Red Storm Rising (1986) (47 page)

The torpedo switched from ping-and-listen to continuous pinging, chasing after the racing submarine, arcing downward. The weapon momentarily lost the sub as she passed through the thermocline layer, then reacquired when it too entered the colder deep water, rapidly closing the distance. The submarine loosed a noisemaker, but it malfunctioned. Another was loaded into the launcher. Too late. The torpedo struck the submarine on her port screw and exploded.

“All right!” hooted a petty officer on the sonar crew. “We have warhead detonation. We got the sucker!”

“We have impact. We have detonation,” confirmed a helo crew. “Stand by. Target engines have not stopped completely . . . additional propulsion noises—clanking. Air blowing, he’s blowing tanks. Coming up, target is coming up. We have bubbles on the surface. Hot damn, there he is!”

The Charlie’s bow broke the surface six miles from the frigate. Three helicopters circled the wounded vessel like wolves, and
Pharris
turned north to close the target, her five-inch gun tracking it. It wasn’t necessary. The forward hatch opened and men began scrambling out. More appeared on the sail, jumping overboard as the submarine’s engine room filled with water. A total of ten got off before the submarine slid backward below the waves. Another appeared on the surface a few seconds later, but no more.

The helicopters dropped life jackets to the men in the water. The helo with the rescue hoist aboard managed to lift two men before the frigate arrived on the scene. Morris supervised the operation from the bridge. The motor whaleboat was swiftly launched, and the rescue was an easy one. The Russian crewmen were stunned and did not resist. The helicopters guided the boat to each man, carefully searching the area for more. All eleven were recovered and the whaleboat returned to the drop lines.
Pharris’s
chief boatswain supervised the operation, an ensign standing quietly at his side.

No one had seriously considered this possibility. A torpedo hit on a submarine was supposed to kill her entirely.
Prisoners,
Morris thought to himself.
What the hell am I supposed to do with
prisoners? He had to decide where to keep them, how to treat them. How to interrogate them—did he have anyone aboard who spoke Russian? The captain turned the conn over to his executive officer and hurried aft.

Armed crewmen were already there, holding their M-14 rifles awkwardly as they looked down with great curiosity at the whaleboat. The boat crew secured the hoist lines to the lift points, and the seaman on the winch lifted the boat up into the davits.

The Soviets were not an impressive lot, many of them clearly in shock from their near escape from death. Morris counted three officers, one of them probably the captain. He whispered a quick command to Bosun Clarke.

The chief had his armed party step back, and took the whistle from his pocket. As the whaleboat settled into place, he blew a three-tone note on his whistle and saluted the Soviet captain like an arriving dignitary.

The Russian’s reaction was one of astonishment. Morris stepped forward to help him off the boat.

“Welcome aboard, Captain. I’m Captain Morris, United States Navy.” Ed looked around briefly to see the incredulous expressions on his crew’s faces. But his ploy failed. The Russian said something in Russian, and either spoke no English or had the presence of mind to pretend he didn’t. Someone else would have to handle the interrogation. Morris told his bosun to carry on. The Russians were taken below for a medical check. For the moment, they’d be kept under guard in sickbay. The bosun hurried back for a moment.

“Skipper, what the hell was that all about?” Chief Boatswain’s Mate Clarke inquired.

“They’ve probably been told that we’d shoot them in the head. I read a book once that said the most effective technique—look, there was this German, the guy specialized in getting information out of our guys in World War Two, okay? He was good at it, and what he did was treat our guys decently. Hell, they sponsored him to come over after the war, and now he’s an American citizen. Separate the officers from the enlisted, and the senior EMs from the juniors. Keep ‘em separate. Then make sure they’re kept comfortable. Feed ’em, give ‘em cigarettes, make ’em feel safe. If you happen to know anyone aboard who has a bottle, get it, and give our guests a couple of stiff drinks. Everybody gets new clothes. We keep theirs. Send all of it to the wardroom. We’ll see if they have anything valuable. Make sure they’re treated nice, and just maybe we can get one or two to spill his guts.”

“You got it, skipper.” The chief went away shaking his head. At least he’d get to paint a whole submarine on the pilothouse this time.

Morris went back to the pilothouse. He ordered his men to secure from general quarters, and the frigate to return to her patrol station. Next he called up the escort commander and reported on the prisoners.

“Pharris,”
the Commodore replied. “You are directed to paint a gold ‘A’ on your ASROC launcher. Well done to all aboard, Ed. You’re the champs for this crossing. I’ll get back to you on the prisoners. Out.”

The captain turned around to see that the bridge watch had not left. They’d all heard the Commodore on the radio. Their fatigue was gone, and the grins directed at Morris meant more to him than the words of his boss.

Alekseyev looked over the intelligence material on his desk. His boss was in Moscow for a high-level briefing, but this data was—should be, he corrected himself—little different from what his commander was hearing.

“Things are not going well in Germany?” Captain Sergetov asked.

“No. We were supposed to have reached the outskirts of Hamburg by H+36. A day and a half, the plan called for. Instead we’re not quite there yet, and Third Shock Army has taken murderous losses from NATO aircraft.” He paused, staring at the map. “If I were the NATO commander, I’d counterattack again, right there.”

“Perhaps they are unable to do so. Their first counterattack was repulsed.”

“At the cost of a broken tank division and sixty aircraft. Victories like that we can do without. The picture in the south is scarcely better. The NATO forces are trading space for time, and doing it very well. Their ground forces and tactical aircraft are operating over the same ground they’ve practiced on for thirty years. Our losses are nearly double the estimates, and we can’t sustain that.” Alekseyev leaned back. He chided himself for being defeatist. It was mainly a manifestation of his desire to join the action. He was certain, as any general would be certain, that he could do things better.

“What about NATO losses?”

“Heavy, we think. They have been remarkably profligate in their weapons expenditures. The Germans have staked too much on defending Hamburg, and it has to be costing them dearly. If I could not counterattack in their place, I would withdraw. A city is not worth breaking the balance of your army. We learned that lesson at Kiev—”

“Excuse me, Comrade General, what about Stalingrad?”

“A somewhat different situation, Captain. Remarkable, nonetheless, how history can repeat itself,” Alekseyev muttered, studying the map on the wall. He shook his head. West Germany had too much in the way of road communications for that to work. “The KGB reports that NATO has two, at most three weeks’ supply of munitions left. That will be the decisive factor.”

“What of our supplies and fuel?” the young captain asked. His answer was a scowl.

At least there was water. The streams were fed by glaciers that lay in the center of the island—water that had fallen as snow over a thousand years before, long before atmospheric pollution, and been compressed to ice. When finally it melted to fill the rocky streams, it turned back into water of crystalline purity and marvelous taste, but absolutely no nutritional value. It was also ice cold, and fords were not easily found.

“Down to one day’s rations, Lieutenant,” Smith observed as they finished off their meal.

“Yeah, we’ll have to think that one over.” Edwards assembled his trash. Garcia collected it all for burial. If there had been a way to cover their footprints in the dirt, Smith would have had them doing that too.

It wasn’t easy. As Edwards assembled his radio, he listened to muttered Spanish curses and the sound of a folding shovel slamming against the loose rocks that passed for soil atop Hill 482.

“Doghouse, this is Beagle, and we’re running out of food, over.”

“Sorry to hear that, Beagle. Maybe we’ll have some pizzas sent out.”

“You funny bastard,” Edwards said without toggling the Transmit key. “What do you want us to do this time?”

“Have you been spotted by anyone?”

“We’re alive, ain’t we? Negative.”

“Tell me what you can see.”

“Okay, there’s a gravel road downhill to the north, maybe two miles away. Looks like a farm—plowed fields, like, but can’t tell what’s growing there. Another sheep farm to the west of us, we passed it coming here. Lots of sheep. Ten minutes ago we saw a truck on the road heading west. Haven’t seen anything flying yet today, but I suppose that’ll change. The only civilians we’ve seen have been right by their houses, we haven’t even seen farmers with their sheep, and the farm to the north has no visible activity. No—say again zero—civilian road traffic. Ivan’s got this island shut down, Doghouse, really shut down. That’s about all I can say. Tell those Vark drivers they really did the job on that powerhouse. Nothing left but a hole in the ground. We haven’t seen an electric light lit since.”

“Copy that, Beagle. Okay, your orders arc to head north toward Hvammsfjördur. You need to take a wide detour cast to avoid all these bays I see. We want you there in ten days. Say again ten days, twelve at the most. You can make it easy. Stay out in the boonies and avoid contact with anyone. Continue the normal contact schedule and report on anything you see that may be of interest. Acknowledge.”

“Roger, Doghouse, you want us in sight of Hvammsfjördur at the end of next week, and keep up the usual radio routine. Anything else?”

“Be careful. Out.”

“Hvammsfjördur?” Smith asked. “That’s a hundred miles on a straight line.”

“They want us to detour east to avoid contact.”

“Two hundred miles—walking over this shit.” Smith’s frown was enough to split a rock. “End of next week? Ten or eleven days?”

Edwards nodded dumbly. He hadn’t known it would be that far.

“Gonna be a little tough, Mr. Edwards.” The sergeant pulled a large-scale map from his case. “I don’t even have cards for the whole coastline. Damn. Look here, Lieutenant. The ridges and rivers on this rock come out from the center like the spokes on a wheel, y’see? That means we climb a lot, and these here ain’t little hills. All the low places got roads, and sure as hell we can’t follow no roads, right?” He shook his head.

Edwards forced a grin. “Can’t hack it? I thought you Marines were in good shape.”

Smith was a man who ran five miles every morning. He could not recall ever seeing this little Air Force wimp out doing road-work. “Okay, Mr. Edwards. They say nobody ever drowned in sweat. On your feet, Marines, we got orders for a little hike.” Rodgers and Garcia exchanged a look. “Mister” was not exactly a term of endearment for an officer, but Smith figured that insubordination only counted if the officer
knew
he was being insulted.

The helicopters took time to assemble. The big AN-22 transport had delivered two Mi-24 attack choppers, quite a load even for that four-engine monster. Another IL-76 flight had delivered the technicians and flight crews to assemble, service, and fly them. There had been a major oversight in the plan, the General thought. The one helicopter that had survived the strafing attack on the first day was now broken down—and of course the broken part was not one which had been included in their pre-packaged equipment. There should have been more helicopters. He shrugged eloquently. No plan was ever perfect. More helicopters would be flown in, plus a few more mobile radar sets and some additional SAM launchers. The Americans looked to have every intention of making his tenure on Iceland difficult, and he needed more equipment to counter that . . .

Then there were those KGB bastards.
We have to pacify the island,
they said. As if Iceland wasn’t already passive enough. There had been not a single incident of active resistance yet—
not one,
the General thought, remembering his year’s service in Afghanistan. Compared with that mountainous hell, this was paradise itself. But that wasn’t good enough for the KGB!
Nekulturny
barbarians. A thousand hostages had been taken, only to learn that there was no jail space to keep them.
So my paratroopers must guard the poor, harmless wretches, using up a whole company of troops.
His orders were to cooperate with the local KGB contingent. One did not cooperate with the KGB, of course, one was dominated by them. There were KGB officers with his mobile patrols, to
advise,
they put it.

General Andreyev was beginning to worry. Crack paratroopers were not the sort to be good jailers. Had they been ordered to go easily on the Icelanders, that would be one thing. Instead, their orders forced them to be harsh, which generated hostility. Some people had actually been heard to cheer when the last American bombers had come through. Absurd, the General thought. They had lost electricity but we had lost nothing—and they cheered. Because of the KGB’s orders. What stupidity. An opportunity lost. He considered protesting his orders to his central command in Moscow, but to what point? An officer who disliked the KGB was an officer who disliked the Party itself.

He was aroused from his reveries by the whining sound of turboshaft engines. The first of the Mi-24 Hinds was turning its rotor, testing its engines. An officer ran toward him.

“Comrade General, with your permission, we are ready for a test flight. We’re doing it light, unarmed. We’ll load weapons when we get back.”