“Captain, please come to communications,” the announcing system squawked. Morris immediately went aft to the always-locked radio room.
“It’s for-real.” The communications officer handed him the yellow message form. Morris read it in the dim lights.
Z0357Z15JUNE
FR:SACLANT
TO: ALL SACLANT SHIPS
TOP SECRET
1. EXECUTE UNRESTRICTED AIR AND SEA WARFARE AGAINST WARSAW PACT FORCES.
2. WARPLAN GOLF TAC 7.
3. STOUT HEARTS. SACLANT SENDS.
Rules of Engagement War Option Seven. That meant no nukes, he was perfectly happy to see-PHARRIS didn’t have any at the moment. He was now free to engage without warning any East Bloc warship or merchant vessel. Well . . . Morris nodded. He tucked the message form into his pocket, returned to the bridge, and went without a word to the microphone.
“This is the captain speaking. Listen up: It’s official. We are now in a shooting war. No more drills, gentlemen. If you hear an alarm from now on, it means there’s a Bad Guy out there, and they have live weapons, too. That is all.” He hung up and looked over to the officer of the deck. “Mr. Johnson, I want the Prairie/Masker systems operating continuously. If they go down, I want to know about it at once. That goes in the order book.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Prairie/Masker was a system for defeating submarine sonars. Two metallic bands surrounded the frigate’s hull, fore and aft of the engine spaces. This was Masker. It took compressed air and bled it into the water around the ship in the form of millions of tiny bubbles. The Prairie part of the system did the same with the propeller blades. The air bubbles created a semipermeable barrier that tended to trap sounds made by the ship, letting only a fraction of her propulsion noises escape-which made the ship extremely difficult for a submarine to detect.
“How long till we clear the channel?” Morris asked.
“We’ll be at the sea buoy in ninety minutes.”
“Okay, tell the bosun’s mate of the watch to be ready to stream the tail and the Nixie” -the towed-array sonar and the Nixie torpedo decoy- “at twenty-three forty-five. I’m going to take a nap. Wake me at twenty-three thirty. Anything happens, call me.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
A trio of P-3C Orion antisubmarine aircraft swept the area ahead of them. The only hazard was that of normal navigation, and suddenly the prospect of grazing the bottom or smashing an errant buoy looked like a minor affair. He’d need his sleep now, Morris knew, and he would not be at all surprised to find a submarine waiting right on the continental shelf in three hours. He’d want to be rested for that eventuality.
SUNNYVALE, CALIFORNIA
What was holding Washington up? the colonel asked himself All he needed was a simple yes or no. He checked his boards. Three KH-type photoreconnaissance satellites were currently in orbit, plus nine electronic surveillance birds. That was his low-level “constellation.” He didn’t fear for his higher-flying navigation and communications satellites, but the twelve in low earth orbit, especially the KHs, were valuable and vulnerable. Two of them had Russian killersats in close proximity, and one of his birds was now approaching Soviet territory, with another only forty minutes behind. The third Key-Hole bird didn’t have a satellite assigned yet, but the last pass over Leninsk showed another F-type booster being fueled on the pad.
“Take another look at the trailer,” he ordered.
A technician made the requisite commands, and half a world away, the satellite fired its attitude control thrusters and pivoted in space to allow its cameras to search for the Russian killer satellite. It had held position fifty miles behind, and nine miles below the American satellite, but now was . . . gone.
“They moved it. They moved it in the last half hour.” He lifted the phone to tell CINC-NORAD that he was moving the satellite on his own authority. Too late. As the satellite turned again to point its cameras at the ground, a cylindrical mass covered a sizable percentage of the earth’s face-there was a flash and the TV screen went blank. Just like that.
“Chris, you have those maneuver commands set up?”
“Yes, sir,” the captain answered, still staring at the screen.
“Execute them right now!”
The captain called up the command sequence on his computer console and punched Enter. The colonel’s phone rang as the satellites’ onboard rocket motors made subtle changes in their orbital paths.
“Argus Control,” the colonel answered.
“This is CINC-NORAD. What the hell happened?”
“That Russian killersat closed and detonated. We have no signal from the KH-11, sir. I must assume they have successfully negated the bird. I’ve just ordered the other two Key-Holes to make a hundred-foot-persecond delta-V. Tell Washington they waited too long, sir.”
18 – Polar Glory
KIEV, THE UKRAINE
It had been decided that all Soviet theater and front commanders would be briefed on developments in Germany. Alekseyev and his superior knew why: if anyone were to be relieved from his command, the new man would have to know the situation. They listened to the intelligence report with fascination. Neither of them had expected many of the Spetznaz attacks to fare well, but it seemed that some had been successful, especially those in the German ports. Then the operational intelligence brief got to the bridges on the Elbe.
“Why weren’t we warned about this?” CINC-Southwest demanded.
“Comrade General,” the Air Force officer responded. “Our information was that this Stealth aircraft was a prototype, not yet in regular service. Somehow the Americans have managed to construct a number of them, at least part of a squadron. They used it to eliminate our airborne radar coverage, thus paving the way for a massive penetration raid against our airfields and lines of supply, plus a well-planned air battle against our all-weather fighter aircraft. Their mission was successful, but not decisively so.”
“Oh, and the commander of Air Forces West was arrested for successfully repelling it, eh?” Alekseyev snarled. “How many aircraft did we lose?”
“I am not authorized to reveal that, Comrade General.”
“Can you tell us of the bridges, then!”
“Most of the bridges on the Elbe have been damaged to some extent or another, plus attacks on the bridging units stationed near them for tactical replacement.”
“The fucking maniac-he had his bridging units right next to the primary targets!” Southwest looked up at the ceiling as though expecting an air attack right there in Kiev.
“That is where the roads are, Comrade General,” the intelligence officer said quietly. Alekseyev waved him out of the room.
“Not a good start, Pasha.” Already a general had been arrested. His replacement had not yet been named.
Alekseyev nodded agreement, then checked his watch. “The tanks will cross the border in thirty minutes, and we have a few surprises in store for them. Only half of their reinforcements are in place. They still have not achieved the psychological degree of preparedness that our men have. Our first blow will hurt them. If our friend in Berlin has made his deployments properly.”
KEFLAVIK, ICELAND
“Perfect weather,” First Lieutenant Mike Edwards pronounced, looking up from the chart just off the facsimile machine. “We have this strong cold front due in from Canada in twenty to twenty-four hours. That’ll bring a lot of rain with it, maybe an inch worth, but for all of today we have clear skies-less than two-tenths high clouds-and no precip. Surface winds west to southwest at fifteen to twenty knots. And lots of ‘shine'” he concluded with a grin. The sun had risen for the last time nearly five weeks before, and wouldn’t truly set for another five. They were so close to the North Pole here in Iceland that in summer the sun wandered in a lazy circle around the azure sky, dipping fractionally below the northwestern horizon but never truly setting. It was something that took getting used to.
“Fighter weather,” agreed Lieutenant Colonel Bill Jeffers, commander of the 57th Fighter Interceptor squadron, the “Black Knights,” most of whose F-15 Eagle interceptors were sitting in the open a bare hundred yards away. The pilots were in those fighters, waiting. They’d been waiting for ninety minutes now. Two hours before, they’d been warned of a large number of Soviet aircraft taking off from their tactical air bases on the Kola Peninsula, destination unknown.
Keflavik was always a busy place, but for the last week it had been a madhouse. The airport was a combination Navy and Air Force base and a busy international airport at which many airliners stopped to refuel.
The past week had seen this traffic supplemented by grim tactical fighters transiting from the United States and Canada to Europe, cargo aircraft transporting overloads of critical equipment, and airliners returning to America crowded with pale tourists and dependents of the military men who were now on the battle line. The same had happened to Keflavik. Three thousand wives and children had been evacuated. The base facility was cleared for action. If the Soviets kicked off the war that seemed to be springing from the ground like a new volcano, Keflavik was as ready as it could be.