A new map came up, a close-up of central Norway around the city of Trondheim. “This is where the real blow fell, though, in the area called Trondelag. For the past six years it has been the site of a major U.S. Marine Prepositioning center. The equipment and supplies for a specially tasked U.S. Marine Expeditionary Brigade were located here, together with prepared runway facilities at Orland and Vaemes. On June sixth these were attacked by naval Spetsnaz, reinforced by naval infantry and airborne troops. Our best satellite reconnaissance indicates that Trondelag has been all but destroyed … and with it virtually every contingency plan the United States had for supporting Norway.”
“Christ,” someone said from the front row. Tarrant thought it was Commander Don Strachan, CO of the frigate Esek Hopkins. “Why don’t we just surrender now and be done with it? Or is there some good news buried in all of this mess?”
“The good news, such as it is, came on the seventh,” Aiken answered. “On that day a Soviet attempt to take the city of Bergen failed. Bergen was the one area not caught totally off guard by the war. The senior army man there, General Nils Lindstrom, managed to pull his troops into a tight perimeter line. By concentrating air cover and intensive SAM fire and triple-A, Lindstrom knocked out the airborne elements of a major Soviet drive on Bergen. It’s located in the southeastern end of the country … one of their biggest ports and naval bases, and near some major air bases as well. The city’s critical to both sides at this point, gentlemen. As long as it’s in friendly hands we have a point of reentry into Norway, and the Soviets know it. Everything boils down now to how long Lindstrom can hold out there.”
“Without effective air?” Stramaglia snorted. “The Russkies’ll pry them out of there inside a week.”
Aiken nodded. “That’s our estimation, Captain. At the moment they are overextended, but once they’ve consolidated their position they are sure to muster enough strength to threaten Bergen.”
“Thank you for your rundown, Commander,” Tarrant said, moving back toward the podium. The lights came up as Aiken took his seat in the front row. “Gentlemen, that’s the situation as it stands now … but there is one important addition Commander Aiken didn’t mention. Yesterday evening, the White House received a communique from the Soviet government reiterating their position that the conflict in Norway is a strictly local matter. In addition, they have declared that all foreign military vessels should stay clear of the Norwegian Sea in an area defined by the Greenland-Iceland-United Kingdom line, extended from the Scottish coast to Jutland. I believe the phrase they used was ‘to avoid accidental escalation of the current regional hostilities.’ In essence they are saying that any warship entering their exclusion zone is liable to come under attack.”
“But that undermines the whole principal of freedom of the seas,” the captain of the John A. Winslow, Commander Robert Jackson, said incredulously. “I mean, that was one of the things we were fighting for in the Indian Ocean, wasn’t it? Do the Russians really think we’d accept something like that?”
Tarrant spread his hands. “The Soviets have never understood our theory of seapower, Captain,” he said. “I doubt if they realize how critical this issue is to American strategic thinking. In any event, it seems to have hit home in Washington. The new orders I received last night call on us to take the battle group into the Norwegian Sea in direct opposition to the exclusion zone the Russians have laid down.”
“Then we’re going in to help Norway, Admiral?” Commander Bart Thompson of the frigate Stephen Decatur asked.
“Not yet, Captain,” Tarrant told him. “The Rules of Engagement are very clear. We’re to test the Russian determination to keep us out of the Norwegian Sea, but we only fire if fired upon. The decision to actively support Norway hasn’t been made yet.”
“Hell, there might not be a Norway if we don’t do something soon,” Captain Brandt said harshly. “Can’t they see that?”
Tarrant fixed him with a cold look. “We’re not talking about Saddam Hussein or the North Koreans this time, Captain,” he said in a quiet voice. “No matter how much things have changed since the Wall came down, these are still the Russians we’re up against this time around. If we push too hard, too fast, we could end up with nukes flying.”
There was a mutter of agreement around the room. Suddenly the specter of World War III was back among them, closer and more real than it had been since the face-off between Kennedy and Khrushchev. It was sobering to think where this confrontation in Scandinavia might lead.
And Carrier Battle Group 14 was sailing right into the middle of it all.
CHAPTER 7
“What’s the status on this one, Chief?” Tombstone Magruder had to shout over the din that echoed through Jefferson’s cavernous hangar deck. Stretching for two thirds of the carrier’s 1,092-foot length and fully two decks high, the huge chamber was crowded with aircraft and the men from Department V who were in charge of maintaining and outfitting them. As always, being down here gave Magruder a sense of just how small a part the aviators and NFOs really played in the operation of the carrier Air Wing. From plane captains down to purple-shirted “grapes” who handled refueling on the flight deck, these men regarded those aircraft as their own … and quite rightly. Without them, the aviators couldn’t fly.
The brown-shirted plane captain whose name Tombstone hadn’t caught over the noise of the hangar deck gestured at the wing of the A-6E Intruder in front of them and bellowed his reply. “I’m not real happy about her, sir! She was on deck the day of the big cock-up. There was some damage to the wing … here … and over here!” His finger jabbed in emphasis.
Magruder nodded slowly. He didn’t pretend to be an expert on aircraft maintenance, but CAG had ordered him to check on the readiness of the wing’s Intruder squadron. Now that Jefferson was sailing into a potential battle zone it was critical that the attack aircraft be ready for action. “Did you give it a down-check then?” he asked.
The CPO shook his head reluctantly. “Didn’t want to, sir. The damage wasn’t bad compared to the ones that really got caught in it. But I ain’t happy about it.”
Rubbing his forehead, Tombstone tried to decide how to respond. Even with the planes he’d brought in the night before Jefferson was short of Intruders, and he could understand the chief’s reluctance to order another one taken out of service. Intruders were tough birds that could take a lot of punishment and still do the job.
But if the damage was bad enough to weaken the wings, another two-man crew would be facing disaster each time they flew the bomber.
“Give it a down gripe,” he said at length. That meant the Intruder’s maintenance log would show it as unfit for use until repairs had been made. “But put the sucker at the top of the repair list, okay?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the petty officer replied. He looked happier now. “That’s the last of ‘em, Commander.”
“Good. I want all the maintenance logs on my desk tomorrow morning for review. Got it?”
“Aye, aye,” the chief repeated.
Tombstone turned away and started across the wide deck, dodging people, tractors, and parked aircraft constantly. A well-run hangar deck left very little wasted space and still couldn’t hold all of a carrier’s planes. Jefferson’s hangar deck was very well run, and hence very crowded.