EndWar

The oiler and the ammunition ship anchored three miles away to the east.

“Let’s move in and get some good beam-on shots for the Harpoons to use — assuming we get that OPORDER,” said Andreas. “And, navigator, get an exact — and I do mean exact—GPS fix on Varyag, Ulyanovsk, and Rogov’s anchorage position.”

“What about the oiler and the ammo ship, Captain?” queried the navigation officer.

“They don’t represent a threat like the combatants, although I do plan to take them out with the Mark 48s.” Andreas wriggled his brows. “The pyrotechnics should be spectacular, don’t you think?”

His navigation officer smiled.

Once the beam-on digital photographs were taken, and it was apparent the Russians were settled in, Andreas took his boat northeast into the Dease Strait and then continued on as far as the ten-mile gap between the northeast tip of Kent Peninsula and Victoria Island.

Global warming had produced huge areas of open water nearly year-round, but there in the narrow gap, the ice had accumulated. A combination of snow, reduced seawater salinity, and the natural choke point had allowed the ice to become nearly fourteen feet thick. The submarine could handily pass under it, but there was no way the two icebreakers could plow through to the open waters of the Queen Maud Gulf beyond.

Andreas began to draw some conclusions, and he voiced them to his men. “That admiral’s just a taxi driver.”

“What makes you say that, sir?” asked the XO.

“This is that GRU general’s show. No self-respecting northern fleet admiral would box himself in this way.”

“Ah, I see.”

“What do you think they’re up to?” asked the navigation officer.

“Oh, we’ll find out. Trust me.”

In the back of Andreas’s mind sat an important fact: they were long overdue for a position check to update the SINS (ship’s inertial navigation system) and a GPS check. Above the Arctic Circle, SINS was often unreliable. Fortunately, GPS solved the problem of getting a reliable corroborating fix.

Once back in the Coronation Gulf, Andreas brought the sub to periscope depth and raised one of the photonic masts, which was followed immediately by the BRA-34 antenna mast. He forced himself to wait a full sixty seconds, allowing the BRA-34 antenna to dry, hoping to improve the reception of any “burst” broadcast traffic from the satellite.

An ELF message would precede specific operational orders. While anxious to engage the Russians, Andreas knew his initial SITREP to the Commander of the Pacific Fleet (COMPACFLT) had to move up to the National Command Center and then back down to CENTCOM, SOCOM, and finally the JSF. He just needed to be patient.

“That’s strange,” he said to the XO.

“I know. No broadcast traffic. Absolutely nothing.”

“Check the antenna.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

The broadcast provided routine administrative notices such as promotions, personnel transfers, and, more important, personal e-mails for the crewmembers. Andreas knew Petty Officer Second-Class Ramirez was waiting to hear from his wife about the birth of their first child. As the ship’s morale officer, Andreas was acutely aware of how much these broadcasts contributed to the smooth functioning of his submarine. He regretted that the upgrade to the new OE-538 multifunction mast got pushed back during the Florida’s last overhaul.

“The antenna looks fine,” reported the XO. “And the GPS signal came through five by five, but I’ll have them check all the gear again. What do you think?”

Andreas was about to venture a few guesses when the ECM operator called out, “Sir? I have encrypted UHF chatter and shipboard air-search radar emissions originating from the Russian task force.”

With a nod, Andreas answered, “Well, well, well. They’ve finally broken radio silence. As soon as we get a match between the SINS and GPS we’ll swing back down there and take a look.”

“It’s a Top Plate, Captain,” added the operator.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, sir.”

Top Plate was the old NATO designation for a Russian MR-710 Fregat-M, 3D air search radar, a model normally found onboard Slava class cruisers.

“Well, then either the Russian Army’s hogging all those petrodollars or somebody in the Navy’s skimming big-time. They’re cannibalizing their ships.”

By now, a steady stream of Kamov Ka-29 helicopters with one to three crew members and hold capacities of up to sixteen troops were beginning to leave the Ulyanovsk, landing on the Ivan Rogov’s flight deck, on-loading troops, then taking off, heading south into the Canadian interior.

“Gentlemen, I’m stumped,” Andreas said with a snort. “If this is a Russian invasion, it’s analogous to a flea crawling up an elephant’s leg with intentions of rape.”

“Well, this can’t be some kind of exercise,” the XO said. “This must be part of—”

“Sir,” the officer of the deck interrupted. “Flashing light between the Varyag and the oiler, and it’s plain language: FROM VARYAG TO KALOVSK: MAKE MY PORT SIDE 0500 HOURS TOMORROW FOR REFUELING.”