Red Storm Rising by Tom Clancy
“You’re Commander Toland?” a Royal Navy lieutenant asked. “Please come with me, sir. COMEASTLANT wants to see you.”
He found Admiral Sir Charles Beattie chewing on an unlit pipe in front of a huge map of the eastern and northern Atlantic.
“Commander Toland, sir.”
“Thank you,” the Admiral said without turning. “Tea and coffee in the corner, Commander.”
Toland availed himself of the tea. He drank it only in the U.K., and after several weeks he found himself wondering why he didn’t have it at home.
“Your Tomcats have done well up in Scotland,” Beattie said.
“It was the aerial radar that made the real difference, sir. More than half the kills were made by the RAF.”
“Last week you sent a message to our air operations chaps to the effect that your Tomcats were able to track Backfires visually at very long range.”
It took Toland a few seconds to remember it. “Oh, yes. It’s the videocamera system they have, Admiral. It’s designed to identify fighter-size aircraft at thirty miles or so. Tracking something as big as a Backfire they can do at fifty or so if the weather’s good.”
“And the Backfires would not know they were there?”
“Not likely, sir.”
“How far could they follow a Backfire?”
“That’s a question for a driver, sir. With tanker support, we can keep a Tomcat aloft for almost four hours. Two hours each way, that would take them almost all the way home.”
Beattie turned to face Toland for the first time. Sir Charles was a former aviator himself, last commander of the old Ark Royal, Britain’s last real carrier. “How sure are you of Ivan’s operating airfields?”
“For the Backfires, sir? They operate from the four airfields around Kirovsk. I would presume you have satellite photos of the places, sir.”
“Here.” Beattie handed him a folder.
There was a degree of unreality to this, Toland thought. Four-star admirals didn’t chew the fat with newly frocked commanders unless they had nothing better to do, and Beattie had lots of things to do. Bob opened the folder.
“Oh.” He looked at a photo set for Umbozero, the field east of Kirovsk. There’d been lit smokepots during the satellite pass, and the resulting black smoke had completely hidden the runways to visual light, with flares messing up the infrared imaging systems as well. “Well, there are the hardened shelters, and maybe three aircraft. Was this taken during a raid?”
“Correct. Very good, Commander. The Backfire force left the airfield three hours before the satellite pass.”
“Trucks, too—fuel bowsers?” He got a nod. “They refuel them right after they land?”
“We think yes, before they get into the shelters. Evidently they don’t like the idea of fueling inside a building. Seems reasonable enough. Ivan’s had problems with accidental explosions the last few years.”
Toland nodded, remembering the explosion at the main ordnance storage facility for the Russian Northern Fleet in 1984. “Be a hell of a nice time to catch them on the ground—but we don’t have any tactical aircraft that’ll reach nearly that far. B-52s could do it, but they’d be murdered. We learned that over Iceland.”
“But a Tomcat could trail the Backfires nearly to the Russian doorstep, and that could allow you to predict exactly when they’ll land?” Sir Charles persisted.
Toland looked at the map. The Backfires reentered Russian fighter cover about thirty minutes’ flying time from their home bases.
“Plus or minus fifteen minutes . . . yes, Admiral, I think we can do that. I wonder how long it takes to refuel a Backfire.” There was a lot of thinking going on behind those blue eyes, Toland saw.
“Commander, my operations officer will brief you on something called Operation Doolittle. We named it after one of your chaps as a clever bit of subterfuge to weasel the assets from your navy. For the moment, this information is eyes-only to you. Be back here in an hour. I want your evaluation of how we can improve the basic operational concept.”
“Yes, sir.”
USS REUBEN JAMES
They were in New York harbor. O’Malley was in the wardroom finishing up the written account of the destruction of the Soviet submarine when the growler phone on the port bulkhead started making noise. He looked up and discovered he was the only officer in the room. That meant he had to answer it.
“Wardroom. Lieutenant Commander O’Malley.”
“Battleaxe here. May I please speak to your CO?”
“He’s taking a nap. Can I help you, or is it important?”
“If he’s not too busy, the captain wishes to invite him to dinner. Half an hour from now. Your XO and helicopter pilot also if he’s available.”
The pilot laughed. “The XO’s on the beach, but the helo driver’s available if the Queen’s ships are still wet.”
“Indeed we are, Commander.”
“Okay. I’ll go wake him up. Be back to you in a few minutes.” O’Malley hung up and went out the door. He bumped into Willy.
“Excuse me, sir. The torpedo-loading practice?”
“Okay, I’m going to see the skipper anyway.” Willy had complained that the last practice had gone a little slow. He handed the petty officer his report. “Take this down to the ship’s office and tell ’em to type it up.”
O’Malley went forward and found the door to the captain’s stateroom closed, but the do-not-disturb light was switched off. He knocked and went in. The noise surprised him.
“Don’t you see it!” The words came out as a gasp. Morris was lying on his back, his hands balled into fists on the blanket. His face was covered in sweat and he breathed like a man finishing a marathon.
“Jesus.” O’Malley hesitated. He didn’t really know the man.
“Look out!” This was louder, and the pilot wondered if anyone in the passageway outside might hear it and wonder if the captain were—he had to do something.
“Wake up, Captain!” Jerry grabbed Morris by the shoulders and lifted him up into a sitting position.
“Don’t you see it!” Morris shouted, still not really awake.
“Settle down, pal. You’re tied to the pier in New York harbor. You’re safe. The ship is safe. Come around, Captain. It’s okay.” Morris blinked his eyes about ten times. He saw O’Malley’s face about six inches away.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Glad I came. You all right?” The pilot lit a cigarette and handed it to the captain.
Morris refused it and stood. He walked to his basin and got a glass of water. “Just a dumb dream. What do you want?”
“We’ve been invited out to dinner next door in half an hour—I guess a reward for giving them the Victor. Also, I’d like your deck crew to practice loading torps on my bird. Last time was a little slow, my petty says.”
“When do you want ’em to do it?”
“Soon as it gets dark, Captain. Better they should learn it the hard way.”
“Okay. Half an hour on dinner?”
“Yes, sir. Be nice to have a drink.”
Morris smiled without much enthusiasm. “Guess it would. I’ll wash up. Meet you in the wardroom. This thing formal?”
“They didn’t say so. I wasn’t planning to change, if that’s all right with you, skipper.” O’Malley was wearing his flight suit. He got lonely without all the pockets.
“Twenty minutes.”
O‘Malley went to his stateroom and ran a cloth over his flight boots. The flight suit was new, and he figured that was dressy enough. Morris worried him. The man might come apart, not something that should happen to a commanding officer. That made it partly his problem. Besides, O’Malley told himself, he’s a pretty good man.
He looked better when they met again. Amazing what a shower could do. His hair was brushed back and his service khakis pressed. The two officers went aft to the helicopter pad, then down the brow to the dock.
HMS Battleaxe gave the appearance of a larger ship than the
Morris was glad to see that things were informal. A youthful midshipman met them at the foot of the brow and escorted them aboard, explaining that the captain was on the radio at the moment. After the customary salutes of flag and duty officer, the midshipman led them into the ship’s air-conditioned citadel, then forward to the wardroom.
“Hot damn, a piano!” O’Malley exclaimed. A battered upright was secured to the port bulkhead with two-inch line. Several officers rose and introduced themselves.
“Drinks, gentlemen?” a steward asked. O’Malley got himself a can of beer and moved toward the piano. A minute later he was battering his way through some Scott Joplin. The wardroom’s forward door opened.
“Jerr-O!” a man with four stripes on his shoulder boards exclaimed.
“Doug!” O’Malley jumped up from the stool and ran to shake his hand. “How the hell are you!”
“I knew it was your voice on the radio. ‘Hammer,’ indeed. The American Navy’s run out of competent pilots and scraped you up, eh?” Both men laughed out loud. O’Malley waved his captain over.
“Captain Ed Morris, meet Captain Doug Perrin, MBE, RN, and a shitload of other acronyms. Watch this turkey, skipper, he used to drive submarines before he went straight.”
“I see you guys know each other.”
“Some bloody fool decided to send him to lecture at HMS Dryad, our ASW school, when I was taking the advanced course. Set back our relations by at least a hundred years.”
“Is the Fox and Fence put back together yet?” O’Malley asked. “Skipper, there was this pub about half a mile from the place, and one night Doug and me—”
“I am trying to forget that night, Jerr-O. Susan gave me hell about it for weeks.” He led them aft and got himself a drink. “Marvelous job with that Victor last night! Captain Morris, I understand you did very well with your previous command.”
“Killed a Charlie and picked up two assists.”
“We stumbled across an Echo on our last convoy. Old boat, but she had a good driver. Took us six hours. But a pair of diesel submarines, probably Tangos, got inside and killed five ships and an escort. Diomede may have gotten one of them. We’re not sure.”
“Was the Echo coming after you?” Morris asked.
“Possibly,” Perrin answered. “It does appear that Ivan’s going after the escorts quite deliberately. We had two missiles shot at us by the last Backfire raid. One ran into our chaff cloud, and fortunately our Sea Wolf intercepted the other. Unfortunately, the one that exploded behind us amputated our towed array and we’re down to just our 2016 sonar.”
“So you’ve been assigned to ride shotgun on us then?”
“It would seem so.”
The captains lapsed into shoptalk, which was the whole point of the dinner in any case. O’Malley found the English helicopter pilot while the tables were set, and they started the same thing while the American played the piano. Somewhere in the Royal Navy was a directive: when dealing with American naval officers, get them over early, get a drink in them first, then talk business.
Dinner was excellent, though the Americans’ judgment was somewhat affected by the liquid refreshments. O’Malley listened closely as his captain described the loss of Pharris, the tactics employed by the Russians, and how he had failed to counter them properly. It was like listening to a man relate the death of his child.
“Under the circumstances, hard to see what you could have done differently,” Doug Perrin sympathized. “Victor is a capable opponent, and he must have timed your coming off the sprint very carefully.”
Morris shook his head. “No, we came off sprint well away from him, and that blew his solution right out the window. If I’d done things better, those men wouldn’t be dead. I was the captain. It was my fault.”
Perrin said, “I’ve been there in the submarine, you know. He has the advantage because he’s already been tracking you.” He flashed O’Malley a look.
Dinner ended at eight. The escort commanders would meet the following afternoon, and the convoy would sail at sundown. O’Malley and Morris left together, but the pilot stopped at the brow.
“Forgot my hat. I’ll be back in a minute.” He hurried back to the wardroom. Captain Perrin was still there.
“Doug, I need an opinion.”
“He shouldn’t go back out in his current state. Sorry, Jerry, but that’s how I see things.”
“You’re right. There’s one thing I can try.” O’Malley made a small purchase and rejoined Morris two minutes later.
“Captain, any particular reason you have to head right back to the ship?” he asked quietly. “Something I need to talk about and I don’t want to do it aboard. It’s a personal thing. Okay?” The pilot looked very embarrassed.
“How about we take a little walk?” Morris agreed. The two officers walked east. O’Malley looked up and down the street, and found a waterfront bar with sailors going in and out. He steered Morris into it and they found a booth in the back.
“Two glasses,” O’Malley told the barmaid. He unzipped the leg pocket of his flight suit and withdrew a bottle of Black Bush Irish whiskey.
“You want to drink here, you buy it here.” O’Malley handed her two twenty-dollar bills.
“Two glasses and ice.” His voice did not brook argument. “And leave us alone.” Service was quick.
“I checked my logbook this afternoon,” O’Malley said after tossing off half his first drink. “Four thousand three hundred sixty hours of stick time. Counting last night, three hundred eleven hours of combat time.”
“Vietnam. You said you were there.” Morris sipped at his own.
“Last day, last tour. Search-and-rescue mission for an A-7 pilot shot down twenty miles south of Haiphong.” He had never even told his wife this story. “Saw a flash, made the mistake of ignoring it. Thought it was a reflection off a window or a stream or something. Kept going. Turned out it was probably a reflection of a gunsight, maybe a pair of binoculars. One minute later some hundred-millimeter flak goes off around us. Helo just comes apart. I get her down, we’re on fire. Look left—copilot’s torn apart, his brains are in my lap. My crew chief, a third-class named Ricky, he’s in the back. I look. Both his legs are torn off. I think he was still alive then, but there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it—couldn’t even get to him the way things were—and there’s three people heading toward us. I just ran away. Maybe they didn’t see me. Maybe they didn’t care—hell, I don’t know. Another helo found me twelve hours later.” He poured himself another drink and topped off the one for Morris. “Don’t make me drink alone.”
“I’ve had enough.”
“No, you haven’t. And neither have I. It took me a year to get over that. You don’t have a year. All you got’s tonight. You gotta talk about it, Captain. I know. Think it’s bad now? It gets worse.”
He took another pull on the drink. At least it was good stuff, O‘Malley told himself. He watched Morris sit there for five minutes, sipping at his drink and wondering if he should just go back to the ship. The proud captain. Like all captains, condemned to live alone, and this one was lonelier than most. He’s afraid I’m right, O’Malley thought. He’s afraid it will get worse. You poor bastard. If you only knew.
“Run through it,” the pilot said quietly. “Analyze it one step at a time.”
“You already did that for me.”
“I have a big mouth. Has to be for my feet to fit in it. You do it in your sleep, Ed. Might as well do it when you’re awake.”
And, slowly, he did. O’Malley coached him through the sequence. Weather conditions, ship’s course and speed. What sensors were operating. In
“There just wasn’t anything else I could do! The Goddamned thing just came in. We only had one nixie out, and the first fish blew that the hell away. I tried to maneuver the ship, but—”
“But you were up against a homing torpedo. You can’t outrun ’em and you can’t outturn ’em.”
“I’m not supposed to let—”
“Oh, horseshit!” The pilot refilled the glasses. “You think you’re the first guy ever lost a ‘can? Didn’t you ever play ball, Ed? Hell, there’s two sides, and both of ’em play to win. You expect those Russian sub skippers are just gonna sit there and say, ‘Kill me, kill me’? You must be dumber ’n I thought.”
“My men—”
“Some of them are dead, most of them aren’t. I’m sorry some’re dead. I’m sorry Ricky died. Kid wasn’t even nineteen yet. But I didn’t kill him, and you didn’t kill your men. You saved your ship. You brought her back with most of the crew.”
Morris drained his glass with one long pull. Jerry refilled it, not bothering with ice.
“It’s my responsibility. Look, when I got back to Norfolk, I visited—I mean, I had to visit their families. I’m the captain. I gotta—there was this little girl, and . . . Jesus, O’Malley, what the hell do you say?” Morris demanded. He was sobbing, near tears, Jerry saw. Good.
“They don’t put that in the book,” O’Malley agreed. You think they would have learned by now.
“Pretty little girl. What do you tell the kids?” The tears started. It had taken nearly two hours.
“You tell the little girl that her daddy was a good man and he did his best, and you did your best, ‘cause that’s all we can do, Ed. You did everything right, but sometimes it just doesn’t matter.” It wasn’t the first time O’Malley had had men cry on his shoulder. He remembered doing it himself. What a miserable life this can be, he thought, that it can bring good men to this.
Morris recovered a few minutes later, and by the time they finished the bottle both men were as drunk as either ever got. O’Malley helped his captain up and walked him to the door.