Flame Out

CHAPTER 12

“How could I predict what that fool Terekhov would do, Comrade Admiral?” Captain First Rank Fyodor Arturovich Glushko asked. He was uncomfortably aware of the note of pleading that had crept into his voice. “If he had obeyed his instructions-“

“The transcripts of the radio traffic with Misha show that he did obey those orders,” Admiral Khenkin said harshly. The heavyset, gray-haired fleet commander leaned across Glushko’s desk, his bluff peasant’s face flushed. “If you had spent more time reviewing them, or better yet actually listening to the transmissions as they occurred, you would be aware of this.”

Glushko stiffened, his face a studied blank that hid the churning emotions within him. It was almost unheard of for an admiral to seek out a subordinate in his own office, especially so early in the morning and with so few minutes left before a major mission briefing. But Khenkin had come to the air wing office today, and Glushko didn’t need the flag officer’s angry words to tell him that his career, maybe even his life, hung by a thread this morning.

It was not fair. For all of his adult life Glushko had played the game of Soviet Navy politics, and played it well. In the late Eighties he had commanded a squadron of Yak-38 V/STOL fighters operating from the Baku, but he had seen where the winds of change were leading the Navy and volunteered for training with the first wave of pilots at the flight deck mock-up at Saki airfield in the Crimea. Flying Su-27s off the deck of the fleet’s first true carrier back when it was still known as the Kuznetsov, he had been in an enviable position as one of the Union’s pioneer naval aviators, and that had stood Glushko in good stead.

Now he was commander of the air wing assigned to the Soyuz, and well-positioned to advance further. Operation Rurik’s Hammer offered him a superb chance to attract favorable notice, though as air wing commander he was relegated more to an administrative role than to the kind of combat duty that might really make his reputation. As a result he had focused his attention on winning over staff and political officers who could make sure that his name would receive prominent notice when the campaign was through. After all, once the Norwegians had been overcome and the conflict was over, there would be plenty of room at the top for deserving officers. General Vorobyev would see to that as he began to consolidate his domination of the new Russia.

Now all of Glushko’s efforts were threatened. He had not exactly neglected his responsibilities as air wing commander, but he had delegated much of the responsibility to juniors. Ordinarily it would have been perfectly acceptable … except for the horrible set of circumstances the day before that had culminated in the loss of a Tu-95 out of Olenegorsk and one of Soyuz’s MiG-29Ds. The other escort plane, flown by Captain Second Rank Terekhov, had broken off the engagement and returned to the carrier unmolested by the Americans.

It had been Terekhov’s fault, Glushko told himself again as he concentrated on a spot on the bulkhead above the admiral’s head. Surely they did not expect the air wing commander to monitor every routine patrol flight. But Khenkin evidently expected just that, and as a result held Glushko, not Terekhov, responsible for the incident.

The incident that might have drawn the Americans into a direct military involvement in the war in Scandinavia. That was a thought Glushko didn’t want to contemplate. “Admiral,” he said slowly, searching for the right words. “I have done my duty to the best of my ability. There was no way to predict what would happen to the patrol mission …”

“And you didn’t even try,” Khenkin finished bluntly. “That is no longer the principal concern. What has happened cannot be changed. What remains for us is to shape the future.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Glushko said.

“Shut up and let me finish!” Khenkin’s voice was loud now in the cramped office. “I have examined all of the plans submitted by your officers for the conduct of North Star. They make very interesting reading.” The admiral tapped a stack of file folders on the corner of Glushko’s desk. “Tell me, Glushko, what did you think of Captain Terekhov’s suggestions?”

“Terekhov?” Glushko almost spat the name. “Too rash. Too daring. He wants to use three full squadrons to escort the bombers … too many. It leaves but one squadron to mount CAP over Soyuz. You will find the plan I endorsed to be much more balanced in outlook-“

“Bah!” Khenkin exploded. “You would give only token escort to the bombers! This is not a time for half-measures. Why is it so difficult for you to comprehend this?”

“But, Admiral-“

“Spare me the protests.” Khenkin rose from his seat and jabbed a stubby finger at Glushko. “We will proceed on the basis of the plan Captain Terekhov submitted. You will pass orders to have the MiG squadrons readied. The mission briefing will be conducted accordingly. Do you understand?”

Glushko swallowed. “Yes, Admiral. Your orders will be carried out. To the letter.”

Inwardly he was caught between fear and anger. Plainly the admiral would be watching him very closely over the next few hours, and any mistakes Glushko made would only fuel Khenkin’s ill feelings. He would have to tread carefully.

There was a soft, almost tentative knock on the office door. “Come!” Khenkin barked.

Captain Second Rank Terekhov looked diffident as he entered. “Just a reminder, Admiral … Captain. The briefing is due to begin in ten minutes. All squadron commanders and executive officers are assembled as ordered.”

Khenkin nodded. “Thank you, Terekhov. We will come.”

As the younger officer closed the door Glushko’s mind was busy reassessing his prospects. The new orders did offer one bit of hope. At least he could manipulate events to allow Terekhov to hang himself. That would remove one thorn in his side, and he might still be able to use the squadron leader as a convincing scapegoat if he handled the situation skillfully.

The thought made him smile coldly. “I am sure Captain Terekhov’s plan will be the best choice at that, Admiral.”

Captain Arkady Stepanovich Emelyanov bent over the radio operator’s shoulder in the cramped communications shack of the submarine Thilsiskiy Komsomolets and watched the chattering teletype print out a jumble of letters and numbers. The submarine, which an American observer would have referred to as a Victor-class attack sub, was lying at periscope depth accepting incoming messages bounced off a communications satellite. The information would be meaningless, of course, until it was decoded, but Emelyanov liked to study his crewmen in the routine performance of their duties instead of remaining in isolation like too many of his fellow captains. It kept the crew on their toes to know that the commanding officer might come by just to observe while they were standing watch.

There was a lot of message traffic this morning, he thought with a twinge of anxiety. Lying so close to the surface, the submarine could be easily detected, and Emelyanov longed for the safety of the deep. But since the start of the campaign against Norway there was a lot of information to pass along, and it was vitally important to keep up to date with the latest unfolding developments. If nothing else the daily update was necessary because Moscow would be sending the coded phrase that would indicate the scope of his current operations. Without that there was no way to know if he was supposed to initiate hostilities against any foe other than the Norwegians.

That brought a smile to his lips. Four days ago Thilsiskiy Komsomolets had scored her first three kills, an Oslo-class frigate and a Sleipnir-class corvette sailing north from Bergen, and later on a small, conventionally powered Ula-class submarine that had tried to slip past the Soviet vanguard to interfere with the operations of the Red Banner Northern Fleet. Small victories, perhaps, compared to going up against American or British foes, but still a mark of pride for the attack sub.

Now, though, they were no longer close in to the Norwegian coast. The sub had been ordered to begin patrolling near the Faeroe Islands, along the vaguely defined line of the GIUK gap. It was in some ways more hazardous duty, thanks to the higher chance of detection by the American SOSUS acoustical tracking network, but it had removed the sub from the true war zone, and that was a disappointment.

The radioman made a soft-voiced exclamation that drew Emelyanov out of his reverie.

“What is it, starshina?” the captain asked him.

The petty officer looked up at him. “This message is in special code,” he said.

Emelyanov took care to control his features. “Very good, starshina. Give it to me. Then pass the word for the zampolit to meet me in my quarters before you proceed with the decoding of the regular traffic.”

He left the communications shack without even waiting for the petty officer’s acknowledgment. Special coded messages like this one were almost always concerned with a change in orders, and from its length it had to be more than a mere signal to assume one of the other previously established patrol stations on the list in his cabin safe. Perhaps Thilsiskiy Komsomolets had been picked out for an important new mission.

Inside his cabin, Emelyanov waited impatiently at his desk until the sub’s political officer arrived. Mikhail Aleksandrovich Dobrotin was a small, sharp-featured man who never failed to remind Emelyanov of the mongooses he had encountered while serving as a naval attache in India before the Indo-Pakistani war. Dobrotin took his duties as zampolit with the deadly seriousness of a zealot. He was not popular in the submarine’s wardroom, but his power was unquestionably respected and feared.

The political officer knocked on the cabin door and entered immediately, without given Emelyanov a chance to invite him inside. “You asked for me, Comrade Captain?”

“I did,” Emelyanov replied. “Sit down. There is a message in special code which must be dealt with.” That was standard practice. The political officer was required to verify all such messages. It was a safeguard against irresponsible captains who might ignore or exceed Moscow’s instructions.

It took only a few minutes to translate the orders into clear copy. When he had finished Emelyanov stared down at the paper on his desk, stunned. Across from him Dobrotin was wearing a smile on his ferret features. “So it happens at last. The chance to engage the Americans.” There was nothing but triumph in the zampolit’s tone.

Emelyanov looked at the man. He had been chosen for his political reliability rather than any technical knowledge, but surely Dobrotin knew how difficult these orders would be to carry out. Or did he? The Americans were second to none when it came to ASW operations … but with the true faith of a fanatic whose religion was the State, the political officer probably did not or would not believe that anyone could defeat a Soviet vessel in time of war. War … It had finally come to war then.

Stiff-featured, Emelyanov reached across to switch on the intercom on his desk. “Bridge. Captain.”

“Bridge here,” the duty officer’s voice responded with commendable promptness.

The captain scanned the transcript once again, noting the latest intelligence information on the carrier battle group which was their new target. It was a daunting prospect, but he would carry out his orders … or die in the attempt.

“Take us below the thermal layer we charted this morning. And come about to course one-seven-five, ahead two thirds.”

“Yes, Captain.”

He swallowed and continued, aware of the narrowed eyes regarding him across the desk. “And send the crew to battle stations. This will not be a drill, Comrade Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Captain,” the officer repeated.

Emelyanov cut off the intercom and met Dobrotin’s eyes. He hoped the zampolit’s faith in their invincibility was not misplaced.

“So what’d ya think, Brownie?” Lieutenant Kevin Wheeler glanced up from his radar station to look at the Hawkeye’s Air Control Officer. “Do you think we’re gonna fight the Russkies?”

Lieutenant Brown shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me, man,” he said. “For ten years they keep telling us the Commies are really our buddies now … then wham! All of a sudden they’re making good old Saddam Hussein look tame.”

The Hawkeye was on station slightly ahead of the Jefferson battle group, circling slowly at an altitude of thirty thousand feet above the Norwegian Sea. From that height the AN/APS-139 radar system could detect and identify airborne threats to a range of up to three hundred miles. From its current position Tango 65 could track aircraft as far away as the coasts of Norway and Iceland. The passive electronic-surveillance system could pick up enemy emissions twice as far away.

At least one Hawkeye had been kept in the air at all times since the beginning of the crisis in Scandinavia. The range and versatility of the Airborne Warning and Control System concept had been demonstrated time and again in recent years, and was absolutely essential to all other aspects of carrier ops. Wheeler had taken plenty of ribbing from the “real aviators” who flew the Tomcats, Hornets, and Intruders in combat, but they all knew as well as he did that without the Hawkeyes they would never carry out their jobs.

“You see that profile on the tube last night?” Wheeler asked, yawning. They were near the end of their patrol period, and he was ready for a few hours’ sack time.

Brown laughed. “You mean that ACN thing? There’s a joke for you.” Jefferson’s five thousand-man community was served by two on-board television stations that showed a mix of canned programs and movies together with shows picked up off satellite feeds. The documentary from the American Cable Network covering the crisis in Norway had been one of the featured programs on Channel Eight the night before.

“‘Nine Soviet aircraft carriers ready to challenge America’s control of the seas,’” Wheeler quoted with a grin. “What the hell are those people playing at anyway? You’d think they’d learn the background before they went on the air with that shit, y’know? At least enough to tell a helicopter cruiser from a carrier!”

It had been greeted with laughs aboard the carrier, but Wheeler couldn’t help but be indignant at the thought of the message the documentary had delivered back in the World. He could imagine his mother and father seeing that broadcast and worrying unnecessarily at the media’s claim that the Soviets had nearly as many aircraft carriers as the United States, and most of them much newer and more modern than the American boats.

Apparently ACN didn’t realize — or hadn’t bothered to report — the truth. Most of the so-called “carriers” in the Soviet Navy were ships of the Kiev and Moskva classes, strange hybrids between cruiser and carrier designs that carried helicopters or V/STOL fighters and served primarily in an ASW role. Of the three true carriers in Soviet service, only one was nuclear powered, and it was still undergoing sea trials in the Black Sea. Unless the Russians were really desperate it was unlikely that she would leave friendly waters. Only the two conventional carriers, Soyuz and Kreml, were anything like the Jefferson. At that they were smaller and much less capable than any of the Nimitz-class ships.

And the Soviets had been using carriers for less than a decade. They still had a long way to go before they would evolve the expertise and experience of their American counterparts. The Russians could be dangerous foes, but it was foolish to believe that they could seriously challenge the United States Navy in a stand-up carrier-to-carrier engagement.

Brown laughed again. “Maybe we should surrender now so we don’t disappoint the newsmen, huh?”

“All right, you guys, let’s can the chatter and concentrate on the job.” That was Lieutenant Commander Jake Braxton, the CIC officer. Despite his words he sounded amused. “Let’s save the battle of the airwaves for when we’re back on the Jeff and stick with watching for Russkies while we’re up here, okay?”

“Aye, aye, oh, lord and master,” Brown responded. As with most aircraft crews the men on Tango 65 were easy about rank, at least in the privacy imposed at thirty thousand feet. Wheeler noted a threat light and checked his instruments.

“The ALR’s picking up electronic emissions. Bearing zero-five-zero, range four hundred.”

“Any idea what?” Braxton asked.

Pursing his lips, Wheeler studied his readouts. “Down Beat,” he said at last, giving the NATO code name for the Russian radar system.

“That’s either a Blinder or a Backfire,” Brown said. “Bombers.”

“You getting anything on radar yet, Wheeler?” Braxton asked.

Wheeler shook his head. “Still out of range.” He paused and looked down at his radar screen. It was beginning to show an irregular pattern of streaks and clutter. “Getting some jamming now. Probably an EW bird out there with them.”

“Great,” Braxton said sarcastically. He turned back to his own station and checked the Link-II data-transmission system that was supposed to relay information back to Jefferson and the rest of the battle group. The CIC officer picked up a radio mike. “Camelot, Camelot, this is Tango Six-fiver. Come in, Camelot. Over.”

Wheeler watched the radar screen and tapped his fingers on the console nervously. It was possible they were picking up a Russian raid against the Norwegian forces around Bergen … but a twisting in his guts told him that this was something else, something bigger.

And Jefferson was likely to be right in the middle of whatever the Soviets were pulling.