“So where do we start, sir?” Forsythe asked. “We can’t attack three submarines at once, can we?”
“Of course we can’t.” Cowlings voice was firm. “And, besides, maintaining continuous contact on them probably isn’t a way to go about it.”
“But that’s what our orders are, aren’t they?”
Cowlings shook his head. “Just to locate them. Look, the Russians know these waters. They spent decades on ballistic missile patrols around Bermuda, before they developed long-range missiles. They know how to operate in this area with two or three boats at a time, and I’m willing to bet that they’re just as cautious about mutual interference as we are. And with these diesels, it could be a real problem when they’re on battery. So, what they’ve probably done is divide up the area around Bermuda into different operating areas. Three operating areas at least — although we can’t be certain that there aren’t more boats out there, can we?”
“I guess not.”
“So, what we have to do,” Cowling said, sketching out his plan on a piece of paper, “is pull the data on their historical operating areas during the Cold War and figure out if they’re still using the same boundaries to avoid mutual interference. At the same time, we need to find out exactly what they’ve got deployed here. It might not be just diesels. A few old Yankee or Delta ballistic missile boats could be in the area, too. We need to know the exact composition of their forces as well as where they probably are so we’ll have a general idea of where to start looking for them if the balloon goes up or if we have to do something about them.”
“So,” Cowlings continued, “We stay around the edges for now. Get more detections, try to figure out what their boundaries are. At the same time, we want to maintain a weapons posture that will allow for immediate weapons free. Not that I think it’ll come to that, but let’s be prepared.”
“It won’t happen if we prepare for it?” Forsythe said, echoing Cowlings’s earlier statement.
Cowlings nodded. “Right. So, we’ll start with the southernmost contact and work our way north. Now start putting together a plan while I see the chief about the galley.” A weary smile passed over Cowlings’s face. “A well- fed crew is a happy crew.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get on with it. As I recall, you’re pretty sharp on sonar. Go take a look at things, decide what we have to do to get locating data on each of those three contacts. Talk to the sonarman — he understands how to do this. And the chief’s no stranger to this, either. Get back to me as soon as you have a plan, but no later than one hour from now.”
“Yes, sir. And where will you be?” Forsythe asked.
“Well, I figured you and I aren’t going to be getting much sleep for the next couple of days. I want one of us awake at all times. Therefore, since you’re going to be in Manuevering for a while, I’m going to take a nap.” Cowlings stretched out on the captain’s couch and kicked off his shoes. “First lesson of combat operations — eat, drink, sleep, or piss anytime you can. Because the odds are, you won’t have time later.” With that, Cowlings shut his eyes. “Turn off the lights on your way out.”
SEVEN
Maskiro leaned against the back wall of the control tower, fighting off exhaustion. They had released most of the control tower crew, keeping only five people as a hostage contingent, four women and one man. They were now stretched out in the middle of the room trying to get some sleep. His guards had already started their sleep/watch rotation, and there was really no reason for Maskiro himself to be awake right now. Better that he sleep while he could. It was far too soon for any of the American forces to mount an attack on the tower. Hostage rescue required planning, planning, and more planning. Probably at least two days, he decided, stifling a yawn. Maybe three.
He knew what it was — the escape of the American submarine. A frigate and a destroyer in port had been easily subdued, their security forces clearly poorly trained and not prepared to react. They had not even attempted to leave port, instead mistakenly depending on a few sailors with shotguns to take care of any problems.
But the submarine — ah, that was a different matter. Were the American nuclear forces simply more cautious? Perhaps their commanding officer had been aboard and had ordered the ship underway. Yes, that had to be it.
The sergeant in charge of this detachment was eyeing him warily. Maskiro ignored him, but knew that it would be just a few moments before the sergeant, in the special way that senior enlisted men had of dealing with officers, would suggest that perhaps Comrade Captain might wish to stand down. He could even hear the tone the sergeant would use, slightly aggrieved and offended that the captain did not adequately trust his sergeant to maintain the watch, yet with the full measure of respect due to a senior officer.
Only two aircraft had been permitted to land after the troop transports were on the ground, and that was only because they reported that they were critically low on fuel and unable to divert. The transports had remained on the ground until the area was secure. Then, the troops had returned to unload the ZUK-88 trucks with their attached missile launchers. Once they had verified that all the trucks and launchers were operational, the missiles had been loaded on by specialist teams and the trucks departed the airport with armed escorts. From the main road, they would spread out into the countryside, moving to higher elevations and dispersing themselves about the island. By dawn, the last one would be in position. Along with the one squadron of MiGs on the ground, they would maintain air superiority around the island. Additionally, they were loaded with the most potent deterrent to American intervention — medium-range launchers equipped with special warheads. While the range was insufficient to cover the entire expanse of America, it was more than sufficient to reach Washington, D.C., Norfolk, New York, and other center-of-gravity targets. One squadron of MiGs was on the ground, under heavy guard, and another squadron was en route and would arrive in two days.
One squadron would be sufficient to maintain air superiority, even with the carrier lurking to the north. The Americans would not dare engage the MiGs over the island, not and risk civilian casualties, even assuming that the Bermuda government gave their permission for American intervention. Not everyone welcomed American forces and their sometimes heavy-handed way of dealing with things.
The sergeant was starting toward him. Maskiro debated ignoring him, but decided against it. The problem was, the sergeant was right. He held up his hand to stop the man. “I know. Toss me a blanket, would you?”
“Yes, Comrade Captain.” The sergeant changed directions and swung by the table to pick up a blanket. He handed it to his commander with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I will call you an hour before dawn, yes? Or as otherwise required.”
“Fine, fine.” Maskiro slid down to the tile and pulled the blanket around him. In seconds, he was asleep.
The reaction on board the carrier had at first been one of complete disbelief. Surely this was a prank of some sort, somebody’s idea of a bad joke. Russians invading Bermuda? It couldn’t be real.
A quick voice confirmation was immediately forthcoming. No one was entirely sure what was happening, but all the local Bermuda government sources were either not answering telephones or had gone off the air. The only immediate source of information was an ACN reporter on vacation with a cell phone, and ACN was jealously guarding that contact, relaying information to the Pentagon only after it had been broadcast.
When it finally became apparent that there was indeed a squadron of MiGs and a division of troops on the island, the
