Red Storm Rising (1986) (31 page)

“Sergeant, we gotta get the hell outa here!”

“You mean run away!”

“I mean get away and report what’s happened here. Looks like we lost this one, Sarge. Somebody’s gotta report in so they don’t send any more planes to land here. What’s the fastest way to Reykjavik?”

“Dammit, sir, there’s Marines out there—”

“You wanna be a Russian prisoner? We lost! I say we gotta report in and you’ll do what I Goddamned tell you, Sergeant, you got that!”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“How we fixed for weapons?”

On his own, a private ran to what was left of the school. A Marine was lying there facedown, a pool of red spreading from some invisible, fatal wound. The private came back with the man’s M-16, field pack, and ammo belt, handing the collection to Edwards.

“We all got one now, sir.”

“Let’s get the hell outa here.”

The sergeant threw the jeep into gear. “How we gonna report in?”

“Let me worry about that, okay?”

“You say so.” The sergeant turned the jeep completely around, back up International, toward the wrecked satellite antennae.

“Aircraft sighted, port bow!” a lookout screamed. Kherov raised his binoculars to his eyes and swore softly. He saw what could only be missiles dangling from each wing of the multiengined aircraft.

“Well, lookie what we got here,” the Orion’s pilot said quietly. “Our old friend, the
Doctor Lykes.
Combat, Flight, what else is around?”

“Nothin’, Flight, not another surface ship for over a hundred miles.” They had just completed a complete circuit of the horizon, scanning with their surface-search radar.

“And it’s for Goddamned sure those hovercraft didn’t come in off no submarine.” The pilot adjusted course to pass within two miles of the ship, with the sun behind the four-engine patrol aircraft. His copilot examined the ship through binoculars. On-board TV cameras operated by the weapons crew would provide even better close-up pictures. They saw a pair of helicopters warming up. Someone aboard the
Fucik
panicked and fired a hand-held SA-7 missile. It failed to lock onto the Orion and blazed off directly into the low sun.

“Idiot!” Kherov growled. The smoke from the rocket motor didn’t even come close to the aircraft. “He’ll shoot at us now. All ahead flank! Helmsman, be alert!”

“Okay,” the pilot said, turning away from the merchantman. “Tacco, we got a target for your Harpoons. Any luck with Keflavik?”

“Negative, but Sentry One is relaying the data into Scotland. They say a bunch of missiles hit Keflavik, looks like the place is closed whether we keep it or not.”

The pilot cursed briefly. “Okay. We’ll blow this pirate right out of the water.”

“Roge, Flight,” the tactical coordinator replied. “Two minutes before we can launch the—damn! I got a red light on the portside Harpoon. The sucker won’t arm.”

“Well, play with the bastard!” the pilot growled. It didn’t work. In the haste to get off the ground, the missile’s control cables had not been fully attached by the weary ground crew.

“Okay, I got one working. Ready!”

“Shoot!”

The missile dropped clear of the wing and fell thirty feet before its engine ignited.
Fucik’s
weather deck was lined with paratroopers, many holding hand-launched SAMs and hoping to intercept the incoming ASM.

“Tacco, see if you can raise an F-15. Maybe they can rip this baby up with twenty-millimeters.”

“Doing that already. We got a pair of Eagles coming in, but they’re skosh fuel. One or two passes’ll be all they can manage.”

Forward, the pilot had binoculars to his eyes, watching the white-painted missile skimming the wavetops. “Go, baby, go...”

“Rocket coming in, low on the horizon, portside.”
At least we have good lookouts,
Kherov thought. He estimated the distance to the horizon, and gave the missile a speed of a thousand kilometers per hour . . .

“Right hard rudder!” he screamed. The helmsman threw the wheel over as far as it would go and held it down.

“You cannot run from a missile, Kherov,” the General said quietly.

“I know this. Watch, my friend.”

The black-hulled vessel was turning radically to starboard. As she did so, the ship heeled in the opposite direction, the same way a car rolls away from a turn on a flat road, which artificially raised the waterline on the vulnerable portside.

Some enterprising officers aboard fired signal flares, hoping to decoy the missile away, but all the missile’s microchip brain cared about was the enormous blip that occupied the center of its radar seeker head. It noted that the ship’s heading was changing slightly, and altered its own course accordingly. Half a mile from the target, the Harpoon lurched upward from its ten-foot altitude in its programmed “pop-up” terminal maneuver. The troopers aboard the Fucik instantly fired an even dozen SAMs. Three locked onto the Harpoon’s engine exhaust plume, but were unable to turn rapidly enough to hit the incoming missile, and continued past it. The Harpoon tipped over and dove.

“All right . . .” the pilot whispered. There was no stopping it now.

The missile struck the
Fucik’s
hull six feet above the waterline, slightly abaft the bridge. The warhead exploded at once, but the missile body kept moving forward, spreading two hundred pounds of jet fuel that fireballed into the lowest cargo deck. In an instant, the ship disappeared behind a wall of smoke. Three paratroopers, thrown off their feet by the impact, accidentally triggered their SAMs straight up.

“Tacco, your bird hit just fine. We got warhead detonation. Looks like . . .” The pilot’s eyes strained at his binoculars to assess the damage.

“Rudder amidships!” Kherov had expected to be knocked from his feet, but the missile was a small one, and
Julius Fucik
still had thirty-five thousand tons of mass. He ran out to the bridge wing to survey the damage. As the ship returned to an even keel, the ragged hole in her side rose ten feet from the lapping waves. Smoke poured from the hole. There was fire aboard, but the ship should not flood from the blow, the captain judged. There was only one danger. Kherov rapidly gave orders to his damage-control teams, and the General sent one of his own officers to assist. A hundred of the paratroopers had been trained over the last ten days in shipboard firefighting. They would now put what they had learned to use.

The Fucik emerged at twenty knots from the smoke, a fifteen-foot hole in the ship’s side. Smoke poured from the opening, but the pilot knew at once that the damage would not be fatal. He could see hundreds of men on the upper deck, some of them already running toward ladders to fight the fire below.

“Where are those fighters?” the pilot asked. The tactical coordinator didn’t answer. He switched his radio circuits.

“Penguin Eight, this is Cobra One. I got two birds. Our missiles are all gone, but we both got a full load of twenty-mike-mike. I can give you two passes, then we gotta bingo to Scotland.”

“That’s a roge, Cobra Lead. The target has some helos spooling up. Watch out for hand-held SAMs. I seen ’em fire about twenty of the bastards.”

“Roger that, Penguin. Any further word of Keflavik?”

“We’re gonna have to find a new home for a while.”

“Roger, copy. Okay, keep clear, we’re coming in from up-sun, on the deck.”

The Orion continued to orbit three miles out. Her pilot didn’t see the fighters until they started firing. The two Eagles were a few feet apart, perhaps twenty feet over the water as their noses sparkled with the flash from their 20mm rotary cannon.

Nobody aboard saw them come in. A moment later, the water around the Fucik’s side turned to froth from short-falling rounds, then her main deck was hidden with dust. A sudden orange fireball announced the explosion of one of the Russian helicopters, and burning jet fuel splattered over the bridge, narrowly missing the General and captain.

“What was that?” Kherov gasped.

“American fighters. They came in very low. They must only have their cannon, else they’d have bombed us already. It is not over yet, my captain.”

The fighters split, passing left and right of the ship, which continued to move at twenty knots in a wide circle. No SAMs followed the Eagles away, and both turned, re-formed, and closed on the
Fucik
’s bow. The next target was the superstructure. A moment later, the freighter’s bridge was peppered with several hundred rounds. Every window was blown away, and most of the bridge crew killed, but the ship’s watertight integrity hadn’t been damaged a whit.

Kherov surveyed the carnage. His helmsman had been blown apart by a half-dozen exploding bullets and every man present on the bridge was dead. It took a second for him to overcome the shock and notice a crippling pain in his own abdomen, his dark jacket darkening further with blood.

“You are hit, Captain.” Only the General had had the instinct to duck behind something solid. He looked at the eight mutilated bodies in the pilothouse and wondered once again why he was so lucky.

“I must get the ship to port. Go aft. Tell the first officer to continue landing operations. You, Comrade General, supervise the fires topside. We must get my ship to port.”

“I will send you help.” The General ran out the door as Kherov went to the wheel.

“Stop, hold it right here!” Edwards screamed.

“What now, Lieutenant?” the sergeant demanded. He stopped the jeep by the BOQ parking lot.

“Let’s get my car. This jeep’s too friggin’ conspicuous.” The lieutenant jumped out of the jeep, pulling his car keys from his pants pocket. The Marines just looked at each other for a moment before running after him.

His car was a ten-year-old Volvo that he’d purchased from a departing officer a few months before. It had seen rugged service on Iceland’s mainly unpaved roads, and it showed. “Well, get in!”

“Sir, what the hell are we doing, exactly?”

“Look, Sarge, we gotta clear the area. What if Ivan’s got helicopters? What do you suppose a jeep looks like from the air?”

“Oh, okay.” The sergeant nodded. “But what are we doing, sir?”

“We’ll drive at least as far as Hafnarfjördur, ditch the car, and start walking back into the boonies. Soon as we get to a safe place, we’ll radio in. That’s a satellite radio I got. We have to let Washington know what’s happening here. That means we gotta be able to see what Ivan’s got coming in. Our people are gonna at least try to take this rock back. Our mission, Sergeant, is to stay alive, report in, and maybe make that easier.” Edwards hadn’t thought this out until a few moments before he said it. Would they try to take Iceland back? Would they be able to try? What else was going wrong all over the friggin’ world? Did any of this make sense? He decided it didn’t have to make sense.
One thing at a time,
he told himself. He for damned sure didn’t want to be a prisoner of the Russians, and maybe if they could radio some information in they could get even for what had happened to Keflavik.

Edwards started up the car and drove east up Highway 41. Where to ditch the car? There was a shopping center at Hafnarfjördur . . . and Iceland’s only Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet. What better place to ditch a car than that? The young lieutenant smiled in spite of himself. They were alive, and they had the most dangerous weapon known to man—a radio. He’d work out the problems as they arose. His mission, he decided, was to stay alive and report in. After they did that, someone else could tell them what to do.
One thing at a time,
he repeated to himself, and pray to God somebody knows what the hell is going on . . .

“Looks like the fire’s under control,” the copilot commented sourly.

“Yeah, how do you think they managed that? Shit, that boat should’ve gone up like—but it didn’t.” As they watched, a second load of troops was dispatched on the four hovercraft. The pilot hadn’t thought of having the two available Eagle fighters—now heading for England—shoot them up instead of this huge black ship.
Some fucking officer you are,
he told himself. Penguin 8 carried eighty sonobuoys, four Mk-46 ASW torpedoes, and some other high-technology weapons—none of which were of the least use against a simple large target like this merchie. Unless he wanted to play kamikaze . . . the pilot shook his head.

“If you want to head for Scotland, we got another thirty minutes of fuel,” the flight engineer advised.

“Okay, let’s take a last look at Keflavik. I’m going up to six thousand. Oughta keep us out of SAM range.”

They were over the coast in two minutes. A Lebed was approaching the SOSUS and SIGINT station opposite Hafnir. They could just make out some movement on the ground, and a wisp of smoke coming from the building. The pilot didn’t know much about the SIGINT activities, but SOSUS, the oceanic Sonar Surveillance System, was the principal means of detecting targets for the P-3C Orion crews to pounce on. This station covered the gaps from Greenland to Iceland, and from Iceland to the Faroe Islands. The main picketline needed to keep Russian subs out of the trade routes was about to go permanently off the air. Great.

They were over Keflavik a minute after that. Seven or eight aircraft had not gotten off the ground. All were burning. The pilot examined the runways through binoculars and was horrified to see that it was uncratered.

“Tacco, you got a Sentry on the line?”

“You can talk to one right now, Flight. Go right ahead, you got Sentry Two.”

“Sentry Two, this is Penguin 8, do you read, over?”

“Roger, Penguin 8, this is the senior controller. We show you over Keflavik. What’s it look like?”