Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  SUNDOWNER ONE-ONE, THREE quarters of a mile, on and on, call the ball, Captain Russel Armstrong recited in his head, mimicking the commands he would be receiving from the Landing Signal Officer if this was nighttime. Being that Armstrong was landing in clear weather, both pilot and signaler were operating “zip lip.” No radio calls. He could see the ship sliding into view through his heads-up display as he banked to line up on the landing area. The gray bulk of the carrier USS Enterprise, which just seconds before had looked so tiny and alone on the vast blue ocean, was looming rapidly larger. Its white wake trailed back towards him like an enormous tail. Leveling his wings, Armstrong fixed his gaze on the yellow light of the ship’s optical landing system, the “meatball” that would guide him down to a safe landing. As he rolled out on approach he was sharing his time between the meatball, lineup, and angle of attack coaxing his Tomcat onto the right line.

  Sundowner One-One, Tomcat ball, Armstrong acknowledged to himself. At night or in poor weather he would have spoken the acknowledgement into his radio, confirming his callsign, aircraft type, and that he could see the light. For now, the silent drill kept him sharp. Armstrong was the kind of pilot who left nothing to chance, never missed an opportunity to drill the procedures of professional flying into his mind and, more importantly, into the minds of the pilots he led.

  He felt a buffet of wind through his stick as that carrier’s stern grew ever larger. Slight, practiced pressure from hands that were working the throttle and stick, kept the ball exactly where it belonged and the big jet on lineup as Armstrong continued his perfect glide path.

  His peripheral vision noted the grey deck rushing up at him at what, to an amateur, would be a terrifying speed. To Armstrong, after twenty-four years of carrier flying, it was just the day to day, exhilarating even. Almost clinically, he noted an uptick in his pulse and breathed a little deeper to slow it. Then the ship was all around him and he felt twenty-five tons of airplane slam onto the deck, turbofans screaming as he jammed the throttles forward to full power. He grunted with satisfaction as his tail hook caught the number three arrester wire, shoving him and his RIO, the radio intercept officer in the plane’s back seat, forward into their harnesses. As soon as the yellow shirt gave him the throttle back visual signal, Armstrong cut power to his engines. The big jet rolled back as tension came off the wire. They were down. Perfect landing, Armstrong thought with satisfaction. It wasn’t a boast, just an observation.

  Once unhooked, Armstrong followed the directions of the deck crew as they guided him towards his parking place on the nearly empty deck. In minutes the Tomcat’s canopy was lifting and he was climbing down a ladder, glancing at the stenciled “CAPT Russel Armstrong ‘Longhorn’” beneath the cockpit that announced him as the fighter’s pilot along with his callsign. His RIO followed him down. Both made their way aft along the deck to the carrier’s island as another Tomcat, its tailfin showing the red and white rising sun emblem of the squadron VF-111, the “Sundowners,” slammed down amid the ear-splitting shriek of its engines. That one only caught the number one wire, Armstrong noted, filing the fact away in his subconscious, always evaluating the pilots under his command. As the CAG, commander of the Enterprise’s air wing, the ‘G’ in the name being a historical reference to air groups, Armstrong’s judgements could make or break the career of any pilot aboard the ship.

  They entered the island’s hatchway and there Armstrong was greeted by a familiar figure, the skipper of the Enterprise, Captain John Newton.

  “Longhorn!” Newton said, grasping the pilot’s shoulder, “Welcome to Big E! Glad to have you aboard. Decided to get the cruise off to a good start, showing all your young pilots how carrier landings are done, huh?”

  Armstrong let the corner of his stoic Cherokee mouth turn up slightly. He wasn’t known for his jovial sense of humor, though his exceedingly dry wit made its appearance from time to time. The “Longhorn” moniker had been bestowed at flight school, when his classmates had been amused to observe the usually reserved Armstrong’s loud support for the football team of his alma mater, the Oklahoma Sooners. Being the cruel aviators that they were, his classmates decided his callsign would be the mascot of the school’s Red River rival, the Texas Longhorns. The nickname stuck, which was why his white helmet now bore the orange silhouette of a longhorn. Armstrong, unwilling to surrender completely, had added the flourish of a crimson lasso capturing the bovine’s prongs. “Hiya Newt,” he said in a deep, slow voice that hinted at his ancestry. “Gotta see the young bucks come in, y’know?”

  Their exchange paused as another Tomcat roared onto the deck. When the noise subsided, Newton said, “Come on. I’ll show you to your quarters so you can drop your gear.”

  The CAG shook his head. “I’d rather head straight to PriFly, Newt. Want to see every landing.”

  Newton shrugged. “Suit yourself. This way.”

  Armstrong looked over at his backseater and said in a loud voice over the flight deck noise, “Willie, fill out the yellow sheet, then you can go and get yourself cleaned up. I’ll have a briefing with all the air crews an hour after everyone’s on board to put out the training schedule.” The other man threw a half salute and disappeared into the bowels of the ship.

  Newton and Armstrong ascended the seven flights of stairs up to the flight control deck, the carrier’s primary flight control bridge, high in the island superstructure. Two more jets slammed onto the deck outside with a roar that reverberated through the bulkhead as they climbed. In the lull between the scream of jet engines Newton, a fellow naval aviator asked, “How was the flight in, Rus?”

  “Fine, clear skies all the way,” answered Armstrong. “The deck crews need some work, though. That aircraft director who parked me would have put me over the side.”

  “That’s why we’re out here, Rus,” Newton said, and Armstrong picked up on a slightly defensive tone. “I had to pull a lot of this crew together from scratch after the CNO accelerated our refueling and overhaul by six months.” Newton continues, “We’re still short some key personnel, and we didn’t get a chance to really work flight ops during our day cruises last month, not like we normally would if we’d stuck to the normal timeline.” He paused as another fighter screamed onto the deck. “These next ten days will get the boys into fighting shape, though.”

  Longhorn nodded his agreement. The Navy had found the funds to speed up Big E’s overhaul, along with the complicated refueling of the ship’s eight nuclear reactors, but the process of gathering the five thousand members of her crew six months early had been a logistical headache, to say the least. Even so, Armstrong was pleased to be aboard the ship with the most storied name in the US Navy. Enterprise was the successor to the famous carrier that had fought through nearly every campaign of the Pacific War and survived multiple hits by Japanese bombs and kamikazes. That ship had undeniably been a “lucky ship.” Armstrong wasn’t even a little bit superstitious, but he couldn’t help feeling that some of the luck had rubbed off onto this new Enterprise, along with the name. We’ll come together, thought Armstrong, it’ll be a bit rough, but we’ll do it.

  Today, this latest Enterprise was southbound out of Norfolk, steaming for the warm waters off Puerto Rico to work up the ship, its crew, and the air wing, forming the new team that would give the carrier its punch. Armstrong reasoned that ten days of continuous flight operations and maneuvering should be enough to get them all into a reasonable degree of proficiency.

  Another VF-111 Tomcat, its red-and-white-painted vertical stabilizers standing out brightly against the blue sky and ocean, slammed down, catching the number two cable in an adequate landing performance.

  “It would have been better,” Newton continued while Armstrong kept his eyes on the incoming jets, “to just keep us on our original overhaul timeline. I’m not sure what the old man was thinking the Russians were going to try to pull this winter. They had their fun in December, and it apparently broke them pret
ty good. Barely a ship has sortied from Murmansk in six weeks!”

  Longhorn jerked a nod and added in his slow drawl, “Yeah, I had to truncate Air Wing Fallon training. Still need to qualify a few pilots on air-to-ground work, but we’re all up to date on air-to-air quals.”

  Newton looked down at the stern of the ship as yet another jet, this time a Tomcat bearing the black-and-red tail markings of squadron VF-51, the “Screaming Eagles,” roared onto the deck. He lifted his gaze to take in the aircraft stacked overhead at intervals. Once all the Tomcats were aboard, they would begin recovering Longhorn’s two squadrons of F/A-18 Hornets and one of A-6E Intruders, followed finally by the support aircraft, including Enterprise’s compliment of EA-6B Prowler electronic warfare birds, E-2C Hawkeye aerial radar aircraft, S-3B Viking sub hunters, and ES-3A Shadow electronic snoopers. Big E’s helicopter contingent was already aboard, two of them keeping pace with the ship to port in case one of the jet jockeys decided to take a swim with his airplane.

  “I’m not so sure, Newt,” Armstrong said, in his usual slow, measured tone. “The Sovs sure are talking a good game right now, with their calls for disarmament and reconciliation, but they’ve never stopped messing around in Poland and the Balkans. I read one news report said they’re playing around in the Caribbean again too. Falkner just wants some assurance that he can respond if the shit hits the fan.”

  Armstrong hadn’t risen to the near top of naval aviation profession by bad-mouthing his superiors, he knew how to play the game and navigate navy politics. He also knew that his reputation as a steady, firm leader with little tolerance for mediocrity and nonsense had landed him the command of Enterprise’s air wing. And the Tailhook Scandal thinning the competition a couple years ago didn’t hurt my chances of command either, he thought, cringing inside at the embarrassment that scandal had caused the service. That Armstrong had managed to stay aloof from the more raucous side of the naval aviator community his entire career had saved him from being stained in any way by that ignominy.

  Another Tomcat screamed down onto Enterprise. This is beginning to look like a real battle-ready carrier, not an oversized barge, thought Armstrong as he surveyed the growing number of warplanes parked below. Crew were moving some of the jets to the elevators for the short trip to the hangar beneath the flight deck. Longhorn followed Newt’s gaze to take in Big E’s three escorts, spread out in an arc to starboard. The Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruiser USS Cowpens was near aboard, while the two Spruance-class destroyers O’Bannon and Thorne were steaming farther afield, closer to the horizon. Armstrong noted a Sea King helicopter ascending from the fantail of the O’Bannon. The screening vessels would also benefit from the opportunity to train together for an extended period of time as well.

  “There’s value in being prepared for the worst.” Armstrong said, breaking the silence.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see,” said Newton, sounding unconvinced. “I still say the Soviet Union is toast within the decade. Hell, I thought they were toast before the coup two years ago.”

  If Armstrong was honest with himself, he would admit that he agreed with his fellow aviator. But he’d always seen the value of being prepared for the worst, which was the whole point of getting Big E out of drydock half a year early. Besides, he thought, the tropical climate down there in the Caribbean will be a nice break from the dreary Virginia winter. Being from Oklahoma, Armstrong was less than fond of the damp, and he detested the cold.

  Two miles away, a helicopter was lifting off from USS O’Bannon.

  “Clear of the superstructure,” came the crackle in Abby Savage’s earphones as she applied pressure with her feet to the control pedals, rotating her Sea King to avoid the hangar and antenna mast.

  “Roger, Buck,” Abby acknowledged as she pushed her cyclic joystick forward while simultaneously pressing down the collective lever to dip the helicopter’s nose towards the sea and increase power to the engines. The forward and upward acceleration pulled the Sea King away from the destroyer.

  “Whew,” whistled Buck. “Look at that landing stack above the Big E. Flight deck looks busy as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.”

  Abby looked over at the long, flat silhouette of Enterprise, where a fighter was just touching down on the carrier’s stern. Other big jets were taxiing to their parking spots on the forward part of the ship, or else to the elevators on its flanks. She could make out the dark shapes of more jets stacked up above the carrier, like bees over a hive. Helicopters kept pace with the big ship’s forward progress. Far ahead of the task group, Abby could just make out one of the carrier’s other helicopters dipping its sonar reel into the swell of the Atlantic, the crew probably calibrating their hydrophones for the upcoming exercise. All the pieces of a real battle group coming together, and here we are, playing ambulance for a nineteen-year-old kid with appendicitis, she thought, bitterness creeping in.

  Abby and Buck had been spun up this morning to fly out to O’Bannon from Norfolk to evacuate a young crewmember who’d taken ill the previous evening. Normally O’Bannon’s own helicopter would have handled the task but—and this really stuck in her craw—the destroyer’s assigned helicopter crew had been decertified a week prior due to some childish antics, and so the ship had sailed without an embarked aircraft. Apparently no helicopter onboard is better than one piloted by a woman, she thought.

  The task group had called Norfolk saying that all of their other helicopters were tied up either helping to recover Enterprise’s air wing or preparing for the upcoming work-ups off Puerto Rico, and could Fleet please send out someone to evacuate the sick kid? So, here they were, tantalizingly close once more to being a true part of the Fleet, like Abby had always dreamed, and yet still as far away as ever.

  “Okay, Buck,” Abby said, refocusing on her task, as demeaning as it might seem right now. “Let’s get our boy to the hospital.” She dipped the nose of the Sea King further towards the swell below, accelerating away towards the beach.

  CHAPTER 24

  2200 MSK, Friday 4 February 1994

  1900 Zulu

  Presidential Dacha, Foros, Crimea, Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic

  PAVEL MEDVEDEV SIPPED his vodka in the expansive sitting room of the presidential retreat. He had not returned here since that fateful day over two and a half years ago when he shot his predecessor and set his country onto a new, more perilous course. Sitting comfortably, basking in the isolation and luxury, the current Soviet president understood why the other man had liked this place. The fantastic views of the Black Sea out the window and the sound of waves on the beach below was soothing for a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. And the shores of the Black Sea were far from the dreary skies and snowy streets of Moscow.

  Medvedev looked over at his guest. Marshal Rosla was perched on another of the chairs, his olive drab uniform in sharp contrast to the gold and red furnishings of the room despite his many rows of colorful ribbons. The man’s jaw was set. He was determined to see this gamble through.

  “You have no objections then?” the Soviet president asked his defense minister.

  The marshal shook his head, then paused and asked, “So you will not consult with the rest of the Politburo?”

  “And give them a chance to get cold feet?” Medvedev asked wryly. “No, Marshal. They all made their decision months ago. It was the right decision then and I won’t allow them the opportunity to reconsider now. Once the pieces are moving it will be impossible for anyone to turn back. You are familiar with the story of the Spaniard Cortez when he arrived in the New World, are you not?”

  Rosla nodded and smiled. “So, this is why you have isolated yourself down here for the past two weeks? So when the time comes to burn your ships there would be no one around to stop you?”

  The president allowed himself to smile as well, but just for a moment. Then his face turned deadly serious. “Issue the orders, Marshal, on
my authority. War operations will commence as planned.”

  CHAPTER 25

  1930 EET, Sunday 6 February 1994

  1630 Zulu

  CompuCafe, Annankatu 27, Helsinki, Finland

  IVAN KHITROV WALKED through the door, passing from the dark, cold Helsinki street into the warm, new, chic cafe that was doing its best to make waves around this Nordic city, and indeed the world. He removed his hat and overcoat, handing them to a hostess, and quickly surveyed the space around him with a trained eye. The room contained a small bar serving warm drinks and light snacks, the smell of coffee and chocolate wafted toward the Russian’s nostrils. He wasn’t in Helsinki for the cuisine. What interested him was what made this newly-opened cafe unique: dozens of new, off-white computers, their boxy monitors perched atop rectangular CPUs, lined the perimeter of the cafe.

  Khitrov thanked the hostess and walked to a terminal. As he settled into the plush, modern office chair, playing and looking the part of a visiting businessman, he considered the wonder of the technology he was about to employ. Electronic mail. I type a message, click a button, and instantaneously my note arrives all over the world. Amazing! he marveled.

  CompuCafe, the establishment that Khitrov was currently patronizing, was the first of its kind in Europe, so far as he could tell. The cafe allowed customers to use a computer to “surf” the world’s newest domain of information flow, the World Wide Web. The elegant simplicity of the whole idea appealed to Khitrov. One computer terminal and a telephone line allowed him to connect to an ever-expanding realm of people and information. Even better, the whole system, had grown out of US military efforts to provide reliable networked communication to its nuclear forces. The same system they designed to safeguard their strategic weapons now allows me to coordinate a complex attack against them from thousands of kilometers away.

  The colonel smiled to himself as he considered the irony. He used the mouse to banish the monitor’s screen saver of bizarrely dancing and rotating geometric shapes, and then double-clicked to open the internet browser. Khitrov waited through the screeches and warbles as the modem connected to the phone line, and then navigated to the email server he had selected for this purpose. His smirk disappeared as the obnoxious “You’ve got mail” voice alerted him to a message from his team in Iceland waiting in his digital inbox. While he believed this form of communication was obscure enough to be secure from enemy counterintelligence, his instructions had been clear: Keep communication to an absolute minimum and await my orders.