Red Storm Rising (1986) (69 page)

What came next was harder. Commander Edward Morris donned his whites and from his wallet took a list of family calls he had to make. They’d all been officially notified, but another of the duties that came with command was to make the trips himself. The widow of his executive officer lived only half a mile away. A good man with a barbecue, the XO, Morris remembered. How many weekends had he spent in their backyard watching steaks sizzle over charcoal? What would he tell her now? What would he tell the rest of the widows? What would he tell the
kids?

Morris walked to his car and was mocked by the license plate, FF-1094. Not every man got to carry his failure around with him. Most were fortunate enough to leave it behind. As he started the engine, Morris wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep without the fear of reliving again that moment on the bridge of his ship.

For the first time Edwards had beaten his sergeant at his own game. For all his alleged expertise with a fishing rod, Smith had come away with nothing after an hour’s effort, and handed the rod to Mike in disgust. Ten minutes later, Edwards landed a four-pound trout.

“Ain’t that some shit,” Smith growled.

The last ten kilometers they’d covered had taken eleven hours. The one road they’d had to cross, they learned, was a busy one. Every few minutes a vehicle headed north or south. The Russians were using this gravel strip as their principal means of overland travel to Iceland’s northern coast. Edwards and his party had spent six hours hiding in the rocks of yet another lava field, watching and waiting for a safe time to cross. Twice they’d seen Mi-24 helicopters patrolling the area, but neither had come close. They’d seen no foot patrols either, and Edwards had concluded that Iceland was too big for the Soviet force to control. At that point he’d taken out his Russian map and set to analyzing the symbols. The Soviet troops were concentrated in an arc extending north and south of the Reykjavik peninsula. He’d radioed that into Scotland, spending ten minutes describing the Russian symbology.

Road traffic had dropped off at dusk, allowing them to cross the road on the run. They’d found themselves without food in another area of lakes and streams. Enough was enough, Edwards had decided. They had to rest again and began fishing to get themselves some food. The next leg of their journey would keep them well clear of inhabited areas.

His rifle and other gear lay next to a rock, covered with his camouflage jacket. Vigdis was with him. She’d hardly left his side all day. Smith and the Marines had found places to relax while their lieutenant did most of the work.

The local bug population was out in force today. His sweater kept most of them off his skin, but his face attracted their share. He tried to ignore them. Quite a few bugs had found their way to the surface of the stream, and the trout were going after them. Every time he saw a ripple, he cast the feathery lure toward it. The rod bent again.

“Got another one!” he hooted. Smith’s head came up, shook angrily, and went back down in the bushes fifty yards away.

Edwards had never done this sort of fishing. All his experience was in his father’s boat, but the principles were pretty much the same. He let the trout pull against the line, but not too much, just enough to wear him out as Edwards worked the rod up and down, drawing the fish upstream and into the rocks. Suddenly he tripped over a rock and fell into the shallow water, managing, however, to keep his rod-tip high. Struggling to his feet, he stepped back, his fatigue pants black and wet against his legs.

“This is a big one.” He turned to see Vigdis laughing. She watched him work the fish in and began moving toward it. A minute later she grabbed the leader and pulled the trout clear of the water.

“Three kilos, this one.” She held it up.

At age ten Mike had caught a hundred-pound albacore, but this brown trout looked a lot bigger. He reeled in the line as Vigdis walked toward him.
Ten pounds of fish in twenty minutes,
he thought.
We might just be able to live off the land yet.

The helicopter appeared without warning. There was a westerly wind—it had probably been patrolling the road to the east—and the aircraft was less than a mile away before they heard the stuttering sound of its five-bladed rotor headed right toward them. “Everyone freeze!” Smith yelled. The Marines were in good cover, but Mike and Vigdis were in the open.

“Oh, God,” Edwards breathed. He finished reeling his line in. “Take the fish off the hook. Relax.”

She looked at him as the helicopter approached, afraid to turn around toward the incoming chopper. Her hands shook as she worked the hook free of the wriggling trout.

“It’s going to be all right, Vigdis.” He wrapped his arm about her waist and walked slowly away from the stream. Her arm pulled his body close against hers. It came as a greater shock than the Russian chopper. She was stronger than he’d expected, and her arm was a heated path around his back and chest.

The chopper was less than five hundred yards off, bearing directly at them, nose down, the multibarreled gun trained directly at them.

He’d never make it, Edwards saw. His rifle was fifty feet away under his camouflage jacket. If he moved fast enough to get there, they’d know why. His legs were weak beneath him as he watched death approach.

Slowly, carefully, Vigdis moved the hand in which she held the fish. She used two fingers to grab Mike’s hand at her waist, moving it up and around until it rested on her left breast. Then she held the fish high above her head. Mike dropped his rod and stooped to get the other trout. Vigdis followed his movements and managed to keep his left hand in place. Mike held up his fish as the Mi-24 attack helicopter hovered fifty yards away. Its rotor tossed up a circle of spray from the surrounding marsh.

“Go away,” Mike rasped through his grinning teeth.

 

“My father loves to fish,” the senior lieutenant said, manipulating the flight controls to Hover.

“Shit on the fish,” the gunner snapped back. “I want to catch one of those. Look where that young bastard has his hand!”

They probably don’t even know what’s going on,
he thought.
Or if they know, they have sense enough not to do anything about it. Nice to see that some people are untouched by the madness that’s sweeping the world . . .
The pilot looked down at his fuel gauges.

“They look harmless enough. We’re down to thirty minutes’ fuel. Time to return.”

 

The chopper settled at the tail, and for a terrible moment Edwards thought it might be landing. Then it pivoted in midair and moved to the southwest. One of the soldiers riding in the back waved at them. Vidgis waved back. They stood there as it fiew off. Their hands came down, and her left arm held his tight against her. Edwards had not realized that Vigdis didn’t wear a bra. He was afraid to move his hand, afraid to appear to make an advance. Why had she done that? To help fool the Russians—to reassure him, or herself? That it had in fact worked seemed unimportant. The Marines were still concealed. They stood there quite alone, and his left hand seemed to burn as his mind stumbled over what he ought to do.

Vigdis acted for him. His hand slid away as she turned to him and buried her head against his shoulder.
Here I am holding the prettiest girl I ever met in one hand,
Edwards thought,
and a Goddamned fish in the other.
That was easily solved. Edwards dropped the fish, wrapped both arms around her, and held on tight.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up at his face. “I think yes.”

There was only one word for what he felt toward the girl in his arms. Edwards knew this wasn’t the time, and wasn’t the place, but the look and the word remained. He kissed her gently on the cheek. The smile that answered him counted more than all the passionate encounters of his life.

“Excuse me, folks,” Sergeant Smith said from a few feet away.

“Yeah.” Edwards disengaged himself. “Let’s get moving before they decide to come back.”

Things were going well. American P-3C Orions and British Nimrods were scouting the route to the icepack. The submarines had been forced to detour east around one suspected Russian submarine, but that was all. Ivan was sending most of his boats south, it seemed, confident that the Norwegian Sea was under his control. Another six hours to the pack.

Chicago
was drifting now, finished with her turn at the head of the “freight train” procession of submarines. Her sonar gear searched the black water for the telltale noise of a Russian submarine. They heard nothing but the distant growling of the icepack.

The tracking team plotted the position of the other American submarines. McCafferty was glad to see they had trouble doing so, even with America’s best sonar equipment. If they had trouble, so would the Russians. His crew looked to be in good shape. Three days on the beach had counted for a lot. The beer supplied by the Norwegian skipper, plus word on what their Harpoon had done in
Chicago’s
one real engagement, had counted for even more. He’d already briefed the crew on their current mission. The information was accepted quietly, with a couple of jokes about going back home—to the Barents Sea.

“That was
Boston,
skipper,” the XO said. “Now we’re the caboose.”

McCafferty walked back to examine the chart. Everything looked okay, but he checked everything carefully. With so many submarines running the same course track, the risk of collision was real. A quartermaster ran down the list of the sister subs that had passed
Chicago.
The skipper was satisfied.

“All ahead two-thirds,” he ordered. The helmsman acknowledged the order and twisted the annunciator dial.

“Engine room answers all ahead two-thirds.”

“Very well. Left ten degrees rudder. Come to new course three-four-eight.”

Chicago
accelerated to fifteen knots, taking her station at the end of the column as the freight train raced to the Arctic.

“Left full rudder!” Morris screamed, pointing at the torpedo’s wake.

“Right full rudder, aye!” the helmsman replied, spinning the wheel right, then left, then centering it.

Morris stood on the port bridge wing. The sea was flat calm, and the torpedo’s wake was clearly visible, following every turn and maneuver the frigate made. He even tried reversing, and that didn’t work—the torpedo appeared to go sideways. It stopped dead in the water and rose to the surface where he could see it. It was white, with what seemed to be a red star on the nose . . . and it had eyes, like all homing torpedoes. He ordered flank speed, but the torpedo stayed with him on the surface now, skimming along like a flying fish, clearly visible to all who could see—but only Morris saw it.

It closed ever so slowly as the frigate maneuvered. Fifty feet, thirty, ten . . .

“Where did my daddy go?” the little girl asked. “I want my daddy!”

“What’s the problem, skipper?” the exec asked. This was very strange, because he didn’t have a head—

Sweat poured from Morris’s face as he bolted upright in his bed, his heart racing. The digital clock on the headboard said 4:54. Ed got up and walked shakily into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
The second time tonight,
he thought. Twice more during the tow back to Boston the nightmare had come, robbing him of the few hours of rest he allowed himself. Morris wondered if he had screamed in his sleep.

You did everything you could have done. It’s not your fault,
he told the face in the mirror.

But you were the captain,
it replied.

Morris had gotten through five homes when he’d had to stop. It was one thing to talk to wives and parents. They understood. Their sons and husbands were sailors, and had taken a sailor’s risk. But the four-year-old daughter of Gunner’s Mate Second Class Jeff Evans had not understood why her daddy would never come home again. A second-class petty officer didn’t make much, Morris knew. Evans must have worked like a madman on that little house to make it as neat as it was. A good man with his hands, he remembered, a good gunner’s mate. Every wall was newly painted. Much of the interior woodwork had been replaced. They’d been in the house only seven months, and Morris wondered how the petty officer had found the time to get all that work done. He had to have done it himself. No way he could have afforded contractors. Ginny’s room had been a testimony to her father’s love. Dolls from all over the world had stood on handmade shelves. As soon as he’d seen Ginny’s room, Morris had had to leave. He’d felt himself on the verge of breaking down, and some absurd code of conduct wouldn’t allow him to do that in front of strangers. So he’d left and driven home, with the rest of the list tucked back in his wallet. Certainly the fatigue that had enveloped him would allow him a night’s sleep . . .

But now he stood in front of the mirror, looking at a man with hollow eyes who wished his wife were there.

Morris went out to the kitchen of his one-story house and went mindlessly through the process of making coffee. The morning paper was on the doorstep, and he found himself reading stories about the war that he knew to be inaccurate or out of date. Things were happening much too fast for reporters to keep up. There was an eyewitness account from an unnamed destroyer about a missile that had leaked through her missile defenses. An “analysis” piece explained how surface warships were obsolete in the face of determined missile attacks and asked where the fleet’s vaunted carriers were. That, he thought, was a pretty good question.

Morris finished his coffee and returned to the bathroom for a shower. If he had to be awake, he thought, he might as well be at work. He had one set of undress whites in the closet. He donned them a few minutes later and walked out to his car. It was already first light when he drove to the Norfolk Navy Base.