by James Rosone
“Everything sounds good on paper, until you actually have to coordinate things,” Malahit thought.
Just as he was about to issue a set of orders, one of the sonar operators yelled, “Torpedoes in the water!” In that instant, everyone turned to look at him to determine if the torpedo was heading towards them or another target.
“It’s from one of the Akulas. They’re engaging a destroyer,” he explained.
A string of obscenities jumbled in Malahit’s head. “I knew this was going to be impossible to coordinate,” he cursed inwardly. “The Akula engaged the escorts far too early. The other submarines are not in position yet, and my boat is still too far out to penetrate the convoy’s protective perimeter.”
The captain turned to face the bow of the ship. “Helm, move us ahead two-thirds. Make our depth two hundred meters.”
Then, he turned to face his weapons officer. “Find me targets. We’re only going to get one shot at the enemy, and I want to make it count.”
A flurry of activity both above and below the waves played out as numerous Allied warships started to head in the direction of the Akula, which was now acting as bait. Twenty minutes went by… more torpedoes were launched by both sides.
An American submarine joined the fray and appeared to have a torpedo with a solid track on the Russian sub. Then, a second Akula launched a pair of torpedoes at the American sub, which forced them to shift their focus from hunting to evading the new threats heading towards them. While the waters churned with activity, the Severodvinsk moved in for the kill.
“How far away are we?” the captain inquired.
“Sir, we’re now less than 3,000 meters from the first group of transports, with the nearest potential threats over 15,000 meters from our current position,” one of the sonar operators responded.
“It’s now or never,” Captain Malahit thought. He turned to his weapons officer and issued the final order. “Fire torpedoes one through six!”
As soon as the sub had rocked with the launching of the torpedoes, the captain turned and yelled, “Increase speed to 20 knots and drop us down another 100 meters! Let’s put some more distance between us and the launch point of the torpedoes!”
Silently, they tracked the torpedoes as they moved towards their targets. The captain had only held two of their torpedoes in reserve, in case they encountered a threat that would require them to engage. The remaining six torpedoes sped towards their unsuspecting targets. After a breathless wait that felt like forever, the torpedoes homed in on their prey. One by one, they exploded against the hulls of the freighters and tankers that had been delivering the much-needed supplies to NATO.
* * *
The CIC of the Churchill was abuzz with activity as Captain Gilbert looked at the map of the battlespace and had that sickening feeling that, once again, he would be the commander of yet another ambushed convoy. As his lone French destroyer took off after an Akula submarine, one of his own American destroyers chased down a second one. Then, the radar screen began to populate with over 200 anti-ship missiles flying in towards them from three different angles. While his destroyers and frigates were attempting to prosecute and hunt down three underwater contacts, they now had to deal with a massive missile raid.
The Churchill shuddered several times as the vertical launch systems spat out the ship’s 60 RIM-66 SM-2 standard missiles at the incoming threats. Five other destroyers in the convoy fired off their own SM-2 missiles in an attempt to swat as many of the threats from the sky as possible.
“How many torpedoes are heading towards the convoy?” Captain Gilbert barked at one of his battle managers.
Not taking her eyes off the screen she was monitoring, the young officer replied, “Ten torpedoes heading towards the convoy. They’re going to start hitting ships in the next couple of minutes.”
“We have to thin out of those incoming missiles or they’re going to finish off the convoy,” Gilbert realized.
He looked to one of the weapons officers. “How soon until our interceptors start hitting the enemy missiles?”
“They should start reaching the incoming missiles in the next minute or so—”
As the officer was relaying the information, the ship rocked hard to port, almost throwing the ship completely onto its side before it righted itself in the water. The power briefly flickered out before coming back on again, and everyone looked around trying to figure out what had just happened. They obviously hadn’t been hit.
“What the hell just happened?” the captain yelled.
“CIC, this is Bridge. One of the LNG tanks just took a torpedo hit and was vaporized. We got hit by the blast wave of the explosion — I’m also seeing nearly a dozen other freighters and transports heavily damaged and on fire. A couple of them look like they’re going down,” Lieutenant Commander Brewster reported. She and the captain had switched positions once it had become apparent that the Russians had laid an ambush for the convoy and it was not just a lone Russian submarine they were dealing with.
“Get me a status report on those incoming missiles now!” the captain demanded of his lead weapons officer.
“The missiles are engaging the targets. The number of incoming threats has dropped from 216 to 61. They are now coming into range of our 5-inch guns and the CIWS systems,” the officer replied.
“That’s still too many missiles for them to handle,” Gilbert realized as he ran the calculations in his mind.
As the remaining missiles streaked in at Mach speed, the convoys close-in and point defense systems began to take over and started to thin out the incoming threats, but a large number of the missiles still got through, causing considerable damage among Gilbert’s convoy.
When the attack finally ended, Patrick headed back to the bridge so he could see the state of his convoy for himself. Grabbing a pair of binoculars, he saw that the damage was obviously extensive. Pillars of black smoke billowed into sky from several ships that had been hit; one of the ships was clearly actively in the process of sinking.
Thankfully, the storm that had been regaling his ships prior to the attack had given way, which would make recovery of the sailors floating in the dozens of life rafts a lot easier.
“Order the helicopters to get airborne and start recovery operations,” the captain ordered. “We need to get the survivors pulled from the water before they freeze to death.”
After many hours of recovery operations, the captains of the remaining escort ships compiled their battle reports and a full assessment of what happened began. Reviewing the initial battle accounts, Captain Gilbert found some consolation in the fact that this attack had not been an entirely one-sided event. His escorts had managed to sink three Akulas and one of the newer Yasen submarines.
However, what angered Gilbert most was that no one, including the P-8 Poseidons, had spotted or sunk any of those three troublesome Oscar-class submarines until it was too late to counter their attack — all three had escaped the conflict unharmed.
During the attack, the lone French destroyer assigned to his fleet had been sunk, along with two more American destroyers. Both British destroyers had sustained damage but were still operational. The one bright spot was that the Canadian destroyer had not only survived the attack unscathed, they had scored two of the enemy submarine kills. It was a tough loss, but the convoy would continue, and most of the much-needed supplies would make it to the front.
Sighing as he looked over the results, he moaned to himself, “This was not how I wanted to end my naval career — as the NATO convoy commander who had two of his convoys mauled by the Russians.”
Valentine’s Day Massacre
Lviv, Ukraine
Ambassador Duncan Rice understood why the Ukrainian government did not want to set up a government in exile in a neighboring country, but as his driver turned down another detoured road, he wished they would. Despite a lot of the ground fighting in Ukraine having subsided for the winter, the Russians had still made a concerted effort to hit the city with
random cruise missiles and the occasional mortar attack. They especially liked to target the major road and rail networks, which made moving around the city rather challenging.
“I think Prime Minister Groysman feels like he is being a true leader by keeping his government in one of the last major strongholds left under his control,” thought Duncan as they neared the hotel that was acting as the PM’s primary government center. Looking out the window at the damage the city had sustained over the last five months of war, Duncan felt angry that his warnings had not been heeded regarding Russia.
As they approached the overhang entrance of the hotel, a guard stepped forward and opened Ambassador Rice’s door. Duncan unfastened his seat belt and then got out of the vehicle; he was already running late for his meeting, and he hated to be late.
“Too many road detours,” he grumbled to himself.
Duncan had flown in from Washington the night before and would be flying back to Washington tomorrow, once he had a chance to speak with the various parties he had arranged meet with. For the past four months, Duncan had been working with a small group of diplomats and security experts at the State Department and the National Security Council to try and bring an end to the war. Once it had become clear the Russians were not going to surrender and the President had made the decision that regime change was the only acceptable outcome, his task had changed dramatically. Now Ambassador Rice’s primary task was working with prodemocratic and anti-Petrov groups within Russia and Ukraine.
After a quick check by security, Ambassador Duncan was led into a room where Prime Minister Groysman waited for him. The PM stood and extended a hand and a warm smile. “It is good to see you, Duncan. I miss the frequent talks we used to have before all this craziness started. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he inquired.
Smiling at the thought of some hot java, Rice nodded. Once they both had their drinks, they sat down in a pair of comfortable chairs with a coffee table between them.
“I wanted to ask you how things are going here in Ukraine — how are the people holding up?” Duncan inquired. He had been the ambassador to Ukraine, so he still felt something for the country and its people.
“Honestly, it has been hard,” Groysman admitted. “Many people have friends and loved ones trapped on the wrong side of the battle lines. Many more have lost loved ones from the fighting as well, especially in the major cities. While the entire country has not been turned into trench warfare, it is still too dangerous for people to try and drive between the two warring parties. Life has been difficult but thanks to the generosity of the American people, at least we have natural gas and food to get us through the winter.”
The two men talked for another hour before Duncan brought up the name Alexei Kasyanov. “What do you know about Alexei, if anything?”
Groysman smiled ever so slightly at the mention. “I know he is probably the one person that Petrov would fear most if he could run for political office. Since Petrov has postponed the election until the war has ended, I would suspect Alexei will try to run. I also suspect that Petrov will do what he can to have him disqualified through the courts,” the PM replied before taking another sip of his coffee. He noticed he had run out and signaled for one of his guards to have some more brought in, along with some sandwiches.
“So, in other words, you like him,” Duncan said coyly.
“You guys are going to go for regime change in Russia, aren’t you? That’s why you haven’t tried to attack yet?” Groysman probed.
Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Rice responded, “I can neither confirm nor deny that Washington will seek regime change after we win this war. What I am at liberty to say is that our forces will resume offensive operations once they are ready.”
There was a knock at the door. One of the security guards opened it slightly, checking to see that it was in fact the food and coffee they had ordered. As the guard brought the rolling table with the food on it to them, they continued their conversation.
“I still cannot believe Petrov invaded the Nordic countries,” Groysman commented. “Attacking the Baltic states was no surprise, but invading Norway and Finland… can you tell me if you guys are going to stop them from taking Lithuania or wait until they reach the Polish border?”
The guard who brought the rolling table placed it between them and then left the room. Prime Minister Groysman smiled at the aroma of fresh coffee wafting around them. He reached over and grabbed the coffeepot to pour them each a fresh cup.
As the PM lifted his hand, Duncan noticed a small wire had been attached to the bottom of the ornate coffeepot. Duncan immediately shouted, “Stop!” but it was too late.
A loud thunderous boom sounded, and a fireball expanded outward, killing everyone in hotel the room before they even knew what had happened.
* * *
Across the street, a man wearing a hotel uniform stripped his jacket off and changed out of his pants and into a neatly pressed suit. He proceeded to put his new pants, shirt, and jacket on when he heard the loud rumble of the explosion. He paused for a second, smiling at his handiwork.
He had spent the better part of four months infiltrating the security of the hotel to get to this moment. The fact that the PM was meeting with a US ambassador only made the moment of their death that much more satisfying. After changing into his new outfit, the man who had designed the bomb inside the rolling table cart hailed a cab that would take him to the train station. He was on his way to his next target — London.
Washington, D.C.
White House
The weather report said that the D.C. area was supposed to get close to twelve inches of snow today, prompting all nonessential government operations to close for the day. The President was lost in a moment of tranquility as he watched the snow outside his window blanket the city; it was so calm and serene.
This peace was rudely interrupted when the phone on his desk rang. Turning his chair around to look at the phone, he saw that the call was coming from the Secretary of State. Then, his Chief of Staff walked into the room and immediately turned on the TV.
With the phone still ringing, Retired General Liam Greeson asserted, “Mr. President, there’s been an explosion in Ukraine. It’s bad.”
The image of a hotel with multiple fires bursting through blown-out windows filled the entire screen.
Picking up the phone, Gates answered in a matter-of-fact tone, “This is the President.”
“Mr. President, I just received word that Ambassador Duncan Rice was meeting with Prime Minister Groysman when a bomb was detonated, killing them both. We still don’t have any word on what type of bomb was used, or how it got into the room they were meeting in, but we do know it was not a result of Russian artillery, rockets, or air strikes. It was an inside job,” Johnson said.
Suddenly saddened by realization that Ambassador Rice had perished, the President softly replied, “Thank you for letting me know. If you can, I would like to call Ambassador Rice’s wife later today. He was a voice of reason in these troubled times, and I am going to greatly miss his expertise and friendship,” Gates said.
They spoke for a few more moments before the President concluded his call.
As he watched the TV images of the hotel, it was clear it was a fairly large bomb that had gone off — more than enough to kill everyone in the room and those next to it.
A reporter narrated, “Reports are that twelve people were killed and another 37 injured during the blast. Still no information yet on the cause of the blast that killed the Prime Minister and an American diplomat, but it is suspected that Russian intelligence may have been involved.”
“Turn it off, please,” Gates instructed. “We’ve seen enough. Keep an eye on the situation and let me know if anything major is discovered. Otherwise, I’m heading up to the residence. I want some time alone to think.”
The President stood up. It was clear the death of Ambassador Rice had shaken him. The two had become close, even good friends, over the last f
our months. Duncan had met with the Director of the CIA, JP, on multiple occasions and had been a real help in determining who could potentially replace President Petrov. It had been Duncan’s idea for how to reshape not just Russia, but China as well.
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” Gates thought in despair. “I was going to make him the provisional administrator for Russia to work with the new government once the war was over. This is a terrible loss.”
He climbed the stairs to the residence. He needed some time alone and to be with his family.
The Errors of the Past and a New Future
Provo, Utah
As Air Force One began its final approach to Provo, Utah, the President looked over the notes for tonight’s discussion one final time.
“If we cannot learn from our past, we are doomed to repeat it again. We cannot allow the 21st century to become a duplication of the last century,” he thought. “If we cannot make the world see reason when it comes to how to deal with these autocratic tyrants, then this current war will just be the beginning of yet another bloody chapter in the annals of human history, and all this bloodshed will have been for naught.”
Tonight’s meeting and tomorrow’s conference would hopefully set a new course for humanity, hopefully one filled with optimism. The site for the meeting had been chosen carefully many weeks in advance. They’d found a wonderful ski lodge that had a phenomenal panoramic view of the mountains surrounding Provo and Utah Lake. While the rooms were not five-star like these world leaders might be used to staying in, they were secluded and quiet, away from prying eyes and potential threats. There were also a few thousand US soldiers roaming the surrounding woods, along with enough Secret Service agents to ensure there were no unwanted surprises.
* * *