Chapter 18
Polar Glory.
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM.
It had been decided that all witch Joint Fighter Wing and senior commanders from the "merged" would be briefed on developments in Germany.
"Ladies and Gentlemen." The American Brigadier General spoke loudly and clearly in the lecture room in front of the lectern and projector screen. In the cushioned chairs, instead of young officers from Belgium, France, West Germany, and more recently Spain, there sat instead uniformed young women or girls, and older senior officers. The uniforms were quite anachronistic and to some of the history buffs among his fellow NATO officers standing in the room, inaccurate. Quite a few of the Belgian or Dutch officers gave slight shivers at the sight of the rather "vintage" uniforms of the Karlslanders that seemed to resemble those of the old Wehrmacht back in the second war. And quite a few seemed to resemble the SS too. Too much.
That sight was diluted with the more calming sight of US and British World War 2 style uniforms.
"On the dawn of July Second, roughly a few hours ago, The Soviet 1st Guards Tank Division, supported by the East German 7th Panzer Division, and the Felix Dzerzhinsky and Rosa Luxemburg MfS Guards Divisions smashed through the Berlin Wall, and began advancing on NATO positions. Less than 10 hours earlier, during the night, our fighters attacked Soviet Staging points, fuel dumps, ammo parks and barracks on the Inner-German border. A shooting war's begun."
A chorus of murmurs broke out. The brigadier general waited for a second before gesturing for them to fall silent.
"Now…I know some of our integrations, didn't go smoothly." He nodded towards some of the Karlsandic officers, and I know some of you are apprehensive of fighting a new war, especially one against your fellow humans, because you fought in a war with alien robots back in your world in the 40s. I am under oath to tell you all that it is your choice if you wish to fight or refrain from fighting. I am simply requesting that you think this over. The Soviets are especially interested in you witches, seeing as your comrades from Orussia, who are currently in control of Leningrad and Chelyabinsk to name a few along with the Tsardom of Orussia are fighting a full-blown war for domination of the other. NATO can't promise the safety of everyone if the Soviets succeed in Germany."
He flicked the controls of the remote, causing the slide to flicker before changing to a grainy reconnaissance photograph taken by a satellite hovering over the inner-german border in earth's orbit. It depicted the same staging areas, but now, the tanks were burnt out and husks of buildings stood where once, there had been firm structures.
"As of now, most Soviet staging points, bridges, tank parks and fuel dumps have been struck. I am pleased to announce that we sustained minimal casualties."
An officer raised his gloved hand in the air to make a query. He was a powerfully built individual, with scars and burn marks all over the left side of his face. He wore a slate grey officer's tunic with jackboots, and a marshal's baton set across his lap in an almost casual manner.
"May I inquire what aircraft were used in the strike?" the man's English was good, soft, with a medium-ish, accent. His blue eyes resembled, teal-colored gemstones, alight with an internal lightning that made the brigadier not lose focus on him at all.
"Unfortunately, all I can tell you was that F-111 Aardvarks were scrambled for the raid, that is all. The rest is classified." The American could see the disappointment in his eyes, at the fact that they weren't telling him everything.
"But of course, you can tell us the targets?" The Karlslander was a lieutenant general, man who was used to knowing the answers of everything. But here, in the sterile environment of NATOs command and control center in Brussels, he was for the first time, out of his comfort zone, so he was clawing at an attempt to get some sort of familiarity back.
"The 7th Panzer Division of East Germany, for example, lost nearly all of their forward ammunition supply in the strike. Soviet forces there will be delayed in resupplying their advance. However," the brigadier continued, his tone hardening, "our intelligence indicates they will press on, regardless of their logistical setbacks."
The tension in the room mounted as the brigadier's words sunk in. Some of the witches and officers exchanged nervous glances. Others remained grimly resolute. War was something they all understood, but this world, this type of war, was a different beast entirely.
"So, you need us to plug the gap." Another Karlslander, this time in the uniform of a Luftwaffe officer bluntly put it.
"Yes, that is correct." The brigadier general sighed. "I'm not going to sugarcoat this, the Russians are threatening to push into the Fulda Gap. This air attack might have surprised them, but Moscow will still give the green light."
"How long do you need." A clipped, feminine voice asked in an aristocratic English accent.
"As much as you can give us." The man answered back. "Look, we already know that the Soviets might be mounting their vehicles and preparing to storm, but your unique abilities will help us stem the tide."
The Lieutenant General tapped his marshal's baton gently against his leg. His face, a hard mask of weathered lines and scars, betrayed no emotion, but his eyes were still locked onto the American general. "Command centers… disruption. What you're telling us is you've initiated the opening phase of a blitzkrieg against them, haven't you?" His voice was calm, but there was something sharp beneath the surface.
The American Brigadier hesitated. "It's… not that simple."
The German officer raised a brow. "No? You've struck at their lines of supply, command, and reserves. Now, unless NATO's strategy has drastically changed since our arrival, that sounds like you're preparing to push the Soviets back hard and fast." His voice was tight, not quite accusatory, but definitely probing.
The American leaned forward, gripping the edges of the lectern. "Lieutenant General, we are not in the business of initiating offensive wars. Our strikes were defensive in nature. The Soviets—"
"They broke the Berlin Wall." The German officer interrupted. "Yes, we know. That part is clear. But your counterattacks were preemptive. You hit them before they even mobilized fully."
Another officer, this one British and wearing the familiar desert tan of the RAF, cleared his throat. "If I may interject," he said, his tone diplomatic, "I believe what the General is trying to say is that NATO had no choice but to act. We had intel indicating an imminent Soviet attack, and preemptive strikes were our only option to prevent a larger catastrophe."
A ripple of agreement went through some of the NATO officers, but there was still tension in the room. One of the younger Karlslander witches, sitting a few rows back, raised her hand timidly. Her uniform, like many others from her unit, was styled after those worn by the Luftwaffe in the Second World War. The resemblance to old Wehrmacht uniforms had caused more than a few uneasy glances from the Belgian and Dutch personnel in the room.
"Yes?" the Brigadier General acknowledged her.
"With all due respect, sir," she began, her voice steady despite her youth, "our enemy has always been clear. In our world, we fought against the Neuroi, an alien threat that sought to annihilate us. But here… we're being asked to fight other humans. Is there truly no other way?"
Her question lingered in the air, drawing nods from some of the other witches. The older officers, especially those from Karlsland, remained stoic, but the younger ones, many of whom had only known war against the alien menace, seemed visibly uneasy.
The Brigadier General took a deep breath. "It's not something we take lightly. None of us want this war, but the reality is… the Soviets won't stop. They've broken through in Germany, and if we don't push back, they'll continue advancing. It's either fight, or we risk everything."
"Risk everything?" The question came from a tall, dark-haired witch in the back, her uniform distinctly Orussian. Her voice carried a weight of experience, though she looked no older than twenty-five. "Orussia has already fractured in your world, and now we face a choice between joining NATO or being crushed by the Soviets. How do you expect us to reconcile that with our history? With the fact that our people fought for survival in Leningrad, in the Volga, for every inch of our land?"
A hush fell over the room. The Orussian witch's words cut deep, resonating with more than a few. The older Karlslanders, especially, exchanged glances. They had fought a similar war, but against an entirely different enemy.
The Brigadier General hesitated for a moment, carefully choosing his words. He knew this was a delicate matter, especially with the witches from Orussia and Karlsland, whose histories were intertwined with the very lands the Soviets were now threatening.
"I understand your position," he said slowly, his tone respectful but firm. "The situation is unlike anything any of us have faced before, and I won't pretend to know the weight of the choices you're being asked to make. But I want to be clear: NATO's goal isn't conquest. It's survival. We're trying to prevent the Soviets from overwhelming Europe, from taking control of everything west of the Iron Curtain. They've already taken Berlin. If they aren't stopped now, they'll keep going."
The Orussian witch's expression didn't change, but her eyes flicked to the grainy satellite images on the screen, showing the burning wreckage of Soviet tanks and trucks. "You speak of survival, but to many of us, this feels like choosing sides in a war that isn't ours. My people have seen enough destruction."
Nobody knew how wrong those words would be in one year.
The Third World War had begun.
A few miles away from the inner German border.
"Come on, you useless sons of whores! To your fucking vehicles!" Starukhin swore loudly as he jumped from his command car into the muddy ground at this particular division's tank park where crews were already rushing off in threes to the waiting T-80s, those that had survived that was. Behind the brutish general, his harried deputy followed, trying to catch up to his general's stride.
"Let's go! Let's go damn it! Fuck your mothers!" Starukhin bellowed while his underling finally caught up. Starukhin brusquely grabbed the man's arm and dragged him to the divisional commander's headquarters a few feet away.
The command tent was large, and in the same lightish drab green that made up the others in the staging point. He pushed aside the tent flap and stooped low to enter. Behind him, his deputy gave a yelp but didn't disobey, knowing his general's temper, it was better that he didn't resist and let his general drag him wherever he was going.
Inside, the tank division's commander, a lieutenant general, immediately snapped to attention at the sight of Starukhin like a private facing a particularly foul-mouthed sergeant, worming into the tent like a bullet. His staff did the same.
Starukhin only gave a murderous glare to the hapless man before giving a snort better suited to a bull in a cartoon. With a grunt, he stomped forward, leaving his shaken deputy behind as he came towards the divisional commander's desk like a ravenous lion. He gulped, feeling beads of sweat trickled down his neck and into his collar. The rest of his staff weren't faring any better, everyone knew how ugly Starukhin's moods got.
Starukhin stopped just before the table and stared at his subordinate like a judge handing out a death sentence, which he may very well have. Although the Stalinist procedures and styles had fallen out of use, Starukhin may as well just shoot him himself. The thickly built general instead, jabbed a trunk-like finger like a dagger towards the phone on the table. "Get me CNIC West's Headquarters right now." He ordered in a deadly smooth voice. The Komdiv gave no objection as Starukhin grabbed the receiver and put it to one, cauliflowered, gnarled ear.
The operators of the Red Army's Telecommunications troops connected him almost instantly. Starukhin felt his mood cool down a little bit, before surging back again in full force as the voice on the other end wasn't Malinsky, it was his Chief of Staff, that asthmatic Jew Chibisov!
"Get me, CNIC-West, Chibisov." Starukhin had to restrain himself from nearly bellowing out in rage.
"Comrade Malinsky is currently busy, but he has instructed me to pass on orders to all senior army commanders." Chibisov's voice was made tinny by the phone's speaker, which made him even more enraged.
"Get me Malinsky now Chibisov or I'll fucking have you—"
"Begin the advance."
Starukhin felt his voice leave his throat as he was stunned into silence. Had he heard it correctly?"
"Pardon?"
"Begin, the advance." Chibisov's voice was slow, as if he were telling a child.
Starukhin bit his tongue. No use shouting out now. "Very well…" he grumbled although now there wasn't much energy in his tone. The line clicked shut, and he replaced the receiver with much less force than everyone was expecting. For a minute, there was silence, as everyone in the tent waited for the inevitable explosion before—
"Comrade Komdiv…I want your unit on the road in 10 minutes. And over the border in 20, am I understood?" Starukhin turned to face the stunned divisional commander.
"Of course, comrade. I will give the orders at once." The man waited for Starukhin to bellow or swear out some dirty obscenity, but he just gave a noncommittal grunt before turning sharply back, and walking towards the tent's exit, beckoning his deputy to follow him. And with a swish of the flap, he was gone…
Leaving the Komdiv both shaken, and very confused.
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
"Perfect weather," First Lieutenant Mike Edwards pronounced, looking up from the chart just off the facsimile machine. "We have this strong cold front due in from Canada in twenty to twenty-four hours. That'll bring a lot of rain with it, maybe an inch worth, but for all of today we have clear skies—less than two-tenths high clouds—and no precip. Surface winds west to southwest at fifteen to twenty knots. And lots of 'shine," he concluded with a grin. The sun had risen for the last time nearly five weeks before, and wouldn't truly set for another five. They were so close to the North Pole here in Iceland that in summer the sun wandered in a lazy circle around the azure sky, dipping fractionally below the northwestern horizon but never truly setting. It was something that took getting used to.
"Fighter weather," agreed Lieutenant Colonel Bill Jeffers, commander of the 57th Fighter Interceptor Squadron, the "Black Knights," most of whose F-15 Eagle interceptors were sitting in the open a bare hundred yards away. The pilots were in those fighters, waiting. They'd been waiting for ninety minutes now. Two hours before, they'd been warned of a large number of Soviet aircraft taking off from their tactical air bases on the Kola Peninsula, destination unknown.
Keflavik was always a busy place, but for the last week it had been a madhouse. The airport was a combination Navy and Air Force base and a busy international airport at which many airliners stopped to refuel.
The past week had seen this traffic supplemented by grim tactical fighters transiting from the United States and Canada to Europe, cargo aircraft transporting overloads of critical equipment, and airliners returning to America crowded with pale tourists and dependents of the military men who were now on the battle line. The same had happened to Keflavik. Three thousand wives and children had been evacuated. The base facility was cleared for action. If the Soviets kicked off the war that seemed to be springing from the ground like a new volcano, Keflavik was as ready as it could be.
"With your permission, Colonel, I want to check a few things at the tower. This forecast is pretty solid, for the next twelve hours anyway."
"Jet stream?" Colonel Jeffers looked up from the yard-square chart of isobars and wind-trees.
"Same place it's been all week, sir, no sign at all of a change."
"Okay, go ahead."
Edwards put on his cap and walked out the door. He wore a thin blue officer's jacket over his Marine-style fatigues, pleased that the Air Force was still pretty casual about dress codes. His jeep held the rest of his "battle gear," a .38 revolver and pistol belt, and the field jacket that went with the camouflage gear everybody had been issued three days before. They'd thought of everything, Edwards reflected as he started up the jeep for the quarter-mile drive to the tower. Even the flak jacket.
Keflavik had to get hit, Edwards reminded himself. Everybody knew it, prepared for it, and then tried not to think about it. This most isolated of all NATO outposts on the western coast of Iceland was the barred gate to the North Atlantic. If Ivan wanted to fight a naval war, Iceland had to be neutralized. From Keflavik's four runways flew eighteen Eagle interceptors, nine sub- hunting P-3C Orions, and deadliest of all, three E-3A AWACS birds, the eyes of the fighters. Two were operating now; one was circling twenty miles northeast of Cape Fontur, the other directly over Ritstain, 150 miles north of Keflavik. This was most unusual. With only three AWACS birds available, keeping one constantly in the air was difficult enough. The commander of the Iceland defense forces was taking all of this very seriously. Edwards shrugged. If there really were Backfires bearing down on them, there was nothing else for him to do. He was the brand-new squadron meteorological officer, and he'd just given his weather report.
Edwards parked his jeep in an officer's slot next to the tower and decided to take his .38 with him. The lot was not fenced, and there was no telling if someone might want to "borrow" his handgun. The base was crawling with a company of Marines and another of Air Force police, all looking very nasty with their M-16 rifles and web belts festooned with grenades. He hoped they'd be careful with those. Late the next day, a whole Marine Amphibious Unit was due to arrive to beef up base security, something that should have been done a week earlier but had been delayed, partly because of the Icelandic sensitivity regarding large numbers of armed foreigners, but mainly due to the unreal speed with which this crisis had developed. He trotted up the outside stairs and found the tower's control room crowded with eight people rather than the usual five.
"Hi, Jerry," he said to the boss, Navy lieutenant Jerry Simon. The Icelandic civilian controllers who usually worked here were nowhere to be seen. Well, Edwards thought, there's no civilian traffic for them to control.
"Morning, Mike," was the response. The ongoing joke at Keflavik. It was 0315 hours local time. Morning. The sun was already up, glaring in at them from the northeast through roll-down shades inside of the tilted glass windows.
"Let's have an attitude check!" Edwards said as he walked over to his meteorological instruments.
"I hate this fucking place!" the tower crew answered at once.
"Let's have a positive attitude check."
"I positively hate this fucking place!"
"Let's have a negative attitude check."
"I don't like this fucking place!"
"Let's have a short attitude check."
"Fuckit!" Everyone had a good laugh. They needed it.
"Nice to see that we're all maintaining our equilibrium," Edwards observed.
The short, scrawny officer had become instantly popular on his arrival two months earlier. A native of Eastpoint, Maine, and a graduate of the Air Force Academy, his glasses prevented him from flying. His diminutive size—five-six and a hundred twenty pounds—was not designed to command respect, but his infectious grin, ready supply of jokes, and recognized expertise at making sense of the confused North Atlantic weather patterns had combined to make him an acceptable companion for anyone at Keflavik. Everyone thought he would make one hell of a TV weatherman one day.
"MAC Flight Five-Two-Zero, roger. Roll her out, Big Guy, we need the room," said a tired controller. A few hundred yards away, a C-5A Galaxy cargo plane began to accelerate down runway one-eight. Edwards took a pair of binoculars to watch. It was hard to get used to the fact that something so monstrous could actually fly.
"Any word from anywhere?" Simon asked Edwards.
"Nope, nothing since the Norwegian report. Lots of activity at Kola. You know, I picked a hell of a time to come here to work," Mike replied. He went back to checking the calibration of his digital barometer.
It had started six weeks before. The Soviet Naval and Long-Range Aviation groups based at a half-dozen airfields around Severomorsk had exercised almost continuously, flying attack-profile missions that could have been directed at nearly anyone or anything. Then two weeks before, the activity had been cut way back. That was the ominous part: first they drilled all their flight crews to perfection and then they went to a stand-down maintenance period to make sure that every bird and every instrument was also fully operational ... What were they doing now? An attack against Bodo in Norway? Or Iceland maybe? Another exercise? There was no telling.
Edwards lifted a clipboard to sign off for having checked his tower instruments that day. He could have left it to his enlisted technicians, but they were backstopping the aircraft techs with the fighter squadron, and he could handle it for them. Besides, it gave him an excuse to visit the tower and—
As Major Dinah Preeling walked into the control room, her presence was almost cinematic. The sharp contrast between her composed demeanor and the chaotic atmosphere in the tower made it feel like a scene straight out of a black-and-white movie. Her long, black hair was impeccably styled even under her flightsuit, and her voice, smooth and polished, had that unmistakable Hollywood glamour.
"Good morning, Lieutenant Edwards," she said, her Mid-Atlantic accent slicing through the hum of machinery and chatter. "I trust you're keeping the skies clear for us today?"
Edwards, who had been adjusting the calibration on his meteorological instruments, looked up with a smirk. "Well, Major Preeling, I was about to ask you the same thing. I hear your magical F-15s are all set for action?"
Preeling arched an eyebrow, her expression the epitome of cool professionalism. "Indeed. Our 'magical' F-15s are always ready. You, on the other hand, might want to keep an eye on those clouds. They have a tendency to turn into something more... dramatic."
Edwards chuckled, shaking his head. "You know, Major, I've always been a skeptic. I'm still waiting for one of these witches to pull a rabbit out of her jet engine."
The room erupted in laughter. Simon, the tower chief, gave Edwards a thumbs-up. "Good one, Mike."
Preeling's smile didn't waver, but there was a glint of amusement in her eyes. "If only it were that simple. But while our abilities might be extraordinary, we still rely on good old-fashioned weather reports to keep us flying."
"Speaking of which," Edwards said, pulling out a weather chart and waving it at her, "you might want to check this out. We've got a strong cold front moving in from Canada. It's supposed to hit in about twenty hours."
Preeling peered at the chart with the same intense focus she used when preparing for a mission. "So, should I be concerned about a sudden blizzard turning my F-15 into an ice sculpture?"
"Only if you plan to do a lot of stunts without de-icing first," Edwards quipped. "But seriously, it's mainly rain for the next twelve hours. Nothing that should interfere with your... magical maneuvers."
Preeling's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Well, if the weather does turn nasty, I trust you'll be our guiding star through the storm."
"Guiding star? I thought you were the one with the magical powers," Edwards retorted, rolling his eyes. "If I'm your guiding star, then we're all in trouble."
Just then, Lt. Elsie Kirkpatrick popped her head in from the cockpit of her F-15CM, grinning. "Hey, Mike! If you could manage to predict a clear day for us every time we're in the air, I might just start believing in that weather magic of yours."
"Don't count on it," Edwards shot back with a wink. "But if you guys keep giving me good reports, I might just have to start believing in witches."
Preeling stepped closer, her expression suddenly serious. "Lieutenant Edwards, I have to admit, your skepticism is quite refreshing. Most people just accept the mystique without question."
Edwards looked up at her, eyebrows raised. "And here I thought you were going to offer me a magic potion or something to prove your point."
Preeling laughed softly, the sound like a well-tuned piano. "Unfortunately, no potions here. Just pilots and weather charts. But if you ever need some extra luck, just let me know. I'm sure we can arrange something."
Edwards shook his head with a grin. "Thanks, Major. I'll keep that in mind. In the meantime, let's just hope the weather doesn't turn into a full-blown Norse saga."
"Agreed," Preeling said, her tone shifting back to professional. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a fighter jet to prepare. Do keep me informed if there are any significant changes. We wouldn't want to be caught in a storm without a clear path home."
With that, Preeling gave a nod to Edwards and walked back out of the tower, her steps light but purposeful. Edwards watched her leave, shaking his head in bemusement.
"She's got that old-school charm down pat," Simon said, rolling his eyes. "I'll bet she's got a wardrobe full of those vintage Hollywood dresses."
Edwards chuckled, turning back to his instruments. "Well, if she ever gets tired of flying, she's definitely got a future in the movies."
The rest of the crew laughed, the tension easing as they returned to their tasks. With the sun high in the sky and the clear weather holding, it seemed like a good day—one they hoped would stay that way despite the looming threat of Soviet aircraft.
"Mr. Simon," the senior enlisted controller said rapidly. "I just copied a Flash from Sentry One: Warning Red. Many bandits inbound, sir. Approaching from due north to northeast—Sentry Two is checking in ... they got 'em, too. Jesus. Sounds like forty to fifty bandits, sir." Edwards noted that the inbounds were being called Bandits instead of the usual Zombies.
"Anything friendly coming in?"
"Sir, we got a MAC C-141 twenty minutes out, eight more behind it at five- minute intervals, all inbound from Dover."
"Tell them to turn back, and get an acknowledgment! Keflavik is closed to all inbounds until further notice." Simon turned to his telecommunications man. "Tell Air-Ops to radio SACLANT that we're under attack, and to get the word out. I—"
Klaxons erupted all around them. Below, in the early-morning shadows, ground crewmen pulled red-flagged safety pins off the waiting interceptors. Edwards saw a pilot drain a Styrofoam cup and begin to strap himself in tight. The starter carts next to each fighter belched black smoke as they generated power to turn the engines.
"Tower, this is Hunter Leader. We're scrambling. Clear those runways, boy!"
Simon took the microphone. "Roger, Hunter Leader, the runways are yours. Scatter Plan Alpha. Go for it! Out."
Below, canopies were coming down, chocks were pulled away from wheels, and each crew chief gave his pilot a smart salute. The shriek of jet engines changed to a roar as the aircraft started to roll awkwardly off the flight line.
"Where's your battle station, Mike?" Simon asked.
"The met building." Edwards nodded and headed for the door. " 'Luck, guys." Aboard Sentry Two, the radar operators watched a broad semicircle of blips converging on them. Each blip had "BGR" painted next to it, plus data on course, altitude, and speed. Each blip was a Tu-16 Badger bomber of Soviet Naval Aviation. There were twenty-four of them, inbound for Keflavik at a speed of six hundred knots. They had approached at low altitude to stay below the E- 3A's radar horizon, and, once detected, were now climbing rapidly, two hundred miles away. This mission profile enabled the radar operators to classify them instantly as hostile. There were four Eagles on Combat Air Patrol, two of them with operating AWACS, but it was close to changeover point and the fighters were too low on fuel to race after the Badgers on afterburner. They were directed to head for the incoming Russian bombers at six hundred knots and could not yet detect the Badgers on their own missile-targeting radars.
Sentry One off Cape Fontur reported something worse. Her blips were supersonic Tu-22M Backfires mixed in with Tu-26M Kirov's, coming in slowly enough to indicate that they were heavily loaded with external ordnance. The Eagles here also moved off to intercept. A hundred miles behind them, the two F-15s kept on point defense over Reykjavik had just been topped off from an orbiting tanker and were charging northeast at a thousand knots while the remainder of the squadron was even now leaving the ground. The radar picture from both AWACS aircraft was being transmitted by digital link to Keflavik's fighter-ops center so that ground personnel could monitor the action. Now that the fighters were rotating off the ground, the crews for every other aircraft at the air station worked frantically to ready their birds for flight.
They had practiced this task eight times in the past month. Some flight crews had been sleeping with their aircraft. Others were summoned from their quarters, no more than four hundred yards away. Those aircraft just back from patrol had their fuel tanks topped off and were pre-flighted by the ground crews. Marine and Air Force guards not already at their posts rushed to them. It was just as well that the attack had come at this hour. There was only a handful of civilians about, and civilian air traffic was at its lowest. On the other hand, the men at Keflavik had been on double duty for a week now, and they were tired. Things which might have been done in five minutes now took seven or eight.
Edwards was back in his meteorological office, wearing his field jacket, flak jacket, and "fritz" style helmet. His emergency duty station—he could not think of his office as a "battle" station—was his assigned post. As if someone might need an especially deadly weather chart with which to attack an incoming bomber! The service had to have a plan for everything, Edwards knew. There had to be a plan. It didn't have to make sense. He went downstairs to Air-Ops.
"I got breakaway on Bandit Eight, one—two birds launched. The machine says they're AS-4s," a Sentry controller reported. The senior officer got on the radio for Keflavik.
MV JULIUS FUCIK
Twenty miles southwest of Keflavik, the "Doctor Lykes" was also a beehive of activity. As each Soviet bomber squadron launched its air-to-ground missiles, its commander transmitted a predetermined codeword that the Fucik copied. Her time had come.
"Rudder left," Captain Kherov ordered. "Bring his bow into the wind."
A full regiment of airborne infantry, many of them seasick from two weeks aboard the huge barge-carrier, was at work testing and loading weapons. The Fucik's augmented crew was stripping the falsework from the aftermost four "barges," revealing each in fact to be a Lebed-type assault hovercraft. The six- man crew of each removed the covers over the air intakes that led to the engines they had tended with loving care for a month. Satisfied, they waved to the craft commanders, who lit off the three engines in each of the aftermost pair.
The ship's first officer stood at his elevator control station aft. On a hand signal, an eighty-five-man infantry company plus a reinforced mortar team were loaded into each craft. Power was increased, the hovercraft lifted up on their air cushions and were winched aft. In another four minutes, the vehicles were resting on the barge-loading elevator that formed the stem of the Seabee vessel.
"Lower away," the first officer ordered. The winch operators lowered the elevator to the surface. The sea was choppy, and four-foot waves lapped at the Fucik's bifurcated stem. When the elevator was level with the sea, first one, then the other Lebed commander increased power and moved off. At once, the elevator returned to the topmost deck while the first pair of hovercraft circled their mothership. In five more minutes, the four-assault craft moved off in box formation toward the Keflavik Peninsula.
The Fucik continued her turn, returning to a northerly course to make the next hovercraft trip a shorter one. Her weather deck was ringed with armed troops carrying surface-to-air missiles and machine guns. Andreyev remained on the bridge, knowing this was where he belonged, but wishing he were leading his assault troops.
A loud explosion soon caught his attention. Andreyev got to the bridge's viewport to see that the AS-4 missiles the bombers had launched had been destroyed before they could impact their targets.
"What on earth?" Andreyev wondered aloud. The next moment, he spotted two of the American F-15s, armed with missiles on their wing mounted pylons. And they were approaching the Fucik!
"Get those MANPADS ready!" he bellowed out to some of the disguised infantrymen hefting the launch tubes to their man-portable air-to air systems. They scrambled, flicking switches as the weapons whined, alive and ready.
By now, the F-15s were close enough that they released a single missile each. Already, their computerized "brains" in the missiles tips had locked on to that huge mass they could see. Andreyev felt his face slack as they roared closer and closer. Some of the men outside opened fire their Igla's, in attempt to confuse the missiles but they were already dead-set to where they would impact. Andreyev now did the only thing he could.
"Brace for impact!" he bellowed out the order and tackled Kherov to the ground.
Due to the Fucik turning, the first missile missed, flying harmlessly over the heads of several crewmembers up front before splashing down into the water with a great splash, causing a geyser of water to sprout into the air. Andreyev warily raised his head, perhaps the second missile would miss too and there wouldn't be much damage done after all.
There was no such luck.
The missile impacted into the Fucik's stern. There was a short 'bang!' before the missile ploughed into the innards of the ship. There was a brief silence before the explosion blossomed into existence, blowing outwards like blooming flower. Men cried as the light blinded them, Andreyev among them. The Fucik began to creak.
As the light dissipated, Andreyev looked up, to see a young paratrooper run in and stand above him. His face was covered in soot and the sailor's coveralls he wore were ripped with great jagged tears running all over. He reminded Andreyev of those Hiroshima bomb survivors. The boy gave a shaky salute, before giving his report."
'Comrade general, the stern in gone. There is no rear."
"What do you mean?" Andreyev probed, confused.
"There is no rear…we're slowly keeling down!"
Even as the paratrooper spoke, the Fucik gave an agonized groan, as if the ship itself was crying out in pain. Andreyev gritted his teeth, bracing himself against the console as the ship lurched forward again. The Fucik was keeling, bow pointed down toward the ocean floor, with the stern rising precariously into the air like some steel Leviathan's tail. He could hear the metallic groaning of the hull beneath his feet, the sound of a ship that knew its fate.
"Comrade General, we must abandon ship!" shouted one of the VDV officers, his voice cracking with panic. Andreyev turned to face him. He was barely out of boyhood, face alight with terror.
"Of course! Jump into the sea! The Lebed's will pick us up soon enough once they're done transporting the first company." The metallic creaks and moans filled the ship's structure, reverberating through every deck as if the ship itself was mourning its fate. Andreyev stood on the bridge, grasping the railing, teeth gritted as the weight of the disaster settled over him. There was no saving the Fucik; her stern had been gutted, and the once proud Soviet barge carrier was now slowly sinking into oblivion.
Kherov, the captain, was slumped against the wall. His face was pale, his breath ragged from the wound in his side. Blood stained his torn coveralls. The man was a civilian, brought into this military operation for his expertise with the Seabee system, but now he was barely able to stand. He opened his eyes, looking at Andreyev with an expression that was calm, almost resigned.
"Go, Comrade General," Kherov whispered. "You have men to save. Leave me... let me go down with my ship. This is where I belong."
Andreyev stared at him, his jaw clenched, refusing to acknowledge the words. He glanced around the bridge — the once steady nerve center of the Fucik was now a scene of chaos. Red emergency lights bathed the space in a surreal glow, and the sounds of shouting men and the crash of shifting equipment echoed through the corridor outside. The ship lurched again, tilting further. Time was running out.
"Don't be ridiculous," Andreyev growled, leaning down to hoist the injured captain onto his shoulders. Kherov protested weakly, but his strength was gone. "You're coming with me."
As Andreyev hefted Kherov in a fireman's carry, the floor beneath him shifted, throwing him off balance for a moment. The Fucik was sinking faster now. Outside, the sea was swallowing her up, the once formidable ship now an iron carcass sliding into the depths. Andreyev knew they had minutes, perhaps less, before the waters claimed everything.
With every step, Andreyev could feel the strain in his muscles, the added weight of Kherov a reminder of the urgency. He pushed forward through the smoke-filled corridors, dodging debris as the ship's bulkheads groaned louder. Ahead of him, men were already scrambling for the lifeboats, some had managed to dive into the sea, their hopes pinned on the Lebed hovercrafts circling in the distance.
Another lurch sent Andreyev stumbling into the wall. Kherov groaned but remained conscious. The tilt of the deck was becoming more severe. Soon the Fucik's stern would be high above the water, and the entire ship would plunge bow-first into the ocean. There was no time.
"Almost there," Andreyev grunted, pushing forward. He reached the hatch to the deck and shouldered it open. Outside, the scene was pandemonium. Soldiers and sailors were leaping over the side, plunging into the icy waters, desperate for survival. The last of the Lebed hovercrafts had already moved out toward shore with their initial loads, but there were still a few scattered inflatable rafts in the water. Andreyev could see one of them drifting closer, driven by the waves.
"Comrade General, the ship—" Kherov managed to say, but Andreyev cut him off.
"Hold on, Captain. We're not finished yet," he muttered through gritted teeth.
As they reached the edge of the deck, Andreyev spotted a ladder leading down to the water. He slung Kherov over his shoulder and began to descend. The waves were crashing against the hull, icy and unforgiving, but Andreyev didn't stop. The ship was going under. There was no turning back.
Just as Andreyev's boots touched the surface of the water, the Fucik gave a final, agonizing groan, her stern now fully vertical, jutting into the air like a tombstone for the hundreds still aboard. Andreyev tossed Kherov into the waiting raft, then climbed in himself, both men drenched from the spray.
"Mother of God..." Andreyev whispered as he watched the Fucik begin her final descent. The great ship, once a titan of Soviet ingenuity, was swallowed whole by the sea, the last remnants of her disappearing beneath the waves with a dull roar.
Andreyev sat back in the raft, exhausted, water dripping from his hair and uniform. He glanced at Kherov, who lay still, breathing but weak.
"You should've let me go, Comrade General..." Kherov murmured.
"Not today, Captain," Andreyev replied grimly. "Not today."
As they drifted away from the scene of destruction, Andreyev could see the distant shapes of the Lebed hovercrafts approaching, ready to recover the survivors. The battle was not over, and he knew there would be no rest for him or his men. But for now, they had survived. And that was enough.
USS PHARRIS
"Sonar contact, possible submarine bearing three-five-three," the sonarman announced.
And so it begins, Morris said to himself. Pharris was at general quarters for the first leg of the trip away from the U.S. coast. The frigate's tactical towed- array sonar was trailed out in her wake. They were twenty miles north of the convoy, a hundred ten miles east of the coast, just crossing the continental shelf line into truly deep water at the Lindenkohl Canyon. A perfect place for a submarine to hide.
"Show me what you have," the ASW officer ordered. Morris kept his peace and just watched his men at work.
The sonarman pointed to the waterfall display. It showed as a series of small digital blocks, numerous shades of green on a black background. Six blocks in a row were different from the random background pattern. Then a seventh. The fact that they were in a vertical row meant that the noise was being generated at a constant bearing from the ship, just west of north. Up to now, all they had was a direction to a possible noise source. They had no way of knowing the distance nor any of determining if it were really a submarine, a fishing boat with an overly loud motor, or simply a disturbance in the water. The signal source did not repeat for a minute, then came back. Then it disappeared again.
Morris and his ASW officer looked at the bathythermograph reading. Every two hours they dropped an instrument that measured water temperature as it fell through the water, reporting back by wire until it was cut loose to fall free to the bottom. The trace showed an uneven line. The water temperature decreased with depth, but not in a uniform way.
"Could be anything," the ASW officer said quietly.
"Sure could," the captain agreed. He went back to the sonar scope. It was still there. The trace had remained fairly constant for nine minutes now.
But what was the range to it? Water was a fine medium for carrying sound energy, far more efficient at it than air, but it had its own rules. One hundred feet below the Pharris was "the layer," a fairly abrupt change in water temperature. Like an angled pane of glass, it allowed some sound to pass through, but reflected most of it. Some of the energy would be ducted between layers, retaining its intensity for an enormous distance. The signal source they were listening to could be as close as five miles or as distant as fifty. As they watched, the scope trace started leaning a bit to the left, which meant that they were pulling east of it ... or it was pulling west of them, as a submarine might slide aft of her target as part of her own hunting maneuver. Morris went forward to the plotting table.
"If it's a target, it's pretty far off, I think," the quartermaster said quietly. It was surprising how quiet people were during antisubmarine warfare exercises, Morris thought, as though a submarine might hear their voices.
"Sir," the ASW officer said after a moment. "With no perceptible change in bearing, the contact has to be a good fifteen miles off. That means it has to be a fairly noisy source, probably too far to be an immediate threat. If it's a nuclear sub, we can get a cross-bearing after a short sprint."
Morris looked to the CIC's after bulkhead. His frigate was steaming at four knots. He lifted a "growler" phone.
"Bridge, Combat." "Bridge aye. XO speaking." "Joe, let's bend on twenty knots for five minutes. See if we can get a cross-bearing on the target we're working." "Aye, skipper." A minute later, Morris could feel the change in his ship's motion as her steam plant drove the frigate hard through the six-foot seas. He waited thoughtfully, wishing his ship had one of the more sensitive 2X arrays being fitted to the Perry-class fast-frigates. It was a predictably long five minutes, but ASW was a game that demanded patience.
Power was reduced, and as the ship slowed, the pattern on the sonar screen changed from random flow noise to random ambient noise, something more easily perceived than described. The captain, his ASW officer, and the sonar operator watched the screen intently for ten minutes. The anomalous sound tracing did not reappear. In a peacetime exercise they would have decided that it was a pure anomaly, water-generated noise that had stopped as unpredictably as it had started, perhaps a minor eddy that subsided on the surface. But now everything they detected had a potential red star and a periscope attached.
My first dilemma, Morris thought. If he investigated by sending his own helicopter or one of the Orion patrol aircraft, he might be sending them after nothing at all, and away from a path that could end with a real contact. If he did nothing, he might not be prosecuting a real contact. Morris sometimes wondered if captains should be issued coins with YES and NO stamped on either side, perhaps called a "digital decision generator" in keeping with the Navy's love for electronic-sounding titles.
"Any reason to think it's real?" he asked the ASW officer.
"No, sir." The officer wondered by this time if he had been right to call it to his captain's attention. "Not now."
"Fair enough. It won't be the last one."
I would like to inform all readers that as of now, Wi89 is on a temporary hiatus while I deal with some writers block. Don't panic, I will return. In the mean time, I'll post some projects here and there, one shots and short chapter content.