A woman’s electronic voice came into his ears. “You have selected weapons release. Confirm please.” This was the master weapons computer nicknamed Betty.
“Yes.”
“Do I have release authority?”
“Release the fucking bird, Betty.”
“Repeat, please.”
“Fuck me.”
“I don’t register the weapon fuck me. Repeat, please.”
He suppressed giving Betty a mouthful. “You have release authority.”
“Authority granted. Weapon release go.”
Did Betty sound self-satisfied? The missile fell away, lit its motor and rushed off to meet the Northern Fleet.
“Anything else you want me to do for you?”
Under his visor, Betty one smiled. “Betty, can you suck my…? Forget it. No, we’re done.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll shut my sorry ass down now.”
He laughed. The ground techs had been up to no good. He turned the big fighter to the right and back to Keflavik.
A call came over.
“Flight from Betty four. A certain hot fighter controller has promised me a flyby of Keflavik tower and a date. On my way, lady.”
The boat made her way toward the Northern Fleet formation. The boat was quiet but not undetectable. Slowly, she stalked her prey.
“Anything odd, Benson?”
“No, sir. Lucy’s helping big style. I do have sounds consistent with a dipping sonar entering the sea several miles to the south. It must be a Ka-27 Helix hovering, probably standard ASW activity. He’s too far away to hear us.”
Nathan looked at his wristwatch: 06.53. It was time. He’d named the action Operation Truncate.
“Weaps, ready the VPM tubes, ready all birds for launch. Planesman, up bubble ten, vent fore and aft, come to periscope depth.”
“Aye, sir.” The boat slid quietly towards the surface. “Periscope depth, sir.”
There were three VPM tubes vertically arranged aft of the sail. In each were seven dispensers; each of these could be ejected to the surface. Once there, the cap would blow off and a Tomahawk BGN-109 cruise missile would be launched. The nuclear warheads had been removed. The warhead they carried was a 1,600 pound HE-FRAG round, or 166 BLU 97/B bomblets. Tomahawks have a range in excess of 1,500 miles. USS Stonewall Jackson could rain down 21 terrain-following missiles on an opponent. In this case, they’d be raining down on the Northern Fleet much closer.
Weaps was hard at work on his station setting up the strike. All checks were carried out; it was time.
Nathan unhooked his microphone. “All hands. Battle stations, battle stations. Commencing Operation Truncate. Battle stations, battle stations. Weaps, your H hour is 06.58.”
“Plan of ops loaded. Activating all birds, sir.”
The Weapons Officer was a little eccentric and had named the missiles after NFL teams. He’d used NHL teams before; even worse, he’d used porn actresses. Nathan had told him that was a bit beyond and not to do it again.
Nathan and Nikki had chosen two routes to the targets. From the north and the south, routes A and B, hit them from both sides.
“VPM tube one. Patriots returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T1.
“Cowboys, returns Gyro up, green board, route B, target T2.
“49ers, returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T3.
“Bengals, returns Gyro up, green board, route B, target T4.
“Seahawks, returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T5.
“Falcons, returns Gyro up, green board, route B, target T6.
“Colts, returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T7.
“VPM tube two. Giants, returns Gyro up, green board, route A, target T8…”
The Tomahawks reported their status one by one.
“All birds up and ready. One faulty in tube two, sir.”
“Open outer doors, VPM one to three.”
“Outer doors open, sir.”
Nathan checked his wristwatch again. He counted the seconds down.
“Weaps, execute Truncate on my command.”
Fifty seven, fifty eight, fifty nine.
“Go, go, go!”
There was a faint whooshing sound from back aft.
“On the surface, Patriots reports launch, good burn. Motor in, wings deployed, gaining altitude. Truncate is go, we have a bird.”
“Planesman, down bubble 20,” ordered Nathan. “Vent fore and aft, make your depth 300 feet. Maintain speed and heading.”
There were still a few miles to go yet.
One by one, the Tomahawks reached the surface, ignited their motors and soared into the night. The shit storm of 20 cruise missiles flew into the dawn sky on their way towards the ships of the Russian Northern Fleet. The Barents Sea had never seen the like before.
“Sir,” said Benson with some alarm in his voice. “I detect a dipping sonar 1.6 miles south. It must be that Helix again. At that range, there’s a danger he’ll hear us.”
“Planesman, speed 7 knots,” barked Nathan. He reduced speed and noise.
“Sir, we do have Vulture’s Stare,” said Nikki.
She was reminding him that the boat was equipped with a mast-mounted 150Kw laser. It was designed to be used at fairly short ranges, seven miles, against airborne threats like the Helix Helicopter.
“He may not have detected us yet. Let’s try to hide for now.”
Benson put his head in between his hands as he did when concentrating. “I’m getting good returns on the vessels. A bit too much noise in fact, sir. I’m localising.”
He knew better than to interrupt when Benson was doing his thing. He was one of the best.
“Oh, new contacts. One, two, three, four. He’s laying a sonobuoy line to the northwest, leading behind us but only.75 miles away, sir. I’m not happy.”
“Has he withdrawn the dipping sonar?”
He knew sometimes you could hear this; especially if the helicopter was starting to fly forward too early.
“No, sir. We now have eight sonobuoys in a line behind us, but we do have clear space to the northwest.”
The USAF and USN missile strike must be anytime now. What would that do to the Helix? Would he panic? Run for it, or just get on with the job?
Nathan knew that trying to get in an enemy’s head wasn’t easy. You had to try though; you couldn’t command without that skill. He’d always found that Russian helo crews were usually quite cool. The Chinese, not being as experienced, were a bit more impulsive. But you never knew.
“Shit,” said Benson. “We have a drop, six miles behind us. It sounds like… Yes, prop noise. Computer says 70 % chance it’s an APR. Wait one… wait. Yes, that’s it, I can tell. It’s an APR-2 Yastreb torpedo. It’s running in on us.”
“Emergency deep, emergency deep.”
The boat flooded the bows, and she sank nose down. The prop ran up driving her down into the depths.
“Load countermeasures to starboard.”
“He’s to our starboard, sir,” said Benson.
“Ok, Benson.”
“Eight hundred feet,” said Nikki.
The boat sank at an alarming rate.
“Twelve hundred feet.”
“Fish still with us,” called out Benson.
“Sixteen hundred feet,” said Nikki.
“Fish closing 400 yards.” Panic was growing in Benson’s voice.
“Two thousand feet.”
“Fish on terminal approach, 150 yards.”
“Ready countermeasures.” A chill ran through Nathan. He knew that countermeasures may not be enough.
There was one chance left. He waited, counting down the seconds.
This was it. This was the moment.
19
A sailor stood on the foredeck of the Frigate Admiral Golovko, knocking ice from the forward rails. Large stalactites of ice hung down from rails and wires. His hammer knocked ice daggers off; some fell into the sea and some onto the deck, where he’d have to clear them later. His crewmate did the same across on the port side.