Hunter-Killer tz-3

by James Rouch

  ‘You fucking clumsy shit bag. First you fucking near rupture me and chop my fingers off when we were lugging the bleeding thing in here, now you’re trying to break me sodding toes.’

  Libby’s low-key reply to Burke’s tirade wasn’t audible in the control room. Revell heard their driver’s follow-up, then the argument petered out into various angry mutterings.

  Cline was making the routine contact with the gunners at the various launch sites, meticulously logging each call, looking at his watch each time and noting the exact minute and second. He cleared down the last connection, rubbed his eyes, squared his pencil and notebook, polished the air-watch radar screen, pulled his rickety leatherette-covered dining chair closer and checked the surface radar display.

  ‘Er, Major. I have a second unidentified trace, a vessel.’

  ‘Another launch?’

  ‘Er, no, sir. This is in the thirteen to eighteen thousand ton class, and it’s coming out of the Sound.’

  ‘That’s not possible, the Ruskie warships won’t reach there for another ten hours according to the last satellite update.’ There was an image. It had crept into existence as a fuzzy green ovoid at the bottom of the screen. The computer quietly hummed to itself as it waited for sufficient data to calculate she ship’s course and speed.

  ‘Could it be a cargo boat, a small tanker maybe?’ Cline jotted the event down in the inevitable notebook.

  ‘No, no chance. The Swedes stopped all their coastal traffic a week ago, and all the other neutrals have sense enough to know this is not the time to sail. Whatever that is, it’s Russian. Punch up a course prediction.’ Revell watched a broken green line sprout and grow from the blip to skim past their island. ‘So, it’s big, it isn’t friendly, and it’s coming straight at us.’

  EIGHT

  ‘It’s the right size for a Moskva class anti-submarine cruiser.’ It was too good an opportunity to miss, Cline used it to show off some of his knowledge. ‘Only I thought those things never moved without a swarm of escorts.’

  ‘Size is about the only thing that is right. They only built two of those brutes, Leningrad is somewhere in the Med, Moskva herself is at the bottom of the North

  Atlantic’ Again Revell looked at the printout of information endlessly and repeatedly marching along the base of the screen. ‘The damned thing’s speed is what’s got me foxed. I expected those surface units to come out of the Sound going hell for leather, this ship is doing barely eighteen knots. How long before we get it on visual?’

  ‘Forty-three minutes, at present speed.’

  ‘Good, we should have the generator functioning again by then, if Burke can prevent it from making more batches of petrol cubes.’

  Cline decided to have a last try. ‘Could it be a decoy, to flush us out?’

  In his mind Revell had already considered and dismissed such a possibility. ‘I don’t doubt the Ruskies have got a few time-worn hulks they might risk for that purpose, but their admiral’s have been a bit short on subtlety and initiative lately. Anyway, the loss of the tonnage might not matter to them, but they’re short on experienced ratings and artificers. Their lives wouldn’t matter, but their skills would take time to replace. No, whatever that is, we can take it at face value.’ He turned to York, who’d been listening to the exchange, and rather enjoying the shooting down of the bombardier’s pet theories. ‘Get on to Command, ask them what it is.’

  While the message was tapped in, and the buttons pressed to encode, scramble and condense the text for a transmission of barely a second’s duration, via satellite, to Command HQ, Revell watched the imperceptibly moving trace. The wait was surprisingly short.

  A burst of muted chatter from the printer, and York tore off the strip it disgorged and handed it to the officer.

  ‘Either they don’t believe us, or they haven’t done their homework. We’ll risk another transmission. Tell them we’ve got a blip that’s big and real and heading our way. I want to know of any Warsaw Pact vessel of that size that’s been reported anywhere between here and Bornholm in the last ten days. The damned ship can’t have materialised out of nowhere.’

  The wait was longer this time, and when the printer did come to life it did so fitfully, as though the information from the retrieval system the other end was feeding the various pieces of information to them one bit at a time, as it unearthed them in its comprehensive banks.

  Four vessels were listed on the ribbon of paper that Revell almost snatched from York. The facts as they were presented were cryptically stark, but his memory, supplementing that of the computer, filled in the ugly detail. Two were tankers, the survivors of a convoy of fifteen that had run the gauntlet of NATO air-attacks and long-range bombardment, from an East German port to the Russian and Hungarian forces occupying the Danish islands: Both had been sunk on the return journey, along with the last of their corvette and frigate escorts. The third vessel on the short list was the Polish floating crane VK27, which had been towed, to Copenhagen to speed the clearance of the last of the scuttled British and Dutch cargo ships from the harbour.

  Number four, the last, was a Polish grain carrier, whose crew had loaded it with family and friends and attempted to reach the West. They had failed when the ship, crippled by a NATO mine and dead in the water, had been sunk by shore-based Russian aircraft. NATO naval units, too late on the scene, had only been able to take bodies from the water, after beating off the MIG’s that had spent an hour repeatedly strafing the lifeboats full of women and children. Revell’s mind was crammed with such facts, an endless catalogue of horror and brutality. No wonder the press back home had stopped reporting every incident of that type committed by the Communists. After a while it had become overwhelming, and the people had started to disbelieve. So now they got a ration, only one or two such stories a week, and those chosen not for their truth, but for their variety and plausibility. The worst they never heard; would never have believed.

  Crumpling up the paper the major balled it in his fist and hurled it into a far corner. ‘According to the Staff and their all-knowing computer we have a ghost ship coming at us.’

  ‘I don’t believe in ghosts, Major, not ones that register on radar. Who ever heard of thirteen thousand tons of ectoplasm?’

  ‘Let’s get Boris in here, he can start to earn his keep properly.’ While York went to fetch the Russian, Revell stepped outside. In the house it was cold enough, but in the open…like jumping into freezing water, it took his breath away. He’d told Cline to cover the temperature monitor. Now it had gone so low that it could only be of academic interest. It would have been good to take a deep breath, flush the smell of petrol and oil from his lungs, but the air was so sharp, so biting and numbing that he did it by degrees, exhaling and inhaling slowly through pursed lips to warm the air before it reached down into his body.

  Within the house the generator coughed and spluttered into reluctant life, to expire a moment later. Second and third attempts to start it met with no success and were followed by swearing from Burke.

  Revell thought of the gunners huddled in their tents close by their charges. They’d been marvellous so far, the survivors doing the work of twice their number. What they’d be going through out there would be a further hard test of their mettle. They knew only as much as they could glean from the brief periodic exchanges over the land lines. Apart from that fragile contact with the house the artillery men were totally on their own, as they would be when the action started. Then they would have to leap from, chilled lethargy into instant sweating action, traversing and elevating the launchers in accordance with the instructions that would flash on to the ‘black boxes’ attached to each one. Then, when the massive projectiles had gone screaming on their way, in expectation of a counter strike against which they’d have virtually no protection, they would have to hurriedly reload and go through the whole mad process again, and again, until an enemy missile registered on their site or no more targets were presented.

  ‘They, and Revell, knew wh
ich was by far the most likely alternative. Mobility was the artillery’s only protection on the modern battlefield, arid the towed launchers had none without the tractor. Enemy radar would pick up the rockets in flight and, by computing their path, track back along to their place of origin. What happened then depended only on the armaments of the vessel involved.

  The command centre at the house shared the danger, not simply because of the Russian tactic of blanket retaliation, but because of the mass of electronic emanations which would come from it at the height of the battle. On the latest detector equipment it would stand out like a flashing sign in the frozen landscape. Since most of the enemy ships were brand-new or fresh from extensive refits, they would have that latest equipment and the weapons systems to go with them.

  ‘That ghost ship is coming into range of our cameras. Shall I switch on now, Major?’ Cline let his hand hover over the controls. ‘Give it a moment longer. Another mile or so and we’ll get better definition. No point in wasting juice and straining our eyes trying to make out a blur.’ In the kitchen Revell could hear Burke’s successive attempts to start the generator. Each time the recalcitrant engine would turn over for a few seconds, then fade, sometimes with a subdued fart-like backfire. ‘OK, let’s see it now.’

  ‘There it is.’ With the co-ordinates already supplied and fed in from the radar, Cline’s screen immediately picked up the ship. ‘Range is five miles, and it’s reducing speed. Down to ten knots, Major, and still slowing.’

  Revell examined the angular grey outline of the amphibious warfare vessel. Every detail showed clearly, from the 76mm mount on the raised bow, to the pennant flying from the rear of the stern helicopter pad. The number ‘120’ was painted large, in white, on the bow aft of the stowed anchor. He knew the number, and knew that Cline’s frantic thumbing through identification lists would not find it, but he needed to confirm what was much stronger than a suspicion. ‘Boris, come here. Can you make out the name, it’s just below the rear platform?’

  Taking a pair of wire-framed bifocals from a zipped pocket, the Russian laboriously hooked them to his ears, then peered over the top of them at the screen. Very slowly he raised and lowered his head to take advantage of the different strength lenses in turn. ‘The rust does not make it easy, but it looks like Ivan Rogov.’

  ‘He’s got it wrong, must have.’ Cline had failed to find the ship listed, even on the stapled update page he’d added shortly before leaving Bremen. ‘We sent that tub to the bottom four months ago. I saw it on the newsreels.’

  ‘I saw that footage too, she took half a dozen hits off Copenhagen, very spectacular, but unless we’re about to revise our disbelief in ghosts, that is the Rogov.’ Revell could see the bow wave and white water created by the ship’s passage was diminishing. ‘Alright, Boris, get back to your station. Pick up what you can. I want to know what the hell that battered scow is doing here.’

  At three miles, the ship stopped in the water and dropped anchor. There was a plume of mixed spray and broken ice as the chain-towing metal struck a floe. Several areas of the vessel had a patched and repaired appearance, as if the work done on her had been finished in a hurry. Large sections were painted only in primer.

  ‘What the hell is an LPD doing in these parts? Landing platform docks carry a battalion of marines and forty tanks or trucks. Why the hell would they be stopping here? This is the wrong place to start an invasion of Sweden.’

  Try this for an answer, Major.’ Reading the strip as it came from the printer, York hesitated before tearing it off and handing it over to the officer. ‘I don’t think you’re going to like it.’

  ‘Has Sweden declared on Russia’s side?’

  ‘Not yet, Bombardier, not yet.’ Reading and re-reading the signal didn’t alter its text, Revell did it to savour the irony. All the care that NATO Command had put into choosing this island, this rather than any other. ‘No, they haven’t gone through the charade of signing a ‘communal defence pact’, but as far as we’re concerned they might just as well have done. The Swedes have agreed to the Russians setting up a monitoring and tracking station on their west coast. They’ve said they can have the use of an island; guess which one?’

  ‘Shit, the bastards have got him.’ The lieutenant’s body was stiff as a board and frozen to the ground. Dooley had to use a lot of force to turn it over.

  ‘No, it weren’t them.’ Hyde put his gloved hand on Hogg’s face, and felt his fingers slide across the smooth mask of iced blood that encased the lower half of his features. ‘He stayed still for too long, you can’t afford to do that out here.’ Picking up a handful of the loose snow he covered the lieutenant’s face, then prised the Colt commando sub-machine gun from his locked grasp, and pushed it into a drift at the base of a clump of birch.

  ‘Come on, there’s still work to be done.’ Hyde had to shove Dooley, who was mesmerised by the corpse.

  ‘Jesus, what a way to go.’ He began to move as Hyde -prodded him forward. ‘I heard of blokes choking on their own blood after getting their schnozzles bust in a fight, but I ain’t never seen nothing like that.’

  ‘Ah don’t know all the ways there are to die in a war, yet,’ Ripper was keeping pace alongside Andrea, but had given up trying to start a conversation with her, irritable with the smirks Dooley gave him at each rebuff. ‘But we had a couple of feuds going in my valley, and the ideas some of those guys tried on each other, you just wouldn’t believe it. There was this good ol’ boy, a Jenkins I think, he made for the can after a longish session in the back room. He sure must have had a few beers inside him ‘cause he was in a heck of a hurry, and he weren’t looking what he were doing. And he sure should have been, on account of the fact he’d got in a lucky shot the week before and peppered Granddaddy Jepson with better than a couple a hundred pieces of buckshot. Anyhow, this good ol’ boy makes it to the can, whips out his peashooter and starts a-hosing fit to bust. Only trouble is some guy had emptied the bucket and put a chunk of sodium in it. You know what happens when sodium and water mix, well it must have been a big chunk, and I reckon it reacted much the same to a dousing in processed beer. They found the roof of the shed in the next county, and the preacher’s cat were seen chewing on what looked mighty like a charcoal grilled peashooter. Mangy brute swallowed it when he saw he were about to lose it, so we never knew for sure. That was the only part of the good ol’ boy that were ever seen again.’

  ‘Touching, not to say unbelievable.’ Leading the group into a shallow depression close to the ruins of an outer wall, Hyde gestured the need for silence.’ We could sit here all night, trying to figure where all four of them are. My bet is they’re in the tower. We’ll work on that assumption. I want minimum casualties, minimum noise. Better still, none of either.’

  ‘There is only the one way in, and the door looks thick and heavy.’ The bayonet that Andrea was fitting to her rifle was burnished to a mirror finish, in imitation of Dooley’s. ‘A grenade would be a more certain way of opening it, or do you think they will be kind and let us in if we knock politely and say please?’

  ‘That door is thick and heavy and old, very old. Whatever rusted fastening is holding it, I’m gambling our human battering-ram here is stronger.’

  Andrea looked as if she might argue with the sergeant, but she didn’t, and returned the high explosive grenade to the pouch on her belt.

  ‘Let’s go.’ Hyde stood up and started forward. ‘Fan out until we reach the arch, then we take it at the run. You’ll lead, Dooley.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Sarge. I’m the biggest target.’

  ‘You’re the biggest shield as well.’ Ripper would have added more, but Hyde had heard the whisper, and silenced any follow-up with a growl that brought no movement to his dead face.

  Making no sound, they moved towards the tower that stood jagged-topped above the remains of walls about its base. Here and there a portion of carved stonework survived, jutting from frost-sintered masonry. A few large blocks, fallen from long-vanished vaulted ro
ofs, littered the ground and turned the tracks the four left behind them into a pattern of weaving gash-like depressions.

  Dooley checked the others were with him, before stepping through the arch immediately before the door. He was almost close enough to reach out and touch the weather-pitted, iron-bound planks, was gathering himself for a shoulder-charge, when it swung open.

  A spectrum of expressions flickered over the face of the middle-aged man who opened the door. Fear was instantly changed to surprise that was fast transformed into a broad smile which a hand extended to endorse, then those were swept away as he caught sight of the NATO weapons the group carried, and fear blended with anger returned as he attempted to slam the door and began to shout a warning.

  Deciding the same tactics could still be of service, Dooley made his shoulder-charge, crashing into the retreating man and going down with him as he stumbled backwards.

  Two oil-lamps lit the bare walled ground floor room, and by their light, Ripper, last of the four to enter, saw’ that it was already over. Dooley was disentangling himself from a weakly struggling figure on the paved floor, Andrea was threatening a bearded man seated at a radio, who was not being swift enough in raising his hands, and Sergeant Hyde was covering a surly young blond male who had been trying to reach a powerful hunting rifle propped against a wall.

  Keyed up, feeling cheated at not having taken part in the real action, Ripper reacted without thinking when he heard a noise in the doorway behind him. Whirling round, he lunged with his bayonet at the large figure turning to run, saw the long blade plunge in through the silky fabric of a yellow ski-suit, and felt it part and slice into the flesh beneath. Instantly, his rifle was dragged down, almost from his hands, as the victim slowly collapsed without uttering a sound.

  Smeared red, the blade slid out, as the woman turned her face up to him and slumped to a sitting position in the doorway.