Countdown

CHAPTER 6

Tombstone leaned over the plot table, studying the cryptic symbols and geometric shapes marked with wax pencil onto the glass top overlying the navigational chart of the North Cape-Murmansk Coast area. "But what's it mean, Admiral? Is Washington actually giving us a shoot-first order?"

"Hell, no. You know it's never that simple with them." Admiral Douglas E Tarrant, tall, slender, and aristocratic-looking with his head of silver hair, was the carrier group's commanding officer, and he was holding court in Jefferson's Flag Plot. His uniform, as always, was immaculate and razor-creased. "The orders are to shadow neo-Soviet fleet units, particularly their ICBM subs. Starting Friday when we reach our patrol station, gentlemen, we are going to begin making Class-A nuisances of ourselves."

"Off the Kola Peninsula?" Tombstone said. "That's going to be like taking on the whole damned Russian military!"

"CAG's got a point, Admiral," Captain Jeremy Brandt said. Brandt was Jefferson's captain. As hound-dog ugly as Tarrant was good-looking, he was short and fire-plug-built, with his blond-to-gray hair shaved to a stubble.

The three of them, Tombstone, Brandt, and Tarrant, were standing about the plot table, hemmed in by a number of senior aides and staff officers.

Tarrant and his entourage had arrived by helicopter aboard the Jefferson a few hours earlier from the Shiloh, the Aegis cruiser Tarrant used as his headquarters, and the lot of them had crowded into the carrier's Flag Plot to consider the latest set of orders from Washington.

Reaching out with the stem of an unlit pipe, Captain Brandt pointed out a line of red symbols on the map stretching down the jagged slash of the Kola Inlet. Sayda Guba, Polyamyy, Severomorsk, Murmansk. "Wasn't it some CNO who called this stretch the single most valuable piece of real estate on Earth?

Hell, the Russian SAM operators alone must be tripping over each other there."

"Secretary of the Navy John E Lehman said that," Tarrant replied. "He was referring to the whole Kola Peninsula, and he was dead right. Over here, in this strip of what was Finland before World War II, is Pechenga, just eighteen miles from the Norwegian border. It's both a commercial and a military port. And down here, just above where the Tuloma and the Kola rivers come together, is Murmansk. That's the largest city north of the Arctic Circle. Population about a half million. Ten miles further northeast is Severomorsk, headquarters for the whole Russian Northern Fleet. Enormous naval support facilities, shipyards, ammunition depots, that sort of thing."

"There was a big explosion there a while back, wasn't there?" Tombstone asked.

"Correct. May 1984. Most of the Northern Fleet's missile reserves went up in one big fireball. We never did learn the number of casualties, but the damage was extensive.

"Anyway, the Tuloma River starts to open up here, becoming the Kolskiy Zaliv, the Kola Inlet. Eight miles north of Severomorsk is Polyamyy, on the Polyamyy Inlet. It's a major base for both surface ships and submarines.

Nine miles further to the northwest is Sayda Guba. Important submarine support facilities there.

"Right here in this region, between Polyamyy and Sayda Guba, are four massive, underground facilities, tunnels cut right into the solid rock, with blast doors thick enough to protect what's inside from a nuclear blast. The first was completed, we think, in the early 1980s. Satellite photos show enormous structures against the hillside, with obvious submarine support facilities outside. Our submariners call them 'the barns.""

"Typhoons," Brandt said.

"That's right. The Polyamyy complex is their primary Typhoon basing facility. They don't keep them all in one basket, of course. Way down here, a good one hundred sixty miles east along the Kola Peninsula from Polyamyy, is Gremikha. They base and supply Typhoons there too, as well as at ports in the White Sea, but their main PLARB center is at Polyamyy. The Russians, remember, like a tight, centralized administration, especially when it comes to their nukes, and the Polyamyy complex is nice and handy to Severomorsk.

"Altogether, the Russians have some forty air bases on the Kola Peninsula, as well as hundreds of SAM sites, radar installations, supply depots, bases for two motorized rifle divisions, and the headquarters, barracks, and training center for the Northern Fleet's Naval Infantry brigade.

All of that is not counting their fleet facilities on the White Sea, at Arkhangelsk and Severodvinsk."

"So where the hell does Washington get off telling us to 'close with and shadow neo-Soviet fleet units,' eh?" Brandt shook his bulldog head. "What do they think, that CBG-14 is going to scare the Russkis into being peaceful?"

"After the Battles of the Fjords, I imagine they'll be a bit more circumspect," Tarrant said, his eyes twinkling. "And we'll be backed by CBG-7, the Eisenhower and her group, as well as Navy and Air Force squadrons coming out of Norway. But we're first-string this time. If the Russkis want to play, we'll be up to bat first."

"Just like last time," Tombstone said. "When we were up first against two Soviet carrier groups. Does someone in Washington have it in for us?"

"Political, Tombstone," Brandt said. He made a sour face. "DACOWITS wants a report on how their girls ― excuse me, their women ― stand up to combat."

Brandt had fought bitterly against the decision to use Jefferson as a test case for female flight officers, Tombstone knew. He'd lost, though, because the Jeff, in Norfolk for repairs, was the only carrier immediately available when the decision was made. Tombstone had heard rumors that Brandt had threatened to resign over the issue. If they were true, he was glad the skipper hadn't carried out the threat. He was a damned good officer, and a good ship captain. Jefferson was almost certainly his last command at sea ― how did a naval officer top command of a CVN? ― and it would be tragic if he was forced to go ashore under a cloud.

"I doubt that DACOWITS had anything to do with this, Captain," Tarrant said gently. "Jefferson is up to full strength with the new units brought on board at Norfolk. She also has the best combat record in the fleet. I'm sure that was quite enough to recommend us to the CNO."

"Don't get me wrong, Admiral," Brandt said. "I'm not trying to wiggle out of this. But merciful God in heaven…" He surveyed the map, as though in amazement. "One CBG can't possibly blockade the entire Murmansk coast!"

"We won't have to, Captain," Tarrant said. "Washington already has it blocked out."

Tombstone listened intently as Tarrant laid out the plan as proposed by the Pentagon in their latest orders. It was simple and direct, but required considerable support from other fleet elements.

Jefferson and the other surface ships of the battle group would take up a patrol station north of the Russian-Norwegian border, far enough east to maintain their surveillance of the nearest neo-Soviet bases, far enough west to be able to head for shelter in Tanafjorden or to run for the Norwegian Sea if the Russians came out in overwhelming strength. The Eisenhower group would move further north, toward the edge of the Barents ice pack.

Galveston and Morgantown, meanwhile, the two Los Angeles-class attack subs attached to CBG-14, were already off the Kola Peninsula. They would probe ahead, deep into Russian territorial waters, taking up position right off the Kola Inlet itself. CBG-7's subs would take up station fifty miles behind them, to catch any big ones that got away. Other American SSNs were already in the area. They would cover Gremikha and the mouth to the White Sea and would serve as backups for the subs of the two carrier groups.

Submarines, Tombstone thought, would definitely prove their worth in this situation. Air strikes and showing the flag both had their place, but the superbly quiet SSNs could sneak right up to Ivan's front porch, stay as long as was necessary, and slip silently away again.

The submarines would be the CBG's advance scouts, monitoring Russian subs and other vessels as they entered or left port ― especially at Polyamyy.

Backing them would be Jefferson's ASW squadrons ― the Vikings of VS-42, the King Fishers, and the SH-3H Sea Kings of HS-19 ― using air-dropped sonobuoys to weave a net across the southern reaches of the Barents Sea. Any sub contact would be shadowed, by air or by submarine. Russian PLARBs would be identified; if necessary, the hunters would deliberately reveal themselves and thereby warn the Russian sub skippers that the Americans had them in their sights.

"We will not give the weapons-free order," Tarrant explained, "unless the PLARB is clearly about to launch despite our interference."

"And if he tries to launch anyway?" Tombstone asked.

"Then we drop him."

Brandt scratched at one fleshy jowl. "What about their Northern Fleet?"

"Still licking their wounds after the Fjords," Tarrant replied. "Latest satellite intel suggests that at least ten capital ships were sunk or dinged up pretty bad, and that doesn't count both the Kreml and the Soyuz getting deep-sixed. A lot of ships are laid up in drydock, or rusting on their moorings. Some of their nuke subs have become hazards, no longer seaworthy, too hot to break up. God knows what they're going to do with them. Morale in their Northern Fleet is wretched. What's worse, they've been having a bad time getting supplies for the fleet."

"I bleed for them," Brandt said.

"There will be a chance, of course, that the Russians will sortie their fleet, or as much of their fleet as they can get to sea, either to threaten us or to actually mount an attack. The fact is, we don't have a clue as to how they're likely to react to our provocations. Everything we've seen indicates that there's total chaos over there. Leonov's forces have launched a major offensive in the south, and Red units have invaded Ukraine and Belarus. That should work in our favor; the Moscow faction will have more than enough to occupy them in the south without having to worry about the Kola Peninsula."

"Maybe," Brandt said. "But I'll tell you right now they're not going to take kindly to us parking a CBG in their backyard, Hell, what would we say if they planted the Kiev battle group twenty miles off Hampton Roads and dared us to make something of it?"

"Well, that's why we're going to have to be damned careful on this one, gentlemen. One mistake could ruin our whole day.

"Our worst problem, of course, is going to be their submarines. Half of all the Russians' subs are based up here, and that means things are going to be frantic for the ASW departments. As I said earlier, though, we'll be drawing heavily on support from Norway. That includes three squadrons of P-3 Orions, and a Brit Nimrod group. They should be able to let us stretch our assets a bit.

"CAG, your people are going to be running shy on sleep, I'm afraid.

You'll not only be handling the brunt of the close-in ASW patrols, but I'm going to want heavy CAPs up at all times. In addition, it would be a good idea if you had at least two attack squadrons fueled, armed, and ready to go on short notice, in case we have to engage Russian surface units. I'd like at least one of those attack squadrons to be F/A-18s."

"They'll be ready, Admiral."

"You have two days to make damn sure of that. How are your people getting on so far?"

Tombstone knew the admiral was asking obliquely about the air wing's ongoing sexual integration.

"Some teething pains, Admiral. Nothing we can't handle."

"Your people are going to be in a real pressure cooker, son. Word from Washington is that the Ike and the Jeff battle groups are going to be pretty much on their own for at least a week. It'll be that long before the Nimitz gets here to reinforce us, and Washington is keeping the Kennedy stationed off the Skagerr."

"We'll get the job done, sir."

"I know, son. You've got the best people in the Navy. That's why I'm counting on you. Captain Brandt? Any problems?"

"We're not going to get that week, Admiral. You know that as well as I do."

"I know. If they're going to pull something, it'll be sooner. A lot sooner."

"We'd just better pray to God that we're ready then. Because when those bastards come out of their hidey-holes, it's going to be full strength, fangs out, and ready for a major rumble."

"With your permission, Captain, I'd like to tape a broadcast for your TV station. Let the men know what's going on, how we're counting on them."

"Of course, Admiral."

Tarrant's face looked terribly grim. "God help us if we drop the ball on this one, people. We're not going to get a second chance.

The crew's lounge, located far aft aboard the Jefferson, throbbed faintly with the suppressed thunder of the ship's four propellers, each twenty-two feet wide. It was a utilitarian space, occupied by round tables and plastic chairs, and decorated with framed prints showing scenes out of naval history.

It was a popular place for Jefferson's enlisted men and women to gather when they went off duty. There were the usual collections of games to be checked out ― decks of cards, military board games, and classics like Scrabble or Monopoly. There was a Coke machine, and a jukebox that played pieces ranging from country to hard rock. One bulkhead was taken up by a collection of arcade-type video games, most with names like MiG Blaster and Torpedo Alley.

Photographer's Mate Second Class Tom Margolis sat at one of the tables with four of his shipmates, and he was getting mad.

"Hey, Marge!" As he pulled up a chair and joined the group, FFG2 Roy Kirkpatrick puckered his lips, making a loud smacking noise. "How's about a kiss, sweetie?"

Margolis winced at the familiar taunt. How were you supposed to fight something like this?

"Fuck off," he said. Angrily, he picked up his can of Coke and took a swig. "I'm not queer. I like girls! I've got a girlfriend back in the States!"

"Sure, sure," Gunner's Mate (Missiles) Third Class Enrique Hernandez said, a toothy grin lighting his swarthy face. "That's what they all say!"

"I'm not a homo!"

"Yeah, well, your boyfriend Pellet's one, ain't he?" Radioman Third Class Mike Weydener said. "I thought all you queers hung out together."

"Yeah!" Kirkpatrick said, giggling. "How's Pellet hung?"

"Frank's a nice guy."

"Oh, I'll just bet he is!" Fire Control Technician Larry Jankowski mimed a kiss and the others howled with laughter.

"How nice was he?" Hernandez asked.

Margolis could feel his face getting red. He never knew how to answer these guys when they started making fun of him. He took another swig of Coke, desperately hoping to cover his embarrassment.

"Hey, look at Margie's face!" Kirkpatrick said, slapping the table. "I never seen a guy get so red!"

"Matches his hair," Radarman Third Class Reidel observed. Harold Reidel looked like a recruiting poster: surfboard blond, health-club muscular, and as handsome as a teen movie idol. "You must've hit a major nerve, Big-K."

PH2 Margolis was twenty-one years old. He'd joined the Navy the day after he'd graduated from high school; his parents were divorced and life at home with an alcoholic mother was no picnic, The sea had seemed the perfect escape.

But after three and a half years in the Navy, he was ready to call it quits. Six more months, he thought, and I'm out of here, a civilian again and free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty I'm free at last!

It wasn't that he disliked the Navy. He'd gotten by okay, on the whole.

Going to photographer's school after boot camp had taught him a trade, and when he got out he wanted to pursue a career as a professional photographer, maybe for a newspaper.

The problem was that Tom Margolis was not exactly the athletic, macho type, not big like Kirkpatrick, not hard-muscled like Reidel. He was intelligent and his speech showed it. He liked to read, he wore glasses, and his pale, freckled skin ― legacy of his hated red hair ― seemed to betray every intense or unpleasant emotion. He stood out in a crowd, especially in a crowd of types like Kirkpatrick and Reidel, and that made his chronic shyness worse.

So he was different from the other sailors of the group he'd fallen in with lately. As for the issue of his being gay, he wasn't… at least as far as he knew. He'd heard that you could be homosexual and not be aware of the fact, but he'd done a lot of pretty heavy petting with Doris in the backseat of her father's car during his senior year in high school, and he was pretty sure he was all right in that department at least.

Gays in the military, especially in the Navy, aboard ship, had remained a controversial issue long after President Clinton had lifted the ban on recruiting them. Margolis had never had much of an opinion one way or the other. He'd heard scuttlebutt that Fire Control Technician Third Class Frank Pellet was gay, but as far as Margolis knew from personal experience, Pellet was just a friendly, bright, and outgoing guy who shared Margolis's love of photography. Pellet had never made a pass at him, never said or done anything to betray his sexual orientation. Margolis had decided early on to ignore the rumors and enjoy the friendship.

And that was when the rumors had started about him.

"I'll tell you, Marge," Hernandez said. "If you are gay and we find out, your ass is grass, you get me?"

"Yeah," Reidel added. "We don't want no fags on this ship."

"Oh, Mama!" Kirkpatrick said, licking his lips. His eyes had strayed across the room to a pair of female enlisted personnel who'd just entered the lounge. One was a rather plain-looking girl who worked in personnel, but the other was a brunette bombshell from Disbursing who filled her too-tight uniform blouse with wondrous, bobbing motion. "You know, guys, it just ain't fuckin' fair. They went and made it legal for queers to join up in this man's Navy. I mean, there they are, right? Sleeping in our compartments. Crowding in with us nuts to butts right there in the shower heads. Well, I'll tell you one thing, and no shit. When they let us shower with the girls on this ship, I'll stop bitching about them letting fags take showers with me! I mean, am I right? It's the same thing, right?"

"Fuckin'-A, Big-K," Hernandez said. "Man, oh, man, lookit that nice ass.

Betcha that looks Grade-A prime in the shower, huh?"

"It'd look better in bed," Jankowski volunteered. "With her legs spread apart like this." He demonstrated, rubbing his crotch suggestively, and the others agreed with moans and laughter.

There had always been gays in the Navy. Always. Until the early nineties, however, they'd kept their presence secret for the most part, for anyone who admitted to being gay was immediately discharged from the service.

Sometimes the discovery ended tragically. In October 1992, a young seaman aboard the U.S.S. Belleau Wood ― a ship with a fleet-wide reputation for being especially rough on gays ― had had his face brutally smashed against a urinal in a restroom in Sasebo, Japan, until he was dead. There had long been dark rumors of other, similar incidents, men reported missing overboard in a storm or AWOL in some foreign port.

Not until the abrupt liberal shift in the government with the Clinton Administration had the official ban on gays finally been lifted. Recruiters were no longer allowed to ask prospective recruits about sexual orientation.

Unfortunately, lifting the ban had not solved the problem. Relatively few gays had come out of the closet, for there was no way to change the embedded prejudice of their shipmates, not overnight. Kirkpatrick's complaint was a common one: If we can't shower with the female sailors, why should gays be allowed to shower with us?

No civilian could imagine the closeness of the quarters, the complete lack of privacy aboard ship. Even aboard a floating city like the Jefferson, with most of her thousand-foot length reserved for her aircraft and the gear and supplies that kept them flying, space was at a premium. When morale was poor, when stress was high, slights, attacks, or harassments, real or imagined, could explode like a magnesium flare in an avgas fuel-storage tank.

More than four years after the ban on gays had been lifted, there were still far too many suspicious "accidents" at sea.

Margolis was scared. As the rumor that he was gay had spread, he'd been getting more and more harassment ― shipmates banging into him in the passageways or the chow line, apparently by accident but hard. Once his sheets had been stolen from his rack. He'd even received a couple of threatening letters telling him to get off the ship or else.

But Margolis had been working on a plan for two weeks now, a way to fight back. He had the necessary equipment. All he needed was some help. And if he managed to pull it off, he'd prove that he was a red-blooded guy just like the rest of them. He'd show them!

"All right, guys," he said. He crushed his Coke can for emphasis, then let the crumpled husk clatter on the tabletop.

"I've got a little scheme going, and you're going to help me. It'll prove to you, once and for all, that I'm no queer."

"Yeah?" Kirkpatrick asked. "How you gonna do that, Marge?"

"Just listen up," Margolis said. He snickered. "You're gonna love this!"