tc.redstormrising-第74部分

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e？〃
〃Not　same　as　this；〃　the　navigator　answered　after　conferring　with　his　boss。　〃Good；　but　not　same。　We　eat　different　foods。　More　fish；　less　meat。　We　have　tea；　not　coffee。〃
Ed　Morris　saw　that　his　prisoners　were　going　after　their　plates　with　scarcely　concealed　gusto。　Even　our　sub　guys　don't　get　enough　fresh　vegetables；　he　reminded　himself。　An　enlisted　man　entered　the　wardroom　and　stood　by　the　door。　It　was　his　leading　radioman。　Morris　waved　him　over。
The　sailor　handed　the　captain　a　message　form。　THE　SPECIAL　JOB　IS　DONE；　it　read；　and　Morris　noted　that　the　man　had　taken　the　time　to　print　it　up　on　a　standard　message　format　so　that　no　one　would　suspect　what　it　meant。　The　Russians'　acmodations　were　all　bugged　now。　Morris　dismissed　his　man　with　a　nod　and　pocketed　the　form。　His　bosun　had　miraculously　discovered　two　bottles　of　hard　liquor…probably　from　the　chiefs'　quarters；　but　Morris　knew　better　than　to　inquire…and　these　would　find　their　way　to　the　Russians　tonight。　He　hoped　the　liquor　would　loosen　tongues。

24　…　Rape

USS　PHARRIS
Morris　didn't　wave　at　the　low…flying　aircraft；　but　wanted　to。　The　French　Navy's　patrol　plane　signaled　that　they　were　within　range　of　land…based　air　cover。　It　would　take　a　very　brave　Russian　sub　skipper　to　want　to　play　games　here；　with　a　screen　of　French　diesel　subs　a　few　miles　north　of　the　convoy　lane　and　several　ASW　patrol　aircraft　forming　a　tricolored　umbrella　over　the　convoy。
The　French　had　also　sent　out　a　helicopter　to　collect　the　Russian　submariners。　They　were　being　flown　to　Brest　for　a　full　interrogation　by　NATO　intelligence　types。　Morris　didn't　envy　them　the　trip。　They'd　be　held　by　the　French；　and　he　had　no　doubt　that　the　French　Navy　was　in　an　evil　mood　after　the　loss　of　one　of　its　carriers。　The　tapes　his　crew　had　made　of　their　conversations　were　also　being　sent。　The　Russians　had　talked　among　themselves；　aided　by　the　chiefs'　liquor；　and　perhaps　their　whispered　conversations　had　some　value。
They　were　about　to　turn　the　convoy　over　to　a　mixed　British…French　escort　force　and　take　over　a　group　of　forty　merchantmen　bound　for　America。　Morris　stood　on　the　bridge　wing；　turning　every　five　minutes　or　so　to　look　at　the　two　half　and　one　full　silhouettes　that　the　bosun　had　painted　on　both　sides　of　the　pilothouse…〃No　sense　having　some　jerk　on　the　wrong　side　of　the　ship　missing　them；〃　the　bosun　had　pointed　out　seriously。　Their　ASW　tactics　had　worked　fairly　well。　With　Pharris　as　outlying　sonar　picket；　and　heavy　support　from　the　Orions；　they　had　intercepted　all　but　one　of　the　inbound　Russian　subs。　There　had　been　a　lot　of　skepticism　on　this　point；　but　the　tactic　had　worked；　by　God。　But　it　had　to　work　better　still。
Morris　knew　that　things　would　be　getting　harder。　For　the　first　trip　the　Soviets　had　been　able　to　put　no　more　than　a　fraction　of　their　submarines　into　action　against　them。　Those　submarines　were　now　forcing　their　way　down　the　Denmark　Strait。　The　NATO　sub　force　trying　to　block　the　passage　no　longer　had　the　SOSUS　line　to　give　them　intercept　vectors；　nor　Orions　to　pounce　on　the　contacts　that　submarines　could　not　reach。　They　would　score　kills；　but　would　they　score　enough？　How　much　larger　would　the　threat　be　this　week？　Morris　could　see　from　their　return　route　to　the　States　that　they　were　adding　nearly　five　hundred　miles　to　the　passage　by　looping　far　to　the　south…partially　because　of　the　Backfires；　but　more　now　to　dilute　the　submarine　threat。　Two　threats　to　worry　about。　His　ship　was　equipped　to　deal　with　only　one。
They'd　lost　a　third　of　the　convoy；　mainly　to　aircraft。　Could　they　sustain　that？　He　wondered　how　the　merchant　crews　were　holding　up。
They　had　closed　in　on　the　convoy；　and　he　could　see　the　northernmost　line　of　merchies。　On　the　horizon　a　big　container　ship　was　blinking　a　light　at　them。　Morris　raised　his　glasses　to　read　the　signal。
THANKS　FOR　NOTHING　NAVY。　One　question　answered。

USS　CHICAGO
〃So；　there　they　are；〃　McCafferty　said。
The　trace　showed　almost　white　on　the　screen；　a　thick　spoke　of　broadband　noise　bearing　three…two…nine。　It　could　only　be　the　Soviet　task　force　heading　for　Bodo。
〃How　far　out？〃　McCafferty　asked。
〃At　least　two　CZs；　skipper；　maybe　three。　The　signal　just　increased　in　intensity　four　minutes　ago。〃
〃Can　you　get　a　blade　count　on　anything？〃
〃No；　sir。〃　The　sonarman　shook　his　head。　〃Just　a　lot　of　undifferentiated　noise　for　the　moment。　We've　tried　to　isolate　a　few　discrete　frequencies；　but　even　that's　all　screwed　up。　Maybe　later；　but　all　we　got　now　is　a　thundering　herd。〃
McCafferty　nodded。　The　third　convergence　zone　was　a　good　hundred　miles　off。　At　such　ranges　acoustical　signals　lost　definition；　to　the　point　that　their　bearing　to　target　was　only　a　rough　estimate。　The　Russian　formation　could　be　several　degrees　left　or　right　of　where　they　thought；　and　at　this　range　that　was　a　difference　measured　in　miles。　He　went　aft　to　Control。
〃Take　her　west　five　miles　at　twenty　knots；〃　McCafferty　ordered。　It　was　a　gamble；　but　a　small　one。　On　reaching　station；　they'd　found　unusually　good　water　conditions；　and　the　small　move　risked　losing　the　contact　temporarily。　On　the　other　hand；　getting　precise　range　information　would　give　him　a　much　better　tactical　picture　and　enable　them　to　make　a　solid　contact　report…and　make　it　by　line…of…sight　UHF　radio　before　the　Soviet　formation　got　close　enough　that　they　could　intercept　the　submarine's　transmission。　As　the　boat　raced　west；　McCafferty　watched　the　bathythermograph　trace。　As　long　as　the　temperature　didn't　change；　he'd　keep　that　good　sound　channel。　It　didn't。　The　submarine　slowed　rapidly　and　McCafferty　went　back　to　sonar。
〃Okay；　where　are　they　now？〃
〃Got　'em！　Right　there；　bearing　three…three…two。〃
〃XO；　plot　it　and　get　a　contact　report　made　up。〃
Ten　minutes　later　the　report　was　sent　via　satellite。　The　reply　ordered　Chicago　in：　GO　FOR　THE　HEAVIES。

ICELAND
The　farm　was　three　miles　away；　thankfully　downhill　through　tall；　rough　grass。　On　first　sighting　it　through　binoculars；　Edwards　called　it　the　Gingerbread　House。　A　typical　Icelandic　farmhouse；　it　had　white　stucco　walls　buttressed　by　heavy　wooden　beams；　a　contrasting　red…painted　trim；　and　a　steeply　pitched　roof　right　out　of　the　Brothers　Grimm。　The　outlying　barns　were　large；　but　low…slung　with　sod…covered　roofs。　The　lower　meadows　by　the　stream　were　dotted　with　hundreds　of　large；　odd…looking　sheep　with　massively　thick　coats　of　wool；　asleep　in　the　grass　half　a　mile　beyond　the　house。
〃Dead…end　road；〃　Edwards　said；　folding　up　the　map。　〃And　we　could　use　some　food。　Gentlemen；　it's　worth　the　chance；　but　we　approach　carefully。　We'll　follow　this　dip　to　the　right　and　keep　that　ridgeline　between　us　and　the　farm　till　we're　within　half　a　mile　or　so。〃
〃Okay；　sir；〃　Sergeant　Smith　agreed。　The　four　men　struggled　into　a　sitting　position　to　don　their　gear　yet　again。　They'd　been　moving　almost　continuously　for　two　and　a　half　days；　and　were　now　about　thirty…five　miles　northeast　of　Reykjavik。　A　modest　pace　on　flat　roads；　it　was　a　mankilling　effort　cross　country；　particularly　while　staying　watchful　for　the　helicopters　that　were　now　patrolling　the　countryside。　They　had　consumed　their　last　rations　six　hours　before。　The　cool　temperatures　and　hard　physical　effort　conspired　to　drain　the　energy　from　their　bodies　as　they　picked　their　way　around　and　over　the　two…thousand…foot　hills　that　dotted　the　Icelandic　coast　like　so　many　fence　pickets。
Several　things　kept　them　moving。　One　was　the　fear　that　the　Soviet　division　they　had　watched　airlifted　in　would　expand　its　perimeter　and　snap　them　up。　No　one　relished　the　thought　of　captivity　under　the　Russians。　But　worse　than　this　was　fear　of　failure。　They　had　a　mission；　and　no　taskmaster　is　harsher　than　one's　own　self…expectations。　Then　there　was　pride。　Edwards　had　to　set　an　example　for　his　men；　a　principle　remembered　from　Colorado　Springs。　The　Marines；　of　course；　could　hardly　let　a　〃wing…wiper〃　outperform　them。　Thus；　without　thinking　consciously　about　it；　four　men　contrived　to　walk　themselves　into　the　ground；　all　in　the　name　of　pride。
〃Gonna　rain；〃　Smith　said。
〃Yeah；　the　cover　will　be　nice；〃　Edwards　said；　still　sitting　back。　〃We'll　wait　for　it。　Jesus；　I　never　thought　working　in　daylight　would　be　so　Goddamned　tough。　There's　just　something　weird　about　not　having　the　friggin'　sun　go　down。〃
〃Tell　me　about　it。　And　I　ain't　even　got　a　cigarette；〃　Smith　growled。
〃Rain　again？〃　Private　Garcia　asked。
〃Get　used　to　it；〃　Edwards　said。　〃It　rains　seventeen　days　in　June；　on　average；　and　so　far　this's　been　a　wet　year。　How　d'you　think　the　grass　got　so　tall？〃
〃You　like　this　place？〃　Garcia　asked；　dumbfounded　enough　to　forget　the　〃sir。〃　Iceland　had　little　in　mon　with　Puerto　Rico。
〃My　dad's　a　lobsterman　working　out　of　Eastpoint；　Maine。　When　I　was　a　kid　I　went　out　on　the　boat　every　time　I　could；　and　it　was　always　like　this。〃
〃What　we　gonna　do　when　we　get　down　to　that　house；　sir？〃　Smith　brought　them　back　to　things　that　mattered。
〃Ask　for　food…〃
〃Ask？〃　Garcia　was　surprised。
〃Ask。　And　pay　for　it；　with　cash。　And　smile。　And　say；　'Thank　you；　sir；〃'　Edwards　said。　〃Remember　your　manners；　guys；　unless　you　want　him　to　phone　Ivan　ten　minutes　after　we　leave。〃　He　looked　around　at　his　men。　The　thought　sobered　them　all。
The　rain　started　with　a　few　sprinkles。　Two　minutes　later　it　was　falling　heavily；　cutting　visibility　down　to　a　few