The president shook his head vigorously.
“Both they and the PRC have ICBMs, they would see the launch and they would counter-strike, probably massively.”
“Correct sir, so we use a method of delivery that they cannot detect and one that is close enough to strike before the target moves again… if they are shifting around from shelter to shelter.”
There was silence for a moment as the president thought it through, looking for loopholes, before deciding he did not know enough.
“I got to this office by kissing babies, having good teeth and telling more credible lies than the other guy. Intelligence is not a pre-requisite for holding either high or low office in government. That’s why I have a damn good staff and the JCS to do the thinking for me,” he said with a rueful smile.
“Let me ask them before I give my blessing, carry on with the preparations in the meantime… what is the protection like at these Russian shelters?”
Terry Jones answered that one.
“One and a half megaton direct hit, three megaton near-miss, sir.”
“And what qualifies as a near miss?”
“Two miles Mr President.”
“Can’t we stage out of Germany, Britain or Alaska… why Russia?”
“It would take too long to launch from Ramstein, they would have to fly a huge detour to avoid radars and defences on the battlefield. The same goes for the UK; it took twelve hours’ just to get into position to knock down the Russian A50 that they had covering Belorussia on the first day. The distance from Alaska to Moscow is comparable to flying from Atlanta to Los Angeles and back. We only get one shot at this sir.” The CIA Director stated earnestly.
“I don’t want this turning into a debacle like the Delta Force rescue mission in Iran did, back in the seventies.”
“Sir, we have an F-15 pilot who is F-117A qualified but temporarily unfit for combat duties in fast jets, due to strain injuries after an ejection yesterday. We have identified an out of the way strip that is suitable for putting down on, three hundred miles from Moscow, and we have assets who can meet them and assist with vehicles and safe houses. Added to the fact that the crew are female, they aren’t likely to draw attention as a man would.”
“How so?” queried the president.
“All males between seventeen and forty-five have been called up for military service in Russia; they are now all in uniform. The only exceptions are deserters, draft dodgers and essential industry workers. The police are very active in stopping all hale and hearty males in civilian clothes, to discover which of those categories they fill.”
“I never thought of that. Have you got a right seat picked?”
“Yes sir, Captain Patricia Dudley, she was in R&D until this morning working on the Nighthawk X, the testbed for future F-117 upgrades. I took the liberty of having her posted to Europe as a battlefield casualty replacement; she will be in London tonight.”
“Okay, so who is the pilot?”
“Major Caroline Nunro, she was shot down south of Leipzig yesterday.”
The president laughed.
“The air forces own pugilistic pin-up… good choice. Have you ordered her to volunteer yet?”
Scott did not know what the president was referring to, but he answered.
“No sir, she is in transit to London as we speak. The cover story is that she injured her back punching out and will be attached to USAFs PR department until she gets her flight status back and we have not yet told her the real reason.”
“Do yourself a favour Scott, ask nicely and watch her right… or you’ll look even worse than you do now!”
“Sir?”
It had taken well over forty-eight hours’ for news of the wars outbreak to become more than supposition by the media. When Janet had watched the breakfast television news reader announce that NATO forces had come under sustained attack during the previous afternoon she had felt sick at first, and then anger at the vagueness, the generalisations of the reports. There was no news of which units had been involved or even how NATO had fared.
Karen looked at her Mum’s expression and asked if her Dad was okay? Jimmy looked at his sister like she was cracked. His expression said it all, of course their Daddy was okay, he was Dad and therefore immortal.
She bundled them off to school and made her way to work where she had tried to push it all into a back room of her consciousness and lock the door, but it was the main topic of conversation amongst her colleagues and the boss had allowed a television to be turned on in the office and tuned to Sky News. Nevertheless she shut out the constant updates, the weary drone of retired soldiers wheeled in to give their opinions as ‘experts’ on the subject. She did a good job on the whole but in the late morning she looked up from her desk and noticed that although her colleagues were focussed on the TV screen they were consciously avoiding looking at her.
“In Germany, NATO took the brunt of an attack by sixteen Soviet armoured divisions supported by heavy air and artillery which employed chemical weapons… ” stated a newsreader. “and we are receiving reports that overnight a number of units, including British, sustained heavy casualties.”
It took a large dose of self-control to continue working as normal. The news for the nation grew worse as government sources eked out the real details in small packages. All the better to dispense the news of national disaster and the worsening of the situation for the West. The use of nuclear weapons by the soviets to breach the naval line at the North Cape would not be released for a week. Britain’s exact naval losses on the first day of the war would not become public knowledge for weeks.
The single screw of the Royal Navy’s diesel powered hunter/killer (SSK) submarine HMS Ulysses turned slowly, edging the vessel along at one knot, sixty feet below the turbulent surface of the Barents Sea, 2.38 miles northeast of the fishing village of Tysp-Navolok, on the Poluostrov Rybachiy peninsular. The traitorous coastal tides and numerous offshore wrecks, many uncharted by the west, made the going tricky even in peacetime. Ulysses Type 2026 towed array had been secured when they reach the 100 fathom mark.
Towed arrays this close inshore was far less effective than in the deep ocean, and a hazard to the vessel in the shallower water. There is far too much noise for the system to process, but that ambient noise made the vessel harder to hear as well.
One thousand yards to the northeast of them a Russian Kilo class diesel-electric boat was making five knots for thirty minute periods and then drifting and listening for another thirty. Ulysses had heard her, just, whilst she had been moving, but had the British submarine been a few minutes later, or earlier it could have been a completely different story.
Twenty miles to the north, the Royal Navy SSN, HMS Temeraire awaited the small diesel boats return, her sonar department were listening hard for her, or any trouble, but the shoreline was too noisy for them to be aware of events.
This close to the major military district around Murmansk, Russian coastal security was tight, apart from the Kilo, there were three surface combat vessels with twenty miles of their position, one Mirazh class patrol vessel, a Krivak III frigate and a Grisha V corvette. It was focusing both of the Royal Navy captain’s minds wonderfully, but not doing a great deal of good for Ulysses skippers’ digestive system. Forty-seven men, not counting himself, were relying on him doing it right, getting them in and then getting them out.