Red Storm Rising (1986) (42 page)

The Foxtrot was dying. They heard the sounds of air blowing into her ballast tanks and continued flank power from her electric motors, her propellers struggling to overcome the weight of water entering the hull and drive the wounded submarine to the surface. Suddenly the engine sounds stopped. Two minutes later, they heard the metallic scream of internal bulkheads being torn asunder by water pressure as the submarine fell below crush depth.

“This is Bluebird. We score that one as a kill. Can you confirm, over?”

“Roger, Bluebird,” the ASW officer answered. “We copied blowing air and breakup noises. We confirm your kill.” The crewmen cheered, forgetting the decorum that went with duty in CIC.

“All right! That’s one less to worry about. We’ll give you a big assist on that one,
Pharris.
Nice job from your sonar folks and the helo. Out.” The Orion increased power and returned to her patrol station forward of the convoy.

“Assist, hell!” snorted the ASW officer. “That was our contact. We could have dropped the torp on him just as easy as he did.” Morris punched him in the shoulder and went up the ladder to the pilothouse.

The bridge crew was all grins. Soon the bosun’s mate would paint half of a red submarine silhouette next to the pilothouse door. It had not struck them yet that they had just helped in the killing of a hundred young men not at all unlike themselves, their lives cut short by the hammering pressure of the North Atlantic.

“What’s that?” called a lookout. “Possible explosion on the starboard beam!”

Morris grabbed his binoculars and raced out the open door. The lookout pointed.

A column of black smoke was reaching into the sky from the direction of the convoy. Someone else had just gotten his first kill.

Toland had never seen so many welding torches operating. Under the supervision of the executive officer and three damage-control experts, crewmen were using acetylene torches to cut away the damaged portions of
Nimitz’s
flight deck and its supporting steel beams. What had been bad enough became worse on more thorough examination. Six of the enormous frames under the flight deck had been wrecked, and the damage extended two decks below that. A third of the hangar deck was burned out. Most of the plane-fueling network and all of the ordnance elevators had to be repaired. CIC was gone, and with it all of the computers and communications needed to fight the ship. The arrester wire systems would have to be fully replaced. The main search radar was gone. The list went on.

Tugs were pushing the wounded carrier into Southampton’s Ocean Dock, a task made doubly hard because of the ship’s induced ten-degree list. Water cascaded from the carrier’s clifflike hull into the harbor while more entered the bilges below. Already a senior Royal Navy repair expert and the chief of the Vesper Ship Repair Yard were aboard, reviewing the damage below and cataloging the material needed to enable the ship to operate again. Captain Svenson watched the messenger lines being shot off to handlers who would secure the ship. He was an angry man, Toland noted. Five hundred of his men known dead, another three hundred wounded, and the count was nowhere near complete. The most grievous losses were in the flight deck crews, many of whose shelters had been immolated by the two Soviet missiles. They would also have to be replaced before
Nimitz
could sail and fight again.

“Toland, you’ll be heading to Scotland.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“The air wing is being split. The fighters and Hawkeyes are going north. Ivan’s been pounding on the Brits’ northern radar line, and their fighters have taken a beating trying to help the Norwegians out. The Tomcats are already on the way, and we’ll be loading their missiles onto the dock so the Brits can fly them north. I want you to operate with the fighter teams to evaluate what Ivan’s up to with his Badgers, and maybe help our guys to cull off some of the bastards. The attack birds are joining the NATO tactical air reserve for the present.”

“When do I leave?” Toland reflected that he had nothing to pack. The Kingfish had taken care of that, too. His first order of business was to cable his family that he was all right.

“Doghouse, this is Beagle, and what the hell just happened, over?”

“Beagle, I am authorized to tell you that an attack was just made against Keflavik.”

“No kidding, guy. A B-52 just crashed right on our Goddamned hill. Didn’t you tell anybody that I reported fighters?”

“Your information was evaluated as unconfirmed and was not passed on, Beagle. I did not concur in that. Continue your report.”

“I saw four, repeat four, Soviet single-seat aircraft with a twin-rudder configuration. I can’t be sure of the type, but they had double tails, you copy that?”

“Twin rudders, copy that. Confirm you saw four.”

“One-two-three-four, Doghouse. I can’t arrange them to parade overhead. But if you send bombers in here unescorted again, mister, don’t blame me.”

“Any survivors from the crash you saw?”

“Negative. No ’chutes, and no way anyone would have survived the crash. Saw one fireball on the horizon, but I’m not sure what that was. How did the Weasels do?”

“Can’t say, Beagle, but thanks for the word on the SAMs.”

“You have instructions for me?”

“Your status is being reevaluated now. We’ll be back on the hour.”

“Make it two, fella. We have to move some before the bad guys send a patrol this way. Out.” The Marines were around him, weapons ready, alert for the patrol or helicopter, or both, that had to be heading their way. Edwards tore off the headset and repacked the radio. “Great, just great,” he muttered. “Let’s move it, people.”

They had already jogged a full kilometer from their former home, heading due east into the uninhabited wasteland that formed this part of the island. Smith kept them on slopes, off the crests and hilltops that could silhouette them against the clearing sky. There was a lake off to their left, with many houses on its western side. They had to be careful here. There was no telling who might note their passing and inform someone of it. They passed under the main power transmission lines at a run, angling south to keep a crest line between them and most of the houses. An hour later, they were in the Holmshraun lava field, an incredible collection of rocks overlooking Highway 1, one of Iceland’s two major thoroughfares. There were vehicles on the road heading in both directions. Many of them carried soldiers.

“What are we figuring to do now, sir?” Smith asked pointedly.

“Well, Sarge, we got good concealment here. Hell, a guy fifty yards away would have trouble spotting us in this crap. I say we wait for it to get a little dark tonight and get north of the road. Once we get past that, the population thins out—at least that’s what the map says. It ought to be fairly safe once we get away from the population centers.”

“What will our friends on the other side of that radio say about that?”

“I guess we better find out.” Edwards checked his watch. He was nearly two hours overdue. Doghouse was annoyed with him.

“What kept you off the air?”

“We just moved about eight klicks. Maybe you’d prefer we waited around and counted the Russians picking over the wreckage. Listen up, we’re all alone here and that’s a little scary, you know?”

“Understood, Beagle. Okay, we got orders for you. You have a map of the area you’re in?”

“That’s affirm, a one-to-fifty-thousand one.”

“Okay, they want you to move to Grafarholt. There’s a hill there. You’re supposed to find a safe place near there and belly-up for further instructions.”

“Hey, Doghouse, before we get any farther, what if Ivan starts playing DF games and tries to track us down from our radio transmissions?”

“Okay, about time you asked that. The radio you got is encrypted UHF, single-sideband. That means it’s got thousands of channels, and having him lock into one is not real likely. Second, you have a directional antenna. When you transmit, make sure there’s a hill between you and them. UHF is line-of-sight only. So you ought to be safe on that score, too. Happy?”

“It helps.”

“How soon can you get to that hill for us?”

Edwards looked at the map. About seven kilometers. A comfortable two-hour walk in peacetime, maybe three or four not so comfortable hours, given the terrain here. They’d have to wait for darkness, detour around a few villages . . . and there was that one other little thing to be concerned about . . . “Twelve hours, minimum.”

“Roger, understood, Beagle. Copy twelve hours. That’s fine. We’ll be calling for you then. Anything else to report?”

“Some activity on the road below us. Several trucks, Army-type, painted green. A lot of personal vehicles, four-by-fours. No armored stuff, though.”

“Okay. Take your time and play it safe. Your mission is to avoid contact and report. We’ll be here if you need us. Out.”

At Doghouse in northern Scotland, the communications officer leaned back in his swivel chair.

“The lad sounds somewhat rattled,” an intelligence officer commented over his tea.

“Not quite SAS material, is he?” another asked.

“Let’s not be too hasty,” said a third. “He’s bright, something of an athlete, and he had the presence of mind to escape when events called for it. Seems a bit high-strung, but given his position that’s understandable, I think.”

The first pointed on the map. “Twelve hours to go this little distance?”

“Across hilly, open terrain, with a whole bloody division of paras running about in lorries and BMPs,
and
with a sun that never sets, what the hell do you expect of four men?” demanded the fourth, a man dressed in civilian clothes who had been gravely wounded while in the 22nd SAS Regiment. “If that lad had any sense, he’d have packed it in yesterday. Interesting psychological profile here. If he manages to get to this hill on time for us, I think he’ll do all right.”

The convoy had scattered. Toland looked at the radar display, an expanding ring of ships, now beginning to turn back east to reassemble. One merchantman had been sunk, another badly damaged and limping west. Three frigates were trying to locate the submarine that had done the damage.
Gallery
had gotten a possible contact and fired a torpedo at it, without result. Four helicopters were dropping sonobuoys in hope of reacquiring it, and a half-dozen sonars were pinging away, but so far it looked as though the submarine had evaded the angry escorts.

“That was a beautiful approach,” the tactical action officer observed grudgingly. “His only goof was hitting the back end of the convoy.”

“His fire control wasn’t all that great,” Morris said. “They say they had sonar readings on five fish. Figure three targets. Two hits for a kill on one, and a scratch hit on another for damage. The other was a clean miss. Not a bad afternoon’s work. What’s he doing now, people?”

“How much you want to bet it’s an old nuc boat?” TAO asked. “Their fire-control systems aren’t up to current standards, and they can’t run very fast and still stay covert. He just barely made the intercept, and bit off two ships. When they scattered he didn’t have the speed to pursue without advertising his position, and he’s too smart for that.”

“Then what did he do?” ASW asked.

“He was in close when he launched. Ducked inside the convoy and went deep. Used the noise from the thundering herd to mask himself, then motored off clear . . .”

“North.” Morris bent over the display. “Most of the merchies went northeast when the scatter order went out. He probably went north to trail, and maybe hope to get another shot in later. What do you think we’re up against?”

“Intel says this area had three Foxtrots and a November, plus maybe another nuc. The one we killed was probably a Fox. Doesn’t have the speed to trail the convoy.” The ASW officer looked up. “But a November would. We’re not up against a new nuc. He’d still be shooting. Call it a November.”

“Okay, say he came north at six or seven knots, then turned east hoping to pick us up again tomorrow, say. Where would he be?”

“Right now . . . here, sir,” ASW said. He pointed to a spot fifteen miles aft of the frigate. “We can’t go back after him.”

“No, but we can listen for him if he tries to play catchup.” Morris thought hard. The convoy would be altering base course to one-two-zero on the hour to head farther south, away from the suddenly increased threat of Soviet long-range bombers. More time would be needed for them to re-form and establish proper stations. That would allow the submarine to cut the corner and close the target. With all the zigzagging the merchies were doing, their effective speed of advance was only about sixteen knots, and a November might try to catch up with that. “I want the operators to pay particular attention to this sector. Our friend just might be back.”

“Call in a P-3?” TAO wondered.

Morris shook his head. “They want to keep station forward. The main threat is still ahead of us. Us ’cans have to worry about the trailers, until we get a hot contact, anyway. I think this guy will trail, and he might try and get off a contact report.”

“Good news,” the naval officer said. “Our bombers report sinking three aviation ships, two cruisers, and two destroyers.”

Alekseyev and his boss exchanged a look: their colleagues in blue would be insufferable now.

“How firm is that evaluation?” CINC-Southwest asked.

“There were four carrier-type ships photographed before the attack. The next satellite pass eight hours after the attack showed only one. Two cruisers and two destroyers were also missing. Finally we have intelligence reports of numerous carrier-type aircraft landing at French naval air bases in Brittany. Our submarines were unable to make contact with the formation—it would seem that one was sunk, unfortunately, but our first naval air battle was a smashing success. We will close the Atlantic for you, Comrades,” the captain predicted.