EndWar

Just then she caught sight of the lines of AN-130s below, where her second two bombs had impacted. Fires raged everywhere, with massive wings lying detached from fuselages.

At that moment, another AN-130 came in for a landing and crashed into debris lying in its path. The plane spun sideways, sliding wildly across the snow until it impacted with several others in a chain reaction that left Halverson wanting to cheer, but she felt too sick.

She was glad she hadn’t had time to eat. She had practiced ejections before, but this one… she thought for a moment she might pass out.

Her comm system had automatically switched over to the helmet’s transmitter, and while she knew her ejection had automatically been sent to every JSF command post in the world, she knew it was imperative that she confirm she was alive.

Yes, her flight suit would also transmit her bio readings, but a voice on the end of an encrypted transmission carried a whole lot more weight.

Protocol dictated that she get on the tactical channel to contact the nearest command post, but she said screw it and broadcast over the emergency channel reserved for strategic operations. Better to ring the louder bell.

“This is JSF Fighter Siren out of Igloo Base, Northwest Territories. I’ve ejected north of Behchoko.” She rattled off the last coordinates she’d read on her display. “I’m descending toward a heavily wooded area, GPS coordinates to follow once I’m on the ground, over.”

After about ten seconds, a voice came over the radio: “JSF Fighter Siren, this is Hammer, Tampa Five Bravo. Received your transmission. We’ll see if we can get some help up to you. Send GPS coordinates once you’re on the ground.”

“Roger that, Hammer. And here’s hoping our boys get to me before they do.”

“We’ll do everything we can. And you do the same. Standing by…”

All right, she’d survived the ejection.

Would she survive the landing?

The forest unfurled below for kilometer after kilometer, dense, snow-covered, a bone-breaking gauntlet.

She imagined herself plunging through the heavy canopy and getting impaled by a limb.

Wouldn’t that be her luck?

Some training mission. The fighters were gone, the base was gone, her colleagues were dead.

Jake, are you there?

Yeah, why didn’t you say anything?

Because it would’ve been too complicated.

You’re wrong.

I know. I’ve been lying to myself.

Just don’t panic. It’ll be all right. I’ll be with you every step of the way. You know what to do now. Get your mind off of it. Calm down.

Halverson took a deep breath.

The ground came up faster.

With a vengeance.

TWENTY

Commander Jonathan Andreas glanced down at his watch: 0513 hours.

You would need a hell of a lot more than a knife to cut the tension in the Florida’s control room.

A plasma torch might not even do it — because the moment had come, and Andreas and his crew were a pack of artic wolves, poised before their prey, still and silent in the dim red light.

The AGM-84 Harpoon antishipping missiles were loaded in tubes one, two, and three.

And presently, the Varyag, the converted aircraft carrier now serving as the Russian task force’s command and control ship, had the oiler Kalovsk tied up alongside, with lines fore and aft, separated by evenly spaced fenders between them to cushion any accidental impact between the ships. Now, with the first pale ribbons of dawn wandering along the horizon, refueling operations were well under way.

This was it.

Two ships. One missile.

Andreas held his breath a moment more, and then turned his key, granting the weapons control console permission to launch. The reaction of three thousand psi jettisoning more than fifteen hundred pounds out the torpedo tube rumbled through the control room.

The submarine variant of the AGM-84 Harpoon antishipping missile was housed in a blunt-nosed, torpedo-like capsule called an ENCAP, which had positive buoyancy and burst away from the Florida, while a lanyard caused fins to pop out as it glided to the surface without power.

Once the ENCAP breached the surface, Andreas watched as it blew off its tail and cap, then fired the Harpoon on its solid-fuel booster.

His pulse leapt as the glowing orb shot off.

The missile was directed by an INS (inertial navigation system), where it conducted an autonomous search for a specific preprogrammed target image. A number of different search patterns could be programmed into the Harpoon, which not only increased its probability of detecting the target but made it harder to trace the missile’s flight path back to its launcher.

Now the Harpoon dropped down to wave height as it homed in, skimming along the icy spray.

Andreas checked his watch once more, then glanced up at the image on the flat panel.

The Harpoon’s WDU-18/B — an innocuous description for a 488-pound, penetrating, blast-fragmentation warhead — pierced the Kalovsk’s port beam.

A heartbeat… then 297,000 gallons of aviation and ship fuel ignited.

The Kalovsk’s crew was vaporized before her aft superstructure fractured into five pieces and hurtled skyward. Her port side spewed molten, fragmented steel more than two miles out into Gray’s Bay.

Then, in less than thirty milliseconds, molten fragmented steel — formerly the Kalovsk’s starboard side — bridged the twenty-five-foot gap separating the oiler from the port side of the Varyag.

Andreas gasped as the Varyag’s partially filled fuel tanks immediately exploded, peeling back and curling 150 feet of her main deck like a sardine can.

The enormous holes at the Varyag’s waterline brought icy arctic water in direct contact with the 1,200-psi superheated steam in both boiler rooms. The resulting explosions shattered Varyag’s keel in three separate locations.

Andreas beat a fist into his palm, and the crew saw that as a sign to cut loose and cheer.

Her spine broken, Varyag took nine minutes to join Kalovsk at the bottom of Gray’s Bay. There were no survivors from either vessel.

Two down, two to go. The Ulyanovsk and the Ivan Rogov…

Half his company had been killed in the C-130 explosion, leaving Sergeant Nathan Vatz in a state of shock as he gathered his chute with the other operators who had managed to bail out before the missile had struck.

He’d shut down the oxygen, popped off his helmet, and was panting in the frigid morning air, occasionally glancing across the broad, snow-covered field toward several buildings, lumber mills maybe, and the dense forests toward the east and west.

With the chute gathered, he charged toward the embankment along a snow-covered road, probably dirt, where the rest of the operators were gathering and burying their chutes in the snow.