Jefferson and the other surface ships of the battle group would take up a patrol station north of the Russian-Norwegian border, far enough east to maintain their surveillance of the nearest neo-Soviet bases, far enough west to be able to head for shelter in Tanafjorden or to run for the Norwegian Sea if the Russians came out in overwhelming strength. The Eisenhower group would move further north, toward the edge of the Barents ice pack.
Galveston and Morgantown, meanwhile, the two Los Angeles-class attack subs attached to CBG-14, were already off the Kola Peninsula. They would probe ahead, deep into Russian territorial waters, taking up position right off the Kola Inlet itself. CBG-7's subs would take up station fifty miles behind them, to catch any big ones that got away. Other American SSNs were already in the area. They would cover Gremikha and the mouth to the White Sea and would serve as backups for the subs of the two carrier groups.
Submarines, Tombstone thought, would definitely prove their worth in this situation. Air strikes and showing the flag both had their place, but the superbly quiet SSNs could sneak right up to Ivan's front porch, stay as long as was necessary, and slip silently away again.
The submarines would be the CBG's advance scouts, monitoring Russian subs and other vessels as they entered or left port ― especially at Polyamyy.
Backing them would be Jefferson's ASW squadrons ― the Vikings of VS-42, the King Fishers, and the SH-3H Sea Kings of HS-19 ― using air-dropped sonobuoys to weave a net across the southern reaches of the Barents Sea. Any sub contact would be shadowed, by air or by submarine. Russian PLARBs would be identified; if necessary, the hunters would deliberately reveal themselves and thereby warn the Russian sub skippers that the Americans had them in their sights.
"We will not give the weapons-free order," Tarrant explained, "unless the PLARB is clearly about to launch despite our interference."
"And if he tries to launch anyway?" Tombstone asked.
"Then we drop him."
Brandt scratched at one fleshy jowl. "What about their Northern Fleet?"
"Still licking their wounds after the Fjords," Tarrant replied. "Latest satellite intel suggests that at least ten capital ships were sunk or dinged up pretty bad, and that doesn't count both the Kreml and the Soyuz getting deep-sixed. A lot of ships are laid up in drydock, or rusting on their moorings. Some of their nuke subs have become hazards, no longer seaworthy, too hot to break up. God knows what they're going to do with them. Morale in their Northern Fleet is wretched. What's worse, they've been having a bad time getting supplies for the fleet."
"I bleed for them," Brandt said.
"There will be a chance, of course, that the Russians will sortie their fleet, or as much of their fleet as they can get to sea, either to threaten us or to actually mount an attack. The fact is, we don't have a clue as to how they're likely to react to our provocations. Everything we've seen indicates that there's total chaos over there. Leonov's forces have launched a major offensive in the south, and Red units have invaded Ukraine and Belarus. That should work in our favor; the Moscow faction will have more than enough to occupy them in the south without having to worry about the Kola Peninsula."
"Maybe," Brandt said. "But I'll tell you right now they're not going to take kindly to us parking a CBG in their backyard, Hell, what would we say if they planted the Kiev battle group twenty miles off Hampton Roads and dared us to make something of it?"
"Well, that's why we're going to have to be damned careful on this one, gentlemen. One mistake could ruin our whole day.
"Our worst problem, of course, is going to be their submarines. Half of all the Russians' subs are based up here, and that means things are going to be frantic for the ASW departments. As I said earlier, though, we'll be drawing heavily on support from Norway. That includes three squadrons of P-3 Orions, and a Brit Nimrod group. They should be able to let us stretch our assets a bit.
"CAG, your people are going to be running shy on sleep, I'm afraid.
You'll not only be handling the brunt of the close-in ASW patrols, but I'm going to want heavy CAPs up at all times. In addition, it would be a good idea if you had at least two attack squadrons fueled, armed, and ready to go on short notice, in case we have to engage Russian surface units. I'd like at least one of those attack squadrons to be F/A-18s."
"They'll be ready, Admiral."
"You have two days to make damn sure of that. How are your people getting on so far?"
Tombstone knew the admiral was asking obliquely about the air wing's ongoing sexual integration.
"Some teething pains, Admiral. Nothing we can't handle."
"Your people are going to be in a real pressure cooker, son. Word from Washington is that the Ike and the Jeff battle groups are going to be pretty much on their own for at least a week. It'll be that long before the Nimitz gets here to reinforce us, and Washington is keeping the Kennedy stationed off the Skagerr."
"We'll get the job done, sir."
"I know, son. You've got the best people in the Navy. That's why I'm counting on you. Captain Brandt? Any problems?"
"We're not going to get that week, Admiral. You know that as well as I do."
"I know. If they're going to pull something, it'll be sooner. A lot sooner."
"We'd just better pray to God that we're ready then. Because when those bastards come out of their hidey-holes, it's going to be full strength, fangs out, and ready for a major rumble."
"With your permission, Captain, I'd like to tape a broadcast for your TV station. Let the men know what's going on, how we're counting on them."
"Of course, Admiral."
Tarrant's face looked terribly grim. "God help us if we drop the ball on this one, people. We're not going to get a second chance.
The crew's lounge, located far aft aboard the Jefferson, throbbed faintly with the suppressed thunder of the ship's four propellers, each twenty-two feet wide. It was a utilitarian space, occupied by round tables and plastic chairs, and decorated with framed prints showing scenes out of naval history.
It was a popular place for Jefferson's enlisted men and women to gather when they went off duty. There were the usual collections of games to be checked out ― decks of cards, military board games, and classics like Scrabble or Monopoly. There was a Coke machine, and a jukebox that played pieces ranging from country to hard rock. One bulkhead was taken up by a collection of arcade-type video games, most with names like MiG Blaster and Torpedo Alley.
Photographer's Mate Second Class Tom Margolis sat at one of the tables with four of his shipmates, and he was getting mad.
"Hey, Marge!" As he pulled up a chair and joined the group, FFG2 Roy Kirkpatrick puckered his lips, making a loud smacking noise. "How's about a kiss, sweetie?"
Margolis winced at the familiar taunt. How were you supposed to fight something like this?
"Fuck off," he said. Angrily, he picked up his can of Coke and took a swig. "I'm not queer. I like girls! I've got a girlfriend back in the States!"
"Sure, sure," Gunner's Mate (Missiles) Third Class Enrique Hernandez said, a toothy grin lighting his swarthy face. "That's what they all say!"
"I'm not a homo!"
"Yeah, well, your boyfriend Pellet's one, ain't he?" Radioman Third Class Mike Weydener said. "I thought all you queers hung out together."
"Yeah!" Kirkpatrick said, giggling. "How's Pellet hung?"
"Frank's a nice guy."
"Oh, I'll just bet he is!" Fire Control Technician Larry Jankowski mimed a kiss and the others howled with laughter.