Fortunes of War (27 page)

Everything was a problem, from berthing to bathrooms. The pilots got an empty ramshackle barracks and the enlisted got two. The bathrooms were appalling. Each building had one solitary toilet without a seat to serve the needs of the eighty people who would be bunked in that building.

“If my mother saw this, she'd faint dead away. She always wanted me to join the Navy, live like a gentleman,” Bob Cassidy told a little knot of junior officers he found staring into a dark, filthy barracks bathroom.

“Why didn't you?”

“I used to get seasick taking a bath.”

“You've certainly come to the right place, Colonel. You won't have to take baths here.”

“Fur Ball, you and Foy Sauce go dig a hole for an outhouse. Scheer, you take these others and tear down that old shack across the road for wood. Get some tools from the mechanics and watch out for rusty nails. And build one for the enlisted troops, too.”

When Cassidy disappeared, Hudek said disgustedly, “Outhouses! We've come halfway around the world to build outhouses.”

“Glamour,” Foy Sauce muttered. “High adventure, fame…I am so goddamn underwhelmed, I could cry.”

That evening everyone ate in an abandoned mess hall. The stoves used wood from the nearby forest. The doctor who had accompanied the group from Germany refused to allow anyone to drink the water from the taps, so bottled water was served with the MREs—meals, ready to eat. The MREs were opened, warmed somewhat on the stoves, and served.

Later that evening, Maj. Yan Chernov came looking for the commanding officer. He had a translator in tow. After the introductions, he told Cassidy, “My men need food. We came here from Zeya two weeks ago. The base people have no extra food.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Sixty-five.”

Cassidy didn't hesitate. “We'll share, Major.” He caught the supply officer's eye and called him over. After a brief conversation, he told the translator, “Dinner for your people will be in twenty minutes.”

“We have no money. Nothing with which to pay.”

“Zeya is down the valley, isn't it?”

“Yes. East. The Japanese attacked. I shot down a few.”

“With Su-27s?”

“Yes, good plane.”

“My first name is Bob.” Cassidy held out his hand.

“Yan Chernov.”

“Let's have a long talk while you eat. I want to know everything you know about the Japanese.”

The sea was calm, with just the faintest hint of a swell. The boat rocked ever so gently as it ghosted along on its electric engines. Fog limited visibility and clouds blocked out the night sky. A gentle drizzle massaged Pavel Saratov's cheeks as he stood in
Admiral Kolchak
's tiny cockpit atop the sail. He took a deep breath, savoring the tang of the sea air, a welcome contrast from the stink of the boat.

Alive. Ah, how good it was. Unconsciously he fingered the lumpy new scar on his forehead, a jagged purple thing that came out of his hairline and ran across above his left eye, then disappeared into his hair over his left ear. The fragments of the Japanese shell that struck the bridge had torn off half his scalp.

The corpsman had sewn the huge flap of skin back in place, and fortunately it seemed to have healed. The scar was oozing in several places—an infection, the corpsman said. He smeared ointment on the infected places twice a day. Every morning he used a dull needle to give Saratov an injection of an antibiotic as the crew in the control room watched with open mouths. Saratov always winced as if the needle hurt mightily. He had inspected the bottle of penicillin before the first injection. The stuff was grossly out of date, but since it was all they had, he passed the bottle back to the corpsman without comment and submitted to the jabs.

An hour before midnight. Here under the clouds, amid the fog, it was almost dark, but not quite. A pleasant twilight. At these latitudes at this time of year the night would not get much darker. At least the clouds shielded the boat from American satellites. He wondered if the Americans were passing satellite data to the Japanese. Perhaps, he decided. Saratov didn't trust the Americans.

Behind Saratov, the lookout had the binoculars to his eyes, sweeping the fog. “Keep an eye peeled,” Saratov told him. “If the Japanese know we are here, we will have little warning.”

As his wound healed, Saratov had ordered the boat northward, keeping it well out to sea. He lay in his bunk staring at the overhead and eating moldy bread, turning over his options.

He refused to make a radio transmission on any frequency. The danger of being pinpointed by radio direction finders was just too great. One evening the boat copied a message from Moscow. After it was decoded, Askold delivered it to the captain, who read it and passed it back.

“Captain, Moscow says to go to Trojan Island. I have never heard of it.”

“Umm,” Saratov grunted.

“It's not on the charts.”

“It is a submarine base, inside an extinct volcano, near the Kuril Strait. It was a base for boomers. Abandoned years ago.”

“What will we do, Captain?”

“Hold your present course and speed. Let me think for a while.”

Trojan Island. After several days of thought, Saratov decided to try it, because the other options were worse.

Now he spoke into the sound-powered telephone on his chest. “XO, will you come up, please?”

When the executive officer was standing beside Saratov in the cockpit, he said, “The island is dead ahead, Captain. Four miles, if our navigation is right.”

“I haven't been here in twelve years,” Saratov muttered. “I hope I haven't forgotten how to get in.”

“Amazing,” the XO said. “A sub base so secret that I never heard about it.”

“You weren't in nuclear-powered submarines.”

“What if there is nothing there anymore?”

“I don't know, Askold. I just don't know. It's a miracle the P-3s haven't found us yet. Sooner or later they will. I thought about stopping a freighter, putting all the men aboard and scuttling the boat. We have an obsolete submarine, the periscope is damaged, we're running low on fuel and food, and we have only four torpedos left. We've done about all the damage we can do.”

“Yes, sir.”

The XO concentrated on searching the fog with binoculars.

They heard the slap of breakers on rocks before they saw anything. Probing the fog with a portable searchlight, Saratov closed warily on the rocky coast at two knots. At least the sea was calm here in the lee of this island.

He finally found rocks, rising sheer from the sea.

It took Saratov another hour to find the landmarks he wanted, mere fading gobs of paint smeared on several rocks. He was unsure of one of the marks—there wasn't much paint left—but he kept his doubts to himself. After taking several deep breaths, Saratov turned the boat, got on the heading he wanted, then ordered the boat submerged.

In the control room, he ordered the
michman
to take the boat to a
hundred feet, then level off. While this was going on, he studied the chart he had worked on for an hour earlier that day.

“I want you to go forward on this course at three knots for exactly five minutes, then make a ninety-degree right turn. If we go slower, the current will push us out of the channel.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

“If we hit some rocks at three knots we'll hole the hull,” one of the junior officers said, trying to keep it casual.

“This is a dangerous place to get into,” the captain replied, trying to keep the censure from his voice. Now didn't seem the time to put junior officers in their place. “Sonar, start pinging. Give me the forward image on the oscilloscope.”

As the submerged boat approached the island, the hole in the rock became visible on the scope. Pinging, afraid of going slower, Saratov aimed for the tunnel.

Around Saratov, everyone in the control room was sweating. “This is worse than Tokyo Bay,” the XO remarked. No one said a word. All eyes were on the oscilloscope.

As the sub entered the hole, Saratov ordered the speed dropped to a knot. He crept forward for a hundred yards, watching the scope as the sonar pinged regularly. The chamber ended just ahead.

With the screws stopped, the chief began venting air into the tanks. The sub rose very slowly, inching up.

When the boat reached the surface, Saratov cranked open the hatch dogs, flung back the hatch, and climbed into the cockpit.

The boat lay in a black lagoon inside a huge cavern. That much he had expected. What Saratov had not expected were the electric lights that shone brightly from overhead. A pier lay thirty meters or so to port. Standing on the pier were a group of armed men in uniform: Russian naval infantry. Saratov gaped in astonishment.

One of the men on the pier cupped his hands to his mouth and called, “Welcome, Captain Saratov. We have been waiting for you.”

Several of the armed naval infantrymen, Russian marines, on the pier were officers. As the submarine was secured to the pier, Saratov saw that one officer wore the uniform of a general. When the soldiers had pushed over a gangplank, the general skipped lightly across like a highly trained athlete. He didn't bother to return the sailors' salutes.

Saratov didn't salute, either. The general didn't seem to notice. He stood on the deck, looking up at the dents and scars on the sail and the twisted periscope.

“How long will it take to fix this?” he asked, directing his question at Saratov.

“If we had the proper tools, perhaps two days for this damage. The missing tiles will take several weeks to repair, and the new ones may come off again the first time we dive.”

The general climbed the handholds to the small bridge. “My name is Esenin.”

“Saratov.”

“Shouldn't you be saluting or something?”

“Should I?”

“I think so. We will observe the courtesies. The military hierarchy is the proper framework for our relationship, I believe.”

Saratov saluted. Esenin returned it.

“Now, General, if you will be so kind, I need to see your identity papers.”

“We'll get to that. You received an order directing your boat to this base?”

Saratov nodded.

The general produced a sheet of paper bearing the crest of the Russian Republic. The note was handwritten, an order to General Esenin to proceed to Trojan Island and take command of all forces there. The signature at the bottom was that of President Aleksandr Kalugin.

“And your identity papers. Proving you're General Esenin.”

“Alas, you have only my honest face for a reference.”

“Oh, come on! A letter that may or may not be genuine, a uniform you could acquire anywhere? Do I look like a fool?”

“We also have weapons, Captain. As you see, I am armed and so are my men. If you will be so kind as to observe, they have your sailors under their guns as we speak.”

The soldiers were pointing their weapons at the sailors, who were busy securing the loose ends of the lines. “All personnel at this base are subject to my authority, including you and your men,” General Esenin concluded.

“I didn't know there were any personnel here.”

“There are now.”

Saratov handed the letter back. He leaned forward, with his elbows on the edge of the combing.

“I congratulate you on your victory in Japan, Captain. You have done very well.”

Saratov nodded.

“By order of President Kalugin, you have been promoted to captain first class.”

“My men are owed five or six months' pay. Can you pay them? Most of them have families to support.”

“Alas, no one will be mailing letters from Trojan Island.”

Saratov turned his head so that the general could not see his disgust.

“How long will it take to ready your boat for sea?”

“The periscope…if there is another in the stores here, that will take several days. The radar is out of action. We have several cracked batteries. If the people here have the parts and tools and food and fuel and torpedoes, perhaps a week.”

The general nodded abruptly. “We will repair your boat as speedily as possible, refuel and reprovision it; then you and your crew will take me and a special warfare team back to Tokyo.”

Saratov tried not to smile.

“You look amused, Captain.”

“Let's be honest, ‘General.' This boat will never get into Tokyo Bay a second time.”

“I know it will be difficult.”

Saratov snorted. “For reasons we can only speculate about, the Japanese left the door open the first time. We grossly embarrassed them. I assume you know the Asian mind? They lost a great deal of face. They will go to extraordinary lengths to ensure that we do not succeed in embarrassing them again. By now they have welded the door shut.”

“No doubt you are correct, but I have my orders from President Kalugin. You have your orders from me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just so that we understand each other, Captain, let me state the situation more plainly: this boat is going back to Tokyo Bay. If you do not wish to take it there under my orders, we will give you a quick funeral and your executive officer will have his chance at glory.”

Saratov bit his lip to keep his face under control. Esenin glanced his way and smiled.

“You find me distasteful, Captain. A common reaction. I have an abrasive personality, and I apologize.” His smile widened. “Then again, perhaps
distasteful
is an understatement. Perhaps, Saratov, like so many others before you, you wish to watch me die. Who knows, you may get lucky.”

Esenin flashed white teeth.

Saratov tried to keep his face deadpan. “I hope you are a tough man,” he told Esenin. “When they weren't expecting us, the Japanese almost killed us. Next time, they'll be ready. Dying in one of these steel sewer pipes won't be pleasant. There is just no good way to do it. You can be crushed when the boat goes too deep and implodes, maybe die slowly of asphyxiation when the air goes bad. If we get stuck on the bottom, unable to surface, you'll probably wish to God you had drowned.”

Esenin's smile was gone.

“We might die together, Saratov,” he said. “Or perhaps I shall watch you die. We will see how the game goes.”

The general climbed down the rungs welded to the sail to the deck. He paused and looked up at Saratov. “You have five days and nights to get ready for sea. Make the most of them.”

 

The next day Bob Cassidy took off leading a flight of four. He had slept for exactly two hours. According to the people at Space Command in Colorado Springs, two Zeros had their engines running at Zeya, five hundred miles east. Ready or not, the Americans could wait no longer.

This morning Paul Scheer flew on Cassidy's wing. The second section consisted of Dick Gvelich and Foy Sauce.

Cassidy swung into a gentle climbing turn to allow the three fighters following him to catch up. Joined together in a tight formation, the four F-22s kept climbing in a circle over the field. They entered a solid
overcast layer at eight thousand feet and didn't leave it until they passed twenty thousand.

In the clear on top, they spread out so that they could safely devote some time to the computer displays in their cockpits. The first order of business was checking out the electronics.

The F-22 acquired its information about distant targets from its own onboard radar, from data link from other airplanes, or via satellite from the computers at Space Command in Colorado Springs. In addition, the planes contained sensors that detected any electronic emissions from the enemy, as well as infrared sensors exquisitely sensitive to heat. The information from all these sources was compiled by the main tactical computer and presented to the pilot on a tactical situation display.

The airplanes shared data among themselves by the use of data-link laser beams, which were automatically aimed based on the relative position of the planes as derived from infrared sensors. Each plane fired a laser beam at the other and updated the derived errors in nanoseconds, allowing the computers to fix the relative position of both planes to within an inch. In clouds or bad weather, the data-link transfer was conducted via a focused, super-high-frequency radio beam.

Each pilot knew exactly where the others were because his computer, the brain of the airplane, presented the tactical situation in a three-dimensional holographic display on the MFD, or multifunction display, in the center of the instrument panel. On his left, another MFD presented information about the engines, fuel state, and weapons. On his right, a third MFD depicted God's view, the planes as they would look from directly overhead while flying over a map of the earth.

The pilot selected the presentations and functions he wanted by manipulating a cursor control on the right or inboard throttle with his left hand. The aircraft's control stick, on the side of the cockpit under his right hand, was also festooned with buttons, so without moving his hands from stick and throttles, the pilot could choose among a wide variety of options that in earlier generations of fighters would have required lifting an arm and mechanically throwing a switch or pushing a button.

The current state of the art in fighter planes, the F-22 Raptor was a computer that flew, capable of a top speed of about Mach 2.5 and maneuvering at over 9 G's. The semi-stealthy design was intended to enable the pilot to detect the enemy before he was himself detected. Alas, the Athena capability of the Zero gave it the edge. In modern war any pretense of airborne chivalry had been completely jettisoned:
the pilot who shot first and escaped before the victim's friends could do anything about it would be the victor.

Level at thirty thousand feet, the Raptors accelerated in basic engine to supercruise at Mach 1.3. The pilots flipped a switch to turn on the chameleon skin of their planes. The planes faded from view as their skin color changed electronically to blend them into the summer sky.

As briefed, Scheer turned left five degrees and held the heading until the gap between him and the leader had widened to five miles, then he turned back to parallel Cassidy's course. The second section moved right and spread out in a similar manner. With his four planes spread over twenty miles of sky, Cassidy hoped to optimize his chances of getting one plane into Sidewinder range on any Zero they chanced to meet. If one plane was detected, the others could circle in behind the attacking Zero while it was engaged with its intended victim. That was the plan, anyway, carefully explained and diagramed.

As the cloud deck under them feathered out, the land below became visible under scattered cumulus clouds that were growing as the sun warmed the atmosphere.

The planes flew east. Cassidy began hearing the deep bass beep of a search radar probing the sky on a regular scan. The beep made Cassidy fidgety. Of course, the stealthy shape of the F-22 prevented the operator from getting enough of a return to see the American fighters—he knew that for a fact—but still…

The visibility today was excellent. On the left, a huge range of mountains wearing crowns of snow stretched away to the horizon. On the right, another range ran off haphazardly into the great emptiness toward Manchuria. The land was so big, so empty. A pilot who ejected into this trackless wilderness was doomed to die of exposure or starvation. At Cassidy's insistence, the following day the U.S. Air Force would fly in a Cessna 185 on tundra tires, with long-range tanks, to use as a search and rescue plane if the need arose.

To fly the plane and operate the computers—there were actually five of them: three flight-control computers, an air-data/navigation computer, and a tactical computer—the Raptor pilot had to concentrate intently on the torrent of information being presented graphically on his HUD and the three MFDs. There was no time for sight-seeing, for trying to spot the enemy with the human eye. The pilot was merely the F-22's central processing unit.

This thought went through Bob Cassidy's mind as he forced himself to concentrate on the displays in front of him.

The miles rolled by swiftly at Mach 1.3. Not much longer…

Clad in a full-body G suit and a helmet that covered his entire head, Cassidy couldn't even scratch his nose. Sweat trickled down his face. Since he couldn't do anything about it, he ignored it.

Cassidy was nervous. He shook his head once to clear the sweat from his eyes, toyed with the idea of raising the Plexiglas face shield on his helmet so he could get his fingers to his face and wipe the sweat away. That would take maybe fifteen seconds, while the plane would traverse almost three and a half miles of sky.

Not yet.

Cassidy took a few seconds to stare at the spot in space where the computer said Scheer had to be. Nothing. The chameleon skin had blended the fighter into the sky so completely it was invisible to the naked eye.

Today, of course, the F-22s had their radars secured, the tac display no longer blank. The Sky Eye had located the enemy and the satellite was beaming down the information. Two Zeros were in the air over Zeya. These must be the two that were on the ground with their engines running an hour ago.

As the range decreased and Cassidy shrank the scale of the display, he realized that the Zeros were on some kind of training mission. They were not in formation. They flew aimlessly back and forth over the base, did some turns, just wandered about. Perhaps the pilots were flying post—maintenance check flights.

At fifty miles, Cassidy and Scheer began their letdown. The transports bringing bombs to Zeya would not arrive until tomorrow, so today all the F-22s could do was strafe.

Gvelich and Foy stayed high and together. They would go for the airborne Zeros.

Cassidy could hear the baritone beep of a search radar sweeping past his plane. The beeps were quite regular, which made him believe that the operator did not see him. Too little energy was being reflected from the stealthy shape of the F-22 to create a blip on the operator's screen. Finally, as the range closed, the returning energy would be sufficient to create a blip, and the operator would see him. Cassidy wondered how close that would be.

He acquired the airfield at fifteen miles. The afternoon sun was behind him and slightly to his right, so he and Scheer would be essentially invisible as they came over.

Throttling back more, Cassidy let his speed drop to Mach 1. He wanted every second he could to shoot, but he wanted to arrive with minimum warning.

Down to three thousand feet, ten miles, lined up on the ramp, Cassidy pulled the throttles back even farther. Scheer was already separated out to the left, looking for his own targets. The other plane had faded from view. Cassidy had to check the tac display to make sure where Scheer was.

The routine beeps of the enemy radar changed drastically. Now the operator was sweeping the beam back and forth over the two F-22s repeatedly. Nine miles. They had made it in to nine miles before being picked up.