attack submarine Galveston.
Hopkins was out of the fight now, and Tarrant was detaching one of the
DDGs to accompany her to port. That left five ships, a pathetically
understrength battle group.
Tarrant held up a hand, quieting the rumble of conversation. “I know
what you’re thinking. Five ships against the Red Banner Fleet is pretty lean.
But we have the advantage, gentlemen. We have the better crews, the better
morale.”
“Christ,” Batman whispered at Tombstone’s side, his hand covering his
mouth. “He’s going to win this thing by throwing morale at the bastards?”
“Shh.”
“We have the better aircraft,” Tarrant continued, “the better weapons,
the better strategy. We will win.” Someone in the back had his hand up, and
Tarrant pointed his finger. “What is it, son?”
Commander Max Harrison, skipper of VS-42, stood. “Excuse me, Admiral,
but what strategy? OZ there just finished telling us we’re up against a
Russkie carrier, the Kirov, and seventeen more ships.”
“A good question, Commander. And I’ll tell you. In four more days the
Marines will arrive, and we’ll be able to augment our force, especially our
ASW assets, with the Marines’ escort.
“Until then, gentlemen, we’re going to hide. And here’s how we’re going
to do it.”
The silence in the compartment was absolute as Admiral Tarrant explained
how they were going to hide an eighty-thousand-ton aircraft carrier from the
Russians, and carry the fight to them as well.
And at the end, every man in the room was on his feet, applauding and
cheering. Perhaps, Tombstone thought, standing and clapping with the others,
strategy and morale could turn the tide after all.
Especially morale.
CHAPTER 9
Friday, 20 June
0530 hours Zulu (0630 hours Zone)
U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Romsdalfjordin
Mountains rose on every side of the Jefferson like the walls of a box,
the lower ones blanketed in mist and green, the taller ones crisp and sheer in
the early morning light, ice-covered even on this last day of spring. Fog
hugged the water’s surface and swirled past the carrier’s bridge windows,
transforming the massive shapes of the Decatur, to port, and the Norwegian
frigate Stavanger, ahead, into lean, gray ghosts.
Romsdalfjord was one of Norway’s great fjords, a twisting, water-filled
canyon winding inland from the sea, 150 miles north of Bergen. Thirty miles
astern of the Jefferson, the large island of Otroy guarded the fjord’s
entrance like a sentinel. Ahead, to the east, the early, near-Arctic sun
glistened from snow-capped peaks. At its widest, Romsdalfjord was six miles
wide. Here, far inland, a narrowing passage and a large island midstream had
reduced that width to a bit over a mile, some five times Jefferson’s length.
The water, when it could be glimpsed through the mist, looked cold and
dark.
Tombstone watched Jefferson’s passage up the fjord from the bridge.
Captain Brandt was perched in his high-backed seat on the port side of the
bridge, as officers and ratings stood at their posts, calling off their
reports in calm, professional voices.
“Depth,” Brandt snapped.
“Depth, one-five-one-five,” a seaman replied.
“Still way too deep to anchor,” Brandt said, turning to Tombstone.
“We’ll have to go farther in. What’s the matter, CAG? Not used to tight
quarters?”
“I wouldn’t have thought these fjords were this deep,” Tombstone said.
“Carved by glaciers,” Brandt said. Wonder touched his voice. “It’s
relatively shallow out by the mouth … maybe five hundred feet. In here it’s
more like eighteen hundred and some feet deep. At least we don’t have to
worry about grounding.”
Tombstone tried to imagine a third of a mile of water beneath his feet
and failed. “Those mountains still look damned close,” he said.
“Like threading a Cadillac into a Volkswagen’s parking place,” Brandt
agreed. He reached inside his uniform jacket and produced a pipe, which he
began filling from a small pouch. “So, CAG, how about it? Can we continue
air ops from inside this bottle?”
Tombstone glanced at the cliffs looming above the fog to port and
starboard. “Should be no problem, Captain. I’d hate to try it in rough
weather or at night.”
“Night could be a problem,” Brandt agreed. “Fortunately, this far north,
at this time of year, it’s light until after 2200. And zero-dark-thirty ain’t
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