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One torpedo went wild, diving after a decoy and exploding on the bottom. The other locked on Boston and slowly ate up the distance. Another bright dot appeared, and that was that. “Yankee-search the Alfa,” McCafferty said, his voice low with rage. The submarine vibrated with the powerful sonar pulses. “Bearing one-zero-nine, range thirteen thousand.” “Set!” “Match and shoot!” The Alfa didn’t wait to hear the incoming torpedoes. Her skipper knew that there was a third sub out there, knew that he’d been pinged. The Soviet sub went to maximum speed and turned east.
“Okay, now we’ll try again.” They were three miles from the ice now, and Chicago was quiet. The Alfa turned west, and McCafferty’s tracking party gathered data to compute her range. The turn west was a mistake. He evidently expected Chicago to run for the pack and safety. “Conn, sonar. New contact, bearing zero-zero-three.” Now what? Another Russian trap? “I need information!” “Very faint, but I got a bearing change, just moved to zero-zero-four.” A quartermaster looked up from his slide rule. “Range has to be under ten thousand yards, sir!” “Transients, transients!—torpedo in the water
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“It’s a Brit. That’s one of their new Spearfish. I didn’t know they had any in the fleet yet.” “How fast?” the sonar chief asked. “Sixty or seventy knots.” “Gawd! Let’s buy some.”
The Alfa ran straight for three miles, then turned north to head for the ice. She didn’t make it. The Spearfish cut the corner. The lines on the display merged again, and a final bright dot appeared. “Bring her around north,” McCafferty told the exec. “Go to eighteen knots. I want to be sure he knows who we are.”
“We are HMS Torbay. Who are you?”...
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“We will escort you.” “Understood. Do you know if the mission was successful?” “Yes, it was.”
40
The Killing...
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STYKKISHOLMUR, ICELAND
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
“But we are not sure they are there. The harbor is too dangerous for—” “Where the hell else would they be?” Andreyev demanded. “Our observation posts there do not answer us, and we have reports of enemy helicopters moving south and east from that direction. Think, man!” “Comrade General, the Navy’s primary objective will be the enemy carrier force.” “Then explain to our comrades in blue that carrier aircraft cannot take Iceland away from us, but their fucking Marines can!”
“One battalion. Ten BMD infantry carriers; the rest of the transport is trucks and commandeered vehicles. They have mortars, antitank missiles, and hand-held SAMs. They are deployed to cover the highway bridge above Bogarnes.” “The Americans are already looking down at them from this hill. What sort of aircraft have we seen?” “The Americans have several carriers within striking distance of us. Twenty-four fighters and thirty-four attack aircraft per carrier. If they also landed a full division of Marines, we are facing a significant number of helicopters, plus fixed-wing Harriers. These can
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It was complicated to do, but a Flash information request from the Commander Northern Fleet cut through most of the bureaucracy. One of the two real-time-capable Soviet reconnaissance satellites burned a quarter of its maneuvering fuel to alter its orbit and came low over Iceland two hours later. Minutes later, the last Soviet RORSAT was launched south from the Baikonor Kosmodrome, and its first revolution took it within radar range of Iceland. Four hours after Andreyev’s message, the Russians had a clear picture of what was arrayed at Iceland.
BRUSSELS, BELGIUM
HUNZEN, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
“Heavy enemy air activity at Salzhemmendorf,” an Air Force communications officer reported. That’s where 40th Tanks is, Alekseyev thought.
“Fortieth Tanks reports a major enemy attack under way on its front.” “What do they mean by ‘major’?” “The report comes from the alternate command post. I can’t reach the divisional HQ. The assistant commander reports American and German tanks advancing in brigade force.”
“Enemy attack in progress at Dunsen.” “Dunsen? That’s close to Gronau. How the hell did they get there?” Alekseyev snapped. “Confirm that report! Is it an air or ground attack?” “Hundred twentieth Motor-Rifle has a full regiment across the Weser. They are advancing on Brökeln. Eighth Tanks’ leading elements have the Weser in sight. SAM units are setting up to cover the crossing point.”
My rear areas are awfully weak . . . “Comrade General, the attack at Dunsen is composed of enemy tank and motorized troops with heavy tactical air support. The regimental commander at Dunsen estimates brigade strength.” A brigade at Dunsen, and a brigade at Salzhemmendorf?
“Enemy ground units at Bremke, strength unknown.” That’s only fifteen kilometers from here! Alekseyev reached for some maps. It was cramped in the command vehicle, so he went outside and spread them on the ground with his intelligence officer beside him. “What the hell’s going on here?” His hand moved across the map. “That’s an attack on a twenty-kilometer front.”
“Headquarters at Fölziehausen reported a heavy air attack and went off the air!”
Four tactical fighters leveled the center of the town, where the transmitters were, with high-explosive bombs. “Get Alternate One going immediately,” Alekseyev ordered. More aircraft swept overhead, heading southwest toward Highway 240, where Alekseyev’s A units were moving toward Rühle. The General found a working radio and called CINC-West at Stendal.
Alekseyev looked at the radiotelephone receiver in disbelief. He had worked for this man—two years. They were friends. He’s always trusted my judgment. “You order me to continue the attack regardless of enemy action?” “Pasha, they make another spoiling attack—nothing more serious than that. Get those four divisions across the Weser,” the man said more gently. “Out.”
Pasha watched Sergetov board a light truck. He could not face his officer. “I have my orders. The operation to cross the Weser continues. We have an antitank battalion at Holle. Tell them to move north and be alert for enemy forces on the road from Bremke. General Beregovoy knows what he’s supposed to do.”
The M-1 tank had an engine governor that limited its speed to about forty-three miles per hour. It was always the first thing the crews removed. His M-1 was going south at fifty-seven miles per hour.
“Buffalo Three-One, this is Comanche, over.” “Comanche, this is Three-One. Report, over.” “We just popped a Russian truck. Everything else looks clear. Roll ’em, cowboy!” the helicopter pilot urged.
“Target BTR, eleven o’clock, twenty-seven hundred! Fire when ready, Woody!” The first of the eight-wheel vehicles exploded before any of their crews knew a tank was near. They were looking for aircraft, not enemy tanks forty kilometers in the rear. The next two died within a minute, and Mackall’s platoon of four tanks dashed forward.
First the tanks located and engaged anything that looked even vaguely dangerous. Machine-gun fire began working on the trucks, while the main guns reached into the tank-repair yard established in the fields north of the town.
His choice was a difficult one. If he returned to the command post, it was a walk of twenty kilometers. If he ran to the rear, he might find friendly units in half the time and get the alarm out. But running that way was cowardice, wasn’t it?
The shock of seeing the American tanks was bad enough. What he saw here was far worse. The Army tank-repair yard was a smoking ruin. Everywhere there were burning trucks. At least it was downhill. He ran down the east side of the ridge right up to the river. Quickly stripping off his pistol belt, Sergetov leaped into the swift current.
Intelligence said that eight Russian divisions were on the west side of this river. Mackall was sitting on their supply route. That made it a very important plot of real estate.
USS INDEPENDENCE
They expected no more than fifty Backfires, but there were still plenty of the older Badgers, and the fleet was only fifteen hundred miles from the Soviet bomber bases: they could come out with nearly their maximum ordnance loads. To stop the Russians, the Navy had six squadrons of Tomcats, and six more of Hornets, nearly a hundred forty fighters in all. Twenty-four were aloft now, supported by tankers while the ground-attack aircraft pounded Russian positions continuously. The battleships had ended their first visit to the Keflavik area and were now in Hvalfjördur—Whale Bay—providing fire
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The Tomcats reached out to the northern Icelandic shore, curving into loitering circles as they awaited the Russian bombers.
The Russians did not have their troops as widely dispersed as they’d thought, and the known concentrations were being subjected to a hurricane of bombs and rockets.
“Numerous radar contacts. Raid One is fifty aircraft, bearing zero-zero-nine, range three-six-zero, speed six hundred knots, altitude three-zero thousand. Raid Two—”
“We have the main raid, probably Badgers going for the ’phibs. This one will be Backfires. They’ll try to launch on us, probably far out to draw our fighters off,” Toland said.
The Russian plan of attack had anticipated that the American fighters would try to burn through the jamming aircraft to the north, then be caught off balance by the appearance of the Backfires to the east. But the jammers were gone, and the Backfires did not yet have the American carrier fleet on radar and could not launch their missiles on the basis of hours-old satellite photographs.
The supersonic Russian bombers went to afterburner and activated their radars in a contest with time, distance, and American interceptors.
Finally one aircraft got a surface radar contact and radioed a position. The seven remaining Backfires fired their missiles and turned north at Mach 2. Three more fell to missiles before the fighters had to turn away. Again the Vampire call came in, and again Toland cringed. Twenty incoming missiles were plotted.
cloud, and only one of them headed for a carrier. America’s three-point-defense guns tracked the AS-6 and destroyed it a thousand feet from the ship. The other two missiles both found the cruiser Wainwright and exploded her four miles from Independence.
