Three minutes later he was peering at the heavy seas through the ports, bracing himself against the railing. “All right, kill the lights.” The tortured scene of thrashing white water and intense snow disappeared abruptly as the powerful searchlights winked out. Larkin turned from the screen and made his way to his console, where he strapped himself in. The marine guard, doubling as steward, brought him coffee.
“Let’s have a status report,” he said into the microphone. “First, the radar.”
“We have identified the sub as Russian, possibly Anatov class, presumably nuclear powered. She is a hunter-killer-type from her hull and, if Anatov class, used for longrange coastal patrolling. Her present position is 32.76 degrees by 74.34 degrees, moving at fourteen knots, east by northeast. We are projecting a landing point now at eighteen miles southeast of where Mr. Folsom landed. ETA at four hours and fifty-six minutes at present course and speed.”
“Very well, put it on the board.”
Above the consoles against the after bulkhead a large screen lit up with a holographic map projection of the North Cape and its interlocking chain of islands and fjords, modified by sonar and radar information. The shallow coast and underwater shelf were clearly outlined for three miles out to sea. As Larkin watched, a star-shaped locator blazed up over the landing-party camp and a smaller pointer marked the location of the wrecked lifeboat.
Farther east Larkin could see the long red trail culminating in a boat-shaped target point that was the Russian submarine heading into Porsangerfjord. A yellow dotted line extended ahead and was now resting on a shallow beach where the cliffs began to straggle down into a steep shelf. Twelve miles west and five south was the Norwegian town of Kjelvik, scarcely more than a fishing village of some two hundred inhabitants and a small Norwegian Coast Guard Base. The fjord waters were frozen solid just north of the town and the Russians would have little trouble crossing. Larkin shifted his gaze to the western coast showing on the map and found the extensive naval air base north of Rolfsö, first constructed by the Nazis in World War II as their northernmost air base for use against the Allied convoys making the dangerous run to Murmansk. From this same base the German Condor bombers had been able to bring the convoys under attack almost from the time they left Iceland. The Norwegians had taken the base over following the war and it now was their main defense post against a northern attack by the Russians. Even though tensions had eased considerably in recent years the base was still manned and in ready condition as a NATO installation. He knew that the twelve-inch radar-controlled guns first installed by the Nazis could cover anything within a radius of seventeen miles. They were backed up by intermediate-range surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missiles. Larkin knew that he had better not involve the Norwegians unless absolutely necessary. His orders were strict: to pick up the pilot at any cost; avoid alerting the Norwegians; avoid a pitched battle or any contact at all with the Soviets.
Larkin sighed heavily and sat back in the chair. The heavy red line marking the path of the submarine had moved another half inch and he sighed again. “Another complication.”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Nothing, just talking to myself…. What do you make of it, Mister?” The radar man hesitated only a moment. “From the radar, she’s running half submerged with only her conning tower out. She’s hugging the coast and heading for a point fifteen miles from where
Mr. Folsom landed. There is only one place she could have come from, sir — the sub pens at Murmansk.”
“Why not from out at sea, riding out the storm below the surface?”
“Wouldn’t make sense, sir. In order to be safe from the coastal ridges and rocks outside of the Murmansk channel, she would have had to stand at least forty miles off the coast. A surface ship would be safe enough anywhere along the Russian coast, but a submarine would need at least sixty feet over her sail in these seas and that means at least a hundred and twenty feet of water-for maneuvering room. The coast around Murmansk, in fact in any of these fjord areas, does not run much over eighty feet. So she had to come from the sub pens. It would take her at least eight hours at her present cruising speed of — fourteen knots to get here.”
“That Makes a good bit of sense,” Larkin agreed. “I think you may be right. If so, then we should not have to worry about any other Russian subs sneaking up on us from the northern waters for a while. If they are going to come, they will come in from Murmansk.” Larkin sat back a moment and stared at the map. The rugged coast of the North Cape stretched away to the southeast before it turned sharply south into both Porsangerfjord and Laksefjord, wide deep chasms that would furnish protection for the submarine when it surfaced. It would also put them eighteen miles down the coast from where Folsom had landed. The submarine’s apparent track indicated they were heading for the northern end of Porsangerfjord, where they would have the additional protection of the point. The map showed the ground in this area of the North Cape rising quickly from sea level to eight hundred feet, but gradually enough so that there would be a decent beach, partially sheltered from both the sea and the winds, with more than enough protection to land a small boat.
Larkin made his decision. “Mr. Bridges, lay a course for a point where we can keep an eye on both the submarine when she goes under the lee and Mr. Folsom’s party. Then have the crew stand to general quarters.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Bridges replied. He motioned to the communications officer and strode quickly to the plotting table. As he went over the lighted board, the GQ klaxon began its strident rasping throughout the ship. Almost immediately the control board began to wink from red to green as each station reported in.
The U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy came around on a course that would bring them to bear directly on the submarine and settled into the waves. Larkin himself took the conn and rapidly closed the gap between the two vessels. So far it appeared that the submarine had not seen the RFK, and Larkin doubted that, with her more limited equipment, they would be able to break through the ECM shield around the battle cruiser. They would be having troubles enough to spare much time for surveillance in any event. Larkin stood in as close as he dared until only fifty miles separated the two ships. His own detection equipment was excellent and there was no sense pushing his luck. For twenty minutes they watched the submarine as it changed course to run in under the lee of the Porsangerfjord, much as Larkin had expected. He was sure from the way the submarine was being handled that the Russian commander knew these waters well. Fjords are tricky places to take a submarine into. The complex currents between the narrow walls and the convolutions of the rock sides and bottom create a maze of conflicting sonar reports so that the underwater gear becomes almost useless for anything other than short-range work. The Russian commander was clearly over-running his sonar and Larkin wondered how many times the Russian had done this before. It made sense when he thought about it. This section of the Cape was practically deserted, with the exception of a few fishing villages. The only military installation on this end of the Cape was the coast guard base, placed there to protect the fishing fleet, not to conduct coastal surveillance. Other than that, there was only the Norwegian-manned NATO base on the far side of the Cape.
To neutralize the NATO base if war should occur, a head-on attack would be suicidal. But a sufficiently large force in regiment strength, complete with vehicles, could be landed in Porsangerfjord and strike overland to take the base from the rear. With the NATO base in their hands the Soviet sub fleet would have free access to the Barents and Norwegian seas, and from there could move into the North Atlantic with little or no opposition.