of the north. On-board guidance systems kicked in, unfolding electronic maps
of their targets and aligning the hurtling missiles toward their destinations.
The missiles skimmed in low over the water.
At the air base at Orland, klaxons sounded the alarm as radar picked up
the incoming missiles, and Soviet troops poured from their barracks buildings
to take up their defense stations. One SAM battery managed to get off a pair
of missiles despite the surprise, and these accounted for one of the six
incoming Tomahawks. But the remaining five came on, arcing gracefully toward
the base. Their impact turned the quiet Norwegian landscape into a scene from
Hell.
The first to hit tore into a tank farm on the edge of the base, raising a
pillar of flame that outshone the sun. The explosion broke windows for miles
around and echoed off the mountains like summer thunder, reverberating over
the embattled installation. Another missile hit close by the base control
tower, while the other three fell on a hangar and a pair of runways. The
Russians running for their stations scattered under the rain of destruction.
A few seconds later the six missiles launched from Bangor slammed into
Orland, completing the devastation. Orland burned.
2120 hours Zulu (2120 hours Zone)
Control room, U.S.S. Bangor
Northwest of Trondheim, Norway
“Conn, sonar. Reading a target, bearing one-seven-nine degrees,
closing.” Commander Jason Wolfe rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked
across the plotting table at his Executive Officer. “Looks like they’re on to
us, Tom,” he said. “Let’s hope all they’ve got is second-line crap.”
“Better not count on it, Skipper,” Lieutenant Commander Tom Guzman
replied. His shrug was eloquent. “Nobody ever won a war on wishes.”
The Exec made good sense, of course, but his bland comment still
irritated Wolfe. The Russian ships had doubled back unexpectedly just as
Bangor had launched her flight of Tomahawks. Now they knew the American sub
was nearby, and the hunt was on. “Helm!” he snapped. “Make your heading
three-five-four. Ahead slow. Diving Officer, fifteen degrees down angle on
the planes. Make your depth two-zero-zero.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” men responded crisply from around the control room.
“Conn, sonar.” Lieutenant Wells, the Sonar Officer, sounded worried even over
the tannoy. Wolfe picked up the handset. “What’ve you got, Lieutenant?”
“Captain, we’ve got IDs on their lead ships. They’ve got at least two
Krivak 11 ASW frigates up there, and a Kresta II backing them up. We’ve
definitely spotted the Kronstadt, but we’re not sure about the others yet.
Not exactly the best reception committee, sir.”
“Yeah.” Wolfe licked lips gone suddenly dry. “Keep me informed as you
get more-”
Before he could say anything further the hull seemed to shake with
multiple sonar pings, a noise like a jangling of mismatched church bells.
“Christ, Skipper!” Wells swore. “They’ve gone active!”
Wolfe slammed down the handset without answering. “Give us flank speed!”
he shouted.
The pings continued in an almost steady stream. The Soviets were
hammering at the depths with everything they had. At this range, they were
surely picking up Bangor clearly.
“More active sonars ahead, sir!” This shout came from the Sonarman
Second Class manning the control room’s sonar repeater. “Looks like they’re
dropping sonobuoys ahead of us!” There was a pause. “Fish in the water!
Torp! Torp! Torp!”
“Ready countermeasures,” Wolfe snapped. He snatched up the handset
again. “Sonar, conn. Talk to me, Wells!”
“Torpedo bearing zero-three-two, range three thousand, speed four-eight
knots, closing. It’s pinging us!”
“Helm, come to zero-three-two,” Wolfe ordered. That was the risky way to
deal with torps, turn into them and pray you could dodge your way past.
“Range twenty-five hundred, closing,” Wells reported. Then, all too
soon, “Range two thousand, closing.”
“Decoy! Fire a decoy!” There wasn’t much else they could do.
“Range fifteen hundred … fourteen hundred … thirteen hundred …”
The chant was a litany of doom.
Wolfe licked his lips again. He’d never really believed he’d face a
situation like this, a real combat scenario. But it was happening. In the
next few seconds Bangor and her crew of 134 officers and enlisted men would
live or die according to the decisions he made.
“One thousand … nine hundred … eight hundred.”