Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  “Hello there,” the local greeted him. “What the hell happened here?”

  “I was hoping you could tell us,” answered Berg.

  “No idea, I just got here myself,” the police officer gestured back to his car across the wreckage. The man was far too up-beat, his friendly manner grating on Berg’s impatient nerves. “Have you talked to the driver?”

  “There was no one here when we arrived,” answered Berg, trying with what he thought was admirable success to keep his frustration out of his voice.

  “Odd,” muttered the local, “when I saw you, I expected that there had been an accident with one of your tanks. Have you checked the cab?” The truck itself was still upright, though the cab was lodged awkwardly on the guardrail. Only the trailer was on its side.

  “We did. No one there,” responded Berg. “The cab is locked.”

  “No one called us about an accident,” the police officer went on, puzzled. “I came down here from Bufjӧrd when another trucker said there was an accident on the bridge. We really need to find the poor chap. It’s a cold one tonight. Have you looked around the shoulder?”

  Now Berg was getting impatient. He unclenched his teeth long enough to say, “Look, we are on a mission and we need to cross this bridge as soon as possible. When can you get it cleared?”

  “Cleared? That will take hours with a mess like this. We’ll have to bring a crane in from Alta. And we can’t do anything until we know where the driver is and if he’s safe,” said the Politi, still far too upbeat for the circumstances.

  “Look,” Berg repeated the word, like it was grounding him and his growing exasperation, “this is a matter of national defense. We don’t have hours to wait around while you drag some construction worker out of bed. I need to get these vehicles,” he swept his hand at the column stretching back from the west side of the bridge, “to Banak,” and he drew his arm back around to point east as emphatically as he could.

  “Calm down, calm down,” the Politi man said, raising his gloved palms at Berg. “Let me see what I can do.” He turned and started picking his way back over the jumbled pipes blocking the highway.

  Berg swore under his breath. The squadron’s march had started off well enough. He’d gotten all the crews and vehicles lined up in the squadron vehicle park and for once there hadn’t been any problems getting the encrypted radios from three different companies to talk to each other. They’d actually departed early.

  Then, a hundred kilometers out from Skjӧld one of the M113s had sputtered to a halt. The crew had gotten the track running again after some quick tinkering, but the delay had annulled their early departure and the young officer wasn’t confident about that particular vehicle’s ability to make it the rest of the way to Banak. Now, on top of the mess on the bridge, one of the trucks towing a Bofors gun was also acting up. The løytnant turned stiffly and started trudging back toward his vehicles.

  As he approached his G-Wagen, a sergeant with a satchel over his shoulder walked up from the rear of the column. Berg didn’t recognize the man, but the NCO strode right up to him and said confidently, “Excuse me sir, I may have a solution.” In the dark, Berg heard more than saw the smirk on the man’s face.

  Now Berg remembered; the sergeant was in charge of the Pioneer section that had joined the squadron back at Skjӧld.

  “Pedersen, isn’t it?” Berg queried. The sergeant nodded. “Okay, what’s your solution, Sergeant?”

  “Well sir, I’ve got enough C4 in this satchel and back at our track to drop the whole bridge if we wanted to. I’ve got plenty to make this,” he gestured towards the wreckage on the bridge, “go away.”

  Now it was Berg’s turn to smirk. Pioneers. They just love to remind you how much they play with explosives. Although…it’s not actually a half-bad idea.

  Berg shook his head, amused, saying, “I don’t think the Politi will take too kindly to us blowing vehicles off the E6.”

  “Suit yourself, sir. I’ll be here when you need me,” the sergeant responded light-heartedly as he spun about and walked back towards his own track.

  What’s gotten into everyone that they’re so cheerful tonight, wondered the big XO.

  Berg turned to his driver. “Get the troop sergeants. I want both the winch tracks up to the front. We’re not waiting for the locals to clear this road. We’re going to do it ourselves.”

  CHAPTER 36

  0500 CET, Sunday 13 Feb 1994

  0400 Zulu

  Banak Air Station, Lakselv, Troms, Norway

  RITTMESTER JOHANSEN STARTED awake as the C-130 Hercules bounced down onto the icy runway at Banak. Around him in the cramped transport, his dragons also stirred in their fold-down mesh seats. He’d come to appreciate this part of a deployment, the time in transit, as it offered a reprieve between the responsibilities of planning at the origin and those of execution at the destination. The young rittmester felt the weight of command descend on his shoulders once again as the aircraft taxied.

  The Hercules rolled to the southern end of the airfield’s single runway and then to a hangar housing two Westland Sea King rescue helicopters of 330 “Viking” Squadron. The Vikings were the only permanent military force at Banak Air Station, situated on a wooded peninsula at the head of the Porsangerfjӧrd and just north of the town of Lakselv. Johansen stood up from his seat as the aircraft jerked to a stop. He was at the rear of the bird, and behind him rifles, helmets, and equipment clattered together and swished against tight-packed white parkas as the forty-five troopers of his command readied themselves to disembark. The ramp at the rear of the plane held a pallet stacked high with rucksacks and the RBS-70 launchers and missiles, all secured under a mesh of cargo netting. An icy predawn breeze assaulted the warm interior of the transport as the rear ramp lowered with a whine. Once the motion stopped Johansen led his command in file off the airplane, walking down the ramp, past the baggage pallet, and across the floodlit tarmac to the relative warmth of the nearby hanger, passing another Hercules being unloaded by the air force ground crews there to service the inbound F-16s. An officer in a coast guard flight suit was inside to meet them.

  The naval man walked up to Johansen and said, “Are you the commander of this group? I got a call from Bardufoss a couple hours ago telling me to expect you.”

  “Yes, I’m Rittmester Johansen. We’re here to secure the air station until the rest of Brigade Nord moves up.”

  “When will that be?” asked the other man.

  “I don’t know right now,” he paused, reminding himself that it was now Sunday, despite the dark pre-dawn sky outside, “Possibly today, if they deploy at all. Regardless, we are here to get things ready for them. I’ll need some transport to recon our defensive positions.”

  The Coast Guard officer nodded, “I’ve got several vehicles from the air station parked for you outside, and some snowmobiles as well. I was told to expect some soldiers from Porsangermoen, but they haven’t arrived yet.”

  Johansen nodded his thanks. Behind him his sergeants were supervising the squadron’s dragons as they unloaded equipment from the ramp of the Hercules and deposited it in troop formations on the hangar floor. As Eric pulled a topographic map from his hip pocket, his two troop løytnantar joined him, G3 rifles slung over their shoulders.

  “Andreas, Nils,” he addressed the two young løytnantar, stabbing the folded chart with his finger, “you know the plan. Our host,” he indicated the Coastie, “has provided us with transport. I need you to take our forward observers and recon your troop positions. Andreas, you’ll take the eastern approaches to the town. Nils, I want you to leave a section here at the airfield and put the remainder south covering the highway. Remember, we have an artillery battery coming up from Porsanger. Call me on the radio if you link up with them. I’ll be around shortly to inspect your positions and then we can start moving the men forward. For now I’ll be posting our air force atta
chments around the airfield. Our vehicles should be here by noon. Get to it.”

  “Sir,” both white-clad løytnantar responded in unison, then moved away towards the milling soldiers to collect their radio operators and artillery observers before exiting the rear of the hangar.

  Johansen walked over to the air force sergeant, who was inspecting the last of his missiles unloaded from the Hercules, and said, “Sergeant, I’d like you to post your teams in the outbuildings around the airfield so they have some shelter. I may move a team or two forward later, but for now let’s keep them close. Come with me and we can designate their posts.”

  Johansen had been to Banak before on drills, several times in fact, but he’d never been accompanied by air force missileers. One more indication that this may be serious, he thought as he collected his rifle and led his radioman and the sergeant out to a waiting four-by-four. Johansen opened the driver’s door and got in, starting the engine with keys handed over by the Coast Guard officer. They drove around the forested perimeter of the air strip, using the blue landing lights of the runway for navigation in the pre-dawn darkness. At the suggestion of the sergeant, Johansen pulled over to designate the first RBS-70 position.

  Stepping from the vehicle, the rittmester heard a screaming roar grow louder overhead. He looked up to see green and red navigation lights attached to the dark shadow of a landing F-16. Erik watched as the fighter swooped in and landed amid an incandescent swirl of ice crystals. He could see the lights of three more of the nimble jets stacked up and descending from the north. A deep rumble overhead belied the presence of two more. We’ll keep the Russians off your back, his pilot friend Olsen had assured him. He took comfort in the thought as he got back into the four-by-four and continued his circuit.

  Several thousand feet overhead, Kaptein Jan Olsen was also thinking about the pledge he’d made to his friend. As fighter pilots went, he was as cocky as most, but he was also a professional, and was painfully aware of how many dozens of combat aircraft the Russians could throw at him if it came to aerial combat. He would need good flying and creative tactics to win against their potential enemy’s numbers. Along those lines he had worked out a hypothetical battle plan with his fellow pilots that would, he hoped, take advantage of the peculiarities of the rugged terrain here in Northern Norway. He wanted to make sure they could offer up a few surprises. Other pilots from his 332 “Eagle” Squadron were even now dispersing to several other airfields further west in order to prevent the valuable jets from being caught on the ground in an attack. Now that he was up here, he just hoped that wouldn’t have to execute these contingencies.

  CHAPTER 37

  0710 CET, Sunday 13 Feb 1994

  0610 Zulu

  Passenger terminal, Kirkenes Lufthavn, Finnmark, Norway

  THE NORWEGIAN MINING town of Kirkenes sat nestled in Arctic pre-dawn darkness along the Bøkfjӧrden, an arm of the much larger Varangerfjӧrden that emptied into the Barents Sea off Norway’s far north coast. The town’s three thousand residents existing about four hundred kilometers north of the Arctic Circle and had the dubious distinction of being the most proximate of all Norwegian communities to the Soviet border.

  Given the rapidly escalating security situation, the army’s Varanger battalion, garrisoned adjacent to the town airport, had deployed during the night to pre-selected battle positions, overseeing the one bridge across the Bøkfjӧrden that connected the two countries. A mere section of twelve soldiers remained in the garrison to secure the single icy runway that connected Kirkenes to the outside world.

  The airport clerk had arrived for work exactly on time, ten minutes ago. Kirkenes Lufthavn wasn’t a particular busy airport, but it was a key station for responding to emergencies and supporting the mining industry here in the far north, and thus the desk needed to be tended at all times. She was just pulling out a sheaf of the ever-present forms when she noticed the men. That’s odd, was her first thought.

  Several men, all young and fit, had just entered the terminal and were milling about the small passenger waiting area. The clerk checked her schedule. Just as I thought, no flights for another eight hours. Of course, milling about the heated waiting area wasn’t exactly a crime. Even so, it’s a little…odd. The clerk’s thoughts repeated the only word that came to mind so early in the morning.

  She stepped out from behind her work area and walked out to the waiting room. There were even more people here than she’d realized, at least ten. Maybe a dozen? Several were outside, smoking.

  “Can I help you?” one of the men asked in accented Norwegian, stealing the line right from her lips. His smile looked forced.

  “Yes,” the clerk responded, “are you waiting for a flight? We don’t normally see so many people so early on a Sunday. The next flight isn’t until the afternoon. Can I call you a taxi? The Rica Hotel in town has a good breakfast. I could call ahead for you and have them get the coffee started if you want.”

  There were a couple of sidelong glances between the other men in the room. The one who’d addressed her merely shrugged. “We just completed a survey of a mining site down south. We would rather just wait here. Do you mind?” the man asked with a chilling smile. He produced a ticket and handed it over. It was for the next flight leaving in several hours.

  The explanation was not convincing, but, considering how many of them there were, she decided not to press the issue. Instead, she nodded, handed the ticket back, and retreated to her work station. She made a pretense of resuming her paperwork and then put her pen down and walked the few steps to the Lufthavn’s office, shutting the door behind her. The woman picked up the phone on the office’s cheap desk and dialed the number for the airport’s security officer, a retired police officer from the town.

  After three rings, a woman’s voice answered, “Hello?”

  “Yes, Annette, this is Anna Hagen. Is Nils there please?”

  “No,” came the elderly woman’s response, “he’s out skiing this morning. May I take a message for him?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Anna answered. “Thank you.” She placed the receiver back in its cradle.

  She scolded herself for being so easily intimidated. What are you doing? What is making you so paranoid today? Just go back out there and do your work.

  So that’s what Anna Hagen did. The men milled about the waiting area as she emerged from the office and returned to her work station. She busied herself with the paperwork, doing her best to avoid the nagging feeling of danger she just couldn’t seem to shake. If Nils, the local politi, wasn’t available, then the only other place to call for help was the army garrison south of town. A few suspicious characters hanging around this little airport certainly didn’t warrant alerting the army.

  CHAPTER 38

  0755 CET, Sunday 13 Feb 1994

  0655 Zulu

  Along the Goahtemuorjohka River, along the E6 northeast of Alta, Troms, Norway

  LØYTNANT SIGURD BERG stood on the hood of his G-Wagen, munching on a cold sausage sandwich from his vehicle’s grub box, his convoy stretching out on the road behind him, stationary once again. The crews were milling about outside their vehicles, relieving themselves and eating their rations. The weak Arctic sun was just beginning to brighten the gray southeast sky above the snowy forested mountains to his right. To his left, the shoulder of the E6 highway dropped off precipitously into a dark narrow gorge filled by a fast-flowing stream with thick ice on its steep banks. Berg took another large bite of his sandwich as he pondered the new obstacle blocking his path.

  The accident back at the Sørstraumen bridge could have been a coincidence. It had been very odd, with no driver anywhere to be found, but there were conceivable explanations for that. This, however. There was no way this could be an accident. Berg was looking at a thirty-meter-long well-formed abatis, composed of twenty large Norwegian Spruce carefully dropped in an interlocking pattern across the roa
d, creating an impassable barrier. There was a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach as he thought about what this meant. Someone is deliberately trying to keep us from getting to Banak. The implications of that conclusion were not palatable.

  Broader implications aside, he still needed to get his ungainly convoy to Banak, especially if something big was afoot. There must be something going on. Berg dreaded the idea of having his column strung out on the narrow E6 at the start of a shooting war. He needed a way to get past the abatis, and this time he knew exactly what to do.

  Setting his sandwich down on the roof of his vehicle, Berg turned to face back down his line of vehicles. He cupped his mittened hands to his mouth and at the top of his lungs yelled, “Sergeant Pedersen!”

  A few moments passed before, “Sir?” The pioneer sergeant was looking up at him with a grin on his five-o-clock shadowed face.

  “Pedersen,” called the løytnant, “I think we need some of your ‘solution.’”

  The NCO’s grin became a maniacal smile. He threw a half salute and began trotting back towards his M113.

  “And get those winches up here!” Berg shouted to the rest of his troopers.

  CHAPTER 39

  0800 CET, Sunday 13 Feb 1994

  0700 Zulu

  SCT Surjøya Container Terminal, Port of Oslo, south of Oslo city

  SVEN SORENSEN STEPPED out of his battered Volkswagen Apollo onto the icy pavement. He shivered and pulled the knit cap down over his ears as an icy wind gusted off the dark gray waters of Oslofjӧrd and across the concrete quay of the shipping terminal. Sorensen’s thermometer had registered minus thirteen degrees Celsius when he’d walked out of his working-class apartment building into the predawn darkness.