It was cold out there in the icy wind. He pulled up his hood and paused for a rest, looking out over the dawn ice field. What the…?
“Alex, look there.” He pointed to the low sky out forward of the ship. It was a dot, but trailing a kind of smoke.
“Oh, God no,” shouted Alex. “It’s a missile.”
His last memory was of a pointed tube flying in unreasonably fast.
The JAASM slammed into the ship’s foredeck and above the forward turret. The superstructure around the bridge area disintegrated as the warhead exploded. The turret lifted from its seating, deep within the ship, and shells still in the magazine exploded.
The forward end of the Frigate was ripped open. Many sailors died from the blast, men further away were caught by the glare of the blast, and any not wearing white anti-flash hoods were scorched by the heat, causing severe burns.
Then came the fight: it was damage control crews against the fires and flooding below decks, and the battle to save the Admiral Golovko was on.
More JASSM raced in. The Fleet, now alerted, engaged them with point defence systems. Some were engaged by Kortik CIWS, radar-controlled Gatling guns, spitting shells at 2,000 per minute. Several missiles blew apart or, damaged, flew into the sea.
LASSRM arrived, adding to the melee. AK-630 CIWS blazed away, pouring 30mm rounds into the missile’s path at 4,000 rounds per minute. Short range 9M96 missiles along with SA-N-9 Gauntlet point defence SAMs flew roaring into the sky. Missiles were hit and destroyed instantly, but many ships were hit too. Some were lightly damaged, some heavily, and two were listing badly and would almost certainly sink.
On board the Burevestnik class Frigate Ryanyy, fires burned below the aft decks. She’d been turning when the missiles hit. A LASSRM, trailing dark smoke after a hit by a CIWS, had hit the sea close to her stern.
Large sections of the aft of the ship were blasted away and the engineers fought to restore the main engine. The auxiliary diesel was running well. Crews fought the stern fires with extinguishers. The Chief of the Ship could see more was needed. If the fire spread any further forward, it would threaten the rear magazine.
“Get two hoses in the sea and hook the pumps up to the auxiliary power. Get on it now. Chertovski,” he cursed.
The hoses were brought out, lowered into the sea, and powerful streams of seawater gushed into the flaming dark spaces. Minutes later, three diesel supply tanks at the forward and of the compartment blew jets of flame as the escaping fuel ignited.
The Chief knew the battle was being lost. “Butnezik, fill compartment eleven.” He had to stop the fire reaching the magazine.
“But there’s injured men in there, Chief.”
“Do it, or we’ll all be more than Chertovski injured. Do it, Butnezik, or I’ll shove it up your ass and throw you in.”
Two hoses were quickly laid into the space and water quickly filled the compartment. The Chief tried to ignore the screams, but couldn’t quite do it. War was hell on Earth.
The compartment filled with water. But the ship was now listing and her hull, already under stress, ripped open. The tear ran down the ship like a ripping scream; compartment eleven took a large tear and water drained out. The flames entered and the magazine bulkhead grew hot; straw coloured, dull red, then cherry red. The Chief looked on; he had nothing left apart from buckets.
“You two, get in there. You lot, get a line of seawater buckets started.”
Buckets were passed up and thrown onto the hot bulkhead. It was inevitable; anti-submarine mortars blew off, which kicked off two depth charges.
The massive explosion killed many, including the Chief and the damage control party. The ship, its back partly broken, was going down. Finally, the Ryanyy rolled over and sank by the stern.
The Northern Fleet took heavy losses, but not devastating losses. Point defence SAMs and CIWS took out many missiles before they could hit the ships. The damage was high though, and the Northern Fleet was highly impacted. Three ships sunk and another three were out of the fight.
Peter the Great was fitted with numerous defensive systems, as her size and importance dictated, so was able to defend herself well. She suffered damage to her radar though, as a JASSM, hit by a missile that was damaged by fire from an AK-630 CIWS, caught the Fregat MR Top Steer radar on her mainmast as it flew into the cold grey sea.
No Bone and Rusty, with an F/A 18 strapped to their backs, rushed towards the Fleet, low over the ice.
“The bastards should be 87 miles away, according to INS,” said Rusty.
“Copy, Rusty. Let me know when you want me off the deck.”
“Hey, I’ll have you on the deck when we get back.”
“In your dreams.”
Their LASRM had already flown. Rusty set master arm on and selected Harpoon. The screen changed to show the missile status. The self-diagnostic was still running. Rusty set the missile’s target approach up for a bunt upwards and a dive downwards. Aim point amidships, you’d more chance of hitting or damaging the control room or a magazine.
“You going for target select or blind luck?” she asked.
“I’m going blind, sister. There’s a bunch of trade out there and Mr Harpoon ain’t fussy.”
He set up the sea-skimming missile’s arming status, selected target optimal search and self-select electronic countermeasures. The Harpoon was set.
The aircraft sped on over the ice field. The sky was pale with the dawn light. This was the Arctic, so the light was a faint pre-dawn wash with a slight orange glow from the distant sun.
“No Bone, it’s time to take the elevator to the first floor.”
She pulled the stick back and climbed to 200 feet, then levelled out the nose.
“Ok, here we are, No Bone, first floor. Ladies underwear, intimate apparel, vibrators to left, batteries to the right.”
She rolled her eyes.
Rusty ran his eyes over the display and pickled the stick. The Harpoon fell away, lit its motor, and flew off towards the east.
“Good hunting. Get some Russian ass, baby.”
No Bone pulled the stick to the left and gave her some rudder. It was time to get back to the big Gerald’s flight deck. She set course for home and flew on at 200 feet.
Two minutes went by.
“Shit, shit,” said Rusty. “Radar warning receiver. It’s a type Leninets V-004, threat ID is SU-34, 10,000 feet, bastards flying CAP. I think he’s seen us. Shit.”
High above, an SU-34 fighter bomber was flying CAP, Combat Air Patrol, over the fleet. They’d climbed high enough for the V-004 to detect them.
She pushed the throttle forward to get more speed. They could be lucky: he could be at his range limit.
“Get the Sidewinders up, Rusty. It may come to that.”
“Already done, sis. Air-to-air condition active, winder selected.”
Ruby Frances eased the stick forward and dropped to 100 feet. For the time being, it was just run and hope.
“What’s he packing?” she asked.
Rusty pulled up his reference guide. “He’s got Vymple AA-12 Adder, medium-range active and their equivalent to the AMRAAM, also the AA-12 Archer, aka a Russian Sidewinder. He’s 10,000 feet above and three miles behind, so hard to know which trigger he’ll pull.”
She knew what he’d do. He’s a fighter pilot: only one way he’d go. He’d dive and use the Archer. A minute passed by.
“No Bone, the radar warning receiver is picking up a stronger signal. I think he’s closer. The bastard’s coming down.”