EndWar

He was a Naval Academy grad with a B.S. in Marine Engineering, plus two years of postgrad school in Monterey, California, with a dual master’s in Nuclear Engineering and International Relations. He was forty-three, from the Midwest, and married with requisite two kids, a boy and girl ages eleven and twelve respectively. He was on the fast track for captain and needed a deep-draft command such as an amphib, maybe even a nuclear carrier, to get his ticket punched. He was destined for a submarine division or squadron commander billet, even admiral if his political party snagged the White House and he could complete his Ph.D. after the Naval War College. His current rank of Commander guaranteed him thirty years in the Navy even if he was twice passed over for promotion, the automatic death knell for any naval officer.

Yes, it’d been a good life and a textbook career, most of it served during peacetime.

But this war, he had quickly learned, changed everything and those changes could begin with the smallest contact on a sonar display.

In fact, twenty minutes earlier the sub’s BQQ-10 sonar processor had begun stacking dots on its waterfall display amid the background noise of Arctic shrimp. Once the fire-control dot-stacker display had finished its stacking, the right target course and speed had been determined, and consequently they had a weapons firing solution on what they determined to be a multiship contact.

Andreas took a deep breath, forced himself to relax.

He had deliberately chosen the new course for his final leg, knowing it would bring him back to a nearby polyna, an area of open water surrounded by sea ice, where he could come up and sneak a peek at the contact, mixing the groan and screech of breaking ice with a cacophony of engine and screw noises.

Andreas was prepared to execute “emergency deep” if necessary, his crew automatically taking the sub down to 150 feet in a crash dive to avoid a collision or escape an aircraft attack.

For now, though, he ordered one of Florida’s two photonic masts extended. Each contained several high-resolution cameras with light-intensification and infrared sensors, an infrared laser rangefinder, and an integrated electronic support measures (ESM) array. Signals from the masts’ sensors were transmitted through fiber-optic data lines through signal processors to the control center.

All the Virginia-class systems — weapon control, sensors, countermeasures, and navigation systems — were integrated into one computer and displayed on the Q-70 color common display console.

All right. They were fifteen miles due north of Banks Island, one of the Canadian arctic islands, and Andreas and his control center attack team now watched two columns of military assault ships glide through the frigid waters, each column preceded by a broad-hulled icebreaker.

Andreas’s crew quickly identified the lead ship behind the smaller icebreaker as the Varyag, a former Russian aircraft carrier now converted into a command and control ship and flying the personal flag of a Red Banner Northern Fleet admiral headquartered in Severomorsk.

Astern of the Varyag was the Ulyanovsk, recently completed and modified as a helicopter assault ship. And behind her was the familiar amphibious assault ship Ivan Rogov.

The second column consisted of another icebreaker, an oiler, and an ammunition ship.

“XO, pull the manual and tell me what’s flying on Varyag’s port yardarm and assure me that the Intel officer is recording every pixel on the Q-70 display.”

After a moment, the XO reported his findings. “Captain, that’s the personal pennant for a GRU general and a Spetsnaz field commander, and we’re getting it all.”

Just then, the two columns of ships began to split, the Varyag group continuing south along the west coast of Banks Island and the auxiliary column beginning to turn left into the McClure Strait and the east coast of the island.

“That’s interesting,” observed the XO.

“And smart,” added Andreas. “He separates his volatile, slower assets and sends them through the McClure and down into calmer waters of the Prince of Wales Strait, where they’ll probably rejoin in the Amundsen Gulf.”

“Isn’t that a little risky?” asked the Ops officer.

“Not really, Jack, he’s got assault choppers to provide air cover. They could get across Banks Island in ten to fifteen minutes.”

The Ops officer nodded.

Andreas cleared his throat. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s get a slot buoy ready. I want a detailed SITREP. Advise Commander, Pacific Fleet we are in trail of the Varyag and add some pictures, space permitting. Plug in a one-hour transmit delay. We’ll leave the buoy here in the polyna. I’m curious as hell to know what a GRU general and Spetsnaz field commander are doing out at sea with a Northern Fleet admiral.