welcomed news.
They didn’t have too long to revel in this happy development, though. A technician walked into the room and walked over to the colonel who would be leading the next brief. “Sir, the guys in Europe are ready for you,” he announced.
The colonel nodded, and the technician gave a thumbs-up to someone in the rear of the room to activate the screen. A second later, the image of General Cotton and a couple of his advisors were shown on the large screen.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” General Cotton said to the group. It was still technically lunchtime in the US, but he greeted him based on local time.
“Good afternoon, General. I hope things are progressing well on your end,” Foss replied.
“Things are good on this end, Mr. President. As you’ll note from the slides we sent over, we have finally achieved a breakthrough in several sectors.” There was a slight pause as the group thumbed through their printed handouts. Cotton allowed a moment for review, but he was not one to waste time, so he cut to the point. “However, Mr. President, as you’ll see on slide fifteen, I’d like to know if we’re going to be able to include the British in our coming operations.”
The President smiled. He exulted in being the bearer of good news for once. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he answered. “We just spoke with the new British Prime Minister right before this call. She has assured us that Britain will return to the war. They have several of their senior officers on the way to your location to begin coordination of whatever forces you need for the coming offensive.”
It was clear General Cotton was breathing a sigh of relief, even over the grainy video feed. He replied, “Excellent news, Mr. President. Once I’ve conferred with them, do I have your permission, then, to proceed with the proposed operation we presented on slide twenty-eight, the use of the British Airborne and V Corps to slice deep behind enemy lines?”
Despite only working with General Cotton for a short bit, President Foss had really taken a liking to him. He was proving to be a real tactician. He’d been making do with little in the way of support and reinforcements for the past year, and somehow, he’d still managed to help train a massive Allied army to fill in the gaps in his own forces.
“Gates was right, this guy will win the war in Europe for us,” Foss thought.
“General, we’ve been going over the details since you sent them over. I believe the Joint Staff have some additional questions, which I’ll let them ask offline. However, I’d like to move forward with the plan. They just want to sort a few items out, but otherwise, this looks like a sound strategy. If it works, you might be able to force a very large portion of the Russian and Indian forces into surrendering before the end of the year.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” General Cotton responded. “We’ll get things sorted out then with the Joint Staff and proceed. When I meet with the British LNOs, we’ll have a better idea of how soon we can start our offensive. We’d planned to start the naval action in a couple of days, but we’ll postpone a little longer so we can integrate the British fleet into our own. If you don’t have any further questions, then we’ll take the rest of this offline and keep you apprised of any significant changes,”
Seeing no obvious questions, the President indicated that they were good, and the call was ended.
President Foss smiled. His day had just gotten exponentially better. With the British back in the war, the operational tempo was about to increase tremendously going into the final two months of 2018.
Operation Nordic Fury
Norwegian Sea
Commodore Robert Cornell, the captain of the HMS Queen Elizabeth, had just poured himself a fresh cup of tea when the storm suddenly opened up on them. He sighed. He didn’t want this winter storm to derail the start of this very important operation.
The wind had been howling for a while, but now the windshield wipers on the bridge were in full swing, batting back and forth against the rain, which was coming down so quickly that it still made it nearly impossible for them to see. Looking to the right of the bridge, Cornell could see one of the destroyers rising as it crested a solid ten-meter wave before racing down the back of it into the trough and subsequently being hammered by another large wave.
“The troops in the transports are probably retching their guts out right now. Land lubbers,” he thought with a smirk.
Commodore Cornell turned to look for his weather officer. “How long is this new storm supposed to stick around?” he asked.
Lieutenant Commander Jonathon Band replied, “It should clear up in about twenty-four-hours, though we are still going to experience some rough seas for at least two or three days. The latest satellite report shows we should have about five days of clear, good weather before the next storm hits the Barents Sea and moves down into the White Sea.”
Cornell thought about that for a moment. At their current pace, they’d be in range of Russian air and missile defenses in three days, but they’d need at least two or three days to clear themselves a path for the troop ships to round the Kola Peninsula into the White Sea. That left them roughly twenty-four to forty-eight hours to land the troops and secure the area before the next storm hit and put an end to both air and sea support operations.
“This next storm—can you give me your best estimate of how long you think it’ll last? Are we talking a couple of days, or maybe a week in length?” he pressed.
The weatherman paused. “Sir, weather prediction is tricky, especially when you’re talking about a week or more in advance. I can give you a better estimate in four or five days. However, right now, if I had to estimate, I would guess it should last around three, maybe four days. But that’s a guess right now. It could be shorter or longer. What I can assure you of is, when it does hit, we’ll be hard-pressed to carry out any air operations and certainly wouldn’t be able to support any amphibious operations unless the ships were already in the White Sea.”
This was about as close to a definitive answer as he was going to get. “OK, Band. Thank you for the insight,” Cornell responded. “If you can, please make sure you’re coordinating your assessments with the French and Americans in the fleet. Let’s hope the weather gods will smile on us long enough to accomplish our mission.”
Seeing that he wasn’t really needed on the bridge, Commodore Cornell made his way to the air operations tower to see how his air operation planners were progressing with the next phase of the operation. They still needed to hunt down and destroy the Russians’ remaining aircraft carrier and what was left of the Russian northern fleet.
*******
The storm had been battering the HMS Albion, which had been carrying three commando brigades of the Royal Marines, for more than a day. While many of the men were used to being holed up on an amphibious assault ship, they were not as used to having twice as many Marines crammed into the same space. It made for some uncomfortable living conditions, and all the men were eager to get ashore and fight the Russians.
Sergeant Philip Jones was one such Marine. He was far more at home in the woods or mountains, stalking an enemy that could kill him, than being cooped up on a ship in the middle of the ocean with no way to defend himself. The constant battle drills the ship captain kept running the crew through only reinforced his belief that he was safer on land than stuck on the transport. The thought of a Russian submarine torpedoing their ship was unnerving and terrifying. With the frigid tempe
ratures of the waters they were sailing through, there was little chance of survival for very long if their ship was sunk.
As the waves kept rolling up and down, he drifted back to thoughts of how he’d gotten to be in this situation in the first place. This was Sergeant Jones’s seventh year in the Marines. He’d joined at the age of just eighteen, shortly after his mother had passed away from breast cancer. Jones was an only child, and his mother was the only real family he had ever known. His father, an abusive drunkard, had left him and his mother when he was just nine, abandoning them to fend for themselves. As a young boy he’d grown up in government housing, with a mother who loved him dearly but spent most of her time working, trying to make sure her only son had a chance at life. His mother had sacrificed so much to ensure he was able to attend a good primary and secondary school, knowing that education was going to be his way out of the low-income ghetto they’d found themselves living in.
When his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, he had just turned sixteen. He opted to finish school early and quickly found a menial labor job to help bring in some money to help cover the mounting medical bills. Private insurance and specialists were expensive. When his mother became too sick to work, Jones looked for other ways to make money, eventually turning to one of his childhood friends who ran with the wrong crowd. His friend, George, was two years older and had been working for a local gang who made their money in the drug trade. It didn’t take long before Jones was working a corner, peddling their products to earn some extra cash. However, he was a lot smarter than the average street thug. In a short period of time, he’d moved up the ranks from street peddling to running his own network. Jones knew the real money to be made was not on the street, but in the financial district.
A friend of his from school had a father who worked for Barclays as an investment banker. When his friend’s dad caught them smoking weed one day after school, rather than chastise the boys, he joined them. Through a little prodding, Jones was able to learn that his friend’s father had other colleagues who would be interested in finding a confidential source for some drugs. Jones assured him that he could provide a steady source of cocaine if he wanted it. Because he didn’t know who these people were, he’d sell the drugs to his friend’s father, and then he could sell the drugs to his friends. That way it made things easy.
For six months, this little arrangement worked out well. Jones was making more money than he had ever dreamed of and he made sure his mother was given the best care and medicine money could buy. Unfortunately for Jones, he was paying for specialized care that was way above the national coverage his mother’s meager wages could have afforded. This behavior, along with a few unnecessary purchases, eventually caught the attention of local law enforcement. One day, a pair of detectives paid Jones and his mother a house call. They’d been observing him for nearly a month and had built quite a case against him. His mother was appalled once she learned of how he’d been earning his money; it broke her heart to see that he was squandering the future life she had worked so hard to give him.
The police detectives saw some potential in Jones, and in consultation with the Justice Department, agreed to not press charges against him if he provided the names of who was supplying him the drugs and who he was selling them to, and then enlisted in the armed forces. The prosecutor had served in the Royal Marines for a stint and told Jones that it had helped to set him on the straight and narrow, and he was willing to give Jones the same opportunity if he’d take it. During this ordeal, Jones’s mother had passed away from the cancer, and with no one else in his life, he agreed to take them up on their offer of redemption.
A month before his eighteenth birthday, he’d joined the Royal Marines and left for recruit training. Seven years later, Jones had served in both Iraq and Afghanistan, along with a few other hotspots around the world. He had one year left in his enlistment, though he’d decided the Marines was it for him. He’d enlist again and this time make it a career, not just an adventure.
One of his corporals pulled him out of his memories. “Sergeant Jones, how far do you think we are from Russia?” he asked. The rest of his men were just as antsy to get off the ship.
“From what I’ve heard, we’re roughly four days away from the Kola Peninsula and then the White Sea. How are the men holding up?” Jones asked.
The corporal shrugged. “They’re holding up fine. I’m working them as hard as our limited space allows. Lots of time in the gym, etcetera.”
Before the two of them could say anything further, the warning klaxons sounded general quarters again. Thinking this was just another drill, they turned back to continue their conversation before they heard and felt an explosion. It didn’t quite feel like their ship had been hit, but something near their ship definitely had. This clearly was not a drill, and something terrible had just transpired. Sergeant Jones jumped up and made it his mission to find out what had happened.
*******
The HMS Duncan was one of the newest British Type 45 Daring destroyers, and a pivotal part of the Queen Elizabeth strike group. With the American strike group in the center and rear positions of the fleet, the Duncan, along with three other Type 23 or Duke-class frigates, was responsible for protecting the European carriers and their French counterparts. There were over sixty warships in Task Force One, which made up the bulk of the fleet’s striking power. In Task Force Two, there were an additional fifty-two warships, though these mostly comprised the amphibious assault ships, troop transports, and additional roll-on, roll-off or ro-ro ships. It was an enormous fleet, and by far the largest concentration of Allied warships.
“Any word on that underwater contact yet? Is it moving toward the fleet?” asked Commander Mike Shepherd, the captain of the Duncan.
Lieutenant Martin Nibs looked up at the captain, replying, “No word on the possible contact in sector G3. However, the Portland just registered a possible underwater contact in D5. They’re moving to investigate it further right now.”
They were all a bit on edge. Several of the frigates had detected an underwater contact at the outskirts of the fleet’s protective zone. Unfortunately, the storm was preventing them from launching their helicopters or calling in for land-based support from their antisubmarine planes, which meant they were left with their passive and active sonars. One of the frigates would pound the water with its active sonar, while the other ships would sit in passive mode, trying to see if they would hear the sonar pulse reflect off the hull of an enemy submarine.
The terrible weather had also prevented them from being able to effectively deploy their towed sonar array, making it much more difficult to differentiate the sound of heavy rain and waves crashing around them from the noise of an electric pump or propulsion used on a submarine. For the last hour, they’d been picking up faint signals, only to lose them again in the clutter of the storm and then suddenly have them spring up again much closer to the fleet.
Commander Mike Shepherd scratched his head as he looked at the map for himself. As he saw where D5 was in relationship to G3, it just didn’t make sense. “That new contact is way too far away from G3 to be the same contact,” he asserted. “We’re most likely looking at a new contact, if that is in fact what it is,” he replied to the lieutenant, his targeting officer.
Lieutenant Nibs’s brow furrowed. “Sir, if this is a new possible underwater contact at D5, then that contact is well within our protective bubble. Shoot, they’re almost within torpedo range of the Queen Elizabeth, if it is a sub,” he explained.
“Damn this storm. We need our helicopters!” thought Commander Mike Shepherd. He clenched his fist, frustrated that the pounding rain was blocking their sensing capabilities.
One of the petty officers who was manning a sonar display nearby suddenly turned in his chair. “Multiple underwater contacts!” he shouted.
Everyone’s heads turned toward the captain, who shouted, “How many and where are they headed?”
“It’s that possible contact in D5
. It’s a sub. Holy hell, the contact just multiplied. We’ve got five confirmed submarines!” shouted Petty Officer Lee Davies. “The identification is coming in now…they’re Akulas,” he said. Seconds later, he yelled, “Torpedoes! I count eight torpedoes in the water, Sir. It looks like one is heading toward the Portland, and another toward the Lancaster. The other six appear to be split evening between the Queen Elizabeth, the Charles de Gaulle, and the Italian ship, the Cavour.”
“Sound general quarters!” ordered Commander Shepherd. “Send a message to the fleet admiral and let him know what’s happening.” He hoped that somehow the frigates and other ships would be able to launch enough decoys to confuse the enemy submarines.
“How could the Russians have gotten so close to us?” he wondered in awe. He figured that there was no way that all five contacts were enemy subs—there had to be decoys. There was simply no other way to explain how an enemy threat had been able to penetrate so far into their perimeter.
Lieutenant Nibs finished a phone call. “Sir, the Lancaster is engaging the enemy submarines with their torpedoes, and the Somerset is moving to engage the enemy as well.”
Before either man could say anything else, Petty Officer Davies signaled for their attention again. “What is it, Petty Officer?” demanded the captain. He and Lieutenant Nibs quickly walked over to his sonar station.
“I’m picking up more torpedoes, Sir,” he answered. “They appear to be from one of our submarines. It’s engaging the underwater contacts. After listening more closely, it sounds like there’s probably only one Akula, not five. It sounds like the other Akula noises were decoys launched by the original submarine to confuse us.”
