operations as decoy deployments to distract the defense. The main enemy landing area is around the port town of Brekke, about halfway up the Sognefjord and maybe eighty kilometers as the MiG flies from Bergen. That conforms with the best estimates Intelligence made originally when we were mapping out our strategy. The location doesn’t change the basic mission profile at all.”
Magruder looked down at the lectern, checking the hastily scrawled notes he’d made of Lee’s latest findings. “The Russians have also launched a general offensive all along the line to pin the Royal Norwegian Army while they bring in their amphibious troops to support the Brekke paradrop. Our last contact with General Lindstrom brought word that he had only enough reserves to contain what was on the ground already. He doesn’t think they have much hope of holding against a larger force with the resources he’s got on hand. So if those transports get through Bergen will fall. That’s all there is to it.”
Commander Harrison held up a hand. “What about the Norwegian air force? Where are they while we’re sticking our necks into the noose?” Harrison hadn’t liked any aspect of Magruder’s plan, and he wasn’t making any effort to hide his feelings.
“Every bird Lindstrom can spare is starting on cyclic ops on the southeastern end of the front,” Magruder told him. “This was at our suggestion. By mounting a serious threat to the Russians in Oslo, we’re hoping to draw off a large chunk of their air force until our strike is finished. We’re also hoping this will encourage the Russians to believe that we’ve fallen for some of their decoy operations down in that neighborhood. We want those transports to keep moving toward Brekke. It’s the one chance we have to nail them.”
Harrison looked unhappy. “You won’t sucker all of them that way, Commander,” he said.
“No, we won’t. But in conjunction with the other phases of Ragnarok we should be able to neutralize most of them.” He glanced at his watch. “Galveston and Bangor should be starting their end of the process pretty soon now. It’s going to take a lot of little pieces fitting together.”
“I’ve got a question, Stoney,” Batman said. He and Coyote were sitting side by side near the back of the room. “Looks to me like you’re counting pretty heavy on getting some of our planes in using nothing but low altitude, jamming, and a couple of Hail Marys. I thought those new AEW planes of theirs were supposed to be almost as good as the Hawkeyes.”
“Yeah.” Magruder frowned. It was probably the weakest part of Ragnarok, but with his resources already stretched to the limit he didn’t see any way to deal with the Russian An-74 that was sure to be monitoring the battlefield from a secure location far from the front lines. “Yeah, that about sums it up. If anybody has any ideas, toss them in.”
Coyote looked up, his eyes meeting Magruder’s across the long room. “There’s something we could do. But it means thinning down the carrier defenses a little bit.”
That made Magruder frown again. Then he shrugged. “Like I said, let’s hear it.” He didn’t like any suggestion of leaving Jefferson exposed to the enemy … but on the other hand, in a gambler’s last throw like this one, it might just be worth the risk if they could increase the chances of the rest of the plan falling into place.
Commander Mark Colby stretched his long legs under the chart table and listened to the low voices of the men manning Galveston’s control room stations. He was tall for a submariner, and was developing a perpetual stoop from the cramped conditions he had to endure as part of the Silent Service.
Sometimes Colby thought he had been born into the wrong era. He would have felt at home commanding one of the old-time frigates in the age of Jones or Preble, pacing the quarterdeck and feeling the wind on his cheek as his command maneuvered under full sail to close the range with her quarry and unleash the fury of her broadside.
But there wasn’t room to pace the confines of an attack sub’s control room, so Colby had to be content with sitting still and listening to terse reports and his Exec’s crisp, precise orders.
Still, Galveston had one thing in common with the frigates of Colby’s idle daydreams. When she had closed to the appropriate range, she could let loose a devastating broadside of her own.
In this case, the broadside would take the form of six Tomahawk TLAM missiles, each carrying a warhead with more sheer destructive power than a whole fleet of vessels from the days of wooden ships and iron men. The Tomahawk cruise missile had proven itself in the Gulf War, forming a powerful part of the initial bombardment that had opened the air war against Iraq. While tonight’s attack would be nothing near the scope of that assault, flights of the deadly missiles from Galveston and her sister ship Bangor would surely disrupt their target and cause plenty of damage to keep the Russians occupied while Admiral Tarrant launched the main attack of Operation Ragnarok.
When the orders had first come in from the admiral, tight-beamed and bounced off a passing satellite to reduce the chance the subs would be detected, Colby had been disappointed that Galveston’s role was essentially diversionary. She carried cruise missiles for antiship attacks as well as the TLAMs, after all. But on careful consideration he had finally decided the admiral was right. The Soviets possessed both ASW and anti-air abilities that would have sharply curtailed a sub-launched attack. Galveston wouldn’t have been able to get in close enough to launch a short-range sneak attack, but a missile launch from longer range would have run into the antimissile defenses of the Soviet ships escorting the critical troop transports. Galveston just didn’t have enough missiles to saturate those defenses … the whole carrier battle group probably couldn’t have done that, even with the missile capacity of the Aegis cruiser.
In a situation like this, even the smart weapons of modern high-tech warfare couldn’t match the smartest weapon of them all — the pilot in the cockpit of an attack airplane. That was the weapon best suited for penetrating the enemy defenses in this conflict.
Lieutenant Commander Richard Damien looked across the chart table at him. “Time, Skipper,” he said. “All tubes loaded and ready.”
“What about our friends?” Colby asked.
Damien frowned. “Still at the edge of detection range. I think we can outrun them if we have to.”
For several hours they’d been dodging a Russian squadron working up and down the Norwegian coast, apparently searching close in to shore for submarine activity. No doubt the Norwegian navy had been giving the Soviets headaches by slipping some of their small conventionally powered coastal subs in behind the Russian fleet to play havoc with supply ships. If Colby had been free to choose the time for the launch, he would have waited to see if the Soviets moved further off, but the admiral’s timetable was tight. “Fire all,” he said softly.
“Fire all! Fire all!” Damien called, and the bridge talker took up the chant and relayed the message to the weapons officer. Seconds later the submarine shuddered as the Tomahawk missiles left her torpedo tubes in quick succession.
“Come to course two-one-five,” Colby went on. “Make her depth two hundred feet, and go to maximum revs.”
As Galveston started her turn, the missiles broke the surface above her, and leapt skyward with their rocket motors lighting up the long, dim twilight of the north. On-board guidance systems kicked in, unfolding electronic maps of their targets and aligning the hurtling missiles toward their destinations. The missiles skimmed in low over the water.
At the air base at Orland, klaxons sounded the alarm as radar picked up the incoming missiles, and Soviet troops poured from their barracks buildings to take up their defense stations. One SAM battery managed to get off a pair of missiles despite the surprise, and these accounted for one of the six incoming Tomahawks. But the remaining five came on, arcing gracefully toward the base. Their impact turned the quiet Norwegian landscape into a scene from Hell.
The first to hit tore into a tank farm on the edge of the base, raising a pillar of flame that outshone the sun. The explosion broke windows for miles around and echoed off the mountains like summer thunder, reverberating over the embattled installation. Another missile hit close by the base control tower, while the other three fell on a hangar and a pair of runways. The Russians running for their stations scattered under the rain of destruction.
A few seconds later the six missiles launched from Bangor slammed into Orland, completing the devastation. Orland burned.
