“Surely you are not suggesting we ignore the matter?” Foreign Minister Anton Ivanovich Boltin looked shocked. “Whether the cause was an error or some deliberate Western policy, shots have been fired. The Americans will not ignore that. Not this time.” He paused. “This is not so much a military failure as one of intelligence, though. Surely there were signs that the Americans might be pushed into action.”
Vorobyev studied the Foreign Minister thoughtfully. He had been a reasonably loyal member of the old cabinet, compliant with hard-line policies but apparently close to the President. He was known as a good Party man, but first and foremost as a survivor. Now he seemed to be siding with the military against the KGB, and when a skilled fence-sitter came out clearly on one side or another of a Kremlin power struggle, it was a good indication of where the power lay. There were many lingering resentments between the Party and the KGB. It was hard to forget the days when the KGB had allowed the reformers to consolidate power and outlaw the Party altogether.
“I did not say that we would ignore the situation,” Vorobyev said, carefully ignoring the barbed comment about intelligence failures. He was glad to know the military was still on top in the new power structure, but he didn’t intend to allow rivalries to come out in the open just yet. “Obviously, with tensions as high as they are now there is no question of trying to smooth this matter over with the Americans. Their neutrality would not have lasted much longer in any event. Norway is an old ally of theirs and we were lucky to get as much time as they have given us.”
Boltin nodded thoughtfully. “True enough. In that much, at least, the KGB’s predictions were accurate.” He favored Doctorov with a venomous look, and there were scattered nods around the table from some of the other politicians.
“Yes, we all owe the Committee for State Security a vote of thanks for their masterful analysis of the West’s situation,” Vorobyev interjected quickly before the KGB chief could react to Boltin’s thinly veiled insult. He needed Doctorov’s good will more than the Party’s, at least for now, and they couldn’t afford to waste time or effort in internal squabbles. The new government’s control over the Soviet Union was still tenuous at best, though the mobilization against the “possible spread of Western anarchy” was rapidly allowing the Red Army and the KGB to deploy enough strength to dominate key areas. “We always knew that there were risks involved in Rurik’s Hammer, that there were some elements we would not be able to control. Neither the KGB nor Admiral Khenkin can be held responsible for what the Americans choose to do.”
“But what do we do?” Ubarov demanded. “War with the Americans was never a part of the plan.”
“Not an all-out war, no.” Vorobyev smiled. “It is in no one’s interest for the nuclear missiles to fly. I believe the Americans will feel that as strongly as I do. The important thing now is to hold them at arm’s length while we complete the conquest of Scandinavia. At that point they will be in the unenviable position of choosing between an unacceptable escalation or a stalemate. While we, on the other hand, will be poised to dominate Europe from our new flanking positions.”
“Hold them at arm’s length,” Doctorov mused. “Then you mean to strike at the carrier battle group? No other American force is in a position to intervene.”
“There is one other that must be cleared in order to isolate the battle group,” Vorobyev said. “In fact, a determined strike on this target could well discourage them from further adventures within our exclusion zone.” He smiled. “I am recommending that we introduce Plan North Star immediately. At the same time it would be wise to begin harassing the American ships … perhaps a few of our attack submarines would be well employed in this. After North Star has been resolved we will evaluate the situation and decide what else needs to be done.”
He saw heads nodding across the table, and his smile broadened. They had a tiger by the tail in Scandinavia. Rurik’s Hammer had to succeed if the Soviet Union was to regain power in Europe. This time it would be the Germans and the British who would have to come begging to Moscow for the very right to survive! Every one of those men knew that there was no going back now.
And as long as Rurik’s Hammer was in motion, they needed Vorobyev. While Doctorov maneuvered and Ubarov trembled and the rest tried to predict the outcome and make the right political choices, it would be the army that solidified its power base and made sure that the Rodina would never again be humbled by the West.
The S-3B Viking banked left and settled onto a new heading, but as far as Magruder was concerned it might as well have been holding steady on an endless flight to nowhere. Outside was the same monotony of cloud and sea, with little prospect of a break in the routine. It was a common belief among fighter pilots that the men who flew ASW missions slept through their flights and returned home with numb asses, and Tombstone was beginning to believe it.
For a Tomcat pilot, Tombstone told himself, a desk job at the Pentagon was a taste of Hell … but the cockpit of an S-3 was Purgatory, pure and simple.
The Viking was an amazing aircraft. That much he was willing to concede. Handsome, high-winged, with fine lines and an aerodynamic design that made it a dream to fly, the S-3 had only one thing in common with the F-14 he knew so well. Both were dedicated weapons platforms, mounting sophisticated equipment and electronics all concentrated on fulfilling one purpose and one purpose only.
In the case of the Viking that purpose was submarine hunting, a job the aircraft performed splendidly. Magruder couldn’t argue with the versatility of the machine or with the skill and dedication of the three other men aboard, all experienced sub-hunters from the VS-42 squadron, the King Fishers.
Tombstone’s complaint was with the job itself. The temperament and skills that made a good fighter pilot were the antithesis of what made a Viking crewman tick. The aircraft was designed to remain aloft for long periods of time, burning fuel at about a sixth the rate of the thirsty Tomcats. And these extended flights required nothing so much as patience, a skill few fighter jocks cultivated.
“Want to take her for a while, Commander?” the pilot asked over the ICS. Commander Max “Hunter” Harrison was CO of the King Fishers, a soft-spoken black man whose pride in his squadron was evident in everything he said. He had elected to come on the mission this morning as the Viking’s pilot as soon as he’d learned that the Deputy CAG was going out. Tombstone could see that much, at least. Back when he’d been a squadron leader he had tried to be on hand anytime CAG or his staff were around.
“What’s my course?” Magruder asked. “This game’s a little out of my regular line of work.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Harrison said with a chuckle. “The computer’ll tell you where to steer.” He pointed to a display screen on the instrument panel. “Keep lined up on this and everything’ll be great.”
Magruder nodded. His training on the Viking was coming back slowly. The computer accepted instructions from the plane’s Tactical Coordinator, or TACCO, who designated where he wished to deploy sonobuoys as part of an overall search pattern. The computer marked the spot and guided the pilot there. On reaching the chosen position the number and type of sonobuoys selected for that location were ejected automatically from the rack in the belly of the aircraft.
“Right,” he said. He grasped the stick. The Viking was the only jet aboard the carrier which had duel flight controls. That allowed a pilot and copilot to divide up the flying duties on a five-hour patrol. There were other controls at his station in the cockpit besides the regular flight instruments, since the copilot was also expected to assist the TACCO in the sub-hunting part of the plane’s work. In fact Magruder was filling the slot of COTAC, although his knowledge of the electronics was limited. “I’ve got her!”