Arctic Under Attack

By Terry Katzer

It’s 1965, and as America is increasing its military presence in Southeast Asia, the Cold War is heating up in Alaska. The Russians, desperate to stop the spread of democracy, send their Air Force MiGs to make incursions, testing the much-touted North American DEW Line and drawing their own line in the sand. U.S. jets have scrambled but are unable to catch them.

Now an unlikely band of Americans must work together in the remote Alaskan landscape to thwart the enemy and ensure the nation’s safety.

There’s Henry Mullen, a Native American who works alongside his German shepherd as a wilderness hunting and fishing guide and still suffers flashbacks from the Korean War...

Bill Grist is a wounded ex-soldier and now-unsuspecting geologist from Nevada whose return to Alaska brings back memories of a long-ago whirlwind affair with a local woman and the many secrets she’s kept from him...

Janet Cooper is a crack shot—an FBI agent with a pilot’s license and nursing degree who must prove herself a vital asset to her male counterparts while relying on her wits and training to survive here in the Alaskan wilds...

As their stories and those of their compatriots converge, the intrigue, romance, and nonstop action of Terry Katzer’s debut novel will keep you guessing until the unbelievable and gripping climax. Inspired by historical events, Arctic Under Attack is a fictional account of the heroic efforts of a motley crew of Americans who cleverly outwitted the Russian military and stopped their advance in its tracks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Katzer
• Release date: Jun 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781943588466

Terry Katzer

Terry Katzer lives in Carson City, Nevada, with his wife Gi-Gi, two canine pals, one great kitty, and a desert tortoise. He has a bachelor of science degree in geology and has authored and co-authored more than a hundred scientific papers on hydrogeology. This is his first novel, and a sequel is in the works.

Book preview

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Disclaimer

Map of Relevant Locations

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

A Lucky Bat Book

Arctic Under Attack

Copyright © 2015 by Terry Katzer

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-1-943588-46-6

Cover Design: Brandon Swann

Published by Lucky Bat Books

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This book also available in print format.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is dedicated to the memory of our son, Keith L. Katzer. Keith was a bright star in his chosen field of geoarcheology and would have gone far. He loved the wilderness and good literature. He is at peace in the mountains of time.

DISCLAIMER

This book is based, in part, on a large number of anecdotal events and personal experiences that have been fictionalized. Some of the historic events are true, and the places are real, with an occasional distortion for the storyline. The names and characters are imaginary except for some of the historic characters.

Chapter 1

September14, 1965, Anchorage

My God, here come the bastards again, said Specialist Fifth Class Rodrico as he scanned his radar screen. They’re coming in on a 200 vector this time. There was excitement in his voice as he leaned in closer to the radar screen to make sure of what he was seeing. The specialist was a small, intense man with black hair, black eyes, and movements that were always quick.

Captain Shultex looked over his shoulder. Right up the Yukon, he said, verifying Rodrico’s readings and pressing the alert intercept button. The red alert light went on simultaneously in three different fighter command centers strategically placed throughout Alaska’s vast land. Three fighter interceptors from each base scrambled. The group from Fairbanks was the closest to the current location of the MiGs, followed swiftly by the Anchorage team and the contingent from King Salmon. The alert was also sent automatically to the Air Force Command Center, NORAD, in Colorado. It’s Tuesday, Shultex added, glancing rapidly at the large wall calendar.

What’s that? Rodrico asked as he continued to feed coordinates into the computer.

It’s Tuesday, repeated Shultex. This is the second Tuesday in the month, and they’re trying to penetrate our radar net. The first time was a week ago, the first Tuesday in September, when they came up the Kuskokwim River. He paused as he checked their log book and his own diary. Now it’s the second Tuesday. Jesus, they must think we’re dumb, but then, maybe we are. Christ, I hope our intelligent guys stumble onto this.

How about just stumble? Rodrico joked, shaking his head and continuing to monitor the flight of the two Russian fighters. Naw, just kidding. I’m sure they’ll figure it out. Wow, these guys are really moving; they must be about fifty meters off the deck. Damn, they’re gone. We’ve lost them.

Sergeant Felipe Rodrico’s father, Albert, had been an intelligence officer in the Cuban rebels’ CIA-trained army in the time leading up to the Bay of Pigs fiasco in 1961. As history had shown, the help the rebels had expected from the U.S. had been cut off after the invasion had started, and the rebels that had not been killed had been captured by Fidel Castro’s forces. During the chaos in the days that had followed, the Rodrico family—five kids and their parents—had made their way to the U.S. base at Guantanamo Bay and later escaped the island in a military transport to Florida, where they had been granted amnesty and citizenship. Albert Rodrico had continued his work for the CIA while Felipe had finished high school and joined the U.S. Army. Within two years, he had earned his parachute badge and completed Ranger training. An unfortunate incident during a covert operation in Cuba had left him with a bullet through his hip. The wound had healed, but he had a permanent limp. It didn’t seem to slow him down, but he had been offered a disability discharge or a transfer to a not-so-strenuous assignment. Filipe had been determined to make a career in the service, so he’d opted for the assignment and had been transferred to the air force, Special Operations.

They’ll show up, Captain Dan Shultex said and moved to the large wall map of Alaska. He ran his fingers through his short-cropped brown hair as he visualized the terrain. He stretched his large frame to ease his muscles. He had been down that river twice in the last two years: first, in a canoe a couple of years ago, and then in a speed boat last August, about a year ago. They’re just behind a bluff or a bend. They might’ve turned off; probably up the Melozitna. It’s mostly flat country out there, but there are some minor canyons. Let me speak to our flight commander, he said, turning to the radio operator.

Specialist Fourth Class Vivian Atwater said nothing as she handed him the microphone. Shultex sat on the edge of the communications console and pushed the button. Snowshoe One, Snowshoe One. This is Snowshoe Two, do you read me?

He let up on the button and gunshot static answered him. Atwood, for Christ’s sake, do something! Atwood leaned over the console and adjusted the squelch. Shultex smiled, not because the static was that much better, but so that now he could see down Atwood’s blouse. Christ, I’d like to get hold of those again, he thought and smiled to himself, remembering the speed boat trip when he’d first met Specialist Atwood.

Snowshoe One... Snowshoe One... This is Snowshoe Two... This is Snowshoe Two, do you read me? He laughed inwardly, thinking, These call signs are really dumb. He felt like an idiot using them, the wrong side of embarrassing.

The static had mysteriously disappeared. They’ve got to do something about those sunspots; if they lasted for any length of time, we would really be up shit creek, he thought.

Suddenly, Snowshoe Two... Snowshoe Two... This is Snowshoe One, we’ve lost our . . . Rabbit. Do you have a fix? Shultex raised his eyebrows as he glanced at Rodrico.

Nothing yet, sir, Rodrico replied. Wait! Bingo! There they go; they’ve done a ninety and are climbing for home. At this rate, they’ll be over the coast in less than twenty minutes, and in a few more minutes, over Norton Sound. Their rate of climb is really steep; they’ll be at ten-thousand meters shortly. Those 21s are really something.

Atwood, Shultex said, get Colorado on the line.

Vivian Atwood smiled to herself as she dialed the Command Center in Colorado. She also was thinking back to her first meeting with Captain Shultex—in fact, her only encounter with him, she reminded herself.

She and her girlfriend, Rita Winslow, had both been stationed at Fort Wainwright in Fairbanks last summer and with two weeks leave had decided to float as much of the Yukon as they could. The spring runoff was over, but there still had been lot of flow in the rivers. They'd loaded their canoe with their camping supplies and were off.

The women, in their late twenties, had canoed various rivers in the lower forty-eight and knew how to handle a paddle. Both were very good-looking and they knew it. Rita was tall and thin and had long blond hair and a bikini top that was way too small, while Vivian was slightly shorter and a bit stouter, with shoulder-length black hair and a voluptuous figure.

The Tanana River quickly took them out of Fairbanks, and by late afternoon of the second day, they had floated into the Yukon. It was hot on the water, and both women were in bikinis when a speedboat went by with two guys in it. They waved at each other. The boat made a sharp turn downstream of the canoe, slowed, and came alongside. The guys wore shorts and tank tops. Both had crew cuts, and they were lean, clean shaven, with well-muscled bodies.

Dan leaned out of the speed boat and said, Hey, where you two ladies headed?

Vivian replied, Hey yourself. Probably to Ruby, depends on the weather. Where you guys going?

We’re headed down to St. Mary’s; not sure we’ll get all the way. By the way, my name’s Dan, and this is Eric.

Well, hi, Dan and Eric. I’m Vivian, and this is Rita.

Hi, guys, nice meeting you, Rita said with a wave of her paddle. Where you from?

We’re out of Anchorage, Dan said. Both in construction. And you?

Vivian replied, We’re in Fairbanks; we work at the university.

Nice! Dan said. Say, how about an early dinner? There’s a good campsite about five kilometers downriver. It’s on a low bluff on your left. You can’t miss it. We’re gourmet cooks, I promise.

Sounds good, Vivian said. As an afterthought, she added laughingly, Is the wine cold?

Dan replied, Bottle of red and a bottle of white, on ice. See you soon.

As the boat pulled away, Vivian said, Rita, I think we were a pretty easy pick-up. And they looked awful military, in spite of their professed construction jobs. And they’re using metrics; that’s a giveaway. Oh, what the heck, I think I’ll take Dan, and you can have the other one.

Thanks a bunch! said Rita sarcastically. He’s the one who didn’t say a word!

So you have a challenge, Vivian said with a laugh. I know you can do it.

Rita turned from the bow with a glint in her eye and said, Right, it’s just dinner. We don’t have to sleep with them. And then she laughed and added, Unless we want to.

Well, as Vivian recalled now, she had. And so had Dan. It had been a wild night. They hadn’t known at the time that they were both in the air force and that they had unknowingly broken the rule of non-fraternization between officers and enlisted personnel. Vivian remembered Captain Shultex’s surprised look when she was transferred from Wainwright to Elmendorf in Anchorage six months after the canoe trip and reported to him. She had stepped up to his desk and, with a snappy salute, said, Specialist Vivian Atwater reporting for duty, sir. It had been a kick—him at a loss for words. He’d finally returned the salute and said, with a nervous smile, that she should be at ease. He’d quickly recovered, and they had never talked about that night on the river. Sometimes even now she caught him staring at her, and she always turned away with a slight smile. No flirting, though; she needed this job and did not want to transfer anywhere, and, more importantly, she had no interest in starting a relationship at this time in her life.

September 14, 1965, Melozitna River

Henry Mullen could have told Captain Shultex exactly where the MiGs were when they broke cover. Henry was about ten kilometers north of his village of Ruby, which is on the bank of the Yukon River, and just starting his trapline run down the Melozitna River, a tributary to the Yukon. The MiGs went over him at treetop level—less, actually, because they were flying right up the river. Henry knew that was against regulations, and he instinctively crouched and gripped his Winchester a little tighter and started to bring it up when he caught himself. He laughed out loud at his action. You bastards! he shouted to the sky. If I can get your number, I’ll report you to Elmendorf!

They were pulling nearly straight up as he grabbed his binoculars from under his parka and focused in on the rapidly disappearing jets. He sucked his breath in. Christ, what are they doing here? he wondered aloud. He recognized them instantly as the newest model in the Russian jet fighter retinue: MiG 21s. He didn’t know much about the MiG 21, but he was very familiar with the MiG 15—one had shot him down in 1952, and then he’d gotten lucky and downed three of them in the final days of the Korean War.

Henry had just turned thirty-six and retired from Uncle Sam’s finest, the air force. He’d started his military career by joining the marines at age fifteen in the spring of 1944. He had been assigned to the Second Marine Division just in time for the invasion of Saipan. There had been many brutal fights, some of them in hand-to-hand combat. After the war, he’d transferred from the marines to the air force and spent four years as a navigator, attending Officer Candidate School and then, upon completion of pilot school, earning his wings. He’d learned to fly fighter jets just when the North Korean Troops had crossed into South Korea.

Now, he swung his glasses to the east, flicked them to wide angle, and in the clear Alaskan fall air spotted the first wave of three F-104s.

Do you have them yet, Snowshoe One? Shultex snapped.

Roger, Snowshoe Two, we have them on the scope, but I don’t think we can catch them before they reach the sea.

You’ll never catch them, Captain Shultex sighed. Not this time, he thought.

Snowshoe One, alias First Lieutenant Robert Orland, from Lansing, Michigan, checked his computer screen. He was at five thousand meters, on a two hundred vector with a thirty-degree climb. The green numbers flashed on the screen. He would intercept the coast about two minutes after the Russians. Way too late, at the speed they were going, and he wasn’t nearly high enough. He’d always had a suspicion about computers, though, so just in case it was wrong this once, he armed his missiles.

But a red message flashed on the screen: Not authorized to activate weapons system unless fired on. Orland shook his head. Controlled by flashing lights, he thought. If the Russians fired first, he might not need to activate his weapons system; he would probably be blown out of the sky. He glanced over to his left. First Lieutenant Roland Carter, also from Lansing, nodded back and shook his fist at the fleeing MiGs. To Orland’s right, Second Lieutenant Wayne Lumus of Oakland, California, just grinned at him. That silly bastard. That’s all he does is grin, grin, and grin. Who knows about those Californians? he thought. Orland gave him the finger. Lumus grinned back.

Orland spoke into the mic. OK, guys, let’s head home.

The coast was below them. No ice in the Bering Sea this far south yet. The recent early September snows, aptly named Termination Dust, had blanketed much of the ground in white, and from ten thousand meters it looked like a vast, irregular checkerboard. The jets wheeled back as one and sped for their base.

Far below, Henry Mullen heard them go by and briefly glanced up. One of these days, you are going to catch them, he said aloud to no one in particular. Then what will you do?

Chapter 2

September 14, 1965, Anchorage

I’ll tell you what we should do, Captain Shultex said to Colonel Lawson, who had summoned Shultex to his office. When we catch them, we shoot them. Simple, huh? Naw, just a wild thought, he answered his own question. This is really frustrating.

I agree with you, Shultex, but do we want to start the big one right here? The last thing in God’s name we want to do is shoot those bastards down, as much as I would like to. There must be a better way. My guess is they’re not armed, so if we do catch them, they can’t provoke us into a shooting match. I remember when . . . He let his words trail off as he thought back to the air war over Korea. He shook his head as if to chase away some dangerous memories. I don’t know what to make of this now that Vietnam is heating up.

Shultex looked at him closely. He hadn’t thought about Vietnam. How could there be a connection? he wondered. Colonel Jack Lawson was no dummy, and he wasn’t short on guts, either. It was Lawson who, during the Korean War, had led a strike across the 38th parallel to wipe out a whole squadron of Russian-piloted MiGs. They had caught the MiGs on the ground, so there were no Russian causalities. There was never a mention of it in the papers, but the diplomatic pouches were spilling over. That single action took the bite out of the Russians for a few months.

Captain, Lawson said, we’ve got to get ahead of these guys. I know you have been spending a lot of time trying to figure this out, but wait before you go on. There’s someone I want you to meet. Lawson punched the intercom. Hey, Sarge, ask the major to step in here, will you, please?

The door opened and Shultex’s mouth dropped in surprise. The major was a woman, and a stunning one at that. Larson said, Major Janet Cooper, meet Captain Dan Shultex.

Hi, Captain, the major said. She reached for his hand, and he readily met hers. I’m glad to finally meet you. We at the Pentagon have been very interested in your reports.

He looked at her quizzically and said, Well, I am glad to meet you, but I’ve never heard of you. I mean, I wish I had, he stammered. He knew he was probably blushing. He began to regain his composure, and he smiled his best smile at her, squared his broad shoulders, and stood just a bit taller. His eyes took in all of her at once: a tall, shapely redhead that made the air force blues look really good. He was sure he saw a brief smile flicker in her beautiful green eyes.

Captain, she said, all business, I understand you have a problem with the Russians. Hopefully we can help you.

Shultex, Lawson said, the major is from S-3 in Washington, and she has been working with the modeling systems group, probably the same group you were talking about the other day.

Major Cooper was nodding her head in agreement as she pointed to a large wall map of Alaska. Obviously, they’re testing our radar coverage from the DEW Line and, by the same token, our response time.

There is something strange about that, Major, Shultex said, interrupting her. The radar station that picked up the first incursion is on the upper Ambler River and is not part of the DEW Line.

Cooper paused, frowned, and turned to the map again, saying, The DEW Line crosses Alaska all along the Arctic, here. She traced a finger along the edge of the Arctic shore. Between the line and the Noatak River drainage, there is a pretty good-sized mountain range. The Brooks Range is a significant barrier. I know the DEW Line was built to deter the Russians from invading from the north, not only from the air, but also a land-based force. I don’t remember if there were any radar stations built in Alaska as part of the other two nets. What are they called? She frowned again, trying to recall the names.

Lawson answered her. The first one is called Pine Tree, and the second one Mid-Canadian, I believe. Both were made obsolete by improvements in Russian radar detection. But let’s get back to the Ambler, Shultex; how do you know the reporting radar station isn’t part of the DEW?

Well, Shultex began, all radar events carry the station ID, which is a combination of latitude and longitude, and the one last week plotted on the upper Ambler River, not on the Arctic line. I’ve been trying to find someone who knows about it, and I do have a lead, but nothing firm. It’s pretty strange. Then the sighting just yesterday could have easily been reported by King Salmon, but I don’t think it was. I’ll check with Sergeant Rodrico to be sure. I suspect it was either one of the Aleutian stations or a plane from the Barrier Force operations. It clearly wasn’t from the Arctic DEW Line.

Major Cooper said, The first time, as you pointed out, Captain, they came in just east of Nunivak Island, in the northern part of Bristol Bay, up the Kuskokwim to where the river bends to the east, to just about here. She pointed to a spot on the map about two hundred kilometers northeast of the town of McGrath. The second penetration, today, also was on the second Tuesday in the month; they zipped up the Yukon River to about here, somewhere just north of Ruby . . . and she leaned closer to the map and ran her finger along the blue line.

That’s the Melozitna River, Shultex said.

OK, where will their third penetration be, if there is a third? she mused. She stepped back from the map, turned to Shultex, and said, I don’t know, maybe you’ve tumbled onto something. Now, if you can outguess them just once, we may do more good than all the negotiations put together.

Shultex had spent a good deal of time trying to figure this out before he was quizzed on this, as he knew he would be. Sir, he began, directing his words to Lawson, I took the liberty of trying to quantify the various options available to the Russians, and to prioritize the various routes. There is a group in the Pentagon, they call themselves the System Analyses Section, and we did discuss them the other day. They are mostly mathematicians and statisticians with a sprinkling of computer jocks. They all have advanced degrees. He turned toward and pointed questioningly at the major.

It’s true, she said, nodding her head. I have a PhD in mathematics.

Shultex hesitated. He could see Lawson was starting to become impatient. Well, sir, to make a long story short, this group and I quite agree, although I have never met the major before, so I don’t know where she fits in all this.

I can answer that, she said. I’ve been on another detail and just got back when your first report came in. My boss wants me to come up to speed, meet you troopers on the ground who know what’s really going on, and become familiar with the areas of incursion.

We believe the next penetration will be up the Noatak, Shultex said. Lawson’s eyes narrowed. Shultex continued, They’ll come in north of Kotzebue, over the lowlands on the delta, head up the Noatak River, past the native village of Noatak. The first two hundred kilometers or so are in a northerly direction, then the river turns generally east. And even if we pick them up, which I’m sure we will, a hard left turn and they’re on their way home. Alternatively, they can still hit the coast north of Kotzebue and fly up the Kobuck River to the village of Ambler, head north up the Ambler River, and they’re in the Noatak drainage directly south of the Brooks Range. Of course, they have other options, and there are data I haven’t had time to analyze. It’s hard to believe they are going to launch an attack on North America through Alaska, but . . . and he shrugged.

Lawson stared at the map. It not only had the Russian bases plotted on it but also all of Alaska radar sites, the famed Distant Early Warning line, or DEW Line—the first line of defense against the Russians. This group you mentioned, the Systems Analyses Section. I guess this is what you call modeling? If it is, I’ve heard of these people, it’s the new wave. Seat-of-the-pants flying is about over, at least in some places. It’s probably the only way the human mind can handle so many interrelated facts and at the same time fly the speed of sound, or nearly so. OK, we can’t afford to take any chances, so pack your bag, Captain, you’re off to the Pentagon just as soon as we can get you there. I’ll alert them so they’ll have their desks cleared. What are you going to take with you?

Shultex thought a moment. "All right, but if possible, before I go to DC, I’d like to interview the three fighter jocks and get their take on all this. And I