The chief engineer aboard the USS Roosevelt had managed, by raising more pressure in the lesser-damaged port ballast tanks, to force out more water. For a while, as the sub rose to just over two hundred feet below the ice roof of the surface, it seemed as if, with her “flaps down”—diving planes reversed in the vertical position, ready to “pick” the ice— survival was near at hand. But then she stopped rising, the damage sustained by the ballast tanks under the Alfa’s attack too great to allow further lift.
The emotional roller coaster of depression after the near fatal miss by the Alfa’s torpedoes, the belief that they were trapped, then the mounting excitement as the ship had slowly risen a little, and then the plunge back again into depression as she lay there, was almost too much to bear. But bear it they did, without histrionics or ill temper but quietly now and bravely, as if all the world were watching when they knew the world was not, that they were alone, each submariner’s doubts and fears battened down in the watertight compartments of his soul.
Not one whined about the contaminated atmosphere they now breathed as a result of the radioactive water that had poured into the sub. Depending on where they were in the sub at the time, they had received between 250 and 480 rads, which, in the cold, undeniable statistics of radioactivity, meant that more than 50 percent of these men would the within weeks or months, depending on their individual metabolism. Those who’d received between 100 and 200 rads were already doomed to shorter life expectancy through longer-term cancer, and any children they might have would be subject to the risk of genetic defects, even if old “Bing,” as they referred affectionately to Robert Brentwood, could perform the impossible and get them out of the sub within the next few hours. For some, given what they saw as the utter impossibility of Brentwood ever getting them out of it, it was as if the gods were merely playing with them for their sport, for while monitors showed that the steel hatch covers of the missile tubes were unaffected, the escape hatch covers remained jammed shut.
Robert Brentwood and the chief engineer, the pile of blueprints before them, turned pale gray in the reddened-out control room light, as they pored over the sub’s intricate systems, Brentwood posing possibilities, the chief listening. But, confronted by the sheer logic of physics, the chief was forced to reject all the captain’s proposals as unworkable due to some irreparable malfunction caused by the Alfa’s attack, both acutely aware of the supreme irony, voiced disgustedly by the chief, that the only thing still in full working order was “Sherwood Forest” and its firing control system.
“Rifle’s in fine working order, eh, Chief?” said Brentwood. “But the rifleman is down.”
“That’s about it.” Behind them, Peter Zeldman kept moving from the red of Control to the blue light of the sonar, everyone in the ship knowing that after the explosions, both enemy air and sea vessels could be moving toward them to investigate. Zeldman stared at the fathometer, willing its recorder needle to move upward from two hundred feet. For one breathless moment he saw the needle registering 199, 198, 197, only to see it fall back to 203, the momentary rise due not to any increase in buoyancy in the sub’s ballast tanks, as he’d hoped, but rather to a cold “updraft,” or column of water rising locally because of differences in the sea’s salinity.
“If I didn’t know better,” Zeldman told Sonar Operator Emerson, “I’d say some joker was up there trying to get us mad.”
Emerson didn’t reply. Despite the small cross he unabashedly wore about his neck, he rarely spoke about his religious beliefs, but he believed unreservedly in the goldfish-bowl view of God: that the Creator made the world, put us in to swim, and after that, it was up to the goldfish — that divine intervention came only at the beginning, and all else was a matter of accident in which only a person’s will and courage could alter the outcome. If it was their fate to die, then they would all enter God’s other domain in which judgment would be revealed. Sonarman Link, Emerson’s colleague and backup on the shift, thought all religion “bullshit,” and the two were the best of friends, their bond mutual tolerance for each other’s “weird” beliefs, and their love, their passion, to be what they were— America’s point men in the earth’s largest domain.
“Any change in the ice growl?” asked Zeldman.
“Nothing, sir,” replied Link, knowing that Zeldman’s question was to verify Emerson’s evaluation that there was no “singing”—significant sound amid the cacophony of ice growl, shrimp snapping, and other ocean noises.
In Control, the light from the reactor room lit up.
“Con?” acknowledged Brentwood.
“Captain, we have a minor steam leak.”
“Can you contain it?” asked Brentwood calmly.
“No problem at the moment, sir.”
“Very well,” acknowledged Brentwood. “You in foil?” He was referring to the bright silver heat-reflecting suit with air-breathing hose attached, which was required by regulation for any repairs in the reactor room.
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Brentwood turned back to the blueprints of the sub. “Enter it in the log, Pete.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Zeldman.
Brentwood stood up, ran his fingers through his hair, and, arms akimbo, rotated his torso to rid himself of the stiffness of having been hunched over the blueprints for so long. “Going aft to stretch my legs, Chief. You come up with anything, call me immediately.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
What Brentwood meant beneath the mundane exchange was that it was time to “walk through”—to see how each department on the four levels of the sub was holding up. As he passed the galley, he could smell hamburgers frying. “Sliders, Cook?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Suits me,” said Brentwood easily. Farther on, he saw two stewards coming toward him from Sherwood Forest laden down with bags of onions and potatoes that had been strung up from the maze of pipes that surrounded the six missile tubes. Next, he passed a man coining up from the stern ballast area and noticed the sailor’s yellow thermoluminescent dosimeter was missing from his belt. “Where’s your TD, sailor?”
The man looked down guiltily, “Sorry sir — loosened my belt on the off shift and—”
“Go get it,” said Brentwood, patting him on the shoulder and passing on into the cool, clean, polished smell of Sherwood Forest, the ventilators’ fans like a running stream. It made no sense to him but, compared to the rest of the sub, in Sherwood Forest, for all its electronic wizardry, he had the same feeling of tranquillity that he had experienced as a boy in the woods of Washington State and Oregon.
Standing close together against the missiles’ firing control panels were two technicians, the first checking the twenty-five rows of circuit indicator lights on one of the tall, blue-gray consoles, the other man checking the first man’s every move, verifying the sequence. Another pair were checking the missile tubes’ monitors, making sure the humidity and temperature in each of the six chocolate-brown missile tubes were within operational parameters.
As Robert walked down the starboard side, the big white numbers on the chocolate tubes indicating missiles one, three, and five passed him like slow tracer as he kept moving through the “forest” that took up a full third of the sub. His sense of frustration at not being able to get his men out of harm’s way, unable to maneuver except for the two paltry five-knot-maximum props set in the after-ballast tanks, while the six multiwarhead missiles were safe, grew until he had to caution himself to calm down. If only they could get to the surface, rising fast enough to smash through sonar-identified thinner ice, they might stand some chance. But unless the sub could rise, the hope of getting the men out, airlifted off the ice to Spitzberg or south to Iceland or even west to Greenland, was just a dream. Realistically, however, Robert Brentwood knew their only prospects now were that the sub would in fact go deeper if any more leaks occurred, and each inch she fell increased the “taffy”—the effect of increased water pressure over her entire hull.
After reaching the reactor room and satisfying himself that the steam leak was in fact minor, he passed on to the engine room, noting along the way that some of the green rubberized tile on the walkway had curled at the edges. It was down here that some of the worst leaks had occurred before the pumps had got them under control. “You boys enjoy the dip?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered a ginger-headed young auxiliary room mechanic who looked to Robert Brentwood as if he must be no more than nineteen or twenty — about the same age as Rosemary’s younger brother, whose bones now lay scattered somewhere on the bottom of the Atlantic. Brentwood saw the man’s dosimeter had exceeded the two-hundred-rad mark, and the young man saw him notice but smiled good-naturedly before turning away, busying himself with the oil pressure gauges.
Robert Brentwood was so moved by the young mechanic’s quiet bravery that as he headed back through Sherwood Forest, he took out a Kleenex, pretending to blow his nose, using the tissue as a cover for the overwhelming tears of pride and the sense of honor it gave him to command such men. Seeing another pair of missile technicians working the port-side monitors, he quipped lightheartedly, “Hope you boys aren’t getting bored down here.”
“No sir, Captain,” answered one. “These D-5s are more temperamental. Humidity’s—”
It came to him in a flash. He could have hugged the technician — name patch Sayers — except they would have labeled him as a Section-Eight. As it was, the two technicians saw Brentwood do something that no one had ever seen “Bing” do. He began running through the sub, the alternate numbers of the missiles on the port side — two, four, six, — flashing by him. Halfway along, he heard the soft gong: “Captain to Control. Captain to Control.”
“How’d he know they were gonna call him?” asked Sayers.
“Don’t ask me, man,” replied his checker. “Sixth sense. Sub captain’s got to have it, I hear.”
“Bullshit! No way he could’ve—”
“Hey, man — watch it. You missed a step. Back up in the sequence.”
As Brentwood entered Control, he was told by Zeldman they had a contact.
“Hostile?” asked Brentwood, catching his breath.
“Too far away as yet,” answered Zeldman. “The estimate is fifty-five thousand yards. About thirty miles.”
Brentwood had always made it a habit to be overly conservative when it came to estimates of contact distances, and decided to act as if the approaching submarine — as it certainly couldn’t be a surface vessel — was closer to them.
“What’s your guesstimate, Link?” Brentwood asked the other sonarman.
“Well, sir, it’s a bit fuzzy, but that may be because some of our sensors were ruptured during the Alfa attack. But it’s definitely coming towards—”
“He’s gone,” said Emerson. “Shut down his active.”
All eyes in Control were on the monitor panels. Brentwood seemed as alarmed now as he had been excited when he entered Control.
“Very well,” he said, the phrase, and his tone, gathering them all together. He gave orders for the emergency props to be extended from the belly of the sub. If they couldn’t rise, they could at least turn Roosevelt to face the last-known bearing of the sonar contact, and try to defend head-on, rather than sitting like a sunken log, offering their flank. Next, he ordered all torpedo tubes loaded, advising the torpedo officer to be ready for “snapshot two, one,” or informing him, as they were under possible attack, they might have to get a quick return shot away within forty seconds. During this time the torpedo crew would have to flood the tubes, open their caps, and maintain tandem communication with the Mark-118 firing control system.
“Either way, torpedo room,” Brentwood advised, “I want you to load one SA tube, one PA tube, with short-range contact fuse fish.”
“One tube starboard abaft with contact fish, one port abaft with contact fish,” came the confirmation. “Short-range fuse.”
“Man battle stations missile,” ordered Brentwood, standing by the raised podium of the control room’s attack center, his arms folded, the small of his back touching the brass rail that girded the search and the attack periscopes’ housing. “Set condition one SQ.” They were now on highest alert.
“Set condition one SQ. Aye aye, sir,” repeated Zeldman, and upon seeing the various departments punching in “ready,” he confirmed, “condition one SQ all set.”
“Very well,” answered Brentwood. “Neutral trim.”
“In neutral trim now, sir.”
“Very well. Prepare to spin.” Several men in Control looked across at each other in alarm. “Stand by to flood tubes two, three, and four,” ordered Brentwood, and they could hear the faint rushing of water filling the torpedo tubes. Tube one already contained the Mark-48 with contact fuse, the remaining three torpedoes now sliding forward from their rail-tracked dollies into the tubes, assuring that Roosevelt was now ready to fire at any enemy sub — if that’s what the contact had been — which might try to run interference with the missile launch.
Inside Missile Control, the weapons officer was waiting anxiously for the order to complete “spin-up,” entering the local orientating corrections into the missiles’ computers so as to assure the best possible trajectories for the MARVed— maneuvering reentry vehicle — warheads. But as yet no targets had been given. Given their present location, there were any number Brentwood could choose under the U.S. policy of “counter force,” that is, against military targets only, and not cities. It wasn’t as if Brentwood didn’t have enough to choose from; in fact, the nearest and most worthwhile targets would be the forty high-priority military bases clustered along the Kola Peninsula, but still the designation of targets had not come, and instead Brentwood requested “missile status report.”
“Sir, the spin-up’s not complete.”
“Do as I say!” snapped Brentwood. “Prepare missiles for launch.”
“Yes, sir. Preparing missiles for launch.”
“Very well. Prepare for ripple fire.”
“Yes, sir. Prepare for ripple fire.”
All over the ship, men were moving to their firing positions within two seconds of the operator squeezing the yellow handle and the soft but persistent musical gong sounding, the ripple firing sequence they were readying for one that would eject missile six first, then missile one. This staggered sequence would offset starboard and port yawing when water would rush into the four-storied missile tubes after each 114,000-pound missile had passed through its blue asbestos phenolic dome. The dome would shatter first, its symmetrical destruction being achieved by small explosive charges under each dome a split second before the steam pressure expelled whichever missiles Brentwood would select.
“Sir,” said Peter Zeldman, “we have no radio message to launch. Have you reason for ‘independent authority to launch’?” It was the first and, as it would turn out, the last time Peter Zeldman would ever question an order by Robert Brentwood.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Zeldman,” Brentwood said, so all of Control could hear. “The missiles I select will not have their warheads armed.”
Zeldman exchanged a quick glance with the chief. Was Brentwood cracking up?
Like Zeldman and others, the weapons officer looked worried, too, and it wasn’t missed by his assistant, who, with wire trailing from his headphones, was moving back and forth, head bent like a priest at prayer, along the narrow “Blood Alley,” the redded-out corridor of high computer banks, where he checked out each missile’s status, verifying for the weapons officer that each of the six Trident D-5 missiles was ready to pass through its four prelaunch modes.
“Missiles ready,” the weapons officer confirmed to Control.
“Very well,” said Brentwood. “Prepare for ripple fire.”
While the weapons officer, his forehead beaded with perspiration, waited for the designation of targets, in Control, Robert Brentwood, double-checking the computer screens that all missiles were, as he’d just been told verbally, ready for launch, held his key ready to click into the Mark-98 missile firing control system, the weapons officer waiting below, his black flexihose trailing snakelike behind him from the plastic red firing grip in his hand. His thumb was now on the transparent protector cap, ready to flip it up and depress the red button— six times in rapid succession — the moment Brentwood gave him the order.
“The ice!” It was a hoarse whisper from the blood-colored face of the assistant weapons officer. “If we fire—”
“Weapons officer,” called Brentwood, his voice calm, resolute.
“Weapons officer. Sir?”
“Disarm missiles one and six. Stand by.”
The weapons officer hesitated, but only for a moment. “Disarm missiles one and six. Yes, sir. Missiles disarmed.”
“Very well. Stand by.”
“What the hell—” began the assistant WO.
“Be quiet!” said the WO.
Brentwood turned toward Emerson. “Sonar — any further contact?”
“No, sir.”
Brentwood knew that if it was a hostile, it would be in torpedo range within thirty minutes. In that moment he envied his brothers and sister, far away somewhere on dry land, solid ground beneath their feet.
High over the English Channel beneath the heavy throb of three Combat Talon IIIs, the fast upgraded versions of the Hercules, carrying the SAS’s Sabre squadron to its mission, the occasional flashes of blue forked lightning illuminated the SAS troopers’ blackened faces and their cold-weather khaki/ green/white winter combat uniforms. The all-white SPETS overlays were to be used only after the attack, for as the RSM had no need to point out, the overlays would be dead giveaways “if they turn on the searchlights and fire parachute flares.”
“Won’t be any,” said Aussie. “It’s a surprise, remember?”
“If there are searchlights, et cetera,” the RSM happily corrected himself as he walked, or rather shuffled, beneath his 110-pound pack, between the two rows of ten men each which formed David Brentwood’s B Troop, the plane carrying A Troop a quarter mile ahead, that carrying C, the same distance behind.
“Wish he’d sit down,” said Aussie. “Stop motherin’ us. Givin’ me the bloody pip!”
“He is conscientious,” said Schwarzenegger.
“Hey, Dave,” Aussie asked Brentwood, his voice rising above the sound of the engines’ rolling thunder. “What d’you reckon? Think there’ll be a reception party?”
“We know there will,” put in Thelman. “SPETS — two companies.”
“Aw,” said the Aussie dismissively, “I don’t mean them. Bastards’ll be asleep time we make the big jump. Well past their bedtime. No, I mean the AA boys. Think they’ll be onto us when we make the jump?”
“You’re a cheery son of a bitch,” said Thelman.
“Not talkin’ to you, Thelma. Dave — whaddya reckon?”
“Possible,” commented David, who, having been one of those who, picked at random, had had his gun jam during the dry runs through the “house,” was now checking his Ingram MAC submachine gun, The nine-millimeter short weapon, which on a quick glance looked like an Uzi, its pistol grip doubling as the housing for a thirty-two-round magazine, had a barrel only half the length of the Uzi, with a folding stock and effective range of fifty meters. This was less than the Uzi’s two-hundred-meter range, but in close-quarters “housecleaning,” it was considered more than adequate by the SAS troops. And the Ingram’s shorter range was more than compensated for by its overall weight of 1.6 kilograms, less than half that of an Uzi. Besides, the SAS liked the American gun better because it produced a wider spray pattern — much preferred in general housecleaning than in the terrorist/hostage ops, when a wider spray was as likely to cut down a hostage as a terrorist. Above all, in an operation of this type, the American-made Ingram inculcated what the SAS liked best about the American disposition — the desire to get things done quickly — achieving a rate of fire of over eleven hundred rounds per minute, twice the number that the ubiquitous Uzi could deliver in the same time.
“Bad weather is in our favor going in,” commented the RSM reassuringly. “Play merry hell with their radar, and no way they’ll hear us over all this ruddy thunder. Anyway, these Talon II transports have more electronic countermeasures gear and infrared gear than you can shake a stick at. Besides, we’re too high.”
“How about the weather over the target?” asked Thelman.
“Clear, so the pilot tells me,” answered the RSM. “Don’t worry, lads. You’re in luck.”
“ ‘You’re in luck!’ he says,” commented Aussie laconically, throwing his head up, pushing his helmet back against the cargo net, and turning first to Thelman on his right, then Schwarzenegger to his left, and then back up at the RSM. “You going home then after we jump? Return flight, is it?”
“All right,” said the RSM. “We’re in luck. Suit you better?”
“Then, matey,” said Aussie, suddenly producing a small indelible pencil, the flash of lightning reflected from the heavy cloud cover illuminating the bizarre contrast between his dark camouflage paint, green khaki uniform, and pink tongue. “Put your money where your mouth is. Come on, you blokes. I believe the sarge. Four to one says there’s no reception committee.”
“You’re crazy!” said Thelman. “Goddamn nuttier than a fruitcake.”
The RSM feigned disgust, but whatever else he was, the Aussie was an entertainer. And whether the men realized it or not, by being willing to take wagers about what kind of interference they might expect over the drop zone, the Australian and his outrageous obsession with gambling kept the others— eighteen, not counting the RSM, in Brentwood’s troop — from dwelling on their own fears. Even the taciturn Brentwood, the RSM noticed, who had seemed unduly subdued, more so than most of his men and not a good sign in the man leading the troop, couldn’t help but shake his head at the Australian’s willingness to bet on anything. The RSM flicked the Aussie’s indelible pencil. “Where the hell did you stash that?” he asked, for there didn’t seem to be a spare centimeter in the 110-pound pack they were carrying.
The Aussie lifted his right magazine pouch, showing a piece of blackened sticking plaster which he’d used to attach the pencil. “All right — step up the ladder,” the Aussie called out to them. “Who’s game?”
“A quid there are no lights on us,” said Cpl. “Choir” Williams, a stout Welshman of tough mining stock who, in addition to his standard troopers’ load of eight of the SAS’s own ‘“flash-bang” magnesium stun grenades, was also carrying three French light and disposable Arpac antitank launcher/ missile packs.
Hopefully they wouldn’t need them, but if they came up against Russian armor during their withdrawal, Rye wanted them to have something other than the normal heavy antitank weapons, given the fact that they were already loaded to the hilt with abseiling — grappling — equipment as well as ammunition and grenades.
“Hey,” said Choir. “Are you marking my bet down then, Aussie?”
“Sorry, sport. A quid — hardly worth the trouble. I’m looking to retirement. Minimum bet ten quid — or you Yanks, twenty-five bucks. Aw — I’ll be generous. Twenty bucks.”
“Up yours!” said Williams. “With brass knobs on.”
“Promise?” said Aussie.
“Twenty for me,” said Schwarzenegger, “No reception committee.”
“Okeydokey, Fritz, you’re covered.” With that, Lewis licked the indelible pencil and carefully entered the bet on the palm of his left hand.
“What if you lose your mitt?” said Thelman.
“Morbid, Thelma. Very morbid. I won’t be losing anything.”
The amber light came on and they heard the pilot’s voice. “Twenty minutes to the drop zone.”
“Right, lads!” said the RSM. “Final check.”
David squeezed his canvas side holster until he could feel the Browning nine-millimeter’s hard outline. At the same time his left hand, beneath his right, felt the light but strong Kevlar “Sportsman” crotch protector. He was sure that if he was going to be hit anywhere, it would be there. He thought of Melissa and Stacy and let his memory of Lili evict them from his mind as he flipped up the cover on his compass watch, holding his arm up, the signal for everyone to synchronize. From now on, nine minutes to target, he, not the RSM, was in total command of Troop B.