Northern Fury- H-Hour

by Bart Gauvin

  In total, at least eleven ships were sinking or had already sunk outside the harbor. Included in this number was the massive liner Queen Elizabeth 2, as well as the Coast Guard cutters Dallas and Tahoma, and the Soviet intelligence trawler Kursagraf. C-130 Hercules rescue aircraft from 102 Rescue Squadron at Gabreski had conducted flyovers of each of the wreck sites to evaluate the situation. One had flown over the dual wrecks of the Dallas and Kursagraf, where American Coast Guards and Russian crewmen were in the water together, sharing life rafts. A second C-130 had overflown the last reported location of the Tahoma, which had been obliterated by the Soviet missile. That pilot reported about thirty people in the water, and his crew dropped supplies and rafts to the survivors and radioed their position back to Sandy Hook.

  Word of the Tahoma survivors had been welcome news in the watch center, but yet another rescue mission was impossible amid the overwhelming disaster confronting the Coast Guard. Indeed, the loss of the two cutters had gutted their ability to respond at all. To make up for the lost capacity, Ingalls had officers on the phone to local police departments, airports, hospitals, begging for whatever boats or helicopters they could provide to assist with the rescues. Most had responded enthusiastically, though much of the NYPD and FDNY fleets were engaged in rescuing people at the bombed bridges in Manhattan. In total, the task at hand was a daunting one. We have thousands of people in the water over at the Queen Elizabeth 2 wreck alone, Ingalls knew. How on earth are we going to get to all of them before they die of exposure? He knew for a fact they would not get to all of them, and he shuddered.

  Through the buzzing activity, Ingalls saw four men in tan of US Navy duty uniforms enter the watch center. Three were carrying messenger type boxes filled with what looked like radios and, Are those laptop computers? Ingalls had only ever seen one or two of the new compact machines. The fourth Navy man, who wore the silver “railroad tracks” rank insignia of a lieutenant on his collar, spotted the watch commander through the commotion and made his way directly to him.

  “Sir,” the man announced, “I’m Lieutenant Shin from Naval Weapons Station Earle just up the road. I’ve been sent over to be your naval liaison officer until something more permanent can be worked out.”

  Ingalls nodded and beckoned the younger officer into his make-shift office. It was actually the station chief’s office, but the man still hadn’t arrived. The hive-like commotion of the watch center was somewhat less intense in the small, somewhat dank room.

  Leaving the door open in case more news broke, Ingalls turned to the newcomer, “So what can you tell me? I know you all have that destroyer, the Mahan, out there off Jersey. That ship would be a big help to our rescue effort, especially if she’s got a helo. I’m short two cutters that just got blown away and I’ve got probably two thousand people in the water who are going to die if we don’t get to them fast enough, so please explain to me what you can do to help.”

  Shin nodded and said, “Sir, I understand your concern, and just so you know my real job is ammunition accounting, so bear with me. I don’t know anything about that destroyer, the Mahan, you said, sir? But once I get the commo gear I brought set up I’m sure I can get you in touch with her captain.”

  “Ok,” Ingalls nodded, “as quick as you can, Lieutenant. People are dying out there.”

  Shin went on, brightening somewhat, “Yes sir! I can tell you that we’ve got some assets en route to assist, sir. The ready ships down at Norfolk, a destroyer and a frigate,” he took a notebook from his pocket and flipped it open, “Ah…the USS Hayler and USS Sides. They should be on their way. The news when I left Earle was that they would sortie within minutes and have helos inbound to start ASW ops.”

  Anti-submarine warfare. Ingalls let out a long steadying breath. Warfare.

  Still reading his notebook, Shin scanned the next few pages while Ingalls watched impatiently, and then asked, “Along those lines sir, do you all have any idea where those Russian subs could be? To assist in the ASW effort, I mean.”

  “ASW?” Ingalls almost exploded in frustration. “What I need is rescue assets. How can the Navy help me with that, Lieutenant?”

  The younger man nodded again, his enthusiasm dampened somewhat, then said, “Uh, yes sir, I was getting to that. At Earle I got word that NAS Norfolk is sending us four Sea King helicopters from the ‘Fleet Angels.’ Apparently, those guys are real pros at the rescue business. They should be taking off any minute. They’ll refuel at McGuire and then,” Shin’s finger continued to run along his scrawled notebook, “then the flight lead would like to land here to discuss the situation with you while the other three head straight out to the wrecks.”

  Finally. That’s what I wanted to hear, Ingalls thought. The “Fleet Angels” were experts in SAR—search and rescue—operations and had earned an excellent reputation responding to hurricanes along the US east coast in the past few years. The watch commander was glad to have them.

  “As soon as I set my commo equipment up,” Shin was saying as he shut his notebook, “I can get you talking to the ships and to the helos, sir. Should just take a few minutes.”

  “All right,” Ingalls responded quickly, “get to it. We don’t have the luxury of wasting time right now.”

  Both men stepped back out into the bustle of the watch center. Two of Ingalls’ officers were waiting to talk to him as Shin scurried past. Ingalls turned to his surface ops officer first, saying, “What have you got for me, Bob?”

  “Update from Adak,” he answered. “They just delivered Trogg to the Army terminal. Lieutenant Jackson called to say that there was a bum rush of FBI agents and NYPD officers at the pier. They barely waited for it to dock before they were swarming all over that trawler.”

  “Okay,” Ingalls said, “Call Adak and get them out assisting with rescues as fast as possible.”

  The officer looked uncomfortable. “Sir,” he said, “we’ve still got those mines at the harbor mouth.”

  Ingalls swore to himself silently. Problems inside problems. How are we supposed to get anything done?

  “Uh, sir?” Lieutenant Shin said excitedly, Ingalls noticed that the infernal notebook was out again, “I’m sorry, but I forgot to tell you. We can help with that! There’s a detachment Marine Corps Reserve MH-53 helicopters, mine-clearers at New River, North Carolina. The Navy’s planning to chop them to you. They could be here tomorrow, probably, maybe the next day.”

  Tomorrow? thought Ingalls, really realizing for the first time that one of the busiest ports in the world was going to be closed for business for a least two days, and probably longer.

  “I’ll get you comms with them as soon as the Navy gets me their freqs, sir,” Shin said before hustling over to where his sailors were setting up their equipment.

  Surface Ops went on, “The QE 2 is our biggest problem right now. The Montauk Fire Department—I didn’t know they had one, but whatever—called to let us know that they have a boat they can send out to the wreck. Also, they’re closing off the beach and the highway there in eastern Long Island for use as a rescue center. We can start bringing the survivors to the beach and then ambulances will carry them to the hospitals.”

  Ingalls nodded, then asked, “Okay, what else?”

  Surface ops continued, “We got a call from NYPD a few minutes ago, warning us to beef up our security around here. You saw the TV reports of the bomb attacks in the city. Apparently there’s been at least twenty different incidents up there. The governors of both New York and New Jersey are going to declare a state of emergency, and they’ve already called up the National Guard. I got a call from the New Jersey Guard armory down in Freehold. They said they’re sending some people our way to help with that.”

  That was something Ingalls hadn’t even considered, that his own watch station might be the target of an attack. It seemed incredible, but it was certainly better to be safe than sorry. In any case, he was glad someone had brought
it to his attention.

  Ingalls nodded and said, “Thanks,” then turned to the next man, his air operations officer, who looked ashen-faced. “What is it, Air?”

  The officer handed over a printout, saying, “This just came in from the FAA.”

  Ingalls scanned the message, then stopped and went back to the beginning, reading more carefully. Is this for real? he wondered.

  The message was a NOTAM, a “notice to airmen,” transmitted from the Federal Aviation Administration in Washington. It read:

  FDC 1/6565 FDC SPECIAL NOTICE - EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. FLIGHT OPERATIONS IN THE NATIONAL AIRSPACE SYSTEM BY UNITED STATES CIVIL AIRCRAFT AND FOREIGN CIVIL AND MILITARY AIRCRAFT ARE PROHIBITED, EXCEPT IN ACCORDANCE WITH ADVZY 043 OR AS AMENDED OR REVISED.

  DUE TO EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES AND FOR REASONS OF SAFETY: ATTENTION ALL AIRCRAFT OPERATORS, BY ORDER OF THE FEDERAL AVIATION COMMAND CENTER, ALL AIRPORTS/AERODROMES ARE NOT AUTHORIZED FOR LANDING AND TAKEOFF. ALL TRAFFIC INCLUDING AIRBORNE AIRCRAFT ARE REQUIRED TO LAND IMMEDIATELY. ONCE ALL LOCAL OR SCHEDULED TRAFFIC HAD LANDED ALL FURTHER ATTEMPTS TO LAND SHOULD BE REPORTED IMMEDIATELY TO THE FAA.

  ALL IFR AND VFR GENERAL AVIATION FLIGHTS ARE PROHIBITED WITHIN THE NATIONAL AIRSPACE SYSTEM UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  Ingalls stopped to read the message a third time. This had never happened before. The US Government was closing American airspace to all non-military aircraft, ordering those aircraft already airborne to land at the nearest possible runway. His mind immediately went to the airspace over the wrecks, and the hundreds of flights currently outbound and inbound for just the three major New York City airports to the north, hundreds, maybe thousands more all over the US or inbound over Canada or one of the two oceans. The airspace would be a mess to deconflict. But, Ingalls thought, If we can get our hands on some civilian helicopters to assist in the rescue…I wonder what authority I have to start federalizing helicopters and boats? The Coast Guard officer honestly didn’t know, had never considered that question before.

  “Any idea what this is about?” Ingalls managed to ask the air officer.

  The other man nodded, “That AWACS we’ve been talking to south of Long Island called a few minutes ago to say that they’d been picking up weird radar emissions from some of the private planes that are up over the water. The implication I think is that those may have been snoopers for the missile attack. I’m guessing NORAD wants to clear the air space in case they need to start shooting down intruders.”

  “Or more missiles…” Ingalls agreed. This was big. Thousands, no, tens of thousands of air passengers were going to be stranded all over the US. Air travel, and with it air commerce, were going to come to a screeching halt in the next few hours. So, the Coast Guard realized the word coming back to him again, warfare. Right here at home. His eyes swept his control room, Every American is about to wake up to a world at war and the fallout effects of that.

  CHAPTER 75

  1035 EST, Sunday 13 February 1994

  1435 Zulu

  Brooklyn, New York, USA

  THE POLICE CRUISER slowed to a stop on the narrow street in front of Jack Young’s row house. At most times, at least a few people would have been outside in this diverse neighborhood; kids playing street ball or sitting on the steps leading up to their front doors listening to boomboxes; women sharing gossip; or men talking politics in nasally Brooklyn accents. No one was in sight today. The only sign of life on the street was the muffled sound of a newsman on the radio coming through an open window across the street. Jack opened the passenger door of the cruiser and stepped out onto the pavement.

  He turned and placed his hand on top of the cruiser, bending down to say to the police officer inside, “Thanks for the ride officer. I realize there are about a thousand places you’d rather be today than chauffeuring a reporter back home.”

  The officer only nodded. The police car’s radio had been alive with reports from all over the city with details of bombs and ambushes the entire drive from the wreckage on the Brooklyn Bridge. Jack had seen the police officer tense with each new call of an “officer down” or, even worse, “multiple officers down.” Most of the attacks seemed to be concentrated in Manhattan. Brooklyn was eerily quiet, as if the citizens of the city were burrowing in for a siege.

  Jack waited an uncomfortable moment for the officer to say something in response. The police officer, clearly eager to get on with his job, remained silent, pensive, looking at his steering wheel. Finally, he said, “Well, keep your head down.”

  Taking the hint, Jack half turned towards the steps of his row house, but a screeching warble from the car radio stopped him in his tracks. For a moment Jack didn’t realize that the same screeching was coming from the muffled radio from across the street. He turned back, eyes locking with the officer as they both listened. The sound was so familiar, and yet so terrifying under the circumstances, that for a moment Jack didn’t want to admit to himself what it was.

  C’mon, c’mon, say it’s just a drill, Jack silently urged the radio as the distinctive warble of of the Emergency Broadcast System screeched on and on. Don’t let this be the end of the world. Don’t let this be the warning that tells us the nukes are fifteen minutes out.

  No voice broke in to give any such assurance, and after about a minute the police officer reached over and switched off the radio, silencing the ambiguous warning from his car but not the radio across the street.

  “If ya don’t mind, buddy, I’ve got places to go,” the officer said.

  Jack nodded, mumbled another “Thanks,” and shut the door. The cruiser tore off down the street and Jack climbed the chipped steps to his home, which suddenly felt like a very lonely place. The radio from across the street continued to screech its warning, making Jack feel intensely vulnerable.

  Once inside, Jack went to his narrow kitchen and sat down. He fought the urge to turn on the small TV in the corner, instead he sat, just processing what had happened over the past few hours. The carnage at the bridge. The ride home with the police officer’s radio drumming out news of attacks all over the city. The start of World War III, and now the screeching broadcast that the government used to warn its citizens of tornados, or nuclear war. After several minutes of silence, the ringing of his phone nearly startled him out of his skin.

  Jack recovered and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Jack? Where are you?” The question was asked in the normal, accusing tone used by Bill, his editor.

  Uh, where do you think I am? Jack wanted to answer the self-evident question. Instead he said, “At home, Bill. What’s up?”

  “What’s up? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for an hour now. The phone lines are crammed and I need you to answer when World War III is breaking out. This is a big news day!” Bill’s voice was almost whiny.

  “I was at the bridge, the Brooklyn, when the bomb went off there. Just got home. I’ve got some notes and—”

  Bill cut him off. “I’ve got four reporters at the Bridge right now, on the Manhattan side. We’re covered there. Right now, though, you’re the only reporter I can get hold of who’s on the Brooklyn side of the East River, and it doesn’t look like anyone else is going to be getting across any time soon.”

  Jack absorbed the information. No bridges, no trains. The city’s at a standstill.

  “Jack,” Bill cut into his thoughts, “I’ve got a source telling us that there’s been some sort of shipping disaster off the coast, says the Coast Guard is setting up rescue operations out at Montauk for some big disaster. I need you to get out there and see what it is. I smell a big story.”

  Montauk? Jack thought. That’s all the way at the eastern end of Long Island. That’s more than, he did some quick mental math, more than ninety miles from here.

  “Bill,” he answered lamely, “I was driving over the Brooklyn Bridge when the bomb went off. My car’s stil
l there.”

  “Well, call a cab then,” Bill said, as if the Jack was a somewhat slow child for not thinking of this himself.

  “That’s going to be some cab fare,” Jack commented.

  “Trust me,” Bill said, his tone softening, “if my gut’s right, it’ll be worth it.”

  1045 EST, Sunday 13 February 1994

  144 Zulu

  Dwyer Hill, Ontario, Canada

  “Now they’re saying someone blew up the Welland Canal. I’m telling you, Bear, the county’s under attack and we’re headed to Ottawa to guard the PM, and I’ll tell you what’s more,” Corporal Tenny was saying as Sergeant Strong strode into their team’s ready room, “I’m going to make it with one of those pretty staffers that are always working around those political types, eh? With us at war all of a sudden and the Reds around every corner, there’s going to be plenty of ladies up there ready to throw themselves into the arms of a burly man in uniform.” He ended the sentence with a thumb pointed at his chest.

  Aclark “Bear” Brown smirked, but across the room Strong saw that Master Corporal Roy was paying no mind to the banter, instead re-checking the team’s gear, weapons stored in hard cases, and all other equipment in drab duffels.

  “Mouse,” Strong said, addressing his hulking medic, “what say you? Where’s the Queen going to send us? West to the Rockies to hunt Spetz? North to Ottawa to defend the PM? Or East to Halifax, like we always planned?” Ever since they’d been recalled early this morning, the rumors about where their team would in fact deploy had been wild and varied, especially with word coming in about attacks at key choke points around the country and down south in the US.

  Looking up, Roy said, “Doesn’t really matter. We’re ready for anything. But by your tone I suspect you know.”

  Strong nodded as Tenny and Brown looked up at him, expectantly.