James Rouch - Hunter-Killer

‘There’s one of them.’ A Kresta class cruiser jumped into vision. Going for a close-up, Cline panned along its impressive length. The ship bristled with a staggering array of antenna complexes and weaponry. A moment later he found a second, and this one he was able to identify. ‘It’s the Marshal Voroshilov, another that was last seen in the yards.’

‘That’s an anti-submarine force. Our subs are going to have a tough time with that crowd.’ Revell scanned the list.

‘If we used all the tubes, we could do them a fair bit of damage, give our blokes a chance.’ Only two buttons had to be depressed and Cline could immediately transmit the ships’ positions to the launcher crews. He’d been with the battery long enough to know that it would take the gunners mere seconds to align the tubes and get clear. In a matter of minutes the Russian ships would be on the receiving end of a storm of fragmentation warheads that would rip through their complex radar equipment and mow down any crew on deck or behind light protection.

‘No, they’ll have to take care of themselves. Our orders say we go for the big tubs.’ On the screen the view of the ships was changing from side-on to a three-quarter rear shot. ‘Have number one site prepare to engage the cruisers. Seven rounds each. Site two can put a half dozen rounds into the Rogov.’ Revell turned to York. ‘And this is where you start to do your work. The moment we open fire, start playing with your fireworks. I want any Commie tracker who so much as glances this way to get thoroughly confused. Use chaff, ECM, whatever you need to decoy any radar homing warheads they throw, but go easy on the pyrotechnics. Libby salvaged what he could, but we’re still short, so make it last, be sparing. I want maximum value from what we’ve got.’

With his headphones on, Boris could only half-hear what was going on, he would have preferred not to have been able to hear at all. When he had been drafted into the Russian forces, especially when he took the military oath, the penalties for desertion had been drummed into him. They were harsh, and usually demanded the ultimate sanction, but he was discovering that there were other penalties that no one had warned him about.

To fight Communism was one thing, but when he had actually made the decision to join the NATO army he had not given much thought to just what that might, that would, that was about to, involve. He had friends, some of whom had been drafted at the same time, others he had made during training or in his unit, and now he was about to help in the destruction of fellow Russians, men he might have got to know and like in other circumstances. The Soviet navy got the pick of the best electronics experts; perhaps some of his friends were aboard those ships, it was possible, likely even. The only difference between him and them was that he’d had his chance to escape, and had taken it. But then he’d been free to, with no close family ties…free; free to turn round and kill his own people. Some of whom he could hear talking at that very moment.

It sounded like ship-to-shore transmissions again, nothing important, just a junior sergeant complaining about a mistake over rations that had come ashore; he was telling the ship that they had no tea or vodka and that his officers expected him to remedy the situation. From the other end, and a bored supply clerk on the Rogov was verbally shrugging aside the complaint; he was safe and had no wish to bring the mistake to the notice of his own superiors.

Perhaps the clerk had done it deliberately, to pocket the profit he would make from selling the precious supplies elsewhere. Everyone did it, or tried to. It was necessary if a man were to survive in the Russian forces. A case of vodka supplied to an officer at a special low price would build up a fund of, if not goodwill, at least understanding, that might come in very useful later on. Boris caught the start of another exchange between Cline and the officer, and closed his ears to it. There was no way he could entirely disassociate himself from what was about to happen, but he was determined to have as little to do with it as possible. That would not salve his conscience, but if he did not know everything that happened, at least he would carry a smaller burden.

‘You still want to hit those cruisers, Major?’ As the radar screen showed the vanguard moving away from the island still heading due north, the second and much larger group was moving into range of their TV cameras. Abandoning close-ups, Cline had gone for a panoramic view. To the limit of the depth of the field, the floe-sprinkled sea was filled with wave throwing, rime-coated warships from dashing frigates of three thousand tons, to a towering Archangel class cruiser of sixteen thousand tons. Missiles and high-angle guns pointed skyward on every one, while their assorted radars rotated in endless search of the sky and sea.

‘I can’t get them all on to the screen at once, I’ve got a swarm of traces on the radar, how do I choose targets?’

‘Pick the biggest. Leningrad can churn out frigates and destroyers like mincemeat, cruisers take longer, cost a lot more. Don’t try skimping, better to send ten rockets at one target so that a couple get through, than send two at each of five targets and have them all hacked down before they get within lethal range.’

‘You hear that?’ Libby snorted. ‘Lethal my fucking foot. It’ll be like trying to total a wasp’s nest by punching it.’

‘I found you need a good sense of the fucking ridiculous in this outfit. Look at us.’ Despite his words, Dooley did not stand up and offer himself for inspection. ‘There’s Cline and the major getting ready to have a go at better than a hundred thousand tons of armoured shipping with maybe a ton or two of fragmentation warheads, and us, sitting here with shitty rifles and machine guns, waiting to take on a battalion of Soviet marines. Now if that ain’t fucking silly, what is? After I got in a couple of fights with guys who called me a liar when I tried telling them about some of the missions we’ve been on, I gave up. It gets you down, don’t it?’

‘It do, it sure do.’ Ripper nodded sagely, until Dooley rapped him hard on the head and rammed his helmet down over his eyes.

Revell tapped Cline on the shoulder when the last of the target co-ordinates were punched in. The ringing clang made by Dooley’s fist on the shaped steel dome died away as Revell leant forward and spoke quietly to the bombardier. ‘Open fire.’

Both launchers were fired at the same instant, but it was the rockets sent against the anchored amphibious warfare ship that found their mark first.

Caught off-guard by an attack from a totally unexpected direction, the ship’s radar-directed gatlings didn’t even open fire, and every warhead got through.

Two exploded over the bridge, sending a storm of white-hot fragments into the unarmoured upper-works and totally destroying the vessel’s fit of radar masts and dishes. As the remains of the tall lattice structure toppled on to the rear landing pad, the third warhead blasted the forward hanger and smashed a helicopter standing in front of it. Fire broke out immediately as aviation fuel spread in a blazing tide through the open doors and down into the bowels of the ship. The points of detonation of the last three rockets were lost amid the smoke and flying debris from the first, but the fact that they too had found their target could not be doubted when a huge bubble of flame rose from the ship’s bow, as ready-use ammunition for the forward twin 76mm gun was ignited.

The rockets chasing the cruisers had further to travel, and two of those aimed at the lead ship did not reach it. Intercepted by streams of fire from the ship’s gatlings, they were broken apart by the torrent of 23mm shells.