for the nuclear missiles to fly. I believe the Americans will feel that as
strongly as I do. The important thing now is to hold them at arm’s length
while we complete the conquest of Scandinavia. At that point they will be in
the unenviable position of choosing between an unacceptable escalation or a
stalemate. While we, on the other hand, will be poised to dominate Europe
from our new flanking positions.”
“Hold them at arm’s length,” Doctorov mused. “Then you mean to strike at
the carrier battle group? No other American force is in a position to
intervene.”
“There is one other that must be cleared in order to isolate the battle
group,” Vorobyev said. “In fact, a determined strike on this target could
well discourage them from further adventures within our exclusion zone.” He
smiled. “I am recommending that we introduce Plan North Star immediately. At
the same time it would be wise to begin harassing the American ships …
perhaps a few of our attack submarines would be well employed in this. After
North Star has been resolved we will evaluate the situation and decide what
else needs to be done.”
He saw heads nodding across the table, and his smile broadened. They had
a tiger by the tail in Scandinavia. Rurik’s Hammer had to succeed if the
Soviet Union was to regain power in Europe. This time it would be the Germans
and the British who would have to come begging to Moscow for the very right to
survive! Every one of those men knew that there was no going back now.
And as long as Rurik’s Hammer was in motion, they needed Vorobyev. While
Doctorov maneuvered and Ubarov trembled and the rest tried to predict the
outcome and make the right political choices, it would be the army that
solidified its power base and made sure that the Rodina would never again be
humbled by the West.
1145 hours Zulu (1045 hours Zone)
Viking 704
West of the Shetland Islands
The S-3B Viking banked left and settled onto a new heading, but as far as
Magruder was concerned it might as well have been holding steady on an endless
flight to nowhere. Outside was the same monotony of cloud and sea, with
little prospect of a break in the routine. It was a common belief among
fighter pilots that the men who flew ASW missions slept through their flights
and returned home with numb asses, and Tombstone was beginning to believe it.
For a Tomcat pilot, Tombstone told himself, a desk job at the Pentagon
was a taste of Hell … but the cockpit of an S-3 was Purgatory, pure and
simple.
The Viking was an amazing aircraft. That much he was willing to concede.
Handsome, high-winged, with fine lines and an aerodynamic design that made it
a dream to fly, the S-3 had only one thing in common with the F-14 he knew so
well. Both were dedicated weapons platforms, mounting sophisticated equipment
and electronics all concentrated on fulfilling one purpose and one purpose
only.
In the case of the Viking that purpose was submarine hunting, a job the
aircraft performed splendidly. Magruder couldn’t argue with the versatility
of the machine or with the skill and dedication of the three other men aboard,
all experienced sub-hunters from the VS-42 squadron, the King Fishers.
Tombstone’s complaint was with the job itself. The temperament and
skills that made a good fighter pilot were the antithesis of what made a
Viking crewman tick. The aircraft was designed to remain aloft for long
periods of time, burning fuel at about a sixth the rate of the thirsty
Tomcats. And these extended flights required nothing so much as patience, a
skill few fighter jocks cultivated.
“Want to take her for a while, Commander?” the pilot asked over the ICS.
Commander Max “Hunter” Harrison was CO of the King Fishers, a soft-spoken
black man whose pride in his squadron was evident in everything he said. He
had elected to come on the mission this morning as the Viking’s pilot as soon
as he’d learned that the Deputy CAG was going out. Tombstone could see that
much, at least. Back when he’d been a squadron leader he had tried to be on