Rabies shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
He tipped the S-3 back down and headed for the surface of the water. “Are you holding contact enough to track him?”
“I just got a couple of hitsenough to say that he’s probably headed north, right in behind the carrier.”
“Whoever she is, we’re staying right on top of her,” Rabies answered.
The S-3 skimmed along, too close to the surface of the ocean for comfort.
Rabies put her in a gentle circle, orbiting around the spot at which they had gained acoustic contact. All four crew members peered out of the windows, desperate for a glimpse of the submarine.
Suddenly, just ahead of them, the ocean exploded. Water geysered up sixty feet, almost grazing the bottom of the aircraft. With a sharp yelp, Rabies yanked the S-3 into a steep climb and slammed the throttles forward to avoid a stall. In the backseat, Harness howled and snatched the earphones off of his head.
“What the fuck was that?” Rabies demanded. “Jesus, did we-?”
“No, we didn’t,” the copilot said firmly. “All of our weapons are still hanging off the wings.”
“Then what was that?”
“Harness, stop that damned caterwauling!” Rabies snapped.
“It was a fucking explosion,” Harness finally said. His voice was high and tremulous. “Damn, just about blew my eardrums out.”
The TACCO next to him leaned over and looked at the waterfall display.
“No doubt about it,” he confirmed. “A huge blast of noise all across the spectrum, on all buoys. Something damned big went boom down there.”
“Look.”
Rabies tipped the jet over to the left to get a better view of the water below. The Bosphorus Strait was a major waterway in this part of the world. As such, the surface was usually glazed with debris and dirt, an oily film mixing with the surface layer of the water to form a thin emulsion. Even given the dirty water, though, the evidence was clear.
The massive oil slick was spreading out below them, cluttered with bits of debris and odd unidentifiable parts.
“Jesus, that submarinewhat the hell happened to her?” Rabies finally said. “We sure as hell didn’t do it. Did we?”
“Absolutely not.”
The copilot’s voice was firm. “You want to go outside and check yourself?”
Rabies shook his head. “Then what happened?”
“A mine,” Harness said. His voice was steady now, all traces of his earlier pain gone. “A mineyou know how this strait isthat’s what it had to be. The submarine trailer hit a mine.”
“Then why didn’t it go off earlier when the carrier passed over it?” the copilot asked.
“You know why,” Rabies retorted. “At least you would if you went to all the intelligence briefings like you’re suppose to. Those mines are command activatedsome of them are on counters. They don’t hit the first contact that passes through, but they nail the second one. That’s in case there are mine sweepers going out in front of the major targetdon’t want to waste a mine on a small boat when you can nail the big one right behind him.”
During this exchange, the copilot was talking to Jefferson, filling her in on the explosion and giving her a running commentary on their conclusions. The others could hear the carrier TAO agreeing, could hear the urgency stark in his voice. From their Link data, they could see that the carrier was slowly accelerating through twenty knots, still headed straight north in the Strait, Shiloh steaming ahead of her. If the minefield were now active, whether on a counter or not, both ships stood every chance of taking a hit.
As they watched, the water churned violently behind the carrier as she threw her engines into reverse and sought to slow her frantic dash through the Strait. Shiloh executed a sharp turn to port, slowing quickly and clearing the channel for the larger ship. Each aviator said a silent prayer that it would be enough.
0840 Local
TFCC
USS Jefferson
“Dammit, I gave explicit orders,” Batman stormed. “What the hell-“
His sentence broke off as he listened to the report from the S-3 coming over the speaker. His anger seeped away as his face turned pale. Everyone in TFCC felt the deck shudder as the aircraft carrier tried to slow eighty-four thousand tons of metal through the water at twenty knots. The General Quarters alarm was barely audible over the shuddering through every structural member of the ship.
0841 Local
Admiral’s Conference Room
Pamela slipped a hand into her pocket and surreptitiously thumbed the power switch on her cell phone on. Her fingers sought out the speed-dial codes, and she punched the code in for ACN Istanbul. She could hear the busy signal sound faintly as the officers in the conference room dashed for TFCC.
She hit the disconnect switch but left the power on, intending to try again in a few minutes. She’d overheard the conversation from TFCC, and ACN was going to be the first to break the news of another attack on the aircraft carrier.
Her telephone rang. Annoyed, she thumbed the answer switch. “Drake.”
“Pamela, don’t hang up,” Packmeyer said. His voice was frantic.
“Listen, you’ve gotta listen for just a minute. I’ve got evidence that Turkey is mobilizing for a full-scale attack on American forces and assets around here. Jesus, Pamelathey machine-gunned my office. Nobody was hurt, but-“
“What did you say?” Pamela said, cutting him off. “About the mobilization. Give me the details.” Her voice was hard and uncompromising.
“My sources say that every military force in Turkey is mobilizing. They’re pissed, Pamelareal pissed. I’ve never seen anything like it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that they were not behind the first attack on the USS La Sallebut they will be behind the next one. You can count on it.”
“I think they just were.”
Pamela briefly described the gist of the conversation she’d heard over the radio circuit. “Where are you now? We need to get this out immediately.”
Packmeyer laughed. “Not in my office, that’s for sure. The story’s out here, Pamelaand I’m on scene.”
Pamela thought for a moment. “Why are you calling me?” she asked finally.
“Because you’re on the carrier. And if anybody needs this, the battle group does. Pamela, pleaseyou’re an American citizen,” he said, almost pleading. “Our viewersyes, we work for them. But we’ve got other responsibilities as well, whether you admit it or not.”
“Of course I know,” she snapped. “Just what the hell-“
“Pamela, for once in your life, think about something besides the story. Think about the sailors who may get killed, the soldiers who are going to be dead on some battlefield if we don’t stop this. I don’t know what started thisit has something to do with Russia or Ukraine, I knowplease, Pamela.”
“Hold on.”
Pamela looked at the phone thoughtfully, trying to assess the emotions warring inside her. The story was breaking, probably one of the biggest she’d ever covered, and she was in a perfect position to report it. Yet, as Packmeyer had said, she had other responsibilities as well.
If it ever got out that she’d known about thisknown, and deliberately endangered U.S. troops by keeping her information to herselfACN would never have access again to any military reporting pool.
Tombstone had often taunted her about her driven need to get into the middle of the action, saying she put the story above everything.
“Maybe above my love lifebut not above my country.”
She stood up and walked into TFCC and handed Tombstone the telephone. “I think you may want to talk to this fellowhis name’s Mike Packmeyer.”
10
Sunday, 9 September
0900 Local
The Crimean Peninsula
Sevastopol Naval Base
“It’s workingthere’s no doubt about it.” The Naval Aviation captain first rank looked pleased.
“But the Americ
ans? We believe they’re headed toward our facilities for an examination of their catapult.” Yuri spread his hands to indicate his lack of comprehension. “How does that show that we have been successful?”
The captain’s smile broadened. “You have not heard the news, obviously. The foolish Turks have done exactly as we anticipated. They have activated the minefield in the Strait.”
The captain’s voice turned grim. “Unfortunately, the first casualty was our submarine.”
“Then the Americans-” Yuri started.
“Are trapped in the Strait. An excellent tactical positionunless you are an American.” The captain chuckled lightly. “It certainly makes our targeting and anti-air-defense problems much simpler, does it not?”
Yuri nodded, letting a smile settle on his face. It would not do to appear anything other than completely enthusiastic at this point. It was clear that there were circles within circles, aspects of this plan that he had never been briefed on.
But since when had they bothered to brief him on anything of relevance?
Even the details of this weapon hung on his wings were classified. A ridiculous state of affairs, not to even know what weapon you were firing.
“Moreover, I believe a window of opportunity is now opening,” the captain continued, evidently satisfied with Yuri’s expression of understanding. “We have many sources of informationtwo nations cannot be this close together without developing certain sources.”
“Sources?” Yuri immediately wished he could call the question back.
An officer was told what he needed to knowhe did not question. It was all too easy to see how his one-word query could be taken as a sign of political unreliability, particularly in these unstable times.
Evidently, however, the captain was in a garrulous mood. “The entire Turkish command structure,” he confided, “is riddled with spies. Our spies. We know exactly what they’re going to do moments after they decide themselves.”
A self-satisfied look spread across his face. “Many of these sources I helped develop myself.”
“Impressive.” Yuri breathed a sigh of relief. A brief expression of admiration always went well with the captain.
“And we now know that they are planning to avenge their honorthat is how they put it.”
The captain laughed. “As if they had any. And they certainly won’t after today.”
“They never did,” Yuri commented idly.
“They will be launching an air attack on the aircraft carrier. An air attackimagine it. It will be devastating to both sides. The aircraft carrier already has many of its fighters airborne, and it can rely on the weapons aboard the Aegis cruiser Shiloh. If the Turks have any sense, they’ll hold until the aircraft are running low on fuel, then launch.”
Yuri could see the picture now, unfolding in all of its complexity.
By shooting a tactical nuclear weapon at the Americans while pretending to be a Turkish aircraft, he had provoked the aggressive stand of the Americans. At the same time, Turkey was outraged that the Americans believed she had provoked the attack. To avenge Turkey’s honorhe nodded his head, now understanding. Yes, that would have been a cultural certainty. And based on his experience with the Turkish air force, he would bet that they would have considered the question of fuel.
“So you will prepare to launch in one hour,” the captain continued.
“While they are preoccupied with Turkey, we will launch a massive preemptive strike, along the same mission plan as before. We can circle with ease over Turkeyafter all, all of their interceptors will be otherwise occupied at that time, will they not?”
“Truly brilliant,” Yuri said numbly. The weapons loadwhat would he be launching with?
Another nuclear weapon?
It bothered him, even though the tactical first use of tactical nuclear weapons was well established in their military thought. It had always been viewed as a normal part of any battle for the Soviet Unionand now Ukraineto take an aggressive posture against any force by introducing overwhelming force at the earliest possibility. Tactical nuclear weapons had always been part of that plan.
But why wouldn’t they tell him?
If it were truly in accordance with military doctrine, and truly a part of the Ukraine’s national military strategy, then why weren’t officers allowed to know that?
Why were they launched blindly, carrying weapons about which they’d been inadequately briefed?
And what were the possibilities of collateral damage?
In particular, to his own aircraft. Had he not immediately dived low and put airspace between himself and the first launch, there was a good chance that the EMP would have wiped out the avionics on his aircraft as well. He shuddered at the thought of being downed by his own weapon.
Yuri stood, carefully concealing the confusion whirling in his brain.
“It will be an honor, of course,” he said, saluting sharply. “I will go prepare for briefing immediately.”
0915 Local
Tomcat 201
“Where the hell is the carrier?” Bird Dog fumed. “Dammit, she’s-“
“She’s a little busy right now,” Gator pointed out mildly. “You think there’s a possibility of mines ahead, you wanna be real careful where you take your only airport. Makes sense to me.”
“Me too, I suppose,” Bird Dog admitted. “But dammit, we’re going to be getting low on fuel before long.”
The Tomcat, along with twenty other fighters off the carrier, was loitering just inside the Black Sea. Shiloh and Jefferson were supposed to be through the Strait by now, their reliefs launching from the ready deck.
At least that was the plan before the whole situation went to shit.
“Besides, we’ve got a tanker airborne,” Gator continued. “The Hornets are already sucking down,” Bird Dog said grimly. “Thirsty little bastards, they are.”
“I heard that,” the sharp voice over the tactical circuit snapped. “We ain’t thirsty, we just got a high metabolism. Accounts for all that muscle, you know.”
Gator laughed. “Muscle, huh? The only muscle you’ve got is from doing push-ups on the flight deck.”
“That’s Thor,” Bird Dog said, disgusted. “Goddamn Marines ought not to be flyingthey ought to be down in the mud, like they’re supposed to be. Do you know what the Army calls the Marines? Pop-up targets.”
“Funny guy. There’ll be enough mud up here, if it comes to that,” Thor pointed out. “Besides, against one of those little MiG bastards, you want a Hornet. Not a Tomcat.”
Bird Dog yanked the Tomcat back into a steep climb, effectively reducing his speed over ground to zero. The jet rocketed up, its high power-to-weight ratio sending it screaming past the lighter Hornet.
“Muscle, huhcan you do this?”
“Bird Dog, cut it out.” Gator’s voice was sharp. “Gas ain’t something we wanna be wasting up here. Get back down to most economical loiter speed.”
Reluctantly, Bird Dog leveled off into stable flight. The Hornet, which had given chase, was still five thousand feet below him. “If he wants a muscle car, he ought to be in a Tomcat. Not that lightweight piece of shit.”
“You got a thing about wingmen?” another voice snapped over the circuit. “Because if you do, you’d better tell me now.”
“Oh, shit,” Bird Dog groaned. “I forgot about the kid.”
“Didn’t forgetjust decided not to think about it, right?” Gator said out loud, his voice barely audible in the cockpit.
“Whatever.” Bird Dog flipped one lazy hand toward the backseat. “Don’t know why I have to be baby-sitting him. Damned nugget’s just on the boat a week.”
“Because this is a training mission. At least that’s what it was briefed as. That’s the only reason you’re flying, you know. And me too.”
Gator’s voice was infinitely patient. Over the last several cruises, he’d been a prime baby-sitter himself, keeping his feisty young lieutenant pilot in check from the backseat.
Baby-sittingif anybody knew anything about that, it was Gator.
“Still, I don’t see why we have to do it,” Bird Dog continued, blithely oblivious to Gator’s sarcasm. “After all, you and I are the most experienced combat pilots around.”
“For now.”
Skeeter’s slow Southern drawl was grim. “That crap about baby-sittingfrom what I hear, you need one yourself. Sir.”
“He’s got you, Bird Dog,” Gator said, laughing. “Any pilot who’d go off and leave his wingman needs one.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Bird Dog muttered. He glanced down at the fuel gauge again. His stupid little stunt had cost him more than he wanted to admit. “Let’s go see if we can hit the tanker, how about it?”
“On your wing,” Skeeter chimed in. “We could use some too.”
“Skeeter, the only thing I want to hear from you from here on out are two things: the word ‘two,’ acknowledging my directions, or the phrase ‘Lead, you’re on fire.’ You got that?”
“Two.”
The other Tomcat moved in closer, glued itself into the appropriate position on Bird Dog’s wing, and cycled through the gentle turn toward the carrier with him.
Gator flipped over to the ICS. When he was certain that no one else could hear him, he said, “Bird Dog, sometimes you are such an asshole.”
1000 Local
The Crimean Peninsula
Sevastopol Naval Base
Yuri walked out of the hangar and paused for a moment to survey the aircraft arrayed up and down the flight line. A slight breeze blew in off the Black Sea, warm and humid in the temperate early fall. The dull roar of aircraft engines turning over, winding up into a high-pitched feral scream, filled the air, accompanied by the sharp staccato of aircraft maintenance workers and technicians. Aviation fuel mixed with salt air, forming the peculiar tang he always associated with this base.
His MiG was parked at the end of the line, away from the rest of the aircraft. A junior technician stood a lackadaisical guard watch over it.
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