George Wallace - Hunter Killer [Movie Tie-In]

Without another word, Admiral Alexander Durov slammed down the telephone.

The USS Toledo plowed through heavy seas as she ran toward the town of Pechenga, hard on the Norwegian-Russian border. It would have been a faster, more comfortable trip if the submarine could have stayed submerged, back in the calm depths. Their very important passenger, though, needed to be in constant communications with key members of his government. That meant a rough ride on the surface of the winter Barents Sea. It was the only way to keep the BRA-34 antennas up out of the water and still make reasonable speed.

Joe Glass sat in the wardroom-cum–hospital ward where Gregor Smitrov still lay. The Russian president was strapped to the wardroom table so he wouldn’t roll off during the rough ride. Smitrov was making a valiant attempt to stay awake, to not allow the pain medicine he was being given to cause him to lose control of the situation. Doc Halliday hovered over his patient, trying to convince him that he needed to rest. So far, Smitrov was ignoring the medic.

The radiotelephone crackled and came to life. Smitrov reached out and pulled the handset to his ear. The conversation was conducted in Russian and took a good deal of time. Glass was able to catch portions of it. He heard “Durov” and “Polyarnyy” mentioned several times in the rapid-fire exchange.

Finally Smitrov dropped the handset to the table, eased back onto the pillow, and closed his eyes. For a moment, Joe Glass thought the man had lost consciousness. Then he turned and looked up at Glass.

“Captain, once again I must ask for your assistance,” he whispered weakly. “Admiral Durov has threatened more attacks if the reins of power are not surrendered to him within four hours.” Smitrov paused and breathed deeply, as if dreading what he was about to say. “I fear his next attack from the submarines in the White Sea will use nuclear weapons. Even with our best antisubmarine search assets, it is not possible to find those submarines in time to prevent such a devastating launch. We must stop him from giving the order in the first place. We must do that immediately. In his present state of mind, the old fool might decide to go ahead with the attack early to prove his might.”

Glass nodded in agreement.

“Do you know where Durov is?” he asked. “Can your forces take him out?”

A faint shadow of a smile flitted across Smitrov’s face. “Our admiral is a creature of habit. He is in the one place where he feels the most omnipotent. He is in the command center at the Polyarnyy Submarine Base.”

“Then it should be a simple matter to send in an air strike.”

“That is where I need your assistance, Captain,” Smitrov said. “It seems that none of our frontline attack aircraft can reach the Command Center inside the four-hour window. We have anticipated no need to send them to attack our own base, you see. The only strike weapons available that have the accuracy and the power necessary are your Tomahawk cruise missiles.” He looked up at Glass. His eyes were clear. “I assume this submarine carries such weapons. I need for you to strike Polyarnyy and remove Admiral Durov.”

Glass couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard. The president of Russia was asking the commander of an American submarine to launch cruise missiles at his country’s most prized submarine base and kill the head of his country’s submarine service.

“We do,” Glass said.

“My deputy has spoken with your government already,” Smitrov continued. “You are to copy something called a ‘mission data update.’ I pray you know what that means.”

“Yes, Mr. President. I know what an MDU is,” Glass said with a smile. “It tells the missiles precisely where to fly. We’ll copy the message. I guess we need to go to work.”

Glass stepped into the control room, where he spotted Brian Edwards standing by the fire control system. He sported a large white bandage wrapped around his head.

Edwards didn’t see Glass when he walked in. His attention was directed at Pat Durand as the lieutenant operated the console like a concert pianist in midsonata.

“Nice fashion statement, XO,” Glass said with a smile. “How is the walking wounded feeling by now?”

“I got a bit of a headache. That damn pipe was hard.”

“It’s my understanding that the pipe was slightly harder than your head,” Glass chuckled. “What’s going on here?”

“Pat is downloading an MDU. It’s almost all on board. Any idea why we’re getting one now?”

Glass turned serious. “We’re going to launch a strike. Man battle stations missile.” He turned and addressed the navigator. “Mr. Perez, submerge the ship to six-two feet.”

“Aye, sir!” Edwards responded, but he still looked mystified about what he had just heard. Jerry Perez jumped from his seat and started issuing orders.

As Toledo slid back beneath the waves, Glass watched the crew move to man their stations. Shooting Tomahawk missiles was a methodical, controlled evolution. There was none of the mad scramble associated with unexpectedly coming face-to-face with the enemy and shooting at him with a torpedo.

“Skipper,” Durand sang out. “MDU is downloaded and verified. We have our mission tasking order, too. I don’t need the BRA-34 anymore.”

“Very well. Mr. Perez, lower all masts and antennas.”

The twelve “vertical” launch tubes that held missiles on Toledo weren’t really vertical. They were angled backward so that they could be fitted into the confines of the forward ballast tanks. That meant that they fired their weapons back over the sail of the submarine. If the mast or periscope were up when the missiles roared away, it could result in them being damaged by the blast of the rocket booster motor. That was also why the sub had to be submerged to launch the missiles.

Brian Edwards read the launch order on the computer screen. He blinked once, then was all business again.

“Skipper, we are launching a four-bird strike. I have assigned the birds in tubes five through eight to the mission. Tubes nine and ten hold backup birds.”

“Very well. Spin up missiles. Begin launch sequence.”

Edwards nodded and turned back to his team. They continued the complex task of downloading all the flight information to the cruise missiles out in the ballast tanks. They checked every system on each of those birds. Nothing was left to chance. They were sending a million-dollar missile out to do a job. Once it left the sub, it was on its own. The systems had to work.

“Captain, tubes five, six, seven, and eight are ready for launch,” Edwards reported.

“Open tube doors on tubes five, six, seven, eight. Launch Tomahawk missiles, tubes five, six, seven, eight.”

Pat Durand flipped the switches on the launch console. Out in the ballast tanks, the doors opened at his command. Each missile roared out of its tube, powered by a rocket booster attached to the back of the bird. The rocket shoved the Tomahawk up to fifteen hundred feet in the cold sky. As the engine burned out and dropped away, a sequence of events began that transformed the missile into a small robot airplane. An air scoop dropped open beneath the missile and two small, stubby wings scissored out from inside the missile’s body. The turbofan engine, supplied with air from the scoop and ignited by a small explosive squid, came up to speed to give the missile power. The bird then dropped down to wave-top height and flew to the east, beginning its preprogrammed flight.

Toledo ’s weapons were away.

As he watched his men work, Alexander Durov felt a sharp sense of dread wash over him. No alarm Klaxon or radar track confirmed his feeling, but his instincts told him for certain that danger was imminent.