Mike Force-Reuben James, Battleaxe, and Illustrious-was escorting a group of amphibs south for another landing. There were still bears in the woods, and Ivan would go for the amphibious-warfare ships as soon as he had the chance. From a thousand feet, O’Malley could see Nassau and three others to the north. Smoke rose from Keflavik. The Russian troops were getting no rest at all.
“Won’t be easy for them to track in on us,” Ralston thought aloud.
“You suppose those Russian troops have radios?” O’Malley asked.
“Sure.”
“You suppose maybe they can see us from those hills-and maybe radio a submarine what they see?”
“I didn’t think of that,” the ensign admitted.
“Mat’s all right. I’m sure Ivan did.” O’Malley looked north again. There were three thousand Marines on those ships. The Marines had saved his ass in Vietnam more than once.
Reuben James and O’Malley had the inshore side of the small convoy while the British ships and helos guarded to seaward. It was relatively shallow water. Their towed-array sonars were reeled in.
“Willy, drop—now, now, now!” The first active sonobuoy was ejected into the water. Five more were deployed in the next few minutes. The passive buoys used for open-ocean search were the wrong choice here. Stealth was not in the cards if the Russian subs were being informed where to go. Better to scare them off than to try finesse.
Three hours, O’Malley thought.
“Hammer, this is Romeo,” Morris called. “Bravo and India are working a possible contact to seaward, two-nine miles bearing two-four-seven.”
“Roger that, Romeo.” O’Malley acknowledged. To Ralston: “Bastard’s within missile range. That oughta make the Marines happy.”
“Contact! Possible contact on buoy four,” Willy said, watching the sonar display. “Signal is weak.”
O’Malley turned his helo and moved back up the line.
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
“Where do you suppose they are?” Andreyev asked his naval liaison officer. The position of the formation had been plotted on the map from the reports of several mountaintop lookout stations.
The man shook his head. “Trying to get to the targets.”
The General remembered his own time aboard ship, how vulnerable he’d felt, how dangerous it had been. A distant part of his consciousness felt sympathy for the American Marines. But gallantry was a luxury the General could not afford. His paratroopers were heavily engaged, and he didn’t need more enemy troops and heavy equipment-of course!
His division was deployed to keep the Americans away from the Reykjavik/Keflavik area as long as possible. His original orders remained operative: deny the Keflavik Air Base to NATO. That he could do, though it would mean the probable annihilation of his elite troopers. His problem was that Reykjavik airport would be equally useful to the enemy, and one light division wasn’t enough to cover both places.
So now the Americans trailed their coats in plain view of his observers-a full regiment of troops plus heavy weapons and helicopters that they could land anywhere they wished. If he redeployed to meet this threat, he risked disaster when he disengaged his forward units. If he moved his reserves, they would be in the open where naval guns and aircraft could massacre them. This unit was being moved, not to join the others deployed against his airborne infantrymen, but to exploit a weakness within minutes instead of hours. Once in place, the landing ships could wait for relative darkness or a storm and race unseen across the water to landbound troops. How could he deploy his own forces to deal with that? His radars were finished, he had a single remaining SAM launcher, and the battleships had systematically exterminated most of his artillery.
“How many submarines out there?”
“I don’t know, Comrade General.”
USS REUBEN JAMES
Morris watched the sonar plot. The sonobuoy contact had faded off after a few minutes. A school of herring, perhaps. The ocean waters abounded with fish, and enough of them on active sonar looked like a sub. His own sonar was virtually useless as his ship struggled just to keep up with the ‘phibs. A possible submarine to seaward-every sub contact was a possible cruise missile sub-was all the Commodore needed to go to full speed.
O’Malley was dipping his sonar now, trying to reacquire the lost contact. He was the only one who could keep up with things.
“Romeo, this is Bravo. Be advised we are prosecuting a possible missile carrying submarine.” Doug Perrin had to assume the worst case.
“Roger that, Bravo.” According to the data-link picture, three helicopters were backing Battleaxe up, and the British frigate had interposed herself on the line from the contact to the amphibious ships. Be careful, Doug.
“Contact!” Willy said. “I have an active sonar contact bearing three-zero-three, range two three hundred.”
O’Malley didn’t have to look at his tactical display. The submarine was between him and the ‘phibs.
“Up dome!” The pilot hovered while the sonar transducer was winched in. The contact was alerted now. That made it harder. “Romeo, Hammer, we have a possible contact here.”
“Roger, understood.” Morris was looking at the display. He ordered the frigate to close at flank speed. Not a smart tactic, he had no choice but to pounce on the contact before it got within range of the ‘phibs. “Signal Nassau we’re working a possible contact.”
“Down dome!” O’Malley ordered. “Drop it to four hundred and hammer!”
Willy activated the sonar as soon as the proper depth was reached. He got a screenful of echoes. The transducer was so close to the rocky bottom that nearly twenty rocky spires showed up. A swiftly running tide didn’t help matters. Flow noise around the rocks gave numerous false readings on the passive plot also.
“Sir, I got a whole lot of nothing here.”
“I can feel him, Willy. The last time we pinged, I bet we had him at periscope depth and he ducked down deep while we came over.”
“That fast?” Ralston asked.
“‘That fast.”
“Skipper, one of these things might be moving a little.”
O’Malley keyed his radio and got permission to launch from Morris. Ralston set the torpedo for circular search, and the pilot dropped it into he sea. The pilot keyed the sonar into his headphones. He heard the whine of the torpedo’s propellers, then the high-frequency ping of its homing sonar. It continued to circle for five minutes, then switched over to continuous pinging-and exploded.
“Explosion sounded funny, sir,” Willy said.
“Hammer, Romeo-report.”
“Romeo, Hammer, I think we just killed a rock.” O’Malley paused.
“Romeo, there’s a sub here, but I can’t prove it just yet.”
“What makes you think that, Hammer?”
“Because it’s one damned fine place to hide, Romeo.”
“Concur.” Morris had learned to trust O’Malley’s hunches. He called up the amphibious commander on Nassau. “November, this is Romeo, we have a possible contact. Recommend you maneuver north while we prosecute.”
“Negative, Romeo,” the Commodore replied at once. “India is working a probable, repeat probable contact that’s acting like a missile boat.
We’re heading for our objective at max speed. Get him for us, Romeo.”
“Roger. Out.” Morris set the phone back in place. He looked at his tactical action officer. “Continue to close the datum point.”
“Isn’t this dangerous, rushing after a submarine contact?” Calloway asked. “Don’t you have your helicopter to keep them at arm’s length?”
“You’re learning, Mr. Calloway. It’s dangerous, all right. I think they mentioned that the job could get that way when I was at Annapolis . . . ”
Both her jet turbines were running flat-out, and the frigate’s knife-edge bow sliced through the water at over thirty knots. The torque from her single screw gave the ship a four-degree list to port as she raced to close the submarine.
“This is getting nasty.” O’Malley could see the frigate’s mast clearly now, the distinctive crosstrees well above the horizon as he covered fifty feet over the water. “Talk to me, Willy!”
“Lots of bottom echoes, sir. The bottom must look like a city, all these damned things sticking up. We got eddies-we got too many things here, sir. Sonar conditions suck!”
“Go passive.” The pilot reached up and flipped the switch to listen in.
Willy was right. Too much flow noise. Think! he told himself. The pilot looked at his tactical display. The amphibs were a scant ten miles away. He couldn’t hear them on his sonar, but there was about a 30-percent chance that a submarine could. If we had him at antenna depth before, he probably has a fair idea where they are . . . but not good enough to shoot.
“Romeo, Hammer, can you warn the ‘phibs off? Over.”
“Negative, Hammer. They are running away from a probable contact to seaward.”
“Great!” O’Malley growled over the intercom. “Prepare to raise dome, Willy.” A minute later they were heading west.
“This sub-driver’s got real balls,” the pilot said. “He’s got brains, too O’Malley keyed his radio.
“Romeo, Hammer, put November’s course track on your tactical display and transmit to my gadget.”