A submarine, if the captain and crew are in concert with their complex equipment, can avoid an active sonar sweep unless the searching unit is already on top of them. The intelligence originally programmed into the Newport computer identified each uncovered area, and part of the assumption was that the enemy sub would naturally head for those empty spaces. As the destroyers swept through the sonobuoy screen, the helos would hop to their rear, dipping their sonar in the open areas that had not been covered by the ships. The planes would then split up, each group sewing a line of sonobuoys on two sides to complete an imperfect rectangle approximately ninety by fifty miles.
Nelson impatiently listened to the reports. Occasionally he would go down to combat to check the electronic display of the search. It was remarkably accurate for a first effort, especially considering that there were more than five thousand square miles to be covered in less than three hours. If the subs were out there, he had to get them!
Within the next half hour, there were five contact reports, each one classified within moments as a submarine. Now for the hold down!
“This is Hedgehog.” Nelson spoke calmly over the tactical circuit to his small force. “We will now commence the terror aspect of our new system.” He rolled the word “terror” over his tongue as if he savored the idea. “Our friends down below are already surprised enough that we found them so easily. I want every unit to have a turn running attacks. At each instance, one destroyer will stand off to the side and explain over the underwater telephone exactly what we are doing. The subs each have someone who can understand English, and if they don’t, I think they’ll get the idea fast enough. We’re going to make this part of the Med sound like Coney Island. I want anything in the water that will make noise. And I want grenades dropped at the right time to signify hits from each attack — whether or not you think your solution was correct. Every unit will take its attack solution as gospel and complete every step except for the actual firing. I want computer tapes from each of you after we finish. Should there be any reason to think our friends might do something stupid, I will be the only one to give the firing order. You will treat this as actual — not an exercise.”
ABOARD U.S.S. JOHN F. KENNEDY
On the Kennedy, Admiral Pratt listened to the tactical circuit between his recon aircraft and interceptors.
“Bulldogs, Bulldogs,” called the intercept officer on the circling Hawkeye, “your targets are dead ahead at one four zero miles, speed mach one point four, course two six five, two thousand feet above you, and they have no idea you’re down there. Report your lock-on.”
Almost in unison, the pilots announced target acquisition. Their on-board computers developed a solution that was then fed into their missile-control systems. Once fired, the Phoenix missile could be guided by the fighter plane until it acquired its target or the recon aircraft could override and take over direction.
“Stand by to fire, Bulldogs.”
Pratt knew that the instant the F-14s locked on to the Soviet planes, a warning signal went off in the enemy cockpits, accompanied by an automatic jammer on the missile frequency. He also knew the Russian pilots had to be aware their missile jammers were only a partial defense, for the recon planes could guide the missiles onto target. He waited for the next transmission.
“Archer, this is Bulldog One. Targets have commenced evasive action.” There was a slight hesitation. “They must be damn sure our birds have been fired. Ho! They’re on a roller coaster ride.”
Pratt picked up the mike. “Bulldog One, this is Archer. When your Bulldogs have visual contact, I want them in on a wing-tip escort. I want those Backfires to understand they’ve been had.” He paused for a moment as he surveyed the air-status board, searching for the next Russian flight. “Bulldog One, you’re already painting the next group. You have F-18s reporting shortly. Follow identical procedure.” Pratt had no more than relighted his cigar when Loomis called out, “Admiral, Hancock’s got submarines coming out his ears.”
Pratt punched the numbers for the 17 circuit again. “I give up,” he growled. “What’s Nellie’s call sign?”
“Who?”
“Hancock, what’s their call sign.”
“Hedgehog, sir.”
“For your next project, you can make a list for me, for everyone in here. This is driving me crazy.” Though the communications officer would prepare a special call-sign board for the admiral, he had the feeling that no matter what the situation, Pratt would still be growling about his call signs. “Hedgehog, this is Archer One. I understand you have made contact. Over.”
“Affirmative, Archer. There may be one or two who’ve gone silent for a while, but we have everybody who wanted to make life difficult. I am prosecuting now. Over.”
Dave Pratt relaxed at the sound of Nellie’s soft, mellifluous voice. The man could maintain his calm under any conditions. “Give each unit a chance to conduct an attack, and have them do it over again if you have any doubts. Once you’re satisfied, you may release airborne units. Keep contact if possible until they reverse course toward the Libyan coast. I assume you have your search-and-attack phases on tape. Over.”
“Roger, Archer. We did make a couple of small changes now that we’ve seen how it really works. I think we can distribute to all ASW computers now. We’re not going to have this chance again.”
“Roger, Hedgehog. When you rejoin the formation, request you ferry over to me for conference. Out.”
Admiral Pratt leaned back in his chair, stretching his feet out under the console before him and locking his hands behind his head. Christ, it was good to be out here! It was what he was good at, what he had trained for over the last few years, and it was what he was afraid might pass him by, perhaps fall into the hands of another man who simply did not have the background.
Then he thought of Ryng and Cobb, each off on his own, away from all the supposed security of the electronics world, operating purely by his own wits. Perhaps they were better off than he — even safer! But he sure as hell wished he knew what they were doing and if there was anything he could do for them. He could not communicate with them. Anything that came to him would be relayed — if anything came at all.
SPITZBERGEN
Ryng’s eyes snapped shut with the initial burst from the automatic rifle. The reaction was instinctive, and he’d never been able to break it. His first time on the range the instructor had chewed him out, and Bernie never forgot the shock of that first moment — the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the chill running from his groin up through his spine, the shudder through his entire body. Then he had been all right.
This time was no different — it never would be. His finger squeezed and released the trigger in an instant, yet he was aware that his eyes were shut. There was the icy feeling in his groin, a chill like the cold blade of a knife that followed some primal nerve, shooting up his spine; then he shuddered involuntarily, the act shaking his entire body.
Then he was in motion again. That also was instinctive — anyone he might not have seen would have no chance of finding a target.
The Black Beret directly in front of him was spinning wildly as the impact of the bullets flung his body back against the wall. Another reflected a momentary look of surprise as his chest was stitched with the small, steel-cored slugs. Then his lifeless body jumped involuntarily in a neat back flip. The AK-74 bullets, tumbling as they entered the body, were designed to be especially lethal.