“All this isn’t unexpected. But you know what is?”
She shook her head.
He fixed her with a stare. “We are. They’re expecting a bunch of SSNs under the ice fighting their boats, but this sneaky bastard after ’em? No.”
She smiled and checked the coordinates. “Koss, Tango one’s position is… 77.702 north, 36.121 east. Give me a course.”
“Sir, 187 degrees.” She looked to Nathan, he nodded. “Planesman, come to 189.”
“One eight nine, aye sir.”
Nathan looked around his control room and felt a pride in this crew. Many had been with him since the initial shakedown cruise. Their first foray up into the Arctic and all that time in the Pacific. North Korea, the Spratlys, the Taiwan Strait, the Persian Gulf. Now, it had all come down to this. His orders were: “Sink that ship.” Nathan knew it was time to step up to the plate and sink the mother.
“Nik, it’s time. It’s time we did what we’re here for. I have her at 150 feet, 15 knots. That’s about four and a half hours until we’re in position.”
Nikki looked at the layout of the enemy task force and weighed up the options. “I think I’d be looking to land a right hook on him. Come in from the west.”
Nathan nodded. “We better let the Puzzle Palace know. Planesman, slow to four knots, up bubble 15, come to periscope depth.”
“Periscope depth, aye sir.” The deck tilted to aft, then after 40 seconds she came level.
“Periscope depth, sir.”
Nathan composed his transmission.
PRIORITY RED
R 271467Z DEC 86 ZY12
STONEWALL JACKSON
PACFLT// ID S072RQ81//
TO COMSUBPAC PEARL HARBOR HAWAII//N1//
NAVAL OPS/02
MSGID/STONEWALL JACKSON 479/ ACTUAL//
MSG BEGINS://
TODAY IS D DAY, H HOUR IS 06.30. REQUEST BIRDS AT 07.00
GENERAL THOMAS J ‘STONEWALL’ JACKSON INTENDS TO CLOSE RANKS AND SEEK OUT THE ENEMY.
MSG END//
Nathan raised the comms mast. “Lemineux, transmit that.”
“Sir, transmission sent and acknowledged.”
“Planesman, down 10, make your depth 150 feet, 15 knots.”
They cruised on for over an hour.
“Sir,” Benson looked up, “I’m picking up surface screw sounds, multiple warships ahead and to the left of our track, 30 miles away.”
“Thanks, keep listening.” Nathan turned back. “Can you zero in on Peter the Great?”
“I’ll try, sir.” Benson played with his screen and dials for a few minutes. “Yes, sir, I got him.”
“Put him on my intercom line when I say. Lemineux, help him.”
The two worked together and a couple of minutes later Lemineux nodded.
He picked up his address intercom. “All hands, all hands. This is your Captain speaking.”
Throughout the boat, men and women stopped and looked up.
“This day, we face the enemy. He’s up here to claim what he doesn’t own. These seas and passageways belong to all of us. Our task is easy to say and hard to do. Ivan’s sat in his bathtub with his diapers on, playing with his battleships and his favourite is Peter the Great. He doesn’t know it yet, but there’s something in there with him. Something malevolent, something evil, something us. Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here to carry out our task. We’ve been given our orders: Peter the Great, sink the motherfucker. Here’s what he sounds like, this is live.”
A thrashing, rhythmic, thrumming sound, the Cruiser’s props pushing the great ship forward, was broadcast throughout the boat.
“That’s him: the Devil incarnate. You’re here to give Peter the bayonet. Give it to him good. Captain out.”
Nathan replaced the handset, and a cheer went through the boat. Nikki looked up, alarmed at the noise.
He held his hand up. “Let them, Nik. Let them.”
18
Thule AFB. Northern Greenland.
Eight Pratt and Whitney PW-815 engines forced out 120,000lbs of thrust and started the big BUFF bomber rolling down the runway. She gathered speed and, at the right airspeed, Major Bob Jones pulled back on the stick.
At first nothing happened, then the B52 eased off the runway and took flight. Gear up 900 feet and now in the foggy clag, Jones rolled her to the east, watching the artificial horizon in front of him. Outside of the window was floor to ceiling grey cloud.
“Thule, Chicken Owl one heading east, Chicken Owl flight, birds two to eight close up, transit at 28,000 before we get down to the ice for the run-in.”
The aircraft formed a very loose V formation and flew off over the icecap towards Russia and the Barents Sea. Sixty-four Turbofan engines roared their way over the icecap and far away. Far away to destiny.
Yet another F15 Strike Eagle taxied to the end of the runway, turned, and lit the afterburner.
“Betty Boop’s boys, four rolling.”
“Copy, four give ’em hell.”
“Four requesting permission for a flyby.”
“Negative, four,” said the female fighter controller.
The F15 pulled skywards roaring thunder in its wake.
“Aw, go on, Miss.”
“On your return, four, you can flyby and then take me out.”
“Lady, you got yourself a deal.”
The next aircraft, Betty Boop’s boys five, took its place at the end of the runway and then thundered off, trailing two sheets of flame.
Like its colleagues, it carried the AGM-158 JASSM, a standoff cruise missile with a range of 240 miles. Basic guidance was by GPS with course updates; on terminal approach the missile would employ infra-red and ATR, Auto Target Recognition. On impact, JASSM would slam a 1,000lb high explosive warhead into an enemy.
Betty Boop’s boys flew over Iceland’s volcanoes and her stark but beautiful landscape towards the Arctic seas.
She ran her eyes over the instruments, punching through the different screens on the glass cockpit screen. The F/A 18 Super Hornet looked green for go. She pulled the mask and air hose over her chin and clipped it on. The steel hull passed vertically down as the aircraft rose on the elevator to the flight deck.
Ruby Frances ‘No Bone’ Mann loved flying the Bug and the CAG, Commander Air Group, had told her she’d been slotted in as the new squadron leader after this cruise. Squadron leader of The Jokers. Wow, me?
The towering superstructure became visible to the right, then aircraft, men and women scurried around the flight deck, their jackets flapping in the wind. The ship had turned into the wind to increase windspeed across the deck.
Snap. The elevator was fully raised. A man in a helmet and day glo, a yellow shirt, waved her towards the CAT.
“This is us, No Bone. Another time we get thrown off the deck into shit.”
“You love it, Rusty. Don’t give me that horseshit.” Her backseater, Weapons Officer Bo ‘Rusty’ O’Flyn was always moaning. She didn’t often take him on.
“Yeah, well, look at that steam rising from the CAT.”
EMALS was down: they were on backup steam catapult. A thud clack from bellow the nose meant they were attached to the cable.
“You know what they say about horseshit, No Bone? You know, lady, they say steam be rising off a horseshit. That’s us in a pile of it now.”
It was a final check out. She gave all a look around; clear.
“How do your numbers look, Rusty? Are we mission go?”
“Yeah, just got some bad shit about this one.”
She looked over to the yellow jacket deck officer and twirled her hand. Are we go?