by Stephen Makk
Nathan shook his head. It could be that way when you’re lucky. The crowning point of the mission had been easy. Nathan grinned. “Well, I thought it was going to be a bag of dicks out there.”
“No sir, it was easy.”
“Great. Get some chow. Let’s get out of here.”
Nathan reported that Operation Joshua was completed. An hour later, Lieutenant Commander Lemineux, the boat’s Communications Officer, handed Nathan a communications slip.
“Message from COMSUBPAC, sir.”
PRIORITY RED
R 241347Z OCT 88 ZY09
COMSUBPAC PEARL HARBOR HAWAII//N1//
TO STONEWALL JACKSON
PACFLT// ID S072RQ81//
NAVAL OPS/02
MSGID/PACOPS 6722/COMSUBPAC ACTUAL//
MSG BEGINS://
CONGRATULATIONS USS STONEWALL JACKSON FROM A GRATEFUL NATION.
PROCEED TO GUAM FOR THREE WEEKS SHORE LEAVE. TRANSPORT WILL BE LAID ON TO PEARL OR SAN DIEGO FOR ANY CREW MEMBER. YOU WILL RETURN TO GUAM AS THOUGH AFTER A LOW KEY EXERCISE. THIS MISSION NEVER HAPPENED. COMPETE AND TOTAL SECRECY TO BE MAINTAINED. MISSION STATUS CODE RED ALPHA PLUS. REPEAT. CODE RED ALPHA PLUS.
MSG END//
Code red alpha plus. That meant that the release of any mission information could result in the offending crew member’s execution, followed by an official cover-up.
Nathan knew that they’d just carried out a black operation of the highest order. He rubbed his temples. Code red alpha plus, why me? Why me?
THE BOAT RETURNED TO Guam in the early hours of the morning, the crew took their breakfast and readied for departure. Nathan returned to his cabin to find a personal letter on his desk. He opened it.
“Your presence is required immediately, at the Tamuning Hotel, South Marine Drive. I need your attention and I need it now. Yours, Nikki.” Nathan smiled, then readied his bag, left the boat and took a cab from the front gate.
PAUL LOOKED AT THE airport monitor. His flight was there, listed on the Washington Dulles departure board. It had been a rush to buy his ticket, but there’d been time.
Zhi Ruo had disappeared from the cabin in West Virginia after the clash between the FBI and the CIA.
Paul Wicks hadn’t seen nor heard from her in three weeks. He’d been told under strict secrecy restrictions by his Director that nothing of what had happened in West Virginia had actually happened. Zhi Ruo didn’t exist, he’d never heard of her.
The clash had been hushed up and had officially never happened.
If he spoke about any of this to anyone, he’d be in a world of shit.
He missed her badly.
The letter had been delivered by hand to his sister yesterday morning; whoever delivered it was Asian, that much he knew. He opened it as soon as he got it home. Its contents were the last thing he expected.
Paul Wicks opened the 11 x 8.5 letter yet again.
It was a personal letter from Zhi Ruo.
She wasn’t an MSS agent at all. It turned out that she’d actually framed the Chinese Ministry of State Security.
She was employed by the National Security Bureau; her country’s intelligence service, but her country wasn’t The People’s Republic of China. Her real name wasn’t Zhi Ruo, either. It was May Hsin.
He read her letter for the hundredth time.
“Paul, I’m sorry for deceiving you, but I had to do it.
Please come and visit me in my beautiful city. I will explain everything. I miss you, May.”
He looked at the photograph of her in a green leafy park looking down over a city. She was smiling. He knew he had to see May Hsin again.
Behind her, to her left, was a tall tower looking like a series of upside down pyramids. The 101 tower had been the world’s tallest building until recently.
Paul looked at the airport departure board. It was time to leave for the gate; the flight to Los Angeles LAX would leave soon. Then it would be the cross Pacific flight. May Hsin waited for him in her beautiful city. Paul’s onward flight was to Taipei. Taiwan.
AFTER THE CONFLICT, CIA investigations had determined that the sinking of the huge Chinese container ship, COSCO SHIPPING SCHELDT, by a submarine, had been carried out by a Taiwanese boat to draw the People’s Republic into hostilities. It had meant that much to Taiwan.
THE BLACK SEA HORDE.
Chapter 1
“HI, I’M NATHAN BLAKE. I don’t believe in luck. That’s just the way it is. It’s just not me. But Lady Luck, she didn’t agree, she believed in me.
It was years ago now, the day I embarked on my patrol.
I was seeing Lucy at the time and it was on a visit to her elder sister’s in Houston. We spent some time down on the waterfront, the Buffalo Bayou. I visited the Battleship Texas, and I was on board her for an age. She was a monster with ten fourteen inch guns and had seen action in both world wars. I’d read a few books and seen some films about the Navy and was interested, but was it for me? I was just a boy from landlocked Arkansas.
They’d always encouraged me towards construction. I know my family had in mind for me a degree in Civil Engineering; they could see Nathan the Architect. It ran in the family.
A naval recruitment facility sat on the quayside by the ship. I wandered inside and spent a while in there. You know how it is? When it happens, it happens quickly. I knew that day what I wanted to do.
I left the recruitment facility, but went back the following day. The Petty Officer knew he had a recruit. He knew it, and I knew it too. I was going to join the submarine service; I’d found my calling. I knew it was right.
Now, some years later, here I am. Lieutenant Commander Nathan Blake; Weapons Officer on board the nuclear submarine USS New York City.
I knew that day in Houston I’d made the right choice; the only choice for me.”
KIEV. UKRAINE. 2014.
“I’M AFRAID IT WILL happen. The Russians will put their puppet into power at some point. It’s just when, not if.”
“I can keep control of the government. I can stay in office, the insurrection in the East of the country can be subdued,” said Petro.
He stared at the President and shook his head; with his short grey hair and stubby beard, Vasyl was known by the people as father of the nation. He’d never sought power for himself, just freedom for the nation. The Ukraine belonged with the west, with Europe, not the Slavic East.
“No. It’ll happen, they’re too strong. To resist them, we need an ally from the west.”
Petro grunted and shrugged.
The waitress brought out and served more coffee and butter cakes. She smiled.
“Thank you,” said Petro.
They’d picked the restaurant in the Oblonskyi District as it was low key. Away from any attention, the press and they hoped, any spies.
“Who? Which ally?”
“We need not just the one from the west. We need the many.”
“Vasyl, how are...?”
“I know a way. We need something to happen. To make it happen will be difficult. We’ll need someone in the west to pull the right levers and say the right things.”
“What do we need to happen? Who will do that?”
“I’ll ask this person. It’s better that you don’t know what is needed, or who this person is. I’ll tell you just that the person I have in mind has been an Officer in Army Intelligence. You can trust me.”
Petro knew Vasyl had the good of the nation in his heart. If he could trust anyone, it would be him. “Do then what you must Vasyl. For the good of the nation.”
He smiled. “You have made the right choice. I’ll ask this person to take on a heavy task.” Vasyl looked down. “The heaviest burden of all.”
TWO DAYS LATER.
She’d finished breakfast and was cleaning away the plates when the cell phone rang; it was her ex Brigade Commander. He’d asked her to meet someone. There’d been no real choice. She walked from the North end of Saratovska Street into Kiev’s Dubky Park. She sat on the third bench an
d watched the squirrels running up and down, playing in the trees. He walked over to her and sat down, handed her a coffee in a disposable cup, then prised open one for himself.
“Hello.”
She turned and looked at him in surprise. It couldn’t be.
“I can tell what you’re thinking,” he smiled, “yes. It’s me.” Vasyl took a deep breath. “Yana. Do you love your country?”
“Of course. What do you want with me?”
He held up his hand. “Before you give your answer, the nation, listen to what she asks of you.” He quietly explained what would be needed of her. “So. There it is. Now you may give your answer, Yana.” He placed his hand on hers. “If it’s no, I will think no less of you. It’s a heavy burden to ask.”
She stared at him with a steely resolve in her eyes. “If you think I’m worthy, then yes, I will do it.”
He patted her hand. “Then I can rest easy. Yana, you have the nation under your wing.”
WASHINGTON DC.
SHE’D MET THE CONTACT. Of all the covers he could hide under, he ran a stamp-collecting store.
She supposed it was appropriate. After the store had closed he’d explained her cover and where she’d live. He’d outlined her new life in a couple of hours.
“This my dear, is your new passport.” He passed over the dark blue Ukrainian biometric passport. Her picture was inside. No doubt it had been issued by the correct bureau. It would have been done quietly at the order of the Military Intelligence undercover unit.
Yana Sumska had become Yana Borisova. A new life, an old cause. Yana was now the most important member of a new undercover agency.
It was not a part of the Secret service of the Ukraine, The Sluzhba Bezpeky Ukrayiny. This organisation was unofficial, unaccountable, a secret that didn’t exist. She’d become a member of that shadow; known simply as The Kievan Unit. She’d start tonight.
TURKEY.
THE BOAT SURFACED IN the Sea of Marmara. The upper hatch opened and Lieutenant Commander Blake felt the first fresh warm air since he’d left Groton, Connecticut. He got some time out in the sail. It was a hot bright day with a light breeze.
Around lunchtime, the boat sailed into the Bosporus, the eighteen mile long strait from south to north, connecting the Aegean and the Sea of Marmara to the Black Sea. On its banks was the teaming metropolis of Istanbul.
The USS NYC sailed through on the surface, within a mile of the city, a visible symbol of NATO’s reach into the Black Sea. It was a statement to Russia. “We’re here, and we come and go as we please.”
Blake was impressed with the historical city, Old Byzantium and Constantinople. Powerful and imposing for two thousand years. He found it stunning. A dense imposing cityscape, old buildings, large mosques with tall minarets. A teaming waterway, ferries, small and large. The place was a hive of bustling activity; suspension bridges spanned the straits. They were soon in the open sea. The Black Sea. As night fell, the hatches were closed.
Captain Karl Franks was an old sea dog, one of the most experienced submarine skippers in the fleet.
In the NYC’s control room, the crew stared into monitors or marked the chart, he nodded to his XO, Lieutenant Commander Gabriel Cortez. For Franks, it was the start of yet another two-week patrol. He knew his SSN was the best kick ass boat in the 6th Fleet.
“Flood forward. Open and trim vents fore and aft. Dive, dive, dive. Planesman, down bubble 15, make your depth 330 feet. Speed 15 knots.”
“Fifteen at 100, aye sir.” The deck tilted down to the bow. The huge wave rose up the sail, and the boat finally sank from sight. The USS NYC headed down into the gloom and levelled out.
“Zero bubble sir,” called out the Planesman. The boat was now level at 330 feet.
There were ructions in Ukraine. The east of the country was effectively ceding, becoming a client state of Russia. With a majority of Russian speakers, this was prime expansion ground for Russia. The Eastern Donbass region’s DRP and LPR led the move for separation. The Crimean peninsula was annexed by Russia. Turmoil on this scale affected European democracies and had to be watched. If it escalated, conflict between East and West could flare up. NATO had to play its part.
The USS NYC was on a reconnaissance patrol in the Black Sea. It was the home of the Russian Black Sea Fleet and long regarded by them as their lake.
Lieutenant Erica Lefevre, a fresh faced young Officer from Rhode Island, was the boat’s Navigation Officer. She’d been cursed with the nickname Pigeon, after the Homing Pigeon. “Pigeon, plot us a course, put us 40 miles offshore,” said Franks, “and we’ll head north east. Off the coast of Russia, that’s where we’ll start. Get me a course to Novorossysk; let’s look and listen off their main Black Sea naval base.”
“Bearing 62 degrees sir.”
“Come to 62.”
“Sixty two degrees aye sir,” said the Planesman. After writing his log, Franks decided to get some bunk time.
“What’s on our chow roster tonight, Chief?” The Chief of the Boat was the senior enlisted man aboard. The Chief, or COB, was in charge of all enlisted men. He didn’t command the boat but ran it. All watch station assignments, racking assignments, crew discipline were his departments. He was indispensable and could curse the crew and chew their ass. Train them, blame them, and curse them. The COB ruled with a stare of iron. He couldn’t smoke a cigar, but should have. The COB was from Queens New York and this was his boat. Short, but built like a tug, he had salt and pepper hair and a tough look about him.
“Greasy stuff sir, all that Italian slop.”
“Ok, that’s fine by me. Get me up in three hours.”
“Sir.”
THE USS NEW YORK CITY was a Virginia class boat, probably the most advanced nuclear hunter-killer submarine (SSN) type in the world. She was fitted with a Unified Modular mast, atop her sail. This incorporated a snorkel, and three high data rate communication masts and
a AN/BPS-16 radar mast.
The Electronic warfare mast was an AN/BLQ-10 used to detect, analyse, and identify radar and communication signals from ships, aircraft, submarines, and land-based sources.
The boat was fitted with a photonic mast; instead of a periscope, the Captain looked into a monitor at his Conn station. He selected full rotation from the touchscreen. The scope raised itself, did a brief 360 rotate, and then lowered itself. The periscope spent as little time above the waves as possible. The Captain then looked at the view on screen and rotated the view. He could pick off the bearing, range to any targets, and zoom in if necessary. The scope could switch to night mode if needed. It could do a partial sweep or maintain a constant view. The old days of raising and lowering an optical scope had gone.
USS NYC had no propeller, she used a pump jet propulsor for quieter operation. She was fitted with several types of hull-mounted sonar; also included was an advanced TB-33 thin line long-range search towed sonar array. This trailed hundreds of yards behind and was integrated to a sophisticated computer on board. It was a decoy and surveillance tool.
She was fitted with three Virginia Payload Tubes (VPM) and each could vertically launch seven Tomahawk cruise missiles. Her four torpedo tubes could launch Mk 48 wire guided torpedoes and Harpoon sea-skimming missiles.
The USS NYC was a high-tech stealthy daemon of the deeps.
TWENTY HOURS LATER, in mid-afternoon, USS NYC approached the Russian port of Novorossysk and its naval base.
Franks checked the chart at the navigation station. “Come to three knots. Rig trim to ascend fore and aft, make your depth 110 feet.” The boat made its way quietly into Tsemes Bay, the port approaches. It would lie there still and listen until dusk.
The sonar operator was of Korean descent. His surname was Yun. Everybody said it was Park, as in Nosey Parker and the Korean surname Park. It was said his parents had never had a private conversation.
“We’re in position now. All stop. XO rig for quiet state.”
Cortez spoke into the boat’s broadcast microphone.
“This is the XO. Rig for silent state. We’re off the enemy’s naval base. Rig the boat, silent state.”
“Nosey,” said Franks, “get those big earflaps going. I want to know what’s going on out there. Any boats or ships sailing out there. Every Rat on the make, if a cockroach takes a dump I want to know. Even what Ivan the sailor is up to. He’ll be with her, I want to know how many times Olga cum chugger has drawn breath. Get it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Night had fallen over the Eastern Black Sea. Franks looked through the Photonic mast monitor over the port of Novorossysk. The city lights reflected in the calm sea, the background was dark with the cliffs against a moonlit sky.
“Nosey. What’s it like?” Franks asked.
“Quiet sir. No vessel activity.”
“Weaps. What do they have here?”
“Sir,” said Nathan. “Fourth independent submarine brigade, six Kilo class boats. The cruiser Moskva. Up to six Destroyers and Frigates, landing ships. Seven Corvettes and a number of smaller missile boats. We have reports that Northern Fleet SSNs are present.”
“A pretty big hammer then, if they want to use it.” Franks nodded and walked to the chart. “Mark this as datum one.”
“Sir.” Franks marked two more datum points.
USS NYC visited the first datum point.
“Up bubble ten. Come to periscope depth. Franks set the Photonic mast to pop up, transit through a one twenty degree sweep, and retract below the surface. The boat visited all three datum.
“Weaps. We’ve got you some homework. Go through all sweeps and mark any vessels, check for identifying marks. XO, hold our position in case he needs another look.”
It would be a long night for Nathan checking IDs types, looking for additions to the vessel’s fittings. He knew this was what most submarine surveillance was. Detail, logging, classifying. Not glamorous, but vital when it was needed.