Red Storm Rising by Tom Clancy

It took two hours longer than they’d hoped. Some vehicles were broken down, but the port and police officials had organized the assembly points with skill. The division moved off in the early afternoon at a steady fifty kilometers per hour, driving down a multi-lane highway cleared for its path. Every few yards, someone stood to wave while the troops made final checks on their gear. The easy part of their journey was about to end.

ICELAND

It was four in the morning when they reached the top, only to find that this mountain had a number of “tops.” The Russians had the highest one, three miles away. Edwards’s group had a choice of two subsidiary peaks, each a few hundred feet lower than the adjacent thousand-meter summit. They picked the higher of the two, overlooking the small fishing port of Stykkisholmur, almost due north, and the large rock-filled bay that the map called Hvammsfjordur.

“Looks like a fine observation point, Leftenant Edwards,” Nichols judged.

“That’s good, Sarge, ’cause I am not going another foot.” Edwards already had his binoculars on the eastern peak. “I don’t see any movement.”

“They’re there,” Nichols said.

“Yeah,” Smith agreed. “Sure as hell.”

Edwards slid down from the crestline and unpacked his radio.

“Doghouse, this is Beagle, and we are where you want us, over.”

“Give me your exact position.”

Edwards opened his map and read off the coordinates. “We believe there’s a Russian observation post on the next peak over. They’re about five klicks away, according to this map. We’re well concealed here and we have food and water for two days. We can see the roads leading into Stykkisholmur. Matter of fact, it’s nice and clear now, and we can see all the way to Keflavik. We can’t pick anything out, but we can see the peninsula.”

“Very well. I want you to look north and tell us what you see in detail.”

Edwards handed the radio antenna to Smith, then turned and put his field glasses on the town.

“Okay. The land is pretty flat, but higher than the water, on a shelf, like. The town is fairly small, maybe eight square blocks. There are some little fishing boats tied up to the docks . . . I count nine of them. The harbor north and east of the port is wall-to-wall rocks that go on for miles. I do not see any armored vehicles, no obvious signs of Russian troops-wait. I do see two four-by-fours parked in the middle of the street, like, but nobody around ’em. The sun’s still low, and there’s lots of shadows. Nothing moving on the roads. I guess that’s about it.”

“Very well, Beagle. Good report. Let us know if you see any Soviet personnel at all. Even one, we want to know about him. Stay put.”

“Somebody coming to get us?”

“Beagle, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

USS INDEPENDENCE

Toland stood in the Combat Information Center, watching the displays. Submarines concerned him the most. Eight allied subs were in the Denmark Strait, west of Iceland, forming a barrier that few submarines would be able to pass. They were supported by Navy Orions operating out of Sondrestrom, Greenland, something impossible until the Russian fighters at Keflavik had been whittled down. That closed off one possible avenue of access to Strike Fleet Atlantic. More submarines formed a line parallel to the fleet’s line of advance, and those were supported by the carrier-borne S-3A Vikings that operated continuously off the flight decks.

The Pentagon had leaked to the press that this Marine division was enroute to Germany, where the battle hung in the balance. In fact, the tight formation of amphibs was twenty miles from his carrier on a course of zero-three-nine, four hundred miles from its real objective.

USS REUBEN JAMES

“We’re not heading north any longer,” Calloway said. Dinner was being served in the wardroom. The officers were plowing through the last fresh lettuce aboard.

“I believe you’re right,” O’Malley agreed. “I think we’re heading west now.”

“You might as well tell me what the devil we’re up to. I’ve been shut off from your satellite transmitters.”

“We’re screening the Nimitz battle group, except that when you’re motoring along at twenty-five knots, it’s not all that easy.” O’Malley didn’t like this. They were running a risk. It was part of war, but the pilot didn’t like any part of war. Especially risks. They pay me to do it, not to like it

“The escort is mostly British, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, so?”

“That’s a story I can use to tell the people at home how important-”

“Look, Mr. Calloway, let’s say you file your story, and it got published in the local papers. Then let’s say a Soviet agent reads the story and passes it along to-”

“How would he do that? The government has undoubtedly put severe restrictions on all forms of communication.”

“Ivan has lots of communications satellites, same as us. We have two satellite transmitters on this dinky little frigate. You’ve seen ’em. How expensive do they look? Think maybe you could have one in your backyard, inside a bush maybe? Besides, the whole group is blacked out. Total EMCON. Nobody is transmitting anything at the moment.”

Morris arrived and took his seat at the head of the table.

“Captain, where are we going?” Calloway asked.

“I just found out. Sorry I can’t tell you. Battleaxe and we will continue to work together for a while as stem guard for the Nimitz group. We are now designated ‘Mike Force.'”

“We getting any more help?” O’Malley asked.

“Bunker Hill is heading this way. She had to reload her magazines and join up with HMS Illustrious. They’ll operate in close when they catch up. We’re going to outside picket again. We start doing real ASW work in another four hours. Still going to be a bastard trying to keep up with the carrier, though.”

USS CHICAGO

There were three contacts. All arrived within ten minutes. Two were ahead of Chicago, left and right of her bow. The third was on her port beam. Somehow, McCafferty realized, the Russians knew of the submarines they had killed. Probably some sort of radio buoy, he was sure. That meant all that his tactical successes had really accomplished was to draw more dangers in on the trio of American submarines.

“Conn, sonar. We have some sonobuoy signals at two-six-six. Count three buoys-four, make it four.”

More Bears? McCafferty wondered. A cooperative hunt?

“Skipper, you better come forward,” the sonar chief called.

“What’s happening?” The waterfall display screen was suddenly crowded.

“Sir, we have three lines on sonobuoys forming up right now. Gotta be at least three aircraft up there. This one’s fairly close, looks like it’ll extend aft of us, maybe right on our friends.”

McCafferty watched the new signal lines appear at the rate of one per minute. Each was a Russian sonobuoy, and the line marched east as two others grew on different azimuths.

“They’re trying to box us in, Chief.”

“Looks that way, sir.”

Every time we destroyed a Russian ship we gave them a location reference. They’ve confirmed our course and speed of advance many times over. McCafferty had gotten his submarine back to the Svyataya Anna Trough. His path to the icepack was a hundred miles wide and three hundred fathoms deep. But how many Russian subs were there? The sonar crew continued to call off bearings to the submarine contacts while the captain watched the buoy lines extend.

“I think this is Providence, sir. She just increased speed-yeah, look at the noise now, she’s really increased speed. This buoy must be right near her. Still can’t find Boston, though.”

Bearing was constant to the two forward submarine contacts. He couldn’t develop a range figure unless he or they maneuvered. If he turned left, he’d then close on a third contact, which might not be a good idea. If he turned right, he’d run away from the submarine that might then close on Providence. If he did nothing, he’d accomplish nothing, but McCafferty didn’t know what to do.

“There’s another buoy, sir.” The new one was between the bearings of two existing contacts. They were trying to localize Providence.

“There’s Boston. She’s-yeah, she’s running past a buoy.” A new contact line appeared suddenly bright where nothing had been before. Todd just increased power and he’s going to allow himself to be picked up, McCafferty thought. Then he’ll dive deep to evade.

Look at it from the Russian side, the captain told himself. They don’t really know what they’re up against, do they? They probably figure they’re up against more than one, but how many more? They can’t know that. So they’ll want to flush the game before they shoot, just to see what’s here.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing one-nine-three!”

A Russian Bear had dropped on Boston. McCafferty watched the sonar display as Simms took his boat deep with the torpedo in pursuit. He’d change depth and make a few radical changes in course and speed, trying to evade the fish. The bright line of a noisemaker appeared, holding a constant bearing as Boston maneuvered further. The torpedo chased the noisemaker, running another three minutes before it ran out of fuel.