Red Storm Rising (1986) (43 page)

“We may need it closed,” Alekseyev said after the captain left.

His boss grunted agreement. Things in Germany were not going well. The Soviet Air Force had been hurt even worse than they had feared, and as a result the land campaign was already far behind schedule. On the second day of the war, the first day’s objectives had been met in only one army’s zone, and that one was being heavily counterattacked twenty kilometers east of Hamburg. Tank losses had been 50 percent higher than predicted, and control of the air was in jeopardy, with many units reporting heavier-than-expected air attacks. Only half of the Elbe bridges had been replaced as yet, and the floating ribbon bridges could not carry all the load of the highway bridges they replaced. The NATO armies had not yet reached their peak strength. American reinforcements were still arriving by air, mating up with their pre-positioned equipment. The Soviet first echelon was being bled, and the second echelon was still largely trapped behind the Elbe.

“About as dark as it’s gonna get,” Edwards said. The light level was what meteorologists and sailors called nautical twilight. Visibility was down to five hundred yards with the sun just below the northwest horizon. The lieutenant put on his pack and rose. His Marines did the same, with as much enthusiasm as a child on his way to school.

They headed down the shallow slope toward the Sudura River, more a fair-sized creek, Edwards thought. The lava field provided good cover. The ground was littered with rocks, some as much as three feet high, a landscape that broke up shapes and disguised movement to the casual observer. He hoped there was nothing more than that out there. They had observed a number of Soviet patrols, mainly on military trucks that passed through the area at intervals of about thirty minutes. They saw no fixed positions. Certainly they had garrisoned the hydroelectric power station at Burfell, farther east on Route 1. No one had bombed that yet: the lights were still bright in some of the homes below them.

The rocks got smaller as the land changed to a grassy meadow. There had been sheep here recently—the smell was unmistakable and the grass was short. Instinctively the men walked in a crouch toward a gravel road. The houses and barns here were spread irregularly. They picked a spot where the space between buildings was about five hundred yards, hoping that the dim light and their camouflage uniforms would make them invisible to any observer. No one was about in the open. Edwards halted his group and looked carefully through his binoculars at the nearest houses. Lights burned in some, but no people were visible outside. Perhaps the Russians had imposed a curfew . . . meaning that anyone seen moving might be shot on sight. Happy thought.

The riverbanks sloped downward sharply about twenty feet to the water, and were covered with rocks smoothed by years of erosion at high-water time. Smith went down first as the others lay with weapons ready at the lip of the south bank. The sergeant moved slowly at first, checking the water depth before hurrying across, rifle held high in the air. Edwards was surprised how quickly he went through it, then up the far bank. The sergeant waved, and the rest of the men followed. Edwards soon found out why the sergeant had crossed the stream quickly. The waist-deep water was icy cold, like most of the streams on Iceland, fed by melting glaciers. He gasped and went across as fast as he could, his rifle and radio held above his head. A minute later he was atop the far bank.

Smith chuckled in the dark. “I guess that woke everybody up.”

“Like to froze my balls off, Sarge,” Rodgers groused.

“Looks clear ahead,” Edwards said. “Beyond this meadow is another creek, then the main road, a secondary road, then up a hill into a lava field. Let’s keep moving.”

“Right, Lieutenant.” Smith got to his feet and moved off. The others trailed behind him at five-yard intervals.
The little bastard’s in a hurry, isn’t he?

The ground here was agreeably flat, the grass as high as their boot tops. They moved rapidly, keeping low, weapons held ready across their chests as they angled slightly east to avoid the village of Holmur. The next stream was shallower than the Sudura, though no less cold. They stopped on crossing it, now only two hundred yards from the highway. Again Smith moved off first, this time with his back bent double, moving in rushes followed by pauses while he knelt to examine the terrain repeatedly. The men behind him matched his movements exactly, and the team got together again in tall grass fifty feet from the road.

“Okay,” Smith said. “We cross one at a time, a minute apart. I go first. I’ll stop fifty feet on the other side by those rocks. When you cross, don’t screw around—run and keep low, and come to me. If you see something coming, get as far from the road as you can and drop. They can’t see you if you lay still, people. Take things real easy. Okay?” Everyone, Edwards included, nodded agreement.

The sergeant was as good as his word. After a final look to be sure that nothing was moving in their direction, he raced off across the road, his personal gear flopping and slapping against his body as he did so. They waited a minute, then Garcia followed. After another minute, Rodgers went. Edwards counted to sixty and darted forward. The lieutenant was amazed—and appalled—at how stressful this was. His heart pounded with terror as he reached the roadway, and he froze dead in the center. Automobile lights were approaching them from the north. Edwards just stood there, watching them come closer—

“Move your ass, Lieutenant!” the sergeant’s voice rasped at him.

The lieutenant shook his head clear and ran to the sound of the sergeant’s voice, one hand holding his helmet in place on his head.

“Lights coming down!” he gasped.

“No shit. Be cool, sir. People, let’s get spread out. Find some good cover and freeze. And make Goddamned sure those weapons are on
safe!
You stay with me, sir.”

The two privates moved left and right into tall weeds, disappearing from view as soon as they stopped moving. Edwards lay next to Sergeant Smith.

“You think they saw me?”

The darkness prevented him from seeing the angry expression accompanying Smith’s reply: “Prob’ly not. Don’t freeze in the road like that again, sir.”

“I won’t. Sorry, Sarge, this isn’t exactly my thing.”

“Just listen and learn what we tell ya’, okay?” Smith whispered. “We’re Marines. We’ll take good care of you.”

The lights approached slowly, proceeding down the steep grade to their north. The driver didn’t trust the loose gravel surface. The north-south road split here, forking left and right to Route 1. It had to be a military truck, they saw. The lights were rectangular, taped slips over headlights installed at the Soviets’ massive Kama River factory, built largely with Western aid. The truck stopped.

Edwards did not allow himself to react, except that his grip tightened on the plastic stock of his rifle. What if someone had seen them cross the road and telephoned the Russians? Smith’s hand reached out and pushed the lieutenant’s rifle down.

“Let’s be careful with that, Lieutenant,” Smith whispered.

The ten men in the truck dismounted and spread into the grass off the road, perhaps fifty yards away. Edwards couldn’t tell if they carried weapons or not. Each man stopped, and almost in unison they unbuttoned their flies to urinate. Edwards gawked and nearly laughed. Finished, they moved back to the truck, which started up and proceeded west on the fork to the main road, motoring off with the sound on a poorly muffled diesel engine. The Marines reformed as the truck’s taillights dipped under the horizon.

“Too bad.” Rodgers smiled in the semidarkness. “I coulda blow’d one guy’s pecker right off!”

“You done good, people,” Smith said. “Ready to move out, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah.” Shamed by his performance, the lieutenant let Smith lead them off. They crossed the gravel road and a hundred yards later were in yet another lava field, climbing over rocks into the wasteland. Their wet fatigue pants clung to their legs, drying slowly in the cool westerly breeze.

“Our friend the November doesn’t have an anechoic coating,” ASW said quietly, pointing to the display. “I think that’s him, running to catch up with the convoy.”

“We have this trace plotted at about forty-six thousand yards,” the tactical action officer said.

“Get the helo up,” Morris ordered.

Five minutes later,
Pharris’s
helicopter was running southwest at full speed, and Bluebird-Seven, another P-3C Orion, was closing on the datum point from the east. Both aircraft flew low, hoping to surprise the submarine that had killed one of their flock and gravely damaged another. The Russian had probably made a mistake by increasing his speed. Maybe he had orders to trail the convoy and radio data for other submarines to use. Maybe he wanted to catch up to make another attack. Whatever the reason, his reactor pumps were running and making noise that his hull could not contain. His periscope was up, and that gave the aircraft a chance to spot him with their look-down radars. The helo was closer, and its pilot was communicating with the tactical coordinator of the Orion. This could be a textbook attack if things worked out right.

“Okay, Bluebird, we are now three miles from datum center. Say your position.”

“We’re two miles behind you, Papa-One-Six. Illuminate!”

The systems operator flipped the cover off the radar switch and moved it from Standby to Active. Instantly, energy began to radiate from the radar transmitter slung under the helicopter’s nose.

“Contact, we have a radar contact bearing one-six-five, range eleven hundred yards!”

“Stream the MAD gear!” The pilot advanced his throttles to race toward the contact.

“We got him, too,” the Tacco called swiftly. The petty officer beside him armed a torpedo, setting its initial search depth for a hundred feet.

The helicopter’s anticollision lights came on, the red lights flashing in the darkness. No sense in hiding their approach now. The sub must have detected their radar signals and would now be attempting a crash dive. But that took more time than he had.

“Madman, madman, smoke away!” the systems operator screamed.

The smoke was invisible in the darkness, but the short green flame was an unmissable beacon in the darkness. The helo banked left, clearing the way for the Orion now only five hundred yards behind him.

The P-3C’s powerful searchlights came on, spotting the telltale wake left by the now-invisible periscope. The MAD contact had been right on, the pilot saw at once. The Orion’s bomb doors swung open and the torpedo dropped toward the black waters along with a sonobuoy.

“Positive sonar contact, evaluate as submarine!” a sonar-board operator said over the intercom. The tone lines displayed on his screen were exactly what a November at high speed looked like, and the torpedo chasing her was already on continuous pinging. “Torpedo is closing the target rapidly . . . Looks good, Tacco, closing . . . closing—
impact!
” The torpedo’s sound tracing merged with that of the submarine, and a brilliant splotch appeared in the waterfall display. The Orion’s operator switched the sonobuoy from active to passive, recording the recurring rumbles of the torpedo warhead explosion. The submarine’s screw sounds stopped, and again he heard the sound of blowing air that quickly stopped as the submarine began her last dive.

“That’s a kill, that’s a kill!” exulted the Tacco.

“Confirm the kill,” Morris said over the radio. “Nice job, Bluebird. That was a real quick-draw!”

“Roger, copy,
Pharris.
Thank you, sir! Beautiful job with the helo and the detection, guy. You just got another assist. Hell, we might just orbit you for a while, Captain, looks like you got all the action. Out.”

Morris walked to the corner and poured himself a cup of coffee. So, they had just helped to kill a pair of Soviet submarines.

The TAO was less enthusiastic. “We got a noisy old Foxtrot and a November who did something dumb. You suppose he had orders to trail and report, and that’s why we got him?”

“Maybe,” Morris nodded. “If Ivan’s making his skippers do things like that—well, they like central control, but that can change if they find out it’s costing them boats. We learned that lesson ourselves once.”

McCafferty had his own contact. They had been tracking it for over an hour now, the sonar operators struggling to discern random noise from discrete signal on their visual displays. Their data was passed to the fire-control tracking party, four men hovering over the chart table in the after corner of the attack center.

Already the crew was whispering, McCafferty knew. First the yard fire before they were commissioned. Then being pulled out of the Barents Sea at the wrong time. Then being attacked by a friendly aircraft . . . was
Chicago
an unlucky boat? they wondered. The chiefs and officers would work to dispel that thought, but the chiefs and officers held it, too, since all sailors believed in luck, an institutional faith among submariners.
If you’re not lucky, we can’t
use you, a famous submarine admiral once said. McCafferty had heard that story often enough. He had so far been devoid of luck.

The captain moved back to the chart table. “What’s happening?”

“Not much in the way of a bearing change. He has to be way out there, skipper, like the third convergence zone. Maybe eighty miles. He can’t be closing us. We would have lost the signal as he passed out of the zone.” The executive officer was showing the strain of the past week’s operations, too. “Captain, if I had to guess, I’d say we’re tracking a nuclear sub. Probably a noisy one. Acoustical conditions are pretty good, so we have three CZs to play with. And I’d bet he is doing the same thing we are, patrolling a set position. Hell, he could be running back and forth on a racetrack pattern, same as us. That would account for the minimal bearing changes.”