Red Storm Rising

23. Returns

Things had settled down again. A very relative term: the Backfires were still coming down the gap over Iceland, but they'd hit another convoy this afternoon, killing eleven merchantmen in the process. All the eastbound convoys were angling south, trading a longer voyage to Europe for reduction of the air threat. As bad as losses were to this point-nearly sixty ships had already been sunk-a routing south at least meant the Soviet bombers could carry only one missile instead of two.

The strain was beginning to tell on everyone. Morris's crew had been "port and starboard" for almost a week now, four hours on duty, four hours off. Sleep patterns had been broken up. People didn't eat proper meals. Crucial maintenance requirements cut into what sleep allocations his men had. On top of that was the knowledge that a submarine or aircraft attack could come at any time. The work was still getting done, but Morris noted that his men were becoming terse and ill-tempered. People were beginning to trip over doorsills, a sure sign of fatigue. More serious mistakes would soon follow. The relationship between fatigue and errors was as certain as gravity. In another day or so he hoped a solid routine would establish itself, something for his men to adjust to. There were signs of this, and his chiefs were telling him not to worry. Morris worried.

"Bridge, Combat. Sonar contact, possible submarine, bearing zero-zero-nine."

"Here we go again," the conning officer said. For the twenty-fourth time on this voyage, Pharris's crew raced to battle stations.

It took three hours this time. No Orions were available for them, and the escorts pooled their helicopters to track down the submarine, an directed by Morris and his CIC crew. This submarine driver really knew his business. At the first suspicion that he had been detected-perhaps his sonar had detected a helicopter overhead or heard the splash of a falling sonobuoy-he went deep and began a confusing series of sprints and drifts, porpoising over and under the layer, working hard to break contact-toward the convoy. This one wasn't interested in running away. The submarine disappeared and reappeared on their tactical plot, always closing but never revealing his position clearly enough for a shot.

"Gone again," the antisubmarine-warfare officer said pensively. A sonobuoy dropped ten minutes earlier had detected a weak signal, held it for two minutes, then lost it. "This guy's beautiful."

"And too close," Morris said. If the submarine was continuing south, he was now at the edge of the frigate's active sonar range. Up to now, Pharris had not revealed herself. The sub's captain would know surface ships were about from the presence of the helicopters, but it wasn't likely that he suspected a frigate only ten miles south of his position.

Morris looked up at the ASW officer. "Let's update our temperature profile."

Thirty seconds later they dropped a bathythermograph probe. The instrument measured water temperature and reported it to a display in the sonar compartment. Water temperature was the most important environmental condition affecting sonar performance. Surface ships checked it periodically, but a submarine could do it continuously-yet another edge that went with a submarine.

"There!" Morris pointed. "The gradient's a lot stronger now and this guy's exploiting it. He's staying out of the deep channel, probably doing his sprints on top of the layer instead of under it where we expect. Okay…"

The helicopters continued to drop buoys, and the brief glimpses they got were of a target heading south, toward Pharris. Morris waited ten minutes.

"Bridge, Combat, left standard rudder, come to new course zero-one-one," Morris ordered, pointing his ship at the submarine's estimated position. The frigate was doing five knots, moving quietly on the calm seas. The CIC crew watched the heading readout on the aft bulkhead change slowly from the easterly heading.

The tactical display was useless. Confused by many brief reports from sonobuoys, most of which were probably false signals to begin with, the computer-generated estimate for the submarine's position covered over a hundred square miles. Morris walked over to the paper display in the after comer of the room.

"I think he's right about here." Morris tapped the chart. "Comments?"

"Running shallow? That's contrary to doctrine," ASW pointed out. Soviet submariners were supposed to stick with established doctrine, the fleet intelligence reports said.

"Let's find out. Yankee-search."

The ASW officer gave the order at once. Yankee-search meant turning on the frigate's active sonar and hammering the water to find the sub. Morris was taking a chance. If the submarine was as close as he thought, then he was advertising his own ship's location and inviting a missile attack that his point-defense systems were ill-equipped to stop. The sonar operator watched his screen intently. The first five pings came up blank as the sonar beam swept west-to-east. The next one painted a bright dot on the screen.

"Contact-positive sonar contact, direct path, bearing zero-one-four, range eleven thousand six hundred yards. Evaluate as probable submarine."

"Nail him," Morris ordered.

The solid-fuel ASROC booster ignited, blasting clear of the ship and curving across the sky with a trail of pale gray smoke. The rocket burned out in three seconds, coasting through the sky like a bullet. A thousand feet over the water, the torpedo separated from the booster, retarded by a parachute in its fall toward the water.

"He's changed course, sir," the sonar operator warned. "Target is turning and increasing speed. I-there's the fish, we have the torp in the water and pinging. Dropped in pretty close."

The tactical action officer was ignoring this. Three helicopters were converging on the target datum point now. There was a good chance the torpedo would miss, and the task now was to pin the contact down. He ordered a right turn, allowing the frigate's passive sonar array to track in on the submarine, which was moving swiftly now to evade the torpedo, and making a lot of noise. The first helicopter arrived and dropped a buoy.

"Twin screws and cavitation noise. Sounds like a Charlie at full speed, sir," a petty officer announced. "I think the torp may have him."

The torpedo switched from ping-and-listen to continuous pinging, chasing after the racing submarine, arcing downward. The weapon momentarily lost the sub as she passed through the thermocline layer, then reacquired when it too entered the colder deep water, rapidly closing the distance. The submarine loosed a noisemaker, but it malfunctioned. Another was loaded into the launcher. Too late. The torpedo struck the submarine on her port screw and exploded.

"All right!" hooted a petty officer on the sonar crew. "We have warhead detonation. We got the sucker!"

"We have impact. We have detonation," confirmed a helo crew. "Stand by. Target engines have not stopped completely… additional propulsion noises-clanking. Air blowing, he's blowing tanks. Coming up, target is coming up. We have bubbles on the surface. Hot damn, there he is!"

The Charlie's bow broke the surface six miles from the frigate. Three helicopters circled the wounded vessel like wolves, and Pharris turned north to close the target, her five-inch gun tracking it. It wasn't necessary. The forward hatch opened and men began scrambling out. More appeared on the sail, jumping overboard as the submarine's engine room filled with water. A total of ten got off before the submarine slid backward below the waves. Another appeared on the surface a few seconds later, but no more.

The helicopters dropped life jackets to the men in the water. The helo with the rescue hoist aboard managed to lift two men before the frigate arrived on the scene. Morris supervised the operation from the bridge. The motor whaleboat was swiftly launched, and the rescue was an easy one. The Russian crewmen were stunned and did not resist. The helicopters guided the boat to each man, carefully searching the area for more. All eleven were recovered and the whaleboat returned to the drop lines. Pharris's chief boatswain supervised the operation, an ensign standing quietly at his side.

No one had seriously considered this possibility. A torpedo hit on a submarine was supposed to kill her entirely. Prisoners, Morris thought to himself. What the hell am I supposed to do with prisoners? He had to decide where to keep them, how to treat them. How to interrogate them — did he have anyone aboard who spoke Russian? The captain turned the conn over to his executive officer and hurried aft.

Armed crewmen were already there, holding their M-14 rifles awkwardly as they looked down with great curiosity at the whaleboat. The boat crew secured the hoist lines to the lift points, and the seaman on the winch lifted the boat up into the davits.

The Soviets were not an impressive lot, many of them clearly in shock from their near escape from death. Morris counted three officers, one of them probably the captain. He whispered a quick command to Bosun Clarke.

The chief had his armed party step back, and took the whistle from his pocket. As the whaleboat settled into place, he blew a three-tone note on his whistle and saluted the Soviet captain like an arriving dignitary.

The Russian's reaction was one of astonishment. Morris stepped forward to help him off the boat.

"Welcome aboard, Captain. I'm Captain Morris, United States Navy." Ed looked around briefly to see the incredulous expressions on his crew's faces. But his ploy failed. The Russian said something in Russian, and either spoke no English or had the presence of mind to pretend he didn't. Someone else would have to handle the interrogation. Morris told his bosun to carry on. The Russians were taken below for a medical check. For the moment, they'd be kept under guard in sickbay. The bosun hurried back for a moment.

"Skipper, what the hell was that all about?" Chief Boatswain's Mate Clarke inquired.

"They've probably been told that we'd shoot them in the head. I read a book once that said the most effective technique-look, there was this German, the guy specialized in getting information out of our guys in World War Two, okay? He was good at it, and what he did was treat our guys decently. Hell, they sponsored him to come over after the war, and now he's an American citizen. Separate the officers from the enlisted, and the senior EMS from the juniors. Keep 'em separate. Then make sure they're kept comfortable. Feed 'em, give 'em cigarettes, make 'em feel safe. If you happen to know anyone aboard who has a bottle, get it, and give our guests a couple of stiff drinks. Everybody gets new clothes. We keep theirs. Send all of it to the wardroom. We'll see if they have anything valuable. Make sure they're treated nice, and just maybe we can get one or two to spill his guts."

"You got it, Skipper." The chief went away shaking his head. At least he'd get to paint a whole submarine on the pilothouse this time.

Morris went back to the pilothouse. He ordered his men to secure from general quarters, and the frigate to return to her patrol station. Next he called up the escort commander and reported on the prisoners.

"Pharris, " the Commodore replied. "You are directed to paint a gold 'A' on your ASROC launcher. Well done to all aboard, Ed. You're the champs for this crossing. I'll get back to you on the prisoners. Out."

The captain turned around to see that the bridge watch had not left. They'd all heard the Commodore on the radio. Their fatigue was gone, and the grins directed at Morris meant more to him than the words of his boss.

Alekseyev looked over the intelligence material on his desk. His boss was in Moscow for a high-level briefing, but this data was-should be, he corrected himself-little different from what his commander was hearing.

"Things are not going well in Germany?" Captain Sergetov asked.

"No. We were supposed to have reached the outskirts of Hamburg by H+36. A day and a half, the plan called for. Instead we're not quite there yet, and Third Shock Army has taken murderous losses from NATO aircraft." He paused, staring at the map. "If I were the NATO commander, I'd counterattack again, right there."

"Perhaps they are unable to do so. Their first counterattack was repulsed."

"At the cost of a broken tank division and sixty aircraft. Victories like that we can do without. The picture in the south is scarcely better. The NATO forces are trading space for time, and doing it very well. Their ground forces and tactical aircraft are operating over the same ground they've practiced on for thirty years. Our losses are nearly double the estimates, and we can't sustain that." Alekseyev leaned back. He chided himself for being defeatist. It was mainly a manifestation of his desire to join the action. He was certain, as any general would be certain, that he could do things better.

"What about NATO losses?"

"Heavy, we think. They have been remarkably profligate in their weapons expenditures. The Germans have staked too much on defending Hamburg, and it has to be costing them dearly. If I could not counterattack in their place, I would withdraw. A city is not worth breaking the balance of your army. We learned that lesson at Kiev-"

"Excuse me, Comrade General, what about Stalingrad?"

"A somewhat different situation, Captain. Remarkable, nonetheless, how history can repeat itself," Alekseyev muttered, studying the map on the wall. He shook his head. West Germany had too much in the way of road communications for that to work. "The KGB reports that NATO has two, at most three weeks' supply of munitions left. That will be the decisive factor."

"What of our supplies and fuel?" the young captain asked. His answer was a scowl.

At least there was water. The streams were fed by glaciers that lay in the center of the island-water that had fallen as snow over a thousand years before, long before atmospheric pollution, and been compressed to ice. When finally it melted to fill the rocky streams, it turned back into water of crystalline purity and marvelous taste, but absolutely no nutritional value. It was also ice cold, and fords were not easily found.

"Down to one day's rations, Lieutenant," Smith observed as they finished off their meal.

"Yeah, we'll have to think that one over." Edwards assembled his trash. Garcia collected it all for burial. If there had been a way to cover their footprints in the dirt, Smith would have had them doing that too.

It wasn't easy. As Edwards assembled his radio, he listened to muttered Spanish curses and the sound of a folding shovel slamming against the loose rocks that passed for soil atop Hill 482.

"Doghouse, this is Beagle, and we're running out of food, over."

"Sorry to bear that, Beagle. Maybe we'll have some pizzas sent out."

"You funny bastard," Edwards said without toggling the Transmit key. "What do you want us to do this time?"

"Have you been spotted by anyone?"

"We're alive, ain't we? Negative."

"Tell me what you can see."

"Okay, there's a gravel road downhill to the north, maybe two miles away. Looks like a farm-plowed fields, like, but can't tell what's growing there. Another sheep farm to the west of us, we passed it coming here. Lots of sheep. Ten minutes ago we saw a truck on the road heading west. Haven't seen anything flying yet today, but I suppose that'll change. The only civilians we've seen have been right by their houses, we haven't even seen farmers with their sheep, and the farm to the north has no visible activity. No-say again zero-civilian road traffic. Ivan's got this island shut down, Doghouse, really shut down. That's about all I can say. Tell those Vark drivers they really did the job on that powerhouse. Nothing left but a hole in the ground. We haven't seen an electric light lit since."

"Copy that, Beagle. Okay, your orders are to head north towards Hvammsfjordur. You need to take a wide detour east to avoid all these bays I see. We want you there in ten days. Say again ten days, twelve at the most. You can make it easy. Stay out in the boonies and avoid contact with anyone. Continue the normal contact schedule and report on anything you see that may be of interest. Acknowledge."

"Roger, Doghouse, you want us in sight of Hvammsfjordur at the end of next week, and keep up the usual radio routine. Anything else?"

"Be careful. Out."

"Hvammsfjordur?" Smith asked- "That's a hundred miles on a straight line."

"They want us to detour east to avoid contact."

"Two hundred miles-walking over this shit." Smith's frown was enough to split a rock. "End of next week? Ten or eleven days?"

Edwards nodded dumbly. He hadn't known it would be that far.

"Gonna be a little tough, Mr. Edwards." The sergeant pulled a largescale map from his case. "I don't even have cards for the whole coastline. Damn. Look here, Lieutenant. The ridges and rivers on this rock come out from the center like the spokes on a wheel, y'see? That means we climb a lot, and these here ain't little hills. All the low places got roads, and sure as hell we can't follow no roads, right?" He shook his head.

Edwards forced a grin. "Can't hack it? I thought you Marines were in good shape."

Smith was a man who ran five miles every morning. He could not recall ever seeing this little Air Force wimp out doing roadwork. "Okay, Mr. Edwards. They say nobody ever drowned in sweat. On your feet, Marines, we got orders for a little hike." Rodgers and Garcia exchanged a look. "Mister" was not exactly a term of endearment for an officer, but Smith figured that insubordination only counted if the officer knew he was being insulted.

The helicopters took time to assemble. The big AN-22 transport had delivered two Mi-24 attack choppers, quite a load even for that four-engine monster. Another IL-76 flight had delivered the technicians and flight crews to assemble, service, and fly them. There had been a major oversight in the plan, the General thought. The one helicopter that had survived the strafing attack on the first day was now broken down-and of course the broken part was not one which had been included in their pre-packaged equipment. There should have been more helicopters. He shrugged eloquently. No plan was ever perfect. More helicopters would be flown in, plus a few more mobile radar sets and some additional SAM launchers. The Americans looked to have every intention of making his tenure on Iceland difficult, and he needed more equipment to counter that…

Then there were those KGB bastards. We have to pacify the island, they said. As if Iceland wasn't already passive enough. There had been not a single incident of active resistance yet-not one, the General thought, remembering his year's service in Afghanistan. Compared with that mountainous hell, this was paradise itself. But that wasn't good enough for the KGB! Nekulturny barbarians. A thousand hostages had been taken, only to learn that there was no jail space to keep them. So my paratroopers must guard the poor, harmless wretches, using up a whole company of troops, His orders were to cooperate with the local KGB contingent. One did not cooperate with the KGB, of course, one was dominated by them. There were KGB officers with his mobile patrols, to advise, they put it.

General Andreyev was beginning to worry. Crack paratroopers were not the sort to be good jailers. Had they been ordered to go easily on the Icelanders, that would be one thing. Instead, their orders forced them to be harsh, which generated hostility. Some people had actually been heard to cheer when the last American bombers had come through. Absurd, the General thought. They had lost electricity but we had lost nothing-and they cheered. Because of the KGB's orders. What stupidity. An opportunity lost. He considered protesting his orders to his central command in Moscow, but to what point? An officer who disliked the KGB was an officer who disliked the Party itself.

He was aroused from his reveries by the whining sound of turboshaft engines. The first of the Mi-24 Hinds was turning its rotor, testing its engines. An officer ran toward him.

"Comrade General, with your permission, we are ready for a test flight. We're doing it light, unarmed. We'll load weapons when we get back."

"Very well. Captain, just check out the hilltops around Keflavik and Reykjavik. How long on the second one?" Andreyev asked.

"Two hours."

"Excellent. Good work, Comrade Captain."

A minute later the heavy attack chopper lifted into the air.

"Down and freeze!" Garcia screamed. It didn't come close to them, but seeing it was enough.

"What kind is it?"

"Hind. It's an attack bird, like the Cobra. Bad news, Lieutenant. It carries eight troops and a whole shitload of rockets and guns. An' don't even think about shooting it. Sucker's armored like a damned tank."

The Mi-24 circled the hill they'd just been on, then disappeared, heading south to loop over another hill.

"Didn't see us, I guess," Edwards said.

"Let's keep it that way. Keep the radio stowed awhile, Lieutenant. We can call this one in after we move out a ways, okay?"

Edwards nodded agreement. He remembered a brief on Soviet helicopters in the Air Force Academy. "We are not afraid of the Russians," an Afghan had been quoted, "but we are afraid of their helicopters."

Colonel Ellington awoke at six that evening. He shaved and walked outside, the sun still high in the evening sky. He wondered what mission they'd have tonight. He was not a bitter man, but to have nearly a quarter of his crews-men with whom he had worked for two straight years — lost in a week was a difficult thing to accept. It had been too long since his experience in Vietnam. He'd forgotten how terrible losses could be. His men could not stand down a day to mourn their dead and ease the pain, much as they needed to. They were being carefully rested. Standing orders gave them eight hours of sleep a day-like night-hunters, they slept only by day.

They were making a difference, however. He was sure of that. Every night the black and green Frisbees lifted off for some special target or other, and the Russians still had not figured a counter. The strike cameras mounted in each aircraft were bringing back pictures that the wing intelligence officers could scarcely believe. But at such a cost.

Well. The colonel reminded himself that one sortie a day was a lighter load than the other air crews were bearing, and that the close-support crews were taking losses equal to his own. Tonight held another mission. He ordered his brain to occupy itself with that task alone.

The briefings took an hour. Ten aircraft would fly tonight: two planes each at five targets. As commander he drew the toughest. Surveillance indicated that Ivan had a previously unsuspected forward fuel dump at a position west of Wittenburg that was supporting the drive on Hamburg, and the Germans wanted it taken out. His wingman would go in with Durandals, and he'd follow with Rockeyes. There would be no supporting aircraft on this one, and the colonel didn't want jammer aircraft to go in with him. Two of his lost birds had had such support, and the jamming had merely alerted the defenses.

He examined the topographical maps closely. The land was flat. Not much in the way of mountains and hills to hide behind, but then he could skim at treetop level, and that was almost as good. He'd approach from the east, behind the target. There was a twenty-knot west wind, and if he came in from leeward, the defenders would be unable to hear his approach until bomb release… probably. They'd egress the area by heading southwest. Total mission time seventy-five minutes. He computed his necessary fuel load, careful as always to allow for the drag of his bombs. To the bare-bones fuel requirements he added five minutes on afterburner in case of air-to-air combat and ten minutes to orbit Bitburg for landing. Satisfied, he went off for breakfast. With each bite of toast his mind ran through the mission like a movie, visualizing every event, every obstacle, every SAM site to be avoided. He randomly inserted the unexpected. A flight of low-level fighters at the target, what effect would this have on the mission? What would the target look like on this approach? If he had to make a second bombing pass, from what direction? Major Eisly ate with his commander in silence, recognizing the blank look on his face and running through his own mental checklist.

They headed straight into East Germany for fifty miles before turning north at Rathenow. Two Soviet Mainstay aircraft were up, a good distance back from the border and surrounded by agile Flanker interceptors. Staying well outside the effective range of their radar, the two aircraft flew low and in tight formation. When they screeched over main roads, it was always in a direction away from a course to their target They avoided cities, towns, and known enemy depots where there might be SAMs.

The inertial navigation systems kept track of their progress on a map display on the pilot's instrument panel. The distance to the target shrank rapidly as the aircraft curved west.

They flashed over Wittenberg at five hundred knots. The infrared cameras showed fueling vehicles on the roads heading right for the target area… there! At least twenty tank trucks were visible in the trees fueling from underground tanks.

"Target in sight. Execute according to plan."

"Roge," acknowledged Shade-Two. "I have them visual."

The Duke broke left, clearing the way for his wingman to make the first run. Shade-Two's aircraft was the only one left with the proper ejector racks for the bulky hard-target munitions.

"Gawd!" The Duke's display showed an SA-11 launcher right in his flight path, its missiles aimed northwest. One of his aircraft had learned the hard way that the SA-11 had an infrared homing capacity that no one had suspected. The colonel reefed his aircraft into a hard right turn away from the launcher, wondering where the rest of the missile battery's vehicles were.

Shade-Two skimmed over the target. The pilot toggled off his four bombs and kept heading west. Gunfire rippled across the sky in his wake. Too late.

The French-made Durandal weapons fell off the ejector racks and scattered. Once free, they pointed down, and rockets fired to accelerate the munitions straight at the ground. They were designed to break up concrete runways and were ideal for underground fuel tanks. The bombs did not explode on impact. Instead, the hard-steel weapons lanced into the ground, penetrating several feet before detonating. Three found underground fuel tanks. The Durandals; exploded upward, breaking open a path for burning fuel to leap into the air.

It was the next thing to a nuclear detonation. Three white columns of flame rocketed into the air, spreading like fountains and dropping fuel for hundreds of yards. Every vehicle in the compound was engulfed in flame, and only those men near the perimeter escaped with their lives. Rubber fuel bladders brought to the sight exploded a few seconds later, and a river of burning diesel and gasoline spread through the trees. In a matter of seconds, twenty acres of woods were transformed into a fireball that raced skyward, punctuated by secondary explosions. Ellington's fighter rocked violently as the shock wave passed.

"Damn," he said quietly. The plan called for him to use his cluster munitions to ignite what the Durandals had burst open.

"Don't think the Rockeyes are necessary, Duke," Eisly observed

Ellington tried to blink away the dots as he turned away, keeping as low as he could. He found himself flying right down a road.

The Soviet Commander-in-Chief of the Western Theater was already angry, and what he saw to the east didn't help. He'd just conferred with the commander of the Third Shock Army at Zarrentin to learn that the attack had again bogged down within sight of Hamburg. Furious that his most powerful tank force had failed to achieve its objective, he'd relieved its commander on the spot and was returning to his own command post. Now he saw what could only be one of his three major fuel depots rising into the clear sky. The General cursed and stood, pushing aside the roof panel on his armored command vehicle. As he blinked his dazzled eyes, a black mass seemed to appear at the lower edge of the fireball.

What's that? Ellington wondered. His TV display showed four armored vehicles in a tight column-one of them a SAM launcher! He flicked his bomb-release controls to Armed and dropped his four Rockeye canisters, then turned south. His tail-mounted strike cameras recorded what followed.

The Rockeyes split open, distributing their bomblets at a shallow angle across the road. They exploded on impact.

CINC-West died a soldier's death. His last act was to seize a machine gun and fire at the aircraft. Four bomblets fell within a few meters of his vehicle. Their fragments sliced through the light armor, killing everyone inside even before its fuel tank exploded, adding another fireball to a sky that had still not returned to darkness.

The submarine came slowly to the surface, spiraling up to allow her sonar to check the entire area as she rose to antenna depth. His luck had been bad so far, McCafferty considered, which was not a situation that encouraged risk taking. As the submarine leveled off beneath the waves, the ESM mast went up first, sniffing for hostile electronic signals, then the search periscope. The captain made a quick sweep around the sky, then the surface, his executive officer closely watching the television readout to back up the skipper's observations. Everything looked clear. There was a moderate sea running, with five-foot swells, and the clear blue sky was decorated with fair-weather cumulus clouds. On the whole, a beautiful day. Except for the war.

"Okay, transmit," McCafferty ordered. His eyes never left the periscope, which he turned continuously, angling the lens up and down to look for trouble. A petty officer raised the UHF antenna, and the "okay to transmit" light blinked on in the radio room aft of the attack center.

They had been summoned to the surface by an extremely low-frequency radio message with their call sip, QZB. The senior radioman powered up his transmitter, keyed out QZB on the UHF satellite broadcast band, and waited for a reply. There was none. He gave his neighbor a look and repeated the procedure. Again the satellite missed the signal. The petty officer took a deep breath and transmitted QZB yet a third time. Two seconds later the hot printer in the after comer of the room began to print up a coded reply. The communications officer keyed a command into the cipher machine, and the clear text came up on another printer.

McCafferty read the dispatch without comment, then handed it to the navigator. "How long to get there at fifteen knots?"

"About eleven hours." The navigator took a pair of dividers and walked them across the chart. "Unless they're flying, we'll be there long before they are."

"Joe?" the captain looked at his executive officer.

"I like it. Right on the hundred-fathom curve, and water conditions are a little squirrelly there, what with the Gulf Stream coming in so close and fresh water coming out of the fiords. They won't want to be too close inshore because of the Norwegian diesel boats, and they won't stray too far out because of the NATO nucs. If I had to bet, I'd say they'll come right to us."

"Okay, take her down to nine hundred feet and head east. Secure from general quarters. Let's get everybody fed and rested."

Ten minutes later, Chicago was on a heading of zero-eight-one, steaming at fifteen knots. Deep, but in relatively warm water from the ocean current that begins in the Gulf of Mexico and runs all the way to the Barents Sea, she enjoyed sonar conditions that made detection by a surface ship nearly impossible. The water pressure prevented cavitation noises. Her engines could drive the submarine at this speed with only a fraction of her total rated power, obviating the need for the reactor pumps. The reactor's cooling water circulated on natural convection currents, which eliminated the major source of radiated noise. Chicago was completely in her element, a noiseless shadow moving through black water.

The crew's mood changed slightly, McCafferty noticed. Now they had a mission. A dangerous mission, but one they had trained for. Orders were carried out with calm precision. In the wardroom his tactical officers reviewed tracking and attack procedures long since memorized, and a pair of exercises were run on a computer. Charts were examined to predict likely places for especially bad water conditions in which they might hide. In the torpedo room two decks below the attack center, sailors ran electronic tests on green-painted Mk-48 "fish" and the Harpoon missiles in their white canisters. One weapon showed an electronic fault, and a pair of torpedomen immediately stripped off an inspection plate to replace a component. Similar checks were made of the Tomahawk missiles in their vertical launch tubes nested in the bow. Finally the weapons-control team ran a computer simulation through the Mk-117 attack director to ensure that it was fully operational. Within two hours they were sure that every system aboard was operating within expected limits. The crewmen exchanged hopeful smiles. After all, they reasoned, it wasn't their fault that no Russian had been dumb enough to come their way, was it? Just a few days before, hadn't they practically landed on the beach-in Russia! — without being detected? The Old Man was a real pro, wasn't he?

Dinner was awkward to say the least. The three Russian officers sat at the end of the table, mindful of the two armed guards ten feet away, and the cook in the wardroom pantry who kept a large knife conspicuously in view. The officers were served by a young seaman, a beardless boy of seventeen who scowled mightily at the Russians as he served the salad.

"So," Morris said cordially, "do any of you speak English?"

"I do," answered one. "I am instructed my captain to thank you for rescue our men."

"Tell your captain that war has rules, and so does the sea. Please tell him also that he showed great skill in his approach." Morris poured some Thousand Island dressing on his lettuce as the message was translated. His officers were keeping a close eye on their guests. Morris was careful to avert his gaze. His remark had the desired effect. A rapid exchange took place at the other end of the table.

"My captain ask how you find us. We-how you say-get away from your helicopters, no?"

"Yes, you did," Morris answered. "We did not understand your operating pattern."

"Then how you find us?"

"I knew you were attacked earlier by the Orion, and that you ran at high speed to catch up with us. The angle for your attack was predictable."

The Russian shook his head. "What attack is this? Who attack us?" He turned to his commander and spoke for thirty seconds.

There's another Charlie out there, Morris thought, if he's not lying to us. We ought to get someone who speaks Russian to talk to the crewmen below. Damn, why don't I have one of those?

"My captain says you are mistake in this. Our first contact with you was from helicopters. We did not expect your ship to be here. Is this new tactic?"

"No, we've practiced this for some years."

"How you find us, then?"

"You know what a towed-array sonar is? We first detected you on that, about three hours before we shot at you."

The Russian's eyes went wide. "Your sonar so good as that?"

"Sometimes." After this translated the Russian captain spoke what seemed a terse order, and the conversation stopped. Morris wondered if his radio technicians had wired the microphones into the Russians' quarters yet. Perhaps what they said among themselves would be useful to fleet intelligence. Until then he'd continue to make them comfortable. "How is the food aboard a Soviet submarine?"

"Not same as this," the navigator answered after conferring with his boss. "Good, but not same. We eat different foods. More fish, less meat. We have tea, not coffee."

Ed Morris saw that his prisoners were going after their plates with scarcely concealed gusto. Even our sub guys don't get enough fresh vegetables, he reminded himself. An enlisted man entered the wardroom and stood by the door. It was his leading radioman. Morris waved him over.

The sailor handed the captain a message form. THE SPECIAL JOB IS DONE, it read, and Morris noted that the man had taken the time to print it up on a standard message format so that no one would suspect what it meant. The Russians' accommodations were all bugged now. Morris dismissed his man with a nod and pocketed the form. His bosun had miraculously discovered two bottles of hard liquor-probably from the chiefs' quarters, but Morris knew better than to inquire-and these would find their way to the Russians tonight. He hoped the liquor would loosen tongues.