McAllen pushed up to his hands and knees, trying to stand, as Rule opened up with his own rifle, hosing down a pair of troops who burst from behind a trunk to confront him.
But two rounds struck Rule’s armored chest, knocking him backward. He lost his footing, fell on his rump. He got up, started once more toward the sergeant, the.50 caliber still churning behind him, ripping up bark and limbs ahead.
It dawned on Rule that the sergeant wouldn’t be lying there, shot up, if it weren’t for him and his damned busted radio.
So he poured every ounce of energy he had left into his legs. He reached the sergeant, dropped, returned more fire as rounds stitched lines in the snow just a meter parallel to them.
“Rule, you idiot,” gasped McAllen.
“I know,” he said. “Ready?” He rolled the sergeant over and hoisted him up over his back, legs buckling under the man’s considerable weight.
He walked three steps and collapsed.
Meanwhile, Szymanski, Palladino, and Gutierrez had hopped back out of the chopper, dropped, and were providing more covering fire.
“You’re going to kill me if they don’t,” said McAllen. “Drag me!”
“Thought a carry would be faster.” Rule stood, came behind McAllen, grabbed his pack’s straps and began sliding him over the snow.
A sudden
“Rule?”
“Yeah.” He gasped. “Got my armor. Damn I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”
He returned to dragging the sergeant, whose legs were leaving a blood trail in the snow.
“Hey, Rule, I didn’t tell you this before, but you cast a
“You’re just saying that so I drag your shot-up butt out of here.”
“That, too.”
Even as Rule continued hauling the sergeant forward, McAllen lifted his rifle and fired several bursts.
After a few more tugs, Rule suddenly felt the sergeant grow lighter as Gutierrez joined him. Within a handful of seconds they had McAllen into the bay, where Gutierrez immediately cut off the sergeant’s pants legs and got to work.
Rule shoved himself into the back of the Pave Hawk as the chopper roared up and away, leaving the Russians on the ground firing wildly at them as they cleared the trees, their muzzles now winking in the half-light of dusk.
“How is he?” he shouted to Gutierrez.
The medic gave him a look:
McAllen gestured for Rule to come close so he could shout in his ear. “You did good. I give you a B plus.”
Rule rolled his eyes. “Thanks!”
“Make your depth one-five-zero feet,” ordered Commander Jonathan Andreas.
“Make my depth one-five-zero feet, aye,” repeated the officer of the deck.
It was all business in the
Despite the outbreak of war, Andreas assumed that most members of his crew had never live-fired those missiles; they had only practiced simulations. Andreas recalled when he could only launch while at periscope depth, but design improvements now made it possible to fire from the safety of 150 feet.
He reviewed the sequence in his head: The tube door would open, the gas generator would fire up to boil the water pocket inside. The water would flash to steam, forcing a pressure pulse to the bottom of the tube. The pressure pulse would then push the missile up through its protective membrane enveloped in a steam bubble, and eject the bird completely clear of the surface.
Then, as the Tomahawk cleared the surface, the first stage would ignite, lifting the bird to three thousand feet.
At its apex, the first-stage would jettison and the missile would plummet into free fall, spinning the missile’s jet engine on the way down. The increasing flight speed would turn the compressor and build up pressure and heat in the combustion chamber. Fuel would be injected, and the missile’s engine would then be up and running.
Andreas could see it all in his head.
Now it was time to make it happen. He gave the firing order, and the entire submarine rumbled.
Once the first missile left the sub, Andreas lifted his voice and said, “Watch your trim, Officer of the Deck. Keep your eye on the bubble.”
The
The remaining five Tomahawks, spaced three minutes apart, would follow the first down a bearing of one- seven-eight degrees while cruising at subsonic speed roughly fifty feet above the surface.
The one-hour, forty-nine-minute, thousand-mile flight included a pre-programmed midpoint correction as each Tomahawk passed over Wild Buffalo National Park.
Packed into each missile’s computer memory were final destination landmarks: pictures of the Alberta Legislative Assembly building, the exact interchange point where 97th Avenue NW, 109th Street NW, and 110th Street NW converged and provided sole access to High Level Bridge.
Onboard TV cameras would accurately identify the final orienting landmarks as each missile plummeted toward the Saskatchewan River and the High Level Bridge below.
After the last missile blasted away, Andreas congratulated the crew, then he gave the order to head back to the Dolphin and Union Strait to continue their patrol, even as they monitored the missiles’ progress.
Just one hour into that journey, the sternplanesman cried, “Jam dive, sternplanes!”
The sternplanes were horizontal rudders, or diving planes, extending from each side of the submarine near the stern. They had lost hydraulic pressure and had slammed into the dive position, where they would remain locked until hydraulic pressure could be restored and control reasserted.
With miles and miles of steam, electrical, and hydraulic lines running up, down, and through bulkheads, it was just a question of time before something broke, got damaged, wore out, or operator error occurred.
Now the
“All back full!” yelled the OOD and Andreas in unison.
The bow planesman jerked his joystick to full rise, trying to counteract the effects of the sternplanes.
“Passing one thousand feet, thirty-one degrees down bubble,” reported the chief of the watch, his hands hovering over the controls to blow the forward main ballast tanks.
The sternplanesman immediately switched to auxiliary hydraulics and pulled back on the sternplanes. Nothing.
“Passing twelve hundred feet, forty degrees down bubble, sir,” cried the chief of the watch.
The sternplanesman switched to emergency hydraulics, pulled up, when suddenly the sonar operator lifted his voice:
“Torpedo in the water, incoming torpedo bearing three-two-zero! WLY-1 classification — a Shkval — range thirty thousand yards, speed two hundred knots!”
Sergeant Nathan Vatz and his men had shifted farther back into the town to their secondary positions along the rooftops of some local businesses on 97th Street, parallel to the highway.
For the past hour the Russians had been pounding the hell out of the obstacle, and Vatz figured they’d destroy the remaining mines within thirty minutes, maybe less.
Once that happened, Berserker and Zodiac teams could make a last stand or withdraw and live to fight another day.
